Langensalza had grown very quiet after its days of storm and excitement. The Hanoverian army was disbanded, and had returned home. The Prussian troops had advanced upon other enemies in the south and west, and the little town was now as placid and still as it had been for long years before, until Fate chose it for the theatre of so bloody a struggle.
But although the streets were as quiet and monotonous as ever in the hot sunshine of midsummer, within the houses a quiet life went on of inexhaustible love and mercy, that love and mercy which the tempest of war always calls forth so abundantly, and which is so lovely a witness of the eternal and indestructible connection between man's heart and the God of unconquerable love, of inexhaustible compassion.
Many of the severely wounded Prussians and Hanoverians could not be moved, and numerous hospitals were formed. All the private houses had received the poor sacrifices of war, and from Prussia and Hanover, besides the sisters of mercy and deaconesses, numerous relatives of the wounded had arrived, to undertake the care of those they loved.
When the sun was setting, and the twilight brought the coolness of evening, many women and girls in dark, simple dresses, with grave faces, walked silently through the streets, hastily breathing in a little fresh air, to obtain strength to continue their work of loving self-sacrifice; and the looks of the inhabitants followed them with quiet sympathy, as they sat before their doors after their day's work was over, talking in whispers about one group after another as it passed.
Madame von Wendenstein, with her daughter and Helena, had been most kindly received into old Lohmeier's house, Margaret preparing two rooms in the well-to-do burgher house with every possible comfort, whilst the candidate found a lodging in a neighbouring hotel.
Trembling with anxiety, Madame von Wendenstein approached her son's bed, repressing by a powerful effort the convulsive sobs that threatened to choke her. The young lieutenant lay rigid and quiet, his low, regular breathing the only sign of life.
The mother took his hand, bent over him, and gently breathed a kiss upon his brow; and under the magnetic influence of a mother's kiss, the young man slowly opened his eyes, and gazed around with a vacant look. But then a happy ray of recognition animated the senseless eyes, a smile came to his lips, and the mother felt an almost imperceptible pressure on her fingers.
The old lady sank on her knees beside the bed, laid her head on her son's hand, and, in silent unspoken prayer, besought God to preserve this life, dearer to her than her own.
The two young girls stood behind Madame von Wendenstein. Helena's large burning eyes were fixed on the image of the man, now so weak and fragile, who had left her so fresh and strong. His sister concealed her tears with her handkerchief; but Helena's eyes were dry and bright, her pale features composed and motionless. She stood with folded hands, and her lips trembled slightly.
Lieutenant von Wendenstein's widely-opened eyes fell on the young girl, when his mother sank down beside his bed. A gleam of happiness passed over his face, his eyes brightened with a look of delight, his lips opened slightly, but a hard, rattling breath came from his mouth, and a red foam appeared on his lips. His eyelids closed again, and the face lay deadly pale and rigid on the white pillow.
Then the surgeon arrived, and brought uncertain comfort, and a time commenced of unwearied watching--that quiet work, so difficult in its simplicity and on which so rich a blessing rests, which raises the heart so high above all earthly things, to the Fount of love, the Eternal Lord of human life and human fate. How easy it seems to sit in a comfortable chair, and watch the sleep of the sick; how small the trouble of laying a cooling bandage on a wound, of placing a nourishing drink, a composing medicine to the lips!
But who can weigh the anguish and anxiety with which the loving eye hangs on each movement of the eyelash, on each quiver of the lip, on every breath! The life of the sick may be endangered by a minute's sleep, a forgotten order. Oh! how great these small, unimportant services are through the long nights, when the seconds, wont to fly so quickly, roll heavily, drearily into the sea of eternity; how small and colourless all the changing brilliant doings of the outer world appear, compared with the quiet sick-room and its holy work of preserving a human life, and staying the Fates' cold hands, with their pitiless shears, from severing a tender thread, on which hang joy and hope, love and happiness, work and success!
And when recovery slowly, slowly approaches the bed of pain, like a tender spring flower coyly raising its head, ever threatened by the rough hand of a wintry death, who hesitatingly and unwillingly gives up his prey, and with his cold flakes strives to stifle the bloom so unweariedly tended day and night; how the loving heart bows down in humble thanksgiving before the Almighty, in whose hand human life is but a breath, which in a moment can fail, and which yet is so carefully preserved, and adorned with such rich blessing. How small appear human wishes, human will; how resignedly the heart learns to pray, "Lord, not my will, but Thine be done!" with what trust and faith the soul rises to the Father beyond the stars, who says, "Ask, and it shall be given you."
Madame von Wendenstein passed through all these phases of inner life beside the bed of her son; hoping and fearing, doubting and trusting, she always maintained her outward calmness, and performed all the duties of a nurse, assisted by the two young girls. Pale and quiet, Helena took her share of the work, her large, dreamy eyes, quickened by anxiety, watching every feature of the wounded man.
And hope had come, rejoicing every heart. The patient had passed through the first fever from the wound. The ball had been satisfactorily extracted; only one crisis more had to be feared--the flow of blood which had filled the deep wound; then there was only the recovery of strength to the much-shaken nervous system.
The most complete quiet was ordered by the surgeon; no loud sound must be permitted to reach the patient's ear; no question must be answered, and smiling lips and friendly glances must be the only language between the sufferer and his nurses.
And how expressive was this language!
What pure, warm light flowed from Helena's eyes when they rested on the pale face of the sleeper; how they hung on every breath, how thankfully were they raised above when the regular breathing told of soft and gentle sleep!
And when the sufferer opened his eyes, and saw those glances, what bright, expressive looks, though weak from illness, replied. How wonderful is it that the eye can express so much, that small circle which yet can comprehend and mirror back the firmament, with its stars, the everlasting mountains, and the boundless sea; what no words can utter, what the most glowing poetry cannot express, is all said by the eye, with its fine shades of varied expression; and above all by the eyes of the sick, because, banished from the changing and distracting pictures of the world, they have grown clearer and more transparent, revealing more plainly all that passes in the self-contained soul.
When the eyes of the wounded officer rested on the young girl, their deep eloquence telling whole volumes of poetry, recollections of the past, hopeful dreams for the future, her eyes fell, and a slight blush passed over her brow, and yet she raised them again, and her answer sparkled through a veil of tears.
Once when Helena offered him some cooling drink, his long, thin, white hand, with its dark blue veins, was stretched out towards her, she gave him hers, and he clasped it, and held it for a long time, and his eyes rested on her so thankfully, so enquiringly, so longingly, that, with a sudden crimson blush, she withdrew her hand; but her look had answered his, and, smiling, he closed his eyes, to dream again in light and happy slumber.
And often since then, with an imploring look, he had held out his hand, and she had given him hers,--and then her hand had been gently pressed to his lips, and a kiss had been breathed on it with the hot breath of sickness, and again tremblingly she had withdrawn her hand, and again their eyes had met, and a happy smile had appeared upon her lips. And the dumb language between them had grown richer and clearer, and he had often opened his lips as if to make his feeble voice enforce the words his eyes had spoken; but with a sweet smile she had laid her finger on her lips, and his mouth had remained silent. At last his lips moved as she sat by his bed, and in the lowest whisper he said, "Dear Helena."
Then with a quick movement and a brilliant look she had held out her hand to him, and had not withdrawn it when he had pressed it long and fervently to his lips.
Madame von Wendenstein had seen much of this dumb language, and had understood it;--for what woman does not understand it? and what mother is indifferent when the heart of a beloved son turns with tender feelings to her who through the warfare of daily life may carry on a gentle woman's work, begun by the mother herself during the quiet years of childhood, that work of mild, consoling, gentle, forgiving love, without which man's strength is hard and unfruitful; without which man's work is without charm and graceful inspiration? Lost in these reflections she had often sat watching the movements of the two young hearts; whether it was pleasing to her, whether she saw with joy or grief that which was unfolded to her, and which she could not prevent, was hard to read in her pale, but calm and cheerful features; nevertheless she was deeply moved by the sight of this flower of love springing up from her son's bed of pain. And when one day the wounded man put out both hands, and taking her hand and Helena's at the same moment, silently implored that a mother's love might be given to his beloved, without speaking she passed her arms round Helena, and imprinted a kiss upon her brow; then her daughter came, and tenderly pressed Helena to her heart; and the sick man with a look of happiness folded his pale hands together in thankfulness.
Thus in the chamber of sickness a rich, eventful life went on, a link between two hearts was formed, so pure, so tender, so delicate, so holy, that it scarcely could have been thus perfected amidst the distractions of the world; no words had been exchanged, but all was understood--all knew what had sprung up on the border land that divides life from death; they knew it had taken root strongly, and would grow up in the future life. Thus God, whilst ruling the terrible tempests that convulsed the world, and bringing forth a new order of things from the mighty struggle of the nations of Germany--seized with a gentle, tender hand the inner life of these two human hearts, imprinting deep and silent feelings as indelibly, as the gigantic characters in which His eternal judgments were graven on the tablets of history.
Fritz Deyke, with his clear, true eyes, saw plainly enough what was going on beside the sick-bed of his lieutenant; he had not said a word, but he had managed to express that he understood, and was perfectly satisfied, by his respectful attentions and hearty sympathy to the pastor's daughter, and when he saw Helena sitting beside the lieutenant's bed, he looked with a smile from one to the other, and gave an approving nod, as if applauding some satisfactory thought.
Since the ladies' arrival he only came to and fro to the sick room, bringing everything needful, and at night he insisted on undertaking the last and most weary hours of watching, driving away the ladies with good-natured brusqueness.
But he was unwearied in assisting the pretty Margaret in all her occupations, in her endeavour to make their quiet monotonous life as agreeable as possible to her guests, and in her efforts to provide them with every comfort; then he had almost taken old Lohmeier's place out of doors, in the stable and garden, assisting everywhere with skilful hand, lightening much of the old man's work, and relieving him entirely of the rest. And in the evening he sat before the door with his host and his daughter; the father listened well pleased and smiled approvingly at his daughter when the sturdy son of Wendland, who had long before thrown aside his soldier's coat, told stories of his home; the old man gave a nod of satisfaction when it appeared from these histories that old Deyke was a well-to-do man, and that a rich inheritance must one day descend to his only son and heir.
The candidate came several times daily to see the ladies. Sometimes in a quiet manner he helped a little in nursing. Sometimes he spoke a few well-chosen words of comfort to the old lady. He went in and out of all the houses where there were sick and wounded, offered spiritual consolation, and was unwearied in assisting and directing in the hospitals, so that he won the general respect and gratitude of all the inhabitants of Langensalza, and all the relatives of the wounded. Madame von Wendenstein was full of his praise, and took every opportunity of showing her esteem and gratitude to the young clergyman.
Helena kept aloof from her cousin, and he did not seek her more than every-day intercourse required. But his eyes often rested on her with a strange expression, and an evil glance darted from them when he saw the young girl sitting beside the bed of the wounded officer, when her whole soul lay in her eyes, and the feelings of her heart were warmly reflected in her features; but no word, no sign betrayed that he guessed what had taken place in solitude and silence.
Late in the afternoon of one of the last days of July Madame von Wendenstein sat, with her daughter, in her room. The window was wide open to admit the cooler air that streamed in as the day declined. The door of the sick-room stood open, and Helena sat by the bedside, attentively watching the quiet slumberer as he lay with a smiling expression of happiness on his pale features.
The candidate sat with the ladies in his faultless black dress, a white necktie of dazzling purity carefully arranged around his neck, and his hair brushed smoothly down on each side of his forehead.
He spoke in a low voice as he told Madame von Wendenstein of the other sufferers whom he had visited.
"You have chosen a beautiful calling," said the old lady, smiling kindly on the young clergyman; "in such times as these especially, it must be a glorious satisfaction to bear the divine words of comfort to sufferers, and to raise and refresh their souls amidst bodily pain."
"But in such times as these," said the candidate, in a humble voice, casting his eyes to the ground, "I feel doubly what an unworthy instrument I am in the hand of Providence; when I speak to sufferers who have already stretched out their hands to eternity, who already behold the glories of a future world, I often ask myself whether I am worthy to tell them of their Lord, and I tremble beneath the weight of my office. But," he continued, folding his hands together, "the power of the divine word gives strength even to an unworthy instrument to work mightily; and I can say with joy that many a heart in health devoted to the world, has through my means, on the brink of eternity, received the faith, and obtained salvation."
"How many families will be grateful to you!" said Madame von Wendenstein warmly, as she held out her hand to him.
"They must not be grateful to me, but to Him who is mighty through me," replied the candidate, in a low voice, bowing his head.
And at the same moment he turned a quick glance towards the sick-room, in which a slight sound was heard.
The surgeon had entered softly; he approached the bed, watched his sleeping patient attentively for some little time, then he bent over him, gently removed the covering of the wound, and examined it carefully.
After a few minutes he joined the ladies in the other room.
Madame von Wendenstein looked at him anxiously. Helena followed him, and remained standing at the door.
"Everything is progressing excellently," said the surgeon; "and though I cannot say all danger is over, I can assure you that every day my hopes of a complete recovery increase."
Madame von Wendenstein thanked him for this good news with emotion, and Helena's eyes smiled through tears.
"For some time to come absolute quiet will be needful. Any shock to the much shaken nervous system might bring on fever of an inflammatory or typhoid character, and in the present state of weakness this would be fatal. The deep wound is still filled with blood; this can only be slowly absorbed and dispersed. Any sudden flow of blood from a violent effort might be fatal; therefore, I repeat it, absolute quiet is the first essential in the recovery of our patient, and nature will assist his youthful strength to repair the injury he has received. Nothing can be done beyond a slight compress to the wound, a little cooling medicine, and the maintenance of the strength by light nourishment. But now, ladies, I must exercise my medical authority upon you," he continued. "It is a long time since you have been in the open air, and to-day it is deliciously cool. You must go out!"
Madame von Wendenstein hesitated.
"It is needful for our patient's sake," said the surgeon, "that you should keep up your strength. What would become of him if you were to be ill? You must take a real walk. Fritz can take care of the patient, who wants nothing but sleep."
"Oh, I will stay here," cried Helena; but suddenly recollecting herself, she was silent, and looked down with a blush.
"I beg, my dear lady," said the candidate, "that you will follow our friend's prescription without any anxiety. I will remain with Herr von Wendenstein. I have learned what to do beside a sick bed. Go, for you all need this refreshment."
"Quick, then," said the doctor. "I will take you to a beautiful shady walk, and you will see what wonderful good you feel from that medicine which nature prescribes for all--fresh air."
Madame von Wendenstein put on her bonnet and mantle, and the young ladies followed her example. Helena looked anxiously at the wounded officer, and then hesitatingly followed the other ladies, who with the surgeon had already left the room.
The candidate, with downcast eyes and a gentle smile, accompanied her to the door. He then turned back, entered the sick-room, and seated himself in the armchair near the bed.
From his pale face the gentle smile and the expression of spiritual peace and priestly dignity vanished. His half-closed, downcast eyes opened widely, and were fixed upon the sleeper with a look of hatred, and his thin lips were pressed firmly together.
There was a wonderful contrast between the wounded officer--who lay stretched on his couch in light slumber, his eyes closed, the reflection of sweet and pure dreams shining in his face, whilst on his brow appeared a glimpse of heaven, a spark of the Divine breath--and the man who sat near him in the garments of a priest, a horrible expression of low, earthly passion and demoniacal hatred upon his countenance.
The wounded man tossed his head a little to and fro, as if he felt disturbed by the look the candidate fixed upon him, then with a deep sigh he opened his eyes and turned them joyfully towards the place where he hoped to see the beloved form that had filled his dreams. With large, surprised, almost frightened eyes, he saw the clergyman beside him. The candidate compelled his countenance suddenly to resume its usual calm expression, lowering his eyes to conceal their hatred, for he knew that even his strong powers of will could not at once banish this expression.
"Do you want anything, Herr von Wendenstein?" asked the candidate, in a low, gentle voice. "The ladies have gone out, and they have left me here to take care of you."
Lieutenant von Wendenstein raised his finger a little and pointed to a small table near the bed, on which stood a carafe of fresh water and a small vial filled with a red fluid.
The candidate poured a few drops of the medicine into a glass of water, and held it to the lieutenant's lips, who raised his head with some little difficulty and drank it.
The eyes of the wounded man said as plainly as possible, "I thank you."
The candidate put down the glass, folded his hands together, and said, as he cast down his eyes,--
"Did you think, Herr von Wendenstein, when your body craved earthly refreshment that your soul needed a spiritual medicine to strengthen and refresh it in the valley of the shadow of death, that if Providence sees fit to call it hence, it may be prepared to stand before the Judge, and to give an account of the deeds done in the flesh?"
The wounded man's eyes, which after the cooling drink, were closing again in slumbrous weariness, opened widely, and gazed upon the candidate with astonishment and fear. He was accustomed to be spoken to by looks, by signs, by single words whispered low, and his wearied nerves shuddered at this unusual mode of speech. Then, too, the loving care that had watched him in sickness and encouraged with fostering hand the seed of convalescence, had surrounded him with pictures of hope, with assurances of a new life blooming in the future, so that the sharp and sudden mention of death, with his threatening hand still stretched over him, affected him as if on a sunny, flower-scented day he had suddenly felt the ice-cold breath of a newly-opened vault. A slight shudder ran through his frame, and he feebly shook his head, as if to free himself from the gloomy picture so suddenly called up.
"Have you thought," continued the candidate, suddenly raising his voice and speaking sharply and impressively, "how you will pass through those black, dreadful hours, those hours now perhaps very near you, when your soul, with convulsive shudders, will tear itself free from the cold body--when your heart must leave every earthly joy, every earthly hope, and lay them in the dark depths of the grave, where the body, born of dust, must return to the dust of which it is formed?"
The eyes of the wounded man grew larger, a feverish glow burned on his cheeks, and there was an imploring expression in the look he turned upon the candidate.
He fixed his eyes upon the young officer with the electric fascinating gaze with which the rattlesnake turns its prey to stone.
"Have you thought," continued the candidate, and his sharp voice seemed to cut deep down into the sick man's soul, as his looks glared into his horror-stricken eyes, "have you thought, that then, at the trumpet blast of eternity, you must stand before the throne of a righteous and severe Judge and give an account of your life? Your last act was murder; the shedding of a brother's blood in a struggle justified by earthly laws; but must it not appear a deadly sin in the eyes of Eternal Justice?"
The features of the wounded man quivered, the feverish flush increased, and his eyelids sank and rose with a quick involuntary movement.
"Heaven has shown you great mercy," said the candidate, "you have been granted time for preparation here on a bed of sickness, for eternity, whilst many were called away in the midst of mortal sin. Have you worthily used the time so graciously granted you? Have you turned your thoughts and desires away from all worldly things, and fixed them on things eternal? Have you banished from your heart every earthly wish, every earthly hope? Does it not still cling to earth? Judge yourself, and let not the short time of grace be in vain!"
The candidate bent down lower and lower, and fixed his glaring eyes on those of the lieutenant, whose violent nervous agitation greatly increased. His pale hands trembled even to the tips of the fingers, he raised them with a repelling movement, and pointed to the table, whilst with difficulty in a feeble voice, he gasped "Water!"
The candidate brought the green fire of his sparkling eyes still closer to the sick man's face, he stretched his right hand over his head whilst with the fingers of the left he pointed to his heart, and he said in a low voice:
"Think of the Water of Life, try to become worthy of the Well-spring of Grace that alone can cool the torturing flames of eternal damnation. They are ready for you, if you do not use this short time of grace, and rend every earthly thought from your heart! The time that remains to you is brief, and if your soul still clings to the past, it will fall into the abyss already yawning before you!"
A slight red foam appeared on the wounded man's lips, his eyes opened widely, and stared unconsciously around. His out-stretched fingers were stiff, and his whole frame terribly convulsed.
The clergyman bent down closer over him, and in a harsh rough whisper muttered in his ear:
"The pit opens, the sulphurous flames ascend, you hear the lamentations of endless torment, the supplications of the damned that can no longer reach the Ear of Mercy; the light of heaven goes out, and the outcast soul sinks into the dreadful horror, which no living spirit can conceive, no living heart can imagine,--sinks, deeper, deeper,--ever deeper."
A sudden shudder passed through the wounded man's frame, a rattling breath forced itself from his labouring breast, his lips opened and a stream of thick black blood flowed from his mouth. His face grew deadly pale.
The candidate was silent, he rose slowly, his eyes firmly fixed on the face trembling in its death struggle; he drew back his hands and stood with a cruel smile, calm and motionless.
The door of the next room was softly opened and a careful footstep was heard.
The candidate started. With a great effort he compelled his features to resume their usual expression of pious dignity; he folded his hands on his breast, and turned his head towards the door.
Fritz Deyke appeared and cautiously popped in his head.
"Ah! you are here, sir?" he said in a whisper, "I was busy in the stable, but I heard the ladies had gone out, so I thought I would come and look at my lieutenant. Lord God in heaven!" he cried, suddenly rushing to the bed, "what is this? my lieutenant is dying!"
He seized the stiff hand of the sick man, and bent over the apparently lifeless body.
"I fear the worst," said the candidate calmly, in a mild voice, full of melancholy sympathy. "A violent cramp seized the poor young man, and the breaking of a blood-vessel seems to have ended our hopes. It was quick and sudden, whilst I was endeavouring to cheer him by friendly converse, and spiritual consolation!"
"My God! my God!" cried Fritz, "this is too horrible--what will become of his poor mother, of Miss Helena?"
And hastening to the door he called loudly, in an accent of grief and despair,--
"Margaret! Margaret!"
The young girl rushed upstairs; the sound of Fritz's voice as he called her had alarmed her, and she looked anxiously in at the door of the sick-room.
"My lieutenant is dying! for God's sake fetch the doctor quickly!" cried Fritz Deyke as he went to meet her.
Margaret glanced hastily at the bed, saw the pale face and streaming blood, and wringing her hands together, with a low outcry hastened away.
Fritz Deyke knelt before the bed, and with a handkerchief wiped away the blood from the lieutenant's mouth, repeating again and again, "My God! my God! his poor mother!"
The candidate went into the adjoining room, and seized his hat; then he suddenly determined to remain; he stood still for a moment, and then seated himself so that he could see into the sick-room.
Margaret had hastened out; she knew the way that the surgeon had taken with the ladies, and flew after him. She soon saw him near the first houses of the little town. He had led the ladies to a shady alley, and was taking leave of them, as he wished to return to his other patients.
The young maiden was quite breathless when she reached him. The surgeon looked at her with amazement, Helena's eyes were fixed upon her in anxious fear.
"For God's sake, sir!" cried Margaret, struggling for breath enough to bring out her words, "I think--I fear--the poor lieutenant--"
"What has happened?" cried the surgeon, in alarm.
"I fear he is dead," gasped Margaret. "Come, quick! quick!"
Madame von Wendenstein seized the surgeon's arm, as if seeking a support, but she hastened along in silence, really hurrying the doctor with her; he was endeavouring to gain from Margaret some particulars of this unexpected seizure.
Helena rushed on first, and her flying feet scarcely touched the ground. She uttered one cry when Margaret gave her terrible message, then she fled with vacant eyes through the streets, until she came to old Lohmeier's house, and flying up the stairs, reached the lieutenant's room.
She paused for a moment at the threshold, sighed deeply, and pressed both her hands against her breast. Then she opened the door, and stood gazing on the young man's deathlike face. Nothing had changed, and Fritz Deyke stood before him, carefully removing the blood that streamed from his lips with a white handkerchief.
Fritz raised his head and turned round. When he saw Helena standing there an image of silent despair, he comprehended that her sorrow was greater than his own. He rose slowly, and said, in a low, trembling voice,--
"I think the good God has called him; come, Miss Helena, if anyone can awake him, you can!"
And gently seizing her hand he led her to the bed.
She sank upon her knees, and taking the lieutenant's hand pressed it to her lips, breathing on it with her warm breath; her sad, tearless eyes were fixed upon his face, and her lips sometimes moved, repeating the same whispered words, "Oh! my God! let me follow him!"
Thus they continued motionless for some time--Helena crouched beside the bed, Fritz Deyke standing near her, and regarding her with great emotion, as he brushed away the tears with the back of his hand. The candidate sat in the adjoining room, with an expression of deep sympathy upon his features, his hands folded, and his lips moving as if in silent prayer.
Then came the surgeon and the two ladies.
Madame von Wendenstein was about to hasten to her son's bedside, but the surgeon held her back gravely, almost roughly.
"No one can be of any use here but myself," he said energetically; "the sick belong to me. Ladies must leave the room; if they are wanted, I will call them."
Fritz gently pushed Madame von Wendenstein and her daughter into the adjoining room; Helena rose quietly, and seated herself at some distance.
The surgeon approached the bed; he carefully examined the sick man's face, looked at the wound, and held his hand for a long time upon his heart, gazing at his watch at the same time.
The candidate went up to Madame von Wendenstein, who had sunk upon a chair, her face covered with her hands.
"Compose yourself, much honoured lady," he said in his gentlest voice; "all hope is not yet over, and if it is the will of Providence to put a period to your son's life, you must think how many, many parents have to bear the same, and often even greater sorrow."
Madame von Wendenstein only replied by her sobs.
The old surgeon now returned to the ladies. Scarcely had he left the bed, when Helena returned to her place, and again taking the hand strove to warm it with her breath.
"It is a frightful crisis," said the doctor; "I cannot understand its cause, but alas! it leaves us little hope. We must be prepared for the worst; but the heart still beats, and as long as there is a spark of life a physician does not despair. There is really nothing to be done; if nature does not help herself, our knowledge is powerless. But how," he continued, turning to the candidate, "did this alarming crisis come on? My patient was perfectly quiet when I last saw him."
"He continued so," said the candidate, "for some time after I had taken my place beside his bed; he awoke from a deep sleep, I gave him some drink, and he appeared quite well; whilst I was endeavouring to refresh his soul with spiritual consolation, a convulsive movement came on, followed by this gush of blood. It was quick and sudden."
"Well, well," said the surgeon, "what I hoped might proceed gently and gradually has taken place suddenly, from a violent nervous crisis setting free the blood collected in the vessels. It is scarcely possible that this can have happened without causing serious mischief, besides the frightful effect upon the nerves. Did you talk to him much?" he asked, looking firmly at the candidate.
"I said," he replied, folding his hands, "what my calling requires me to say to the sick, I hardly know whether he understood me."
"Forgive me, sir," said the surgeon, in a brusque voice, shaking his head, "I am not one of those who despise religion, and from my heart I believe that all help comes from God; but in this case it really would have been better to let him sleep."
"The word of God, with its wondrous power, is never out of place," replied the candidate in a cold tone of conviction, raising his eyes with a pious expression.
"My God! my God!" cried Helena from the next room, in a loud, half-frightened, half-joyful voice, "he lives, he wakes!"
They all hastened into the room; the physician went to the head of the bed, whilst Helena still knelt and pressed the lieutenant's hand to her lips.
He had opened his eyes, and turned a wondering look from one face to another, as if surprised at the excitement he saw on every countenance.
"What has happened?" he asked in a low, but perfectly clear voice, whilst a slight flow of blood still came from his lips. "I have had a bad, bad dream,--I thought I was dying."
His eyes closed again.
The surgeon raised the pillows that supported his head, gently took his hand from Helena, and examined his pulse.
"A glass of wine," he cried.
Fritz Deyke hurried away, and returned in a moment with a glass of old dark red wine.
The surgeon held it to his patient's lips. He drank it eagerly to the last drop.
In trembling anxiety they all awaited the result. Helena's face was as pale as marble; her soul lay in her eyes.
After a short time a tinge of colour came to von Wendenstein's cheek, a deep sigh heaved his breast, and he opened his eyes.
They rested on Helena, and a smile passed over his face.
"Draw a deep breath," said the doctor.
He did so immediately.
"Does it hurt you?"
The young officer shook his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on Helena.
The doctor again felt his pulse, laid his hand on his brow, and listened attentively to his breathing.
He then went up to Madame von Wendenstein, and said, as he held out his hand to her with a joyful smile, "Nature has conquered this violent crisis, now only rest and nourishment are needed; thank God, your son is saved!"
The old lady approached the bed, pressed an affectionate kiss upon her son's brow, and gazed long into his eyes.
Then she left the room, and sank upon the sofa in the adjoining apartment: the frightful excitement and the long, anxious suspense had so exhausted her strength that her whole soul sought relief in a storm of tears.
Helena remained sitting near the bed, still holding the hand of her beloved, still gazing upon him calm and motionless, the brilliancy of perfect happiness on her pale features.
The candidate remained standing, with folded hands; he retained the gentle smile unchanged upon his lips, whilst his eyes never moved from the scene at the lieutenant's bedside.
After a little consideration the doctor wrote a prescription, and, rising with the paper in his hand, joined the others.
"Our patient must take this every hour," he said. "I hope he may sleep quietly during the night; to-morrow, or the next day, we can begin a strengthening diet, and if God continues to help us, we may soon look for a rapid recovery."
He turned to the Candidate Behrmann.
"Forgive my hasty words," he said gravely. "You were right when you spoke of the divine power of God's word. God has indeed performed a wonder; not one case in a hundred would have passed through such a crisis favourably. I bow before this wonder, and with you I look up with thankfulness and adoration to the Day-spring who sends down knowledge and faith to us, as rays of light from an eternal centre."
He spoke warmly and feelingly as he held out his hand to the candidate. An indescribable expression appeared on Behrmann's face. He cast down his eyes, bent his head, and was silent.
Then he remembered that many sick friends were wanting him, and he took leave of Madame von Wendenstein with a few words of sympathy. He went up to Helena and took her hand.
Why did she withdraw it with a hasty movement of fear? Why did an icy coldness stream from his fingers to her heart? Did she see the involuntary look which flashed from his eyes when he approached the bed, or was it that secret instinct which causes unexplained sympathy and antipathy, often judging more truly than the longest experience, the deepest knowledge of mankind, or the most prudent reflection?
The physician and the candidate departed, and the ladies were left alone with the invalid, who fell into a calm sleep.
Fritz Deyke, whose strong nerves soon recovered from the excitement of the last hour, gave himself up completely to joy. After he had fetched the lieutenant's medicine he hastened into the little garden, where Margaret was watering her flowers, whose drooping heads told of the excessive heat of the last few days.
He said very little. He hurried to and fro, filling her watering-pot again and again; and then he made little channels in the ground to the roots of the plants, that the water might penetrate more quickly. He admired the quickness and grace with which Margaret watered her plants; how lightly and cleverly she raised the drooping flowers and tied them to sticks, and he saw that sometimes she looked kindly at him, and that she blushed a little when he observed it.
Then he seated himself with old Lohmeier and his daughter at their simple but excellent supper, and again he admired Margaret's adroitness and attention to her household duties, and the cheerful comfort she shed around her.
And he thought to himself how pretty she would look in the rich old farmhouse at Blechow, and how the elder Deyke would rejoice at having such a housekeeper and daughter-in-law. What Margaret thought was her own secret, but she looked supremely happy as she served her father and his guest, and performed all the duties of an attentive housewife, with the skill of an experienced hostess and the grace of a lovely girl.
Thus quiet joy and hopeful happiness prevailed throughout the good burgher house in Langensalza.
The candidate Behrmann visited many of the sick and wounded, and unweariedly spoke eloquent and impressive words of comfort, and he refused all thanks with humility. He advised and ordered in the hospitals; and praises of the pious, gifted, and exemplary young clergyman resounded from every lip.
Countess Frankenstein sat in the reception-room of her house in the Herrengasse, in Vienna. Nothing had altered in this salon; the prodigious events and the mighty storms that had shaken the power of the House of Hapsburg to its very foundations could not have been suspected from the aspect of this room when unoccupied, so complete was its stamp of aristocratic immutability and perfect repose. There was the same old furniture which had already served several generations, now looking down from their faintly gleaming frames of tarnished gilding upon the doings of their children and grand-children; there was the high, wide chimney-piece, the flames from which had been reflected in the bright, youthful eyes of those who long ago had become staid grandmothers; there was the same clock with its groups of shepherds and shepherdesses which had marked the moment of birth and the moment of death of many a member of the family, and with equal calmness had added second to second in hours of joy or hours of sorrow. Amongst all these objects, lifeless indeed but full of memories, and accustomed to look calmly on the happiness or sadness of generations passed away, sat the living beings of the present, deeply moved and distressed by the terrible and unexpected blow which had fallen on the House of Hapsburg and on Austria.
The old Countess Frankenstein was grave and dignified as ever, but there was a sorrowful expression on her proud, calm face as she sat on the large sofa; beside her, dressed in black, sat the Countess Clam Gallas, whoso tearful eyes were often covered with her embroidered handkerchief. Opposite the ladies sat General von Reischach; his fresh, healthy face glowed brightly as ever, the dark eyes looked out keen and lively beneath his short white hair, but though this expression of jovial cheerfulness could not be banished, there was beyond it a look of melancholy grief. Countess Clara sat beside her mother, leaning back in an arm-chair, and on her young and beautiful face lay a breath of deep sorrow, for she was a true daughter of the proud Austrian aristocracy, and she felt deeply and keenly the humiliation which the ancient banners of the empire had suffered at Königgrätz, but her melancholy was spread but as a light veil over the joy and happiness that filled her dreamy eyes. Notwithstanding all the dangers of Trautenau and Königgrätz, Lieutenant von Stielow had returned unwounded; the war was now as good as ended, she feared no fresh perils for him, and when the war was concluded, preparations for the marriage were to be commenced.
The young countess sat in a dreamy reverie, pursuing the charming pictures unrolled for the future, and hearing little of the conversation carried on around her.
"This disaster is the effect of the incomprehensible regard shown to the clamour of the lower classes," cried Countess Clam Gallas, in a voice trembling with grief and anger. "Benedek received the chief command because he was 'a man of the people;' the officers of noble birth were thus hurt, injured, and passed over; we now see what all this has led to. I have nothing to say against the rights of merit and talent," she continued, "history teaches us that great field marshals have been found among common soldiers, but people should not be pushed forward who have no talent and whose only merit is courage, simply because they are not of distinguished birth! And now they make the aristocracy answerable for the defeat. Count Clam's treatment is an insult to the whole of the Austrian aristocracy."
"You must not look upon it in that light, countess," said General von Reischach; "on the contrary, I think the proceedings against Count Clam Gallas will stop all evil mouths, for it will be an excellent opportunity for stating the real causes of our defeat. When public opinion, led on by a couple of journalists, had loaded the count with reproaches, he was right in demanding a strict investigation, and it was Mensdorff's duty to urge it upon the emperor. Let us wait the result, it will show that the Austrian nobility is above reproach."
"It is very hard," cried the countess, "to be so personally affected by the common misfortune!" And she wiped the tears that had again flowed, with her handkerchief.
"Tell us, Baron Reischach," said Countess Frankenstein, after a short pause, wishing to give the conversation a different turn; "tell us about the King of Hanover, you once held a command in his service. I have the greatest admiration for that heroic prince, and the deepest commiseration for his unhappy fate."
"It is wonderful," said the general, "with what resignation and cheerfulness the king bears his evil fortune, and the difficult position he is now placed in. He is still full of hope; I fear it deceives him!"
"Do you believe they will really venture to dethrone him?" cried the Countess Frankenstein.
"Alas! I am quite sure of it," said General von Reischach.
"And I, alas! cannot doubt it, from what Mensdorff has told me," said Countess Clam Gallas.
"And must Austria bear this?" cried Countess Frankenstein, a bright flush of auger upon her usually calm face, and her eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Austria bears everything, and will have to bear still more!" said the general, shrugging his shoulders. "I see before us a long course of misfortune, they will again experiment, and every fresh experiment will pluck a jewel from our crown and a leaf from our laurels; I fear they will pursue the path of Joseph II."
"God protect Austria!" cried Countess Frankenstein, folding her hands. "Will the King of Hanover remain here?" she asked, after a short pause.
"It seems so," replied General von Reischach, "he lives in Baron Knesebeck's house, in the Wallnerstrasse, Countess Wilezek has given him up her apartments; but I have heard he will soon retire to the Duke of Brunswick's villa at Hietzing. It would be much better for the king to go to England, he is by birth an English prince, and if he succeeded in interesting public opinion there in his behalf, which with his charm of manner would not be difficult, England would perhaps help him, and she is the only power who could help him; but he is disinclined, and Count Platen appears very incapable of persuading the king to take any decided course."
"Count Platen visited me," said Countess Clam Gallas; "he does not believe in the annexation of Hanover."
"There are people who never believe in the devil, until he has got them by the throat," cried Baron von Reischach: "there is General Brandis, a plain old soldier, with a quick clear understanding, he would be much the best counsellor for the king in a position in which rapid and firm decision can alone avail, but he is not supported by Platen."
"How many disasters a few days have brought forth!" cried Countess Frankenstein.
"Well," said General von Reischach, as he rose, "you must console yourself with the happiness that blooms in your family; I would bet anything," he added, laughing, "that Countess Clara's thoughts are filled with pleasant pictures."
The young countess started from her dreams, a flying blush passed over her face, and she said, laughingly,--
"What can you know about young ladies' thoughts?"
"I know so much about them," replied the general, "that I should not venture now to bring my little countess a doll, she must have one in a green uniform with a red plume."
"I want neither dolls nor anything else from you," replied the young countess, pretending to pout.
General von Reischach and Countess Clam Gallas took leave.
Countess Frankenstein and her daughter accompanied them to the door, and had only been a few moments alone when a servant entered and said:
"There is a gentleman here, who asks very pressingly for an interview with the countess."
"Who is it?" she asked, with surprise, for she had few visitors except those belonging to her own exclusive circle of society.
"Here is his card," said the servant, handing a visiting card to the countess. "He assures me it is greatly to your ladyship's interest to hear what he has to say."
Countess Frankenstein took the card, and read, with a look of astonishment--"E. Balzer, Exchange Agent."
A deep flush passed over Countess Clara's face, she looked anxiously at her mother and pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
"I cannot understand," said the countess, "what a person so entirely unknown to me can want; however, let him come in!"
In a few moments Herr Balzer entered the salon. He was dressed in black, and his common-looking face bore an expression of grave dignity which did not appear to belong to it.
He approached the ladies with a manner in which the boldness of the habitué of a coffee-house was mingled with the embarrassment of a man who, accustomed only to low society, suddenly finds himself amongst persons of distinction.
Countess Frankenstein looked at him with a cold, proud gaze, whilst Clara, after her large eyes had taken in his vulgar appearance with a hasty glance, cast them down and waited in trembling expectation for the reason of this unexpected visit.
"I have consented to receive you, sir," said the countess, with easy calmness, "and I beg you to tell me the important matter you have to impart."
Herr Balzer bowed with affected dignity and said:
"A most melancholy affair, gracious countess, brings me to you,--an affair in which we, you and I, or rather your daughter and I, have a common interest."
Clara fixed her eyes upon him with great surprise and painful suspense; the haughty look of the countess asked plainer than words, "What interest can I have in common with this man?"
Herr Balzer saw this look, and an almost imperceptible smile appeared on his lips.
"A very painful and distressing circumstance," he said slowly and hesitatingly, "obliges me, your ladyship, to confide my honour to you, and to consult with you, as to what is best to be done."
"I pray you, sir," said the countess, in an icy voice, "to come to the fact you have to communicate. My time is much engaged."
Without paying any attention to this intimation, Herr Balzer proceeded, apparently with some embarrassment, whilst twirling his hat in his hands:
"Your daughter is engaged to Lieutenant von Stielow?"
The countess looked at him, almost rigid with amazement. She began to fear she had admitted a madman. A slight shiver passed through Clara's tender form; deep paleness overspread her features, and she did not dare to lift her eyes to this man, for an instinctive suspicion warned her he must be the bearer of something evil.
Herr Balzer drew a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his eyes. In a theatrical manner he walked towards the countess, exclaiming, whilst he stretched out his hand:
"Countess, you will understand me at once, you must understand me; I trust my fate to your discretion,--only in common with yourself can this melancholy transaction--"
"I must really beg you, sir," said Countess Frankenstein, looking anxiously at the bell, from which she was separated by Herr Balzer, "I must really beg you to state the facts."
"Herr von Stielow," said Balzer, again covering his eyes with his large yellow silk pocket-handkerchief.
Clara folded her hands in breathless suspense.
"Herr von Stielow," repeated Herr Balzer, in a voice that appeared to struggle for composure, "that volatile young man who is so happy in the possession of so lovely, so worthy a fiancée," he bowed to Clara, who turned from him with disgust, "this volatile young man dares to rob me of my happiness, to destroy my peace--he keeps up a criminal correspondence with my wife."
With a low cry, Clara sank down upon the chair before which she stood, and wept silently.
Countess Frankenstein remained standing upright. Her eyes rested fiercely and proudly upon this detestable messenger of evil, and in a voice in which no emotion was perceptible, she asked:
"And how do you know this, sir? Are you quite sure?"
"Alas! only too sure," cried Herr Balzer, pathetically, again applying his handkerchief to his eyes, which were quite red with repeated rubbing.
"Some time ago," he said, "my friends warned me; but my confidence in my wife--I love my wife, gracious countess: ah! she was my whole happiness--prevented my heeding these warnings; then, too, Baron von Stielow's engagement with the lovely countess"--he again bowed to Clara--"was well known in Vienna; I felt quite safe, since I was simple-hearted enough,"--he laid his hand on his black satin waistcoat--"to believe such an error impossible."
"Well?" asked the countess.
"At last, by chance--oh! my heart will break when I think of it--yesterday I discovered the frightful truth."
The countess made a movement of impatience.
He threw a side glance at the easy-chair, in which the younger lady sat motionless, her face covered with her handkerchief, and with the malice of vulgar natures who instinctively hate those of a higher grade, he seemed disposed to prolong her torture.
"Amongst the letters brought to me," he continued, after some hesitation, "there was one intended for my wife. I did not observe the address, and I opened it, believing it directed to myself. It contained the horrible, too certain proof of my misfortune."
Clara gave a low sob.
The countess asked with cold severity,--
"Where is this letter?"
Herr Balzer, with a deep, strongly marked sigh, felt in the breast pocket of his coat, pulled out a folded letter, and gave it to the countess. She took it, opened it, and read the contents slowly. Then throwing it on the table, she said:
"What have you done?"
"Countess," cried Herr Balzer, in the same pathetic voice, "I love my wife; she has greatly erred, it is true, but I love her still, and I cannot give up the hope of reclaiming her."
The countess shrugged her shoulders, almost imperceptibly, and cast a look full of contempt upon the exchange agent.
"I do not wish for a separation,--I would rather forgive her," he continued, in a tearful voice; "and I have come, therefore, to speak to you, countess, to consult with you,--to implore you to--"
"What?" asked the countess.
"You see, I thought," said Herr Balzer, turning his hat round and round more quickly, "if you,--Vienna is now a very sad place to reside in,--if you would go to your country estates, or into Switzerland, or to the Italian lakes, far away from here, and if you would take Lieutenant von Stielow with you, he would leave Vienna, and could not continue to have any intercourse with my wife: I too would take her away somewhere for a time. After his marriage with the lovely countess, the young couple would naturally visit Baron von Stielow's family for a time; he would forget my wife,--all would come straight, if we only work together at the same plan!"
He spoke slowly, and with much hesitation, often interrupting himself, and casting stolen looks now at the mother, now at the daughter. Before he had finished speaking, Clara had sprung to her feet, her eyes, red with weeping, were fixed on him with burning anger; and as he concluded, she looked at her mother with anxious suspense, her lips half opened, as if she almost feared her mother might not give the right reply.
Countess Frankenstein drew herself up, with a movement full of pride, and said in a tone of cold contempt:
"I thank you for your communication, sir; it has opened my eyes in time. I regret I cannot assist you in the way you wish, to re-establish your domestic happiness. You must understand it cannot be the task of a Countess Frankenstein to cure the Baron Stielow of an unworthy passion, nor can she consent to continue an engagement which the baron has not respected. You must find some other means of reclaiming your wife."
Clara's eyes expressed her perfect approval of her mother's words; with a proud movement she turned her back upon Herr Balzer, and, suppressing her tears with a great effort, she looked out of one of the large panes of glass in the high window of the salon.
Herr Balzer wrung his hands, as if in despair, and cried with well-acted emotion:
"My God! countess, forgive me, if I thought only of my own sorrow and grief, only of myself and my wife, and did not consider that difficulty. I thought, too, you wished so much for thisparti, which is so excellent, and I hoped you would act in concert with me to bring everything to a good end."
"A Countess Frankenstein is not in a position to wish for apartiunworthy of her, and one her heart cannot approve," said the countess, the cold calmness of her manner unchanged. "I believe, sir," she continued, bowing very slightly, "that it is scarcely necessary to continue this conversation."
Herr Balzer wrung his hands, and cried in a tone of despair:
"Oh, my God! my God! countess, what have I done! I now understand perfectly that your daughter, under the circumstances, cannot continue her engagement,--that I was foolish to hope to re-establish peace through your assistance. Oh, my God, I had better have remained silent!"
The countess looked at him inquiringly.
"Then," he continued, in the same tone, "everything might have gone on well; now, oh, God! all that is over! You will break off the engagement with Baron von Stielow, the whole world will hear of my misfortune, there will be a dreadful scandal in Vienna, and I shall have to separate from my wife. Ah! and I love my wife; I wish so to forgive her, to reclaim her,--and I shall love her for ever!"
He paused for a moment, and cast a cunning look at the countess, whose features had assumed an expression of deep thought.
Then he added still louder, and wringing his hands still more:
"Oh! my gracious countess, have compassion on me. I came to you in perfect confidence to confide to you the frightful secret of my misfortune. I see you cannot help me, as I hoped; be merciful to me, and do not make it impossible for me to think of a way in which the worst may be averted. Keep my secret. Herr von Stielow in his rage and anger would revenge himself on me,--there would be nothing to restrain him,--then there would be a dreadful scandal; that may be a matter of indifference to you and your daughter, but to me and my wife--Oh! have compassion on me!" and he made a movement, as if about to throw himself at the feet of the countess. She still continued thoughtful.
"Sir," she said, "it is certainly neither my wish, nor my daughter's, to discuss this disagreeable affair with Baron Stielow."
Clara turned her head towards her mother, and thanked her with a look.
"I shall break off Countess Clara's engagement with Herr von Stielow in the quietest manner possible, and it will remain for you to do the best you can for yourself--your secret is safe with me. Again I thank you for your communication, however painful it was necessary, and has preserved us from much worse pain in the future."
And she bowed her head in a way that showed Herr Balzer unmistakeably he was dismissed.
He again held his handkerchief before his eyes, and said, in a whining voice:
"I thank you, countess, I shall be eternally grateful to you; forgive me. I beg the young lady's forgiveness, too, for being the messenger of such evil tidings. But my lot is the worst. Oh! if you did but know how I loved my wife!"
And as if overcome by the immensity of his grief, he bowed in silence, and left the room.
He hastily brushed past the servant in the ante-room, and ran down the stairs; as soon as he had left the room the grave and sorrowful expression vanished from his face, a vulgar smile of triumph appeared upon his lips, and he said to himself, with great satisfaction,--
"Well, I think I did my business very well, and richly earned the thousand guldens my dearly beloved wife promised me, if I would free her dear Stielow. Now she can catch him again in her net; she will succeed, for she understands all that well, and then," he said, with a broader grin of satisfaction, "I shall have the right of grasping handfuls of the gold which this young millionaire will pour into her lap."
With quick steps, he hastened to his wife, to tell her of the success of his negotiation.
As soon as he left the room, Clara, without speaking a word, threw herself into her mother's arms, sobbing aloud. After the restraint she had put upon her feelings in the presence of a repulsive stranger, her tears flowed freely, and relieved the oppression of her heart.
"Be strong, my daughter," said the countess, gently stroking her shining hair. "God sends you a hard trial; but it is better to tear yourself free from an unworthy engagement, than that this blow should fall upon you later."
"Oh! my mother," cried the young countess, with the greatest grief, "this love made me so happy; he assured me so strongly he was quite free; I believed him so implicitly."
Suddenly raising herself from her mother's arms, she rushed to the table where the letter lay which Herr Balzer had given the countess.
With a slight shudder, she seized the fatal letter, and read the contents with large, dilated eyes.
Then she threw it from her with a look of horror, and sinking into a chair, wept bitterly.
"Go to your room, my child," said the countess, "you need rest. I will consider how matters can be arranged in the best and quietest way. The baron's absence makes it easier. We will go into the country; I will give the needful orders. Calm and compose yourself, that the world may perceive nothing. It is our duty to bear our sorrows alone: only vulgar souls show their troubles to the world. God will comfort you, and on the heart of your mother you will always find a place to weep."
And gently raising her daughter, she led her from the salon to the inner apartments, belonging exclusively to the ladies.
The regular strokes of the old clock's pendulum echoed through the silence of the large, empty room, and the ancestors' portraits looked down from their frames with their unchanging well-bred smile; their eyes too, though they looked so calm and cheerful, had wept in days long past, and with proud strength they had forced their tears back into their hearts, to avoid the pity or the spiteful joy of the world, and time as it rolled on, after hours of sorrow and pain, had brought the moment of happiness. There was nothing now in this old home of an old race.
The loud clatter of a sword was heard in the ante-room. The servant opened the door, and Lieutenant von Stielow entered, fresh and cheerful. He looked round the room with sparkling eyes. He turned with disappointment to the servant.
"The ladies were here a moment ago," he said. "The countess had just received a person on business; they must have gone to their own apartments. I will send, and mention that Baron--"
"No, my friend," cried the young officer, "do not announce me; the ladies will soon return, and I shall surprise them. Say nothing."
The servant bowed, and left the room.
The young officer walked several times up and down the room. A smile of happiness rested on his face--the joy of reunion, after an eventful separation, during which he had been threatened by death in many forms; the anticipation of the joyful surprise he should behold in the eyes of his beloved, all combined to fill his young, fresh heart with joy and enchantment.
He went up to the low fauteuil, in which Countess Clara usually sat beside her mother, and he pressed his lips against the back, where he knew her head had rested.
Then he seated himself in the chair, half closed his eyes, and gave himself up to a sweet, soft reverie, and the old clock's pendulum measured the time the young man spent in happy dreams, with the same regular stroke as it had numbered the moments of torture that had wrung the heart of her who filled his dreams.
Whilst the young baron sat awaiting his happiness, Clara had gone to her own apartment. It was a square room, with a large window, decorated with grey silk. Before the window stood a writing table, and near it a high pyramidal stand of blooming flowers, whose fragrance filled the room. Upon the writing-table, on an elegant bronze easel, stood a large photograph of her fiancé; he had given it to her just before his departure to join the army. In a niche in one corner of the room was aprie-dieuchair, and a beautiful crucifix in ebony and ivory, with a small shell, containing holy water, hung upon the wall.
This room contained everything calculated to please a faultless taste, and to enrich and embellish life. This room had been so full of happiness and hope when the young countess left it,--and now? The perfume of the flowers was as sweet as an hour ago; the sunshine fell as brightly through the windows; but where was the happiness? where was the hope?
Clara threw herself on her knees before the image of the crucified Saviour, where she had often found comfort in the childish sorrows of her early life. She clasped her beautiful hands in fervent prayer, her tearful eyes hung on the image of the Redeemer, her lips moved in half-uttered, imploring words; but not as before did peace and rest sink into her soul.
A wild storm of various emotions raged within her. There was deep sorrow for her lost happiness, there was defiant anger at the deceit that had played upon her love, there was swelling pride at the contempt shown to her feelings, and finally there was bitter, jealous hatred of the unworthy being to whom she had been sacrificed. All these emotions surged and raged in her head, in her heart, in her veins; and the prayer her lips pronounced would not arise to heaven, the peaceful light of believing self-sacrifice would not kindle within her.
She stood up and sighed deeply. Not grief, but anger flashed in her eyes. Her white teeth bit into her lip, she paced up and down the room, her hands pressed upon her bosom, as if to still the raging storm threatening to break her heart.