On the Heights Part 62

Irma was all attention. "Now tell me all," said she, brus.h.i.+ng back her curls.

"You, of all others, will understand me, when I say that I pa.s.sed sublime hours with your father. And yet I can recount nothing definite in regard to them. If, while rambling through the woods, I pluck a spray and fasten it to my hat, what can the spray tell of the rustling of the forest, or of the free mountain air? It is merely a symbol, both for us and to those we meet, of the joy that pervades our whole being."

"I understand you," said Irma. They sat opposite each other, and neither of them spoke for some time.

"Did my father mention my brother?"

"No. The word 'son' never pa.s.sed his lips. Oh, Countess! the man to whom pure love vouchsafes the happiness of becoming a son--"

Emotion seemed to choke his utterance. Irma trembled; her heart beat quickly. Here was a man, n.o.ble and highly esteemed, who offered her his heart and hand. Yea, his heart, and she had none to give him in return.

She felt a pang that pierced her very soul.

"I feel happy," said she, "that father, in his solitude, has once more seen that this stirring, bustling court contains some worthy men; men like yourself, who stand for that which is best in all things. Do not, I beg of you, reject my honest praise. I know that true merit is always modest, because it is never satisfied with itself."

"Your father expressed the same thought, in the very same words."

"I believe he must have taught it to me; if not in words, at all events by his example. I would have liked to see you and him together. Your presence must have restored his faith in humanity. You are a messenger of goodness, and since you are good, you believe in the virtue of others."

"Where I have once felt respect and love," replied Bronnen, "I am unchangeable. I should like to write to your father at an early day. I should love, dear Countess, to send him the best of news, and in the best words that language affords. Countess Irma, I long to tell him--"

"My dear friend," interposed Irma, "I am, like my father, of a solitary nature. I thank you. You do not know how greatly your visit and all that you have told me, has benefited me. I thank you with all my heart.

Let us remain friends. Give me your hand as a pledge. Let us remain friends, just as we have been. I thank you--"

Her voice was choked with tears.

The colonel took his leave. Irma was alone. She lay kneeling near the sofa. Her heart was filled with unutterable sorrow. The c.o.xcomb had rejected her. Then came a man worthy of the best of wives. He loved and trusted her, and she had refused him. His kind and honest heart had a right to ask for full, unbounded love. She shook off the mingled feeling of distress and mortification. The thought that she had acted honorably, soothed her and seemed like refres.h.i.+ng dew to her whirling brain. But then, again, it galled her when she asked herself: "How far have you sunk, that you are obliged to make a show of simple honesty?

And where lives the girl who, if not bound by love, has a right to reject the man whom you have just refused? He cannot but esteem you and your love."

She knew not how long she lay there. She laughed and wept, lamented and rejoiced.

Her maid entered. It was time to dress for dinner.

CHAPTER XII.

The queen was ill. Her life was saved, but a hope was lost.

It was on a stormy morning in spring, that Baum, caring a little coffin that contained the corpse of a still-born babe, descended the back stairs of the palace. He walked so softly that he did not hear his own footsteps. He was followed by Madame Leoni, the queen's waiting-woman, who held a white handkerchief to her eyes. At the foot of the stairs, a carriage was in waiting. Baum was obliged to tell the coachman, who was not in court livery, where to drive to. Scarcely any one in the palace knew of what was going on.

They drove out of town and toward the church-yard. An unnamed child is not placed in the vault, but is buried in the public cemetery. The grave-digger was waiting for them. The little corpse was lowered into the open grave, without a name or sign to mark its place of burial.

About the same time that Baum and Madame Leoni were out at the churchyard, Walpurga was thus writing home:

".... Thank G.o.d! all's over. Now I can look forward to happier days.

We've had a terrible time here. If all goes well, there are only seven Sundays more till I come home again. I can hardly believe it possible that I've got to go away from here again, and yet I'll thank G.o.d a thousand times, when I'm with you once more. If I stay here, I shall grow quite stupid from thinking so much. There's misery everywhere and people take pleasure in each other's wickedness, and, even if it isn't true, they imagine it is and find pleasure in it, besides.

"There was some talk about our getting a place here, where we could all be comfortable for life; but the queen said that it would be better for me to go home, and whatever she says, is right. She's a true queen, just as a queen ought to be. G.o.d has made her so, on purpose.

"I'd only like to know why she has to suffer so much.

"Oh, what a time we've had. Every minute, we thought the queen-- There's not another soul like her in the world, and she had so much to bear, and we're all human after all. But now, thank G.o.d, all's over. The king's doctor says the danger's over. But, of course, what we hoped for, is gone. I can't tell you how it made me feel, to think that I was so well, and I felt as if I must go to the queen and give up every drop of my blood to save her.

"Whenever I had a chance, I went down to the church--they have their church in the house here--and prayed for the queen. My countess has never once come to me. They say she looks like a shadow. All the pa.s.sages here are heated and the whole house is just like one warm room, and the people in the palace would pa.s.s each other, without taking notice of any one.

"On the evening that the queen thought she was going to die, she sent for me and the child. She didn't say much, but her eyes told it all.

"And now, Hansei, keep yourself ready; you must come for me. Next time I write, I'll tell you the very day when you're to come.

"I feel as if I couldn't wait; and yet it makes my heart ache to think that I must leave my prince, for he loves me so. But I can't help it.

I've got a child, a husband and a mother of my own, at home, and am tired of being in service and among strangers.

"Does the storm rage so terribly with you? Oh, how the wind blows. If it would only bear me home. Last night it blew down a tree in front of my window. It was a fine, large tree, and fell on a figure which it broke to pieces. Every one said it was very beautiful, but I couldn't see any beauty in such a thing. It seemed ever so impudent as it stood there, and was enough to make one blush. I could see the tree and the figure from my window, and people are already there, putting things to rights, and carrying all that's damaged out of the way.

"They're very quick about such things here, whether it be a tree, a marble figure, or a dead child.

"Forgive me for writing such a mixed-up letter. When I get home again, I can never tell you all that I've gone through here, if I live to be a hundred years old.

"And when you come, dear Hansei, just put on the clothes that the king sent, and one of the fine s.h.i.+rts that I made for you when we were married. They're in the blue closet on the upper shelf on the left-hand side with the red ribbon. Forgive me for writing all this to you, but you've had to take care of yourself almost a year, and I haven't been able to help you, or get your things for you. Now that will all come right again. I feel as if I were at home already, pulling your s.h.i.+rt-collar straight, as we go to church of a Sunday morning. I feel as if it was some one else who had gone through all this, and as if the days were a high mountain that one can never cross. But all will be right again, and we'll be merry and happy together, for, thank G.o.d, we've sound limbs, and true hearts. Forgive me, all of you, if I've ever said a single word to offend you.

"If I had you here, dear Hansei, I'd put my arms round your neck and kiss you to my heart's content. You and the child and mother are all the world to me. I'm just beginning to feel how much I love you all, and I can't understand how I could stay away from you so long, without dying of grief and homesickness.

"Don't forget to bring a large chest with you, for they've given me ever so many things.

"And bring me something out of our garden; one of my pinks, and also one of the child's shoes. But I'll tell you more plainly about this, in my next letter.

"I can't fall into the ways of the court folk. I'm told that they can't touch or dress their own dead. They have it all done by strangers, who are paid for it.

"I've been spinning flax this winter, for s.h.i.+rts for my prince. They were all pleased with it, and came to my room to look on and seemed as much astonished as if it were something wonderful.

"I like to think of working in the fields again, it makes one much healthier. But don't worry, for nothing ails me except that I am terribly homesick.

"And now farewell; a thousand times farewell!

"Your WALPURGA ANDERMATTEN."

While Walpurga, with slow and heavy hand, toiled at her letter, Countess Irma sat at her desk, in the room below, and dashed off the following lines:

"_My dearest Emma_: What a night I've pa.s.sed--I must be endowed with herculean strength, or I should not have lived through it. I have looked into the fiery eyes of the glaring monsters who dwell above and below our daily life and who suddenly, and without warning, burst upon us. You must suffer me to return to you,--to write to you once more. I don't know how long it is since I've done so. You are my fortress, my rock, my shelter. You are firm, immovable, steadfast, patient. When in distress, I come to you. I flee to you.

"It was a terrible night. The tree still stands, but a young blossom was broken off. I came from the queen's apartment; I could not pray, but stood by the window, and thought while I looked out into the night: Thou who renewest everything, who awakenest the earth from its wintry sleep, breathing new life into trees and flowers and all that faded and withered last year--suffer a human heart to renew itself; let past deeds be destroyed and forgotten. Suffer a child of man, regenerate and redeemed, to begin life anew. I stood at the cas.e.m.e.nt, while the wind howled without. Suddenly there was a fearful crash. A tall oak before my window had been broken by the angry wind. The tree toppled and, in its fall, dashed a statue of Venus, which stood beneath it, into fragments. It all seemed like a feverish dream, and when I realized what had happened, my only wish was: Oh that I had been in the statue's place! Oh that I had been dashed to atoms--It would have been far better for me.

"I hardly know what to tell you. I only know that I may again be with you--perhaps to-day, to-morrow, at night or in the daytime, I shall fall on my knees to you and you will lift me up. I shall rest on your heart, and you will protect me. You will save me from the demons; you will not question me; you will give food and drink and rest to the stranger soul, and will not ask whence it comes.

"What are we? What is the world? We see and know all, and yet--