On the Heights Part 91

"What's this? a wedding?" he inquired of the peasant who had already given him some information as to the road.

"I don't know, but I think they must be town folk, or else they couldn't ride about in harvest time. Maybe they're coming from the election."

Bruno again mounted his horse. When he asked for the nearest road to Wildenort, the peasant looked at him in surprise, and pointed to a bridle-path on which he could not miss his way. But Bruno, who had lost all taste for the woods, preferred keeping to the highway. He pa.s.sed a long string of wagons preceded by a band of music with a flag of black, red, and gold. He hurried by them, for he was not in a mood to listen to music.

CHAPTER VI.

Even before Gunther's arrival, Eberhard had been bled. Gunther had brought a small medicine-chest with him, and had hastily compounded some remedies which had relieved and quieted the patient. He was now sleeping. Great drops of perspiration stood on his brow. Irma still sat concealed behind the screen. She could see her father, but could not be seen by him. Drawing a deep breath, he awoke and looked about him. Irma hastened to him. He gazed at her fixedly, and then motioned her to open the window.

The day was bright and sunny; the cool, balmy breezes wafted the fragrance of the woods into the room. The cracking of whips was heard.

Eberhard's features acquired a pleased expression, for he knew that they were now bringing in the first sheaves from the swamp which he had redeemed.

Steps were heard in the ante-chamber, and Gunther came in, accompanied by the farm bailiff.

"Come in," said he, "it will please your master."

With a heavy tread, the bailiff walked up to the sick man's bedside. In his right hand he held some of the ripened grain, while, with his left, he beat his breast as if to force out the words:

"Master, I've brought you the first ears from our new field, and hope your health may be spared, so that you may eat the bread from it for many a year to come."

Eberhard seized the ears and, with his other hand, pressed that of the servant, who now left the room and went down to the barn, where he sat down on a sheaf and wept.

"Shall I remain with you, or would you rather be alone with your child?" asked Gunther.

Eberhard dropped the ears, and they lay upon the coverlet. He reached for Irma's hand. Gunther went out.

And now Eberhard dropped his daughter's hand, pointed to her heart and then to the ears of corn.

She shook her head and said: "Father, I don't understand you."

An expression of pain pa.s.sed over Eberhard's features, and he placed his finger on his lips, as if grieved that he could not speak. Who knows but what he meant to say: "Good seed will grow from the swamp, if we rightly cultivate it; and out of your own heart, too, my child; out of your lost, ruined--"

"I'll call Gunther," said Irma; "perhaps he will understand what you mean."

Eberhard shook his head, as if in disapproval. His features betrayed something like anger at Irma's inability to understand him.

He bit his speechless lips and tried to raise himself. Irma a.s.sisted him, and he now sat up, supported by the pillows.

His face had changed. It had suddenly acquired a strange hue and an altered expression.

With a shudder, Irma realized what was taking place. She fell down by his bedside, and laid her cheek upon her father's hand. He drew his hand away.

She looked at him. With great effort he raised his hand--it was damp with the dews of death--and with outstretched finger he wrote a word upon her brow. It was a short word; but she saw, she heard, she read it. It was written in the air, on her forehead, in her brain,--aye, in her very soul. Uttering a piercing cry, she sank to the floor.

Gunther came in hurriedly. Stepping over Irma, he rushed to the bedside, lifted Eberhard's fallen hand, felt for the beating of his heart, started back--and then closed his friend's eyes.

The silence of death reigned in the room.

Suddenly, music was heard in front of the house. They were playing the melody of a national song and hundreds of voices called out: "Long live our representative, n.o.ble Count Eberhard!" Irma, who was still lying on the ground, moved at these sounds. Gunther strode past her and went out into the courtyard. The playing ceased and the voices were silenced.

Horse's steps were heard approaching, and Bruno entered the courtyard.

He alighted. The sorrowful mien of Gunther and those about him, told him what had happened. He covered his face and leaned on Gunther, who led him into the house. When Gunther and Bruno entered the chamber of death, Irma had disappeared. She had shut herself up in her room.

CHAPTER VII.

He who destroys his life, destroys more than his own life.

The child that has afflicted a father sees his upbraiding hand rise from the grave.

My father has put the mark of Cain upon my brow; a mark that can never be effaced.

Nevermore dare I look upon my face or permit the eyes of strangers to behold it.

Can I escape from myself? My thoughts will follow me everywhere.

I am an outcast, forlorn, ruined.

Such was the dreary monotone that rang through Irma's soul, again and again.

She lay in the darkened chamber from which every ray of light was excluded. She was alone with herself and darkness. Her thoughts were like strange voices, calling her now here, now there. And it often seemed to her as if, with finger pointed at her, her father's fiery hand shone through the darkness.

She could hear Bruno's voice and Gunther's. Bruno wanted to ask her about many things, and Gunther wished to return to the city. Irma answered that she could see no one, and charged Gunther with a thousand greetings to all who loved her. Gunther cautioned the family doctor and the maid to keep a careful watch on Irma, and also sent a messenger to Emma at the convent.

Irma remained in darkness and solitude.

The tempter came to her, and said:

"Why grieve yourself to death? You are young, and the world, with all its beauty and splendor, lies before you. There is not the faintest trace of a mark upon your brow. The hand that left it is cold and stiff in death. Rise up and be yourself again! The whole world is yours! Why pine away? Why mortify yourself? Everything lives for itself; everything lives out its allotted time. Your father completed his life; do you complete yours. What is sin? The dead have no claims on the living; the living alone have rights."

While distracted by grief and doubts, she suddenly saw, arising through the darkness, the vision described in the New Testament, of Satan and the angel contending for the possession of the body of Moses.

"I'm not a corpse!" exclaimed she suddenly. "There are neither angels nor devils. It is all false! In song and story, and from generation to generation, they've been handing down all sorts of fables, just as they do with children whom they lull to sleep in the dark.

"Day has dawned. I can draw the curtain aside, and the whole world of light is mine. Are there not thousands who have erred as I have, and who still live happily?"

She felt as if buried alive in the earth. Fancy ever transported her to that one grave. She rushed to the window.

"Light! I must have light!"

She raised the curtain. A broad ray of light streamed into the room.

She sprang back, the curtain fell and she again lay in darkness.