Clear the Track! Part 18

"Ah, indeed!" said the Baron slowly. He turned around, and with a peculiar glance scanned the form of the Count, who was just disappearing between the trees, while Maia innocently chatted on:

"If I can only slip into my own room un.o.bserved--Papa will be angry if he sees me."

"Yes, indeed, he will scold," said Wildenrod with emphasis, "and I should like to do the same. I had gone into the park to look for you when that storm burst forth, and I heard from the gardener that you had already been for an hour somewhere in the woods. How imprudent! Did you not think how uneasy the people at home would be about you?--that I would be distressing myself?"

The reproachful tone of this question called a bright blush to the young girl's face. "Oh, that was altogether uncalled for. Here in Odensburg every workman and child knows me."

"Never mind, you should never again venture forth so far without attendance. You promise me this, do you not, Maia? And as a pledge that you will keep your word, I ask this of you."

As though in sport, he caught at the blooming branch, but Maia looked at him, half-shocked and half-indignant.

"My branch? No, why?"

"Because I ask you for it."

The request sounded like a demand, and this must have awakened Maia's pride. With a decided gesture of repulse, she drew back a step.

"No, Herr von Wildenrod. I'll not give up my blossoms."

A flash of angry surprise shot from the Baron's eyes: he had not believed the child capable of such decided opposition to _his_ will, and it was precisely this that goaded him into having his way, at any price.

"Do you attach so great value to it?" he asked, with bitter scorn. "The Count seemed to do so too. Perhaps this 'pledge of peace' has some secret significance for you both?"

"A jest, nothing more! Victor is an old playmate----"

"And I am a stranger to you! Is that what you would say, Maia? I understand."

At these words, spoken with intense bitterness, the brown eyes were lifted to his in a shocked and pleading manner. "Oh, no, Herr Von Wildenrod, I did not mean that--Oh, certainly not."

"No? And yet you speak of 'Victor' and immediately grant him a renewal of the former familiar relations. I have been, and still am, nothing to you but 'Herr Von Wildenrod.' How often have I begged you to call me by my first name, just for once. I have never yet heard it from your lips."

Maia gave no reply, there she stood motionless, with glowing cheeks and downcast eyes; but still she felt the fervent glance that rested upon her.

"Is it so hard for you to give me a name, that the future family connection has nevertheless the right to claim? Is it really so hard?

Well, I will be content to forego my claim when others are present, but now, that we are alone, I must and shall hear it ... Maia!"

The delay of another second, and then it came, softly and tremblingly, from her lips: "Oscar!"

A gleam of transporting joy lighted up the man's dark features, and he made an impetuous movement, as though he would draw to his heart the young girl who stood before him, shy and trembling. But he controlled himself; only he seized and clasped firmly her quivering little hand.

"At last! And now that other, the second request."

"Herr Von Wildenrod----"

"The branch, Maia, which another gave to you, and which I, therefore, _will_ not leave in your hands. Please give it to me?"

Maia resisted no longer. Powerless beneath the ban of those eyes and that voice, she held out to him the blooming bough.

"Thanks!" said Oscar softly. It was only a single word, but it had the sound of tenderness with difficulty restrained.

Now Miss Friedberg was seen at the open window of the house, which the two were now approaching, and, with clasped hands, she expressed her horror at seeing her pupil in such a plight.

"Maia, for heaven's sake tell me, have you actually been abroad in this weather? How you do look! Be quick, take off that wet mantle--you will catch your death of cold!"

"Yes, I should give her the same advice," said Oscar, smiling. "Quick, quick, go in the house!"

The girl slipped off with a pa.s.sing nod. Wildenrod slowly followed her, but stood still in the garden-hall, and his brow darkened again as he looked at the blossom-laden bough in his hand. For the first time he realized that the success of his wooing might be imperiled by delay, and yet he knew that he durst not speak as yet. He did not yet stand firm enough in the favor of Dernburg, who could hardly be brought to give up his darling to a man so much older than herself, without further inducement, nor was he as yet sure even of Maia. An unwise word here, spoken prematurely, might spoil everything. And just at this crisis had to start up most provokingly this Count Eckardstein, who had lost not a minute's time in laying claim to his old footing of the familiar friend of childish days!

For a few moments Wildenrod stood lost in dark forebodings, then he drew himself up with a jerk, and in his eyes again flamed proud, triumphant self-confidence. Good--Maia was not to be won without a struggle--he was not the one to shun it. How pusillanimous, to doubt gaining the victory over that young c.o.xcomb with his smooth face! Let him beware of crossing his path!

At the window of her own room stood Maia, who had not yet laid off her wet mantle, nor was even conscious that she still wore it. She gazed up at the cloud-beleaguered sky, with a strange dreamy look upon her face, and a slight, happy smile played about her lips.

Forgotten was the meeting in the forest-lodge, banished the form of her old playmate--she only saw one thing--those deep, dark eyes, the look that had woven such a spell upon her spirit, she only heard that subdued voice, thrilling with restrained pa.s.sion. It was a sweet, disturbing dream,--a feeling, of which she did not herself know whether it portended woe or bliss.

CHAPTER IX.

THE CROSS ON THE WHITE STONE.

Spring had fully come. Through storm and cold, through frost and fog, it had victoriously fought its way through, and awakened the earth everywhere to a new and sunny life.

A solitary wanderer was vigorously climbing upward through the green woods. It was still early in the day: the forest still-rested in deep bluish gray shadow, while heavy and moist lay the dew upon the mossy ground. Only the voices of individual birds sounded through the stillness of morning, and the tree-tops rustled and sighed as they bowed before the wind.

Egbert Runeck was on his way to the Whitestone, wanting to keep his word and examine the condition of the cross up there himself. Now he emerged from the woods, coming out upon a small elevated plateau, while just in front of him towered the mighty wall of cliff. Naked and steep it reared its crest above the dark fir-trees that fringed its base. The whole upper part was wildly cleft and riven, here only a few dwarf pines and stunted bushes were rooted in the fissures. From the summit a gigantic cross was visible to a great distance, identifying the mountain for all beholders.

That high, solitary peak played a chief part in the legends of the region round about. Already its name was linked with the world of fairies and elves that once had their mysterious being in these mountain-forests, and still survived in the superst.i.tions of the people. The Whitestone concealed buried treasures, that, slumbering deep within its rock-bound caves, waited for release, and already many a one had paid the penalty of death for meddling with its secrets. Only the almighty _Springwurzel_[1] opens these locked-up depths.

"He takes from night and darkness Their treasures hidden deep, And he those jewels sparkling And all that gold may keep."

How strange! Those words kept ringing in the ears of the man who stood on the edge of the mountain-meadow. It was the last stanza of an old popular ballad, that he too had been familiar with in childhood, but had long since forgotten. For him there were no longer hidden treasures, for him the depths were empty and dead, and yet that song kept ringing incessantly in his soul, but rather the voice from which he had last heard it. He hated at the bottom of his heart that beautiful syren who had ensnared by her wiles the friend of his youth, and now was to be mistress of Odensburg, but he could not rid himself of the entrancing sound of that voice, of the demoniacal charm of those eyes, and no labor, no exertion of will-power availed for his deliverance.

He crossed, over the mountain meadow, and, looking up, scrutinized the Whitestone. The weight of the winter's snows and the latest storms of spring might very well have shaken its foundations, and yet it seemed to stand firm and sure. But suddenly Egbert started, his foot seemed rooted to the spot, while his gaze clung spell-bound, to the top of the peak. Something was stirring up yonder; he saw the outlines of a bright form, that were clearly defined--his sharp eye recognized them in spite of the distance.

It had been no mere boast then, no pa.s.sing whim, the madcap had really undertaken the adventure, and, undertaken it alone, as it seemed!

Egbert's brow contracted, yet, for him to retrace his steps was not to be thought of--he, too, had almost certainly been already seen. He grasped his staff, then, and slowly began to climb.

The path that from here upward led to the crag certainly required a steady head and a fearless heart. It was a sort of hunter's track, that wound along close to the steep precipice, and the view of the awful depths below was always left open. At times it would vanish entirely, and then one would be forced to look out a path for himself, until the beaten track after a while again became visible.

The young engineer had lost the imperturbable coolness, with which he usually accomplished such a climb, often he stopped, his foot slipped, and he had consumed much more time than usual when he finally reached the top. There before him stood Cecilia Wildenrod, flooded by the bright light of morning, radiant in beauty and overweening pride.

"See there, Herr Runeck, we meet on the summit of the Whitestone! You have taken your time for the climb--I came faster!"

"I know the danger of the way," answered Egbert, composedly, "and therefore do not challenge it."