For Sceptre and Crown Volume II Part 41

Herr Balzer wrung his hands, and cried in a tone of despair:

"Oh, my G.o.d! my G.o.d! countess, what have I done! I now understand perfectly that your daughter, under the circ.u.mstances, cannot continue her engagement,--that I was foolish to hope to re-establish peace through your a.s.sistance. Oh, my G.o.d, 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, G.o.d! 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 a.s.sumed an expression of deep thought.

Then he added still louder, and wringing his hands still more:

"Oh! my gracious countess, have compa.s.sion 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 compa.s.sion 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 s.h.i.+ning hair. "G.o.d 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 a.s.sured 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. G.o.d 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 fiance; he had given it to her just before his departure to join the army. In a niche in one corner of the room was a _prie-dieu_ chair, and a beautiful crucifix in ebony and ivory, with a small sh.e.l.l, 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 p.r.o.nounced 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.

Then she stood still before her writing-table, and looked angrily at von Stielow's portrait.

"Why did you come into my life," she cried, "to rob me of my peace, and to make me purchase a few hours' happiness with such frightful tortures?"

Her looks rested long on the portrait. Slowly and gradually the angry expression pa.s.sed from her features; a mild, sorrowful light shone in her eyes.

"And my short happiness was so fair," she whispered. "Is it then possible that those true eyes could lie? Is it possible that at the very time---"

She sank into a chair near her table, and half involuntarily following the sweet habit of the last short time, she opened an ebony casket, enriched with mother-o'-pearl and gold.

In this casket were the letters her lover had written to her from the camp. They were all short, hurried notes, many of them very dirty from the numerous hands they had pa.s.sed through before they reached her. She knew them all by heart, those love greetings that said so little and yet so much, that she had waited for with such longing, that she had received with such exulting joy, that she had read and read again with such happiness.

Mechanically she took one of the letters, and allowed her eyes slowly to follow the lines.

Then she threw away the paper with a movement of horror.

"And with the same hand," she cried, "with which he wrote these words--" She did not finish the sentence, but gazed gloomily before her.

"But is it true?" she cried, suddenly; "can it not be malice, envy? Oh, I knew that this woman was once no stranger to him. I have not seen the writings side by side to compare them. Good heavens!" she cried, with horror, "that wretched letter lies in the drawing-room; if one of the servants----" And hastily springing up, she hurried from the room, glided swiftly through the intervening apartments, reached the drawing-room, and advanced at once to the table where the fatal letter lay between two vases of flowers upon some tapestry work.

The sound of her footsteps aroused the young officer from his reverie.

He rose hastily from his half-rec.u.mbent position, in which he had been completely concealed by the high back of the chair, and he saw her his dreams had pictured standing really before him, her face expressing indescribable agitation.