The Merchant of Berlin Part 26

"I will not forget it. I will remember that I have sworn to follow you voluntarily from my father's house, even against his will." And letting her blus.h.i.+ng face droop upon her breast, she whispered, in a voice scarcely audible--"I await you!"

But these words, low as they had been spoken, reached the ears of two men at the same time. Not only Colonel Feodor, but also Bertram, who had drawn close up to Elise again, had overheard them. The first they filled with emotions of delight, the other with painful anguish.

Bertram, however, was accustomed to wrestle with his love, and smother the expression of his pain, under the appearance of quiet composure.

He approached Elise, and offered her his hand, said, "Come sister, let us go."

"Yes, go," said the colonel, with the proud superiority of a preferred rival. He extended his hand to Bertram, and continued, "Be a good brother to her, and conduct her safely home."

Bertram's countenance, usually so quiet and calm, a.s.sumed for an instant an offended and almost contemptuous air, and bitter words were on his tongue; but his angry eye accidentally met Elise's, anxiously and imploringly directed toward him. He could not master himself sufficiently to accept Feodor's hand, but at least he could control his anger. "Come, sister," said he, gently leading Elise toward the door which the colonel indicated to him by a silent nod.

Elise had not the courage to leave her lover without a word of farewell; or rather, she was cruel enough to inflict this torture on Bertram. Stretching both hands toward him, she said softly, "I thank you, Feodor; G.o.d and love will reward you for having greatly and n.o.bly conquered yourself."

Feodor whispered to her, "And will you remember your vow?"

"Ever and always!"

In bending over to kiss her hand, he murmured, "Expect me, then, to-morrow."

"I will expect you," said she, as she pa.s.sed him on her way to the door.

No word of their whispered conversation escaped the attentive ear of Bertram; and he understood it, for he loved her, and knew how to read her thoughts in her looks and her eyes. As he followed her through the long corridor, and her light, graceful figure floated before him like a vision, a deep, despairing melancholy settled on his heart, and he murmured to himself, "To-morrow she expects him!" But with desperate determination he continued to himself, "Well, then, woe to him if I find him going astray!"

CHAPTER X.

AN UNEXPECTED ALLY.

Thanks to Bertram's forethought and caution, he had succeeded in restoring Elise to her father's house, without her absence having been remarked, or having occasioned any surmise. In the close carriage in which they performed the journey home, they had not exchanged a word; but leaning hack on the cus.h.i.+ons, each had rest and repose after the stormy and exciting scenes they had just pa.s.sed through. Elise's hand still rested on Bertram's, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps because she had not the courage to withdraw it from him to whom she owed so much grat.i.tude.

Bertram felt the feverish warmth of this trembling hand, and as he looked at her and remarked the paleness of her cheeks, the painful twitching of her lips, he was overcome by a feeling of deep wretchedness, of pitying sadness, and was obliged to turn his head away to conceal his tears from her.

When the carriage stopped, and he accompanied her into the house, Elise pressed his hand more firmly, and turned her gaze upon him with a look of deep grat.i.tude, which made his heart palpitate with a mixture of delight and anguish. He wished to withdraw, he wished to let her hand go, but she held his still more firmly clasped, and drew him gently up the steps. Powerless with emotion, he followed her.

As they entered the hall which led to her room, she cast a searching look around to see if any one were present, and perceiving that they two were alone, she turned toward Bertram with an indescribable expression. She tried to speak, but the words died on her lips, a deep glow suffused her cheeks, and completely overpowered, and giddy from the tumult of her feelings, she leaned her head on her friend's shoulder.

Gently he pa.s.sed his arm around her delicate, trembling figure, and his eyes beamed with a pure emotion. In the depth of his heart he renewed to G.o.d and himself his vow of fidelity and self-sacrificing love to this poor girl who lay on his bosom like a drooping flower.

Suddenly she raised her head, her face wet with tears and convulsed with deep feeling. "Bertram," she said, "I know that I am not worthy of your n.o.ble, generous love, but yet, in my crushed heart, I thank G.o.d that I possess it. A time may come when all the thoughts and feelings which now fill my soul will appear as vain dreams and illusions. It may be that some day I will look upon life as a grand delusion, a fruitless striving after happiness and repose. But never, my brother, never will that time come when I can doubt your faithful, pure affection. No power, no other feeling, will ever succeed in supplanting the deep and boundless grat.i.tude which pervades my whole soul and binds me to you forever."

And then it seemed to him as if he felt the breath of an angel wave over his face; as if the dream and desire of his whole life had closed his lips in unexpected bliss; as if the wishes and hopes of his ardent but resigned heart had been fulfilled, and become a delightful reality.

When he recovered from this sweet dream, which for a moment robbed him of his consciousness, Elise had disappeared. But her kiss still glowed on his lips, and seemed to bless and sanctify his whole life.

This stream of happiness lasted but for a short time, and Bertram soon awoke, with a sad sigh, from his delightful fancies, to recall the painful hours he had just gone through, and to say to himself that Elise was lost to him forever, that he never could hope to rescue that heart from the lover to whom she had yielded it with all the devotion of her ardent nature. With a sorrowing heart did he remember the last words of the lovers. She had appointed a meeting for him on the morrow, she expected him, and, braving the anger of her father, had giving him a rendezvous in his house.

As Bertram thought over this, he paced the room up and down, panting with excitement, and wringing his hands. "If Gotzkowsky knew this, he would kill her, or die himself of grief. Die of grief!" continued he, after a pause, completely buried in his sad and bitter thoughts--"it is not so easy to die of grief. The sad heart is tenacious of life, and sorrow is but a slow grave-digger. I have heard that one could die of joy, and it seemed to me just now, when Elise rewarded me with a kiss, that I could understand this. If she only loved me, it were a blessing of G.o.d to die, conscious of her love."

Completely overcome by his painful thoughts, he remained for a while motionless and sad. But he soon recovered himself, and shook off the dark cloud which overshadowed his soul. "I am not born to die such a death. It is my destiny not to be happy myself, but to save others from unhappiness. I feel and know that Elise cannot be happy in this love. A loving heart is gifted with prophetic second sight to read the future. Elise can never be happy without her father's blessing, and Gotzkowsky will never give his sanction to this love. How can I lead her past this abyss which threatens to engulf her? May G.o.d, who sees my heart, help me! He knows how hopeless and disinterested it is. Help me, Father in heaven! show me some way of saving her n.o.ble father from the grief which lies before him."

It seemed as if G.o.d had heard his prayer, and taken compa.s.sion on his pure, unselfish spirit, and sent him a.s.sistance. A loud knocking at the door aroused him suddenly from his gloomy thoughts, and he hastened to open it.

A veiled lady stood there, wrapped in furs, and attended by a servant in rich livery. In fluent French, which it could be perceived, however, was not her native tongue, she inquired whether, as she had been told, Herr von Brink, Tottleben's adjutant, resided there. As Bertram answered this question in the affirmative, but added, that Herr von Brink was in the habit of not returning from the general's quarters before evening, she added, in a decided tone, "Well, then, I will wait for him."

Without deeming Bertram's consent necessary, she entered the hall and motioned to her servant to remain at the door.

After a pause, there ensued between the two one of those superficial, ceremonious conversations, the usual refuge of those who have nothing to say to each other; but the evident uneasiness and confusion of the young lady prevented her from joining freely in it. Her large, bright eyes strayed restlessly around the room. A hectic flush alternated on her cheeks with deathly pallor, and the smile, which occasionally played around her lips, seemed but a painful expression of mental suffering. Suddenly she raised her head, as if determined no longer to bear this constraint, or submit to the fetters of conventionality.

"Sir," said she, in a tone vibrating with excitement and anxiety, "you will excuse my asking you a question, on the answer to which depends my future happiness, my life, indeed--to obtain which I have travelled from St. Petersburg here. I have just left my carriage in which I performed the journey from that city. You can therefore judge how important the cause of this undertaking is to me, and what an influence it may have on my whole existence. Its object lies in the question I am about to put to you."

Bertram took pity on her painful agitation. "Ask" he said, "and, on the honor of a gentleman, I a.s.sure you that your question shall be answered truly, and that I am ready to serve you as far as it lies in my power."

"Are you acquainted with General Bachmann's adjutant?" asked she, shortly and hurriedly.

"I am," replied Bertram.

She trembled as in an ague. "I am come to inquire after a man of whom I have not heard for six months. I wish to know whether he is alive, or only dead to me."

"His name?" asked Bertram, with painful misgiving.

Her voice was scarcely audible as she replied: "Colonel Count Feodor von Brenda, of the regiment Bachmann."

Bertram was quite taken aback by this unexpected turn of the conversation, and she continued with great excitement, "You do not answer! oh, have compa.s.sion on me, and speak! Is he alive?"

"He is alive, and is here," answered Bertram sadly.

A cry of delight escaped the lips of the lady. "He lives," she exclaimed loudly. "G.o.d has then heard my prayer, and preserved him to me."

But suddenly the cheerful smile on her lips died away, and, dropping her head on her breast, she cried, "He is alive, and only dead to me.

He is alive, and did not write me!" For a moment she stood in this position, silent and depressed; then drawing herself up erect, her eyes sparkling with pa.s.sionate warmth, she said: "Sir, I crave your pardon for a poor stranger, who hardly knows what she is doing or saying. I am not acquainted with you, or even your name, but there is something in your n.o.ble, calm countenance which inspires confidence."

Bertram smiled sadly. "Fellow-sufferers always feel attracted to each other by a community of feeling. I, too am a sufferer, and it is G.o.d's will that our sorrows should spring from a common source. The name you have uttered is but too well known to me."

"You know Colonel Brenda?" she asked.

"I do know him," answered Bertram.

"The count was at one time a prisoner of war," continued the lady. "He visited this house frequently, for I have been told that it belongs to Mr. Gotzkowsky, of whom the colonel wrote me, in the commencement of his captivity, that he received him most hospitably."

"Did he write you any word of Gotzkowsky's handsome daughter?" asked Bertram, looking inquiringly into the countenance of the stranger.

She shuddered, and turned pale. "O Heaven!" she murmured low, "I have betrayed myself!"

Bertram seized her hand, his features evincing deep emotion. "Will you answer me one question?" he asked, and as she bowed her head in silence, he proceeded--"is the Count von Brenda your brother?"