The Children of the World Part 57

CHAPTER X.

His first glance fell upon Toinette, who sat on the sofa in the full light of the candles. Evidently surprised, but without losing his self-control, he paused on the threshold and looked at the two others with an inquiring glance.

"I'm disturbing you," he said coldly. "I saw you still had a light in your room, Herr Doctor, and wanted to say a few words to you. If I'd been aware, that I should not find you alone--"

"You interrupt our conversation just at the right time," said Toinette calmly, without avoiding her husband's glance. "We've been philosophizing a little, as we used to do in old times; there's no end to that, especially when people look at things from such different points of view. Rose almost fell asleep over it. We'll have another argument to-morrow, dear friend. I think I shall finally convince and overpower you. My best troops are yet to be brought into the field."

"Let us conclude a truce," said Edwin with a painful effort. "Really, Countess, another such victory, and my cause will be lost."

"No, no, Doctor, you won't escape so. Do you know that he means to leave us early to-morrow morning? I shall make you responsible for his stay. And now good night. I won't trouble the gentlemen to escort me to my room. Come, Rose, it's time to go to sleep, and we have still to hold a council about my toilette."

She rose hastily, held out her hand to Edwin not daring to raise her eyes to his, nodded to her husband and left the room with her faithful maid. The two men stood face to face for a moment in silence.

"Is it true that you're going?" said the count at last.

"You see I had already taken leave of you," replied Edwin, pointing to the letter, which still lay on the table. "I thought I should do you a favor by avoiding any verbal explanation, in relation to a matter which is painful both to you and to myself, and unfortunately hopeless also."

"So you, too, think we must fear--" He pointed to his forehead.

Edwin was silent. He was reflecting, whether a tacit agreement might not perhaps afford a means of escape. He rejected the subterfuge.

"You have appealed to my old friends.h.i.+p for your wife, Herr Count,"

said he. "I owe it to her, and to yourself, to tell the truth; how matters have reached this point, and what share wrong and misfortune have played, I cannot and will not attempt to decide. But in the present condition of affairs, I see but one means of salvation--to restore her freedom. Misfortune is inevitable, if this state of things continues--not the one you or the doctors fear: I've never seen a clearer brain or more gloomy soul than the countess has. She'll not lose her reason, but probably with entire deliberation go to destruction."

"You mean, Doctor--she might--"

"I know that she has never particularly loved life, that she hates it now, and that it will not require much to burst the overloaded vessel.

I shall leave this house early to-morrow morning, Herr Count. My presence can avail nothing, prevent nothing. But once more I entreat you to make a hasty, strong, and n.o.ble resolution, consent to a separation, if you wish to preserve this precious life. This is the only way of rescuing what still remains to be saved. Perhaps the future will voluntarily restore what you can no longer hold by force."

The count had approached the window, and with folded arms was gazing out into the night. Suddenly he turned, so that the candle light fell full upon his deeply flushed face.

"I'm very grateful to you, Herr Doctor," he said with icy coldness, "for having communicated to me your--of course humble--opinion. In regard to what I ought to do or leave undone, you'll permit me to consult my own wishes, and decline friendly suggestions with my best thanks. For the rest, I regret that you have reasons for leaving my house to-morrow, but as I cannot boast of so old a friends.h.i.+p with you as the countess, it would be indiscreet to inquire into these motives in order perhaps to set them aside. I wish you a pleasant journey. A carriage will be ready to convey you to the railway station at any hour you may desire. Once more accept my most sincere thanks for the delay I have caused you, and if you should ever come into this neighborhood again--" He bowed carelessly to Edwin, whose tongue seemed paralysed, and with a calm smile and patronizing wave of the hand left the room.

"And this is the end!" burst from the oppressed heart of the man who was left alone. He went to the table, took the note and tore it into tiny fragments. A feeling of bitter sorrow, in which all thought of the past and future were merged, overwhelmed him, his mind seemed to be in a dull stupor, a heavyweight rested on his breast, which he tried to throw off by long panting sighs; he took no note of time; not until the clock struck two did he rouse himself from this bewilderment, and remember that for more than an hour he had been standing in the same spot, gazing at the same figure on the silk tapestry. His limbs had grown stiff, and his joints ached as he walked toward his bed. He threw himself on the silk coverlid, still in his clothes, which he no longer thought it worth while to remove, and closed his eyes. The candles were still burning, and the moon shone so brightly into the window, that sleep refused to visit his eyelids. As if he were haunted by the illusions of fever, voices echoed in his ear Toinette's pa.s.sionate confessions, his own wise answers, which had had so little power over his own heart, and the count's cold, formal words, which whenever they recurred to his memory sent the hot blood to his brow. Moreover, a faint perfume of violets surrounded him, which recalled the moment when her curls had rested on his breast; he fancied he felt her glowing lips press his, her tears on his cheek, her exquisite form in his arms, clinging to him as a s.h.i.+pwrecked sailor stretches out his arms toward the land.

"This is too much!" he faltered--"I would that daylight were here and I were a thousand miles away!"

Suddenly the candles flickered and expired. He started up, and saw the first grey light of morning creeping over the trees. "It's time," said he, "quite time! This is not a house in which I can sleep."

He dipped his face in the wash basin, rubbed his cheeks and temples till the last lingering odor of violets had been washed away, then with trembling hands seized his traveling satchel, threw the strap over his shoulder, and left the room.

No one met him as he pa.s.sed along the dark corridors and down the wide staircase. Beside the main entrance was the room occupied by the porter, who slept with his door open and looked up in alarm when he saw a guest standing equipped for travel so early in the morning. The thaler he felt in his hand only partially enlightened him, he nodded sleepily when Edwin told him to give his compliments to his master and to say to him that he had set out before daybreak, because he preferred to walk in the cool of the morning. The man then opened the little side door adjoining the main entrance and took leave of the departing guest with an awkward bow.

The dogs barked as Edwin crossed the wide courtyard, but he met no human being. Outside were the dark woods, veiled by the light transparent haze of early dawn, and a heavy dew was beginning to fall.

Like a flying criminal who avoids the highways, Edwin turned and plunged into the dense shadow of a side path. The burden that would not suffer him to breathe freely still rested on his heart, but his senses were cooled by the fresh air of the forest, and his rapid pace did him good. At last he came to a spot which he remembered to have visited the day before. In a field appeared the solitary farm house, with its steep gable roof and an open barn by the road side tempted him to rest a moment. The floor was covered with sheaves, and the air full of the strong odor of the fresh wheat. He threw himself down in the first corner, and although he intended to remain awake in order to be far on his way when the sun rose, the many exciting scenes of the previous day made sleep overpower him irresistibly.

The farmer's servants found him there, when a few hours later they came to commence their work. But as they remembered having seen him the day before, and as he had liberally rewarded the boy who had shown him the way, they glided softly out to let him sleep a little longer, wondering among themselves that a gentleman who was a guest at the castle, should prefer a couch of straw. When the sun had risen higher, the farmer himself came to the barn, this time determined to wake the stranger.

The countess' maid had come to ask whether the gentleman who had been there yesterday had not called again. He had suddenly disappeared from the castle, and she had a message for him.

When the sleeper started up, the girl was standing with her back to the light, which entered through the barn door, and had a thick veil over her face. Edwin drew back. At the first glance, still under the influence of his dream, he fancied that he saw before him the woman from whom he had resolved to fly. Her voice first undeceived him.

"The countess wishes you a pleasant journey, regrets that the Herr Doctor did not take leave of her himself, and begs him to read the letter she sends, as it contains a commission which is of great importance to her."

"Does she want an answer?"

The faithful girl shook her head, declined almost with an air of offence the money he tried to press upon her, and instantly left the barn.

No sooner was Edwin alone, than he read the following lines, which were hastily scrawled with a pencil.

"_You've gone, you fly from me, I expected nothing different. But you'll come back, I know, and then you will never leave me again.

Edwin! What a night! What a fate! I've examined my own hearty mentally reviewed all your cruel, honest words--all are right--but here power overcomes right. We belong to each other, Edwin, we were created for each other from the beginning; how else would it have been possible for your love to continue despite our separation, and me tardy, sorrowful recognition that you're the only man, to whom I owe all I have and am,--all; honor, life, soul, and body. You're going now, Edwin. You'll try to forget me. Do so! You must first learn that all resistance is unavailing, that when you do yield, you may submit to the superior power of Nature without a murmur, without remorse. Then we'll be happy, my beloved--I will make you happy. Oh! I'm so rich; my treasure was only buried, evil spirits guarded the spot. But I know the word that will break the spell--and it will be yours, and I shall know wherefore I live. Till then farewell, unless it be a mockery to say it; for how can you fare well when you may not clasp me to your breast. As for me I have became accustomed to the pain of your absence; I have spent four years in this seeming death, and only lived two moments--on your heart.

But let us not torture ourselves-don't be too long--we've so much lost time to retrieve. When you come I shall have arranged all, the place of our refuge, the way to reach it, everything except how it will seem when you are free and mine, and tell me that you love me;--there my thoughts fail!--_

"INETTE."

The sun is high in the heavens, as a traveler walks along the road which leads from the railway station to the count's castle. The stalwart figure of our old friend, Heinrich Mohr, is recognizable at the first glance; the bold face and shapely cut nose we remember but not the cheerful expression that hovers around the lips and forms so striking a contrast to the scornful defiance which once marked the mouth.

He arrived by the early morning train, and on receiving Edwin's note, which he found awaiting him, instantly set off on foot in order to reach the castle before the heat of noon. As hat in hand, he walks along the little foot path beside the highway, whistling and looking up into the overhanging foliage, he seems a type of perfect strength and happiness. And yet something is apparently lacking. Suddenly pausing he draws forth a pocket book, in which is pasted the photograph of a little boy not quite three years old, with a grave earnest face, and gazes at it as intently as if it were a map of the country which he carried to guide him on his way. And in fact this child's face has shown him the way to a happy, peaceful life.

Just as he closes the pocket book, he sees some one approaching him.

"Edwin!" he calls. "Gracious Heaven, how do you chance to be here? You look as if you'd just risen from the grave. Eternal G.o.ds! What has happened?"

Edwin paused. Mohr saw him move his lips without emitting a sound; then he tried to smile, but he only accomplished a sorrowful distortion of the face. He looked as pale as if he had not a drop of blood in his veins, his eyes were sunken, and his hat was thrust far back on his head.

"Heinrich!" he gasped at last, with a violent effort, "it's well that I have met you--I--I don't know what might have happened--it was too much at once."

"But man, speak, tell me--where--what has occurred--have you seen a ghost?"

"You've said it, Heinz--and it will not leave me in peace. Listen, but don't tell any one; I'm the old Tannhauser and come straight from--"

His voice failed, his eyes suddenly closed, his knees trembled, and if Mohr had not hastily sprung forward, his head would have struck the trunk of a oak which stood close to the road.

At this moment a traveling carriage, piled with luggage and drawn by four handsome horses from the count's stable, pa.s.sed them. The fair-haired princess was leaning back on the cus.h.i.+ons beside Prince Bataroff, the young prince occupied the front seat, and beside him, laughing and talking in the gayest manner, was Lorinser.

The travelers' servants, a maid and two valets, followed in a light hunting carriage, engaged in eager conversation, while a bottle of wine from the castle cellar circulated freely between them and the count's groom, who was driving.

No one in either carriage noticed the group on the foot path, or heard Mohr's call to stop and take in the fainting man. Not until they had pa.s.sed, did Mohr, who looked after them cursing the cold hearts of aristocrats, see the face of his mortal enemy. The blood froze in his veins, and he let his friend fall from his arms as if about to rush after the carriage. Then he suddenly regained his composure.

"Drive on," he murmured. "That devil's no longer to be feared. We have here to deal with other powers of darkness!"

BOOK VI.