On the Cross Part 41

"Woe betide you, unhappy woman--have you not the strength to resign one for the other? Would you rather live in fear of the betrayer than voluntarily relinquish your stolen goods? Then do not think yourself n.o.ble or lofty--do not deem yourself worthy of the grace for which you long!"

She hid her face in the cus.h.i.+ons of the divan, fairly quivering under the burden of her self-accusation.

"I beg your pardon, your Highness, I only wanted to ask what evening toilette you desired."

Madeleine von Wildenau started up. "If you would only cease this stealing about on tip-toe!" she angrily exclaimed. "I beg pardon, I knocked twice and thought I did not hear your 'come in.'"

"Walk so that you can be heard--I don't like to have my servants glide about like spies, remember that!"

"At Princess Hohenstein's we were all obliged to wear felt slippers.

Her Highness could not endure any noise."

"Well I have better nerves than Princess Hohenstein."--

"And apparently a worse conscience," muttered the maid, who had not failed to notice her mistress' confusion.

"May I ask once more about the evening toilette?"

"Street costume--I shall not go to the theatre, I will drive out to the estates. Order Martin to have the carriage ready."

The maid withdrew.

The countess felt as if she were in a fever--must that inquisitive maid see her in such a condition? It seemed as though she was surrounded like a hunted animal, as though eyes were everywhere watching her.

There was something in the woman's look which had irritated her. Oh, G.o.d, had matters gone so far--must she fear the glance of her own maid?

Up and away to nature and her child, to her poor neglected husband on the cliff.

Her heart grew heavy at the thought that the time since she had last visited the deserted man could soon be counted by months.

Her _interest_ in the simple-hearted son of nature was beginning to wane, she could not deny it. Woe betide her if _love_ should also grow cold; if that should happen, then--she realized it with horror--she would have no excuse for the whole sensuous--supersensuous episode, which had perilled both her honor and her existence!

CHAPTER XIX.

AT THE CHILD'S BEDSIDE.

The stars were already twinkling above the Griess, here and there one looked as if impaled on a giant flagstaff, as they sparkled just above the tops of the lofty firs or the sharp pinnacles of the crags.

Countless shooting stars glided hither and thither like loving glances seeking one another.

The night was breathing in long regular inhalations. Every five minutes her sleeping breath rustled the tree-tops.

Four horses drawing a small calash whose wheels were covered with rubber glided across the Griess as noiselessly as a spectral equipage.

The animals knew the way, and their fiery spirit urged them forward without the aid of shout or lash, though the mountain grew steeper and steeper till the black walls of the hunting seat at last became visible in the glimmering star-light.

Josepha was standing at the window of the little sitting-room upstairs:

"I think the countess is coming." At a table, by the lamp, bending over a book, sat "the _steward_."

He evidently had not heard the words, for he did not look up from the volume and it seemed as if the gloomy shadow above his eyes grew darker still.

"Joseph, the countess is coming!" cried Josepha in a louder tone.

"You are deceiving yourself again, as usual," he replied in the wonderful voice which gave special importance to the simplest words, as when a large, musical bell is rung for some trivial cause.

"No, this time it really is she," Josepha insisted.

"I don't believe it."

Josepha shook her head. "You must receive her."

"She is not coming on my account, it is only to see the child."

"Then _I_ will go. Oh, Heaven, what a life!" sighed Josepha, going out upon the green moss-covered steps of the half ruined stone stairs where the carriage had just stopped.

"Is that you, Josepha?" asked the countess, in a disappointed tone, "where--where is Freyer?"

"He is within, your Highness, he would not believe that your Highness was really coming!"

The countess understood the bitter meaning of the words.

"I did not come to endure ill-temper!" she murmured. "Is the boy asleep?"

"Yes, we have taken him into the sitting-room, he is coughing again and his head is burning, so I wanted to have him in a warmer room."

"Isn't it warm here?"

"Since the funnel fell out, we cannot heat these rooms; Freyer tried to fit it in, but it smokes constantly. I wrote to your Highness last month asking what should be done. Freyer, too, reported a fortnight ago that the stove ought to be repaired, and the child moved to other apartments before the cold weather set in if Your Highness approved, but--we have had no answer. Now the little boy is ill--it is beginning to be very cold."

Madeleine von Waldenau bit her lips. Yes, it was true, the letters had been written--and in the whirl of society and visits she had forgotten them.

Now the child was ill--through her fault. She entered the sitting-room.

Freyer stood waiting for her in a half defiant, half submissive att.i.tude--half master, half servant.

The bearing was unlovely, like everything that comes from a false position. It displeased the countess and injured Freyer, though she had herself placed him in this situation. It made him appear awkward and clownish.

When, with careless hand, we have damaged a work of art and perceive that instead of improving we have marred it, we do not blame ourselves, but the botched object, and the innocent object must suffer because we have spoiled our own pleasure in it. It is the same with the work of art of creation--a human being.

There are some natures which can never leave things undisturbed, but seek to gain a creative share in everything by attempts at shaping and when convinced that it would have been better had they left the work untouched, they see in the imperfect essay, not their own want of skill, but the inflexibility of the material, p.r.o.nounce it not worth the labor bestowed--and cast it aside.

The countess had one of these natures, so unconsciously cruel in their artistic experiments, and her marred object was--Freyer.

Therefore his bearing did not, could not please her, and she allowed a glance of annoyance to rest upon him, which did not escape his notice.

Pa.s.sing him, she went to their son's bed.