CHAPTER VIII.
"That Toni should mention that unfortunate name! It makes you beside yourself, Hermann, what has become of your self-command, your strength of will?"
Grandmother and grandson were alone together, the portières were drawn up, the doors closed; they were secure from listeners. The Count had not yet spoken a single word, with crossed arms he walked up and down incessantly, without answering, without even hearing. The Präsidentin shook her head.
"I cannot understand what there is so dreadful in this discovery. You have searched long enough for the dead man's wife and child; you declared it would give you back your rest if you were able to do anything for them. You ought now to bless the chance which gives us at last the opportunity of--"
The Count suddenly stopped.
"Bless it? Let me alone, grandmother, you do not, cannot know what has perished for me in this discovery!"
She went up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Hermann, you are beside yourself, and not in a state to look at this matter calmly and sensibly, leave it in my hands. It is, of course, an understood thing, that after this discovery, the girl cannot remain any longer in the family. Bertha intends dismissing her. In any case, I will see that it is done in the most considerate manner possible, and, later on, we will try to find some guardian to assure her future. Do it as handsomely as you are able, return to her the whole income which her mother lost. Perhaps we may succeed in finding a suitable husband for her, a clergyman, or some one of that sort, and then we might manage unsuspiciously--"
The Count suddenly freed himself with a violent movement.
"Make no plans, grandmother," said he bitterly, "it is atonement to injury that we have to do with. I had thought of another way of expiating it, but I know that she will never, never take it from my hand."
"From your hand? I should think not. We must go to work with greater care than that. Whatever you have to do with it, she must not suspect in the least from whom it comes, or she might ask, why we did it."
"And supposing she already knows?"
"Hermann!"
"She knows it, must know it! Now I understand the glowing, unforgiving hate which she has shown towards me from the first moment, this aversion to my presence, this altogether mysterious demeanour. How strange that no suspicion of the truth ever entered my head; but it was the name which led me astray. Oh, she knows all, I tell you, she betrays it in every word, in every gesture. But one thing I have never been able to tear from her, a secret, which she knows how to keep, and yet I must have certainty at any price!" In great agitation he recommenced his pacing up and down the room. The Präsidentin stood still, speechless. Whether she was terrified at the idea that he was right in his conjecture, or at this outbreak of passion in the man who was usually so calm and collected, was undecided, for the next moment a slight sound was heard at the door.
"What is it? Who is there?" cried Hermann. He pushed back the bolt. Without stood a servant, looking much embarrassed.
"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Herr Count; I did not know that the door was locked. I wished to say--"
"Well, what--what?"
"Mademoiselle Walter is in the ante-room, and wishes to speak to the Herr Count."
"Mademoiselle Walter?"
"With me?"
The Präsidentin collected herself. First she was evidently on the point of sending a refusal, but Hermann anticipated her.
"I--will see her at once!"
The servant disappeared.
"Hermann, you ought not to speak to her now! You will betray yourself whilst you are in such agitation! And what can she want?"
The Count had all at once regained his self-command, but an expression of unspeakable bitterness appeared in his face.
"Calm yourself, grandmother! I know why she comes, it has nothing whatever to do with this affair. It must be deathly anxiety, indeed, which compels her to cross my threshold."
The Präsidentin had no time to demand an explanation of what was a mystery to her, for the servant had opened the door to show Gertrud in. The Count was right; it cost her a fearful effort to cross his threshold, and now it was at last done, she remained standing speechless, her eyes fixed on the ground, like one conscious of guilt. Her features were calm, but there was something almost terrible in the fixed look and deathly pallor, almost as if life had left them.
Hermann advanced to meet her.
"You wish to speak with me, mein Fräulein?"
"Yes."
The word fell softly, almost inaudibly from her lips.
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Pardon, grandmother,--may I beg you to follow me?"
He drew back the portière of the neighbouring room, and followed her in there. The Präsidentin remained behind, she went to the door and once more drew the bolt, then trod noiselessly to the closed portière, and quietly drew the folds somewhat aside--Hermann was capable of anything in this mood, he must not remain unobserved.
No word had as yet been spoken between the two. The Count stood, to all appearance calm, his hand supported by the table, and silently waited, but with the same bitter expression, for Gertrud to speak. She tried to do so, but was it really the deathly anxiety of which he had spoken? Her voice failed her, she could not.
Hermann's lips trembled, he saw well that he must speak first.
"I can guess what brings you here. You saw me come back unhurt, and tremble now for the life of my opponent. Calm yourself! Though our rencontre was not altogether without effect, it was not dangerous. Herr von Reinert has a slight wound in his arm, which caused his usually sure aim to miss me. He has at present remained behind at the gamekeeper's, the doctor is with him, and not the slightest danger is to be feared."
At his first words Gertrud had raised her eyes with a look almost of terror, but she now cast them down again.
"I thank you, Herr Graf, for the news, but you are mistaken--it is not that which brings me here."
Not that! Then it was not anxiety which had blanched her cheeks so terribly, which had given her this fixed, lifeless look--the Count's eyes lighted up suddenly as they had done yesterday evening; the bitter expression disappeared; he hastily came a step nearer.
"No! What was it then, Gertrud?"
She shrank back with a start; slowly he let fall his outstretched hand. The girl struggled for breath.
"I came--to inform you of something. It concerns you--both of us. I am compelled to leave this house to-day; my letter to the Baronin contains an excuse--but I owe the truth to you."
She had brought out the words in an almost choked voice, and at the same time strove visibly to avoid meeting his eyes. Graf Arnau drew himself up decidedly; he knew what was coming now.
"I go as your enemy; but I will not do so secretly behind your back. You asked me yesterday if a secret lay between us--you shall know it now."
"I know it already!"
"How?"
"An hour ago I learnt your real name, and with it the reason for your hatred to me."
She looked up at him as before, but now with the greatest horror.
"That is impossible, you cannot! You cannot know anything--anything, except that it was the name of a deceiver, who took his own life, when he found his crime discovered. That is what you have been told, is it not? Or--did you know more?"
Hermann made no answer, his eyes sought the ground darkly.
"Answer me, Count Arnau! If any one on earth has a right to ask, I have. What do you know?"
"All!"
In his blunt, broken tone, lay the whole dashed down power of his nature in one word; the girl stood for a moment as if struck by lightning.
"You knew it, and were silent!"
"It was my father, Gertrud!"
She suddenly drew herself up with almost fierce energy.
"You are right, Count Arnau, it was your father--and it was mine! I shall not forget that."
A heavy, oppressive pause followed. At last Hermann raised his head again.
"We have reached a point now where nothing more can be kept silent or spared. Will you tell me who has revealed the secret?"
Since the confession of the Count a strange change had passed over Gertrud. The anxiety, the conflict which had hitherto been betrayed in her manner, had given place to an unnatural calm; her glance, which had avoided his so timidly, looked at him full and threateningly, and her voice sounded firm and clear as she replied--
"My mother initiated me into the matter so soon as I was old enough to understand it. She had no proofs to make good her rights, nothing but the invincible conviction of her heart. My father did not dare to make public the suspicion he had held for some time against his powerful and influential superior; he mentioned it only to his wife on the morning of the fateful day, and therefore she only was capable of guessing at the truth. She knew that her husband was no cheat, that he was only the sacrifice of a crime; of an already planned, treacherous a assassination--"
"No, Gertrud, no, he was not that!" burst in Hermann. "A crime of the moment, a deed of despair, but no plan. I know it--I was witness of it!"
"Ah--you were a witness!"
The Count's eyes took a rapid survey of the room; it had only one entrance, and that, he knew, was well guarded; nevertheless his voice sank to a whisper as if he did not dare to trust the secret even to dead walls.
"That morning I was in my father's business room; I seldom went into it, this time it was childish disobedience which took me there. The day before my father had taken away a book which he thought unsuitable for me; but my childish fancy was so much excited by the adventurous story that I was determined to know the end of it. The book lay in his business room; I knew this, and seized the first opportunity to get possession of it. Scarcely had this happened before voices were heard in the corridor; conscious that I had done wrong, I flew with my book into a deep corner of the bay window, thinking that I should not be there more than a few minutes, for my father was accustomed to drive out at this hour. But this time he came in with your father. On account of the sun the drawn curtain concealed me completely, and thus I was a witness of a conversation, of which, at that time, I understood almost nothing, but which, nevertheless, on account of its fearful termination, was impressed upon my mind with terrible clearness. What I heard at first was unimportant; the talk was confined entirely to business matters. My father must already have made some demand of Herr Brand which he now repeated, but which, however, was most decidedly refused by him. Brand represented that he had already paid to the Count the sum due to him, and, without special authority from the Prince, could not give out any of the money entrusted to his charge, for which he was of course responsible. My father must have seen that he was lost, must have known no other way of escape, for he chose the most dangerous plan of all, and made his inferior his confidant. He confessed to him that he had already employed the sum received for the payment of personal debts, but that the expenses of the Prince's household now needed reimbursement, and that immediately, if all was not to be discovered. He strove to persuade the steward to give him sufficient for this from the balance remaining, promising that all should be returned in a few weeks. The Count swore to take all upon himself, he entreated, he promised, he at last threatened, but promises as well as threats were lost upon the man's unflinching faithfulness to duty. He answered, steadfastly, 'No.' I say once more, in spite of all this, my father was not capable of such a diabolically thought-out plan--the pistol, which lay loaded upon the table, was, it is my firm conviction, designed for himself, he had intended, like many another ruined man, to end his life by suicide had your father somewhat moderated his answer to him, but his stern sincerity and conscientiousness hastened the crime. He declared without mercy that any one cognisant of guilt, was, in his opinion, a sharer of it, and that he should feel himself obliged to make public what he had just heard in order to prevent further harm, and thus drove the already despairing man to madness. He knew that should this happen his honour, the honour of his family, was inevitably lost. I saw my father's hand suddenly grasp the pistol, saw a flash--and Brand fell dead before him."
Hermann stopped and passed his hand over his brow, which was wet with cold drops, it was manifestly a fearful torture to relate this, but Gertrud made no effort to spare him; the "iron sense of duty in the father" seemed to have descended to the daughter, she listened immovably.
After an instant the Count breathed deeply, and then continued--
"Terror must have stunned me, I could not utter a sound. I saw my father open the door and cry for help, saw my mother rush in--what happened later you know. It was found possible to throw the guilt upon the dead--"
"Oh, yes, it was found possible!" interrupted she bitterly. "The only voice which upheld the truth, the cry of the widow, was at once silenced as the shameful accusation of a highly respected man, And Count Arnau swore as witness--"
"Gertrud."
Such terrible hidden torment found vent for itself in the exclamation, that Gertrud did not finish the sentence.
"You must pardon me, Herr Graf, if I am overpowered with bitterness at the remembrance of this, we have suffered too long and too deeply under it. Our little all, which our father had saved so carefully, was, of course, seized, and my mother being quite without help, was compelled to ask assistance of well-to-do relatives in W----. We found there protection from actual hunger, but only under a hard condition. Our relatives were honest, strict bürger people, and would not suffer a name amongst them which stood in the papers as that of a thief and a cheat. My mother was forced to re-assume her family name, she did it in order to save her child, then but a few months old, from absolute want. But our misfortune was not kept secret by those around us--we have been despised so long as I can remember."
It seemed, indeed, as if with these remembrances, all the hatred and suffering of the past years was once more awakened, every word became a passionate reproach. Hermann had listened in dark silence, now he said with a sort of bitter resignation--
"I think it is a question which of us has suffered most under the crime. Your youth may have been bitter--mine was terrible. My mother died a few months after the dreadful deed, the year after my father followed. No one was able to understand how it was that he treated his only son and heir with an open hatred, though he at the same time obstinately refused to be separated from him for a single hour. No one knew that he guarded in him a witness of his guilt, and trembled hourly at the thought that his dreadful secret hung upon the silence of a mere child. Perhaps you can imagine what a lot that child's was! Had not my grandmother at times stood protectingly between us, I know not what terrible misfortune might have occurred. She it was who at that time interfered with all her influence and wealth to avert threatening ruin, which would have inevitably been followed by a discovery of the truth, and who later, after the death of my father, and during her ten years of guardianship, gradually managed to bring our affairs into order again, so that I may now call myself a rich man. Need I tell you, Gertrud, what a curse these riches have been to me? I could not give back the embezzled sum without arresting suspicion, but I hoped in some indirect way to make it up to those left behind. Since my majority I have never ceased to try and find trace of you, have taken all possible steps--in vain. I looked for Brand's widow and child, and never imagined how near to me the latter was. Gertrud! Fate has led us together strangely--did it really happen, in order that we might combat life and death together?"
At the last words his voice once more sank to those soft, deep tones, which she had already once heard from his lips, and the girl's whole being trembled before it, as it had done then, but she knew the danger now, and fled from it.
"Not this tone, Count Arnau,--I beg you--let us keep to the subject."
He silently bowed in assent.
"At the time my father paid out the sum, he received a receipt from his chief, Count Arnau. Did you know of it?"
"No. But my father himself undertook the seizure of the steward's papers. He will have destroyed it."
"It was not destroyed. A chance allowed it to lie hidden for years. It is in my hands!"
In speechless consternation Hermann drew back, the same moment the portière was torn open, and the Präsidentin stood before them.
"You must be mistaken, mademoiselle! It is impossible, it cannot be!"
Gertrud had turned round surprised, but not frightened, and met the old lady's threatening glance firmly--
"I am not mistaken. I repeat, the receipt is found, and has been in my possession an hour."
Meanwhile Hermann had collected himself, and now once more roused all his energy.
"You have the paper with you? May I see it?"
She shrank back at the proposal, and involuntarily laid both hands protectingly on her bosom. He smiled bitterly.
"Do you fear a renewed theft? I give you my word of honour that the paper shall be returned to you uninjured."
Slowly Gertrud drew it out and gave it to him; he opened it, the Präsidentin's eyes hung in breathless suspense on his features.
No one spoke for some seconds, but the Count leaned more and more heavily on the table, his cheeks pale as death; with averted face he at last, without speaking a word, gave back the paper, threw himself into a chair, and covered his eyes with his hand.
The Präsidentin knew enough.
"Mademoiselle--" it was in vain that she endeavoured to make her voice firm, it trembled audibly--"Mademoiselle, you can, and will not, make any use of this document; it accuses the dead."
Gertrud drew herself up scornfully; so soon as a third interfered, all her courage returned.
"You think not, Frau Präsidentin? But the dead Count died as a highly respected, honourable man, and my father lies dishonoured and disgraced in the grave. Do you imagine that his daughter would refrain from avenging him?"
"Do not build too many hopes on this paper; our tribunals cannot proceed against the dead, and as for the living--we are ready for any sacrifice, for any reparation within the bounds of possibility--" She stopped suddenly, even this energetic woman's eyes sank almost timidly before Gertrud's. "Take care, mademoiselle!" cried she, breaking out into anger, "take care not to drive us to do our utmost. The family of Count Arnau is still powerful and influential enough, and they will risk all, if it concerns their honour. Do not dare to let that paper out of your hands, else ruin might come upon yourself."
An expression of unspeakable scorn curled Gertrud's lips.
"I will wait and see if this mighty influential family succeed for the second time in defying justice. I will see if the law of the land will dare to refuse it to me when I come before them with this proof. Spare your words, Frau Präsidentin. What I had to fear was overcome before I came to you, now nothing more can intimidate me."
She had spoken with cold, firm decision. If her features had seemed fixed before, now they seemed turned to stone; the only expression in them was a fearful determination. The Präsidentin saw that nothing more was to be gained here. She placed herself before the door, covering it with her body.
"Now then, Hermann, you must guard your own and our honour! It must be!"
Her eyes, even more than her words, challenged the Count to get possession of the fateful paper by force.
Hermann had risen, he too seemed to have made a last decision, but with a wave of the hand, he dismissed his grandmother's proposal, and went up to Gertrud, who stood before him, still firm, and fearless.
"Gertrud!"
She shrank slightly, but did not alter her decided expression.
"I have no right to expect or ask forbearance from you. Do what your conscience tells you. You can raise no accusation against Count Arnau, my father--he is dead; but on the ground of this document you can publicly demand that the money which was withdrawn from you be returned, and thus cleanse your father's name from the stain which rests upon it, transferring it to mine instead."
In face of his words Gertrud looked somewhat inclined to waver, she hung her head.
"I--know it."
"You know it! Well, then, you also know that it will be my ruin. I have tried in strained activity to forget the curse which I have inherited. I have accomplished much, and hoped everything from my career; that is, of course, at an end, so soon as public shame reaches me. Neither my office nor my connection with the Prince's household can stand before that; I must resign it, henceforth to hide a dishonoured name in darkness and inactivity. For a nature like mine, this means ruin, Gertrud; power and the right to use it lie in your hands. Retaliate as you will, if you can ruin me, then do it."
A deep sigh heaved the tormented girl's breast, she would have rushed away, but the ban of his eyes and voice held her enchained. He stood before her, without entreaty, but also without reproach, only his eyes burned in passionate unrest, they searched her's deeply--deeply as if he must and would read the depths of her soul.
"Gertrud! It concerns your father's honour, and my destruction--do it!"
The girl's arm sank hopelessly, with a heart-rending expression she looked up, as if begging for mercy, her eyes met his, a moment passed, an eternity for both, then Gertrud suddenly seized the paper convulsively with both hands--it fell in fragments at her feet.
The Präsidentin stood speechless; she had not understood the last scene between the two, nor Hermann's incomprehensible behaviour, only now that she saw him draw the girl passionately towards him, the truth began to dawn upon her. The proud old woman tottered and supported herself by a chair, this was too much in one hour.
Meanwhile Gertrud lay half insensible in Hermann's arms, and he bent over her with an expression of tenderness, which the grandmother had never before seen in his firm, cold features.
The passionately longed-for certainty was his at last, now he knew, too, for whom she had trembled yesterday.
But the energetic girl did not succumb many minutes to this fearful agitation, she raised herself and tried to escape from his arms.
"You are saved, Count Arnau---Farewell!"
He stood as if struck by lightning.
"Gertrud, for heaven's sake, what does this mean?"
"I leave this house at once. Do not hold me back, I must go."
"And do you really imagine," cried Hermann, "that I will let you go? Oh, your incomprehensibleness does not alarm me any longer. You have given a right over you by this sacrifice which I shall know how to use."
Gertrud looked earnestly at him for a moment.
"No," said she at last, "with this sacrifice I have torn every tie between us for ever. What has happened does not exist for the world, and the daughter of the thief, Brand, can never be the wife of Count Arnau."
He took both her hands gently--
"Gertrud, not this bitterness. Can you not credit me with the power of protecting my wife before idle tongues?"
"Your wife, perhaps, but not yourself. My real name cannot remain unconcealed, so soon as I emerge from dependence and obscurity, and I have lived in aristocratic families long enough to know what is thought on such points. They would hardly pardon you your bürgerliche wife, and you would suffer under the continual persecution, until you would at last be compelled to retire to the hated obscurity of private life--on my account."
The Präsidentin, who had stood hitherto like one in despair, now breathed freely again at these words, which she saw were not without effect upon her grandson. He must, indeed, have himself recognized the undisputable truth of her argument, but he still strove against it.
"Gertrud, at this moment, under the influence of this agitation, we cannot make any weighty decision for our future. Promise me later--"
"No," interrupted she firmly, "the word of separation must be spoken now. Count Arnau, you know the relations of our country and Court better than any one else--answer me! Can your influence, your career still continue the same, if you break your connection with the nobility and with the Prince's household?"
The Count looked down, unprepared for an answer.
"I knew it! And now hear my last word. I shall not have made the sacrifice in vain, and, therefore, under the circumstances, I can never be your wife. Do not try to dissuade me, or to find me, it would be in vain. By this sacrifice I save your future, and that, with such a nature as yours, will be such as to dispense with a wife's love. Farewell!"
An unspeakable bitterness rang in her last words, but she left him no time to reply, and erect and stately, walked towards the door; here, however, the Präsidentin met her. Deeply moved, she silently held out both hands.
For an instant Gertrud took them, then disappeared in the neighbouring room.
The Präsidentin went up to her grandson and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"You may thank the girl's high principles, Hermann, for saving you from a folly which you would have had to repent all your life. She saves you, and us all!"
The Count did not answer, his eyes were fixed on the door where Gertrud had disappeared.
The Präsidentin bent down, and carefully picked up every fragment of the torn paper, then lit a candle, and held the pieces over the flame. As the last sank into dust and ashes the old lady breathed freely--
"Thank heaven! The evil is at an end!"
CHAPTER IX.
Six months had passed, the winter had come in all its severity, and the approach of Christmas was heralded by a heavy fall of snow. The mid-day bells chimed from the village church tower, a sound welcome everywhere, and joyfully greeted in the pastor's house as the crowd of merry children came hurrying from the garden, (where they had been engaged in a hot snow-ball contest), with greatly increased appetites. Five fresh little faces, rosy with the cold, ranged themselves round the dinner table, and began to attack with great interest and zeal the dishes set before them.
The pastor, a man already past middle age, with a kind, gentle face, seemed to-day unusually grave and reflective. He divided his attention between the children and their governess, who sat opposite to him, the two youngest children on either side. There was a loving care, as well as a quiet firmness in the way which she quieted and kept in order the little company, and the children seemed to be tenderly attached to her. Fräulein Walter was hardly able to rescue herself from all the histories and relations which one little chattering mouth poured out after the other. At last the dinner was at an end, and the little wild troop, after receiving permission, stormed out again to occupy the hour of play still left to them, with a more peaceful occupation, namely, the building of a snow man.
Gertrud had taken up her key basket, and was on the point of leaving the room, when the pastor detained her with the request that she would follow him into his study for a few minutes, as he had something important to speak to her about.
She willingly put down her basket and complied with his request. This important matter was not difficult to guess at; Christmas was near, and five little tables had to be planned for. But the introduction to this harmless subject seemed to cost the Herr Pastor some difficulty, he cleared his throat several times in an embarrassed manner, and at last began with visible hesitation--
"First, Fräulein Walter, accept my heartfelt thanks for all that you have been to me and my children."
Gertrud looked surprised, the introduction sounded almost solemn.
"I only did my duty," replied she, quietly.
"Oh, no, you have done much, much more!"
The man's former embarrassment now gave place to warm heartiness.
"You merely undertook the duty of instructing the children, and you have been the most loving guardian to them, the most faithful support to my orphaned household. Only since you came have I once more known that I possess a home, a happy domestic circle."
Gertrud was perfectly calm and unsuspecting.
"I have done what I could. But of course a stranger cannot ever fill the mother's place."
"Ah, that was just what I wanted to speak to you about," interrupted the pastor, hastily. "In spite of all your goodness, I cannot deny to myself that my children need a mother, and my house the superintendence of a lady, whilst I--" He suddenly stopped, for Gertrud had shrunk back with an involuntary movement of fright. "Do you wish me to be silent?"
She had become pale, but she shook her head gently.
"Please go on."
He got up and seized her hand.
"Since the five months that you have been here I have often been on the point of speaking to you, and have as often stopped myself. There was something in you which--let me be sincere--that oppressed me, and kept me at a distance. However kind and obliging I saw you in the house, and everything thriving under your hands, I could not, nevertheless, banish the thought that you were intended for quite a different sphere of life. But I must speak out at last. You are young, beautiful, and richly gifted in every respect, I am already an elderly man, and have nothing to offer you but a simple house, modest circumstances, and the participation in the care of five children. Can the love of these children, the gratitude of a man, who honours and admires you with all his heart, atone for the sacrifice you will make by your consent--if so--then you will make me very happy."
Gertrud had listened silently with downcast eyes, her face had become very pale, but her voice was calm.
"Your offer honours me, Herr Pastor, but you do me wrong if you think that a simple life and duties are irksome to me. For the first time in your house I have once more known what it is to be surrounded with loving kindness; I--"
She raised her hand, and, as if struck by a sudden pain, laid it--not in that of the pastor, but upon her breast!
"Is anything the matter?" asked he anxiously.
She forced herself to smile.
"Oh, no, it is nothing. I only wished to ask you for a short time for consideration. You shall have my answer in a few hours."
The pastor seemed hardly to have expected his offer to have met with so favourable a reception. A short time for consideration is usually only a form of propriety, ending with an answer in the affirmative. With glad thankfulness he seized both her hands.
"As you will, liebes Fräulein, as long as you like. I do not wish to attribute your consent to a hasty decision. Consult your own heart undisturbed, and then tell me candidly what you have decided."
An hour had passed, Gertrud sat in her high storied room, lost in deep reflection. As before, she involuntarily pressed her hand on her heart. There was something there which still obstinately refused to bow to the outward calmness of her nature. It had sprung up in burning, trembling pain, when she had stood on the point of giving her consent, and had it not seemed to tear her back with warning fear as if from a precipice, and stopped the "Yes," which already trembled on her lips with a loud "No, no"? And yet this weakness must be overcome! If not quite forgotten, she had at least imagined that it was overcome, and had not guessed that she should have to probe herself with anxious, painful self-enquiries. Hermann had made no attempt to try and find her, or even send her a last word of farewell. He had fully recognised the earnestness of her decision, the truth of her words, and bowed firmly and strongly to the unavoidable, but--it tore the girl's heart that he could be so firm and strong. Then he had his future to make up for what was lost--for which he had surrendered her--and she?
She had made up her mind to accept the pastor's hand. What could she, the solitary, homeless one, do better, than to take the home and hearth offered to her, the love of an honourable man, and the perhaps heavy, but still blessed cares connected with his children. Truly, he had been right, there was an element in Gertrud's nature which strove against this future in the isolation of the little village, and monotonous round of household duties, so far from the busy world with its many centres of interest--but Gertrud was tired of ever moving aimlessly and with no settled future, from one place of dependence to another; she longed for some sure, calm haven, though she knew that it would be the grave of all that she called life.
The snow storm had begun once more, Gertrud opened the windows and looked out, without regarding the cold--was it not the last free hour of her life--the next would bind it for ever. Over there on the distant country road, the sound of a post horn came through the falling snow. Noiselessly and thickly fell the soft flakes from the grey winter sky upon the hard earth. Everything around, the fields and valleys, the boughs of the trees, and the roofs of the houses bore the cold, shapeless garment of snow, and still and solitary lay the village, like death, covered with a white robe.
But this calm was suddenly broken by an unusual event, the post horn did not die away as usual in the distance, it came nearer and nearer, loud and merry, and was presently joined by the rattle of wheels. Drawn by four steaming horses, a post chaise worked itself with difficulty through the snow, till it stopped before the pastor's door. A gentleman, wrapped in furs, sprang out, and with a cry, half consternation, half joy, Gertrud flew from the window.
"Hermann!"
Meanwhile this unexpected event, the arrival of a guest in an extra post chaise with four horses, had alarmed the whole household below. The flock of children rushed into the hall, the pastor's study-door was hurriedly opened, voices were heard on all sides, till finally, a firm voice, making itself heard above all the tumult, said--
"Do not trouble yourself, Herr Pastor. Fräulein Walter will excuse me if I present myself without being formally announced. I have important news for her."
Steps were heard on the stairs, the door flew open, and Count Arnau stood upon the threshold.
Gertrud could not utter a word of greeting; trembling in every limb, she still stood on the same spot. He closed the door and approached her.
"So you have flown from me to this distant, isolated village? Gertrud, did you really think I should not find you?"
His eyes rested gravely and reproachfully on her face.
She made an attempt to regain her self-command.
"Herr Graf, I do not know, indeed, what your sudden appearance means after--"
"After my long silence? What, Gertrud, did not you know me better? You thought I was weak and cowardly enough to accept your generous sacrifice unconditionally?"
She dropped her eyes; a "No" to this answer would have been--a lie. He came close to her and took her hand.
"I knew you well enough to know that your declaration was made in all earnestness, and that every attempt to dissuade you would meet with a renewed refusal, and it is contrary to my nature to indulge in useless complaints and assurances. I preferred to be silent till I could act."
"Act?"
She looked at him questioningly, doubtingly.
"Yes. Your farewell words were true, no one knew that better than myself. In our little capital, where every scandal sleeps unforgotten, to wake again through love of talk, to the ruin of some family--in our own principality, where every important post depends upon favour at Court, and in the midst of a nobility whose prejudices are not yet touched by the faintest breath of advancing opinion, my career would, indeed, have been shattered if Gertrud Brand had become my wife. A union between us under these circumstances would have been impossible."
"And now--?"
"These circumstances had to be altered. I am free."
"Hermann! What have you done?"
His countenance lighted up with that expression which hitherto only she had seen, and under which the hard features seemed so strangely mild. In spite of her consternation there was an unspeakable amount of confession in her words, which he had hitherto not been able to tear from her; it was the first time she had called him by his name.
"I have bidden farewell to the past. Do not be frightened, I have all the future before me. I am not one of those natures who are able to vegetate from one year's end to another in the retirement of an estate, allowing the world to go its own way as it will, and neither are you suited for such a narrow sphere of life. Before the beginning of the year I was asked to enter into the service of the State in another country, but I then refused, because my connection and prospects gave me certain hopes of the first place in our principality. Directly after you left the offer was renewed. There are certainly some steps to mount in order to gain such a position as that I have renounced, and it may cost me more effort than hitherto, but I will rise, be sure of that."
He said all simply and calmly; but Gertrud nevertheless felt deeply what a sacrifice the ambitious man had made; her bosom heaved in joyful pride, she knew now what she was to him.
"All is settled now," continued he, after a moment's pause. "I shall enter upon my new office in B---- next month--but I shall not go there without my wife. Gertrud, will you come with me?"
His arms closed passionately round the no longer resisting girl; she leaned her head upon his shoulder.
"Do you think, Hermann, then, that there we--"
"We are strangers in B----. There no one knows of the crime and the unhappy remembrances connected with it, and if, in the future, anything should be heard--in the bustle and life of that great capital there will be no lasting place for dim, distant reports of a past generation. Besides this, I shall have no connection with the Court there; and if it does not choose to receive my bürgerliche wife, it will be easy for me to avoid it, and we shall find sufficient to make up for that in other circles. I will answer for the Gräfin Arnau's fitting reception and position in these."
A deep flush bathed Gertrud's cheeks at the last words; that name--once so hated, she heard it now for the first time as her future one.
"And your grandmother?" asked she softly.
The Count's brow darkened.
"I had a hard battle with her, for she alone guessed the reason for my determination. She must thank her own hardness and obstinacy if a stranger's hand closes her eyes. We parted without reconciliation."
"O, Hermann, you are giving up all for my sake!"
He gently raised her head, and looked into her eyes.
"And you gave up what was most sacred to you, the only treasure you possessed, to save me. Sacrifice for sacrifice! Gertrud, I am no longer the cold egotist who knows nothing but ambition. You know what had made me hard and bitter, what poisoned my youth, and took away, when I was but a child, my love, my trust in men; give it back to me!"
The full, passionate look of love in her eyes answered him--
"I have one request, Hermann, it is my first. Let the past be buried between us, let us never allude to it, even by a word. We will forget it--for ever."
"For ever!"
Without, the snow still fell noiselessly, and laid itself thick and cold on the hard earth; but here two hearts beat warm against one another, ready to meet the future bravely. The old curse, which had so long darkened the lives of both, and appeared as if it must separate them for ever, had been banished by their own hands.
Not avenged, but expiated was the crime, and both now felt what the old Präsidentin had said, as the last fragment of the fateful paper sank in dust and ashes; "God be thanked! The evil is at an end!"
FOOTNOTES:
Footnote 1: Bridegroom.
Footnote 2: Belonging to the lower rank, common.
Footnote 3: Most gracious--a term used in addressing ladies in Germany.
Footnote 4: Gracious Count.
Footnote 5: Betrothed, bride. A German lady is always called a bride as soon as she is betrothed.