Evening had set in. The card-table had been arranged, and Leberecht had rolled his master to it, taking his place behind his chair. The hour of whist the general impatiently awaited the entire day, and it was regularly observed. Even in the contract with his adopted son it had been expressly mentioned as a duty, that he should not only secure to them yearly income, but also devote an hour to cards every evening.
Herr Ebenstreit regarded it as a tax, which he must observe until married. The general was much his superior at cards, and, moreover, played the dummy, and the stake being high, it was quite an income for the future father-in-law, and regarded by him as the one bright spot in his daily life.
The cards had been dealt, and Leberecht had assorted the general’s, and placed them in his gouty hand, when Trude entered, exultingly.
“What has happened? What makes you interrupt us?” cried the general. “Did you not remember that I have told you always not to disturb us at this hour.”
“Yes, general, but I thought good news was never amiss.”
“What have you pleasant to tell us?” harshly demanded Frau von Werrig.
“My young lady’s compliments,” cried Trude, triumphantly; “she begins to see that she must yield to her fate, and that it will do no good to resist any longer. She will be ready for the ceremony at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning.”
The general uttered a cry of joy, and struck the table so violently, with his hand, that the cards were thrown together.
His wife bowed dignifiedly, and the happy bridegroom gave old Trude some gold-pieces upon the favorable news.
“Has she, then, been converted by your persuasion?” he asked.
“Through my persuasion and her own good sense. She understands that, if she cannot marry her dear Moritz, Herr Ebenstreit is the most fit husband, because he loves her, and is so generous to her old parents. One thing she would like an answer to—can I accompany her to her new home?”
“Yes, old woman, it will be very agreeable to have so sensible a person,” said Ebenstreit. “Tell Marie that it gives me pleasure to fulfil her wish.”
“In that case I would repeat that Fraulein begs for indulgence and forbearance until to-morrow, and would like to remain alone to compose herself.”
“I do not wish, in the least, to see her,” said her mother; “she can do what she likes until then.”
“I will tell Marie, and she will rejoice,” cried Trude.
“Tell her, from her father, that it is very agreeable to him not to see her pale, wretched-looking face again till morning.—Now, my son, pay attention, and you, Trude, do not presume to interrupt us again. Leberecht, play out my ace of hearts.”
The latter, with his eyes cast down, and with a perfectly indifferent manner, played the card indicated, and Trude left the room quietly and unobserved.
“Every thing is arranged, my child,” said Trude, as she re-entered Marie’s room. “They are playing cards, which always lasts two hours, then Herr Ebenstreit goes away, and the family will go to bed. You have eighteen hours, before you will be discovered. Hark! it strikes seven, and it is already quite dark. When the post-horn sounds, then it is time.”
“Oh, Trude! my dear mother, my heart almost ceases to beat, with anxiety, and I quake with fear,” sighed Marie. “I am conscious that I have commenced a fearful undertaking!”
“They have driven you to it—it is not your fault,” said Trude, consolingly. “Every human being is free to work out his own good or bad fortune, and, as our dear Old Fritz says, ‘to be happy in the future world in his own way.’ They have sold you for money, and you only prove to them that you are no slave.”
“And I prove also that I am a disobedient daughter,” added Marie, trembling. “At this hour, it weighs like a heavy burden upon my heart, and the words of Holy Writ burn into my very soul—‘Honor thy father and thy mother, that it may be well with thee.’”
“You have honored them all your life,” said Trude, solemnly; “I can witness it before God and man. You have worked for them without thanks or love, receiving only contempt. It is also written, ‘Thou shalt leave father and mother, and cleave unto thy husband.’ You still follow the commands of God, and may it bring you happiness and blessing. My prayers and thoughts go with you, my child! a mother could not love her offspring more tenderly than I do you.”
“No mother could more tenderly and faithfully care for her than you have for me, Trude,” cried Marie, pressing her lovingly to her breast. “Through you alone is my rescue possible, for you give us the money to undertake the long journey.”
“Not I,” she laughed; “it is Herr Ebenstreit, and that makes it the more amusing; the wicked always set the traps into which they fall themselves.” Suddenly the loud, quivering tones of the post-horn were heard, “Es ritten drei Reiter zum Thore hinaus.”
“He has come!” cried Marie, and her face beamed with delight. “He calls me! I am coming!—Farewell, dear, peaceful room, where I have so toiled, wept, and suffered! I shall never see thee again! My beloved calls me, and I go to follow him even unto death! Pardon me, O God! Thou seest that I cannot do otherwise! They would force me to perjury, and I dare not break my oath! I cannot forsake him whom I love!—When they curse me, Trude, kneel, and implor God to bless me, who is the Father of love! My conscience does not reproach me. I have worked for them when they needed it; now their adopted son, to whom they have sold their name, allows them a yearly rent, and I can work for myself.”
“Hark! there is the post-horn again, you must go,” murmured Trude, struggling to force back her tears.
“Bless me, mother,” implored Marie, kneeling.
“God’s blessing go with you,” she said, laying her hands upon her head, “and may it render of no avail the curses of men, but permit you to walk in love and happiness!”
“Amen, amen!” sighed Marie, “now farewell, dear mother, farewell!”
Marie rose, and kissing Trude again, flitted down the stairs, and out of the house, Trude following, holding her breath and listening in fearful excitement.
Again resounded the post-horn.
“They are gone,” murmured Trude, bowing her head and praying long and fervently.
The general was particularly fortunate this evening, which caused him to be unusually cheerful and satisfied. After every rubber he gathered up the thalers, until he had amassed a most satisfactory pile. As the clock struck ten, Frau von Werrig declared that they must finish and go to bed.
The general yielded, with a sigh, to her decision, for he knew, by long years of experience, that it would be in vain to defy her will. He shoved his winnings into a leather bag, which he always carried with him, and gave Leberecht the order to roll away his chair, when the servant, with a solemn bow, stepped closely to him, and begged the general to listen to him a moment.
“Well, what have you to say?” he asked.
“I have only one request—that you will permit me to prove that I am a faithful servant, who looks out for the good of his employers. You have given Trude five hundred thalers that she might watch over your daughter. I can show you how well she deserved it, and how differently your humble servant would have done.—Have the goodness, Frau von Werrig, to call Trude to bid Fraulein come down, for you have something important to communicate to her.”
His mistress proudly regarded him and seemed to try to read his meaning in his smiling, humble face. “And if my daughter comes, what have you to say?”
“If she comes, then I am a miserable fool and scoundrel, but I beg you to call Trude.”
It was a long time before the old woman appeared, confused and sleepy, asking—“what they wanted at such a late hour?”
“Go and tell my daughter that I wish to see her at once.”
Trude trembled, but composed herself, saying, “There is time enough to-morrow. Fraulein has been asleep a long time.”
“She lies,” sneered Leberecht, taking the precaution to protect himself behind the general’s arm-chair. “She knows that she is not in bed.”
“Oh, you sneak, you rascal,” cried Trude, shaking her fist at him, “how dare you say that I tell a lie? How can such a miserable creature as you impute to others what you do yourself every time that you open your mouth?”
“Frau von Werrig, she is only quarrelling, in order to gain time—every moment is precious. I beg you to go up-stairs, and see for yourself, if your daughter is there.”
“Fraulein has locked the door so as not to be disturbed.”
“Ah,” said Leberecht, “Trude has locked it, and has the key in her pocket.”
“Give up the key,” shrieked the general, who in vain tried to rise, “or I will call the police, and send you to prison.”
“Do it, but I will not give it to you.”
“Do you not see she has it?” cried Leberecht.
“Oh, you wretch, I will pay you—I will scratch your eyes out, you miserable creature!”
“Trude, be quiet,” commanded Ebenstreit; “the general orders to give up the key—do it!”
“Yes, do it at once,” shrieked Frau von Werrig, “or I will dismiss you from my service.”
“That you will not have to do, as I shall go myself. I will not give up the key.”
“The door is old, and with a good push one could open it,” said Leberecht.
“Come, my son, let us see,” said the mother.
They hastened up to the room, while the general scolded, furiously that he must sit still. Leberecht and Trude cast furious, menacing glances at each other.
Suddenly a loud crash was heard.
“They have broken open the door!” cried the general.
“I said that it was old and frail—what do you say now, beautiful Trude?”
The old woman wiped with her hand the drops of perspiration from her forehead, caused by her anguish. “You are a bad fellow, and God will punish you for your treason, that you have tormented a noble, unhappy girl. I saw that you were an eavesdropper, and you know all.”
“She is gone!” shrieked the mother, rushing into the room.
“The room is empty,” cried Ebenstreit. “Marie is not there. Tell us, Leberecht, what you know about it.”
“I will, if we can agree about the pay—the old woman bothers me, and beg the young gentleman to go into the next room with me.”
“O Almighty God, have compassion upon my poor little Marie,” murmured Trude, kneeling, and covering her face.
Ebenstreit in the mean time withdrew to the other room, followed by the servant.
“Speak!” commanded his master, “and tell me what you have to say.”
Leberecht shrugged his shoulders. “We are two men who have urgent business with each other. I am not at present a servant and you the master. I am a man who has an important secret to sell, and you are the man who would buy it.”
“What strange, unheard-of language is this?” said Ebenstreit, astonished.
“The language of a man who cannot only deprive the rich banker Ebenstreit of a lovely wife, but of his title also. You said yourself, sir, this morning, that it was only valid if you succeeded in marrying the daughter of General von Leuthen. No none knows where you can find your bride but me.”
“And Trude,” said Ebenstreit, quickly.
“You know she will not betray Fraulein, and you have not even tried to make her.”
“You are mistaken; Trude is as easily bought as any one.”
“You say that because she has taken five hundred thalers from you. She has not helped you, and it is useless to ask for your money, as she has not got it.”
“How so? Has she given it away?”
“You provided the money for your bride to run away and marry elsewhere, as Trude gave it to them.”
Ebenstreit stamped his foot with rage, striding backward and forward in furious excitement, while Leberecht watched him, sardonically smiling. “Let us come to an end with this business,” said Ebenstreit, stopping before his servant. “You know where Fraulein can be found, and you wish to sell the secret—tell me your price.”
“Three thousand thalers, and a clerkship in your bank, which you intend to continue under another name.”
“You are beside yourself. I am not so foolish as to grant such senseless demands.”
“Every hour that you wait I demand a thousand thalers more, and if you stop to reflect long your betrothed and your title both are lost.”
“You are a miserable scamp!” cried Ebenstreit, enraged; “I will inform the police. There are means enough to force you to give the information.”
“I do not believe it. Trude will not tell you, and I should like to know what can force me if I will not. The king has done away with torture, and I have informed you how to make me speak. Three thousand thalers and a clerkship in your office. Take care! it is almost eleven o’clock—at midnight I shall demand four thousand.”
It was a beautiful, clear, moonlight night. The world reposed in silence. Mankind with their cares and sorrows, their joys and hopes, had gone to rest. Over town and village, over highway and forest had flitted the sweet, consoling angel—Sleep. The sad were soothed, the heavy-laden were lightened of their burdens, to the despairing were brought golden dreams, to the weary rest. Sighing and sorrowful, he turned from those with a sad face whose conscience banished repose, and, ah! their number was legion. To the wakeful and blissful he smilingly glanced, breathing a prayer and a blessing; but these were few and far between—for happiness is a rare guest, and tarries with mortals but fitfully. As he glided past the joyful couple who, with watchful love and grateful hearts, sat in the carriage rolling over the silent, deserted highway, two tears fell from his eyes, and his starry wings were wider outspread to rush more quickly past.
“Look, my dear Marie, two stars just fell from heaven. They are a greeting to you, loved one, and they would say they guide us on our way.”
“Oh, Philip, it is a sign of ill-luck! Falling stars betoken misfortune!”
She clung closer to his side, and laid her head upon his shoulder. He pressed her more lovingly to his heart. “Do not fear, dear Marie; separation only could cause us unhappiness—we have long borne it, and now it is forever past. You have given yourself to me for my own, and I am yours, heart and soul; we speed on through the night to the morning of the bright, sunny future, never more to be parted.”
“Never!” she fervently murmured. “Oh, may God hear our prayer. Never, never to part! Yet, while the word falls from my lips, a shudder creeps through my soul.”
“Wherefore this despair, dearest? Reflect, no one will be apprised of our flight till early morning, and then they will not know whither we have fled. Meanwhile we rush on to Hamburg, where a packet-ship sails every Wednesday for England; arriving there, we will first go to Suffolk, to my old friend the vicar of Tunningham. I was his guest many weeks last year, and he often related to me the privilege which had been conferred on the parish church for a long time to perform valid marriages for those to whose union there were obstacles interposed elsewhere. He will bless the union of our love, and will accord me the lawful right to call you my own before God and man. We will not return at once to Germany. I have many connections and literary friends in London, who will assist me to worthy occupation. Besides, I closed an agreement some weeks since with the publisher Nicolai in Berlin for a new work. I will write it in London; it will be none the less favored coming from a distance.”
“My flowers and paintings will also be as well received in as in Berlin,” added Marie, smilingly.
“No, Marie, you shall not work. I shall have the precious care of providing for you, which will be my pride and happiness. Oh, my beloved, what a crowning bliss to possess a sweet, dear wife, who is only rich in imperishable treasures, and poor in external riches! What delight to toil for her, and feel that there lives in my intellect the power to grant her every wish, and to compensate her in the slightest degree the boundless wealth of her affection! To a loving mind there is no prouder, happier feeling than to be the only source of support to the wife of his love—to know that she looks to him for the fulfilment of her slightest wish in life. I thank my Maker that you are poor, Marie, and that I am permitted to toil for you. How else could I reward you for all you have sacrificed for me?”
“You cannot suppose, dear Philip, that the riches of my obtrusive lover would have been any attraction to me. Money could never compensate for the loss of your love. You are my life, and from you alone can I receive happiness or unhappiness. At your side I am rich and joyous, though we may outwardly need; without you I should be poor with superfluity. I am proud that we in spirit have freed ourselves from those fictitious externals with which the foolish burden themselves. Oh, my beloved Philip, my whole soul is exultant that we are never more to part—no, not even in eternity, for I believe that love is an undying sentiment, and the soul can never be darkened by death which is beaming with affection.”
“You are right, Marie, love is the immortality of the soul; through it man is regenerated and soars to the regions of eternal light. When I recall how desolate and gloomy was my life, how joyless the days dragged on before I loved you, I almost menaced Heaven that it created me to wander alone through this desert. The brightest sun’s rays now gild my future, and it seems as if we were alone in paradise, and that the creation entire glorified my happiness, and all the voices of Nature shouted a greeting to you, dearest. Oh, Marie, if I lived a thousand years, my heart would retain its youthful love and adoration for you, who have saved me from myself, have freed my soul from the constraining fetters of a sad, joyless existence. Repose your head upon my heart, and may it rest there many happy years, and receive in this hour my oath to love, esteem, and honor you as my most precious treasure! You shall be wife, child, sister, and friend. My soul shall be frank and open to you; for you I will strive and toil, and will cherish and foster the happiness received from you as my most treasured gift. Give me your hand, Marie.”
She laid it within his own strong, manly hand, gently pressing it.
The large full moon, high above them, lighted up these noble faces, making the eyes, which were bent upon each other, more radiant. Swiftly the carriage rolled on, the night-breeze fanning their cheeks and waving back their raven curls.
Moritz raised their clasped hands, and gazed at the starry heaven.
“We lift them up unto Thee, O God. Thou hast heard my oath, O Eternal Spirit, who dwellest among the stars; receive it, and bless the woman I love!”
“Receive also my oath, O my Maker. Regard the man to whom I have sworn eternal fidelity, bless him, and bless me. Let us live in love and die in constancy.”
Moritz responded, “Amen, my beloved, amen!”
They embraced each other fervently. Onward rolled the carriage through the tranquil, blissful night. Oh why cannot these steeds borrow wings from the night-wind? Why cannot the soaring spirit bear aloft its earthly tenement? With divine joy and heavenly confidence you gaze at the stars. You smilingly interchange thoughts of the blissful future, whilst dire misfortune approaches, and will soon seize you in its poisonous grasp! Do you not hear it? Does not the echo of swift-prancing steeds ring in your ears? Do you not hear the shrieking and calling after you?
They listen only to the voice of tenderness speaking in their hearts, and would that the solemn quiet of this dialogue might not be broken by a loud word from their lips.
The post-horn sounded! They halted at a lonely house near the highway. It is the station. Change horses! There is not a light to be seen. Three times the postilion blew a pealing blast ere they could awake the inmates. The window was at last opened, and a sleepy, complaining voice questioned the number of horses and the distance of the next post.
Slowly they were brought forward, and still more slowly were they attached to the carriage, and all arranged. What matters it? The night is lovely, and like a dream it seems to remain under the starry heavens, spread out like a canopy above them.
Does not your heart tell you that sorrow strides on like the storm? Do you not hear the voices still shrieking after you?
The postilion mounted his horse, and again the trumpet pealed forth its merry air, and was answered with a shout of triumph from the swift pursuers.
Marie raised her head from Philip’s shoulder. “What was it? Did you not hear it?”
“What, my beloved, what should I hear? Do the stars salute you? Do the angels greet their sister upon earth?”
“Hark! there it is again! Do you not hear it? Listen! does it not seem as if one called ‘Halt! halt!’”
“Yes, truly, I hear it now also! What can happen, love? Why trouble ourselves about the outer world and the existence of other beings?”
“I know not, but I am so anxious, my heart almost ceases to beat, with terror!”
“Halt! halt!” the wind carries forward the shriek, and above their heads it sounds like the screeching of ravens.
“Strange! For whom are they calling?” Moritz looked back along the highway. White and clear it lay in the moonlight, but, far in the distance was a black mass, taking form and shape at every moment!
Horsemen! horsemen! in full speed they come!
“Postilion! drive on! quick! Let the horses gallop! There is a forest near—drive us to that, that we may hide ourselves in the thicket! Onward, postilion! we are not thieves or murderers. A hundred thalers are yours, if you save us!”
The postilion beat his horses! In full chase they followed—more and more distinctly were heard the curses and yells.
“Oh, God in heaven, have mercy upon us in our need!”
“Faster, postilion!—in mercy, faster!”
“Halt! halt!—in the name of the king, halt!”
This startled the postilion, and he turned to listen, and again a furious voice yelled, “In the name of the king, halt!”
The postilion drew up. “Forgive me, sir, but I must respect the name of the king.”
Forward galloped the horsemen.
“Philip,” whispered Marie, “why do we live—why do we not die?”
He folded her in his arms, and passionately kissed her, perhaps for the last time. “Marie, be mindful of our oath—constant unto death!”
“Constant unto death!” she repeated.
“Be firm and defy all the storms of life!”
Marie repeated it, with heightened courage.
The horsemen surrounded the carriage, the riders upon panting steeds! Two officers in uniform sprang to the side, laying their hands upon Moritz’s shoulder. “Conrector Philip Moritz, we arrest you in the name of the king! You are accused of eloping with a minor, and we are commanded to transport you to Spandau until further orders!” Upon the other side two other horsemen halted. The foremost was Herr Ebenstreit, who laid his hand upon Marie, and saw not or cared not that she shudderingly shrank away.
“My dear Marie, I come as the ambassador of your parents, and am fully empowered to lead your back to your father’s house.”
She answered not, but sat immovable and benumbed with terror, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
“You arrest me in the name of the king,” cried Moritz; “I bow to the law. I beg only to speak to that man,” pointing to Ebenstreit, with contempt. “Sir, dismount, I have important business with you!”
“We have nothing to say to each other,” answered Ebenstreit, calmly.
“But I!” cried Moritz, springing forward, furious as a lion, “I have something to say to you, you rascal, and I will treat you accordingly!”
He savagely tore the whip from the postilion’s hand, and struck Ebenstreit in the face. “Now,” cried he, triumphantly, “I have forced you to give me satisfaction!”
The police swung themselves from their saddles, and Leberecht quickly dismounted. They clinched Moritz by the feet and hands. It was a desperate struggle, and Marie gazed at them with folded hands, praying without words. They seized him and held him fast with manacles. A shriek, and Marie sank fainting. Moritz’s head sank upon his breast, almost in the agony of death.
“Take him to the next station, my friends,” commanded Ebenstreit, “the carriage is already ordered to remove him to Spandau.” He dismounted, and now took the place by Marie, who still lay in a dead faint. “Postilion, mount and turn your carriage, I retain you until the next station. If you drive quickly, there is a louis d’or for you.”
“I will drive as if the devil were after me, sir!” shouted the postilion, and turned to gallop off, when Ebenstreit ordered him to halt, and Leberecht to get up on the box. Then turning to the officers, “Gentlemen,” said he, proudly, “you are witnesses to the ill-treatment and insults of this woman-stealer. You will certify that the blood flowed down my face.”
“I will myself make it known before all men,” cried Moritz, with a contemptuous laugh. “I have insulted you and branded you.”
“We will give our evidence,” respectfully replied the officers. “As soon as we have delivered our prisoner at Spandau, we will announce ourselves to you.”
“Then you will receive from me the promised reward of a hundred thalers. If you hush up the entire adventure, so that it is not noised about, after three months, still another hundred.”
“We will be silent, Herr Ebenstreit.”
“I believe you; a hundred thalers is a pretty sum. Forward, Leberecht, make the postilion push on, that we may arrive in Berlin before daybreak, and no one know of this abominable affair.”
The postilion laughed with delight, at the thought of the louis d’or. Upon the box sat Leberecht, a smile of malicious triumph upon his face. “This has been a lucky night,” said he; “we have all done a good business, but I am the most fortunate, with my three thousand thalers and a fine place. I wish he had waited an hour later, and then I should have had another thousand!”
Ebenstreit sat with triumphant smile also, by his betrothed. “Money is the king of the world—with it one can accomplish all things,” said he to himself; “if I had been a poor fellow, the general would not have chosen me, nor the king have given me a title, nor could I have won back my beautiful bride. Money gives position, and I hope will give me the power to revenge myself for the pain in my face.” He turned menacingly toward Moritz, who saw it not.
With bowed head, speechless, as if numb with the horror of his misfortune, he rode with fettered hands between the two officers, incapable of fleeing, as they had even bound a cord around his arms, each end held fast by one of the riders.
The stars and the moon shone down upon him as brightly beautiful as an hour previous. Oh, Marie, you were right, falling stars betoken misfortune! Your star has fallen!
Since that painful night, four weeks had passed, four long ones to poor old Trude. To her beloved child they had fled in happy unconsciousness. In the delirium of fever, her thoughts wandered to her lover, always dwelling upon her hopes and happiness. In the intervals of reason she asked for him with fearful excitement and anxiety, then again her mind was clouded, and the cry of anguish was changed into a smile.
Then came the days of convalescence and the return to consciousness, and with it the mourning over crushed hopes. Slowly had Trude, the faithful nurse, who watched by her bedside day and night, answered her excited questions, and to her little by little the circumstances of the elopement—how Leberecht had played the eavesdropper and sold Marie’s secret for gold; how he had previously arranged to pursue them, informing the police, ordering the horses, and sending forward a courier to provide fresh relays at every station.
Trude depicted the anger of her father and the threats of her mother to send her to prison. But before she could execute her purpose, Ebenstreit had brought home the unconscious child, and she herself had lifted her from the carriage and borne her, with the aid of her mistress, to her own little attic room.
Marie listened to these relations with a gloomy calmness and a defiant sorrow. Illness had wrought a peculiar change in her mind, and hardened the gentle, tender feelings of the young girl. Grief had steeled her soul, benumbed her heart, and she had risen from her couch as one born anew to grief and torture. Her present situation and lost happiness had changed the young, loving, tenderly-sensitive maiden to the courageous, energetic, and defiant woman, who recognized a future of self-renunciation, combat, and resignation.
Trude observed these changes with disquietude and care. She wished Marie would only once complain, or burst into tears. After the first storm of despair had passed, the tears refused to flow, and her eyes were bright and undimmed. Only once had profound emotion been awakened, as Trude asked her if she had forgotten her unhappy lover, and cared no more to learn his fate. It had the desired effect.
A deathly paleness overspread her delicate, transparent cheek. “I know how he is,” she said, turning away her face, “I realize his sufferings by my own. We are miserable, lost—and no hope but in death. Ere this comes, there is a desert to traverse in heat, and dust, and storm, and frost, alone, without consolation or support. Hush, Trude! do not seek to revive miserable hopes. I know my fate, and I will endure it. Tell me what you know about him? Where is he? Have they accused him? Speak! do not fear to tell me every thing!” But fearing herself, she threw her handkerchief quickly over her face, and sat with it covered whilst Trude spoke.
“I know but little of poor, dear Moritz. He has never returned to his lodgings. A day or two after that night, two officers sealed his effects, and took away his clothes. His hostess has not the least suspicion of the mysterious disappearance of her otherwise quiet, regular lodger. The secret of the elopement has been carefully guarded, as no one of the neighbors know it, and there is no gossip about you and Moritz. Those who think he is travelling are not surprised at his having left without taking leave, as they say he was accustomed to do so. But,” continued Trude, in a lower tone, “Herr Gedicke looked very sad and grave, as I asked for the Conrector Moritz. ‘He has disappeared,’ he sighed, ‘and I know not if we shall ever see him again.’ ‘Oh, Jemima!’ I screamed, ‘you do not think that he has committed a self-injury!’ ‘No,’ said the director, ‘not he himself, he is too honorable a man. Others have ill-treated him and made him unhappy for life.’ It was in vain to ask further; he knew not or he would not say any thing. I believe your family know where poor Moritz is, for your mother speaks of him as one in the penitentiary, and quite triumphantly she told me yesterday that the king, in his new book of laws, had expressly condemned the person who elopes with a minor to be sent to the house of correction for ten years, and then she laughed so cruelly, that I trembled to hear her.”
As Trude related this, she searchingly glanced at Marie to observe the effect of her words, hoping to see her weep or complain and that, at last, grief would melt the icy crust around her heart.
But Marie sat motionless and without uttering a sound—not a sigh or a moan escaped her. After a long silence, when her grief was too deep for tears, she drew the handkerchief from her face, the pallor and rigidity of which startled Trude.
She sprang forward, folding her in her arms. “Marie, child of my heart, do weep, do complain! I know that he loved you dearly, and deserves that you should mourn for him. Have you no more confidence, though, in your old Trude? Is she no longer worthy to share your grief?”
Marie laid her languid head upon the bosom of her faithful nurse; a long-drawn, piercing cry of anguish was her response, she trembled violently, and the tears ran down her cheeks.
Trude raised her eyes to heaven, murmuring, “I thank thee, O Lord! Her heart is not dead! It lives, for it suffers!”
“It suffers,” groaned Marie, “the anguish of death.”
This passionate outburst of feeling was of but short duration. Her tears were dried, and her quivering face assumed its usually calm expression.
“Trude,” said she, gently, continuing to repose upon her bosom, “I am so wretched that words cannot express it or tears soothe it. If I should give myself up to sorrow and mourning I should die, and that cannot be, for I must live to wait for him—to rescue him. How I know not yet; my thoughts and resolutions are so confused that they flicker like the ignes fatui. I will force my mind to be calm, and these wandering lights shall unite in one glowing flame to destroy the walls and obstructions which confine him. He is a prisoner; I feel it in my heart, and I must live to free him. This is my task, and I will accomplish it; therefore I would be composed, and strong in myself. Wonder not that I weep or complain no more, and do not refer to my misfortune. I should die if I did not suppress this anguish, and I would become strong and active. Seek not to enfeeble me, but aid me to harden myself; refrain from complaint, that I may be silent. I think only of him, and I ask nothing further than to yield my life to free him. Let us never speak of it again, for I feel that all the firmness which I had gained has been swept from me in this giving way, and that I must begin anew.”
From this hour she commenced to build, and rose upon her grief as on a column which projects toward heaven; leaned upon it, and received, as Brisaeus from the earth, the power of life and action. She had already so conquered herself as to be able to leave her own quiet room, and descend to that of her parents. There she would sit calmly for hours, listening attentively to the conversation, hoping to catch some word that might give her a clew.
They avoided every exciting topic, and were milder and more thoughtful for her. Even her mother made no reproaches, and never alluded to the past, because she feared to delay her recovery, and remove the longed-for goal in hindering the marriage with Ebenstreit. The latter carefully avoided troubling her by his presence; when he heard Marie’s step in the anteroom, who descended at a certain hour every day, he withdrew by the other entrance.
“Who goes out every time I come in?” asked Marie, one day as she appeared in the sitting-room.
The general coughed with embarrassment, and glanced anxiously at his wife, whose eyes rested upon her daughter with a cold, searching expression. Their eyes met, and were riveted upon each other. A cold, cruel smile played around the thin, bloodless lips of the mother as she recognized the defiance and firmness in her child, and felt that she had recovered.
“It is your betrothed,” she answered, “our dear Ebenstreit—a good, generous, and self-sacrificing son, for whom we thank God every day, who wishes to spare you the annoyance of seeing him.”
“He need not inconvenience himself on my account. Nothing excites or wounds my feelings now. It would be a pity for your heartless, thankless daughter to deprive you of the society of your dear son. Let him remain; it is not necessary for us to notice one another.”
Her parents regarded each other astonished, and, as she ceased, they still listened to the dying tones of her voice, which sounded so strangely to them. “She is much changed,” mumbled the general to himself. “She does not seem the same person, she is so haughty and majestic. She might well inspire fear.”
The following day, as Marie entered the room, Ebenstreit was there. He approached her, extending both hands smiling, and greeting her with tender words, rejoicing at her recovery.
She took no notice of his friendly demonstrations, but coldly and harshly regarded his smiling face, and particularly the broad, blood-red scar which ran from forehead to chin. Then suddenly her face lighted up, and an expression of savage triumph shot from her eyes. “How disfigured you look,” she cried exultingly. “Where did you get that scar?”
“You know well, Marie,” he murmured, gloomily.
“Yes,” she cried, triumphantly. “I know it. He branded you, and you will wear this mark before God and man as long as you live.”
“You are very cruel to remind me of it, Marie,” he softly whispered.
She laughed aloud so wild and savagely, that even her mother was startled. “Cruel—I cruel!” she cried. “Ah, sir, it becomes you indeed to accuse me of it!”
Trude entered at this instant, pale and excited.
“What is the matter?”
“There is some one here who wishes to speak with you, Marie; he has something very important to tell you.”
“How dare you announce any one without my permission?” cried Frau von Werrig.
“Silence, mother!—if I may be allowed, let us hear who it is.—Speak, dear Trude, who is it?”
“It is the Director Gedicke from the Gray Cloister,” said Trude, with quivering voice.
Marie was startled—a glowing red overspread her cheeks, and she was obliged to lean against a chair for support.
“I forbid you to receive him,” said her mother.
She suddenly ceased, and stared at the door, which opened at that moment, the tall, dignified form of a venerable old man appearing.
“Pardon me, sir,” said he, with a cold, reserved manner, “if I enter before I receive permission. The command of the king, to which I believe we all yield without resistance, empowers me to do so.”
“How, sir, you come by the king’s order?” asked the general, who rose with difficulty. “Has his majesty given you a message for General von Leuthen?”
“No, general, I come with a communication from his majesty to Fraulein von Leuthen, the betrothed of Herr Ebenstreit, and the order runs to deliver the same personally and without witnesses.”
“Professor,” cried the mother, shrugging her shoulders, “you mistake us for very innocent people, if you suppose we believe this silly invention, and that you can gain a secret conversation by a ruse with our daughter. You are the director of the gymnasium, and naturally the friend of Conrector Moritz. In his name you will speak, and bring a secret message. Very sly, indeed, very sly, but it will not succeed.”
For response, the director drew two large folded documents from his pocket, approaching the general. “Do you recognize this seal?” he asked.
“Yes,” solemnly answered the general; “it is the royal seal from the king’s private cabinet.”
“Read the address upon this, and the unopened letter.”
“Truly, the latter is directed to my daughter, and the other to Professor Gedicke.”
Herr Gedicke opened the letter, asking the general if he could recognize the king’s handwriting.
“Yes,” he answered, “I know it well.”
“Have the goodness to read the lines upon the margin,” mid the professor, unfolding the letter, so that he could only read those referred to.
The general read: “Professor Gedicke shall go himself to Fraulein von Leuthen, and bring her to reason, reading the document to her without witnesses. I wish this affair to come to an end. Teach Mamselle mores! mores! mores! FREDERICK.”
“You have heard the royal command, ladies and gentlemen; will you respect it?” said the professor, turning around with an air of proud satisfaction.
“My dear son-in-law,” said the general, solemnly, “it is a royal command; give me your arm, as you know I am feeble; and you, my wife, take my other arm, and we will go into the next room. Hush! not a word—we have only to obey, and not reason.”
He seized his wife’s hand hastily and firmly, that she should not slip away, and winked to Ebenstreit, upon whose support he crossed the room, drawing his wife with him, and pushing open the door of the next with his foot.
Marie had stood during the whole transaction pale and rigid in the centre of the room, looking haughty and defiant as long as her parents and Herr Ebenstreit were present. Now, as the door closed, life and action were visible in this marble form; she rushed to the old gentleman, scarce respiring, and looking up at his dignified, sad face, asked: “Is he living? Tell me only this, or is he ill?”
“Yes, he lives, he does not suffer from bodily ills, but the sickness of the soul.”
“And do not I also?” asked she, with quivering voice. “Oh! I know what he suffers, as we are wretched from the same cause. But tell me, have you seen him?”
“Yes, Fraulein, I have.”
“Where is he? Where did you see him?”
“In prison!”
Marie grew paler, and retreated, shuddering. The director continued: “In a dark, damp prison at Spandau. The poor fellow has been there for two months without air, light, or occupation, and his only society is his own revengeful thoughts and angry love-complaints.”
Marie gave one hollow moan, covering her corpse-like face with her hands.
“In this abode of torture, in this dwelling of the damned, he must remain ten long years, if death does not release him?”
“What did you say?” she groaned. “Ten long years? Have they condemned him?”
“Yes, he was guilty of a great crime—eloping with a minor—who, with the king’s consent, and that of her parents, was betrothed to another. Read the sentence of the court, which was forwarded to me as the head of the college where Moritz was employed. See, here is the king’s signature, which affirms the sentence, rendering it legal, and here upon the margin are the lines your father read.”
Trembling, Marie perused the contents. “Ten years in the house of correction!” she murmured. “On my account condemned to a living death! No, no, it is impossible! It cannot be! Ten years of the best part of life! He condemned as a criminal! I will go to the king. I will throw myself at his feet, imploring for mercy. I am the guilty one—I alone! They should judge me, and send me to the penitentiary! I will go to the king! He must and will hear me!”
“He will not,” sighed the director. “Listen to me, poor child! As I heard the sentence, I felt it my duty to summon all my powers to rescue Moritz, for I love him as a son, and had set my hopes upon him.”
“I thank you for this kind word,” said Marie, seizing the hand of the old man, and pressing it to her lips.
“I went immediately to Minister von Herzberg, and, upon his advice, as he explained to me the king might lighten his punishment, I betook myself to Frederick’s winter-quarters at Breslau.”
“You noble, generous man, I shall love you for it as long as I live. Did you speak with the king?”
“Yes, and every thing that my heart or mind could inspire, to excuse and justify my unhappy friend, I have said—but all in vain. The king was much embittered, because he had had the grace to grant him an audience, and explain the impossibility of the fulfilment of his petition. I did not cease begging and imploring, until I softened the generous heart of the king.”
“Has he pardoned Moritz?” Marie asked, with brightening hopes.
“Under certain conditions he will allow that he should escape secretly from prison. They are formally written, and if Moritz consents and binds himself by oath, he will not only be freed, but provided with means to go to England, and receive immediately an appointment as translator to the Prussian embassy at London.”
“What are the conditions, sir?”
“They are, first, that Moritz shall by oath renounce every wish and thought of uniting himself with Fraulein von Leuthen; secondly, that before he leaves the prison, he shall write to the young lady, in which he shall solemnly release her, and enjoin it upon her as a duty to accept the hand of the man to whom her parents have betrothed her. These were the conditions, and the king commanded me to go to Spandau, and with sensible representations, to confer with Moritz, and persuade him to accept them, and assure himself of freedom, and an honorable future, free from care.”
“You saw Moritz?”
“Yes.”
“Did you communicate the conditions?”
“Yes.”
“And he?”
“He refused, with rage and indignation!”
“He refused?” cried Marie, joyfully. “Oh, my dear Philip, I thank you. You love me truly and faithfully. Your glorious example shall inspire me to be as firm as you.”
“Unhappy child, you know not what you are saying!” cried the director, sadly. “If you really love him, you could not follow his example. Read what the king has written.”
She took, in breathless silence, the document, and broke the seal, unfolding the paper, but her hand shook it so violently, that she could not distinguish the words.
She returned it to the director. “Read it, I cannot,” she said, and sank kneeling, looking up to the old man with unspeakable anguish, and listening to every word that fell from his lips. It ran thus:
“His majesty announces to Mademoiselle Marie von Leuthen that he is exceedingly indignant at her improper and undutiful conduct, which does not at all become a maiden loving of honor, and particularly a noble one. His majesty ennobled her father for a brave deed, and he is angry that the daughter should bring shame upon the title, in giving way, not only to a passion which is beneath her, but is so little mindful of morality as to flee from the paternal house, at night, in an improper manner, with a man whose wife, according to the command of the king and the will of her father, she could never be. If his majesty did not respect the former service of her father, and the new title, he would send the daughter to the house of correction, and punish her according to the law. But he will leave her to the reproaches of conscience, and let the weight of the law fall upon her partner in guilt, Philip Moritz. He is rightly sentenced to ten years in the house of correction, and he will not be released one year or one day from the same, as he is guilty of a great crime, and his sentence is just.”
“Just!” shrieked Marie, in anguish—“ten years just?”
The director continued to read: “His majesty will propose a last opportunity to the obstinate and inconsiderate young lady to reinstate her own honor, and release at the same time Conrector Moritz. His majesty has personal knowledge of the latter, and respects his scholarly attainments and capability and would bring an end to this affair for the general good. If mademoiselle, as becomes an honorable young woman, and an obedient daughter, follows the wishes of her father, and without delay marries Herr Ebenstreit, and leads a respectable life with him, the same hour of the ceremony Conrector Moritz shall be released, and a fit position be created for him. This is the final decision of the king. If the daughter does not submit in perfect obedience, she will burden her conscience with a great crime, and thank herself for Moritz’s unfortunate fate. His majesty will be immediately informed of her decision. If she listens to reason, to morality, and affection, she will submit to the proposition which Director Gedicke is commissioned to make known to her, and announce to her parents in his presence that she will obediently follow their commands, Conrector Moritz will be at once set at liberty; otherwise he will be sent to Brandenburg to the house of correction. This is the unalterable will of the king. Signed, in the name of the king, FREDERICK.”
“Now decide, my child,” continued the director, after a solemn pause. “I know nothing to add to this royal writing. If it has not itself spoken to your heart, your reason and your honor, words are useless.”
“O God, it is cruel—it is terrible!” cried Marie. “Shall I break my oath of constancy, becoming faithless, and suffer him to curse me, for he will never pardon me, but despise me!”
She sprang up like a tigress, with her eyes flashing. “Oh,” cried she, “he may even believe that I have been enticed by riches, by a brilliant future! No—no! I cannot consent! May God have mercy on me if the king will not! I will not break my oath! No one but Moritz shall ever be my husband!”
“Unhappy girl,” cried the old man, sadly, “I will give you one last inducement. I know not whether you have any knowledge of Moritz’s past life, so tried and painful, which has made him easily excited and eccentric. A danger menaces him worse than imprisonment or death. His unaccustomed life, and the solitude of his dark, damp prison, is causing a fearful excitement in him. He is habituated to intellectual occupation. When he is obliged to put on the prisoner’s jacket in the house of correction and spin wool, it will not kill him—it will make him mad!”
A piercing cry was Marie’s answer. “That is not true—it is impossible. He crazy!—you only say that to compel me to do what you will. His bright mind could not be obscured through the severest proofs.”
“You do not believe me? You think that an old man, with gray hair, and one foot in the grave, and who loves Moritz, could tell you a shameful untruth! I swear to you by the heads of my children, by all that is holy, that Moritz already suffers from an excitement of the brain; and if he does not soon have liberty and mental occupation, it is almost certain that he will become insane.”
Almost convulsed with anguish, Marie seized the old man’s hand with fierce passion. “He shall not be crazed,” she shrieked. “He shall not suffer—he shall not be imprisoned and buried in the house of correction on my account. I will rescue him—I and my love! I am prepared to do what the king commands! I will—marry the man—which—my parents have chosen. But—tell me, will he then be free?”
“To-day even—in three hours, my poor child!”
“Free! And I shall have saved him! Tell me what I have to do. What is the king’s will?”
“First sign this document,” said the director, as he drew a second paper. “It runs thus: ‘I, Marie von Leuthen, that of my own free will and consent I will renounce every other engagement, and will marry Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen, and be a faithful wife to him. I witness with my signature the same.’”
“Give it to me quickly,” she gasped. “I will sign it! He must be free! He shall not go mad!”
She rapidly signed the paper. “Here is my sentence of death! But he will live! Take it!”
“My child,” cried the old man, deeply agitated, “God will be mindful of this sacrifice, and in the hour of death it will beam brightly upon you. You have by this act rescued a noble and excellent being, and when he wins fame from science and art he will owe to you alone the gratitude.”
“He shall not thank me!” she whispered. “He shall live and—if he can be happy!—this is all that I ask for! What is there further to be done?”
“To announce to your parents in my presence that you will marry Herr Ebenstreit, and let the ceremony take place as soon as possible.”
“You swear that he shall then be released? You are an old man—reflect well; you swear to me that as soon as the marriage takes place, Philip Moritz will be free this very day and that he will be reinstated in an honorable, active occupation?”
“I swear it to you upon my word of honor, by my hope of reward from above.”
“I believe you. Call my parents. But first—you are a father, and love your children well. I have never had a father who loved me, or ever laid his hand upon my head to bless me. You say that you love Moritz as a son! Oh, love me for a moment as your daughter, and bless me!”
The old man folded her in his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks. “God bless you, my daughter, as I bless you!”
“I dare not tarry,” she shuddered. “Let my parents enter.”
Slowly the venerable man traversed the room. Marie pressed her hands to her heart, looking to heaven. As the door opened, and the general entered, leaning upon Ebenstreit’s arm, followed by his wife, Marie approached them with a haughty, determined manner, who regarded her with astonishment.
“Father,” she said, slowly and calmly, “I am ready to follow your wishes. Send for the clergyman: I consent to marry this man to-day, upon one condition.”
“Make it known, my dear Marie. Name your condition. I will joyfully fulfil it,” said Ebenstreit.
“I demand that we leave to-day for the East, to go to Egypt—Palestine—and remain away from this place for years. Are you agreed to it?”
“To all that which my dear Marie wishes.”
“You can now weave the bridal-wreath in my hair, mother. I consent to the marriage.”
Three hours later the preparations were completed. Every thing had awaited this for three months.
In the sitting-room, the decorators had quickly built a marriage-altar, and ornamented the walls with garlands of flowers, with festoons of gauze and silk, with flags and standards. The mother wore the costly silk which her rich son-in-law had honored her with for the occasion, and also adorned herself with the gold ornaments which were equally his gift. The father wore his gold-embroidered uniform, and imagined himself a stately figure, as the gout left him the use of his limbs this day.
The invited witnesses began to assemble. Just then Ebenstreit von Leuthen drove up in the handsome travelling-carriage, which was a wedding-gift to his wife, and excited the admiration of the numerous street public.
Old Trude, in her simple dark Sunday dress, had awaited the appearance of the bridegroom, and went to announce his arrival to the bride.
Marie was in her little garret-room, so unlike in its present appearance to its former simplicity and comfort—as unlike as the occupant to the rosy, smiling young girl, who, yonder by the little brown table in the window-niche, taught her pupils, or with busy, skilful hands made the loveliest flowers, the income of which she gave to her parents, joyfully and although she never received thanks or recognition for the same. Now the same little table was covered with morocco cases, whose half-open covers revealed brilliant ornaments, laces, and sweet perfumes; superb silk dresses, cloaks, and shawls, ornamented with lace, lay about upon the bed and chairs.
Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen had truly given his bride a princely dowry, and her mother had spread the things around room.
Since Marie gave her consent to the marriage, she had followed out their wishes without opposition. She wore a white satin dress, covered with gold lace, her arms, neck, and ears, adorned with diamonds. The coiffeur had powdered and arranged her hair, without her ever casting a glance into the Psyche-mirror which her betrothed had had the gallantry to send to her room. She let him arrange the costly bridal veil; but when he would place the crown of myrtle, she waved him back.
“Your work is finished,” she said; “my mother will place that, I thank you.”
As Trude entered, Marie was standing in the centre of the room, regarding it with sinister, angry looks.
“There you are, Trude,” she said, “I am glad to see you a moment alone, for I have something to tell you. I have spoken with my future husband, demanding that you live with me as long as I live. Immediately after the ceremony you will go to my future home and remain there as house-keeper during my absence.”
Sadly the old woman shook her head. “No, that is too important a place for me. I will not lead a lazy life, and play the fine woman. I was made to work with my hands.”
“Do what you will in the house,” answered Marie. “Only promise me that you will not leave me, and when I return that I shall find you there. If you leave me, I will never come back. Promise me!”
“Then I will promise you, my poor child,” sighed Trude.
Marie laughed scornfully. “You call me poor—do you not see I am rich? I carry a fortune about my neck. Go, do not bewail me—I am rich!”
“Marie, do not laugh so, it makes me feel badly,” whispered the old woman. “I came to tell you the bridegroom and the clergyman are there.”
“The time has arrived for the marriage of the rich and happy bride. Go, Trude, beg my mother to come up and adorn me with the myrtle-wreath.”
“Dear Marie, can I not do it?” asked Trude, with quivering voice.
“No, not you; touch not the fatal wreath! You have no part in that! Call my mother—it is time!”
Trude turned sadly toward the door, Marie glancing after her, and calling her back with gentle tone.
“Trude, my dear, faithful mother, kiss me once more.” She threw her arms around Marie’s neck and imprinted a loving kiss upon her forehead, weeping. “Now go, Trude—we must not give way; you know me; you well understand my feelings, and see into my heart.”
The old woman went out, drying her eyes. Marie uttered her last farewell. “With you the past goes forth, with you my youth and hope! When the door again opens, my future enters a strange, fearful life. Woe to those who have prepared it for me—woe to those who have so cruelly treated me! They will yet see what they have done. The good angel is extinct within me. Wicked demons will now assume their over me. I will have no pity—I will revenge myself; that I swear to Moritz!”
Her mother rustled in, clothed in her splendid wedding-garments. “Did you send for me, dear Marie?” she whispered.
“Yes, mother—I beg you to put on my myrtle-wreath.”
“How! have you no endearment for me?” she asked, smilingly. “Why do you say ‘you’ instead of ‘thou?’”
“It is better so, mother,” she coldly answered. “Will you adorn me with the bridal-wreath?”
“Willingly, my dear child; it is very beautiful and becoming.”
“Do you realize, mother, what you are doing? You place the wreath to consecrate me to an inconsolably unhappy life with the man that I hate and despise!”
“My dear child, I know that you think so to-day; but you will soon change, and find that wealth is a supportable misfortune.”
“Mother, one day you will recall these words. Crown me for the hated bridal. The sacrifice is prepared!”