Part 24 (2/2)

Then, with sudden resolution he shook off the thrall: ”Good-night, Countess!”

The next moment he was hurrying past the window.

Ludwig, wondering at his Mend's hasty departure, entered.

”What has happened, Countess?”

”Signs and wonders have happened,” she said, extending her arms as if transfigured.

CHAPTER X.

IN THE EARLY MORNING.

”Rise Mary! Night is darkening and the wintry storms are raging--but be comforted, in the early morning, in the Spring garden, you will see me again.”

The countess woke from a short slumber as if some one had uttered the words aloud. She glanced around the dusky room, it was still early, scarcely a glimmer of light pierced through the c.h.i.n.ks of the shutters.

She tried to sleep again, but in vain. The words constantly rang in her ears: ”In the early morning you will see me again.” Now the c.h.i.n.ks in the shutters grew brighter, and one golden arrow after another darted through. The countess threw aside the coverlet and started up. Why should she torment herself with trying to court sleep? Outside a dewy garden offered its temptations.

True, it was an autumn, not a spring garden. Yet for her it was Spring--it had dawned in her heart--the first springtime of her life.

Up and away! Should she wake Josepha, who slept above her? Nay, no sound, no word must disturb this sacred morning stillness.

She dressed and, half an hour later, glided lightly, unseen, into the garden.

The clock in the church steeple was striking six. A fresh autumn breeze swept like a band of jubilant sprites through the tops of the ancient trees, then rus.h.i.+ng downward, tossed her silken hair as though it would fain bear away the filmy strands to some envious wood-nymph to weave nets from it for the poor mortals who might lose themselves in her domain.

On the ground at her feet, too, the gra.s.ses and shrubs swayed and rustled as if little gnomes were holding high revel there. A strange mood pervaded all nature.

Madeleine von Wildenau looked upward; there were huge cloud-shapes in the sky, but the sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly in a broad expanse of blue.

The bells were ringing for early ma.s.s. The countess clasped her hands.

Everything was silent and lonely, no eye beheld, no ear heard her, save the golden orb above. The birds carolling their matin songs, the flowers whose cups were filled with morning dew, the buzzing, humming bees--all were celebrating the great matins of awakening nature--and she, whose heart was full of the morning dew of the first genuine feeling of her life, was she alone not to join in the chorus of grat.i.tude of refreshed creation?

There is a language whose key we do not possess. It is the Sanscrit of Nature and of the human soul when it communes with the deity. The countess sank silently down on the dewy gra.s.s. She did not pray in set words--there was an interchange of thought, her heart spoke to G.o.d, and reason knew not what it confided to Him.

In the early morning in the spring garden ”thou wilt see me again!”

There again spoke the voice which had roused her so early! The countess raised her head--but still remained kneeling as if spell-bound. Before her stood the Promised One.

She could say nothing save the word uttered by Mary Magdalene: ”Master!”

A loving soul can never be surprised by the object of its love because it expects him always and everywhere, yet it appears a miracle when its expectation becomes fulfilment.

”Have I interrupted your prater? I did not see you because you were kneeling”--he said, gently.

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