Part 45 (1/2)
”I will go and have the horses harnessed,” said Freyer, and the countess entered the chamber.
She took an absent leave of the child. She did not notice how he trembled at the news that she was going home, she did not hear him plead: ”Take me with you!” She comforted him as usual with the promise that she would soon come again, and beckoned Josepha out of the room.
The boy gazed after her with the expression of a dying roe, and a few large tears rolled down his pale cheeks. The mother saw it, but she could not remain, her stay here was over for that day. Outside she informed Josepha of the plan of sending her and the child to Italy, but the latter shook her head.
”The child needs nothing but its mother,” she said, pitilessly, ”it longs only for _you_, and if you send it still farther away, it will die.”
The countess stood as if sentenced.
”When you are with him, he revives, and when you have gone, he droops like a flower without the sun!”
”Oh Heaven!” moaned the countess, pressing her clasped hands to her brow: ”What is to be done!”
”If you could take the boy, it would be the best cure. The child need's a mother's love; that would be more beneficial to him than all the travelling in the world. You have no idea how he clings to his mother.
It really seems as if you had bewitched him. All day long he wears himself out listening and watching for the roll of the carriage, and when evening comes and the hour that you usually drive up arrives, his little hands are burning with fever from expectation. And then he sees how his father longs for you. A child like him notices everything and, when his father is sad, he is sorrowful, too. 'She is not coming to-day!' he said a short time ago, stroking his father's cheek; he knew perfectly well what troubled him. A delicate little body like his is soon worn out by constant yearning. Every kid, every fawn, cries for its mother. Here in the woods I often hear the young deer, whose mother has been shot, wail and cry all night long, and must not a child who has sense and affection long for its mother? You sit in your beautiful rooms at home and don't hear how up here in this dreary house with us two melancholy people, the poor child asks for the mother who is his all.”
”Josepha, you will kill me!”
The countess clung to the door-post for support, her brain fairly whirled.
”No, I shall not kill you, Countess, I only want to prevent your killing the child,” said Josepha with flaming eyes. ”Do you suppose that, if I could supply a mother's place to the boy, I would beg you for what is every child's right, and which every mother who has a mother's heart in her breast would give of her own accord? Certainly not. I would _steal_ the child's heart, which you are starving--ere I would give you one kind word, and you might beg in vain for your son's love, as I now beseech his mother's for him. But the poor little fellow knows very well who his mother is, and no matter what I do--he will not accept me! That is why I tell you just how matters are. Do what you choose with me--I no longer fear anything--if the child cannot be saved I am done with the world! You know me--and know that I set no value on life. You have made it no dearer to me than it was when we first met.”
Just at that moment the door opened and a small white figure appeared.
The boy had heard Josepha's pa.s.sionate tone and came to his mother's a.s.sistance: ”Mamma, my dear mamma in Heaven, what is she doing to you?
She shan't hurt you. Wicked mamma Josepha, that's why I don't like you, you are always scolding the beautiful, kind lady.”
He threw his little arm around his mother's neck, as if to protect her.
”Oh, you angel!” cried the countess, lifting him in her arms to press him to her heart.
The rattle of wheels was heard outside--the countess' four horses were coming. To keep the fiery animals waiting was impossible. Freyer hastily announced the carriage, the horses were very unruly that day.
The countess gave the boy to Josepha's care. Freyer silently helped her into the equipage, everything pa.s.sed like a flash of lightning for the horses were already starting--one gloomy glace was exchanged between the husband and wife--the farewell of strangers--and away dashed the light vehicle through the autumn mists. The mother fancied she heard her boy weeping as she drove off, and felt as if Josepha had convicted her of the murder of the child. But she would atone for it--some day--soon! It seemed as if a voice within was crying aloud: ”My child, my child!” An icy moisture stood in drops upon her brow; was it the sweat of anxiety, or dew? She did not know, she could no longer think, she was sinking under all the anxieties which had pressed upon her that day. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the carriage as if fainting, while the horses rushed swiftly on with their light burden toward their goal.
The hours flew past. The equipage drove up to the Wildenau palace, but she was scarcely conscious of it. All sorts of plans and resolutions were whirling through her brain. She was a.s.sisted from the carriage and ascended the carpeted marble stairs. Two letters were lying on the table in her boudoir. The prince had been there and left one, a note, which contained only the words: ”You will perceive that at the present time you _dare_ not refuse this position.
”_The friend who means most kindly_.”
The other letter, in a large envelope, was an official doc.u.ment.
Countess Wildenau had been appointed mistress of ceremonies!
CHAPTER XXI.
UNACCOUNTABLE.
A moment--and a turning point in a life!
The countess was ”herself” again, as she called it. ”Thank G.o.d!”