Part 30 (2/2)
”How must it look now in the Grenwitz park?” asked Oswald.
”I was just thinking of it,” replied Helen.
”I wish I could be there at this moment!”
”What would you do there?”
”I would saunter through the familiar walks, between the yew-hedges in the garden below, and under the beech-trees on the wall above, and talk with the slender crescent of the moon, as it dances in the clouds, and with the night-wind as it blows through the branches and around the castle, of the blissful hours that are no more, and can return no more.”
”Then you like to think of Grenwitz.”
”Why should I not? Have I not spent the happiest days of all my joyless life there? What do I care now for all the bitter drops that fell into the cup of intoxicating sweetness? I know nothing more of them. I feel as if I had lived then for the first and last time of my life, and as if I had since died together with the flowers in the garden and with the sunlight that was playing in the morning on the dewy branches and scattering strange shadows on the paths. Happy he whose life really came to an end with that precious summer.”
”Happy indeed!” whispered Helen.
”Yes, happy! He enjoyed for an hour the sight of what was most beautiful, most glorious to him, and then he pa.s.sed away like the rosy breath of morning in the rays of the much-beloved sun. He was relieved of the burden of the oppressive heat and the stifling dust of noon. He needed not cover himself shuddering against the sharp evening wind; he did not see the beautiful, gay world sink into weird darkness. Pardon me, I pray, Miss Helen; this is the second time to-night I am carried away by the recollection of my departed darling. But I cannot tell you how strangely the sight of you and your presence recalls to me his memory. The scarred wounds bleed afresh, and the dry eyes begin to weep once more.”
”Is it not so with me too?” said Helen, and her voice trembled.
”Then you loved him too? But no, I did not mean to ask you that. How could you help loving him--fair and brave, good and marvellously lovely as he was, and when he loved you so! loved you inexpressibly! Oh, Miss Helen, do you really know how dearly he loved you? Do you know that he loved you unto death--that he loved you more than his own life?”
”I know it,” said Helen, in a whisper.
”More than his life,” continued Oswald, pa.s.sionately; ”beyond death. It was on his last day, a few hours before his death, that he showed me a medallion with a lock of your hair, which he wore in his bosom, and begged me to place it in his grave by his side. I was not able to fulfil his wish. You know that I left the castle the next morning, not knowing whether I should ever put my foot inside again, whether I should be allowed to watch over my departed darling till his last moment. I could not bear the terrible thought that the precious jewel might fall into profane hands; I took it therefore, with the intention to hand it to you, who alone have a legitimate claim to it. I still have it in my keeping. When do you desire me to send it to you?”
They had pa.s.sed through the gate of the fortress, and were now walking down a street in the suburb, beneath tall, whispering poplar-trees.
Oswald tried to read Helen's face by the uncertain light of the moon, which was just peeping out from behind drifting clouds. She looked pale and deeply moved. Her arm rested more firmly on his arm, when she replied, after a pause,
”Is the medallion very dear to you?”
”Can you ask me?”
”No, no! do not misunderstand me; I am not insensible; not ungrateful for love and friends.h.i.+p. Keep the medallion! Keep it in memory of your--of our darling!”
”Only in memory of him? It is your hair, Miss Helen; and only in memory of him?”
”And--of me!”
Oswald took the small hand which was resting on his arm and carried it to his lips.
”You make me very proud and happy,” he said. ”I have done nothing to deserve so great a favor; but then, on the other hand, would grace be grace if it could be deserved?”
”You are overwhelming me with your modesty. You wish me to thank you for all your kindness, as I ought to thank you, and yet am not able to do. You have always been very kind to me; you stood by me when even my nearest relatives rose against me, and at the very last----”
”I did nothing but what I would do again at the peril of my life. But here we are at Miss Bear's house. Is the gate locked?”
”No.”
They went through the small garden up to the house-door. Oswald rang the bell.
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