Part 62 (1/2)
Irma was all attention. ”Now tell me all,” said she, brus.h.i.+ng back her curls.
”You, of all others, will understand me, when I say that I pa.s.sed sublime hours with your father. And yet I can recount nothing definite in regard to them. If, while rambling through the woods, I pluck a spray and fasten it to my hat, what can the spray tell of the rustling of the forest, or of the free mountain air? It is merely a symbol, both for us and to those we meet, of the joy that pervades our whole being.”
”I understand you,” said Irma. They sat opposite each other, and neither of them spoke for some time.
”Did my father mention my brother?”
”No. The word 'son' never pa.s.sed his lips. Oh, Countess! the man to whom pure love vouchsafes the happiness of becoming a son--”
Emotion seemed to choke his utterance. Irma trembled; her heart beat quickly. Here was a man, n.o.ble and highly esteemed, who offered her his heart and hand. Yea, his heart, and she had none to give him in return.
She felt a pang that pierced her very soul.
”I feel happy,” said she, ”that father, in his solitude, has once more seen that this stirring, bustling court contains some worthy men; men like yourself, who stand for that which is best in all things. Do not, I beg of you, reject my honest praise. I know that true merit is always modest, because it is never satisfied with itself.”
”Your father expressed the same thought, in the very same words.”
”I believe he must have taught it to me; if not in words, at all events by his example. I would have liked to see you and him together. Your presence must have restored his faith in humanity. You are a messenger of goodness, and since you are good, you believe in the virtue of others.”
”Where I have once felt respect and love,” replied Bronnen, ”I am unchangeable. I should like to write to your father at an early day. I should love, dear Countess, to send him the best of news, and in the best words that language affords. Countess Irma, I long to tell him--”
”My dear friend,” interposed Irma, ”I am, like my father, of a solitary nature. I thank you. You do not know how greatly your visit and all that you have told me, has benefited me. I thank you with all my heart.
Let us remain friends. Give me your hand as a pledge. Let us remain friends, just as we have been. I thank you--”
Her voice was choked with tears.
The colonel took his leave. Irma was alone. She lay kneeling near the sofa. Her heart was filled with unutterable sorrow. The c.o.xcomb had rejected her. Then came a man worthy of the best of wives. He loved and trusted her, and she had refused him. His kind and honest heart had a right to ask for full, unbounded love. She shook off the mingled feeling of distress and mortification. The thought that she had acted honorably, soothed her and seemed like refres.h.i.+ng dew to her whirling brain. But then, again, it galled her when she asked herself: ”How far have you sunk, that you are obliged to make a show of simple honesty?
And where lives the girl who, if not bound by love, has a right to reject the man whom you have just refused? He cannot but esteem you and your love.”
She knew not how long she lay there. She laughed and wept, lamented and rejoiced.
Her maid entered. It was time to dress for dinner.
CHAPTER XII.
The queen was ill. Her life was saved, but a hope was lost.
It was on a stormy morning in spring, that Baum, caring a little coffin that contained the corpse of a still-born babe, descended the back stairs of the palace. He walked so softly that he did not hear his own footsteps. He was followed by Madame Leoni, the queen's waiting-woman, who held a white handkerchief to her eyes. At the foot of the stairs, a carriage was in waiting. Baum was obliged to tell the coachman, who was not in court livery, where to drive to. Scarcely any one in the palace knew of what was going on.
They drove out of town and toward the church-yard. An unnamed child is not placed in the vault, but is buried in the public cemetery. The grave-digger was waiting for them. The little corpse was lowered into the open grave, without a name or sign to mark its place of burial.
About the same time that Baum and Madame Leoni were out at the churchyard, Walpurga was thus writing home:
”.... Thank G.o.d! all's over. Now I can look forward to happier days.
We've had a terrible time here. If all goes well, there are only seven Sundays more till I come home again. I can hardly believe it possible that I've got to go away from here again, and yet I'll thank G.o.d a thousand times, when I'm with you once more. If I stay here, I shall grow quite stupid from thinking so much. There's misery everywhere and people take pleasure in each other's wickedness, and, even if it isn't true, they imagine it is and find pleasure in it, besides.
”There was some talk about our getting a place here, where we could all be comfortable for life; but the queen said that it would be better for me to go home, and whatever she says, is right. She's a true queen, just as a queen ought to be. G.o.d has made her so, on purpose.