Part 34 (2/2)

Bertram looked at her, astonished and inquiringly; but in a few rapid words the countess explained to him Elise's intention and determination, to allow her to take the journey in her stead, and with her clothes.

Bertram cast on Elise a look which mirrored forth the admiration he felt for this young girl, who had so heroically gained the victory over herself. His reliance on her maiden pride, her sense of right and honor, had not been deceived.

The countess had now finished her toilet, and donned Elise's hat and cloak.

Bertram called on her to hasten, and she approached Elise to bid her farewell, and express her grat.i.tude for the sacrifice she had made for her. But Elise waved her back proudly and coldly, and seemed to shudder at her touch.

”Go to your husband, countess,” cried she, and her voice was hoa.r.s.e and cold.

Lodoiska's eyes filled with tears. Once more she attempted to take Elise's hand, but the latter firmly crossed her arms and looked at her almost threateningly. ”Go!” said she, in a loud, commanding voice.

Bertram took the arm of the countess and drew her to the door.

”Hasten!” said he; ”there is no time to lose.”

The door closed behind them. Elise was alone. She stood and listened to their departing steps; she heard the house door open; she heard the post-horn once more sound out merrily, and then cease. ”I am alone!”

she screamed, with a heart-rending cry. ”They are gone; I am alone!”

And stretching her arms despairingly to heaven, and almost beside herself, she cried out, ”O G.o.d! will no one have compa.s.sion on me?

will no one pity me?”

”Elise,” said her father, opening the room door.

She sprang toward him with a loud exclamation, she rushed into his arms, embraced him, and, nestling in his bosom, she exclaimed faintly, ”Have pity on me, my father; do not drive me from you! You are my only refuge in this world.”

Gotzkowsky pressed her firmly to his breast and looked gratefully to heaven. ”Oh! I well knew my daughter's heart would return to her father.”

He kissed ardently her beautiful, glossy hair, and her head that was resting on his breast. ”Do not weep, my child, do not weep,” whispered he, tenderly.

”Let me weep,” she answered, languidly; ”you do no know how much sorrow and grief pa.s.s off with these tears.”

The sound of the post-horn was now heard from the street below and then the rapid rolling of a carriage.

Elise clung still more closely to her father. ”Save me,” she cried.

”Press me firmly to your heart. I am quite forsaken in this world.”

The door was thrown open and Bertram rushed in, out of breath, exclaiming: ”She is gone! he did not recognize her, and took her for you. The countess--”

He stopped suddenly and looked at Gotzkowsky, of whose presence he had just become aware.

Gotzkowsky inquired in astonishment, ”Who is gone? What does all this mean?”

Elise raised herself from his arms and gazed at him with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. ”It means,” she answered, ”that the happiness of my life is broken, that all is deception and falsehood where I looked for love, and faith, and happiness!” With a touching cry of suffering, she fell fainting in her father's arms.

”Do not rouse her, father,” said Bertram, bending over her; ”grant her this short respite, for she has a great sorrow to overcome. When she comes to herself again, she will love none but you, her father.”

Gotzkowsky pressed his lips on her brow, and blessed her in his thoughts. ”She will find in me a father,” said he, with deep emotion, ”who, if necessary, can weep with her. My eyes are unused to tears, but a father may be allowed to weep with his daughter when she is suffering.”

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