"Take me to Freyer, Ludwig. I must see him this very day. Oh, my friend! let me wash myself clean in your soul, for I feel as if the turbid surges of the world had soiled me with their mire."

Ludwig Gross pa.s.sed his arm lightly about her shoulders as if to protect her from the unclean element. "Come," he said soothingly, "I will take you to Freyer. Or would you prefer to have me bring him here?"

"No, he would not come now. I must go to him, for I have done something for which I must atone--there can be no delay."

Ludwig hurriedly wrapped her in a warm shawl. "You will be ill from this continual excitement," he said anxiously, but without trying to dissuade her. "Take my arm, you are tottering."

They left the house before the eyes of the astonished Gross family.

"She is a very singular woman," said Sephi, shaking her head. "She gives herself no rest night or day."

It was only five days since the evening that Madeleine von Wildenau had walked, as now, through the sleeping village, and how much she had experienced.

She had found the G.o.d whom she was seeking--she had gazed into his eyes, she had recognized divine, eternal love, and had perceived that she was not worthy of it. So she moved proudly, yet humbly on, leaning upon the arm of her friend, to the street where a thrill of reverence had stirred her whole being when Andreas Gross said, "That is the way to the dwelling of the Christ."

The house stood across the end of the street. This time no moonbeams lighted the way. The damp branches of the trees rustled mournfully above them in the darkness. Only a single window on the ground floor of Freyer's house was lighted, and the wavering rays marked the way for the pair. They reached it and looked in. Freyer was sitting on a wooden stool by the table, his head resting on his hand, absorbed in sorrowful thought. A book lay before him, which he had perhaps intended to read, but evidently had not done so, for he was gazing wearily into vacancy.

Madeleine von Wildenau stepped softly in through the unfastened door.

Ludwig Gross waited for her outside. As she opened the door of the room Freyer looked up in astonishment "You?" he said, and his eyes rested full upon her with a questioning gaze--but he rose with dignity, instead of rushing to meet her, as he would formerly have greeted the woman he loved, had she suddenly appeared before him.

"Countess--what does this visit mean--at this hour?" he asked, mournfully, offering her a chair. "Did you come alone?"

"Ludwig brought me and is waiting outside for me--I have only a few words to say."

"But it will not do to leave our friend standing outside. You will allow me to call him in?"

"Do so, you will then have the satisfaction of having a witness of my humiliation," said the countess, quietly.

"Pardon me, I did not think of that interpretation!" murmured Freyer, seating himself.

"May I ask your Highness' commands?"

"Joseph--to whom are you speaking?"

"To the Countess Wildenau!"

She knelt beside him: "Joseph! Am I _still_ the Countess Wildenau?"

"Your Highness, pray spare me!" he exclaimed, starting up. "All this can alter nothing. You remain--what you are, and I--what I am! This was deeply graven on my heart to-night, and nothing can efface it." He spoke with neither anger nor reproach--simply like a man who has lost what was dearest to him on earth.

"If that is true, I can certainly do nothing except go again!" she replied, turning toward the door. "But answer for it to G.o.d for having thrust me forth unheard."

"Nay, Countess, pray, speak!" said Freyer, kindly. She looked at him so beseechingly that his heart melted with unutterable pain.

"Come--and--tell me what weighs upon your heart!" he added in a gentler tone.

"Not until you again call me your dove--or your child."

Tears filled his eyes, "My child--what have you done!"

"That is right--I can speak now! What have I done, Joseph? What you saw; and still worse. I not only treated you coldly and distantly in my father's presence, I afterwards disowned you three times--and I come to tell you so because you alone can and--I know--will forgive me."

Freyer had clasped his hands upon his knee and was gazing into vacancy.

Madeleine continued: "You see, I have so lofty an opinion of you, and of your love, that I do not try to justify myself. I will only remind you of the words you yourself said to-day: 'May you never be forced to weep the tears which Peter shed when the c.o.c.k crowed for the third time.' I will recall what must have induced Christ to forgive Peter: 'He knew the disciple's heart!' Joseph--do you not also know the heart of your Magdalena?"

A tremor ran through the strong man's frame and, unable to utter a word, he threw his arm around her and his head drooped on her breast.

"Joseph, you are ignorant of the world, and the bonds with which it fetters even the freest souls. Therefore you must _believe_ in me! It will often happen that I shall be forced to do something incomprehensible to you. If you did not then have implicit faith in me, we could never live happily together. This very day I had resolved to break with society, strip off all its chains. But no matter how many false and culpable ideas it has--its principles, nevertheless, rest upon a foundation of morality. That is why it can impose its fetters upon the very persons who have nothing in common with its _immoral_ side. Nay, were it merely an _immoral_ power it would be easy, in a moment of pious enthusiasm, to shake off its thrall--but when we are just on the eve of doing so, when we believe ourselves actually free, it throws around our feet the snare of a _duty_ and we are prisoned anew. Such was my experience to-day with my father! I should have been compelled to sunder every tie, had I told him the truth! I was too weak to provoke the terrible catastrophe--and deferred it, by disowning you."

Freyer quivered with pain.

She stroked his clenched hand caressingly. "I know what this must be. I know how the proud man must rebel when the woman he loved did _that_.

But I also expect my angel to know what it cost me!"

She gently tried to loose his clenched fingers, which gradually yielded till the open hand lay soft and unresisting in her own. "Look at me,"

she continued in her sweet, melting tones: "look at my pallid face, my eyes reddened with weeping--and then answer whether I have suffered during these hours?"

"I do see it!" said Freyer, gently.

"Dear husband! I come to you with my great need, with my great love--and my great guilt. Will you thrust me from you?"

He could hold out no longer, but with loving generosity clasped the pleading woman to his heart.

"I knew it, you are the embodiment of goodness, gentleness--love! You will have patience with your weak, sinful wife--you will enn.o.ble and sanctify her, and not despair if it is a long time ere the work is completed. You promise, do you not?" she murmured fervently amid her kisses, breathing into his inmost life the ardent pleading of her remorse.

And, with a solemn vow, he promised never to be angry with her again, never to desert her until she _herself_ sent him away.

She had conquered--he trusted her once more. And now--she must profit by this childlike confidence.

"I thank you!" she said, after a long silence. "Now I shall have courage to ask you a serious question. But let us send home the friend who is waiting outside, you can take me back yourself."

"Certainly, my child," said Freyer, smiling, and went out to seek Ludwig. "He was satisfied," he said returning. "Now speak--and tell me everything that weighs upon your heart--no one can hear us save G.o.d."

And he drew her into a loving embrace.

"Joseph," the countess began in an embarra.s.sed tone. "The decisive hour has come sooner than I expected and I am compelled to ask, 'Will you be my husband--but only before G.o.d, not men.'"

Freyer drew back a step. "What do you mean?"

"Will you listen to me quietly, dearest?" she asked, gently.

"Speak, my child."

"Joseph! I promised to-day to become your wife--and I will keep the pledge, but our marriage must be a secret one."

"And why?"

"My husband's will disinherits me, as soon as I give up the name of Wildenau. If I marry you, I shall be dependent upon the generosity of my husband's cousins, who succeed me as his heirs, and they are not even obliged to give me an annuity--so I shall be little better than a beggar."

"Oh, is that all? What does it matter? Am I not able to support my wife--that is, if she can be satisfied with the modest livelihood a poor wood-carver like myself can offer?"