"Yes, when we married it _was_ he who prevented me from announcing it; I wished to do so, and it would have been easy. But if I state the fact now, after having been secretly married eight years, during which I have illegally retained the property, I shall stamp myself a cheat.

Take me to the summit of the Kofel and bid me leap down its thousand feet of cliff--I cannot, were it to purchase my eternal salvation. Hurl me down--I care not--but do not expect me voluntarily to take the plunge, it is impossible. Unless G.o.d sends an angel to bear me over the chasm on its wings, all pleading will be futile."

She pressed her cheek, burning with the fever of fear, tenderly against his: "Have pity on my weakness, forgive me! Ah, I know I am always talking about greatness--yet with me it exists only in the imagination.

I am too base to be capable of what is really n.o.ble."

"You see me now, as G.o.d Himself beholds me. He will judge me--but it is the privilege of marital love to forgive. Will you not use this sweet right? Perhaps G.o.d will show me some expedient. Perhaps I shall succeed in making an agreement with the relatives or gaining the aid of the king, but for all this I must live in the world--in order to secure influence and scope for my plans. Will you have patience and forbearance with me till there is a change?"

"That will never be, any more than during the past eight years.

But I will bear with you, poor wife; in spite of _everything_ I will trust your love, I will try to repress my discontent when you come and gratefully accept what you bestow, without remonstrance or fault-finding. I will bear it as long as I can. Perhaps--it will wear me out, then we shall both be released. I would have removed myself from the world long ago--but that would be a sin, and would not have benefited you. Your heart is too kind not to be wounded and the suicide's b.l.o.o.d.y shade would not have permitted you to enjoy your liberty."

"Oh, Heaven, what are you saying! My poor husband, is that your condition?" cried the countess, deeply stirred by the tragedy of these calmly uttered words. She shuddered at this glimpse of the dark depths of his fathomless soul and what, in her opinion, he might lack in broadness of view was now supplied by the extent of his suffering; at this moment he again interested her. Throwing herself on his breast, she overwhelmed him with caresses. She sought to console him, make him forget the bitterness of his grief by the magic potion of her love. She herself did not know that even now--carried away by a genuine emotion of compa.s.sion--she was yielding to the demoniac charm of trying upon his pain the power of her coquetry, which she had long since tested sufficiently upon _human beings_. But where she would undoubtedly have succeeded with men of cultivation, she failed with this child of nature, who instinctively felt that this sweet display of tenderness was not meant for him but was called forth by the struggle against a hostile element which she desired to bribe or conquer. His grief remained unchanged; it was too deeply rooted to be dispelled by the love-raptures of a moment. Yet the poor husband, languishing for the wife so ardently beloved, took the poisoned draught she offered, as the thirsting traveller in the desert puts his burning lips to the tainted pool whence he knows he is drinking death.

CHAPTER XX.

CONFLICTS.

It was morning! The lamp had almost burned out! Josepha and the countess were busied with the boy, whose sleep was disturbed by a short, dry cough. The mother had remained at the little castle all night and rested only a few hours. When with the little one there were times when her maternal affection was roused. Then she was seized with dread lest G.o.d should recall a precious gift because she had not known its value. It would be only just, she was aware of that--and because of its justice it seemed probable, and her heart strove to make amends in a few hours for the neglect of years. Perhaps thereby she might escape the punishment. But when she had gone, the little pale star in her horizon receded into the background before the motley phenomena of the world in which she lived, and only in isolated moments did she realize, by a dull pain, that feelings were slumbering within her soul which could not be developed--like a treasure which lies concealed in a spot whence it cannot be raised. It was akin to the parable of the servant who did not put out his talent at interest. This talent which G.o.d entrusted to men is _love_. A lofty n.o.ble sentiment which we suppress is the buried treasure which G.o.d will require of us, when the period for which He loaned it has expired. There were hours when the unhappy woman realized this. Then she accused everything--the world and herself! And the poor little child felt in his precocious soul the grief of the "beautiful lady," in whom he presciently loved his mother without knowing that it was she. Ordinary children, like animals, love best those who provide for their physical wants and therefore frequently cling more fondly to the nurse than to the mother. Not so this boy. He was almost ungrateful to Josepha, who nursed him the more faithfully, the more he was neglected by the countess.

Josepha was pa.s.sionately attached to the boy. All the sorrowful love which she had kept in her desolate heart for her own dead son was transferred from the first hour to this delicate, motherless creature.

It reminded her so much of her own poor child: the marked family likeness between him and Freyer--the mystery with which he must be surrounded. A mother who was ashamed of him, like Josepha at the time--it seemed as though her own dead child had returned to life. And besides she pa.s.sed for his mother.

The boy was born while the countess was travelling in the East, and it was an easy matter to arrange with the authorities. The countess, while in Jerusalem, took the name of Josepha Freyer--Josepha that of Countess Wildenau, and the child was baptized under the name of Freyer. It was entered in the register as an illegitimate child, and Josepha bore the disgrace and returned to Germany as the boy's mother.

What was lacking to complete Josepha's illusion that the child was hers, and that she might love it as a mother? Nothing, save the return of her affection. And this was a source of bitter pain. She might give and do what she would, devote her days and nights to him, sacrifice her already failing health--nothing availed. When after weeks and months of absence the "beautiful lady," as he called her, came, his melancholy eyes brightened and he seemed to glow with new life as he stretched out his little arms to her with a look that appeared to say: "Had you not come soon, I should have died!" Josepha no longer existed for him, and even his father, whom he usually loved tenderly as his G.o.d-father--"Goth," as the people in that locality call it--was forgotten. This vexed Josepha beyond endurance. She performed a mother's duties in all their weariness, her heart cherished a mother's love with all its griefs and cares and, when that other woman came, who deserved nothing, did nothing, had neither a mother's heart nor a mother's rights--she took the child away and Josepha had naught save the trouble and the shame! The former enjoyed hurriedly, lightly, carelessly, the joys which alone could have repaid Josepha's sacrifices, the child's sweet smiles, tender caresses, and coaxing ways, for which she would have given her life. She ground her sharp white teeth and a secret jealousy, bordering on hatred, took root in her embittered mind. What could she esteem in this woman? For what should she be grateful to her? She was kind to her--because she needed her services--but what did she care for Josepha herself! "She might give me less, but do her duty to her husband and child--that would suit me better," she secretly murmured. "To have such a child and not be a mother to him, not give him the sunshine, the warmth of maternal love which he needs--and then come and take away from another what she would not earn for herself."

To have such a husband, the highest blessing Josepha knew on earth--a man to whom the whole world paid homage as if to G.o.d, a man so devout, so good, so modest, so faithful--and desert him, conceal him in a ruinous old castle that no one might note the disgrace of the n.o.ble lady who had married a poor wood-carver! And then to come and s.n.a.t.c.h the kisses from his lips as birds steal berries, when no one was looking, he was good enough for that! And he permitted it--the proud, stern man, whom the whole community feared and honored. It was enough to drive one mad.

And she, Josepha, must swallow her wrath year after year--and dared not say anything--for woe betide her if she complained of the countess! He would allow no attack upon her--though this state of affairs was killing him. She was forced to witness how he grieved for this woman, see him gradually lose flesh and strength, for the wicked creature bewitched every one, and charmed her husband and child till they were fairly dying of love for her, while she was carrying on her shameless flirtations with others.

Such were the terrible accusations raging in Josepha's pa.s.sionate soul against the countess, charges which effaced the memory of all she owed her former benefactress.

"I should like to know what she would do without me" was the constant argument of her ungrateful hatred. "She may well be kind to me--if I chose, her wicked pranks would soon be over. She would deserve it--and what do I care for the pay? I can look after myself, I don't need the ill-gotten gains. But--then I should be obliged to leave the boy--he would have no one. No, no, Josepha, hold out as long as possible--and be silent for the child's sake."

Such were the conflicts seething in the breast of the silent dweller in the hunting-castle, such the gulfs yawning at the unsuspicious woman's feet.

It was the vengeance of insulted popular morality, to which she imagined herself so far superior. This insignificant impulse in the progress of the development of mankind, insignificant because it was the special attribute of the humble plain people, will always conquer in the strife against the emanc.i.p.ation of so-called "more highly organized" natures, for it is the destiny of individual giants always to succ.u.mb in the war against ordinary mortals. Here there is a great, eternal law of the universe, which from the beginning gathered its contingent from the humble, insignificant elements, and in so-called "plebian morality" is rooted--Christianity. Therefore, the former will conquer and always a.s.sert its right, even where the little Philistine army, which gathers around its standard, defeats a far n.o.bler foe than itself, a foe for whom the G.o.ds themselves would mourn!

Woe betide the highly gifted individuality which unites with Philistine elements--gives them rights over it, and believes it can still pursue its own way--in any given case it will find pity before _G.o.d_, sooner than before the judgment seat of this literal service, and the spears and shafts of its yeomanry.

Something like one of these lance-thrusts pierced the countess from Josepha's eyes, as she bent over the waking child.

Josepha tried to take the boy, but he struggled violently and would not go to her. With sparkling, longing eyes he nestled in the arms of the "beautiful lady." The countess drew the frail little figure close to her heart. As she did so, she noticed the stern, resentful expression of Josepha's dry cracked lips and the hectic flush on the somewhat prominent cheek bones. There was something in the girl's manner which displeased her mistress. Had it been in her power, she would have dismissed this person, who "was constantly altering for the worse." But she was bound to her by indissoluble fetters, nay, was dependent upon her--and must fear her. She felt this whenever she came. Under such impressions, every visit to the castle had gradually become a penance, instead of a pleasure. Her husband, out of humor and full of reproaches, the child ill, the nurse sullen and gloomy. A spoiled child of the world, who had always had everything disagreeable removed from her path, could not fail at last to avoid a place where she could not breathe freely a single hour.

"Will you not get the child's breakfast, Josepha?" she said wearily, the dark circles around her eyes bearing traces of her night vigil.

"He must be bathed first!" said Josepha, in the tone which often wounded the countess--the tone by which nurses, to whose charge children are left too much, instruct young mothers that, "if they take no care of their little ones elsewhere, they have nothing to say in the nursery."

The countess, with aristocratic self-control, struggled to maintain her composure. Then she said quietly, though her voice sounded faint and hoa.r.s.e: "The child seems weak, I think it will be better to give him something to eat before washing him."

"Yes," pleaded the little fellow, "I am thirsty." The words reminded the countess of his father, as he said on the cross: "I thirst." When these memories came, all the anguish of her once beautiful love--now perishing so miserably--overwhelmed her. She lifted the boy--he was light as a vapor, a vision of mist--from the bed into her lap, and wrapped his little bare feet in the folds of her morning dress. He pressed his little head, crowned with dark, curling locks, against her cheek. Such moments were sweet, but outweighed by too much bitterness.

"Bring him some milk--fresh milk!" Madeleine von Wildenau repeated in the slightly imperious tone which seems to consider opposition impossible.

"That will be entirely different from his usual custom," remarked Josepha, as if the countess' order had seriously interfered with the regular mode of life necessary to the child.

The mother perceived this, and a faint flush of shame and indignation suffused her face, but instantly vanished, as if grief had consumed the wave of blood which wrath had stirred.

"Is your mother--Josepha--kind to you?" she asked, when Josepha had left the room.

The boy nodded carelessly.

"She does not strike you, she is gentle?"

"No, she doesn't strike me," the little fellow answered. "She loves me."

"Do you love her, too?" the countess went on.

"Wh--y--Yes!" said the child, shrugging his shoulders. Then he looked tenderly into her face. "I love you better."

"That is not right, Josepha is your mother--you must love her best."

The boy shook his head thoughtfully. "But I would rather have you for my mamma."

"That cannot be--unfortunately--I must not."

The child gazed at her with an expression of sorrowful disappointment.

=At last he found an expedient. "But in Heaven--when I go to Heaven--_you_ will be my mother there, won't you?"

The countess shuddered--an indescribable pain pierced her heart, yet she was happy, a blissful anguish! Tears streamed from her eyes and, clasping the child tenderly, she gently kissed him.

"Yes, my child! In Heaven--perhaps I may be your mother!"

Josepha now brought in the milk and wanted to give it to him, but the boy would not take it from her, he insisted that the countess must hold the bowl. She did so, but her hand trembled and Josepha was obliged to help her, or the whole contents would have been spilled. She averted her face.

"She cannot even give her child anything to drink," thought Josepha, as she moved about the room, putting it in order.

"Josepha, please leave me alone a little while," said the countess, almost beseechingly.

"Indeed?" Josepha's cheeks flushed scarlet, it seemed as if the bones grew still more prominent. "If I am in your Highness' way--I can go at once."

"Josepha!" said the countess, now suddenly turning toward her a face wet with tears. "Surely I might be allowed to spend fifteen minutes alone with my child without offending any one! I will forgive your words--on account of your natural jealousy--and I think you already regret them, do you not?"

"Yes," replied Josepha, somewhat reluctantly, but so conquered by the unhappy mother's words that she pressed a hard half reluctant kiss upon the countess' hand with her rough, parched lips. Then, with a pa.s.sionate glance at the child, she gave place to the mother whose claim she would fain have disputed before G.o.d Himself, if she could.

But when the door had closed behind her, the countess could bear no more. Placing the child in his little bed, she flung herself sobbing beside it. "My child--my child, forgive me," she cried, forgetting all prudence "--pray for me to G.o.d."