Just at that moment the door opened and Freyer entered. All that was stirring the mother's heart instantly became clear to him, as he saw her thus broken down beside the boy's bed.

"Calm yourself--what will the child think!" he said, bending down and raising her.

"Don't cry, Mamma!" said the boy, stroking the soft hair on the grief-bowed head. He did not know why he now suddenly called her "mamma"--perhaps it was a prospect of the heaven where she would be his mother, and he said it in advance.

"Oh, Freyer, kill me--I am worthy of nothing better--cut short the battle of a wasted life! An animal which cannot recover is killed out of pity, why not a human being, who feels suffering doubly?"

"Magdalena--Countess--I do not know you in this mood."

"Nor do I know myself! What am I? What is a mother who is no mother--a wife who cannot declare herself a wife? A fish that cannot swim, a bird that cannot fly! We kill such poor crippled creatures out of sheer compa.s.sion. What kind of existence is mine? An egotist who nevertheless feels the pain of those whom she renders unhappy; an aristocrat who cannot exist outside of her own sphere and yet pines for the eternal verity of human nature; a coquette who trifles with hearts and yet would _die_ for a genuine feeling--these are my traits of character!

Can there be anything more contradictory, more full of wretchedness?"

"Let us go out of doors, Countess, such conversation is not fit for the child to hear."

"Oh, he does not understand it."

"He understands more than you believe, you do not know what questions he often asks--ah, you deprive yourself of the n.o.blest joys by being unable to watch the remarkable development of this child."

She nodded silently, absorbed in gazing at the boy.

"Come, Countess, the sun has risen--the cool morning air will do you good, I will ring for Josepha to take the boy," he said quietly, touching the bell.

The little fellow sat up in bed, his breathing was hurried and anxious, his large eyes were fixed imploringly on the countess: "Oh, mamma--dear mamma in Heaven--stay--don't go away."

"Ah, if only I could--my child--how gladly I would stay here always.

But I will come back again presently, I will only walk in the sunshine for half-an-hour."

"Oh, I would like to go in the sunshine, too. Can't I go with you, and run about a little while?"

"Not to-day, not until your cough is cured, my poor little boy! But I'll promise to talk and think of nothing but you until I return!

Meanwhile Josepha shall wash and dress you, I don't understand that--Josepha can do it better."

"Oh! yes, I'm good enough for that!" thought the girl, who heard the last words just as she entered.

"My beautiful mamma has been crying, because she is a bird and can't fly--" said the child to Josepha with sorrowful sympathy. "But you can't fly either--nor I till we are angels--then we can!" He spread out his little arms like wings as if he longed to soar upward and away, but an attack of coughing made him sink back upon his pillows.

The husband and wife looked at each other with the same sorrowful anxiety.

The countess bent over the little bed as if she would fain stifle with kisses the cough that racked the little chest.

"Mamma, it doesn't hurt--you must not cry," said the boy, consolingly.

"There is a spider inside of my breast which tickles me--so I have to cough. But it will spin a big, big net of silver threads like those on the Christmas tree which will reach to Heaven, then I'll climb up on it!"

The countess could scarcely control her emotion. Freyer drew her hand through his arm and led her out into the dewy morning.

"You are so anxious about our secret and yet, if _I_ were not conscientious enough to help you guard it, you would betray yourself every moment, you are imprudent with the child, it is not for my own interest, but yours that I warn you. Do not allow your newly awakened maternal love to destroy your self-control in the boy's presence. Do not let him call you 'Mamma.' Poor mother--indeed I understand how this wounds you--but--it must be one thing or the other. If you cannot--or _will_ not be a mother to the child--you _must_ renounce this name."

She bowed her head. "You are as cruel as ever, though you are right!

How can I maintain my self-control, when I hear such words from the child? What a child he is! Whenever I come, I marvel at his intellectual progress! If only it is natural, if only it is not the omen of an early death!"

Freyer pitied her anxiety,

"It is merely because the child is reared in solitude, a.s.sociating solely with two sorrowing people, Josepha and myself; it is natural that his young soul should develop into a graver and more thoughtful character than other children," he said, consolingly.

They had gone out upon a dilapidated balcony, overgrown with vines and bushes. It was a beautiful morning, but the surrounding woods and the mouldering autumn leaves were white with h.o.a.r frost. Freyer wrapped the shivering woman in a cloak which he had taken with him. Under the cold breath of the bright fall morning, and her husband's cheering words, she gradually grew calm and regained her composure.

"But something must be done with the child," she said earnestly.

"Matters cannot go on so, he looks too ethereal.--I will send him to Italy with Josepha."

"Good Heavens, then I shall be entirely alone!" said Freyer, with difficulty suppressing his dismay.

"Yet it must be," replied the countess firmly.

"How shall I endure it? The child was my all, my good angel--my light in darkness! Often his little hands have cooled my brow when the flames of madness were circling around it. Often his eyes, his features have again revealed your image clearly when, during a long separation, it had become blurred and distorted. While gazing at the child, the dear, beautiful child, I felt that nothing could sever this sacred bond. The mother of this boy could not desert her husband--for the sake of this child she must love me! I said to myself, and learned to trust, to hope, once more. And now I am to part from him. Oh, G.o.d!--Thy judgment is severe. Thou didst send an angel to comfort Thy divine son on the Mount of Olives--Thou dost take him from me! Yet not my will, but Thine, be done!"

He bent his head sadly: "If it must be, take him."

"The child is ill, I have kept him shut up in these damp rooms too long, he needs sunshine and milder air. If he were obliged to spend another winter in this cold climate, it would be his death. But if it is so hard for you to be separated from the boy--go with him. I will hire a villa for you and Josepha somewhere on the Riviera. It will do you good, too, to leave this nook hidden among the woods--and I cannot shelter you here in Bavaria where every one knows you, without betraying our relation."

Freyer gazed at her with a mournful smile: "And you think--that I would go?" He shook his head. "No, I cannot make it so easy for you. We are still husband and wife, I am still yours, as you are mine. And though you so rarely come to me--if during the whole winter there was but a single hour when you needed a heart, you must find your husband's, I must be here!" He drew her gently to his breast. "No, my wife, it would have been a comfort, if I could have kept the child--but if you must take him from me, I will bear this, too, like everything which comes from your hand, be it life or death--nothing shall part me from you, not even love for my boy."

There was something indescribable in the expression with which he gazed at her as he uttered the simple words, and she clung to him overwhelmed by such unexampled fidelity, which thus sacrificed the only, the last blessing he possessed for a _single_ hour with her.

"My husband--my kind, n.o.ble husband! The most generous heart in all the world!" she cried, caressing him again and again as she gazed rapturously at the beautiful face, so full of dignity: "You shall not make the sacrifice for a single hour, your wife will come and reward your loyalty with a thousand-fold greater love. Often--often. Perhaps oftener than ever! For I feel that the present condition of affairs cannot last. I must be permitted to be wife and mother--I realized to-day at the bedside of my child that my _guilt_, too, was growing year by year. It is time for me to atone. When I return home I will seriously consider what can be done to make an arrangement with my relatives! I need not confess that I am already married--I could say that I might marry if they would pay me a sufficient sum, but I would _not_ do so, if they refused me the means to live in a style which befitted my rank. Then they will probably prefer to make a sacrifice which would enable me to marry, thereby giving them the whole property, rather than to compel me, by their avarice, to remain a widow and keep the entire fortune. That would be a capital idea! Do you see how inventive love is?" she said with charming coquetry, expecting his joyful a.s.sent.

But he turned away with clouded brow--it seemed as though an icy wind had suddenly swept over the whole sunny landscape, transforming everything into a wintry aspect.

"Falsehood and deception everywhere--even in the most sacred things.

When I hear you speak so, my heart shrinks! So n.o.ble a woman as you to stoop to falsehood and deceit, like one of the basest!"

The countess stood motionless, with downcast lids, shame and pride were both visible on her brow. Her heart, too, shrank, and an icy chill encompa.s.sed it.

"And what better proposal would you make?"

"None!" said Freyer in a low tone, "for the only one I could suggest you would not accept. It would be to atone for the wrong you have committed, frankly confess how everything happened, and then retire with your husband and child into solitude and live plainly, but honestly. The world would laugh at you, it is true, but the n.o.ble-hearted would honor you. I cannot imagine that any moral happiness is to be purchased by falsehood and deceit--there is but one way which leads to G.o.d--the way of truth--every other is delusive!"

The beautiful woman gazed at him in involuntary admiration. This was the inward majesty by which the lowly man had formerly so awed her; and deeply as he shamed and wounded her, she bowed to this grandeur. Yet she could no longer bear his gaze, she felt humbled before him, her pleasure in his companionship was destroyed. She stood before the man whom she believed so far beneath her, like a common criminal, convicted of the most petty falsehood, the basest treachery. She fairly loathed herself. Where was there anything to efface this brand? Where was the pride which could raise her above this disgrace? In her consciousness of rank? Woe betide her, what would her peers say if they knew her position? Would she not be cast out from every circle? What was there which would again restore her honor? She knew no dignity, no honor save those which the world bestows, and to save them, at any cost and by any means--she sank still lower in her own eyes and those of the poor, but honorable man who had more cause to be ashamed of her than she of him.

She must return home, she must again see her palace, her servants, her world, in order to believe that she was still herself, that the ground was still firm under her feet, for everything in and around her was wavering.

"Please order the horses to be harnessed!" she said, turning toward the half ruined door through which they had come out of the house.

It had indeed grown dull and cold. A pallid autumnal fog was shrouding the forest. It looked doubtful whether it was going to rain or snow.

"I have the open carriage--I should like to get home before it rains,"

she said, apologetically, without looking at him.

Freyer courteously opened the heavy ancient iron door. They walked silently along a dark, cold, narrow pa.s.sage to the door of the boy's room.