Old Fritz and the New Era Part 39

Ebenstreit sat with triumphant smile also, by his betrothed. "Money is the king of the world--with it one can accomplish all things," said he to himself; "if I had been a poor fellow, the general would not have chosen me, nor the king have given me a t.i.tle, nor could I have won back my beautiful bride. Money gives position, and I hope will give me the power to revenge myself for the pain in my face." He turned menacingly toward Moritz, who saw it not.

With bowed head, speechless, as if numb with the horror of his misfortune, he rode with fettered hands between the two officers, incapable of fleeing, as they had even bound a cord around his arms, each end held fast by one of the riders.

The stars and the moon shone down upon him as brightly beautiful as an hour previous. Oh, Marie, you were right, falling stars betoken misfortune! Your star has fallen!

CHAPTER XXVII. THE SACRIFICE.

Since that painful night, four weeks had pa.s.sed, four long ones to poor old Trude. To her beloved child they had fled in happy unconsciousness.

In the delirium of fever, her thoughts wandered to her lover, always dwelling upon her hopes and happiness. In the intervals of reason she asked for him with fearful excitement and anxiety, then again her mind was clouded, and the cry of anguish was changed into a smile.

Then came the days of convalescence and the return to consciousness, and with it the mourning over crushed hopes. Slowly had Trude, the faithful nurse, who watched by her bedside day and night, answered her excited questions, and to her little by little the circ.u.mstances of the elopement--how Leberecht had played the eavesdropper and sold Marie's secret for gold; how he had previously arranged to pursue them, informing the police, ordering the horses, and sending forward a courier to provide fresh relays at every station.

Trude depicted the anger of her father and the threats of her mother to send her to prison. But before she could execute her purpose, Ebenstreit had brought home the unconscious child, and she herself had lifted her from the carriage and borne her, with the aid of her mistress, to her own little attic room.

Marie listened to these relations with a gloomy calmness and a defiant sorrow. Illness had wrought a peculiar change in her mind, and hardened the gentle, tender feelings of the young girl. Grief had steeled her soul, benumbed her heart, and she had risen from her couch as one born anew to grief and torture. Her present situation and lost happiness had changed the young, loving, tenderly-sensitive maiden to the courageous, energetic, and defiant woman, who recognized a future of self-renunciation, combat, and resignation.

Trude observed these changes with disquietude and care. She wished Marie would only once complain, or burst into tears. After the first storm of despair had pa.s.sed, the tears refused to flow, and her eyes were bright and undimmed. Only once had profound emotion been awakened, as Trude asked her if she had forgotten her unhappy lover, and cared no more to learn his fate. It had the desired effect.

A deathly paleness overspread her delicate, transparent cheek. "I know how he is," she said, turning away her face, "I realize his sufferings by my own. We are miserable, lost--and no hope but in death. Ere this comes, there is a desert to traverse in heat, and dust, and storm, and frost, alone, without consolation or support. Hush, Trude! do not seek to revive miserable hopes. I know my fate, and I will endure it. Tell me what you know about him? Where is he? Have they accused him? Speak! do not fear to tell me every thing!" But fearing herself, she threw her handkerchief quickly over her face, and sat with it covered whilst Trude spoke.

"I know but little of poor, dear Moritz. He has never returned to his lodgings. A day or two after that night, two officers sealed his effects, and took away his clothes. His hostess has not the least suspicion of the mysterious disappearance of her otherwise quiet, regular lodger. The secret of the elopement has been carefully guarded, as no one of the neighbors know it, and there is no gossip about you and Moritz. Those who think he is travelling are not surprised at his having left without taking leave, as they say he was accustomed to do so. But,"

continued Trude, in a lower tone, "Herr Ged.i.c.ke looked very sad and grave, as I asked for the Conrector Moritz. 'He has disappeared,' he sighed, 'and I know not if we shall ever see him again.' 'Oh, Jemima!' I screamed, 'you do not think that he has committed a self-injury!' 'No,'

said the director, 'not he himself, he is too honorable a man. Others have ill-treated him and made him unhappy for life.' It was in vain to ask further; he knew not or he would not say any thing. I believe your family know where poor Moritz is, for your mother speaks of him as one in the penitentiary, and quite triumphantly she told me yesterday that the king, in his new book of laws, had expressly condemned the person who elopes with a minor to be sent to the house of correction for ten years, and then she laughed so cruelly, that I trembled to hear her."

As Trude related this, she searchingly glanced at Marie to observe the effect of her words, hoping to see her weep or complain and that, at last, grief would melt the icy crust around her heart.

But Marie sat motionless and without uttering a sound--not a sigh or a moan escaped her. After a long silence, when her grief was too deep for tears, she drew the handkerchief from her face, the pallor and rigidity of which startled Trude.

She sprang forward, folding her in her arms. "Marie, child of my heart, do weep, do complain! I know that he loved you dearly, and deserves that you should mourn for him. Have you no more confidence, though, in your old Trude? Is she no longer worthy to share your grief?"

Marie laid her languid head upon the bosom of her faithful nurse; a long-drawn, piercing cry of anguish was her response, she trembled violently, and the tears ran down her cheeks.

Trude raised her eyes to heaven, murmuring, "I thank thee, O Lord! Her heart is not dead! It lives, for it suffers!"

"It suffers," groaned Marie, "the anguish of death."

This pa.s.sionate outburst of feeling was of but short duration. Her tears were dried, and her quivering face a.s.sumed its usually calm expression.

"Trude," said she, gently, continuing to repose upon her bosom, "I am so wretched that words cannot express it or tears soothe it. If I should give myself up to sorrow and mourning I should die, and that cannot be, for I must live to wait for him--to rescue him. How I know not yet; my thoughts and resolutions are so confused that they flicker like the ignes fatui. I will force my mind to be calm, and these wandering lights shall unite in one glowing flame to destroy the walls and obstructions which confine him. He is a prisoner; I feel it in my heart, and I must live to free him. This is my task, and I will accomplish it; therefore I would be composed, and strong in myself. Wonder not that I weep or complain no more, and do not refer to my misfortune. I should die if I did not suppress this anguish, and I would become strong and active.

Seek not to enfeeble me, but aid me to harden myself; refrain from complaint, that I may be silent. I think only of him, and I ask nothing further than to yield my life to free him. Let us never speak of it again, for I feel that all the firmness which I had gained has been swept from me in this giving way, and that I must begin anew."

From this hour she commenced to build, and rose upon her grief as on a column which projects toward heaven; leaned upon it, and received, as Brisaeus from the earth, the power of life and action. She had already so conquered herself as to be able to leave her own quiet room, and descend to that of her parents. There she would sit calmly for hours, listening attentively to the conversation, hoping to catch some word that might give her a clew.

They avoided every exciting topic, and were milder and more thoughtful for her. Even her mother made no reproaches, and never alluded to the past, because she feared to delay her recovery, and remove the longed-for goal in hindering the marriage with Ebenstreit. The latter carefully avoided troubling her by his presence; when he heard Marie's step in the anteroom, who descended at a certain hour every day, he withdrew by the other entrance.

"Who goes out every time I come in?" asked Marie, one day as she appeared in the sitting-room.

The general coughed with embarra.s.sment, and glanced anxiously at his wife, whose eyes rested upon her daughter with a cold, searching expression. Their eyes met, and were riveted upon each other. A cold, cruel smile played around the thin, bloodless lips of the mother as she recognized the defiance and firmness in her child, and felt that she had recovered.

"It is your betrothed," she answered, "our dear Ebenstreit--a good, generous, and self-sacrificing son, for whom we thank G.o.d every day, who wishes to spare you the annoyance of seeing him."

"He need not inconvenience himself on my account. Nothing excites or wounds my feelings now. It would be a pity for your heartless, thankless daughter to deprive you of the society of your dear son. Let him remain; it is not necessary for us to notice one another."

Her parents regarded each other astonished, and, as she ceased, they still listened to the dying tones of her voice, which sounded so strangely to them. "She is much changed," mumbled the general to himself. "She does not seem the same person, she is so haughty and majestic. She might well inspire fear."

The following day, as Marie entered the room, Ebenstreit was there.

He approached her, extending both hands smiling, and greeting her with tender words, rejoicing at her recovery.

She took no notice of his friendly demonstrations, but coldly and harshly regarded his smiling face, and particularly the broad, blood-red scar which ran from forehead to chin. Then suddenly her face lighted up, and an expression of savage triumph shot from her eyes. "How disfigured you look," she cried exultingly. "Where did you get that scar?"

"You know well, Marie," he murmured, gloomily.

"Yes," she cried, triumphantly. "I know it. He branded you, and you will wear this mark before G.o.d and man as long as you live."

"You are very cruel to remind me of it, Marie," he softly whispered.

She laughed aloud so wild and savagely, that even her mother was startled. "Cruel--I cruel!" she cried. "Ah, sir, it becomes you indeed to accuse me of it!"

Trude entered at this instant, pale and excited.

"What is the matter?"

"There is some one here who wishes to speak with you, Marie; he has something very important to tell you."

"How dare you announce any one without my permission?" cried Frau von Werrig.

"Silence, mother!--if I may be allowed, let us hear who it is.--Speak, dear Trude, who is it?"

"It is the Director Ged.i.c.ke from the Gray Cloister," said Trude, with quivering voice.

Marie was startled--a glowing red overspread her cheeks, and she was obliged to lean against a chair for support.

"I forbid you to receive him," said her mother.

She suddenly ceased, and stared at the door, which opened at that moment, the tall, dignified form of a venerable old man appearing.

"Pardon me, sir," said he, with a cold, reserved manner, "if I enter before I receive permission. The command of the king, to which I believe we all yield without resistance, empowers me to do so."

"How, sir, you come by the king's order?" asked the general, who rose with difficulty. "Has his majesty given you a message for General von Leuthen?"

"No, general, I come with a communication from his majesty to Fraulein von Leuthen, the betrothed of Herr Ebenstreit, and the order runs to deliver the same personally and without witnesses."

"Professor," cried the mother, shrugging her shoulders, "you mistake us for very innocent people, if you suppose we believe this silly invention, and that you can gain a secret conversation by a ruse with our daughter. You are the director of the gymnasium, and naturally the friend of Conrector Moritz. In his name you will speak, and bring a secret message. Very sly, indeed, very sly, but it will not succeed."

For response, the director drew two large folded doc.u.ments from his pocket, approaching the general. "Do you recognize this seal?" he asked.