On the Cross Part 22

CHAPTER IX.

SIGNS AND WONDERS.

The great number of strangers who were unable to get tickets the day before had rendered a second performance necessary. The countess did not attend it. To her the play had been no spectacle, but an experience--a repet.i.tion would have degraded it to a mere drama. She had spent the day in retirement, like a prisoner, that she might not fall into the hands of any acquaintances. Now the distant rumble of carriages announced the close of the performance. It was a delightful autumn evening. The Gross family came to the window on their return home, and wondered to find the countess still in her room. The sounds of stifled sobs echoed from the work room. The other lodgers in the house had come back from the theatre and, like every one, were paying their tribute of tears. An American had gone to-day for the second time. He sat weeping on the bench near the stove, and said that it had been even more touching than yesterday. Andreas Gross a.s.sented: "Yes, Joseph Freyer never played as he did to-day."

The countess, sitting in her room, heard the words and was strangely moved. Why had he never played as he did _to-day_?

Some one tapped gently on the door.

A burning blush suffused the countess' face--had _he_--? He might have pa.s.sed through the garden from the other side to avoid the spectators.

"Come in!" she called.

It was Josepha with a telegram in her hand. The messenger was waiting for an answer.

The countess opened it and read the contents. It was from the prince.

"Please inform me whether I shall countermand the dinner."

"Very well. I will send the reply."

Josepha withdrew.

"If Ludwig were only here!" thought the countess. "He must be waiting to bring Freyer, as he did yesterday."

The rapid pulsing of her heart almost stifled her. One quarter of an hour pa.s.sed after another. At last Ludwig came--but alone.

The countess was sitting at the open window and Ludwig paused beside it.

"Well, how was the play to-day?"

"Magnificent," he replied. "I never saw Freyer so superb. He was perfect, fairly superhuman! It is a pity that you were not there."

"Did he inquire for me?"

"Yes. I explained to him that you did not wish to see it a second time--and for what reason. He nodded and said: 'I am glad the lady feels so.'"

"Then--we understand each other!" The countess drew a long breath. "Did you ask him to come here with you?"

"No. I thought I ought not to do that--he must come now of his own free will, or you would be placed in a false position."

"You are right--I thank you!" said the countess, turning pale and biting her lips. "Do you think that--he will come?"

"Unfortunately, no--he went directly home."

"Will you do me a favor?"

"Certainly, Countess."

"Despatch a telegram for me. I have arranged to give a dinner party at home and should like to send a message that I am coming."

"You will not remain here longer?"

"No!" she said in a tone sharp and cutting as a knife which is thrust into one's own heart. "Come in, please."

Ludwig obeyed the command and she wrote with the bearing of a queen signing a death-warrant:

"Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim, Munich.

"Will come at five to-morrow. Dinner can be given.

"Madeleine."

"Here, if you will be so kind," she said, handing the sheet to Ludwig.

The latter gazed earnestly at her, as though he wanted to say: "If only you don't repent it." But he asked the question in the modest wording: "Shall I send it _at once_?"

"Yes, if you please!" she answered, and her whole manner expressed a coldness which startled Ludwig.

"Can genuine warmth of heart freeze so quickly?" he asked himself.

Madeleine von Wildenau felt the mute reproach and disappointment in Ludwig's manner. She felt, too, that he was right, and called him back as he reached the door. "Give it to me," she said, taking the telegram, "I will consider the matter." Then meeting the eyes of the n.o.ble man, which now brightened again for her sake, she added earnestly, holding out her hand, "You understand me better than I do myself."

"I thank you for those words--they make me very proud, Countess!" said Ludwig with a radiant glance, placing the telegram on the table. "I will go now that I may not disturb you while you are considering what course to pursue."

He left the room. Twilight was gathering. The countess sat by the table holding the telegram clenched in her little hand.

"The people of Ammergau unconsciously exercise a moral constraint which is irresistible. There is a power of truth in them which prevents even self-deception in their presence!" she murmured half defiantly, half admiringly. What was to be done now? To remain longer here and countermand the dinner meant a positive breach with society. But who was there _here_ to thank her for such a sacrifice? Who cared for the Countess Wildenau? She was one of the thousands who came and went, taking with them a lofty memory, without leaving any remembrance in the mind of any one. Why should she hold them accountable if she gave to this impression a significance which was neither intended nor suspected. We must not force upon men sacrifices which they do not desire!

She rested her arm on the table and sat irresolute. Now--now in this mood, to return to the prosaic, superficial round, after imagining yesterday that she stood face to face with deity? _Could_ she do it?

Was not the mute reproach in Ludwig's glance true? She thoughtfully rested her beautiful face on her hand.

She had not noticed a knock at the door, a carriage was driving by whose rattle drowned every sound. For the same reason the person outside, supposing that he had not heard the "come in!" softy opened the door. At the noise the countess raised her head--Freyer stood before her.

"You have come, you _did_ come!" she exclaimed, starting up and seizing his hand that the sweet, blissful dream might not vanish once more.

"Excuse me if I disturb you," he said in a low, timid tone. "I--I should not have come--but I could not bear to stay at home, I was so excited to-day. When evening came, some impulse drove me here--I was--I had--"

"You had a desire to talk to some one who could understand you, and this urged you to me, did it not?"

"Yes, Countess! But I should not have ventured to come in, had not--"

"Well?"

"Ludwig met me and said that you were going away--"

"Ah--and did you regret it?"

"I wished at least to bid you farewell and thank you for all your kindness to my unhappy cousin Josepha!" he said evasively. "I neglected to do so yesterday, I was so embarra.s.sed."