On the Heights Part 107

"Is Your Majesty not of my opinion?" asked Bronnen, trembling with emotion.

The king turned toward him.

"You are my friend. I thank you, and when we reach Wolfswinkel, you shall receive the highest proof of my confidence."

"There is something more which I think I ought to communicate to Your Majesty."

"Proceed."

"I think I can see the connection between certain recent events. During the late election for deputies, some friends of mine in the Highlands thought of me. They knew of my sincere devotion to my const.i.tutional king."

The king's features betrayed the faintest expression of disgust, while Bronnen continued calmly:

"I informed the voters that I would never accept an election which would range me with the opposition. Count Eberhard was, therefore, proposed on the very last day, and, to the great surprise of all, accepted the nomination. In order to cast a stigma upon the father, the friends of the present ministry--I am now giving Your Majesty facts, not mere opinions--were not above introducing the relation between Countess Irma and yourself into the canva.s.s."

The king threw his cigar away, and quickly said:

"Go on; tell me more!"

"Count Eberhard was elected in spite of them. While I was at Wildenort, to attend the funeral, I was informed that the first intimation he had received of his daughter's position was conveyed to him at the meeting of electors. On his way home, he received letters which affected him deeply. Nay more, for I have inquired into the matter. I found this piece of a torn letter on the road, and the laborer who worked there told me that the count had torn up letters at the time mentioned."

Bronnen handed him a paper on which stood the words: "Your daughter has fallen into disgrace, and yet stands in high grace as the king's mistress."

"That may have been written by our saintly Hippocrates," muttered the king to himself.

"I beg Your Majesty's pardon, but if you harbor the slightest suspicion against Doctor Gunther, you do him injustice. I will stake my honor for him, and time will show that I am right."

"Go on!" said the king impatiently. He felt displeased that Bronnen could read his very thoughts, as it were, and understand what he had only half muttered; and that, understanding it, he had not, as in duty bound, ignored it. He was only to hear what was directly addressed to him.

"On his return from the meeting," continued Bronnen, calmly, "Count Eberhard was attacked by a paralytic stroke which deprived him of the power of speech. During his last moments. Countess Irma was the only one with him. She was heard to utter a terrible cry--when they entered the room, she lay on the floor, and Count Eberhard was dead. Who knows what may have happened there! But whatever it may have been, I feel sure it was the cause that drove her to this terrible resolve."

"And what purpose does this ingenious combination serve?" asked the king.

Bronnen looked at him with astonishment.

"Its only purpose is to aid in clearing up the mystery."

The long pause which followed Bronnen's remark added to its impressiveness.

"Yes," said the king, resuming the conversation, "how much better it is to clear up all things! That was just her own way of doing; so natural, and yet so clear, so conscious, and yet so strong. Well be it so.

Bronnen, why should I conceal it? I may tell you everything. I loved the countess. And now--I must say it, for the thought tortures me--I am almost angry at her. Her suicide has imposed a heavy life-burden upon me. I shall never, to the end of my days, be able to lay it aside. She must have known how it would weigh me down. Tell me, frankly--I beg of you, tell me--is this feeling not a justifiable one?"

"I am not addressing the king, now. I am speaking to the clear-headed, warm-hearted man."

Bronnen paused. It shocked the king to find himself thus divested of his inborn dignity. What would this stern man, whom he had ordered to forget his rank, say?

"Speak on!" said the king, encouragingly.

"Then I shall speak frankly," began Bronnen, "as between man and man.

When you reproach yourself for feeling that your friend has aggrieved you in imposing this life-burden upon you, it is simply a proof that your true self has been deeply affected. What really torments you, however, is the ghost of your own act. Although our friend, who deserved so well of fate may, in a fine frenzy, have willingly sacrificed herself, the stern truth still confronts you: you invaded, nay destroyed, her sphere of right, and now you reap the inevitable consequence of what was then begun. The ghost of your own actions disturbs you and will continue to do so, until you perceive the truth.

Every human being has its own rights, presenting a barrier which no one, however exalted his position, dare invade. When you fully realize this in yourself, and by your knowledge of sin have overcome sin, then, and not until then, will you be free--no matter what may have gone before. Superst.i.tion uses the formula: 'All good spirits praise the Lord,' with which to exorcise phantoms. Our good spirit is that inner perception of truth to which we appeal, or rather to whose appeal we give utterance."

There was a long pause. Bronnen's face glowed with excitement. The king was chilly, and wrapped himself in his mantle. His eyes were closed. At last he sat up and said:

"I thank her; she has given me a friend, a true man. You will remain to me."

The king's voice was hoa.r.s.e. He wrapped his mantle yet more closely about him, lay back in the corner of the carriage, and closed his eyes.

Not another word was uttered until they reached the hunting-seat. The king told his suite that he felt unwell and would not take part in the hunt. The rest of the party plunged into the forest, while the king remained alone with Bronnen.

CHAPTER IV.

It was after breakfast. The queen, attended by the ladies of the court, was in the music room.

The first mist of early autumn obscured the landscape, and the morn gave promise of a lovely, bracing day.

Various journals were lying before the queen. She pushed them away, saying:

"How terrible these newspapers are! What license! This sheet is usually so un.o.bjectionable; but even here it is stated that Count Wildenort died of grief because of the conduct of his unmarried daughter. Can such things be permitted? Was such a thing ever heard of--Ah, dear councilor!" added she, addressing her private secretary, "there's a sealed letter for Countess Irma on my desk upstairs. Let a messenger take it to her at once. If she could only be kept in ignorance of these terrible newspapers stories; I hope she may, at all events."

The ladies of the court were engaged with their embroidery. They replied their needles more nimbly than before and did not look up from their work.

Countess Brinkenstein was called away. After some time she returned, accompanied by the doctor.

"Ah, welcome!" cried the queen.

At a sign from Countess Brinkenstein, the ladies retired.

"How charming! you've come just in the nick of time," said the queen. "I am just about to send off a letter for Countess Irma; you might add a few kind words."

"Your Majesty, Countess Irma will not be able to read your letter of condolence."

"Why not?"

"The countess is--very ill."

"Very ill? You say it in such a--not dangerously, I hope?"

"I fear so."

"Doctor! your voice--what is it? The countess is not--"

"Dead--!" said the doctor, covering his face with his hands.

For a few moments there was breathless silence in the great hall. At last the queen exclaimed: