Quisisana, or Rest at Last Part 22
Alexandra paused, uttering a slight exclamation.
"What is it, My Lady?"
She made no answer, but drew her arm swiftly out of his, and hurried away from him into the card-room. Bertram did not follow her; amazed and hurt that she could so suddenly leave him, attracted it would seem by the large oval table, around which there stood a fairly large group of gentlemen, either staking money themselves or watching the progress of the game which was evidently some game of chance, with Lotter acting as banker. Bertram anyhow saw that hated person sitting at the head of the table and dealing the cards, and next moment he heard that loud voice of his, which he disliked so much, exclaiming: "_Faites votre jeu, messieurs!_" Alexandra had advanced to the table as though she meant to join in the game, and Bertram turned away in grave displeasure. How could he have full confidence in a being, who was accustomed to obey every movement of a restless heart, every temptation of a light-winged fancy? No, no! If he was to resign, Erna's happiness must be anch.o.r.ed in firmer ground!
He leaned against the door of the hall in which the couples were taking their places for the Lancers. Erna and her partner were standing but a few yards off. She was conversing with him in her usual, measured way; he could watch every movement of those beloved lips, when she spoke or when, with a fleeting smile, she answered a jesting word of her partner's. Her face was partly turned in his direction; he thought every moment that she would turn round completely and look at him. I "felt that some one was looking at me," she had said on that memorable morning, when he found her writing beneath the plantain-tree. Now she did not feel it. What had broken the magic spell of his glance? Was it because his love was no longer unselfish? Because a fierce wild longing seized him to press the slender white-robed form in his arms, to cover the sweet lips with wild kisses? No, no--it was not that! It was this!
her heart no longer knew anything of him. It was this: new and younger G.o.ds had moved inside the temple, and the old one's might now depart ingloriously and hide their disgrace in the darkness of night!
The music struck up, Erna held out her hand to her partner and floated across to the other side of the hall; and Bertram hurried away, down the verandah steps, away into the garden.
Then he wandered about aimlessly, muttering wild words, wringing his hands despairingly. The deserted garden, with the coloured lamps swinging in the night wind, some dead, some dying, seemed a fit image of his wasted and desolate life; whilst the strains of mirthful music wafted across to him in mighty volumes from the brightly illumined mansion-house, and the sounds of singing and rejoicing that came up to him from the village below, seemed to mock the solitary self-tormentor.
He felt that this could not go on, if he did not wish to go mad; he asked himself, pressing his hands to his throbbing temples, whether he was not mad already? Whether he was not the ill-omened victim, pursued by the relentless furies of jealousy, pursued until he breaks down--and to be spared only by voluntary resignation? Yet you surely can but resign what you own, what--if need be--you could defend; the possession of which you could dispute anyhow with your adversary to the last gasp.
Despair does not resign, it only lets go what can no longer be held.
What had he done to hold Erna? What was he doing at this very moment, except again making room for a rival, for whom, as it was, the stars in their courses were fighting, one who had youth and the privilege of an earlier attachment on his side? No, he deserved to be conquered, he who neither had the strength to conquer himself, nor the courage to join issue with the rival. Let the decision come then!
XX.
Bertram stood on the lowest step of the terrace when this decision struggled forth from his tempest-tossed soul, that could no longer bear the torment. A small steep stair led upward from this place, at the very extremity of the garden, without any landing-places; he hurried up, taking two and three steps at a time. He had reached the top; next he turned to the right, across the lawn, in the direction of the verandah, when suddenly the music was silent within the hall, and instantly the dancers came forth from the many doors to cool and refresh themselves in the balmy night air. He did not care to meet the merry, motley mult.i.tude. Here and there isolated couples were descending the stairs. He withdrew into the darkness of the shrubberies surrounding the winter garden. It was lighted up; and, as far as he could judge by a glance through the windows, was deserted; he would pa.s.s through it, and so regain, unseen and undisturbed, the rooms where the others were.
He entered. Between palm-trees and many broad-leaved plants there was a narrow pa.s.sage, bisected in the centre by a shorter and broader one.
Where the two pa.s.sages met, towered a huge palm, set in a tub of mighty dimensions, and all but touching the gla.s.s-dome above. Behind, within the enclosure of the wall, was a small recess, furnished with dainty iron garden-chairs and with a table.
This, he knew, was a favourite spot of Erna's, where, on rainy days, she was wont to spend hours. He could not resist the temptation of visiting the spot which on her account was sacred to him. He sank into one of the chairs, put his folded hands to his head, and let it rest upon the little table. As he sat thus in the att.i.tude of one praying, his thoughts became a prayer: and he prayed that Fate would now determine his lot, now and here, be it bliss or be it--death. He was willing to submit to either, in all humility, knowing himself subject to the heavenly powers that would deal with him by their own inscrutable will.
He lifted his head and rose slowly, hesitatingly, from his stooping, position. Was his prayer not heard? Could love not work a miracle, like faith, which was less strong? Surely, she would come, for whom he was longing with all the force of his heart!
And lo!--as he turned his gaze to the door, the velvet curtain which draped it was drawn aside, and she appeared on the threshold, a slender, white-robed figure, bending forward, gazing into the silent green wilderness before her, listening! And now she was descending the stairs with lightsome step, moving along the pa.s.sage that led to the tall palm-trees, and again she paused, leaning one hand against the edge of the tub, pressing the other against her bosom.
"Erna!"
He had, for fear of frightening her, uttered her name in a very low voice; yet she started where she stood, but did not turn to him who was so near, but stooped, listening, towards the other side; and at the same moment he heard, the little door open, by which he had himself entered the winter garden; and now some one was hurrying along the pa.s.sage, towards Erna, who made a movement as though she would escape, but could not.
"Miss Erna!"
She made no answer, and Lieutenant Ringberg seemed to have exhausted his strength and his presence of mind with these two words, which he had uttered in a very diffident tone of voice. For a few seconds they both stood motionless. Then Erna said--
"Fraulein von Aschhof has told me that you wished to speak to me. I only came to request you not to honour Fraulein von Aschhof any longer with your confidence. I--I am indignant that you could do so at all."
"By Heaven! there is some misunderstanding here. I should never have dared to apply to Fraulein von Aschhof. She began, and spoke so confidently that no doubt ever arose in me. I could not but believe that you--that yourself, Miss Erna...."
"This is too much!"
The breathless listener heard the rustling of her robe, and then some hurried words of entreaty which again chained her to the spot.
Meanwhile they had somewhat changed their position; the dense foliage of some shrubs now intervened between himself and them, and he could now scarcely see anything of them, but he could hear every word even better than before.
"You must not let me suffer for a misunderstanding of which--I swear it--I am so innocent, that I cannot even guess how it has come about.
But be this as it may, I bless it as a heavenly favour, for surely Heaven would not have me condemned unheard. I pray and entreat you: listen!"
"What have you to say?"
"What I wrote in my last letter. If you will not believe in my a.s.surances--and indeed I can understand that, as things are, appearances are against me--give me time--only a little time, until these unfortunate circ.u.mstances have become clearer, and those appearances will dissolve themselves into nothing. Only this much I can, I must say, I am not in love with the Princess, and I never have been, I have never felt anything for her but sympathy, respect,--and friendship, if you will,--feelings which that rarely-gifted woman will awaken in all who come to know her intimately. She is here for no other purpose but to plead for me, to clear up this wretched mystery which condemns me to silence, at the sacrifice of considerable personal advantages to herself. But she has met with resistance which she cannot overcome, and which compels her, and compels me also, to remain in this miserably odd position. Therefore, once more, give me time--give me a respite. A criminal gets that, and I am free from guilt, unless it be a crime that I look upon those duties which grat.i.tude and the friendship of years impose upon me as sacred, even now, when it is so unspeakably hard for me, and when it puts me to the risk of forfeiting the happiness of my life!"
"Is this all you have to say to me?"
"All; for what else. I might say would find no credence, if your faith in my veracity does not go even this length."
"Good-bye."
"Erna! is it possible? Is every voice silent in your heart? Does nothing stir, nothing plead for one whom once you--I dare not say the word any longer, for I must fear to offend you again if I remind you of what once was? Great heavens! and I had thought, that if my pen were powerless, and my pleading on paper appeared clumsy and lifeless, I should but require to be once more face to face with you, looking into your loved eyes whilst you looked into mine, and that then you would believe me even before I uttered a word. And now, now, my glance is powerless, my words are mere sound. I no longer know what to say; I am standing here like a beggar who has been telling his story of bitter woe, and in whose face people close the door at which he has knocked with trembling hand. Have I become so poor? Well, I am most unwilling to appeal to a friend for help, but you leave me no choice. There is, living in your own circle, a gentleman who is in the secret, to whom the Princess has told it, half involuntarily; drawn on by the vivacity of her temperament, which she has never learned to control, half voluntarily, hoping that she was not betraying anything which all, or at least all concerned, would not know to-day. Well, this hope of hers has not been fulfilled. The gentleman in question knows it; and not deeming himself, under the circ.u.mstances, justified in speaking, he will, if I judge him correctly, be silent, although the Princess has already given him full liberty, nay, has entreated him to tell you all.
I must confess, I was much taken aback when, a little time ago, she came and told me this; apart from other considerations, it was painful to me to know that the key to the fatal enigma was in the hands of a third person. But now, when, to my sorrow, I realise my impotence, let him plead for me, if he will. He will do it, if I, too, entreat him. I have barely exchanged three words with him, but looks like his, so imbued with the true n.o.bility of the soul, cannot lie. Ask him--you will believe him!"
"Never!"
"You will not believe him?"
"I will die rather than hear from him, speak to him of ... It is a shame, a shame! This is going too far. What happened before was ... but this, this ..."
"How now? By the heavens above us, what is the meaning of this?"
"The meaning is this: my last word to you is, Begone!"
"I go. But one thing more, and let it be my last word. It is very bitter to have to say it. There is one greater misfortune yet than to see one's love misjudged, scorned, rejected, and that is, to have to say to one's self that she whom one had loved more,--a thousand times more than one's self,--is surpa.s.sed by other women, whom one had never dared to put on the same level as her, had barely dared to compare with her, in kindness and in generosity."
There was a quick step pa.s.sing away over the tiled pa.s.sage, then the sound of the little garden-door being opened and closed, and then a cry of anguish, half suppressed, and all the more terrible on that account, the cry of one who had met with a deadly hurt.
Bertram hurried round the intervening shrubs to where Erna stood with her arms raised on high, with wild staring eyes.
And then she gave another cry, and the next moment she lay in his arms, clutching him, clinging to him, as a drowning man would clutch, would cling to, a rock.
"Uncle Bertram! dear, dear Uncle Bertram!"
"My sweet child!"
"Save me! save me!!"
A great gush of tears relieved her. She was now sobbing aloud, bending over his shoulder. Thus had come to pa.s.s that for which, but a brief time before, he had longed as the greatest bliss; a bliss he would fain taste for a moment, and for which he would willingly die, after having tasted it. He held her close to his heart, held the slender maiden's frame, the tender, heaving bosom; her sweet breath was floating around his heated cheek, and he knew she was his, was in his keeping; he had the power to hold her now, and it would cost him but one word. And yet it was all a dream-gift, which one may retain for a second or two by keeping one's eyes closed, but which fades away, to return no more, as soon as the eyes re-open.
"Yes, I will save you, save you from yourself; you have lost yourself, and I will restore you."
She lifted her head and looked at him, confused, questioning.
"Not to-day, my sweet child, to-morrow; but you must be a good and obedient girl."
"I will do all that you wish, that you command, dear one, beloved one!
For there is none as good, as n.o.ble as you, not one, and I love no one as I love you!"