CHAPTER XXI.
[RECONCILIATION].
Countess Frankenstein sat in the reception-room of her house in the Herrengasse, in Vienna. Nothing had altered in this salon; the prodigious events and the mighty storms that had shaken the power of the House of Hapsburg to its very foundations could not have been suspected from the aspect of this room when unoccupied, so complete was its stamp of aristocratic immutability and perfect repose. There was the same old furniture which had already served several generations, now looking down from their faintly gleaming frames of tarnished gilding upon the doings of their children and grand-children; there was the high, wide chimney-piece, the flames from which had been reflected in the bright, youthful eyes of those who long ago had become staid grandmothers; there was the same clock with its groups of shepherds and shepherdesses which had marked the moment of birth and the moment of death of many a member of the family, and with equal calmness had added second to second in hours of joy or hours of sorrow. Amongst all these objects, lifeless indeed but full of memories, and accustomed to look calmly on the happiness or sadness of generations passed away, sat the living beings of the present, deeply moved and distressed by the terrible and unexpected blow which had fallen on the House of Hapsburg and on Austria.
The old Countess Frankenstein was grave and dignified as ever, but there was a sorrowful expression on her proud, calm face as she sat on the large sofa; beside her, dressed in black, sat the Countess Clam Gallas, whoso tearful eyes were often covered with her embroidered handkerchief. Opposite the ladies sat General von Reischach; his fresh, healthy face glowed brightly as ever, the dark eyes looked out keen and lively beneath his short white hair, but though this expression of jovial cheerfulness could not be banished, there was beyond it a look of melancholy grief. Countess Clara sat beside her mother, leaning back in an arm-chair, and on her young and beautiful face lay a breath of deep sorrow, for she was a true daughter of the proud Austrian aristocracy, and she felt deeply and keenly the humiliation which the ancient banners of the empire had suffered at Königgrätz, but her melancholy was spread but as a light veil over the joy and happiness that filled her dreamy eyes. Notwithstanding all the dangers of Trautenau and Königgrätz, Lieutenant von Stielow had returned unwounded; the war was now as good as ended, she feared no fresh perils for him, and when the war was concluded, preparations for the marriage were to be commenced.
The young countess sat in a dreamy reverie, pursuing the charming pictures unrolled for the future, and hearing little of the conversation carried on around her.
"This disaster is the effect of the incomprehensible regard shown to the clamour of the lower classes," cried Countess Clam Gallas, in a voice trembling with grief and anger. "Benedek received the chief command because he was 'a man of the people;' the officers of noble birth were thus hurt, injured, and passed over; we now see what all this has led to. I have nothing to say against the rights of merit and talent," she continued, "history teaches us that great field marshals have been found among common soldiers, but people should not be pushed forward who have no talent and whose only merit is courage, simply because they are not of distinguished birth! And now they make the aristocracy answerable for the defeat. Count Clam's treatment is an insult to the whole of the Austrian aristocracy."
"You must not look upon it in that light, countess," said General von Reischach; "on the contrary, I think the proceedings against Count Clam Gallas will stop all evil mouths, for it will be an excellent opportunity for stating the real causes of our defeat. When public opinion, led on by a couple of journalists, had loaded the count with reproaches, he was right in demanding a strict investigation, and it was Mensdorff's duty to urge it upon the emperor. Let us wait the result, it will show that the Austrian nobility is above reproach."
"It is very hard," cried the countess, "to be so personally affected by the common misfortune!" And she wiped the tears that had again flowed, with her handkerchief.
"Tell us, Baron Reischach," said Countess Frankenstein, after a short pause, wishing to give the conversation a different turn; "tell us about the King of Hanover, you once held a command in his service. I have the greatest admiration for that heroic prince, and the deepest commiseration for his unhappy fate."
"It is wonderful," said the general, "with what resignation and cheerfulness the king bears his evil fortune, and the difficult position he is now placed in. He is still full of hope; I fear it deceives him!"
"Do you believe they will really venture to dethrone him?" cried the Countess Frankenstein.
"Alas! I am quite sure of it," said General von Reischach.
"And I, alas! cannot doubt it, from what Mensdorff has told me," said Countess Clam Gallas.
"And must Austria bear this?" cried Countess Frankenstein, a bright flush of auger upon her usually calm face, and her eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Austria bears everything, and will have to bear still more!" said the general, shrugging his shoulders. "I see before us a long course of misfortune, they will again experiment, and every fresh experiment will pluck a jewel from our crown and a leaf from our laurels; I fear they will pursue the path of Joseph II."
"God protect Austria!" cried Countess Frankenstein, folding her hands. "Will the King of Hanover remain here?" she asked, after a short pause.
"It seems so," replied General von Reischach, "he lives in Baron Knesebeck's house, in the Wallnerstrasse, Countess Wilezek has given him up her apartments; but I have heard he will soon retire to the Duke of Brunswick's villa at Hietzing. It would be much better for the king to go to England, he is by birth an English prince, and if he succeeded in interesting public opinion there in his behalf, which with his charm of manner would not be difficult, England would perhaps help him, and she is the only power who could help him; but he is disinclined, and Count Platen appears very incapable of persuading the king to take any decided course."
"Count Platen visited me," said Countess Clam Gallas; "he does not believe in the annexation of Hanover."
"There are people who never believe in the devil, until he has got them by the throat," cried Baron von Reischach: "there is General Brandis, a plain old soldier, with a quick clear understanding, he would be much the best counsellor for the king in a position in which rapid and firm decision can alone avail, but he is not supported by Platen."
"How many disasters a few days have brought forth!" cried Countess Frankenstein.
"Well," said General von Reischach, as he rose, "you must console yourself with the happiness that blooms in your family; I would bet anything," he added, laughing, "that Countess Clara's thoughts are filled with pleasant pictures."
The young countess started from her dreams, a flying blush passed over her face, and she said, laughingly,--
"What can you know about young ladies' thoughts?"
"I know so much about them," replied the general, "that I should not venture now to bring my little countess a doll, she must have one in a green uniform with a red plume."
"I want neither dolls nor anything else from you," replied the young countess, pretending to pout.
General von Reischach and Countess Clam Gallas took leave.
Countess Frankenstein and her daughter accompanied them to the door, and had only been a few moments alone when a servant entered and said:
"There is a gentleman here, who asks very pressingly for an interview with the countess."
"Who is it?" she asked, with surprise, for she had few visitors except those belonging to her own exclusive circle of society.
"Here is his card," said the servant, handing a visiting card to the countess. "He assures me it is greatly to your ladyship's interest to hear what he has to say."
Countess Frankenstein took the card, and read, with a look of astonishment--"E. Balzer, Exchange Agent."
A deep flush passed over Countess Clara's face, she looked anxiously at her mother and pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
"I cannot understand," said the countess, "what a person so entirely unknown to me can want; however, let him come in!"
In a few moments Herr Balzer entered the salon. He was dressed in black, and his common-looking face bore an expression of grave dignity which did not appear to belong to it.
He approached the ladies with a manner in which the boldness of the habitué of a coffee-house was mingled with the embarrassment of a man who, accustomed only to low society, suddenly finds himself amongst persons of distinction.
Countess Frankenstein looked at him with a cold, proud gaze, whilst Clara, after her large eyes had taken in his vulgar appearance with a hasty glance, cast them down and waited in trembling expectation for the reason of this unexpected visit.
"I have consented to receive you, sir," said the countess, with easy calmness, "and I beg you to tell me the important matter you have to impart."
Herr Balzer bowed with affected dignity and said:
"A most melancholy affair, gracious countess, brings me to you,--an affair in which we, you and I, or rather your daughter and I, have a common interest."
Clara fixed her eyes upon him with great surprise and painful suspense; the haughty look of the countess asked plainer than words, "What interest can I have in common with this man?"
Herr Balzer saw this look, and an almost imperceptible smile appeared on his lips.
"A very painful and distressing circumstance," he said slowly and hesitatingly, "obliges me, your ladyship, to confide my honour to you, and to consult with you, as to what is best to be done."
"I pray you, sir," said the countess, in an icy voice, "to come to the fact you have to communicate. My time is much engaged."
Without paying any attention to this intimation, Herr Balzer proceeded, apparently with some embarrassment, whilst twirling his hat in his hands:
"Your daughter is engaged to Lieutenant von Stielow?"
The countess looked at him, almost rigid with amazement. She began to fear she had admitted a madman. A slight shiver passed through Clara's tender form; deep paleness overspread her features, and she did not dare to lift her eyes to this man, for an instinctive suspicion warned her he must be the bearer of something evil.
Herr Balzer drew a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his eyes. In a theatrical manner he walked towards the countess, exclaiming, whilst he stretched out his hand:
"Countess, you will understand me at once, you must understand me; I trust my fate to your discretion,--only in common with yourself can this melancholy transaction--"
"I must really beg you, sir," said Countess Frankenstein, looking anxiously at the bell, from which she was separated by Herr Balzer, "I must really beg you to state the facts."
"Herr von Stielow," said Balzer, again covering his eyes with his large yellow silk pocket-handkerchief.
Clara folded her hands in breathless suspense.
"Herr von Stielow," repeated Herr Balzer, in a voice that appeared to struggle for composure, "that volatile young man who is so happy in the possession of so lovely, so worthy a fiancée," he bowed to Clara, who turned from him with disgust, "this volatile young man dares to rob me of my happiness, to destroy my peace--he keeps up a criminal correspondence with my wife."
With a low cry, Clara sank down upon the chair before which she stood, and wept silently.
Countess Frankenstein remained standing upright. Her eyes rested fiercely and proudly upon this detestable messenger of evil, and in a voice in which no emotion was perceptible, she asked:
"And how do you know this, sir? Are you quite sure?"
"Alas! only too sure," cried Herr Balzer, pathetically, again applying his handkerchief to his eyes, which were quite red with repeated rubbing.
"Some time ago," he said, "my friends warned me; but my confidence in my wife--I love my wife, gracious countess: ah! she was my whole happiness--prevented my heeding these warnings; then, too, Baron von Stielow's engagement with the lovely countess"--he again bowed to Clara--"was well known in Vienna; I felt quite safe, since I was simple-hearted enough,"--he laid his hand on his black satin waistcoat--"to believe such an error impossible."
"Well?" asked the countess.
"At last, by chance--oh! my heart will break when I think of it--yesterday I discovered the frightful truth."
The countess made a movement of impatience.
He threw a side glance at the easy-chair, in which the younger lady sat motionless, her face covered with her handkerchief, and with the malice of vulgar natures who instinctively hate those of a higher grade, he seemed disposed to prolong her torture.
"Amongst the letters brought to me," he continued, after some hesitation, "there was one intended for my wife. I did not observe the address, and I opened it, believing it directed to myself. It contained the horrible, too certain proof of my misfortune."
Clara gave a low sob.
The countess asked with cold severity,--
"Where is this letter?"
Herr Balzer, with a deep, strongly marked sigh, felt in the breast pocket of his coat, pulled out a folded letter, and gave it to the countess. She took it, opened it, and read the contents slowly. Then throwing it on the table, she said:
"What have you done?"
"Countess," cried Herr Balzer, in the same pathetic voice, "I love my wife; she has greatly erred, it is true, but I love her still, and I cannot give up the hope of reclaiming her."
The countess shrugged her shoulders, almost imperceptibly, and cast a look full of contempt upon the exchange agent.
"I do not wish for a separation,--I would rather forgive her," he continued, in a tearful voice; "and I have come, therefore, to speak to you, countess, to consult with you,--to implore you to--"
"What?" asked the countess.
"You see, I thought," said Herr Balzer, turning his hat round and round more quickly, "if you,--Vienna is now a very sad place to reside in,--if you would go to your country estates, or into Switzerland, or to the Italian lakes, far away from here, and if you would take Lieutenant von Stielow with you, he would leave Vienna, and could not continue to have any intercourse with my wife: I too would take her away somewhere for a time. After his marriage with the lovely countess, the young couple would naturally visit Baron von Stielow's family for a time; he would forget my wife,--all would come straight, if we only work together at the same plan!"
He spoke slowly, and with much hesitation, often interrupting himself, and casting stolen looks now at the mother, now at the daughter. Before he had finished speaking, Clara had sprung to her feet, her eyes, red with weeping, were fixed on him with burning anger; and as he concluded, she looked at her mother with anxious suspense, her lips half opened, as if she almost feared her mother might not give the right reply.
Countess Frankenstein drew herself up, with a movement full of pride, and said in a tone of cold contempt:
"I thank you for your communication, sir; it has opened my eyes in time. I regret I cannot assist you in the way you wish, to re-establish your domestic happiness. You must understand it cannot be the task of a Countess Frankenstein to cure the Baron Stielow of an unworthy passion, nor can she consent to continue an engagement which the baron has not respected. You must find some other means of reclaiming your wife."
Clara's eyes expressed her perfect approval of her mother's words; with a proud movement she turned her back upon Herr Balzer, and, suppressing her tears with a great effort, she looked out of one of the large panes of glass in the high window of the salon.
Herr Balzer wrung his hands, as if in despair, and cried with well-acted emotion:
"My God! countess, forgive me, if I thought only of my own sorrow and grief, only of myself and my wife, and did not consider that difficulty. I thought, too, you wished so much for this parti, which is so excellent, and I hoped you would act in concert with me to bring everything to a good end."
"A Countess Frankenstein is not in a position to wish for a parti unworthy of her, and one her heart cannot approve," said the countess, the cold calmness of her manner unchanged. "I believe, sir," she continued, bowing very slightly, "that it is scarcely necessary to continue this conversation."
Herr Balzer wrung his hands, and cried in a tone of despair:
"Oh, my God! my God! countess, what have I done! I now understand perfectly that your daughter, under the circumstances, cannot continue her engagement,--that I was foolish to hope to re-establish peace through your assistance. Oh, my God, I had better have remained silent!"
The countess looked at him inquiringly.
"Then," he continued, in the same tone, "everything might have gone on well; now, oh, God! all that is over! You will break off the engagement with Baron von Stielow, the whole world will hear of my misfortune, there will be a dreadful scandal in Vienna, and I shall have to separate from my wife. Ah! and I love my wife; I wish so to forgive her, to reclaim her,--and I shall love her for ever!"
He paused for a moment, and cast a cunning look at the countess, whose features had assumed an expression of deep thought.
Then he added still louder, and wringing his hands still more:
"Oh! my gracious countess, have compassion on me. I came to you in perfect confidence to confide to you the frightful secret of my misfortune. I see you cannot help me, as I hoped; be merciful to me, and do not make it impossible for me to think of a way in which the worst may be averted. Keep my secret. Herr von Stielow in his rage and anger would revenge himself on me,--there would be nothing to restrain him,--then there would be a dreadful scandal; that may be a matter of indifference to you and your daughter, but to me and my wife--Oh! have compassion on me!" and he made a movement, as if about to throw himself at the feet of the countess. She still continued thoughtful.
"Sir," she said, "it is certainly neither my wish, nor my daughter's, to discuss this disagreeable affair with Baron Stielow."
Clara turned her head towards her mother, and thanked her with a look.
"I shall break off Countess Clara's engagement with Herr von Stielow in the quietest manner possible, and it will remain for you to do the best you can for yourself--your secret is safe with me. Again I thank you for your communication, however painful it was necessary, and has preserved us from much worse pain in the future."
And she bowed her head in a way that showed Herr Balzer unmistakeably he was dismissed.
He again held his handkerchief before his eyes, and said, in a whining voice:
"I thank you, countess, I shall be eternally grateful to you; forgive me. I beg the young lady's forgiveness, too, for being the messenger of such evil tidings. But my lot is the worst. Oh! if you did but know how I loved my wife!"
And as if overcome by the immensity of his grief, he bowed in silence, and left the room.
He hastily brushed past the servant in the ante-room, and ran down the stairs; as soon as he had left the room the grave and sorrowful expression vanished from his face, a vulgar smile of triumph appeared upon his lips, and he said to himself, with great satisfaction,--
"Well, I think I did my business very well, and richly earned the thousand guldens my dearly beloved wife promised me, if I would free her dear Stielow. Now she can catch him again in her net; she will succeed, for she understands all that well, and then," he said, with a broader grin of satisfaction, "I shall have the right of grasping handfuls of the gold which this young millionaire will pour into her lap."
With quick steps, he hastened to his wife, to tell her of the success of his negotiation.
As soon as he left the room, Clara, without speaking a word, threw herself into her mother's arms, sobbing aloud. After the restraint she had put upon her feelings in the presence of a repulsive stranger, her tears flowed freely, and relieved the oppression of her heart.
"Be strong, my daughter," said the countess, gently stroking her shining hair. "God sends you a hard trial; but it is better to tear yourself free from an unworthy engagement, than that this blow should fall upon you later."
"Oh! my mother," cried the young countess, with the greatest grief, "this love made me so happy; he assured me so strongly he was quite free; I believed him so implicitly."
Suddenly raising herself from her mother's arms, she rushed to the table where the letter lay which Herr Balzer had given the countess.
With a slight shudder, she seized the fatal letter, and read the contents with large, dilated eyes.
Then she threw it from her with a look of horror, and sinking into a chair, wept bitterly.
"Go to your room, my child," said the countess, "you need rest. I will consider how matters can be arranged in the best and quietest way. The baron's absence makes it easier. We will go into the country; I will give the needful orders. Calm and compose yourself, that the world may perceive nothing. It is our duty to bear our sorrows alone: only vulgar souls show their troubles to the world. God will comfort you, and on the heart of your mother you will always find a place to weep."
And gently raising her daughter, she led her from the salon to the inner apartments, belonging exclusively to the ladies.
The regular strokes of the old clock's pendulum echoed through the silence of the large, empty room, and the ancestors' portraits looked down from their frames with their unchanging well-bred smile; their eyes too, though they looked so calm and cheerful, had wept in days long past, and with proud strength they had forced their tears back into their hearts, to avoid the pity or the spiteful joy of the world, and time as it rolled on, after hours of sorrow and pain, had brought the moment of happiness. There was nothing now in this old home of an old race.
The loud clatter of a sword was heard in the ante-room. The servant opened the door, and Lieutenant von Stielow entered, fresh and cheerful. He looked round the room with sparkling eyes. He turned with disappointment to the servant.
"The ladies were here a moment ago," he said. "The countess had just received a person on business; they must have gone to their own apartments. I will send, and mention that Baron--"
"No, my friend," cried the young officer, "do not announce me; the ladies will soon return, and I shall surprise them. Say nothing."
The servant bowed, and left the room.
The young officer walked several times up and down the room. A smile of happiness rested on his face--the joy of reunion, after an eventful separation, during which he had been threatened by death in many forms; the anticipation of the joyful surprise he should behold in the eyes of his beloved, all combined to fill his young, fresh heart with joy and enchantment.
He went up to the low fauteuil, in which Countess Clara usually sat beside her mother, and he pressed his lips against the back, where he knew her head had rested.
Then he seated himself in the chair, half closed his eyes, and gave himself up to a sweet, soft reverie, and the old clock's pendulum measured the time the young man spent in happy dreams, with the same regular stroke as it had numbered the moments of torture that had wrung the heart of her who filled his dreams.
Whilst the young baron sat awaiting his happiness, Clara had gone to her own apartment. It was a square room, with a large window, decorated with grey silk. Before the window stood a writing table, and near it a high pyramidal stand of blooming flowers, whose fragrance filled the room. Upon the writing-table, on an elegant bronze easel, stood a large photograph of her fiancé; he had given it to her just before his departure to join the army. In a niche in one corner of the room was a prie-dieu chair, and a beautiful crucifix in ebony and ivory, with a small shell, containing holy water, hung upon the wall.
This room contained everything calculated to please a faultless taste, and to enrich and embellish life. This room had been so full of happiness and hope when the young countess left it,--and now? The perfume of the flowers was as sweet as an hour ago; the sunshine fell as brightly through the windows; but where was the happiness? where was the hope?
Clara threw herself on her knees before the image of the crucified Saviour, where she had often found comfort in the childish sorrows of her early life. She clasped her beautiful hands in fervent prayer, her tearful eyes hung on the image of the Redeemer, her lips moved in half-uttered, imploring words; but not as before did peace and rest sink into her soul.
A wild storm of various emotions raged within her. There was deep sorrow for her lost happiness, there was defiant anger at the deceit that had played upon her love, there was swelling pride at the contempt shown to her feelings, and finally there was bitter, jealous hatred of the unworthy being to whom she had been sacrificed. All these emotions surged and raged in her head, in her heart, in her veins; and the prayer her lips pronounced would not arise to heaven, the peaceful light of believing self-sacrifice would not kindle within her.
She stood up and sighed deeply. Not grief, but anger flashed in her eyes. Her white teeth bit into her lip, she paced up and down the room, her hands pressed upon her bosom, as if to still the raging storm threatening to break her heart.
Then she stood still before her writing-table, and looked angrily at von Stielow's portrait.
"Why did you come into my life," she cried, "to rob me of my peace, and to make me purchase a few hours' happiness with such frightful tortures?"
Her looks rested long on the portrait. Slowly and gradually the angry expression passed from her features; a mild, sorrowful light shone in her eyes.
"And my short happiness was so fair," she whispered. "Is it then possible that those true eyes could lie? Is it possible that at the very time---"
She sank into a chair near her table, and half involuntarily following the sweet habit of the last short time, she opened an ebony casket, enriched with mother-o'-pearl and gold.
In this casket were the letters her lover had written to her from the camp. They were all short, hurried notes, many of them very dirty from the numerous hands they had passed through before they reached her. She knew them all by heart, those love greetings that said so little and yet so much, that she had waited for with such longing, that she had received with such exulting joy, that she had read and read again with such happiness.
Mechanically she took one of the letters, and allowed her eyes slowly to follow the lines.
Then she threw away the paper with a movement of horror.
"And with the same hand," she cried, "with which he wrote these words--" She did not finish the sentence, but gazed gloomily before her.
"But is it true?" she cried, suddenly; "can it not be malice, envy? Oh, I knew that this woman was once no stranger to him. I have not seen the writings side by side to compare them. Good heavens!" she cried, with horror, "that wretched letter lies in the drawing-room; if one of the servants----" And hastily springing up, she hurried from the room, glided swiftly through the intervening apartments, reached the drawing-room, and advanced at once to the table where the fatal letter lay between two vases of flowers upon some tapestry work.
The sound of her footsteps aroused the young officer from his reverie. He rose hastily from his half-recumbent position, in which he had been completely concealed by the high back of the chair, and he saw her his dreams had pictured standing really before him, her face expressing indescribable agitation.
It would be impossible to find words to tell the feelings that passed through the young girl's mind in one moment. Her heart beat high with joyful surprise when she saw her lover so unexpectedly; but the next instant bitter sorrow rushed upon her as she remembered she was for ever separated from the happiness that had been hers. Her thoughts grew indistinct, she had neither the strength to speak nor to withdraw, she stood motionless, her large dilated eyes fixed upon him whom she so unexpectedly beheld.
With one bound the young man was beside her, he opened his arms as if about to embrace her, but quickly recollecting himself, he sank down on one knee, seized her hand, which she yielded involuntarily, and impressed upon it a long, warm, and affectionate kiss.
"Here, sweet joy of my heart, star of my love," he cried, "here is your true knight again; your talisman has been my protection; the holy light of my star was stronger than all the threatening clouds that surrounded me."
And with bright eyes, filled with happiness, love, and adoring admiration, he looked up at her.
She gazed at him, but there was no expression in her widely opened eyes, it seemed as if all her blood had flowed back to her heart, as if all her ideas, all her powers of will, were banished by the overwhelming feelings of the last few moments.
He was rejoiced at this motionless silence, which he ascribed to surprise at his sudden return, and he said:
"General Gablenz has been sent for by the emperor, and he brought me here, so that I greet my darling sooner than I expected!" And taking from his uniform a gold case set with a C in brilliants, he added with a happy smile, "here is the talisman from my lady's hand, which preserved me through every danger; it has rested on my heart, and it can tell you that its every beat has been true to my love."
He opened the case, and in the interior, upon blue velvet beneath a glass setting, lay a faded rose.
"Now," he cried, "I need the dead talisman no longer, I see my living rose blooming before me!"
He stood up, gently laid his arm around her shoulder and pressed a kiss upon her brow.
A slight shudder passed through her, her eyes sparkled with anger and contempt, a brilliant red glowed on her cheeks.
With a hasty movement she tore herself free.
"Baron," she cried, "I must beg--you surprise me!"
She stammered; her lips trembled, she could not find words to express what she thought and felt, she could not say what she wished to say.
After a moment's silence she turned to leave the room.
The young officer stood as if struck by lightning, her strange words, the expression on her face, told him that something must have taken place to cause a breach between him and his love, but it was impossible for him to form any clear idea as to what it could be, and he looked at her in blank amazement. But when she turned to leave him and had actually reached the door, he stretched out both his arms towards her, and cried in a voice so full of love and regret, of grief and inquiry, that it could only proceed from the deepest and truest feeling, "Clara!"
She started at this voice, which found an echo in her heart, she stood still, her strength left her, she tottered.
He was beside her in a moment, he supported her, and led her to an easy-chair, in which he gently placed her.
Then he knelt before her and cried in an imploring tone, "For God's sake, Clara, what has happened, what distresses you?"
She held her handkerchief before her eyes and wept, struggling violently for composure.
The door opened, and Countess Frankenstein entered.
She looked at the scene before her in utter amazement.
Herr von Stielow sprang to his feet.
"Countess!" he cried, "can you explain the riddle I find here--what has happened to Clara?" The countess looked at him with grave severity.
"I did not expect you to-day, Herr von Stielow," she said, "or I should have given orders for you to be told at once that my daughter is suffering, and very unwell. We must leave Vienna for a long time; and I think under the circumstances it would be better to annul the plans we had formed for the future. My child," she said, turning to her daughter who sat still, weeping quietly, "go to your room."
"Clara ill?" cried the young man in the greatest alarm. "My God, how long has this been so? but no, no, something else has happened. I beg you----"
Suddenly the young countess stood up. She raised her head proudly, fixing her eyes firmly on Herr von Stielow, then turning to her mother she said,--
"Chance, or rather Providence has brought him here, there shall be truth between us; I at least will not be guilty of the sin of falsehood." And before the countess could say a word she had walked to the table with a firm step, seized the letter still lying there, and with a movement full of proud dignity handed it to the young officer. Then she again burst into tears and threw herself into her mother's arms.
Herr von Stielow glanced at the paper.
A deep blush overspread his face.
He ran his eyes hastily over the writing, then casting his eyes on the ground, he said:
"I do not know how this letter came here, yet I thought, from a few words Clara once said, that she knew of an error into which I fell: I thought that in spite of the past she gave me her heart, and I cannot understand----"
Clara rose and looked at him with flaming eyes.
"In spite of the past!" she cried; "yes, because I believed your word, that all this past was at an end; I did not know that this past was to share my present!"
"But, my God!" exclaimed Herr von Stielow, looking at her with great surprise, "I do not understand; how can this old letter----"
"An old letter?" said the Countess Frankenstein severely, "it is a week old."
"It bears the date of your last letter to me!" cried Clara.
Herr von Stielow looked at the paper with amazement.
His eyes opened widely. He stared blankly at the letter which he held motionless before him.
At last he turned to the ladies with sparkling eyes, and a face much heightened in colour.
"I know not what demon has been at work--I know not who desires to tear asunder two hearts that God destined for each other. Countess," he said, "you owe me the truth, I demand who gave you this paper?"
Clara's eyes were fixed anxiously on the young man's face, her bosom rose and fell.
The face of the countess expressed the repugnance she had felt during the whole conversation; she replied coldly:
"Your word of honour to be silent!"
"I give it," said Herr von Stielow.
"Then," said the countess, "this letter accidentally fell into the hands of this lady's husband, and he----"
"Deceit! shameful deceit!" cried von Stielow, half angrily, half joyfully, "I do not yet quite see through it, but be it as it may, countess--Clara--this letter is a year old; see, if you look closely, the date is freshly written. This is a scandalous intrigue!"
He handed the letter to the countess.
She did not hold out her hand to take it. She looked at the young man coldly. In Clara's eyes gleamed a ray of hope; it is so easy to a loving heart to believe and to trust.
Herr von Stielow threw down the paper.
"You are right, countess," he cried, drawing himself up proudly; "such proofs are for lawyers!"
Then he approached Clara, knelt on one knee before her, drew the case with the faded rose from his uniform, and placed his hand upon it.
"Clara," he said in an earnest loving voice that came from the depth of his soul, "by the holy remembrance of the first hours of our love, by this talisman, which has been with me through all the dangers of battle, I swear;--this letter was written a year ago, before I ever saw you." He raised his hand and lightly touched her breast with his finger point. "By your own pure noble heart I swear that no thought of this erring meteor, whose rays once led me astray, has ever dwelt within me, since your love arose to be the pure star of my life--your love to which I will be true to death!"
He stood up.
"Countess," he said in a calm grave voice, "I give you my word of honour as a nobleman; by the name which my ancestors have borne with honour from generation to generation for centuries, by my sword which I used in those dreadful days without reproach, against the enemies of Austria--the date of this letter is false. Since Clara gave me her love I have never exchanged a syllable with this woman, I have never thought of her, except in repentant remembrance of a past error! I do not ask if you believe my word," he proceeded, "a Countess Frankenstein cannot doubt the word of an Austrian nobleman, nor think he would purchase a life's happiness by a lie. But I ask you," he said in a warmer tone, turning to Countess Clara, whose eyes were beaming with happiness, "I ask you if you believe my heart is yours without reserve or doubt? if now that the past is unveiled between us, and we have spoken of it, you will continue to be the star of my life, or whether in darkness I must pursue a solitary path, which my hopes once promised should be full of sunshine and flowers?"
With downcast eyes he waited in silence.
The young countess looked at him with the deepest love. A smile of happiness hovered on her lips. With a light step she glided towards him; stood still before him, and with a charming movement held out her hand.
He raised his eyes, and saw her gentle sparkling looks, her lovely smile, her slight blush. He opened his arms quickly and she leaned against him, and hid her face on his breast.
The countess looked at the beautiful pair with a mild and happy smile, and a long silence prevailed in the lofty room.
But the old clock measured these moments with its calm pendulum, the moments follow each other with eternal regularity, and never change for the short joys and long sorrows which form the life of man on earth.
When Clara returned to her room late in the evening, she laid the golden case with the faded rose at the foot of the crucifix, and now her prayers went up as lightly winged to heaven as the perfume of spring flowers, and in her heart as pure and wondrous melodies arose, as the song of praise of the angels who surround the throne of eternal love.