Lucie's resolve was a hard one. Castle Hohenwald was to her as a home. The thought of leaving Celia and the old Freiherr gave her intense pain, but it must be done,--she could not stay. She had written her letter to Adèle with feverish haste, almost immediately after Arno had left her; but now that it lay before her sealed and addressed she hesitated to despatch it. She shrank from so decisive a step.
Did stern duty really require of her to leave this loved asylum and brave the world again and the danger of Repuin's persecution? Here she was safe both from the Russian and from Sorr; both the old Freiherr and Arno would extend protection to her, and must she give it all up just because Arno loved her? No; not for that. Had she been sure of her own heart she might have remained. She had not felt the need of fleeing from Werner's distasteful devotion.
But Arno! She had summoned up strength to utter the words that annihilated his hopes; but she felt that in so doing she had almost exhausted her self-control. Could she have withstood his pleading a moment longer? Even while writing to Adèle the thought would not be banished from her mind that she was actually free, bound by no obligation to the wretch who himself on that terrible night had sundered the tie that had linked her to him!
But could he sunder it? No; it must still remain a brazen fetter chaining her to her unworthy husband, although she were forever parted from him. As she had herself said, her marriage could not be dissolved; she was free only in spirit,--only the death of the dishonoured thief could make it possible for her to form another tie.
Her heart rebelled against so unnatural a chain; but cool reason told her that she could not disregard it without dishonour. Sorr's wife must not listen to Arno's words of affection; if she could not slay within her the love she now knew that he had awakened there, he must never know it.
The sealed letter trembled in her hand; if it were to be sent it must go instantly. From her window Lucie saw already saddled and standing in the court-yard the horse upon which the groom was to take the daily mail from the castle to A----. Frau Kaselitz stood upon the steps just about to close the post-bag. One minute more and it would be too late. A day at least would be gained, a day for reflection, and a day, too, of imminent peril, a day in which Arno might repeat his protestations, his entreaties!
She hastily threw open the window. "Wait one moment, Frau Kaselitz; I have a letter to go!" she called out into the court-yard, and then hurried down the great staircase to the hall-door. She could not trust herself, and it was only when she had seen the groom gallop away bearing her letter with him that she breathed freely again.
The die was cast, and she could think clearly and calmly. Her strength of will returned, and she knew that she could brave any struggle which the next few days might bring her. She had regained the calm self-control that would enable her to fulfil her duties towards the Freiherr and Celia during the time she should yet remain in the castle, and this fulfilment should instantly be put into action. Celia should suspect nothing during lesson-hours of the mental agony that had so tortured her teacher.
But where was Celia? She had not made her appearance, although the time had long passed at which she usually returned from her afternoon ride. Lucie inquired of old John, who was on his way to the stables, and learned that Fräulein Celia was still out in the forest. She never had stayed so late before, the old man added; indeed, she had had time to ride up and down the broad forest road to Grünhagen at least twenty times. Of course that was where she was; she always rode there. John could not see why she never tired of that road. Lucie was not ill pleased to hear that the girl was still in the forest: she longed for its cool depths; and since John assured her that she could not fail to meet Fräulein Celia, she determined to go in search of her. She declined John's attendance, for she felt perfectly secure in the vicinity of the castle. Quickly tying on her hat she sallied forth.
Her walks hitherto had never extended beyond the castle garden and the park. This was her first flight into the "forest depths," from which the castle took its name. She gazed in wonder at the mighty oaks and beeches. Around her brooded the mystery of the primeval forest; in the vicinity of the castle no axe had rung a discord in the poetry of woodland life. The deep silence, broken only by the low notes of the woodland birds, harmonized with Lucie's mood; she sauntered dreamily along the path, passing in mental review the events of the day, and particularly the struggle with herself, in which--and there was a measure of content in the consciousness--she had come off conqueror.