"Forgive me if I have terrified you by my hasty words," she said beseechingly, but firmly. "You can readily understand my position. A few explanatory words from Herr von Hollfeld would have sufficed to clear me from every degrading suspicion. I should not then have been forced to declare so emphatically what I thought of his character and conduct. I regret what has happened, but I cannot retract one word that I have said."
She kissed Helene's hand, and silently left the pavilion. She fancied that Herr von Walde extended his hand to her as she passed him, but she did not look up.
Outside, she followed the narrow, winding way that led through a grove to the pond. She passed by the castle, along the broad gravel-walk, and entered the little forest-path leading to the convent tower, without knowing whither she was going, or remembering that every step took her farther from her home.
She was in a state of fearful excitement. A wild chaos was seething in her brain. Hollfeld's offer of marriage,—his insolent passion,—Bertha's sudden appearance at the window of the pavilion,—the inconceivable fact that Helene had received her with joy as the bride of the man whom she herself loved,—all these things passed through her mind, and in the midst of the confusion she distinctly heard Herr von Walde's "yes." He too, then, would have welcomed her as Herr von Hollfeld's bride! It would have cost him nothing to see her his cousin's wife. This marriage had doubtless been decided upon in family conclave. Herr von Walde had weighed the for and against with his usual cool judgment, and had finally agreed with Helene that Emil's choice would not prove a blot upon the von Hollfeld escutcheon. She could be graciously received, and they would themselves provide the dowry which the bride was deficient in.
At these thoughts Elizabeth set her teeth, as if she were enduring physical agony. She was filled with unutterable bitterness; her sincere and ardent sentiments had been misunderstood and crushed under foot by that cold-blooded, calculating aristocrat. How could she ever have imagined that he could sympathize in the least with a young, earnest heart, enamoured of freedom, and giving no heed to the belittling, often ridiculous institutions of the world,—he who found the pride and glory of woman only in the ruins and ashes of a long ancestral line?
Several times she paused, lost in thought, and then she walked on quickly, heedless that she was traversing the same path along which she had gone in such confusion by his side a few days before. The overhanging boughs and branches brushed her forehead; she forgot how he had bent them aside, lest they should annoy her. The underbrush was still trodden down, and the stripped leaves were not quite withered upon the spot where Fräulein von Quittelsdorf and Hollfeld had broken through the bushes to reach the two lonely wanderers. Here was the place where the unfinished birthday greeting had been whispered; Elizabeth passed unheeding by, and it was well that she did so, for there were no tears in her burning eyes; here where she could have wept her very heart out.
At last she looked around her with surprise. She stood before the convent tower. Hers was perhaps the first human foot that had pressed this turf since the place had been deserted by the latest guests or the weary servants on the night of the fête.
It looked sadly out of order; the grass had been trodden down by the dancers, whose tread had not been fairy-like. The two hemlocks, which had sustained the refreshment tent, lay prostrate upon the ground in the midst of fragments of broken bottles and the remains of the fireworks. Above, the shrivelled garlands were still hanging between the tower and the oaks, while a gentle breeze swept whispering among the poor flowers, which hung crushed together in the air, their short season of triumph long since ended.
It was already twilight beneath the oaks, although a golden light illumined their topmost boughs, and played upon the gray roof of the tower.
It was with a slight shudder that Elizabeth became aware of her loneliness in the heart of the dim, silent forest; nevertheless she was irresistibly drawn towards the spot where Herr von Walde had taken leave of her. She stepped across the trampled sward,—then stood for an instant as if rooted to the earth,—for the evening breeze brought to her ear single broken tones of a human voice. At first she seemed to hear something like a distant ejaculatory cry for help; then gradually the sounds grew more connected, and rapidly drew near. It was a shrill, piercing, female voice, shouting, rather than singing, a hymn. Elizabeth could hear that the singer, whoever she might be, was running quickly as she sang.