With a deep-drawn breath of relief she relinquished her constrained position, which she had until now retained mechanically, and tried to lift the latch of the door. It was rusty and resisted her efforts as it had Bertha's. She now discovered with alarm that the bolt had sprung,—it had, indeed, defended and protected her, but it was also her jailer,—for she could not possibly stir it; worn out at last with her fruitless attempts to withdraw it, she dropped her hands at her sides.
What was to be done? She thought with distress of her parents who had probably been made anxious by her prolonged absence,—for they knew that she fully intended to be present at the interment of her ancestress.
Around her were grouped the mighty monarchs of the forest, their topmost boughs still tipped here and there by the fading western light. Far in the distance gleamed a strip of light,—there lay L—— with its lofty castle, whose long rows of windows glittered for a few moments, and then disappeared in gloom. And there towered the mountain crowned by the ruin of Gnadeck; but the forest hid from her her dear home, she could not even see the lofty flagstaff.
Elizabeth soon relinquished all hope of being seen by passers-by,—and she knew that her feeble cry for help must die away unheard, for the tower lay hidden in the depths of the forest; no frequented road passed near it; and who would be likely to be walking at nightfall in the quiet path which led nowhere except to the convent tower?
Nevertheless she made one attempt, and uttered a loud cry. But how weak it sounded! It seemed to her that the boughs of the nearest tree absorbed it entirely; it only startled some ravens in the vicinity, and they flew croaking away overhead; then all was still again,—fearfully still. The Lindhof church bells were silent. A faint red yet glimmered in the west, tinging a few little floating clouds,—the forest lay in deep shadow.
Utterly at a loss, Elizabeth walked to and fro upon the flat roof. Sometimes she stood still at the corner looking toward Castle Lindhof, which was the nearest inhabited mansion, and raised her voice in a vain cry for help. At last she ceased all such efforts, and seated herself upon the bench which was set into the outer wall of the small landing, at the top of the stairs, and which was tolerably protected by the projecting roof from wind and weather.
She was not afraid of passing the night here, for she did not doubt that search would be made for her in the forest; but how many anxious hours her friends must pass before she could be found!
This thought troubled her greatly and increased her nervous agitation. She had passed through so much during the day, and had had no assistance, nothing but her own force of character to sustain her. She was still trembling from the terror of the last shock. What could have caused poor Bertha's outbreak of insanity? She had spoken of a heart which Elizabeth had stolen from her,—was it possible that Hollfeld had played some part in this sad story, as Frau Ferber had lately so often insisted?
Such a suspicion revived all the painful sensations that had before possessed her. But now, sitting motionless against the old wall, while the darkening heavens seemed to draw near her, and nothing spoke of life around save the damp night air that swept soothingly across her hot cheek,—now her moistened eyes bore witness that the stern stoicism with which her crushed heart had armed itself, had vanished. All, all was over; she had broken with the inmates of Lindhof forever. She had shattered Helene's ideal, and she had thrown back to Herr von Walde the gift of his consent to her marriage which he had offered her; doubtless his pride had been mortally wounded. Most probably she should never see him again. He would soon set out upon his travels, glad to efface the impression made upon him by the ingratitude of the poor music-teacher.
She covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled through the slender white fingers.