Gold Elsie

by E. Marlitt

In the mean time the night had fallen, still it was not quite dark. The crescent moon was reigning in the skies, where all the other shining wanderers appeared and went their way, never heeding that their sister planet, the earth, careering in space with them, contained millions of little worlds, each inclosing in its sphere heights and depths, tossing waves with their ebb and flow, mighty storms, and only too rarely a sacred repose.

And now life began to stir in the old tower. There was a low murmur and moaning upon the stairs; slight blows were struck from within upon the oaken door, and wings brushed the inner wall; the owls and bats were longing to be abroad, and could not find their accustomed place of egress. And in the forest below there arose a rustling and crackling,—the deer broke through the thicket and roamed about in entire security. From the distant east, where the forest almost in its primeval luxuriance descended into the valley and then again climbed an opposing range of mountains, a faint shot was occasionally heard. Every time Elizabeth heard the sound she nestled closer against the wall beneath the protecting roof, as if in fear lest she should be discerned by some unfriendly eye gazing thence;—those hunting there were outlaws.

Still no succour came. Her fear, then, lest her parents should be anxious, had been unfounded. Of course, they supposed her to be yet at the castle,—perhaps they were displeased at her long absence from home; but they would possibly wait until ten o'clock for her return. It might be midnight before she was released.

It grew quite cold. With a shiver, she drew her thin shawl close about her, and tied a handkerchief around her throat. She was obliged to leave her seat, and walk to and fro on the roof, to prevent herself from becoming chilled. Occasionally she leaned over the balustrade and looked down.

White cloud-like phantoms were hovering hither and thither over the open space beneath,—the mists rising from the damp ground. Elizabeth no longer thought of the motley spectacle,—the ostentation and vanity that had filled this place a few days before. She forgot the countless idle words that had filled the air, causing such a confusion of tongues that the old tower, instead of standing upon honest Thuringian soil, might have challenged the skies upon the banks of the Euphrates. Forth from the billows of mist floated the shadowy forms of the nuns buried under these walls, their features pale and passionless, their desolate hearts stilled within their long-flowing robes, and their waxen brows, beneath their white bands, haunted no longer by restless doubts and longings. They would fain have trodden the path leading from the world to heaven, had they not been so often dragged down to earth again.

Elizabeth thought of those dark times, when these gloomy walls were erected in expiation of the crime of a knightly assassin,—cold stone walls to appease Him from whom has come the Word made life,—who is the source of Eternal Love. Could all the prayers, breathed by the inmates of that living tomb,—all the masses,—the organs rolling thunder, blot out the stain of blood which the criminal carried to the foot of the eternal throne? No, a thousand times no! He heeds no incense wafted before the shrine of Baal. His eternal edicts are not reversed by the creatures whom He has made.

What a terrible episode in the family history of the Gnadewitzes those crumbling ruins commemorated! And could it be possible that a being, conscious of a fervent desire for moral elevation and spiritual growth, should be duly respected only when permitted to bear that name? Must she learn that a spotless life was nought, laid in the balance with a human device, which was, in fact, a phantom of the brain,—an absolute nothing?

Was the superstition that committed witches to the flames darker than this delusion of the privileges of birth, by which many a true and richly-gifted human life is as ruthlessly destroyed as by the faggot of the executioner,—the delusion, that flatly contradicts the Almighty decree, which declares all God's children to come alike from His creating hand,—alike in outward form, in physical structure, in the possession of senses, whereby both king and beggar enjoy and suffer, alike in the possession of that vital spark that animates these outward shapes? Where is there a soul, even although it has attained the summit of human perfection, that is not conscious of some weakness, or a human being so depraved, that one good quality at least does not glimmer forth from the slough of vice into which he has sunk?—And can he be influenced by such narrow prejudice,—he, whose brow bears the impress of high intelligence, whose glance and voice can melt with a tenderness that reveals a soul alive to the best and deepest emotions of our nature? Could he rank the hollow form above the immortal rights of humanity, which accord freedom of thought and action to all? Did not that false system continually crush out the highest and holiest sentiment of the human heart, love? If Elizabeth had loved Hollfeld, what would her lot have been without the discovery in the ruins? And if,—here a sarcastic smile hovered upon her quivering lips,—if one thought of affection for her had ever stirred Herr von Walde's heart, and he should come now and offer his hand?——Never, never would she consent to give herself to him, with the consciousness that her unutterable love had only been returned when such return was no longer forbidden by the old worn-out laws of society. The pain of renunciation lost much of its torture, contrasted with the torment that would be the result of such a life.

With looks full of gloom, Elizabeth once more walked to the corner of the balustrade looking towards Castle Lindhof, and stood gazing in that direction. One and the same star rose above that graceful pile and the poorest hut in the neighbouring village, casting its mild light impartially upon each,—or was there really a stronger gleam upon the spot where the park opened into the forest? No; that light came from below, and penetrating quickly farther and farther into the forest, faintly tinged the boughs above with its rays. It was most certainly a torch borne along the narrow path by which Elizabeth had reached the convent tower.

Once the light was, for an instant, immovable, and a faint shout reached her ears. She felt convinced now that help was at hand,—that search was made for her,—and she raised her voice in reply, although she knew that the faint sound could not reach the bearer of the torch. The light hesitated but for a moment, and then quickly came nearer and nearer. She could soon plainly distinguish the flame of the torch, and see the shower of sparks that fell from it to the ground.