She had had a love affair with Hollfeld, who had promised to marry her, and had induced her to swear solemnly that she would keep silent concerning their relations to each other, and not claim her rights until he should authorize her to do so; for, as he told her, he must first influence his mother and his relatives at Lindhof to accede to his wishes. The unthinking girl promised all that he asked,—and in addition vowed solemnly that no human being should hear one word from her lips until she could proclaim her proud secret to the world. The meetings of the pair usually took place in the convent-tower or in the pavilion in the park. No one discovered them. The baroness' suspicions were aroused by some slight circumstance,—she fell into a violent rage, and forbade Bertha ever to show her face at Lindhof Castle.
Still Bertha's lofty hopes were unshaken, for Hollfeld consoled her, and referred to the future. But then came Elizabeth Ferber, and he was an altered man from that moment. He avoided Bertha, and when she compelled him by threats to an interview, he treated her with a coldness and contempt that excited the girl's passionate nature to frenzy.
When at last she became convinced that she had to do with a man utterly devoid of honour, the whole horror of her situation was laid bare before her. She fell into a state of the wildest despair, and then began her nightly escapades. Sleep scarcely visited her eyes, and she grew more composed only when she could shriek out her agony and woe in the lonely forest.
At last came the end to the tragedy,—the same end that has befallen such tragedies hundreds of times before, and that will continue to befall them,—for the warning example convinces the understanding but never touches an unsuspecting, loving heart. Hollfeld offered the poor girl a sum of money if she would relinquish her claims and leave that part of the country. He pretended that his mother and his Lindhof relatives forced him to marry the newly-made Fräulein von Gnadewitz. Bertha denounced him as an unprincipled liar, and rushed from his presence. In a frenzy of rage she presented herself before his mother and told her all.
Thus far Bertha continued her sad tale connectedly, only interrupted by her violent gestures, sobs, and tears. She paused for a moment, and an expression of inextinguishable hatred distorted her countenance.
"That horrible woman," she cried at last, gasping for breath, "has the Bible always upon her lips. She knits and sews night and day for missionaries, who are to carry the word of God to the heathen, that they may be converted; but they cannot in their ignorance be more inhuman and cruel than this Christian in her pride. She wishes to root out idol-worship, and sets up herself for an idol, surrounding herself by a crowd of fawning, flattering hypocrites, who declare that she is one of the elect,—not as other people are. Woe to the upright, honest man who refuses to consider her as such,—his crime is blasphemy! She thrust me from her doors, and threatened to have the dogs hunt me from the park, if I ever showed my face there again. From that time I do not know what became of me," she said, sinking back exhausted among the pillows, and pressing her hands upon her aching forehead. "I only know that I awaked and saw the doctor's face bending over me. He told my uncle of my disgrace,—I heard him. What will become of me!"
Sabina had listened to this confession with horror and grief. She had always advocated the strictest purity and decorum, and had been, as Bertha well knew, a stern and inflexible judge in such unhappy cases as that of the wretched girl. But her heart was full of love and pity. She looked down upon the crushed sinner before her with tears of compassion, and soothed the weary head upon her kind old breast. She was rewarded by seeing the poor girl fall asleep in her arms, like a child worn out with weeping.
Soon nothing was heard in the little room but the quiet breathing of the sick girl and the ticking of the clock. Sabina put on her spectacles, drew an old worn copy of the New Testament from her basket, and watched faithfully by the bedside until the bright dawn looked in at the windows.
Bertha did not die, as she had hoped to do in consequence of her agitating confession. On the contrary, she recovered very quickly, nursed and tended by Sabina and Frau Ferber. There was no return of her insanity. The wound in her head, which had been caused by a fall upon a sharp stone, had produced a most beneficial result in the copious loss of blood which had ensued.
The forester was beside himself at the disgrace which Bertha had brought beneath his honest roof. For some days he would not even listen to his brother's calm, soothing words. After Sabina had communicated to him Bertha's confession, he rode to Odenberg to call "the worthless scoundrel to account;" but the servants there informed him, shrugging their shoulders, that their master had started upon a journey; they could not tell whither, or when he would return. Herr von Walde's search for him was also without result.