Hermann: A Novel

by E. Werner

In her room, the windows of which looked out towards the fields, Gertrud paced restlessly up and down.

There was a limit even to her self-command; she had not felt able to appear at breakfast to-day, and to hear the talk over the "early ride," the meaning of which she alone knew. Yes, it was, indeed, a fearful task, to be silent and tremble in the full consciousness of what the next hour might bring, to remain here inactive, whilst over yonder the bloody decision was made; it was almost beyond her strength. She had kept the promise wrung from her, no word had passed her lips, but what this silence cost her, that she alone knew.

One could see that no sleep had closed the girl's eyes, which rested upon the window with an expression of the most painful suspense. Cheerful and golden the sunshine lay upon the fields around, over the woods, still enveloped in a blue mist. The corn waved gently in the morning breeze, and high up in the clear heavens the swallows shot backwards and forwards in rapid flight. But the road which led to the woods remained empty, not a single rider would appear.

Gertrud's pride and self-command seemed over. What, during the whole time, she would not confess to herself, what even yesterday evening she had tried to deny, she had been forced to recognise in the fearful anxiety of the previous night. "He shall not atone for his folly with his life, though I cannot hope for the same generosity from him!"

The words would not be put out of her memory. Eugen would not show any generosity; she knew that he was revengeful, like all weak people, and seized the opportunity gladly to revenge himself upon the man whose intellectual superiority had so often oppressed and embittered him, and he, too, was sure of his weapon, and seldom failed in his mark.

She fell down on her knees, and in speechless anxiety raised her folded hands. She knew now for whom this prayer was offered, and had known yesterday, when that grave, hard voice had asked so gently, "Gertrud, why do you hate me?" Though she had gathered together all her strength for the last despairing resistance, though she had possessed cruel courage to refuse him the one single word which he begged for, it was in vain now. Now she would like to have called him back, now, when it was too late. How icily cold his farewell had sounded--perhaps it was the last. Then suddenly a sound of hoofs was heard in the distance. Gertrud hurried to the window, as she had so often done before in vain, when she had heard any sound, but this time it was no disappointment. Her eyes had recognised the rider, though he was still far off on the edge of the wood; followed by his groom, Count Arnau rode towards the house.

The rebound was too great; the sudden appearance of him whom she had feared lost, decided all. In the cry of boundless delight, which unconsciously burst from her lips, in the expression of her face, lay the secret revealed. She flew to the door, reflection and reason for the moment gone; she must and would meet him!

A heavy, dull blow, then a cracking sound followed--she stopped suddenly, and looked back alarmed. One of her travelling boxes, which she had brought out yesterday, and partly packed, had been thrust out of its place by her sudden rush to the door. A simple, easily explained circumstance, but the girl's feverishly reddened cheek had become suddenly white. Slowly she again closed the door, and hesitatingly, step by step, approached the corner by the window. There was a strange expression in her face, a shrinking, as if before something supernatural, and with a timidity, as if she were really about to meet with some spirit, she bent down to examine the injury.

It was a small, unimportant little box, an old fashioned, insignificant piece of goods, which had belonged to her father, and which only a feeling of filial respect hindered the daughter from parting with. This legacy, almost the only one, which the orphan possessed, had hitherto accompanied her on every journey, and now it all at once fell over and broke, just at the moment when she was on the point of--Gertrud did not dare to complete the thought, but hastily pushed aside the books which had fallen out, and lifted the lid.

The back of the box had burst in two, and out of the crack, squeezed in between the wood and the leather lining, gleamed a piece of white paper. Gertrud mechanically pulled it out, and was about to lay it aside, when her eyes suddenly fell upon a word, an autograph--she passed her hand hastily across her eyes--surely it must be some vision, that she always and everywhere should come upon the name that just now filled all her thoughts, but at the second glance she saw that her eyes had not deceived her. "Hermann Count Arnau" stood there in faded ink, but in clear, plain handwriting--stood there on the old fashioned paper, which had been long years in its hiding place, where it must have fallen from a hole in the inner pocket, through a hasty opening of the box. Gertrud's head seemed to swim, incapable of comprehending the facts connected with it--still half stunned from her previous agitation she unfolded the paper.