"Well, then, you shall have a dower and a blessing," replied the Count; "and I doubt not you will, as he says, make him a very good wife; for the sauciest maidens sometimes turn out the humblest spouses. But what says the Emperor, my good youth?"
"Oh, he says that I may do as I like," replied the young man; "and, good faith! he could not well say less, for I believe he would have married her himself if, by good luck, he had not had another wife."
"Nay, that was a stroke of fortune on your behalf," answered the Count, laughing; "in the lands I have just left, he would have married her notwithstanding. But, by my faith! I think one such will prove enough for any man."
"Enough for me, my lord," said the page, with some grace; "I seek no more, and with her shall find happiness enough."
Bertha held out her hand to him with a warm smile, exclaiming, "Well, I do love you dearly."
"Right, right," cried the Count; "this is all right. We will take care of your household, Bertha. Let your own heart make the sunshine, and we will see that it shall have few worldly clouds; and now, if long courtships be good, speedy weddings are better; so go your ways and settle the day between you, leaving all the rest to us."
Ere ten days more had passed, there was a marriage train wound down from the castle towards the little chapel in the wood; for Bertha, with a gay smile in her young mistress's face, had prayed that her wedding might be there celebrated, instead of the loftier building at the castle. The way was strewed with flowers by young girls from the village, and garlands hung amongst the branches of the old oaks and beeches. Light hearts and pretty faces gathered round; and nought was wanting to the happiness of Bertha but the presence of her young lord and the old Count, who had promised to give her to her husband. Both, however, had ridden away from the castle at an early hour, and good Franz Creussen had appeared in the bridal train as a substitute for the Count of Ehrenstein, to perform the part of parent to the fair bride. The Countess and Adelaide accompanied her, and when by the way she ventured to express her regret that her good lord was not to be present, Adelaide replied, with a smile, perhaps produced by a comparison between her feelings at the moment and those with which she had trod the same path herself as a bride, "Doubtless he will come, Bertha; for he went away this morning early, without telling any one his errand. I know he intended to be here."
I have, far away in the beginning of this true history, described a spot where the little chapel, and the door with its fretted stone-work, first appeared on the road descending from the castle, and when Bertha's bridal train reached that point, a group was seen in the green glade before the portal, somewhat more splendid than might have been expected to attend the bride-groom on his meeting with his betrothed. There were dresses of silk and velvet, of gold and embroidery, a banner or two waving above the horsemen, and a small group of men-at-arms behind, with lances raised, and limbs hanging drowsily, as if forming part of a scene in which they took no great interest. In front were four or five gentlemen on foot, and the first who came forward at a quick pace was the gay page. Behind, however, were seen the Count of Ehrenstein and his son, and near them, a step in advance, with head slightly bended, and all that air of dignity, if not of pride, which is so frequently generated by the habit of unlimited command, appeared the Emperor himself. He was speaking eagerly to the Count of Ehrenstein, as if they had just met, but when the two groups united, he took a kiss of Bertha's warm cheek, saying, "I have come unasked to your wedding, fair maid, out of love for yon youth and for you; make him a good wife as you have been a faithful friend, and if he makes you a good husband he shall never want advancement. Now let us forward to the ceremony: I will stand for his father who is far away in Vienna, and you will have a noble godfather, who will doubtless portion you as you deserve."
Bertha replied not, but by low obeisance; but, in the mean while, the Count of Ehrenstein had placed himself between his wife and his step-daughter, and, addressing himself to the latter, he said, "Let this be a joyful day for us all, my dear Adelaide! I have just returned from your father. Thinking that in such a case as this, we might well bury all bitter memories and unkind feelings of the past, I went over to the Abbey to see if he would quit his solitude, and join our little festival. Though he declined to quit his cell till his vows be taken and his fate sealed, yet it will give peace and comfort to your heart to know that our hands have clasped in peace, and that we have mutually agreed to remember nought but that we are brothers. All is forgiven. By me all shall be forgotten; if he remembers aught, it is the secret of his own heart, and between him and his God. He is seeking happiness in the only course where he can find it; and he bade me tell you that your joy and peace was the only earthly blessing that Heaven could bestow. No more shadows on that fair brow, then, my dear child; for though I have marked them with love, I have marked them with regret; and be assured that he who is most justly dear to you, except your husband, knows best the way to his own peace."
Adelaide replied not in words, but she took the old Count's hand, and kissed it tenderly, and then accompanied her husband and father-in-law to the chapel, where Bertha's marriage vows were speedily plighted.