As she was returning to her home she was overcome by a sudden weakness and a sense of utter discouragement.
Why endure this torture any longer? Who could tell when it would end, this intense disgust, this gnawing degrading misery, suffering without dignity,--a martyrdom without faith, without hope?
And there, just at the edge of the forest, close to the meadow that spread before her like a huge winding-sheet, she lay down in the snow, to put an end to it: the cold would soon bring her release, she thought. How long she lay there she could not have told,--the drowsiness which she had heard was the precursor of the end had begun to steal over her,--when on the low horizon bounding the plain she saw the full moon rise, huge, misty, blood-red. The outlying firs of the forest cast broad dark shadows upon the snow, and upon her rigid form. The snow began to sparkle; the world suddenly grew beautiful. She seemed to feel a grasp upon her shoulder, and a voice called to her, "Stand up: life is not yet finished for you: who knows what the future may have in store?"
Hope, curiosity, perhaps only the inextinguishable love of life that belongs to youth and health, appealed to her. She rose to her feet and forced her stiffened limbs to carry her home.
Good heavens! it was hardly a year since! and now! She looks away from the large windows, behind the panes of which there is now only a bluish-white shimmer to be discerned, and gazes around the room. How cosey and comfortable it is! In the darkening daylight the outlines of objects show like a half-obliterated drawing. The subjects of the pictures on the walls cannot be discerned, but their gilt frames gleam through the all-embracing veil of twilight. There is a ruddy light on the hearth, partially hidden from the girl's eyes by the figure of the old Countess in her arm-chair; the air is pure and cool, and there is a faint agreeable odour of burning wood. From beneath the windows comes the noise of rolling wheels, deadened by the snow, and there is now and then a faint crackle from the logs in the chimney, now falling into embers.
Erika revels in a sense of comfort, as only those can who have known the reverse in early life. Suddenly she is possessed by a vague distress, an oppressive melancholy,--the memory of her mother who had voluntarily left all this pleasant easy-going life--for what? Her nerves quiver.
Meanwhile, Lüdecke brings in two lamps, which in consequence of their large coloured shades fail to illumine the corners of the room, and hardly do more than "teach light to counterfeit a gloom." That grave dignitary was still occupied in their arrangement, when he turned his head and paused, listening to an animated colloquy in two voices just outside the portière which separated the Countess's boudoir from the reception-rooms. Evidently Friedrich, Lüdecke's young adjutant, who was not yet thoroughly drilled, was endeavouring to protect his mistress from a determined intruder.
"If you please, Frau Countess, her Excellency is not at home," he said for the third time, whereupon an irritated feminine voice made reply,--
"I know that the Countess is at home; and if she is not, I will wait for her."
"The fairy," said Countess Lenzdorff, awaking. "Poor Friedrich! he is doing what he can, but there is nothing for it but to put the best face upon the matter." And, rising, she advanced to meet Countess Brock, who came through the portière with a very angry face.