The broken fountain suggested a feeling of loneliness, and the high old grey stone walls enclosing the castle shut it out—or in—from the world beyond, and all the events now transpiring behind them were a profound secret. The white-robed figure was literally dead and buried to the world, which had "assisted" at her funeral.
"Oh, Henry!" exclaimed Eva von Trotta, for the youthful form belongs to no other than this Fair Rosamond of Germany, "you strive to comfort me, but in vain. All your words of kindness and passionate love, cannot crush the worm that is gnawing at the thread of my life—cannot silence the voice of conscience. I must open my heart to you to-day, for every visit you make me here I tremble to think may be the last. And yet it is all wrong—all wrong, Henry; every visit, every gift from your dear hand is a sin against the good and noble-minded Duchess, once my motherly friend, a sin against your lawful children."
"Dear Eva," said Henry, interrupting her, "our children are lawful. I gave you my left hand at the altar, the wedding-ring and its diamond keeper glitter on this little hand I hold in mine. The Church has consecrated our union."
"That is only a hollow pretension. I see it all now. Look at this beautiful Prayer Book in gold and precious stones, and the Bible[[1]] with my name in gold on its cover," she continued, pointing to a small table where they lay.
[[1]] Luther's Bible appeared two years before this scene. Eva was Protestant.
"They were among your gifts on our—our—our marriage day. I come and sit here when alone, where I can look out on the mountains, and read them and seek consolation, but find none. They are a silent reproach to me. You had no right to give them, nor I to take them. And in my Bible I opened yesterday to St. Paul's words: 'the husband of one wife.' They pierced like daggers to my heart. Henry, Henry, I ought to flee this spot, and never see you more; and yet I cannot. I should die if I did not see your dear face sometimes, and hear your voice."
"My darling Eva, put away these harrowing thoughts; they are shortening your precious life."
"Oh! why did we meet? or meeting, why was it not earlier, when our love had been no sin? When I recall the affection and confidence of the Duchess, and reflect on my base, false friendship, my face burns with pain and shame. The world would curse me; she would too, if she knew. The watch I wear, that you gave me that last morning in the antechamber, when I was on duty as lady in waiting, reminds me of the flight of time, and the unceasing approach of a coming judgment. I never look upon it without a throb of bitter anguish. 'Nothing that loveth or maketh a lie' shall enter heaven—and my life is a lie. Oh, Henry! I shall perish eternally, and my noble boy will grow up to curse my memory;" and leaning her head on Henry's breast, she wept bitterly.
Probably Henry's own reflections were not of the most agreeable and consoling character, as he was thus compelled to recall his injustice and sin in his neglect of the Duchess. He gave, however, no expression to his misgivings, but only said, pointing to the coffee-table: "Let us think of this no more; dry up these childish tears, and let us go down—come, dear."
"My tears are not childish, Henry, only useless. But the world will discover our dreadful secret, the Duchess and her powerful father will complain to Kaiser and Pope, your visits will be forbidden—and what will become of me and my boy?"