Freyer drew back a step. "What do you mean?"
"Will you listen to me quietly, dearest?" she asked, gently.
"Speak, my child."
"Joseph! I promised to-day to become your wife--and I will keep the pledge, but our marriage must be a secret one."
"And why?"
"My husband's will disinherits me, as soon as I give up the name of Wildenau. If I marry you, I shall be dependent upon the generosity of my husband's cousins, who succeed me as his heirs, and they are not even obliged to give me an annuity--so I shall be little better than a beggar."
"Oh, is that all? What does it matter? Am I not able to support my wife--that is, if she can be satisfied with the modest livelihood a poor wood-carver like myself can offer?"
The countess, deeply touched, smiled. "I knew that you would say so. But, my angel, that would only do, if I had no other duties. But, you see, this is one of the snares with which the world draws back those who endeavor to escape its spell. I have a father--an unhappy man whom I can neither respect nor love--a type of the brilliant misery, the hollow shams, to which so many lives in our circle fall victims, a gambler, a spendthrift, but still my father! He asks pecuniary aid which I can render only if I remain the Countess Wildenau. Dare I be happy and let my father go to ruin?"
"No!" groaned Freyer, whose head sank like a felled tree on the arms which rested folded on the table.
"Then what is left to us--my beloved, save separation or a secret marriage? Surely we would not profane the miracle which God has wrought in us by any other course?"