Part 5

“Does that mean that you have a dislike to him?” exclaimed papa angrily. “Who has been putting such folly into your head? I suppose your elder sister?”

“For all I hold dearest in the world, do not think that! It is I who have implored her to intercede for me with you.”

“In the first place,” said mamma, “you need no one to intercede between you and your parents, but should have come in all confidence to them yourself. In the second place, your sister, instead of being so ready to take this office upon herself, should have pointed out to you how foolish it is to have allowed any such fancy not only to exist, but to be blurted out before us, and for which there is not the slightest reason.”

“She declares it--that is her reason!” returned Elizabeth.

Her voice, before somewhat veiled, was now as hard and sharp as when first she came to me. I drew nearer to her, and put my arm round her--her whole frame quivered.

“Folly--folly,” repeated papa. “We cannot listen to such trash.”

“The count is an upright, honorable man; well bred, good looking, and of unexceptionable manners; a man with whom you could not fail to be happy, Paula,” pronounced mamma, in severe and uncompromising tones. “You may not love him now, but you will certainly learn to do so when it has become your duty.”

A shudder ran through me, and I stammered out:

“No, mamma, no! I shall never learn to love him, because I----”

The confession I was about to make died away upon my lips. I turned a look of entreaty upon my sister. Her lovely face was aflame; with arms crossed upon her breast, she was looking unflinchingly, an expression of reproach and indignation in her eyes, at mamma.

“Do you remember,” she said, “some seventeen years ago addressing that same promise to me, and with about as much justification? My suitor, too, was upright, well bred, and good looking. Now, mother dear, as you have not seen or guessed how matters stand with me, hear once for all; your promise has _not_ brought its fulfillment.”

“Elizabeth!” cried my father and mother together.

Bernhard, who at first had listened with somewhat skeptical smile, suddenly sunk his head. Mme. Duphot had risen, and slipped out of the room like a shadow. With a calm that chilled me to the heart, Elizabeth continued:

“That love, which as a matter of course was to come with marriage, enveloping me in blessed blindness, in happy deception, came not. My heart remained cold, my eyes clear, and with those clear eyes of mine I saw my upright, well-bred husband through and through----” She gave a short hard laugh. “It was no edifying spectacle.”

I had been so shocked at Elizabeth’s words, above all by the decided manner in which she had said them, that I had not ventured to look at my parents. I cast a furtive glance at the chair previously occupied by Bernhard. It was empty; my brother had risen, and was standing by the window near to which Elizabeth was sitting, looking earnestly at her, but, to my relief, not angrily.

“What does this mean?” asked papa. “What accusation do you bring against your husband? He has never acted other than as a gentleman; never been guilty of a single reprehensible action.”

“Never! He has never wronged another in the matter of honor or property,” returned Elizabeth; “nor has he ever, of his own free will, stirred a finger to help another, let alone made any sacrifice for anyone; has never forgotten self for the sake of any living creature. He has no notion of generosity, or of the beautiful, save”--and a roguish look flashed across her face--“when he comes across it in the shape of some old oak chest or rusty spur, lost four centuries ago by some brave knight intent on plundering a traveling merchant.”

“My dear Elizabeth!” said Bernhard reproachfully, as, standing now behind her, he laid his hand on the back of her chair.

“I know I ought not to talk like this,” she answered. “It has never happened before, and would not to-day, were it not for the sake of saving this child from the fate which has befallen me.”

Dear mamma was in a state of greatest agitation and perplexity.

“You exaggerate cruelly, Elizabeth,” said she reproachfully. “You accuse your parents, and speak unbefittingly of your husband.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, so I do! But then I have promised my sister to stand by her in her hard fight between the filial obedience she would so gladly show to you, and the aversion she feels for the count.”

“Aversion,” muttered my father; “absurd!”

“And keeping my word, I say to her in your presence. Do not yield! You are my own sister. Placed in circumstances similar to mine, your life would be as wretched as is mine,” continued Elizabeth, still speaking with that terrible calmness.

While papa cried: “Wretched! What an extraordinary expression to use!”

And she: “Did I know one stronger, I would adopt it! Nothing is too strong to express the humiliation of knowing the being one looks up to--or rather one should look up to--to be a nonentity; or the hypocrisy of seeming to defer to him one knows to be one’s inferior.”

“Pride! pride!” sighed mamma. Her work had fallen on to her lap, she was white as death; and my heart felt how she was suffering, as Elizabeth, merely acknowledging her interruption by a scornful curl of the lips, continued icily:

“The moral death it is, and how one despises one’s self for it--but only with penitent humiliation to crawl again under the sacred yoke--that, of course, is understood. Who would make a public scandal of their matrimonial troubles; who seek escape from them; who attempt to drown themselves? Such, I have heard, is done by the vulgar horde who are without religion, or are the poor-spirited descendants of some worthy shoemaker or candlestick-maker, without courage or endurance. We, of the upper ten, are religious, strong to endure, have the blood of heroes in our veins! We know no deserters from our posts! Therefore, Paula, weigh well before you undertake the post. It is a vilely loathsome one.”

She turned to our parents:

“Dear father and mother, when you say to your child ‘Accept So-and-so, he will give you a good position, splendid castles, a great establishment, well-appointed carriages,’ and the like, you are doubtless doing what is right in your own eyes. But do not say to her, ‘Do it because it will bring you happiness.’ That you have no right to say. Believe me, it is presumptuous.”

Only those who heard these words could form any idea of the effect, uttered as they were by Elizabeth, without raising her voice or accompanying them by the slightest gesture. Low and deliberately they dropped like heart’s blood from some deep wound; and as I hearkened to them, there arose in me the burning wish that there were anything on this earth, anything, however great and well-nigh impossible, that I might be privileged to do for my sister.

Mamma was petrified. Papa had sunk his arms upon his knees, and was looking down at his clenched fingers. His forehead was deeply furrowed, and for the first time the thought struck me how old he looked.

Bernhard broke the silence:

“My dear parents, I entreat you if things are thus--it would be my opinion--you understand what I mean----”

Oh, it was a blessing to us all, the warm-hearted manner in which he spoke!

Papa raising his head, thanked the dear fellow with an approving nod, then looking at mamma inquiringly: “What do you think?”

She, trying to answer, could not; could only sigh:

“O God! O God!”

“What do you think, Caroline?” repeated papa. “Are you not also----”

“I do not know,” said she painfully. “It is very difficult.”

“There is nothing difficult in it; it is all quite simple,” broke in Bernhard. “You have only to tell the count our daughter is fully sensible of the honor, etc., etc.; but she cannot yet make up her mind to marry; she does not want to leave us--and the thing is done!”

There ensued a long, painful silence. Papa brought it to an end by saying:

“Yes. If she really does want to stay with us----”

And mamma put in hesitatingly: “Paula is certainly still very young!”

“Much too young!” cried I. This solution had never occurred to me. “Oh, my darling parents!” I would have rushed to them, but mamma made a sign to Elizabeth, and my sister, rising, went and stood before her.

“You have given us much pain to-day, Elizabeth,” said papa. He held out his hand to her. She did not offer to kiss it. What must have been her feelings at that moment! Our dearest father had given her his hand in reconciliation, and Elizabeth had not kissed it.

* * * * *

At that moment the count was announced; and with him my brother-in-law, to fetch his wife for the usual drive. Both gentlemen seemed to be in a high state of annoyance at some blunder of their harness-maker; in each case their ideas had failed to be carried out.

Bernhard sympathized ironically in their grievances, but they took his malicious comments in sober earnest.

As Elizabeth and her husband left the room, running after them, I threw my arms vehemently round my sister, and thanked her, caring nothing for the disapproving looks of my brother-in-law.

“What is all this frantic excitement about?” he asked.

Bernhard, who, too, following my example, had left the room, answered:

“Ah, my dear fellow! If you only knew the vagaries of this small person!” and he winked at me. “Only think, this person refuses to have anything to say to Count Taxen. Count Taxen! the wittiest, noblest, and handsomest of men, and--she will have nothing to say to him!”

My brother-in-law, who evidently took it as a bad joke, answered: “Ah, well, it is a good thing that you are here to bring her to reason.” He turned toward the door, Elizabeth with him. We looked after her, walking so calmly by his side--my poor, poor sister.

“I have often shuddered to think what must come to light if ever the secrets of that prison house were unfolded,” said Bernhard.

“I, too, have often dreaded that she was unhappy,” I replied, unable longer to restrain my tears. “My only wonder was that she never complained.”

“No need to wonder at that!” he cried. “It is not suitable for general conversation. If circumstances force it from a true woman, she may speak of it once, but never again. Take example from her;” and he affectionately patted my cheek. “Our friend in the drawing room is getting his _congé_. Are you content, pussy?”

I was about to thank him for his goodness; but with an impatient movement he drew back, as he said:

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t come the sentimental!”

My parents said no more to me about the count; and it may be readily imagined that I never mentioned him to them. A few evenings before the soirée at which I made the resolve to write my Memoirs, his mother was present, and made a point of showing me the greatest kindness. This noble heartedness made me feel so small and ashamed that I had to exercise the greatest self-control to prevent myself from earnestly praying the countess to think kindly of me and forgive me. It would have been a fearful want of tact had I done so.

As she moved away, mischievous Pierre Coucy said, with a titter, “She is more _la crème_ to-night than ever--but sour.”

“No wonder,” rejoined his brother, with a side glance at me.

Then to Elizabeth: “Have you heard our paragon son is off on a cruise--to Bohemia?”

“No, no,” put in Pierre; “in an air balloon to recover his equilibrium.”

I was confused at their sallies. But Elizabeth, with her majestic calm, said: “You are romancing, now the secret is out! I have long suspected your silent proclivities.”

“You are wrong, countess! More than a writer of romance, I am a prophet!”

“Highly necessary, in order to see through a sphinx like our friend Count Taxen.”

So they went on cutting bad jests, until I felt quite sorry for the count, who looked upon the Coucys as his friends. They must have imparted their surmise to others besides ourselves, for when Baron Schwarzburg came up to me that evening, I read it on his brow, and it laughed in his eyes, as he heartily wished the count a pleasant journey.

* * * * *

Things are very strange at home now, and not altogether pleasant. Even my Duphot, for the first time in my life, bears a grudge against me--in her gentle way, be it understood, and quite as much to her sorrow as to mine.

My beloved father is out of sorts, and although he often says, “Do whatever you like,” the words over which I used to exult now make me sad. I always dread lest I should hear in them, “Our wishes, of course, are of no account to you.”

Mamma, too, seems depressed, and spends more time in church than ever.

She must be praying there for Elizabeth; for she has laid it upon me in my daily prayers to commend my poor sister to God, that he may turn her heart, and awaken in it a befitting and dutiful love to her husband. And I pray accordingly, though I must confess I doubt whether the Divine Power will see fit to be influenced in such a cause. The true love which can arouse that burning devotion in us, akin only to sacred adoration, is given us by our Heavenly Father, if to be given at all, from the very beginning. The miserable supplementary love, gathered together for us by joint prayers, what can that avail?

_May 25th._--Reading through these pages yesterday, I asked myself if these really are memoirs that I am writing? Memoirs treat of interesting people, and I am only writing about myself; they treat of interesting times, and I only occupy myself with the present, which, for the matter of that, is very interesting.

“A momentous period in the political world!” I heard an old gentleman say the other day.

My whole understanding for politics, however, is confined to a decided interest in all that concerns the governorship of our province. Opportunities of discussing it, ever so welcome to me, are not wanting, papa having interests at stake in it. His object is to prevent the inhabitants of one of the districts, against better judgment, from cutting down the trees and tilling the land of one of the forests belonging to him. Until quite lately he was forever complaining of the laxity of the local authorities. Suddenly, his invectives have ceased. I had long wanted to know why, but had not ventured to inquire into the subject on account of his not standing well with the authorities. At length to-day, taking courage, I said:

“How are things going about the district forest, papa? Is it going to be under tillage?”

“No, it is not.”

“Then you have carried your point. That is capital.”

“Father has carried his point, because he has put it, at last, into the hands of the right man,” interposed Bernhard, continuing, unabashed by papa’s meaning look--“of the man of right, who this time has proved the truth of his axiom, Right must conquer.”

Mamma and Mme. Duphot in vain endeavored to turn the subject; Bernhard, sticking to his point, would not yield until he had forced from dear papa the acknowledgment that Baron Schwarzburg was a man of great talent, and a very fine fellow.

That afternoon it was settled that in a week we should leave town for Trostburg. Elizabeth was to come on a long visit to us, and without her husband, who has just bought a new place in the Marmaros, and is about to build a hunting castle there.

My sister is quite another person since her husband’s departure; so much more animated, lively to audacity, and so loving and affectionate to papa and mamma.

She coaxes and pets me as if I were a baby.

“If only you had a real baby!” I said to her once.

“Silence!” she cried. “It is my one source of thankfulness that Heaven has not given me one! I should have hated it as I do----”

She did not finish her sentence; but I understood her too well, and felt a rush of deepest pity for her.

When I see her breathing thus freely again in her liberty, it always makes me think of a certain lovely mountain ash tree in the forest. A terrific storm beating over it had bowed down the young tree, until its crest had caught in the branches of a puny misshapen fir tree, much smaller than it, and the poor ash could not free itself. Its slender stem was bent like a bow; its tender branches, accustomed only to the free space of heaven above them wherein to stir and expand at their own sweet will, hung to earth withered and disconsolate, pining in the straggling clutches of the tyrant. Fortunately my father and I happened to pass that way. He had the worthless fir tree cut down; and oh, joy! the mountain ash was freed; its elastic stem quickly righted itself, its branches swayed blissfully in the breeze, each individual leaflet uplifted itself with joyous flutter, and its graceful summit seemed to bow in greeting to its companions, and to the blue sky above it, which, answering, shed the gladdening rays of sunlight full upon it.

The mountain ash is forever freed from its oppressor. My poor sister must return to her imprisonment when summer is over. But she does not allow this thought to trouble her happiness; she is too noble-spirited. She says, Enjoy your blessings while you have them; it is only the pampered children of fortune who do not give thanks for happiness, because it is fleeting. A Crœsus has no easy minute, for he has no security but that he may outlive his riches. The beggar does not enjoy the crust you give him any the less through fear of to-morrow’s hunger.

The more I am with her, the more do I admire her and sorrow for her; and the more I compare our lots, the more grateful am I for mine. How merciful God has been to me! The blessed freedom only granted for a brief space to my sister, is mine forever to enjoy, and in addition to it the great, silent bliss of being privileged to think to my heart’s content of him who is so unspeakably dear to me. Though separated from him, I will walk as if in his sight in all I do, or leave undone, asking myself, “Would he approve it?” he the right man, the man of right!

There must be something unusual in contemplation. There are mysterious conferences in the small drawing room; long discussions in papa’s study. Confusion reigns in every nook and corner. Mamma has sent round notes of excuse, and is not holding the remaining receptions this season; and Baron Schwarzburg, who seemed to have received no intimation of the change in her arrangements, was greatly astonished the other evening on finding us alone. I noticed papa and Bernhard exchange a hurried glance as he was announced, and that they looked with some concern at mamma. Her manner to him was cold, but not half as cold as that of my Duphot. She has conceived the most inexplicable antipathy to the baron, and has confided to me more than once, with symptoms of extremest aversion, that she looks upon him as an _esprit fort_. He stayed an hour. The happiness I experienced in seeing and hearing him was sadly marred by thinking every instant, “Now he will take his leave, and I shall see and hear him no more, perhaps, for years--perhaps, who knows? forever!”

It was an unspeakable surprise to me to hear papa say to him, as they shook hands: “You must look in again and see us before you leave.” I could not help it--I rushed to papa and impulsively kissed his hand. Looking at me severely, he muttered:

“What is the matter? You seem to be growing foolish.”

_May 30th._--I must write down what has happened--if I can, if my trembling hand will let me, if my thoughts do not chase each other too swiftly. I have kept so calm all the evening, have been able to speak of the most indifferent things with such composure--why then should I feel so painfully agitated now? I certainly did think that my family quietly overlooked the answers _à tort et à travers_ I gave them at first. Could I have been mistaken? They all looked so wise, and the wildest imaginings were flying through my brain. But that was afterward; what first took place was as follows:

This afternoon I was sitting alone in the great drawing room, awaiting the return of mamma and Mme. Duphot from church; when the door suddenly opened, and, without being announced, Baron Schwarzburg came in, saying:

“I came to say good-by, countess. I start to-morrow.”

And I, in my bewilderment, could say nothing but:

“My mamma is not at home.”

“I know,” he replied.

“She will soon be back,” I said. Upon which he bowed silently.

I had risen at his entry, and now did not know whether I might ask him to be seated. To leave him standing was too uncourteous. This threw me into a dilemma, and the first few delicious moments of our being alone together were truly uncomfortable.

He walked to the window, and for a while appeared to be absorbed in what was passing below. Then he turned again toward me. He was holding his hat in one hand, his gloves in the other, beating them on the brim of his hat.

For the sake of saying something, I remarked:

“The dust is blowing up very unpleasantly to-day.”

The dearest smile played about his lips as he answered:

“Oh, no. It has been raining hard.”

Another pause ensued, this time a long one; until the baron brought it to a close by saying:

“You are aware that I am very glad to be going to Bosnia?”

I replied:

“Yes, I know; and I know the reason. You have a great work before you there.”

“For the small scope of my office,” he hastened to make reply. “It is just the inferiority of the office I hold which gives a certain importance to the work in hand. At any rate, it must take a long time to settle; and I shall not think of coming home until it is completed.”

“But you will have leave from time to time?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“And you will come and see us?”

“Oh, of course.”

“That will give pleasure to many--to me especially.”

These very natural words of mine seemed to produce a remarkable impression upon him.

With warmth and agitation, he repeated:

“You, especially? you, especially?”

He seemed about to add something, took a step toward me, then recalling himself, preserved silence, merely throwing his gloves impetuously into his hat, which he had placed upon the window-sill. Then I, regaining courage, said: “Do take a seat, Baron Schwarzburg.”

He accepted my invitation, and we sat down on the two easychairs by the flower table, facing each other, near the French window leading on to the balcony.

“How heavy and oppressive the air is in town, now!” he exclaimed.

And I agreed that it would be ever so much pleasanter in the country, and in Bosnia, too.

“Oh, infinitely. And will you be as glad to go into the country as I to go to Bosnia?”

I said yes. And then he wanted a description of my life at Trostburg, and I gave him a detailed account of the way I spent each day. He thanked me warmly. It would be so delightful to know where his thoughts could seek me at every hour of the day; in the woods, in the garden, in my own room, or in the library absorbed in some interesting book. “And be sure that my thoughts will often follow you,” he added.

“I shall count upon that,” was my reply.

“And will you be thinking of me?” He looked into my eyes as he asked it.

With as firm a look, I answered:

“Always.”

Then he seized my hand, and held it nervously, almost as though I were some priceless treasure.

“No, that you must not do! Even to one’s best friend--and that I am to you--one does not give up all one’s thoughts. He will consider himself happy indeed if you occasionally grant him a kindly remembrance.”