Originally published in Saint Pauls (Virtue and Co.) vol.2 #12 (Sep 1868).
III.
As the first day at Waldstadt was, so were those that followed. The only change was that wrought by time in the relations between the two mothers-in-law, whose mutual animosity increased daily. It was a struggle for mastery, in which sometimes one, sometimes the other, had the best of it. His reverence for his mother, his own tastes and early habits, disposed Waldstein to few changes. On the other hand, there was his passion for his wife, and, because of her, his desire to satisfy Mrs. Willington. He was a man who hated strife—indeed, turmoil of any kind; and peace, he began to see, was the one thing he could not obtain. Paris and Baden had been all very well in their way occasionally in his bachelor days; now, to live in his Schloss from one year's end to the other seemed to him the obvious scheme of existence for married folk, to whom "the world" could offer few allurements. No doubt there would be a visit to Kreuznach now and then,—most Germans regard mineral waters as an article of physical faith,—or some such deadly-lively bath, where gambling is not, and pleasure-seekers never resort. Other years, too, there might possibly be a little tour in Switzerland or Tyrol, when he and his Margaret would see the sun rise from mountain-tops, and talk sentiment on moonlit lakes, and live the old brief love-making days over again. Such had been the prospect to which he had looked forward; and now that he drew near to where the reality should be, lo! like the Fata Morgana, the vision melted hourly away. In Mrs. Willington's presence, at least, nothing like it would ever be; and if, under any circumstances, Margaret could have been brought to accept cheerfully the conditions of life he proposed at Schloss Waldstcin, she certainly never would do so as long as her mother was at her side. It was all very easy to say, as the Gräfin did not hesitate to do most decidedly, "Send her away, my son. She is an irreligious, world-loving woman, who corrupts the heart of thy wife. Send her away." But loving her mother as Margaret did, accustomed, as she had been, to regard everything with her mother's eyes, suck a step would have required more force of character than Rudolph von Waldstein possessed. Mrs. Willington's complaints wearied, and her frivolity disgusted him; he generally took refuge in an obstinate silence from her dolorous or angry remonstrances. At the end of the second month he disliked her almost more than his mother did; he longed, with an unutterable longing, to get rid of her, and he did not know how to do it.
One day General von Hanecke came over. It was a blessed break in the day's monotony; he was greeted by Mrs. Willington as he never had been greeted before. She monopolised him; poured forth her lamentations in his ear; informed him, in confidence, that her daughter would certainly never submit to this life for very long; accused Rudolph of indifference to her comfort, and declared that Schloss Waldstein was little better than a prison. As to herself, she said the life was killing her by inches. Had she but known what it was, with that dreadful old woman, in whose hands Rudolph was as dough, nothing should have induced her to consent to the marriage. Why did not General von Hanecke warn her? She had been deceived, too, in fancying her son-in-law to be a much richer man than he was. The stinginess of all the arrangements at the Schloss,—the meanness of that old woman,—were beyond description. In her country, why the poorest lady would be above doing the things this countess did! It was abominable!
Under his well-fed jollity, and apparent indifference to all serious matters, the old General had a reserved stock of good sense, which, like his powder, he was always careful to keep dry. He did not waste it on Mrs. Willington. But he took Waldstein aside before leaving, and, looking gravely in his face, said,—
"There is not room for two suns in the same heaven, lieber Freund."
"What do you mean, General?"
"That either the gracious lady-mother or Frau Willington,—one or other,—will have to leave this house."
"Certainly it will not be my mother," said the Count, with a touch of heat. "No power on earth,—neither wife nor any one else,—should ever get me to turn my mother out of the home which has been hers nearly forty years."
"Then it must be the dear bride's mother, lieber Waldstein, and the sooner the better."
But a month later, when he came again, she was still there; and the last state of that woman was, as he had foreseen, worse than the first. Scenes were of constant occurrence which must have worn out the patience of Job in time; and Waldstein, in spite,—perhaps because,—of his inherent weakness, it must be confessed, had an almost patriarchal measure of that virtue. His mother's righteous wrath, his wife's fears, Mrs. Willington's reproaches, could not have gone on for over. "Gutta cavat lapidem." Some day or other, his anger mastering him, he would have turned the latter lady out of his house, I suppose. It is a pity he did not do so.
Mrs. Willington would voluntarily have withdrawn her forces long since, and have sought for consolation in the Rue de la Paix; but without remittances from America, she found herself constrained to remain where she was; and the remittances did not arrive. Crippled by past extravagance, she must eat the Waldstein bread for the present, and wish, as best she might, for a good time coming. As to altering the state of things at the Schloss, she began almost to despair of it; but she saw a hope of deliverance,—of deliverance for herself and her daughter. Though she wisely said nothing of it, it was this hope which sustained her through the greater part of that dreary winter, passed in the reading of French novels, in correspondence with Paris and New York, in sharp verbal encounters with Madame Mère, and in stirring up her daughter to fearful discontent.
In May Mrs. Willington thought it time that her project should ooze out; for in August Margaret hoped to become a mother. One morning, therefore, finding Rudolph alone, Mrs. Willington opened the campaign, by saying,—
"Dear Margaret is looking very ill. The change in her cannot have escaped you."
Now his wife's pallor and dejection Waldstein had attributed, and so had Madame Mère, quite as much to that constant blister, her mother's tongue, as to her condition.
"I understand that she should be kept as quiet and free from irritating discussion as possible," he said.
"Ah! you may say that! I am sure it is not I who ever wish to have discussions. But if you were only as observant of her as you once were, Rudolph, you would see what it is that is preying on her mind."
He was used to this sort of language now; he was silent, for he was determined he would not do as he was expected, and ask "What?"
"She is very, very nervous about her confinement, Rudolph."
"She ought to take more exercise, Mrs. Willington. She scarcely ever drives with me now; and my mother says—"
"Oh, don't tell me what the Gräfin says, Rudolph. I tell you Margaret is exceedingly weak, and cannot stand the shaking of that carriage of yours."
"She might walk a little."
"No, she cannot walk. The Gräfin is always at her about walking, but her system would kill Margaret at once. Your mother cannot understand a delicate organization like my child's—and fortunately Margaret is not completely under her thumb, to do just as she orders . . . . You might see, indeed, that it is partly a dread of all these violent measures, and all the Gräfin's talk about death, and preparation for another world, that is preying on my child. In short, as the time draws near, she is consumed by a terror of being confined in this out-of-the-way place, with nobody to attend her but that stupid old Doctor Strumpf. She has a presentiment that she will die in his hands."
"There is an eminent surgeon at Constance, whom we can send for."
"But it is not only the surgeon, it is the place—the place and your mother's depressing influence. If she is confined here, she says she knows she shall die."
Waldstein was annoyed and distressed; not that he believed Mrs. Willington implicitly, but that he knew her influence over her daughter, and that if she so willed it, she could succeed in making Margaret seriously nervous and unhappy. He walked away with a sigh: as he invariably did when he wished to terminate a discussion with his mother-in-law.
But the conversation left its mark. Argue as he might to himself about it, the sight of Margaret's worn face and piteous eyes, at times recalled her mother's words in a distressing manner. Mrs. Willington let them work silently, as regarded Rudolph; to her daughter she never ceased to dilate upon the horrors of a long illness, bound hand and foot under the tyranny of Madame Mère, and upon the clumsiness and stupidity of country surgeons.
"What makes thee so mournful, my Margaret?" said Rudolph, as he entered his wife's room one evening, and found her seated by the window, her hands lying listless in her lap, her eyes turned towards the early summer sunset. "Thou should'st not be so sad. Keep up a good courage, and all will go well."
She only shook her head sadly, she did not even turn her face towards him.
"Thou must not let thy mother fill thy head with foolish thoughts and fears," he continued. "It is nonsense."
"It is true," she murmured.
"Margaret, this is all thy mother's doing. I know it. Every child of this family has been born here; dost thou suppose my mother ever went away to be confined? She had seven, of whom I am the last. She would as soon have thought of going to Jerusalem as to Paris when she was to be brought to bed."
"The Gräfin and I are very different," sighed Margaret.
"Then think of all the poor women who, being very little cared for, are safely delivered yearly. Why should'st thou die more than they, Margaret? It is not reasonable. It is giving way to foolish fancies, which may in the end really do thee a mischief."
"It is no use arguing about it. I feel I shall die, if my baby is born here."
"It is nothing but a subterfuge of Mrs. Willington's to get thee to Paris," said Rudolph with impatience, and then added imprudently, "My mother says so, and she is quite right. It would never have entered thine own head."
"Oh, of course the Gräfin will abuse poor mamma, and lay it to her door; we are quite prepared for that."
"I think it would be much happier for us all, Margaret,—for thy mother, no less than for thee and me—if—if—if—she would go to Paris alone."
She turned full upon him, and then burst into tears.
"How can you be so cruel, Rudolph? Isn't it enough that I have no longer any influence with you now? do you wish also to separate me from mamma, and at such a time as this, too? The Gräfin hates me—of course, I know she does; and it is in her hands you want me to be when my time of trouble comes—and you would send poor mamma away. Oh it is cruel!"
"Well, well—say no more about it, Margaret. I really suggested it as much for Mrs. Willington's comfort as our own. She seems to find it so impossible to be happy here."
Margaret dried her eyes, and nothing more was said then. All the evening he was unusually tender in his manner to her; and the next morning she got up in better spirits, and put on a new gown, which had been hanging in the apple-closet all these months.
The Gräfin lifted up her hands and eyes when she appeared.
"What dost thou wear such clothes for here, Margaret? dost thou think to please thy husband by this sinful waste upon thy vile body; and at such a moment as this, too, when thou art especially, so to speak, in the Lord's hand? what are satins and laces compared with the soul?"
"I am sure I don't know, Madame," said Margaret humbly, seeing that she was expected to reply.
"My son, let me tell thee, Margaret, has the fear of the Lord, and the Day of Wrath and Vengeance, ever before his eyes. In that dread day—"
"Oh, please don't, Madame; don't talk like that. The gown was bought with mamma's money; but indeed I don't know why I put it on, for I don't suppose Rudolph cares—no one cares now, I think, what I wear!"
"I should hope not. We are a mass of corruption, and what does it signify what we put on? A little time and we shall be food for the worms: and how, then, Margaret, with the perils of child-bearing before thee, can—"
"Oh! pray, pray don't, Madame. I am weak and nervous, and I can't stand it,—I can't indeed. I'll put on sackeloth if you wish it."
"What ails thee? not godly sorrow for sin, I fear, Margaret; but the mere carnal shrinking from those pains which we are born to suffer. Hast thou read the passages from the 'Commentary on the Romans' which I marked for thee?"
"No, Madame, she has not read them," said Mrs. Willington, who had entered during the last speech. "I took the book away: it seemed to me most uncomfortable reading. She would only have made herself miserable, and for what?"
"'Uncomfortable' and 'for what?'" echoed Madame Mère, literally aghast.
"Yes, for what? It doesn't seem to me, according to your doctrine of predestination, that it much matters what we do, or don't do. If we are to be saved, if we are elect, it's all right, you know; and if not, there's no use in trying, or in making oneself miserable beforehand."
"Such language is impious!" cried the old Gräfin.
"So, I think, is the doctrine, Madame," responded the American lady, imperturbably.
"Those who disbelieve it, without doubt they shall perish everlastingly."
Madame Mère gave this denunciation with great unction, and left the room. She could stand it no longer. This woman was a limb of Satan. Oh, how blind had Rudolph been, to reject that excellent, pious Clara von Hanecke, with her ancient lineage and her fifty thousand thalers, because she was a little plain, and to be caught by a weak, foolish creature, like this Margaret, without fortune or family, all along of her pretty face! It might do very well for her to insinuate to her daughter-in-law that her son was impervious to the lust of the eyes; in her own heart she knew better. Were it not so, this hateful marriage would never have accomplished itself; and Rudolph would have yielded to his mother's wishes in espousing the good Clara. How different all would have been then!
But when she came at last to know that Mrs. Willington had conceived the idea of carrying off her daughter to Paris to be confined, and that there were symptoms of Rudolph yielding, in his love and anxiety for his wife, to this base plot, her indignation was great indeed. It was positively sinful; it was tempting Providence to chastise her heavily. Could not the Lord deliver her as safely in the wild desert, far from all human aid, as with those feeble instruments of his will, the most eminent surgeons in Europe? Nay, was it not absolutely dangerous, in her present condition, to set forth on a long railway journey in the great heats of summer? It was provoking the Lord to visit her with sundry grievous ills. These and other arguments, spiritual and temporal, she visited very severely upon Margaret and her son. With Mrs. Willington she did not vouchsafe to argue now,—giving her over to a reprobate mind beyond the reach of righteous influence. But all she said had little effect on Margaret; so eager was she to escape anywhere—anywhere, so that she could only get away; and the sight of her wan face, and the piteous manner in which she supplicated Rudolph not to insist on her baby being born at Schloss Waldstein, triumphed of course in the end over all the Gräfin's unanswerable arguments.
Towards the end of June they went to Paris, and took an apartment in the Champs Elysées. "Margaret has left that abominable hole," wrote her mother to a dear friend in New York, "and if I have any influence, it will be long—very long, before she sets foot in it again. Count Waldstein has a good fortune, and he ought to live in Paris,—the only place in Europe to live in,—instead of mewing Margaret up in that dull, dreadful place, which was nearly the death of us both during the seven months we were there. If it wasn't for that dreadful old woman, his mother, he would be very easy to manage. As it is, now that we have got away from her, I mean that Margaret shall keep away. We shall see which is stronger, the old Gräfin or I."
IV.
In the beginning of August a boy was born to the young Graf and Gräfin von Waldstein. Rudolph found himself very miserable in Paris in those days. When his natural rejoicing over the birth of a son, and the safety of Margaret, had a little subsided, he began to pine for the vineyards and farms, the pine-woods and fish-streams of his country, and to find the broiling, deserted capital,—his few acquaintances were "aux eaux,"—insupportable. He was told that Margaret must be kept quiet. One or two peeps of her during the day was all that his mother-in-law allowed him. He had nothing to do. He wandered to and fro upon the burning asphalt, and ate ices at every second café he came to, and went into stifling theatres to rush out gasping, and drive to the Bois for a mouthful of fresh night-air. He anathematised the fair city, and vowed that, once quit of it, nothing should bring him here again for a very long time. A summons requiring his instant presence at Schloss Waldstein came opportunely, just as his impatience at Margaret's prolonged state of convalescence and his weariness of Paris had reached their climax.
She had been confined nearly three weeks when he received a telegram one morning. His mother was alarmingly,—almost hopelessly ill. An hour later he was in the mail train on his way to Strasburg.
"God bless thee, my darling!" he said, as he pressed Margaret in his arms. "Make haste and get strong, and come back to me. I am very sad at heart. I tremble to think of my good mother,—my dear, wise counsellor. What should I do without her? I pray God I may find her out of danger."
The baby was brought in, and the father took up the little creature in his arms.
"He has your eyes," whispered Margaret with a smile. "But if the Gräfin recovers,—as I hope she soon may,—you must come back to me at once, Rudolph, for I shall be so desolate without you; and baby will grow out of your recollection if you are too long away."
There was the slightest shade crossed his brow.
"I hope to see you both at Waldstein,—thou and baby, my dearest, very soon. The mamma will, no doubt, remain here awhile. It would be too hard to force our quiet life again upon her so soon. I have only just time to catch the train. I must be off, my darling." And laying the child down, he threw his arms once more round his wife, and ran down-stairs.
In the grey of the summer's morning he drove up the little street of Waltstadt, and looked at the windows of the distant Schloss, and felt a sinking at heart. What if he should, indeed, be too late; and it should be all over with her? What if she should have passed away without laying her hand upon his head, and giving him her last blessing? Such autocrats as Madame Mère are loved very faithfully, we see sometimes, by natures like her son's. He had passed a sleepless night, during which he had often remembered bitterly that but for Mrs. Willington he would now be at his mother's bedside. As he drove into the courtyard two of the old servants came to the door to meet him. He stretched his head out of the window: he could not speak. "The gracious lady" was better within the last few hours. He jumped from the carriage, and ran into the house. He found Strumpf, who corroborated the assurance that the gracious lady's illness had taken a favourable turn. He did not apprehend now any immediate danger, and Rudolph was ushered into his mother's room. She received him calmly, and in a voice very little weakened by illness.
"It has pleased the Lord to spare me yet a little. I-was prepared to go; but His will be done. Thou did'st well to return, Rudolph; but why not thy wife? When do she and the child follow thee? The beds are aired, and there is a roe fresh killed in the larder, for I looked that they should come with thee."
He was rather startled by this sudden return to the practical concerns of life from the lips of one whom he had regarded so lately as a dying woman; and he replied, with some hesitation, "Margaret is too weak to travel at present; indeed, I was too anxious about you, mother, to make any definite arrangements for her return home."
Madame Mère justified her doctor's and her own confident assertion that she was out of immediate danger; but her illness assumed a very grave complexion, for all that. It became apparent, after a few days, that there was organic disease, which threatened to transform the active, energetic old woman into a confirmed invalid. The powers of her mind were unimpaired, and she showed herself of wonderful courage, treating the matter with indifference when the doctor spoke openly to her of her condition. It was no doubt a sore trial to be told that she would be unable, henceforward, to go about as she had hitherto done; but she bore it with Spartan fortitude. Her son was with her; it was more to her than she would own; she had him for the present all to herself, and it was very sweet. It could not last long, she knew; but it was a bit of the old times, when her sway was paramount and undisputed; and she was determined to make the most of it while it lasted.
At the end of a fortnight he wrote to Margaret thus:—
"My mother is in too precarious a state for me to think of leaving her. Though Strumpf does not think there is any longer any immediate danger, her condition is very critical. A sudden attack, in her enfeebled state, must prove fatal; and I fear she will never regain the use of her limbs. Under these circumstances, dearest Margaret, I hope to hear that the doctors now think you strong enough to bear the journey,—as you have been out driving, you tell me,—and that you will lose no time, but set off at once, under Carl's care, who will see to everything on the journey, so that you will have no trouble. I should, of course, return for you myself; but I see that the idea of my leaving her just now annoys my mother, and might aggravate her malady so seriously, that I have no choice but to give it up. You and baby, with your maids, will have a carriage to yourselves, and sleep at Strasburg; and I can meet you the next day half-way between that and this, returning here the same evening. I will give Carl full instructions."
Margaret did not reply to this letter for two or three days; and then she took no notice of the main point in it. The omission, which was enforced by Mrs. Willington, was, however, fully, perhaps too fully, supplied by that lady herself. She wrote,—
"It is not to be thought of that our dear Margaret should travel for some time to come yet. She requires the tenderest care and nursing, which she cannot have at Schloss Waldstein,—especially now that the Gräfin herself is ill. She pines to be with you, or rather, for you to be with her, since the bare idea of your Schloss just now, in her delicate state, is depressing; and it is absolutely essential that, for the present, she should be surrounded by everything that is cheerful. I am sure, therefore, that you will make a point of returning to her here as soon as possible. Baby grows very fast, and every one declares he is the very image of you.
"Always, my dear Rudolph, your affectionate
"Caroline Willington."
When the husband read this cool note he was very angry. Madame Mère happened to be much better that day, and Rudolph was for setting off instantly to Paris and bringing back his wife, in spite of doctors, mother-in-law, and all. But the Gräfin was too wise to permit this. She knew what the result would be; the two women would infallibly get round him, and, with the Doctor's aid perhaps, cajole him into remaining at Paris. She knew her son; indeed, if she did not, who should? She dictated a letter for him,—a firm but temperate letter, a very model in its way. It was addressed to his wife, and ignored Mrs. Willington's letter altogether, which exasperated that lady exceedingly.
"So it is to be a guerre à outrance between us, is it?" she murmured, as she tossed aside the letter. "So be it, mon cher. The letter is your mother's; of course I know that, and she shall find I am not to be treated thus with impunity. Margaret shall not leave Paris."
A day or two after, Margaret, moved by a sudden impulse, which not even her mother was able to restrain, wrote a long, troubled, affectionate letter to her husband, praying of him to come to her, and promising to return home with him as soon as she was a little stronger. There was a great deal about her baby, a great deal about her own feelings at being away from Rudolph, and of her poor dear mamma's, at the prospect of being parted from her only child. She entreated him not to be angry with her, for, she assured him, she was not strong enough to travel yet,—least of all, by herself. Whatever effect this might have produced on Waldstein was neutralised by a second epistle from his mother-in-law. In it, after animadverting sharply upon his contemptuous treatment of her former letter, she went on to say that the term for which Rudolph had taken the apartment having expired, she had renewed it for three months, as it was out of the question her daughter's returning to Schloss Waldstein until she was stronger. Let Rudolph come and see her, and judge for himself. She was very weak and hysterical, and his protracted absence tried her severely. It was necessary to try and distract her thoughts,—to rouse her, in short. Therefore Mrs. Willington had begun to be "at home" of an evening to the few friends who had returned to Paris.
Thereupon Rudolph lost all patience, and wrote angrily to his wife, bidding her remember that her first duty now was to her husband, and not to her mother. "In the old school, in which I have been bred, wives are still subject to their husbands. Probably in America, under the new system, you have changed all that. I must remind you, however, that you have married a German, not an American. I trust you enjoy your daily drives and evening parties; and it is a pity, as you are strong enough to amuse yourself thus, that you should think you are still too weakly,—your baby being nearly three months old,—to undertake this short journey! My returning for you is impossible. My mother has had another very alarming attack; I cannot leave her." He concluded thus:—"As to Mrs. Willington, I decline to have any further communication with her. I cannot prevent her writing to me, but I shall not answer her letters; and I wish her to understand that it is impossible I should again receive under my roof a person who incites my wife to open disobedience." This was strong language, and it was his own; though, of course, it was Madame Mère who roused him into this attitude of open defiance to Mrs. Willington.
"Be firm, my son. Give way now, and it is all up with thee. Go to Paris, and thou mightest as well sell this, thy old home, at once. Thou wilt be under the thumb of those two for evermore; and she, this misguided Margaret, will never again be thy wife in duty and submission. Be firm now, and she must yield, my son."
Then Rudolph wrote that letter, in which he made the most of, and intrenched himself behind, a slight relapse the Gräfin had had, in his sore dread of being thought to be "under the thumb" of his wife and his wife's mother. Like many a weak man, he resented the shadow while submitting to the substance. He became more and more subject to the will of Madame Mère. An unfortunate rejoinder of Margaret's, in which, stung by what he had written of her mother, she recriminated in no measured terms, setting forth all she had suffered at the Gräfin's hands, was the beginning of a correspondence in which, unhappily, both writers had a prompter at hand, urging them "not to give way," if they wished for ultimate happiness; and very bitter things were said on both sides, which it was hard to forget or to forgive. Yet the young wife loved her husband passionately all this time, and, but for the evil counseller at her side, would, over and over again, have run and fallen upon his neck and confessed her fault, and humbled herself. So he, too, though the man's character was more obstinate and unforgiving,—the two fatal strong points of weakness,—so he, too, would have been tempted more than once to condone past offences, and fly to his wife's arms, but for the iron grasp which held him back. And thus gradually, by brooding over his wrongs, an implacable feeling grew up; a settled hostility became the habitual attitude of his mind in thinking of Margaret. He loved her very deeply and faithfully still; no other woman could ever take Margaret's place in his heart; but she had hurt him,—hurt the better as well as the worse parts of his nature, and he felt that she should be made to suffer.
A year, a whole year, passed thus: the erring wife ill at ease in heart and conscience, though now taking part in all the gay society of Paris, with which her mother surrounded her. She found no real pleasure in it; but she met with a great deal of admiration, and it was better than being alone; she was so miserable when forced back upon her own thoughts. If Rudolph suffered no less, at least he had the satisfaction of believing that he was acting on the highest moral principles, and that any other line of conduct would be miserably weak, undignified, and futile. He had now, for some four or five months past, declined to send Margaret any more money for herself or the child, which, during all the earlier period of their separation, he had regularly done; but this attempt to starve the fortress into submission did not seem likely to be successful. From what source Mrs. Willington derived the funds to live as she was doing, Waldstein could not guess, knowing as he did of her money difficulties not long before.
"And so you saw her several times? Tell me all about her, General. How did she look? What did she say about me?"
He had ridden over thirty miles to see General von Hanecke, who was just returned from Paris.
"One thing at a time, lieber Freund. How did she look? Beautiful. She goes out every night, and is surrounded by Frenchmen. She laughs and looks gay enough, too; but it's all hollow. Depend on it, if it wasn't for that she-wolf, she would be back with you tomorrow."
"Is not that a proof how little she cares for me? To be kept away by a mother!"
The old soldier pursed his lips, and could scarce forbear a smile, though he was really interested in his friend's matrimonial affairs.
"You should have married Clara,—you really should. In the first place, she has no mother . . . However, there is no use in crying over spilt milk. You ask what she said about you? Well, of course, she declared you had behaved cruelly to her; of course she said that you thought more of the gracious lady your mother than you did of her,—that she kept you away. But she asked so many questions—she was so much moved when she spoke of you, that I saw well how the matter stood."
"Kept away by my mother! I like that! Look at this letter—this last letter of hers! Did you ever read such a composition? Do you suppose that after speaking of my mother, of my family, and home, in the way she does—"
"It is the she-wolf's writing, lieber Freund; it is not your Margaret's, depend on it. Separate her from the she-wolf, as I said before, and all will be well between you."
"It is very easy to say that. Doesn't she tell me here, that unless I retract what I said concerning her mother, and consent to welcome her back to my house, she herself will never return? Think of that from a wife!—instead of her apologising to me for her language! It is monstrous! It wouldn't be believed in a book!"
"No," said the General, drawing a long puff at his pipe, "it wouldn't be believed. Clara wouldn't have written like that; but then women are different,—they are very strange animals, all of them. You have heard of Mrs. Willington's good fortune?" Waldstein shook his head. "An old uncle died in America, some four months ago, leaving her a very large property. There is some little difficulty about it, which may entail her having to go over to America; but, in the meantime, she has taken a larger apartment in Paris on the strength of it, and entertains largely. Yes, women are strange animals!"
Waldstein ground his teeth: the secret of both mother's and daughter's independence, since he had stopped the supplies, was at last explained. He rode home in a worse frame of mind than he had come in. Was ever a husband placed in a more wretched and perplexing position? He loved her; in spite of everything, he loved her still, and she was his by law. Should he try, and have recourse to it, for a restitution of his conjugal rights? What was he to do? How long was this state of things to go on? Wounded love and pride cried aloud,—rage and mortification kept repeating that, in one way or another, there must speedily be an end to this shameful scandal.
And now, as though fuel were wanting to the flame which daily waxed fiercer round Margaret's name, a report reached Madame Mère's ears that a certain Monsieur de Boisjelin was making her daughter-in-law the object of such marked attentions as to attract observation. The lovely Madame de Waldstein, who was virtually a widow, since her husband had abandoned her,—thus ran a certain version of her story,—did nothing to discourage her French admirer; though it was admitted that she never showed any marked preference for him. But then her love of admiration, her restless search after excitement was such, it was urged, as might lead her to the commission of any folly, even where her heart remained untouched. These words did not fall, I am afraid, upon unwilling ears; though Madame Mère was, of course, piously horrified, shocked, and indignant. Over and above her morality in the abstract, too, there was her morality of pride, as the Gräfin von Waldstein. The possibility of such a stain as this attaching to the name of her son's wife was very grievous; but she was not unready to give it credence. She had long thought of Margaret as a vain, heartless, unprincipled woman. She could not conceive that a wife, leading the life Margaret was doing away from her husband, and in obstinate defiance of his wishes, could be anything else; and it was thus she spoke of her in conversation with her son. And now this rumour was come to confirm all her suspicions, and she could no longer feel a scruple,—if any restrained her heretofore,—in urging her son to separate himself for ever from his godless wife, unless she was minded instantly to return, an abject and penitent sheep, into the fold of Schloss Waldstein. I believe she regarded Margaret's conduct at this time as a special dispensation of Providence, provided for her son's emancipation.
In the autumn of that year Mrs. Willington found, as Von Hanecke had told Rudolph, that her presence was necessary in America; and she told her daughter that her only course was to accompany her.
"As to giving in to that obstinate husband of yours now, my darling, it would be folly—worse than folly. When he hears that we have sailed—actually sailed—and are across the Atlantic, he will be in a fine way, depend on it! We shall very soon bring him to his senses. He will follow us to New York at once; mark my words if he doesn't. And, at all events, we shall be back here early in the spring. Your remaining here alone by yourself isn't to be thought of. It would never do. No, you have no choice but to accompany me, or to return to Schloss Waldstein, and lick the dust off that old witch's feet. And a fine time you will have of it, my poor child, for the remainder of your life, treated like a galley-slave, as you will be! I say nothing of myself."
"I think," sobbed Margaret, "I shouldn't mind any—any—anything now so much,—I think I could even stand the old Gräfin, if only Rudolph would apologise about you, mamma."
"That he will never do at Schloss Waldstein, my darling. He may, when we can get him to listen to reason between us; but with his mother at his side, he will never give in about me,—always look at me with a jaundiced eye, depend on it."
The weak, misguided Margaret, with a heavy heart, took her boy up in her arms, and followed her mother across the sea. And when news of this last act of defiance to her husband reached the Schloss, the waves of wrath and indignation, which had been long gathering, reared themselves into one mighty wall, and broke over her fair, foolish head. But before this, a last and solemn appeal was still made by the irritated husband, who was now almost beside himself; and this letter was put into Margaret's hand soon after her landing at New York. She was miserable; she sobbed for days over it; she wrote a dozen letters and tore them all up; and then the mother said, "Leave it unanswered. In a month he will be at your feet." But two months, and then three, and then four crept by, without a word, without a sign of life. The most vehement anger, the most stinging reproach would have been preferable to this silence. She grew thin and pale; she fell ill, and her mother became alarmed,—for her daughter's beauty, which she prized so dearly, was impaired. And then, one morning, came a letter, directed to Margaret, in a strong, lawyer-like hand; the reading of which letter to the end she did not accomplish until long afterwards, for, after the first few lines, she fell like a stone upon the floor; and this was followed by a brain-fever, in which she hung, during many days, between life and death, and was for weeks incapable of the smallest mental exertion. The letter ran thus:—
"Madam,
"I am instructed by my client, the Count von Waldstein, to inform you that, having abandoned all hope of bringing you to see your duty as a wife, and feeling that the unhappy differences between you will only increase with time, he has felt it to be his duty, as much for your happiness as his own, to release you from a tie which has proved so irksome to you, and to sue for a divorce, which the laws of this country accord without difficulty, as you are doubtless aware, in such cases. Of course it is possible for you to appeal against this; but the Count has little doubt that your inclinations,—as shown by your conduct,—will not dispose you to do so; and were it otherwise, any professional adviser whom you may consult will instruct you that, after your repeated and resolute refusal to return to the Count's roof, such appeal would be unavailing. The Count desires, further, to inform you that should you consent to your infant son being given up into his care now, he is ready to take him. You are doubtless aware that after his fourth year the child can be legally claimed by his father. Should you put any difficulties in the way of this, by concealing him in America, the Count will relinquish all interest or moral responsibility in his son's future. No attempt will be made to interfere with his legal inheritance to the title and estates; but that portion of his property which is in the Count's own power to dispose of he will devise away from his son, should you offer any obstruction to the child's being given up to his father on the completion of his fourth year."
When Margaret was able, after many months, to be brought to Europe, a friend met her at Liverpool. He came to break the fact to her that, according to German law, she was no longer the wife of the Count von Waldstein. She was once more Margaret Willington.
V.
On a golden summer's evening, some years after the events just recorded, one of those rattling glass vehicles, with a hump of luggage on their backs, which are common throughout Germany, drove up the steep street of Waldstadt, and stopped at the only Gast-haus of the town. The carriage was thickly powdered over with fine white dust from the roads, which had not seen a shower now for some weeks. Its occupants,—a lady in mourning, with a handsome boy of eight or nine, and a maid,—had evidently suffered a good deal from the heat. The lady, indeed, seemed in delicate health. She kept her veil down, so that it was not possible to see her face; but her step as she got out was feeble, and she held fast by the child's hand, as though she found some support there, and dreaded to lose it. The boy stretched his little legs when he found himself on terra-firma, and showed by his wonderful contortions that his small limbs had been cramped for some hours in that hot, dusty carriage.
The best rooms cf the "Schwartze Adler" were unlocked, the hermetically-closed shutters and windows opened, and a close smell of feather-beds and deal furniture permitted to escape. The child had his supper, the maid had hers; the lady sent down, untasted, the food that was brought her. She sat away from the light, her head resting between her two hands, each time the Kelner entered the room. And the boy ran about, clambered up the wardrobe, got a-straddle the great black stove, and indulged in a variety of pastimes testifying generally to the soundness of his lungs and limbs.
"Look, mamma! here I am in the castle. I've taken it from the great big giant who lives here, and I've cut off his head. Why don't you look, mamma? Down there, on the chest of drawers, is where the princess lives. I'm going to carry her off. Do look, mamma!"
The pale lady raised her head from time to time and smiled; and once, when she so looked up, the tears were in her eyes; but the child did not see them. At last, the young gentleman declared he was sleepy; the maid came, and he went to bed. He slept in his mother's room; and here, presently, when the sky was quite dark, and the stars grew thick above the red gables on the opposite side of the narrow Village street, shedding their tender light through the lattice of the little room, she came softly and knelt with the child beside his bed, and listened while he prayed that God would bless dear papa. And when the golden head was laid upon its pillow, and the heavy lids closed over the blue, dreamful eyes, the mother stayed there yet awhile upon her knees, and prayed her own prayer to her heavenly Father. Not for herself; the time was past now when she could ask for anything in this world but strength to bear the cross laid upon her. And now, poor soul! that she was about voluntarily to add fourfold to that heavy burthen, her thought, her prayer, was not for herself,—not that the cup might be taken from her, but that, by drinking it to the very bitter lees, she might further her child's welfare in this world and in the next.
After this she rose, and drawing the veil about her face, crept downstairs, and through the archway out into the quiet, star-lit street. One or two women with their children at open doors, one or two husbandmen returning from their labour afar off in the hills, turned round to look at the tall, slight figure in black as it glided by. Then she came upon the white hill-side road, with the dusty vines to right and left, and she was alone. A single light twinkled from one of the windows of the Schloss; the outline of its towers showed dim against the clear, dark summer night. A little more than half-way up the hill the wanderer turned her feeble steps in among the vines to the left, where, some three hundred yards distant, the garden-wall came down in terraces, and was washed, so to speak, by the great sea of green at its feet. As she tottered on, faint and thirsting, between the grapes, some half ripened, some already purple, she plucked a bunch, and put it to her lips. "It would not have been theft once," she murmured.
As she drew near to the foot of the garden wall the sound of voices fell upon her ear. She had thought that at this hour, under cover of the darkness, she was safe; and might yield to the weakness, the longing which was at her heart, once more to behold that old terrace-walk, associated as it was with some of the few happy hours in her short life. She shrank back; then suddenly, as the voice of one of the speakers fell upon her ear, she pressed her two hands against her heart, and half crouched, half sank upon the ground. She could not have gone a step farther had her life depended on it. She did not faint, but her heart seemed to stop beating, and she could neither see nor hear for some minutes. At last, she was conscious of another voice,—a voice she did not know: she could divine but too well, however, to whom it belonged, and she shivered. With the blue vault of heaven and its myriad stars above her head, the poor stricken creature lay, and saw the dim outline of two figures against the sky, and heard the sound of their slow-pacing feet upon the gravel. There, upon that very walk, where tenderest words had once been breathed into her ear, she heard the same lips breathe like language to another. She had exiled herself from Paradise, and she was standing now before the gate which was for ever closed on her in this world.
Said the man's voice,—
"Who can believe that it is five years? Would that my mother had lived to see how happy the marriage she planned has been for me, Clara!"
"She was very good to me," replied a pleasant voice. "All the same, my dear Rudolph, I am not sure that we should have been as happy had the good mother been living with us."
"Ah," sighed the husband, who was pursuing his own train of ideas, "had I followed her advice I should have been spared the three most painful years of my life, and six happy ones would have been added to it."
"You know you would not look at me for ever so long," laughed the lady, good-humouredly. Then, changing her tone, she added,—"Ah! though I owe your mother a great debt of gratitude, yet nevertheless, my dear, I always feel for your poor Margaret. I often think whether even I, with my German training, and rigid, old-world ideas, could have stood the excellent mother's iron dominion here. I never was tried, you know, as she died so soon after our marriage; but when I remember that your Margaret had, besides, a foolish mother—"
"By-the-bye, your uncle mentions her death in his letter to-day. She died at Paris, it seems, some weeks ago. I have never been able until now, Clara, to hear her name without impatience; but she is gone, and so let her memory rest. I forgive her all the wrong she did me. I think she must have repented of it herself before she died."
They walked to the farther end of the terrace in silence. As they came back the wife stopped, and exclaimed,—
"See the moon just appearing over the edge of the hill yonder, Rudolph! What a night it is! Are we not better here than in Stutgardt, where the good Queen would have us? For my part, I regret nothing at Court. You say you think it right that I should go there occasionally; but I should be quite content myself never to leave our old home."
"Ah, it is well for us to go away sometimes, my wife, if it be only to enjoy the pleasure of our return,—of our solitude. In great crowds two hearts can never hear each other beat in perfect unison, I think."
Did he recall the morning, nearly ten years ago, when he uttered those same words, standing on that very spot? No; but one who heard him remembered them only too well. In spite of herself, a moan, like the faint cry of a wounded bird, broke from her lips as she lay there.
"What was that? Did you hear nothing down there among the vines? It sounded to me like the feeble wail of an infant."
"Would that it were an omen, my Clara," said the husband, gently. "But Heaven, no doubt, sees fit to deny us that blessing, lest we should be too happy."
The trembling woman, whose head was bowed upon her breast, heard the kiss which followed, and lifted up her eyes. The moon, which had now fully risen from behind the shoulder of the hill, shone bright upon Clara's face. It was a broad, sweet, kindly face; but there was no beauty that a man should desire. The goodness of soul that shone out through that plain-mask was its sole attraction. And,—alas! for poor human nature!—even in that hour, when all was at an end for her, when she knew that all earthly things were fading fast away, a gleam of consolation shot across the desolate woman's heart: "At least, I had something once which she has not." But the next moment the miserable triumph gave place to a purer and nobler satisfaction. "She is a good woman. I read it in her face,—her words confirm it. O God! I thank thee for that."
The husband and wife turned slowly towards the house; and for an hour or more the unhappy creature lay there in the vineyard, utterly prostrate and motionless, save for the low sob which ever and anon broke from her: "O Lord! give me strength,—give me strength! Make me ready for the sacrifice,—even of my son, O Lord!" And He who spared Abraham's sacrifice spared hers.
It was very late when she reached the inn,—she could hardly drag her feeble steps so far. The maid was alarmed when she saw her face, which was like that of the dead; and ran down-stairs, shrieking, for a doctor. The long-ago-despised Strumpf came; so doth fate sometimes avenge us. He sat up with her the remainder of that night, which he hardly thought she could live through. It seemed as though the springs of life had suddenly snapped,—whatever may have been the learned name the doctor gave the disease. She was utterly exhausted, yet her stomach refused food; even the stimulants given to her she could scarcely swallow. Late the next day, as Rudolph returned from a long drive with his wife, a letter was put into his hand. The messenger had been waiting some time, and said the matter was urgent. It came from the sick lady at the inn. The Count started as he looked at the superscription, and changed colour. Then he broke the seal with no steady hand, and turned into his own room to read the letter. It contained these few words,—
"A contrite woman supplicates you to come and speak to her before she dies. She did not come here for this, Rudolph,—to trouble you in her last hour; but to accomplish a purpose which she prays earnestly she may see effected before she leaves the world. And the doctor says she has not many hours to live."
Half an hour later Waldstein stood by the bedside of her whom he had once loved so well. He was shocked and deeply affected at the sight. In the wreck before him the beautiful Margaret was scarcely recognisable. Strange to say, she whose agony had been so poignant a few hours previous was now far calmer than he was. In this one might see that the hand of peace-restoring Death was upon her. The boy, in a passion of tears, was flung at the foot of the bed; the maid, too, was weeping bitterly. The good doctor stood there, and, as Count von Waldstein entered, poured something down the throat of the fast-sinking lady, to enable her to go through the interview upon which all her thoughts were fixed. Then he and the maid withdrew.
She held out her hand.
"I am glad you are come. It makes my going so much easier,—so much happier; though I have written it all,—all I had to say,—here." $he laid her hand upon a thick letter by her side. "And I never doubted but that you would fulfil that wish, at least. Darling boy, look up. Here is that papa, for whom you have prayed night and morning, come at last!"
"If he is come to take you," said the boy, looking up through his tears into the stranger's face, "I don't want him. He shan't take you away, mother."
She closed her eyes for a moment: there was a sting in the words the child little guessed.
"It is not papa,—it is God who is taking me away, my boy. Rudolph, this is your first-born,—your only one. Take him, and be a father to him."
"I will," murmured Waldstein, with averted face.
"Do not visit my sins upon the child," she continued. "There is nothing about him that need ever remind you of me; it has made him doubly dear to me that he was so like you. And since it has not pleased God to bless your wife with a child, she will be as a mother to this one,—I know she will. I was in the vineyard last night, and heard her words. She has a good and tender heart; and if I hesitated before to entrust my child to her keeping, I need do so no longer."
"She has always spoken compassionately of you, Margaret, and as I promise you solemnly for myself, so I can undertake for her, that the child shall be henceforward as our own."
She stopped for breath, and then gasped out,—
"I came here, meaning to ask you to take my darling; and then to go away, in my solitude, heart-broken. He was the only thing I had on earth, and I resolved, for his sake, to make the sacrifice. Why should I any longer stand between him and you,—between him and his future? But God was merciful, Rudolph,—it has pleased Him to spare me this. I am happy to go,—very happy. My life, though short, has been sad enough. I have nothing to regret in leaving it, since I was to be parted from my darling. And now,—while I can still see you, still hear your voice,—will you say that you forgive me, Rudolph?"
He was on his knees beside her. She felt the hot tears on her hand as he pressed it to his lips.
"My poor Margaret, we have both much need of forgiveness. I was much to blame,—perhaps more than you. I know it now. I will not speak of others. We will not try to cast the burden of our faults upon other shoulders in this solemn moment. Rather, let us ask God to forgive us our sins to Him, as we forgive our sins to one another."
Then his strong, tremulous voice rose in humble prayer to the Father of Mercies, echoed by the faint whispers of the dying woman.
Before night there fell a great peace and stillness upon that little room; and the child was sleeping, wearied out with sobs, in the Countess's dressing-room in Schloss Waldstein.
Reader, I myself have seen some of the persons about whom I have here written. Years have passed since I stood upon that terrace, and, looking down into the vineyard below, thought upon these things: how folly and weakness work more evils in the world than wickedness itself; and how quickly a great happiness, which would have weathered the rudest storms of fate, may founder upon shores where no rock is to be seen.