The sun was setting, and its last rays fell glowing upon the Princess and the head of the scholar. Sweetly sounded the song of the nightingale among the elder-bushes; the Professor stood silent opposite the beautiful woman who painted life to him in such rosy colors; his heart beat and his strength failed him. He saw before him two eloquent eyes, and the sound of the entreating words, "Remain with us," rang with entrancing magic once more in his ear.
Something rustled near the Princess; the leaves of the manuscript which she had taken fell to the ground. The Professor bent down to pick them up, and as he raised himself again began, in a feeble tone:
"Your Highness takes a bright look into the future; my eye is accustomed only to read single lines in the history of past ages. Here lies my first task; my dreams hover about these leaves. I am only a man of the study, and I should become less were I to endeavor to become more. I know that I deprive myself of much, and in this hour, when a vision of a brilliant life shines before me so invitingly, I feel this more deeply than ever. But my greatest happiness must be, from within quiet walls, to impress upon the souls of others what will there blossom and bear fruit. My greatest reward must also be that in hours of triumph, when filled with the consciousness of power, some pupil of mine will give a fleeting thought to the far-distant teacher, who has been but one among the thousands that have formed him, but one among the many sowers in the limitless fields of science."
Thus spoke the scholar. But while speaking, with a severe struggle for composure, what was true and honorable, he did not think only of the truth, nor only of the treasure which he was seeking, but of the greater one which he had left in order to pursue his quest with the beautiful fairy of the tower. He heard the beseeching words, "Do not go, Felix," and they were a timely warning. "When I return to her, will she be contented with me?" thought the innocent man. He was spared the necessity of asking the question.
The rolling of a carriage was heard below, and the steps of the servant who was coming to announce an arrival.
"Is your will so inflexible, your intention so firm!" exclaimed the Princess, passionately. "But I am also obstinate; I shall continue my entreaties. War between us two, Mr. Werner! Farewell, till evening."
She hastened down the steps. The evening light disappeared behind dark clouds; the mist hovered over the meadows and hung on the tops of the trees; and the daws flew croaking round the walls of the tower. The door of the room above creaked on its hinges, and the Castellan rattled his keys, while the scholar looked lovingly at the leaves which he held in his hand.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
ILSE'S FLIGHT
Ilse was awakened by her husband's parting kiss; she sat at her bed-side and listened to the sound of the rolling wheels.
"This has been a fearful night," she said; "after tears and anguish there came bad dreams. I was hanging over a precipice; from the depth below, concealed by fogy arose the noise of a waterfall. Felix standing above, held me by a handkerchief; his strength was giving way; I felt that, but I had no anxiety about it in my dream. I wished that Felix would let me go, and not sink with me. Pass away in peace, my dream, to thy portals of ivory; thou wast a good dream, and I have no cause to be ashamed of thee.
"He is on his journey, and I am alone. No, my Felix, you are with me, even when I do not hear your voice. Yesterday I was angry with you; I am sorry for it. I bear you within me, just as you have taught me, that the soul of man passes into and rests in others. That part of Felix which I preserve within me I will keep honorably, and quietly cherish in this hateful house."
She opened the curtains.
"It will be a gloomy day again; the finches are already sitting at the window, crying for the dilatory woman who has slept beyond the breakfast hour of her little ones. Outside all is in bloom, and the large leaves of the Schubart-plant blow about joyously in the moist air. But this rain will be more than my father likes; the seed will suffer. The good God cannot please us all at the same time; we are indeed covetous.
"At home they gossip about me; my neighbor did not say the worst that she knew. I have not been used to this. When I became the wife of my Felix I thought myself raised above all the meanness of the world, but I now feel its sting in my soul."
She passed her hand over her eyes.
"No tears to-day?" she cried springing up. "When my thoughts course wildly through my brain I will prove to myself that I have something of the scholar's character in me, and will calmly look into my own heart and quiet its beatings by prudent reflection. When he first came to our house, and the noble spirit of his conversation aroused me, his image pursued me into my room. I took a book, but I did not know what I read; I took up my accounts, but I could not put two and two together; I observed that all was confusion within me. Yet it was wrong to think thus about a man who was still a stranger to me. Then in my anguish I went into the nursery, tidied all my brother's and sister's things, and saw whether the boy's clothes needed mending. I was then a regular home body. Ah, I am so still; I hope it will help me now. I will put all my things together for I feel as if I should take a journey to-day, and that it will be well to have all prepared."
She opened the closet, drew out her trunk, and packed it.
"But where to?" she asked herself. "Far away? How long it is since I had wings like a swallow, and could gaily fly with my thoughts into foreign parts! And now the wings of the poor little swallow are broken. I sit alone on my branch; I would gladly conceal myself in the leaves, and I dread the fluttering and the chattering of my neighbors."
She supported her weary head with her hands.
"Where should I go to?" she sighed; "not to my father; nor could I now look with pleasure on mountains and old monuments. How can one have a heart for the forms of nature and the achievements of past nations when one's own life is racked and disturbed?
"My Felix said that one should always consider oneself the child of the whole human race, and be elevated by the high thought that millions of the dead and living are united to us in an indissoluble unity. But who of those who were and are about me will relieve my tormented soul of the pangs that constantly trouble me? Who will deliver me from dissatisfaction with myself and from fear about the future? Ah me! It may be a teaching to inspire man in hours of exaltation, when calmly contemplating all about him, but for him who is writhing in torment and affliction, the teaching is too high, too high!"
She took from the shelf her little Bible, which had been given her by the good Pastor on her departure from her father's house, and drew it out of its cover. "I have long neglected to read you, dear book, for when I open your pages I feel as if I had two lives; the old Ilse revives who once trusted in your words; and then again I see myself, like my husband, criticizing many passages, and asking myself whether what I find in you is according to my reason. I have lost my childish faith, and what I have gained instead gives me no certainty. When I fold my hands in prayer, as I did when I was a child, I know that I dare pray for nothing but strength to overcome, by my own exertion, what now casts down my spirit."
The gardener entered the room, as he did every morning, with a basket of flowers which the lord of the castle sent her. Ilse rose and pointed to the table.
"Set it down," she said, coldly, without touching the basket.
She had, at other times, frequently expressed to the man her pleasure in the beautiful flowers he had cultivated. It had always given him pain that the illustrious personages of the castle never noticed his rare plants, and he had been so pleased with the warm interest taken by the strange lady that he brought the flowers every morning himself, and pointed out to her the new favorites of the conservatory; he had cut for her the best he had.
"The others do not notice them," he would say; "and she remembers the Latin names too."
He now placed the basket of flowers down with a feeling of mortification.
"There are some new specimens of the calceolaria," he began, reproachfully; "they are of my own raising: you will not see others of this kind."
Ilse felt the disappointment of the gardener. She approached the table, and said:
"They are indeed very beautiful; but flowers, dear sir, require a light heart, and that I have not now. I have ill repaid your kindness to-day; but you must not be angry with me."
"If you would only look at the grey-spotted ones," exclaimed the gardener, with the enthusiasm of an artist; "these are my pride, and are not to be had anywhere else in the world."
Ilse admired them.
"I had taken great pains for many years," continued the gardener. "I had done all I could to obtain good seed, but only common ones came; after I had almost lost courage, the new kinds blossomed all in one year. It was not my art," he added, honestly: "it is a secret of nature; she has given me good fortune, and relieved me from my cares all at once."
"But you took pains and did your best," answered Ilse; "when one does thus, one may trust to the good spirit of life."
The gardener went away appeased; Ilse looked at the flowers.
"Even he who sent you has become to me an object of dread. Yet he was the only one here who showed me uniform kindness and treated me with respect. Felix is right: there is no reason for us to be disturbed on his account. Who knows whether he is much to blame for the disagreeable reports about this house. I must not be unjust towards him; but when I look at his flowers, it seems as if an adder lay within them, for I do not know whether his soul is pure or impure. I do not understand his ways, and that makes me uncertain and fearful."
She pushed the basket away, and turned from it.
The maid who waited upon her came into the room, with a troubled countenance, and begged permission to go away for the day, as her mother was very ill in a neighboring village. Ilse asked kindly about the woman, and gave the girl the desired permission, with good wishes and advice. The maid went slowly out of the room; Ilse looked sorrowfully after her.
"Her heart, too, is heavy. It is well that Felix is not at home, for I can now be alone with my sorrow. It will be a quiet day, and this will be welcome after yesterday's storm."
Again there was a knocking at the door; the Castellan brought the letters that the postman had given him for the Pavilion. There were letters from her brothers and sisters who kept up a regular correspondence with their distant Ilse. A ray of joy passed over her serious face.
"This is a pleasant morning greeting," she said. "I will to-day answer my little band in detail. Who knows whether I may have time for it next week."
She hastened to the writing-table, read, laughed, and wrote. Her uneasiness had passed away; she chatted like a lively child in the language and thoughts of the nursery. Hours flew in this occupation. Gabriel brought up and carried away the dinner. When in the afternoon he found her still bending over the letters, he lingered by her and hesitated whether he should speak to her; but as Ilse was so deeply engrossed in her work, he nodded and closed the door.
Finally, Ilse wrote to her father. Again her thoughts became sad, anguish rose from the depth of her heart, and lay like a burning weight on her bosom. She left her writing-table, and paced hastily about the room. When she came to the window, she saw the lord of the castle coming slowly along the gravel path towards the Pavilion.
Ilse stepped back quickly. She was not unaccustomed to the short visits of the Sovereign; but to-day she felt fearful, the blood rushed to her heart, she pressed her hands over her bosom, and struggled for composure.
The door flew open.
"I come to inquire," began his Highness, "how you bear your solitude. My house also has become empty, my children are gone from me, and it is lonely in the great building."
"I have employed my leisure in intercourse with distant friends," answered Ilse.
She would not on this occasion mention the children to the Sovereign.
"Are the little ones who play about in your home amongst these friends?" he asked laughing. "Have the children again expressed their wishes to you?"
He took a chair and invited Ilse to be seated. His demeanor made her more composed; his manner was that of a discreet and well-intentioned person.
"Yes, your Highness," replied Ilse; "but this time my younger sister, Luise, was the most active correspondent."
"Does she promise to become like you?" asked the Sovereign, kindly.
"She is now twelve years old," replied Ilse, with reserve; "she is sentimental upon every subject and every blade of grass excites her fancy. It appears as if she were to be the poetess of the play-room. I do not know how these fantastical ideas have come into our family. In her letter she tells me a long story, as if it had happened to herself, and yet it is only a tale which she has read somewhere. For since I have left my home, more story-books have reached it than were there in my youth."
"Probably it is only childish vanity," said the Sovereign, kindly, "that leads her to substitute an invention for truth."
"That is it exactly," answered Ilse, more cheerfully. "She pretends that she lost her way in the wood, and that when she was sitting sorrowfully among the toad-stools, the little animals whom she was in the habit of feeding in our court-yard, – the white mouse in the cage, the cats, and the shepherd's dog, – placed themselves about her and ran before her till she found her way out of the wood. The cat together with the mouse, your Highness; that was silly! This story she related boldly as if it were the truth, and expected me to think it touching. That was too much-but I have given her my opinion of it."
The Sovereign laughed, laughed from his heart. It was a rare sound that echoed through the walls of the dark room, and the god of love above looked down with surprise on the joyous man.
"May I ask how you criticized this poetic state of mind?" asked the Sovereign. "There is a poetical idea in the tale, that the kindness shown to others will always be repaid when required. But it is unfortunately only an poetic idea; gratitude is seldom met with in real life."
"One ought not, in life, to trust solely to the help of others," replied Ilse, firmly; "and one ought not to show kindness to others in order that it may be repaid. There is indeed a strange pleasure felt when some chord which one has struck brings back its echo to one's heart; but one should not trust to it. A child that has lost its way should make good use of its five senses in order to find its way home by itself. But, certainly, one ought not to put forth poetical ideas as if they were real incidents. I was obliged to scold her; for, your Highness, girls in these days must have right ideas taught them, or they will soon lose themselves in dreams."
The Sovereign laughed again.
Where are the wise and good animals, Lady Ilse, that will give you friendly counsel in your time of need?
"You are too strict," continued the Sovereign. "The witch fancy deceives the judgment of even us grown-up people; one is fearful without reason, and one hopes and trusts without justification. The person who could ever command a true, impartial judgment of his own position, would have a freedom that would make life hardly endurable."
"Fancy confuses us," answered Ilse, looking round, "but it warns us also."
"What is warmth of feeling, and devotion to others?" continued the Sovereign, sorrowfully. "Nothing but subtle self-deceit. If I now am flattered by the joyful feeling that I have succeeded in sharing the wealth of your heart, that too is only a deception; but it is a dream which I carefully cherish, for it does me good. With a happiness which I have long been deprived of, I listen to the honest tones of your voice, and the thought is painful to me that I shall ever be without the sweet enjoyment they afford. It is of greater value to me than you imagine."
"Your Highness speaks to me as to a true friend," replied Ilse, drawing herself up; "and when I take to heart the kindly tone in which you now express your sympathy, I have to believe your honesty and sincere intentions. But this same fancy, which you blame and praise, disturbs also the confidence which I would gladly have in your Highness. I will no longer be silent about it, for it pains me after such kind words, to foster any unfounded feeling against you." She rose hastily. "It disturbs my peace of mind to feel that I dwell in a house which the feet of other women avoid."
The Sovereign looked astonished at the woman who, with such firmness, controlled her inward excitement.
"The fortune-teller," he murmured.
"Your Highness knows well what fancy does," continued Ilse, sorrowfully. "It has tormented my soul, and made it difficult for me in this place to believe in the esteem of which your Highness assures me."
"What have they been telling you?" asked the Sovereign, in a sharp tone.
"What your Highness ought not to desire to hear from my lips," replied Ilse, proudly. "It is possible that the master of a Court considers such things with indifference. I say that to myself. But it is a misfortune to me to have been here: it is a stain on a spotless robe, and I fix my eyes wildly upon it; I wash it away with my hand, and yet it always lies before me, for it is a shadow that falls from without."
The Sovereign looked gloomily before him.
"I shall not use the subterfuges that you put into the mouth of a master of a Court, for I feel at this moment, deeply and passionately like you, that an injury has been done your honor. I have only one excuse," he continued, with passion: "you came here as stranger to us, and I little thought what a treasure lay concealed near me. Since that, in our slight intercourse, you have awakened in me a feeling to which I yield irresistibly. It is seldom permitted me by fate to say undisguisedly what I feel. I disdain to use the impassioned language of a youth, for I do not wish to disquiet you. But do not think that I feel less strongly towards you because I know how to conceal my emotion."
Ilse stood in the middle of the room, and a burning color rose to her cheeks.
"I beg your Highness not to say another word, for it is not right that I should listen to you."
The Sovereign laughed bitterly.
"I have already wounded you, and you quickly make it plain that I labored under an illusion when I hoped for your affection. And yet I am so completely your slave, that I beg of you not to refuse your sympathy to a passion which glows so warmly within me, that it has at this moment entirely deprived me of my self-control."
Ilse gasped:
"I must away from here."
"Renounce that idea," cried the Sovereign, beside himself. "I cannot be deprived of your presence or of the sound of your voice. However slightly it may gladden me, it is the happiness of my days-the one great feeling in a life without pleasure or love. The knowledge that you are near me maintains me in my struggle against thoughts that stupefy me in gloomy hours. Like the devout pilgrim who listens to the bell of the hermitage, I listen to the slightest chord that vibrates from your life into mine. Consent to accept the devotion of a lonely man," he continued, more tranquilly. "I vow never more to wound your delicate feelings. I vow to be contented with that share of your life which you will freely give me."
"I repent of every word that I have spoken to your Highness, and I repent of every hour in which I have thought with reverence of you," exclaimed Ilse, with kindling anger. "I was a poor trusting child," she continued, excitedly. "I bowed submissively to my Sovereign before I saw him as he is; now that I know him, he excites abhorrence in me, and I gather up my garment and say. Monster, begone from me!"
The Sovereign fell back in his chair.
"It is an old curse that echoes in my ears from these walls; it is not your own heart that drives me from you. From your lips should only come words of love and compassion. I am not a tempter, I am myself a wanderer in the wilderness, with nothing about me but desert sand and towering rocks. I hear the laughter of children; I see the fair-haired group passing by me; I see two eyes fixed on me with kindly greeting, and a hand, with the filled cup, which beckons to the weary one; and, like a vision of mist, it has all disappeared. I remain alone, and I sink to my destruction."
He closed his hands over his eyes. Ilse did not reply. She stood, turned from him, looking through the window at the clouds which flitted across the heaven.
All was quiet in the room. Nothing moved, and no one spoke. At last the Sovereign rose slowly: he approached Ilse. There was a glassy look in his eye, and he moved with effort.
"If I have wounded you by what I have said in a moment of overwhelming passion, forget it. I have proved to you that I am not yet free from the weakness that hopes to gain a heart which would beat in unison with mine. Remember only that I am an erring one who sought comfort from you. It was an humiliating request: if you cannot respond to it, do not be angry with the wretched one who asks."
He gazed on her with a long, protracted look of burning passion, deadly, wounded pride, and something more, that inspired her with terror, but she looked him firmly and rigidly in the face. He raised a warning finger, and left the room.
She listened to his tread as he went away, marked every step as he descended, and when he closed the house-door, pulled the bell.
Gabriel, who was standing in the anteroom, entered quickly.
"I wish to go away from here," exclaimed Ilse.
"Whereto, Mrs. Werner?" asked the frightened servant.
"Where to?" echoed in Ilse's ears.
"To my husband," she said; but, as if listening to her own words, she shuddered. He also was in a house of the Sovereign. He was with the daughter of the wicked man. He himself was not safe there-his wife would not be safe with him. Where to? The question whirled in her head. The son of the cruel man was with her father, so she must not go home; her neighbour had said so. She sank her head as if stunned. A feeling of helplessness lay like a dead weight upon her; but she raised herself again, and approached Gabriel. "I will leave this city to-day-at once."
The servant wrung his hands.
"I knew it would come to this," he exclaimed.
"You knew it," asked Ilse, gloomily; "and neither I nor my husband did? Was it seen to every passerby, and yet a secret to him and me?"
"I noticed that there was something about this place that seemed uncanny," answered Gabriel, "and that no one trusted the distinguished gentleman who just now left. How could I tell you what seemed only my foolish fancy?"
"It is not well to pay too little attention to people's talk," replied Ilse; "I wish to go to some place where I can find a woman, Gabriel. Get a carriage for me immediately, and accompany me to Mrs. Rollmaus. We will leave everything here, and you must return to the house, that you may be on the spot when my husband comes back."
"Where shall I get a carriage?" asked Gabriel, hesitatingly.
"From the city, and not from the castle stable."
Gabriel stood and reflected. At last he said, abruptly:
"I shall go; be careful to prevent the lackey from learning that you are preparing for a journey."
"No one shall know it," said Ilse.
Gabriel hastened away, and Ilse locked the door and flew into the next room. There she collected all that was indispensable for the journey. She closed all the cupboards and wardrobes, and put the keys in a bunch. "When Felix comes, he shall not say I ran away unthinkingly." She went to his writing-table, and sealed up the letters in a packet. "So that no curious eye can look upon you," she said. When she packed up the letters of the children and her own answers, a shudder came over her, and she concealed the bundle rapidly beneath other papers. She was ready, and Gabriel had not yet returned. He seemed to linger long. With firm steps she went through the rooms. "You have grown more strange to me the longer I have dwelt here. What has become of the brilliant impression of the first evening? It was a cold splendor, hostile to my life. I would gladly root up every recollection of it from my soul." She placed herself on the spot where, in the night, she had looked on her sleeping husband. "That was my last sorrowful look at his dear face; when shall I see it again? I go from you, Felix; who would have thought it when we stood together before the altar? I leave you behind among wicked men; you also in danger, and I go away alone, to seek safety for myself far from you. Who would have said some days ago that I should have marked him a liar to his face? I go, Felix, in order to save myself for you. Think of that, and do not be angry with me. I would not have gone for less cause." She sank down on a cushion, and wrung her hands with tearless sorrow. She lay for a long time in this condition. At last there was a knocking at the outer door. She jumped up and opened it, but she drew back terrified when she beheld the pale countenance of her faithful servant.
"I have not ordered a carriage," said Gabriel, "for it would be of no use."
"What do you mean?" asked Ilse, angrily.
"Any carriage that went from here would not take Mrs. Werner where she wishes, but only where another wishes."
"Then we will go ourselves, and take a vehicle in the city."
"Wherever we go," replied Gabriel, "we shall be observed, and if I attempt to call a carriage it will be taken from us."
"You are frightened yourself, Gabriel, and see danger where none exists," replied Ilse, annoyed.
"If we could only get an honest man to take you to Mrs. Rollmaus," continued Gabriel; "but it is doubtful whether you could get there. Do you see that man below by the castle? He goes slowly as if he were taking a walk, but he never turns his eyes from this house. That is one of our spies, and he is not the only one."
"Who has told you that?" asked Ilse.
"I have a good friend here who belongs to the castle," replied Gabriel, hesitating. "Do not be angry, Mrs. Werner, that I asked him, for he knows all their tricks. It is possible, he said, that we may succeed; for one cannot assume that all the people of the city are robbers or deceivers, but it is uncertain and dangerous."
Ilse seized her hat and cloak.
"I am going, Gabriel," she said, quietly. "Will you accompany me?"
"Dear Mrs. Werner, wherever you wish," answered Gabriel. "But first listen to my proposal. My acquaintance thinks that the safest way would be, if the Crown Inspector should fetch you himself in the evening. The evenings are dark, and you may then perhaps be able to leave the house without the lackey or any one else remarking it."
"A prisoner!" exclaimed Ilse. "Who is your acquaintance?" she asked, looking sharply at Gabriel.
"He is true as gold," Gabriel assured her, "and I will willingly tell you later, but I beg you not to ask me to-day, for he has desired, for his own safety, that no one should be told."
"I trust in your faithfulness," replied Ilse, coldly; "but you yourself may be deceived; I will not follow the advice of a stranger."
"He has offered me a horse," said Gabriel, "it is outside the city. If you will give me a line to the Crown Inspector, I will ride there and bring the carriage in good time."
Ilse looked gloomily at the servant.
"Many hours must pass away, and I will not remain here alone. I will go on foot along the high road to my friends."
"Look, Mrs. Werner, at the sky; a storm is coming."
"I do not care for it," exclaimed Ilse; "it is not the first time I shall have gone through the rain. If you do not choose to accompany me, you may wait here for my husband, and tell him that I have gone away to my home, and when I am with good people I will write to him."
Gabriel wrung his hands; Ilse put on her cloak.
Suddenly loud altercation was heard on the floor below. Gabriel hastily opened the door; the bass voice of a stranger was scolding the lackey vehemently:
"But I tell you I am not the man who will allow the door to be shut in his face; she is at home, I say."
Ilse threw off her hat and cloak, sprang down the stairs, and called out.
"Mr. Hummel!"
"Your most obedient servant, Mrs. Werner," cried out Hummel. "I come immediately, only I will first express to this major-domo my high opinion of him. You are a scoundrel, sir, and an object to whom I wish such treatment as he deserves-a well-seasoned switch and a tight halter. I am coming, Mrs. Werner." He ascended the stairs heavily. Ilse flew to meet him, led him into her room, and was so overcome that she laid her head on his shoulder and wept.
Mr. Hummel was silent, and looked sympathizingly at Ilse.
"So these are Court ways?" he asked, softly; "and this is the fashion in which people act here?"
"My husband is away. I wish to leave this place; Mr. Hummel, do help me to escape!"
"That is exactly my situation," said Mr. Hummel: "I am implicated, myself, in an elopement affair. I have come to this city in order to convey to you a request from my daughter Laura, and to bring matters to some settlement with the clergymen here. But where do you wish to go to?"
"To kind friends who will take me to my father's house."
"That will certainly be the right course," replied Mr. Hummel.
"In times of despair, when everything totters in the world, the child should go back to the father. His faithfulness remains; she is twenty years old before that of the husband begins. As your father is not here, allow one who knows what it is to feel anxious about a child to take the place of a father to you."
Ilse clung to him: Mr. Hummel pressed her hand, after his fashion, tenderly; but it was a hard pressure.