Scarcely had she reached her boudoir when she heard the lower bell ring--then footsteps, a familiar voice--some one knocked as he had done ten years ago in the Gross House; but the man whom he then brought, nothing would ever bring again.
She did not speak, her voice failed, but she opened the door herself--Ludwig Gross stood before her. Both gazed at each other a long time in silence. Both were struggling for composure and for words, and from the cheeks of both every drop of blood had vanished. The countess held out her hand, but he did not seem to see it. She pointed to a chair, and said in a hollow tone: "Sit down," at the same time sinking upon a divan opposite.
"I will not disturb you long, Your Highness!" Ludwig answered, seating himself a long distance off.
"If you disturbed me, I should not have received you."
Ludwig felt the reproof conveyed in the words for the hostility of his manner, but he could not help it.
"Perhaps Your Highness remembers a certain Freyer?"
"Herr Gross, that question is an insult, but I admit that, from your standpoint, you have a right to ask it. At any rate, Freyer did not commission you to do so."
"No, Countess, for he does not know that I am here; if he did, he would have prevented it. I beg your pardon, if I perform my mission somewhat clumsily! I know it is unseemly to meddle with relations of which one is ignorant, for Freyer"s reserve allowed me no insight into these. But here there is danger in delay, and where a human life is at stake, every other consideration must be silent. I have never been able to learn any particulars from Freyer. I only know that he was away nine years, as it was rumored, with you, and that he returned a beggar!"
"That, Herr Gross, is no fault of mine."
"Not that, Countess, but it must be _your_ fault alone which has caused relations so unnatural that Freyer was ashamed to accept from you even the well-earned payment for his labor."
"You are right there, Herr Gross."
"And that would be the least, Countess, but he has returned, not only a beggar, but a lost man."
"Ludwig!"
"Yes, Countess. That is the reason I determined, after consulting with the burgomaster, to come here and talk with you, if you will allow it."
"Speak, for Heaven"s sake; what has befallen him?"
"Freyer is ill, Countess."
"But, how can that be? He is acting the Christus every week and delighting the world?"
"Yes, that is just it! He acts, as a candle burns down while it shines--it is no longer the phosph.o.r.escence of genius, it is a light which feeds on his own life and consumes it."
"Merciful G.o.d!"
"And he _wishes_ to die--that is unmistakable--that is why it is so hard to aid him. He will heed no counsel, follow no advice of the physician, do nothing which might benefit him. Now matters have gone so far that the doctor told us yesterday he might fall dead upon the stage at any hour--and we ought not to allow him to go on playing! But he cannot be prevented. He desires nothing more than death."
"What is the matter?" asked the pale lips of the countess.
"A severe case of heart disease, Countess, which might be arrested for several years by means of careful nursing, perfect rest, and strengthening food; but he has no means to obtain the better nourishment his condition requires, because he is too proud to be a burden on any one, and he lacks the ease of mind necessary to relieve his heart. Nursing is out of the question--he occupies, having given his own home to the poor when he left Ammergau, as you know, a miserable, damp room in a wretched tavern, just outside the village, and wanders about the mountains day and night. Of course speedy death is inevitable--hastened, moreover, by the exertions demanded by his part."
Ludwig Gross rose. "I do not know how you estimate the value of a poor man"s life, Countess," he said bitterly--"I have merely done my duty by informing you of my friend"s condition. The rest I must leave to you."
"Great Heaven! What shall I do! He rejects everything I offer. Perhaps you do not know that I gave him a fortune and he refused it."
Ludwig Gross fixed an annihilating glance upon her. "If you know no other way of rendering aid here save by _money_--I have nothing more to say."
He bowed slightly and left the room without waiting for an answer.
"Ludwig!" she called: "Hear me!"
He had gone--he was right--did she deserve anything better? No--no! She stood in the middle of the room a moment as if dazed. Her heart throbbed almost to bursting. "Has it gone so far! I have left the man from whose lips I drew the last breath of life to starve and languish.
I allowed the heart on which I have so often rested to pine within dark, gloomy walls, bleed and break in silent suffering. Murderess, did you hear it? He is lost, through your sin! Oh, G.o.d, where is the crime which I have not committed--where is there a more miserable creature? I have murdered the most innocent, misunderstood the n.o.blest, repulsed the most faithful, abused the most sacred, and for what?" She sank prostrate. The measure was full--was running over.--The angel with the cup of wormwood had overtaken her, as Freyer had prophesied and was holding to her lips the bitter chalice of her own guilt, which she must drain, drop by drop. But now this guilt had matured, grown to its full size, and stood before her, grinning at her with the jeer of madness.
"Wings--oh, G.o.d, lend me wings! While I am doubting and despairing here--it may be too late--the terrible thing may have happened--he may have died, unreconciled, with the awful reproach in his heart! Wings, wings, oh G.o.d!" She started up and flew to the bell with the speed of thought. "Send for the head-groom at once!" Then she hurried into the chamber, where the maid was arranging her garments for the night. "Pack as quickly as possible whatever I shall need for a journey of two or three days--or weeks--I don"t know myself."
"Evening or street costumes?" asked the maid, startled by her mistress"
appearance. "Street dresses!"
Meantime the head-groom had come. She hastened into the boudoir: "Have relays of horses saddled and sent forward at once--it is after ten o"clock--there is no train to Weilheim--but I must reach Oberammergau to-night! Martin is to drive, send on four relays--I will give you four hours start--the men must be off within ten minutes--I will go at two o"clock--I shall arrive there at seven."
"Your Excellency, that is scarcely possible"--the man ventured to say.
"I did not ask whether it was possible--I told you that it _must_ be done, if it kills all my horses. Quick, rouse the whole stable--every one must help. I shall wait at the window until I see the men ride away."
The man bowed silently, he knew that opposition was futile, but he muttered under his breath: "To ruin six of her best horses in one night--just for the sake of that man in Ammergau, she ought to be put under guardianship."
The courtyard was instantly astir, men were shouting and running to and fro. The stable-doors were thrown open, lanterns flashed hither and thither, the trampling and neighing of horses were heard, the noise and haste seemed as if the wild huntsman was setting off on his terrible ride through the starless night.
The countess stood, watch in hand, at the lighted window, and the figure of their mistress above spurred every one to the utmost haste.
In a few minutes the horses for the relays were saddled and the grooms rode out of the courtyard.
"The victoria with the pair of blacks must be ready at two," the head-groom said to old Martin. "You must keep a sharp look-out--I don"t see how you will manage--those fiery creatures in that light carriage."
The countess heard it at the window, but she paid no heed. If only she could fly there with the light carriage, the fiery horses, as her heart desired. Forward--was her only thought.
"Must I go, too?" asked the maid, pale with fright.
"No, I shall need no one." The countess now shut the windows and went to her writing-desk, for there was much to be done within the few short hours. Her father"s funeral--sending the announcements--all these things must now be entrusted to others and a representative must be found among the relatives to fill her own place. She a.s.signed as a pretext the necessity of taking a short journey for a day or two, adding that she did not yet know whether she could return in time for the funeral of the prince. Her pen fairly flew over the paper, and she finally wrote a brief note to the duke, in which she told him nothing except her father"s death. The four hours slipped rapidly away, and as the clock struck two the victoria drove to the door.
The countess was already standing there. The lamps at the entrance shone brightly, but even brighter was old Martin"s face, as he curbed the spirited animals with a firm hand.
"To Ammergau, Martin!" said the countess significantly, as she entered the equipage.
"Hi! But I"ll drive now!" cried the old man, joyously, not suspecting the sorrowful state of affairs, and off dashed the steeds as though spurred by their mistress" fears--while guilt and remorse accompanied her with the heavy flight of destiny.
CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.
ON THE WAY TO THE CROSS.
It was Sunday. Again the throngs surged around the Pa.s.sion Theatre, more devout, more numerous than ever.
Slowly, as if his feet could scarcely support him, a tall figure, strangely like one who no longer belongs to the number of the living, tottered through the crowd to the door of the dressing-room, while all reverently made way for him, yet every one perceived that it must be the Christus! Whoever met his eye shuddered as if the incarnation of woe had pa.s.sed, as if he had seen the face of the G.o.d of sorrow.