Sleep fell suddenly on that poor, wandering mind, and with a few words to old Bernhardt, Mathilde led me back into the quiet room we left.
I sank into a chair, and dropping my head upon my folded arms, sat silent, knowing now what lay before us.
The storm rolled and crashed above our heads, but in the silence of the room, the voice I loved so well spoke softly at my side, as Mathilde told the story of her life.
“Gustave, I was an orphan, and my stern guardian found his ward an irksome charge. He looked about him for some means of relief, and but two appeared, marriage or a convent. I was but sixteen then, blithe of heart, and full of happy dreams; the convent seemed a tomb to me, and any fate a blessed one that saved me from it. I had a friend—heaven forgive her the wrong she did me!—and this friend influenced my guardian’s choice, and won for me the husband you have seen. She knew the fearful malady that cursed him even then, but bade him conceal it from my guardian and me. He loved me, and obeyed her, and thus she led me into that dark web of woe where I have struggled all these years.
“I had innocently won a heart that she coveted, and though I did not listen to that lover’s suit, he was lost to her, and for that she hated me. I knew nothing of her passion then, and trusted her implicitly. We were in Germany, and I, a stranger in a strange land, followed where she pointed, and so walked smilingly to my doom. Reinhold Arnheim was a gentle but weakhearted man, guided by his cousin Gertrude, my false friend. He loved me with all the ardor of his feeble nature, and I, seeing a free future before me, thought I gave him my heart, when it was but a girlish affection for the man who saved me from the fate I dreaded.
“My guardian’s last illness coming suddenly upon him, he desired to see me safe in a husband’s home, before he left me forever. I was married, and he died, believing me a happy wife—I, a child, betrothed one little month.
“Nine years ago, that marriage mockery took place, but to me it seems a lifetime full of pain. Ah! I should have been a happier woman in a nun’s narrow cell than a wife worse than widowed, with a secret grief like this!” Mathilde paused, and for a moment nothing broke the silence but the wind, as it swept moaning away across the lake.
“Let me pass lightly over the two years that followed that unhappy bridal,” she continued hurriedly. “I was frantic with indignation and dismay when I learned the secret Gertrude’s wickedness and Reinhold’s weakness had withheld from me. I had no friends to flee to, no home but my husband’s, and too proud to proclaim the wrongs for which I knew no redress, I struggled to conceal my anguish, and accept my fate.
“My husband pleaded with me to spare him, the victim of a hereditary curse. I knew he loved me, and pity for his misfortune kept me silent. For years, no one knew the secret of his malady but Gertrude, his physician, Bernhardt, and myself.
“We seemed a happy pair, for Reinhold was truly kind, and I played my part well, proud to show my false friend that her cruel blow had failed to crush me.
“Gustave, tongue can never tell how I suffered—how I prayed for strength and patience; love would have made it easier to bear, but when those years of trial made a woman of the careless girl, and looking into my heart for some affection to sustain me, I found only pity and aversion, then I saw the error I had committed in my ignorance—I never loved him, and this long suffering has been my punishment for that great sin. Heaven grant it may atone!
“Gustave, I tried to be a patient wife—I tried to be a cheerful companion to poor Reinhold in his daily life, a brave comforter in those paroxysms of sharp agony which tortured him in secret—but all in vain. I could not love him, and I came at length to see my future as it stretched before me black and barren.
“Tied for life, to a man whose feeble mind left no hope of comforting companionship in our long pilgrimage, and with whom duty, unsweetened by affection, grew to a loathsome slavery—what wonder that I longed to break away and flee from my prison by the only outlet left to my despair?
“I wavered long, but resolved at length to end the life now grown too burdensome to bear. I wrote a letter to my husband, asking forgiveness for the grief I caused him, and freely pardoning the great wrong he had done me. No reproaches embittered my last words, but tenderly and truthfully I showed him all my heart, and said farewell forever.
“But before I could consummate my sinful purpose, I was seized with what I fondly hoped would prove a mortal illness, and while lying unconscious of all grief and care, Reinhold found and read that letter. He never told me the discovery he had made, but hid the wound and loved me still—never kinder than when he watched beside me with a woman’s patient tenderness, as I slowly and reluctantly came back to life and health again.
“Then when he deemed me strong enough to bear the shock, he kissed me fondly one sad day, and going out with dogs and gun, as if to his favorite sport, at nightfall was brought home a ghastly spectacle.
“To all but his old servant it seemed a most unhappy accident, but in the silence of the night, as we watched beside what we believed to be his dying bed, old Bernhardt told me, that from broken words and preparations made in secret, he felt sure his master had gone out that day intending never to return alive—choosing to conceal his real design under the appearance of a sad mischance, that no remorse might poison my returning peace.
“With tears the old man told his fears, and when I learned that Reinhold had read that fatal letter, I could no longer doubt. It was a sad and solemn sight to me—for sitting in the shadow of death, I looked back upon my life, and seeing clearly where I had failed in wifely duty and in Christian patience, I prayerfully devoted my whole future to the atonement of the wrong I had committed against God, my husband, and myself.
“Reinhold lived, but never knew me again, never heard my entreaties for pardon, or my tender assurances of pity and affection—all I could truly offer even then. The grief my desperate resolve had caused him and the shock of that rash act were too much for his weak body and weak brain, and he rose up from that bed of suffering the mournful wreck you see him now.
“Gustave, I have kept my vow, and for seven long years have watched and guarded him most faithfully. I could not bear the pity of those German friends, and after wandering far and wide in search of health for my unhappy husband, I came hither unknown and friendless, bringing my poor husband to a quiet home, where no rude sound could disturb, no strange face make afraid. I was a widow in the saddest sense of that sad word, and as such I resolved henceforward to be known.
“The few who knew of the existence of the shadow you have seen believe him to be my brother, and I have held my peace, making a secret sorrow of my past, rather than confess the weakness and wickedness of those most near to me; I may have erred in this, but wronging no one, I hoped to win a little brightness to my life, to find a brief oblivion of my grief.
“I fled from the world; seeking to satisfy the hunger of my heart with friendship, and believing myself strong to resist temptation, I welcomed you and tasted happiness again, unconscious of loves subtle power, till it was too late to recall the heart you made your own. Gustave, I shunned you, I seemed cold and calm, when longing to reply to the unspoken passion shining in your glance; I felt my unseen fetters growing too heavy to be borne, and my life of seeming peace a mockery whose gloom appalled and tortured me.
“Heaven knows I struggled to be firm, and but for that unguarded moment of today, when death seemed to have bereft me of the one joy I possessed, I should still have the power to see you go unsaddened by a hopeless love, unburdened by a tale of grief like this. O my friend, forgive and pity me! Help me to bear my burden as I should, and patiently accept the fate heaven sends.”
We had sat motionless, looking into each other’s eyes as the last words fell from Mathilde’s lips; but as she ceased and bent her head as if in meek submission, my heart overflowed. I threw myself before her, and striving to express the sympathy that mingled with my love, could only lay my throbbing forehead on her knee, and weep as I had not wept
for years.
I felt her light touch on my head, and seemed to gather calmness from its soothing pressure.
“Do not banish me, Mathilde,” I said, “let me still be near you with a glance of tenderness, a word of comfort for your cheer. There is a heavy shadow on your home. Let me stay and lighten it with the love that shall be warm and silent as the summer sunshine on your flowers.” But to my prayer there came a resolute reply, though the face that looked into my own was eloquent with love and grief.
“Gustave, we must part at once, for while my husband lives I shall guard his honorable name from the lightest breath. You were my friend, and I welcomed you—you are my lover, and henceforth are banished. Pardon me, and let us part unpledged by any vow. You are free to love whenever you shall weary of the passion that now rules your heart. I am bound by a tie which death alone can sever; till then I wear this fetter, placed here by a husband’s hand nine years ago; it is a symbol of my life, a mute monitor of duty, strong and bright as the hope and patience which now come to strengthen me. I have thrown away the key, and its place is here till this arm lies powerless, or is stretched free and fetterless to clasp and hold you mine forever!”
“Give me some charm, some talisman, to keep my spirit brave and cheerful through the separation now before us, and then I will go,” I cried, as the chapel clock tolled one, and the last glimmer died upon the hearth.
Mathilde brushed the hair back from my eager face, and gazed long and earnestly into my eyes, then bent and left a kiss upon my forehead, saying, as she rose, “It is a frank, true countenance, Gustave, and I trust the silent pledge it gives me. God keep you, dearest friend, and grant us a little happiness together in the years to come!”
I held her close for one moment, and with a fervent blessing turned to go, but pausing on the threshold, I looked back. The storm had died, and through the black clouds broke the moon with sudden radiance. A silvery beam lit that beloved face, and seemed to lure me back. I started to return, but Mathilde’s clear voice cried farewell; and on the arm that waved a last adieu, the steel bracelet glittered like a warning light. Seeing that, I knew there was no return. I went out into the night a better and a happier man for having known the blessedness and pain of love.
Three years went by, but my hidden passion never wavered, never died—and although I wandered far and wide over the earth, I found no spot so beautiful to me as the sunny chateau in its paradise of flowers, and no joy so deep as the memory of Mathilde.
I never heard from her, for, though I wrote as one friend to another, no reply was returned. I lamented this, but could not doubt the wisdom of her silence, and waited patiently for my recall.
A letter came at length, not to welcome, but to banish me forever. Mathilde had been a widow, and was a wife again. Kindly she told me this, speaking of my love as a boyish passion, of her own as a brief delusion-asking pardon for the pain she feared to give, and wishing for me a happiness like that she had now won.
It almost murdered me, for this hope was my life. Alone in the Far East, I suffered, fought, and conquered, coming out from that sharp conflict with no faith, no hope, no joy, nothing but a secret love and sorrow locked up in my wounded heart to haunt me like a sad ghost, till some spell to banish it was found.
Aimlessly, I journeyed to and fro, till led by the longing to again see familiar faces, I returned to Paris and sought out my old friend Moreau. He had not left the city for his summer home, and desiring to give him a glad surprise, I sprang up the stairs unannounced and entered his saloon.
A lady stood alone in the deep window, gazing thoughtfully upon the busy scene below. I knew the slender figure draped in white, the golden hair, the soft dark eyes, and with a sharp pang at my heart, I recognized Mathilde—more lovely and serene than ever.
She turned, but in the bronzed and bearded man did not recognize the youth she parted from, and with a glance of quiet wonder waited for me to speak. I could not, and in a moment it was needless, for eye spoke to eye, heart yearned to heart, and she remembered. A sudden color flushed her cheek as she leaned toward me with dilated eyes; the knot of Parmese violets upon her bosom rose and fell with her quickened breath, and her whole frame thrilled with eagerness as she cried joyfully, “Gustave! Come back to meet me at last!”
I stirred to meet her, but on the arms outstretched to greet me no steel bracelet glittered, and recollecting all my loss I clasped my hands before my face, crying mournfully, “O Mathilde, how can you welcome me, when such a gulf has parted us forever? How smile upon the friend whose love you have so wronged, whose life you have made so desolate?”
A short silence ensued, and then Mathilde’s low voice replied, still tenderly, but full of pain, “Gustave, there is some mystery in this; deal frankly with me, and explain how I have wronged, how made you desolate?”
“Are you not married, and am I not bereft of the one dear gift I coveted? Did not your own hand part us and give the wound that still bleeds in my faithful heart, Mathilde?” I asked, with a glance of keen inquiry.
“Gustave, I never doubted your truth, though years passed, and I received no answer to the words of cheer I sent to comfort your long exile—then why doubt mine? Some idle rumor has deceived you, for I am now free—free to bestow the gift you covet, free to reward your patient love, if it still glows as warmly as mine.”
Doubt, fear, and sorrow fled at once; I cared for nothing, remembered nothing, desired nothing, for Mathilde was free to love me still. That was rapture enough for me, and I drank freely of the cup of joy offered, heedless of unanswered doubts, unraveled mysteries and fears.
A single hour lifted me from gloom and desolation to blessedness again, and in the light of that returning confidence and peace all that seemed dark grew clear before our eyes. Mathilde had written often, but not one word from her had reached me, and not one line of mine had gladdened her. The letter telling of her marriage she had never penned, but knew now to whom she owed the wrong; and pale with womanly indignation told me that the enemy who had schemed to rob us of our happiness was Louis my friend.
He had met her again in Paris, and the passion, smothered for a long time, blazed up afresh. He never spoke of it in words lest he should again be banished, but seemed content to be her friend, though it was evident he hoped to win a warmer return in time.
Poor Reinhold died the year we parted, and was laid to rest in the quiet chapel where sunlight and silence brooded over his last sleep. Mathilde had written often to recall me, but when no reply to those fond missives came, she ceased, and waited hopefully for my return. Louis knew of my friendship with Mathilde, and must have guessed our love, for by some secret means he had thus intercepted letters, which would have shortened my long exile, and spared us both much misery and doubt.
More fully to estrange us he had artfully conveyed through other lips the tidings of my falsehood to Mathilde, hoping to destroy her faith in me and in her sorrow play the comforter and win her to himself. But she would not listen to the rumors of my marriage, would not doubt my truth, or accept the friendship of a man who could traduce a friend.
But for that well-counterfeited letter I too had never doubted, never suffered, and my ireful contempt rose fiercely as I listened to these proofs of Louis’s treachery and fraud.
He was absent on some sudden journey, and ere he could return I won Mathilde to give me the dear right to make her joys and griefs my own. One soft, spring morning we went quietly away into a neighboring church, and returned one in heart and name forever.
No one but our old friends the general and his wife knew the happy truth, for Mathilde dreaded the gossip of the world, and besought me not to proclaim my happiness till we were safe in our quiet home, and I obeyed, content to know her mine.
The crimson light of evening bathed the tranquil face beside me as we sat together a week after our marriage, full of that content which comes to loving mortals in those midsummer days of life—when suddenly a voice we both remembered roused us from our happ
y reverie. Mathilde’s eye lit, her slender figure rose erect, and as I started with a wrathful exclamation on my lips, she held me fast, saying, in the tones that never failed to sway me to her will, “Let me deal with him, for he is not worthy of your sword, Gustave; let me avenge the wrong he did us, for a woman’s pity will wound deeper than your keenest thrust; promise me, dearest Gustave, that you will control yourself for love of me, remembering all the misery you might bring down upon us both!”
She clung to me with such fond entreaty that I promised, and standing at her side endeavored to be calm, though burning with an indignation nothing but the clasp of that soft hand had power to restrain.
Singing a blithe song Louis entered, but with arrested step and half-uttered greeting paused upon the threshold, eyeing us with a glance of fire, and struggling to conceal the swift dismay that drove the color from his cheek, the power from his limbs.
Mathilde did not speak, and with an effort painful to behold, Louis regained composure; for some sudden purpose seemed to give him courage and sent a glance of triumph to his eye, as with a mocking smile he bowed to the stately woman at my side, saying with malicious emphasis, “I come to present my compliments to Mme. Arnheim on my return from Germany, from Frankfort, her old home—and I bear to her the tenderest greetings from our fair friend Mme. Gertrude Steinburg. Will Madame accept as gladly as I offer them?''
“A fit messenger from such a friend?” icily replied Mathilde. With a quick perception of her meaning, and a warning pressure of my clenched hand, Louis threw himself into a seat, and with an assumption of friendly ease, belied by the pallor of his countenance and the fierce glitter of the eye, continued with feigned sympathy—determined to leave no bitter word unsaid:
“She is a charming woman, and confided much to me that filled me with surprise and grief. What desolation will be carried to the hearts of Madame’s many lovers when they learn that she is no lovely widow, but a miserable wife bound to an idiotic husband—how eagerly will they shun the fair chateau where Madame guards the secret shame and sorrow of her life, and how enviable must be the feelings of my friend when he discovers the deception practiced upon him and the utter hopelessness of his grand passion.”
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