murmured a few caressing words–but even love, in all its strength, felt powerless before the war of the immortal elements.
The next morning but few traces of the tempest remained; the river that wound through the valley was somewhat swollen, and a few giant pines dashed down to earth would never again cast their long shadows before them on a summer morning; but the sky was soft, clear, and blue, and a few white clouds wandered past, light as down. The leaves glittered with the lingering rain-drops, and a fresh, sweet smell came from the herbage of the valley. Ernest was seated in a little breakfast parlour, looking to a terrace that commanded the country; he was seated at the feet of his bride, whose small fingers were entwined in his black hair. What a world of poetry seemed in the depths of her large, shining eyes, which looked upon him so tenderly–so timidly; their dream, for it was a dream-like happiness, was broken in upon by the entrance of Ernest’s servant, who asked to speak to his master. There was something in the man’s manner which commanded instant attention, and Von Hermanstadt followed him out of the room.
“Sir,” exclaimed the man, “here is your letter to the Baron–he died suddenly last night. The lady Pauline is in a dreadful state, and the steward entreated that you would go up there at once.”
Ernest felt that this was case which admitted of no delay. Saying a few hasty words about important business to Minna, reserving the death till he could have time to tell it soothingly, he flung himself upon his horse, and galloped to Lindorf. Though grave and solitary, both in manners and habits, the Baron had been much beloved by his domestics, and the voice of weeping was heard on every side. Ernest hurried to his uncle’s chamber; there the daylight was excluded, and the ray of the yellow tapers fell dimly upon the green velvet bed where lay the last Baron of Lindorf. In him ended that noble house; with his arms folded, so as to press the ebon crucifix to his bosom–his head supported by a damask cushion, lay the Baron. Ernest paused for a moment, awe-struck by the calm beauty which reigned in the face of the dead; the features were stately and calm, the brow had lost the care-worn look it wore in life, and peace breathed from every lineament of the sweet and hushed countenance. “Can the dead,” thought Ernest, “struck down with an unrepented crime–can the oppressor of the orphan look thus?”
He had not time for further reflection, for a convulsive motion on the other side of the bed showed him Pauline crouched in a heap at the feet of the corpse–her face buried in the silken counterpane. Her bright hair was knit up with pearls, and she still wore the robe of the previous evening; how terrible seemed its gay colours now!
“We have not been able,” whispered an old grey-headed servant, “to get her to speak or to move.”
Ernest’s heart melted with the tenderest pity. He took the passive hand, and covered it with tears and kisses. “Pauline, dearest, look up,” said he, passing his arm round her, so as to raise her head. What his words could not effect, the movement did; she was roused from her stupor, and giving one wild glance at the corpse, she leant her head on her cousin’s shoulder, and burst into a passion of tears. Soothing her with the tenderest words, he carried her to her chamber. “At least,” said he to himself, as he left her, “the memory of her father shall be sacred.”
