THE NOVELIST.
THE MAIDEN OP WIWDORP; OR The Recluse of the Tower.
[BY SYLVANU3 CODD, JR.] CHAPTER VII. ME DEAD ALIVE. On the morning next following the coming of the lust courier, Sister Paulino deseouded from her room in a dross which she had not before worn. Let it b-i understood—themarchiones.sand her guest had ridden to the city twice since the arrival of the latter, parti} , for pleasure, and in part that the Sister might obtain certain articles that she required. And this morning dross wat one of them. It was a looso, free-and-easy robe, of the finest of India muslin ; the ground color a light, pleasant green, with vines and buds and blossoms delicately and tastefully in-
wrought, producing an effect charmingly restful to the eye and wholly pleaeing to the senses. A girdle of golden cord confined it at the waist.
At the throat the dress was partially open, revealing beneath a vest of amber-colored silk, with a rolling collar, and beneath that a stomacher of delicately ruffled linen, white like snow-flakes. The only covering upon her head was that which nature had given her; and nothing could have been more lovely. The sunny auburn curls, with scarce a trace of silver in their shimmering depths, were partly confined behind by » band of pale gold, a few being left to float freely away from the temples, and so down to the shoulders.
Theresa uttered an exclamation of delight. Her first movement, when she had taken in the lovely picture, was to move forward and throw her arms around her friend's neck, kissing her heartily as she did so.
' Pauline, you are radiant. O, you shall never go back to that dreadful hospital. You shall livo with me, and be my friend and companion always.' • Hush, hush, my child. You know not what you say, I did not think I should create a sensution when I put on this dress. Do not. I beg of you, think me vain.' 'Vain! You vain?' cried the truehearted girl, with another kiss. ' I should as soon think of my dear old guardian being vain. You do not know how beautiful you are.' ' Hush ! Hush !' And the woman held her hostess away at arms' length and looked lovingly into her face. ' I think I never had your beauty, Theresa. Thank Heaven, you are not vain !'
' You are right, Pauline. lam not vain. One word more, and we will go to breakfast. You must not tell me that you were never as beautiful as I am. I cannot allow it. My eyes do not deceive me. She hesitated a moment and then added, with an arch smile—' If you force me, I shall put you to a strange test. Light is dawning upon me.'
Pauline started and cast a quick, searching glance into Therea's face. Then, _ with an effort, she controlled herself and smiled. While they were at the breakfast table, ■with no servant present to overhear, Pauline broke a brief silenco by saying, in tones tinged with melancholy, though she smiled as she spoke: ' Theresa, I was possessed by a strange feeling this morning—a feeling that seemed prophetic. I love this dress, yet this is the first time I ever wore it. I had it made in Venice, from a mere fancy that I would like to havo such a garb to look upon —something that might bring to mind the scenes of my youthful days. Of course, I have seen myself in it, before a mirror, but never before have I worn it from my private room. This morning I put it on. I did it, darling, to please you. When I was ready to issue forth from my chamber I looked into the mirror, and the feeling came upon me that a great crisis of my life was at hand. It thrilled me to the heart; it first startled me, then held mo spell-bound. I tried to shake it ofi, and could not; and not until your eweet face had beamed upon me did I find relief.'
• Some dream of the night, Pauline, came to you in a guise new and strange.' ' No, my child. It was no dream—no fancy. It came all unbidden, unlike anything of my experience heretofore. But we will not think of it.' And yet, several times during the forenoon she fell into moods of deep and melancholy reflection, as her looks plainly showed. Her hands were often folded over her bosom, with a far-away look in her eyes, as though she would have lifted the veil of the future had the power been hers.
It was near the middle of the afternoon, and the twain sat in the baron's sanctum. Pauline loved to sit there. Therosa had seen it, and was willing to please her. While they were conversing a servant appeared, with word for the mistress that she waa wanted without. She arose at once and followed the messenger from the room ; and in the great hall she was surprised and gladened by the sight of Bertrand Ulrich, the Reoluse of the Tower. She sprang towards Mm with impulsive fervor, both her hands extended, and her greeting was warm and hearty. There had been always something in the. mail's faoe that had drawn her towards him —something that had commanded her confidence to the utrnqst—and never had that faoe appeared more grandly noble and purely good than it did on the present occasion.
In place of the flowing robe whioh he usually wore, he now wore a surooat, or ttfnic, of purple velvet, neatly and richly, but wi> grandly, embroidered with gold lace ; a yesjb .of cream-colored silk; trousers of a soft wo.ollen stuff; with a pair of light, graceful top-boots. In his hand he carried a cap or bonnet, of bjaok velvet, bearing upon the left side, and securedin place by a brooch of emeralds and diamonds, an ostrich feather of the same color. A sword, with a hilt richly jewelled, and a scabbard of plain black leather, suspended by a baldric of crimson velvet, elaborately wrought with gold and silver threads, completed the garb. Theresa stood back a pace and gazed admiringly upon him. ' Dear lady,' he said, with a warm, cheery smile, ' you must give me great credit. I have appearp.d in this garb on purpose to please you. It is the first time I ever wore it In the Wienerwald.' «Dear father, you are just as good as you can be, and you were doubly good to. tbink of pleasing me. Your visit would have made me happy had you come in the garb of a begsrar; but it is far more pleasant to see those" whom I love looking prosperous and happy, .and beggars never look happy, nor do hermits.' ' Child!'
< Wait, good Bertrand, You did not hear mo to an end. I would have said, the garb of the hermit could never convey the idea of happiness to me. O J I cannot believe man was ever made to live a lonesome, solitary life. Pardon me if I seem personal, but I speak as I feel.' «I shall not dispute you, my sweet lady. And now tell me: Have you heard from —the baron since he went away?—and— from the other—Eldred ?' 'O ! yes ! I had letters yesterday. «And they were well ?' ' Yes. And—o !—did you know Eldred haß been mad« a full colonel and given the command of a regiment of light dragoons organized on purpose for him! Think of it!'
Instead of speaking, the old man caught tho girl's hands in a warm, impulsive grasp, and gazed down into her moistened eyes with an intensity that startled her. 'Theresa! lam glad. And another thing makes me glad—a something that I read now in your eloquent eyes. Do not blush to own it, You love the brave young colonel.'
' Yes, with all my heart, , the noble girl answered, without an instant's hesitation. ' And he loves me.'
' That I knew very well, sweet child—for who could help loving you ?—but I rejoice now in the knowledge that your love is confessed. You are his—solemnly promised. Is it not so ?' ' Yes. And now, Bertrand,' she went on, changing the subject, ' I have a friend with me whom I wish yoμ to see, and I want her to see you.' • Ah! Beware, lady. lam not fond of making acquaintances.' • O ! but this is one whom I know you would love and trust at sight. She is called Sister Pauline. She is a member of the Sisterhood of Saint Luke's Hospital. Perhaps, however, she will not see you. But I must try. You will not disappoint me. If she will consent, you will ? Now do be good and generous. Make me happy in this.'
♦ Well, well, child, go and see your Sister. If she declines not the meeting, I will not mar your fond desire.' Leaving the recluse in one of the small reception rooms, Theresa sought the occu-r pant of the sanctum, whom ehe found sitting in the baron's great easy-chair, turned toward the portrait, but not looking at it. Her face rested upon her hands, and not until the intruder had come close upon her did sho lift her head^ ' Ah ! Theresa ! I was dreaming. Have you sent your company away F' «No, dear friend,' the girl-marchioness answered, with a beseeching, winsome smile, at the same time "Binding an arm around the other's neck. ' No, Pauline, I have kept him that you might see him.- — Hush! Don't say me nay. It is good old Bertrand Ulrich, tho Recluse of Koland s
Tower. He is one of the grandest men !— —and one of the best! I know you would love him. And, Pauline, remember what you said when I had told you how he came to the rescue of Eldred and myself. You said you would like to see him. You have not forgotten ?' •No ; I have not forgotten ; but—Theresa—l— , 'O! do not refuse me. I cannot tell you how much I have thought of your meeting with him. He Avould charm you, I know.'
Pauline struggled with herself mightily. She felt strangely drawn towards the man of whom Theresa had told her so much ; and she really desired to see him; yet, when she thought of meeting him, she shrank from the ordeal. ' Dear Pauline, it is your ugly dream that frightens you.' ' No, no, Theresa. 0, no; not that. And this dress. What will he think to see a Sister of Charity in such a garb ?' ' Oho ! he is in exactly the same plight!' cried tho buoyant girl, with a gleesomo laugh. ' Ho has left off his sombre robe of the hermit, and douned a truly knightly guise. And he told me he did it on my account. 0 ! you will sen him ! I will bring him hither. Be good, Pauline, and make me happy. . And the wom<tn finally answered almost in the words of the other :
' Well, well, child. Go to your grand old recluse. If he is willing to see me, I will not be the one to disappoint you.' 'O ! thank you !' the happy girl, cried,
kissing her again. ' Now I can have you both together, and shall not be forced to neglect one for the sake of the other. Do not fear. You will find him a plain, sensible man, of surpassing intellect, and most agreeable manners; and I do not hesitate to promise you a most enjoyable occasion.'
Our young marchioness found Bertrand with a book in his hand; but he was not reading. It was a small volume, bound in fine leather, with clasps of gold. The girl recognized it as one which she had left there accidentally—a service-book of the Greek Church, which had once been tho property of Constance Wagner. Ulrich had the book open at the first blank page, whereon the owner's name was written, and he was gazing upon it with an intensity that puzzled the beholder exceedingly. There could be no mistaking the character of his gaze. His whole soul seemed absorbed "in it. Not until the intruder had spoken did he seem to know that he was not alone.
' Ah! Bertrand ! Be happy. She will see you.' The man started at the sound of her voice as though suddenly aroused from a momentary sleep which he ought not to have indulged in—as a soldier might have started who had been caught sleeping on his post. But he quickly recovered himself, and responded with a smile.' ' Command me, dear lady. lam your humble servant.'
' Then come. Give me your arm. There! Does that put you in mind of your youthful days ! Did you in that long-gone time, act the gallant gentleman—' She stopped suddenly, for her companion was trembling, and sho was sure a stifled groan had burst from his lips. ' 0 ! dear old friond! if I said anything
that gave you pain, forgive mo, I pray ! In my lightness of heart I forgot that your life might have known sorrows. I. am forgiven, am I not ?' ' Bless you, dear child ! it is I who ought to crave forgiveness. It was very foolish in me to give way to old memories in such a manner.— There! Now lead on. You shall find my arm firm.' On they went—to the door of the sanctum, and entered arm in arm. Pauline arose. Theresa left her companion standing near the entrance, and took a step forward.
' Sister Paulino, I cannot tell you how much pleasure it gives me to present to you my dear friend, Bertrand—' She stopped, for the woman had become Bale as death, and was grasping the high back of the great chair for support. She turned to look upon the recluse, and was not a little surprised to find him, instead of looking upon the woman to whom_ she would introduce him, gazing with quivering eagerness and intensity upon the portrait that hung against the wall between the two windows.
' Bertrand ! Do you see the lady ? ' Ha ! Pardon !— Yes.—l forgot.' He brushed his hand across bis eyos, and then turned towards the woman who stood by the great chair. Their eyes met. Paulino would have fallen had not Theresa, who saw how strangely she was moved, sprang to her side and upheld her. ' Paulino! What is it ? You are weak. Shall I help you to your seat ?' But the Sister would not sit. With a mighty effort she put away the faintness, and turned her gaze again upon the newcomer, with one hand resting on the girl's shoulder, and the other upon the back of the baron's chair. At this point Theresa, pale and trembling —almost frightened by the marvellous soene—turned towards the recluse. He stood where she had left him; his eyes wildly staring—seeming as though they would start from their sockets ; his lips bloodless and parted ; his hands half extended, like one feeling his way in the dark ; his whole frame quivering as with palsy. By and by, with an effort, he shook off the spell, and He reached the woman as she sank, with a low wail, like a cry of mercy, into the chair. Down on his knees the man went, and caught her hands. ' Look at me! Look at me!' he implored, from the depths of his heart. She did not resist the appeal. ' Woman! In the name of Heaven !— by all yon bold sacred in this world, and in tho next, I charge you—l entreat-I pray tell me truly—what name did you bear in your early lifep Speak! Speak! O! my heart—my life! Is this a cruel phan» tasy ?' At length a name trembled upon the bloodless, quivering lips, but it was not the name he had asked her to speak. As with the last atom of her strength she breathed it and sank forward upon his bosom. ' Feedbeio !' '0! my life! my love !my own ! Constance ! Constance ! Am I dreaming ? Is the dead alive ?' 'But you were dead!' she whispered, clinging to him convulsively. ' Your dead body was found.' • Not mine, dear love. 0 ! Constance ! Constance ! After all these years !'
Theresa dared remain to hear no more. With noiseless step she glided from the room, softly closing the door behind her, and betook herself to her own apartment, where she sank into a seat, and sought to clear the tangled web. It was wonderful! —the most wonderful thing she had ever known or heard of; and yet it seemed all real—all natural. The mystery was solved. The portrait on the baron's wall was iPauline's portrait, as she was in her young and happy life. But how came they both to be alive ? She had been told that the sorrowing duke had seen his wife's grave in the convent yard, with a stone bearing her name; and the Lady Superior had assured him of her death.
And the duke himself. Had not his body been found on the river's bank, with the clothing upon it which he wore in life ? Presently she turned to another thought. If husband and wife wore alive, was not the child alive, also ? The child of Lauy Constanco was born— She reckoned upon her mind, and found that it corresponded exactly with the birth of Eldred. At that time Hubert Lindlow and his wife had been sent away into Hungary ; and when they returned "they had brought back with them a boy, whom they called their son, Ah! now she saw why the face of the recluse had so wonderfully impressed her. It was its likeness to the face of Eldred. How plainly she could see it now that she had the clue. No wonder the heart of the mother had yearned towards her boy. No wonder she had kissed his hand. And now how plainly she could follow the yearning of the good old baron for his grandchild. All these years he had forced himself to love him in secret. What would Eldred say when he knew ? How the time passed Theresa scarcely knew. She was thinking over and over again the wonderful story, when a hand was laid upon the latch of her door and a voice sounded:
' May we come in ?' She sprang to the door and threw it open. Two persons entered her library and stood before her. Their faces were transfigured. The recluse had removed the full grey beard and the heavy wig, now appearing a man of fifty, with plenty of silver in his dark brown hair, but with scarcely an age-mark upon his noble, handsome faoe. There were lines of sorrow and suffering not yet obliterated; but the light of a holy joy softened and subdued them.
As for Sister Pauline, she was stHl the same, saving only the heavenly radiance that enhanced her rare beauty, and the changing of the tranquil melancholy of the azure eyes into a light supernal. Theresa, though she saw, was anxipusto be assured. And tftey assured her. He was truly Frederic Arnsfeldt, formerly Duke of Friedland; and she was his true wife, Constance and duchess, and also daughter of the good old Baron Alonzo Wagner. . 'Dear lady, , the girl asked, 'how did you know him so quickly ?' I do not wonder that hs knew you; for I had known you from your resemblance to the portrait. But he, with Ms face covered ac it was, and the wrinkles pencilled on his brow, and at the corners of his eyes—how did you see through it all?' • I saw Ms eyes. Look at them. And look at tho brow above them ; and at the nose. 0,1 knew Mm in an instant.' ' But, there is a greater mystery. Why
are you alive, when you have both been honored with Christian burial ?'
'Ah, that is the story we have come hither to tell,' said Lady Constance. 'I have not heard Frederic's story, nor has he heard mine. We agreed to roserve them to be told in your- hearing; for surely you have a right to know all. So let us sit. Shall it be here ?'
'Yes. No place can bo more comfortable ; and here lam at home. This is ray sanctum. Do you sit there, my lor—' • Hush !' broke in the recluse, before sho could fill out the word. ' Remember—and do not _ forgot—under no circumstances, until I give the word, will you consider me as other than plain old Bertrand Ulrich, the Recluse of Roland's Tower. And this dear lady must still be Sister Pauline. This to be until I order otherwise. Will you remember, and obey ?' ' I will.'
' And, above all else, not a breath of this outside of this present circlo for the present.' ' I understand ; and so it shall bo.' ' And now to the clearing of the mystery. lam as eager for light as any one. Let me know how I came to be so cruelly deceived.'
CHAPTER VIII. LIGHT IN DAKK PLACES.
It had been agreed that Lady Constance so we will call her for the present—should tell her story first; for upon an unwavering belief in her death and burial, together with the death of his son, the husband had subsequently acted.
But before proceeding fo the work in hand the young hostess ordered refreshments, of which her guests stood much in need. This done, and Constance having taken a little wine, her story was commenced.
'At that terrible time, , she said, sitting close at her husband's side, and holding one of his hands for support, but directing her narrative to Theresa, ' when all hope of redress was gone; when, in fact, the base falsehoods had been renewed and strengthened against me; when I saw my darling becoming more and more miserable every day and every hour ; with my heart breaking, I resolved to flee. I wrote the letter which I left behind, and when that had been done I watched ray opportunity. 'Lot mo say here: If I had taken courage and told to Frederic, previous to our marriage, all that his brother Conrad had been guilty of—but I dared not. ' As I was saying, after I had written my letter I watched my opportunity; and at length it came. On a dark and stormy night, when my little Eldred—so I named him myself, after a little brother that died in childhood —when my little one was lacking only three days of being two mouths old, I took what money was mine own, together with the jewelry that I brought with me from my home, wrapped my child up so snugly that the storm could not reach him—for myself I cared not—and issued forth. The storm beat pitilessly, but I did not notice it. I only sought to protect my child, and moved on. It was past midnight when I reached the city gate. The sentinel took pity on me, and let me pass without calling an officer of the guard. 'At my father's house I was fortunate. I saw a light at his window, on the lower floor, and I called to him there. The scene that followed I shall never repeat. Suffice it to say, at length my father promised to do all that I had asked him to do. I lay concealed at my dear old home almost three weeks, and nobody during that time came there to search for me. Kachel Lindlow, who had been wife of papa's steward several years, and who was childless, was brought to me to nurse me, and wait upon me. To her I gave my boy. He was to be called by her name; my father should never, under any circumstances, lay claim of relationship to him; and uutil he should reach the age of one-and-twenty he should not know anything of the truth of his birth. And I had every reason for this. Of course, the father who had disowned him should not be shamed ; and, further, should Conrad learn of the existence of a boy who stood between himself and the Duchy of Friedland, there was no telling what wicked, terrible thing he might do. ' You will understand. I had granted to my father that he might do with the boy what he would after he was twenty-one. I saw Hubert Lindlow, with his wife and child, set forth for papa's estate in Hungary, and shortly after that, having become strong and well, in deep disguise I left Vienna. I went first to and then to Venice. In tho latter splaco I turned my jewels into money, which" I deposited with a reliable banker, after which I volunteered my services to the Sisters of Charity of Saint Mark. Almost two years I served in Venice. At the end of that time a request came from Trieste that as mauy Sisters should be sent to that place as could be spared—sickness, a malignant fever, like pestilence, had broken put, and the poor sick ones could pot be cared for. I was one of the volunteers.
' With us, on her way to Trieste, was a woman of about my awn age, with her child—a boy. Her name was Pauline Arvilla. She was taken sick before we arrived at our journey's end, and the care of her given to me. At this point the desire possessed me to depart entirely from life. My love for my husband had not changed an atom; but I would set him free. He believed me guilty, and I had no hope that I could ever convince him to the contrary. But I was not tired of life. O, no, I was yet young, and there was much of good for me to do ; and in order to do it pleasantly —to feel free and untrammelled—l must be dead to the world. And here was my opportunity. I told Pauline Arvilla as much of my story as I needed to tell; and I askedy her to exchange names with me, which she did readily and cheerfully, I had been good to her, and she knew, moreover, that she was dying, and that I would care for her to the end : and I promised that I would be a mother to her boy, if he lived. I knew, however, that the little fellow was doomed.
' So, when we reached the Convent of Saint Mary, on the promontory just outside of Trieste, I became Pauline Arvilla, and she, Constance Arnsfeldt; and the Superior, an honest, true-hearted woman, never knew to the contrary. When the poor woman' died, her new name—my name—was cut upon the stone at her grave ; and when her boy died, he was buried by her side, and the fact of Ms interment carved upon the stone. And irom that time I was Sister Pauline ; and soon the name became familiar to me, and I loved it.
' Not quite four years ago an aged priest came to Saint Mary's from Vienna, in search of a competent nurse for the Empress Maria Theresa, and I waa the one selected by the Superior a? best qualified for the office. I came, and then, for the first time, learned of the death of my husband. I will not tell you my feelings. For a time I was the one who needed care and nursing. The blow almost killed me. O! if I could have known that he had Ibarned of my innocence ! But it was too late. I discovered also, that after much inquiry, that he had net learned of his brother's wickedness. I saw my father at that time, but I dared not make myself known to him. He had mourned for me ; the sharp edge of his gnef had became dulled, and I would not shock society by appearing. And I fearod Conrad, now Duke of Friedland. When I saw his evil face I was well content to retrain, as I was, simple Sister Pauline. And so I have remained to the present time, my only hope of joy in the thought that when my lowly duty here on earth should be ended, I might join the still fondly beloved husband in a better bright life beyond the valley of shadows.
' I will only add : A year ago the desire to see my_ father and my child grew so strong within me that I coiud not resist; so I persuaded vay superiors to transfer me to the hospital of my native city, where I have since been. It has pained me to see Conrad Arnsfeldt holding rank and power ; but I have seen my father and my son, and that has given me a holy joy. And now—now
—now —o !my own, my best beloved! Thou art given back to me, as from the grave !" And she Bank upon th.o hoaqm of her husband, and was held close in his loving embrace.
'My blessed, blessed wife ! 0 ! so wickedly abused ! So foully traduced! My angel! my angel! Can you ever forgive the husband who so meanly doubted you ?" ' ' Hush ! hush, my best beloved ! Never
—never say the word to me again. Forgiveness! Those who had set about the work of calumny might have caused the archangel to doubt.' She tenderly embraced him, and kissed him, and then said:
'Now, my darling, I would hear your story. Tell as much, or as little as you please.' The recluse said to their young hostess:
' I must go back to the beginning, but be sure I shall touch but lightly upon the early scenes. When I call to mind with what diabolical ingenuity those first stories were fabricated, and whispered into my ears, I am surprised that I did not at once detect the malevolence that inspired them. For six long months there came' to me,' at various intervals, dark and shapeless hints, not one of them direct—not one hopest and sincere. Yet they made me very unhappy, and they served to prepare my mind to receive the downright accusations when they came. Colonel Vogel and Major Hoffner were in my command, and I thought them my friends. An anonymus party first referred me to them for information, and I was mad enough to seek them.
' And there began my absolute insanity. Those two men played their parts with a skill worthy of a good cause. I cannot speak further, of those miserable days Suffice it to say, my enemies accomplished thoir purpose. My wife was driven from beneath the roof I had beaulified and adorned on purpose for her,
9my fee,i "S 3 when I knew my wife Had left me I will not speak. I could not explain them if I would. At length I found the letter she had left for me. I read \}\ an d from that moment I believed she had been most wrongfully traduced. I thought she might havo been imprudent, but really sinful, never! Then I searched for her. I went to her father's dwelling, and he would not see me ; but I finally succeeded in gaining his ear, and when he saw how much I suffered, and that I really wanted my wife to come back to me, he became less severe, but ho could not help me. His daughter had left his house three days before, and had gone he know not whither. At first I thought ho was deceiving mo, but not for long. I soon became convinced that the poor man was suffering in total ignorance of his child's whereabouts, and before I loft hiti. ho had forgiven me and wept upon my shoulder. ' I will not tell you of the fruitless efforts ± made, of the bitter disappointments, nor of the weary miles of travel by day and by night. Two years had passed when Colonel Vogel, on his dying bed, confessed to mo the whole iniquitous scheme. You ho.vo heard it all, and I will not repeat it. ' Next word came to me that Constance had died in Trieste. Thither I went. At tho convent uf Saint Mary, a few miles out, on a wild spot overlooking the sea, I saw the Lady Superior, who led me to the grave. I saw the headstone, bearing the inscription, ' Constance and heb Child. At Rest.' And the Superior told me the sad story. It was, indeed, my own Constance. So the lady had been assured, and so she honestly believed. And of course I believed.
' When I reached Vienna on my return, a new blow was in store for me. Ralph Hoffner had died, leaving behind a written confession for my eye. He simply repeated Vogel's story, but not a breath against my brother. What they had done they had done in behalf of the memory of the woman whose life they had blasted. I read Hoffner's confession and burned it, as he asked me to do.'
' And now you can imagine how weary I was of the life I was leading. I wished to drop out from the world.'
' One day, while this mood was upon me, as I was wandering alone along the river's bank, I found a dead body washed up on the shore. It was that of a man of my own height and size, poorly dressed ; the face so disfigured as to render the features utterly unrecognisable. In fact, fishes had eaten more than half the face away. The opportunity was at hand.
'It was late in the afternoon when I
found that body. I drew it up into a clump of willows, where it could not be seen by passers, and then hastened away to make my preparations. I could now hide myself from the world, and none would ever search for me. Yet, 1 must have a place near Vienna, where, at some future time, I could settle down in deep disguise, should the mood seize me. My thoughts were very clear. That evening I rode into the cit_v, and called on my attorney—the old attorney of our house for years—and before him I made a deed conveying to Bertrand U/rich was the name I had resolved to assume—the old pile of feudal masonry on the Kahlenberg, known as Rowland's Tower.
On the next day I selected one true heart which I knew I could trust—my faithful valet—to accompany me. I called him from .that time Martin Zerbel, simply transposing the syllables of his last name. We two did much work on that day. In the secret places of the tower Martin and I stored a large sum i7i gold, together with all my private jewels. ' When another evening had come, I sent a servant with a letter to Conrad. Then Martin and I went down to the river, habited in garbs that completely disguised us, my valet carrying a suit of my everyday clothing. We drew the dead body Out where it could be readily seen by any one who should approach the river at that point, and having torn away the clothing , that was upon it, we quickly put in its place my own garb. One of my swords, with its baldric and my hat, together with my cloak, we threw upon the ground. ' And then we departed, Before another day had dawned swift horses had borne us far from Vienna. Several years we spent in different countries, —in Italy; in France ; in Spain; and in England; returning through Germany. Nine years ago, in the character of tho Recluse, —Bertrand Ulrich, — with my faithful, true-hearted Martin in company,—l came and took possession of the Tower; but, as you are awaro, not all tho years since have been spent there. That, however, has been our home, and there, when weary of travel, have we sought rest. ' The first 6hock that came to mo was when I saw my son. I knew that he had been reared by Baron Wagner, and that the baron was passionately fond of him. Martin found out so much for me. But the boy's face was enough,—my own at his age. To-day I came rather to learn of that youth. I came, also, to visit one whom I had learned to deeply love, and who, I had fondly hoped, would love my noble son. The first sign I saw in your tell-tale eyes, my dear child, told me that my hope was blessed in fulfilment. But little then did I dream of this other blessing. O! my own! my precious wife !—my life !— my love !' And locked in a fond and loving embrace Theresa again left them.
In the evening they settled on their plans, Said the recluse:
• You, Constance, will remain here with this dear girl. I will return to my tower, and think the matter over. The solution will be easy when once the baron is hero. You will not leave the castle.'
Constance promised that she would remain ; and her husband, on his part, promised that he would see her again as soon as possible.
'Be brave, sweet one. Wo are yet far from old, and life may have great joy in store for us. I feel in my heart that it is so to bo.'
If Constance felt a fear, she did not show it. She gave her husband a smile when he left her; but she wept later. (To ho continued.)
Permanent link to this item
https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/DTN18861009.2.26.2
Bibliographic details
Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 4735, 9 October 1886, Page 5 (Supplement)
Word Count
6,206THE NOVELIST. Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 4735, 9 October 1886, Page 5 (Supplement)
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