THE NOVELIST.

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 5965, 18 October 1890, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE NOVELIST.

Ottille Sllerj.ce,

[BY IDA BOYED.J

CHAPTER VII.

THE WIDOW OF A WOULD-BE UEGICIDE,

'Do not misunderstand me,' said Otlimer, in reply to Ottilie, in a soothing tone. 'In the country where I have lived so long, the social relations are more natural than they are with us, and I have learned there that we carry tho solidarity of the family too far, when we consider that our own honor is stained by the wrongful act of a kinsman, however near. Lyery man must answer for himself ; to him alone is honor due who earns it, and he alone must bear disgrace whose crime entails it. In Europe, when it is suddenly ''discovered that Brown is a scoundrel and he is safely lodged in the penitentiary, nil the World declares that Brown's family is not responsible and that they must be just as highly respected as ever. But these very assurances, and the fact that they are necessary, prove incontestably that the Brown family no longer enjoys, m the eyes of the world, the same consideration Perhaps, if I »ad remained m Europe I should have continued to regard my former sensitiveness as a healthy sentiment of honor. In our case, however, there were peculiar circumstances in tho nature of Robert s act and in my position, the force of which I still feel to-day, not so much irmti the point of view of the family as from the iatural prompting of the heart How could I continue to serve in the army of my country when the mention of my name must always bring to the mind of the best ami noblest of monarchs tho recollection of the fact that my own •brother, the second of the name, had raised his hand against my sovereign . A proper consideration for the noble, kind, and cruelly, wounded heart of my commander-in-chief forbade that 1 should keep before him the name of Othmrr, and I feel to-day that the resolution which I then took was a proper one But that my brother, in mockheroic exultation, tried t<, be a regicide, and afterward destroyed hims«lr m prison, docs not wake me personally less worthy of honor and respect. Ihc natural consequence of my resignation was that I should leave the country. After Robert's death, it became apparent that ho had squandered our little property and we wore reduced to penury. Every effort which I might have made to secure employment m_ the service of the state would have deprived mv resignation from the nrmy,. of its purpose.; and, besides, any such employment would scarcely have yielded enough to support v* ; and"so I wont away, hard as it was to do, leaving you and Sabine behind me helpless. \ on know all that.' Ottilie pressed bis band nervously. * Yes ' she said, in feverish agitation, «dreadfully helpless. Overwhelmed by the cruel disappointments of the la>t two years, young, inexperienced, unfit for any useful labor, 1 found mysell suddenly charged with the responsibility of my own and Sabnie s support. And besides all that, n disgraced and cursed name, which closed every door before my face ; a name whose Sound rang through my dreams at night till 1. awoke in terror ; a name which one day will tear me from my husband's heart, should he discover that I have borne it, and destroy all the happiness, the unspeakable and heavenly bliss winch has come into his life and mine.' 'What's that? What do you mean? Your husband does not know—■ , . , Othrner looked at tho excited woman in astonishment. 'He docs not know that I was Bobert Othmer's wife,' she answered, in hopeless, lifeless tones. Othmer was silent. Ottilie expected some question, sonic word, oven an expression of condemnation. Ihis silence brought her over-strained nerves to a new tension. _ 'You are afraid to say that i— that—' , . , , • I am only considering,' interrupted Othmer, quietly, 'how the thing can bo toossible, and before I can pass judgment on you, let me hear the whole B At his word, Ottilie breathed more freely and tLe burden of years was lifted from her heart < Ye ' she began, ' I will tell you how it all came about The mis,ry of my short marriage with Robert, you, yourself, have Boon. I was seventeen Lr.s old, an orphan, and weighed down L my aunt's severe discipline My was thirsting for love a>»dl was only too easily deceived by Robuts, dazzling exterior. I remember well, Valence, that your eyes followed me With a look of compassion, even then as I walked with him to the altar. V ou .understood him and knew his consiimincr vanity, his hard and cruel egotism. You had already suffered much irom >7\s absurd endeavor to place himself More the public in the light ot a phflosophical regenerator of the world You knew very well that he had lW- and truest or all monarchs. , i mil in r«j? conviction came to turn court nor the iuteU bad token any notice of hl^S^So;:-stru,kbvhisu r br.lv deed, strangled him*;?" "»«>- ---tuUoflHßpnsoucell, was a bles- &■ for a", especially for you and fo Do you remember how still and coW we sat when t\»e news was brought iQ s o Then came my great misery, £ is "true that the newspaper made Wtle mention of the Othmer family; , ut whenever f. songU einployimmt, 'Smmewas asked; onl when I gave t y^ y questioners fled fran mensfrom

a leper; for was not the king lying on his bed of pain, still suffering intensely fromthewounds inflicted by my husband? So all turned from me, pitiless. But, even had I been able to obtain employment, I should not have proved mygelf capable, with my lack of experience.

' I sought a position as companion, answered advertisements for governesses and teachers ; I would even have, taken service as a household drudge. In vain—all in vain! Some sympathetic people, in the house where I lived, advised me to turn to the king himself. He, full of kingly magnanimity, would realize that I was a greater sufferer than he from Robert Othmor's crime. But I could not do it—you understand that. At last I threw aside the hated name forever. My maiden name was not known, and my two years of married life had been passed in such strict seclusion that few knew even of my existence. I sold what little furniture I had, and then went with Sabine to. Aunt Warnsdorf, who lived, as she had always done, in ihe quiet vicinity of the Fichtel Mountains.

'That her means were of the nnrrowest I knew full'well. The fact that Robert had wasted my little fortune only increased her fanatical hatred for the man about whom she had poured such prodigal praises into my ears two short years before. Disillusion always incenses one against the object of a former favorable judgment. My aunt applauded heartily my deiormination to abandon my married name, and start again in the world with my maiden one of Baroness Warnsdorf; but I had to conceal Sabine's very existence.' Ottilie lived it all through again as she told it. Her voice was fraught with pain, and her eyes were burning. 'Oil! , she said, continuing, 'what anguish 1 have suffered ! Not to know, as each morning dawned, whether my child would have enough food to satisfy her for the next twenty-four hours. How long the nights were, and how hard were the days in which only a groschen or two were earned. How the eyes burn which cannot close in slumber; how the limbs tremble which are not strengthened by sufficient nourishment. How easy seems death to one who lias known such distress. , ' Of tilie,'cried Othmer, with a shudder, ' don't dwell on it: it is all over, long ago. 1 She raised her eyes to his with a • glance fixed and hard, as the horrible past came once more before her sight. Then, after a moment, with!;i sorrowful sigh, she resumed the thread of her story. 1 1 soon found a position as companion ■in a parvenu's house. I saw no necessity for abandoning my title, and in this wealthy family, the Baroness Warnsdorf was treated with a distinction and consideration which would not have been accorded her had her rank remained unknown. : I was virtually mistress of the house: Duriii.tr my first three months in it, I was able to send some money to my aunt for Sabine, not much, but enough to make a first year's payment to the good pastor and his wife, who promised to rear, educate and care, for her as. long as God willed them to live. The payment of a small yearly sum was an absolute necessity, for ih«y were too poor to keep the child without remuneration. I cannot tell you how grateful I wns to my aunt for having discovered these worthy people, nor to them for their willingness to provide Sabine with all the care and attention which so young a child needed. Now everything would be well —I could earn money, I could feel that my child was carefully guarded, and in time I could save enough to educate her well, but that I should be able to see her only once a year was a torture which I had to endure, as well ns many others, which nil mothers will understand. But at the end of the three months I felt ill. T had to leave the parvenu's house at once ; they could neither harbor nor pay money in advance to a person who had brought no city reference ; that was a maxim with them—they had accumulated their fortune by just such njaxims—my title had secured me the I place, and when I was taken ill it was at once offered to a poor countess. ' Distress was upon me again ; ghastly, horrible, and inevitable. 'My aunt nursed me through this illness—she must almost have starved to have done so. And each day her frenzied hate of the dead Othmer grew upon her. She even wished little Sabine's name to be changed ; hut (he good people at the parsonage did not like the idea, and thought that the name which had been given her before God in holy baptism should never be changed, and I allowed them to decide the mavter. Immediately upon my recovery I found another position. 'This time in the house of an aristocratic land-owner, who wished me to take the place of his invalid wife in the household. Eight weeks later I was again in search of employment—the land-owner had grossly insulted me. And so it. went, always lashed on by the spurs of poverty and torment.' ' Poor woman,' said Othmer, compassionately. ' It was a hard school—a terrible school. But it quieted me and humbled my pride. 1 lost all disposition to resist any kind of drudgery. At last, I went to a disagreeable old woman named Aster, who lived in Regensbnrg, and who, alOiprigh she possessed many kinsfolk in the world, could find none who would have patience with her, except her nephew, Bertrand Aster, who often can«j from his home in the city to see her He was.accustomed to see at every monthly visit some new patjent hiae beside his ill-tempered aunt's bed, and while giving these poor victims little more ihan a passing glance, he always treated them with sympathizing courtesy. It was a surprise to him, • therefore, when, on his second visit I after my arrival, he mv me still [, there. '' Fritulein,' he said to me, in an uni watched moment, 'you must bean angel ; of patience, for you are the first person whom I have met whohsis stayed longer c. than four weeks with my unfortunate a aunt.'

'' I remain because—l am very poor Mr Aster/ I replied ;' and have learned mi other houses that, servitude can bring greater humiliation than the sharp tongue and the bad humor of an embittered old woman.'

'He understood me and extended his hand to me, saying : '' Have patience with my old aunt : she was once terribly deceived by a man whom she loved, and since then she can see no good in human nature.'

* This conversation gave .me the courage to abandon my attitude of apathetic patience, and cautiously to attempt the experiment of softening her blind harshness of heart. In time, God rewarded my honest efforts.'

' And how did you find your husband ?* asked Othmer, who was curious and anxious to hasten to the brighter days in this sad life, for he had a warm, brotherly love for Ottilie.

'We found one another,' she answered, in a tone of exaltation. ' Our love was not, the growth of an hour ; it was no mere storm of passion. No, slowly but irresistibly our souls awakened to the consciousness that we were created for one another. Bertrand's character compelled my esteem, even in the miserable time of our first meetings, when I was too wretched and too absorbed in my own terrible struggles to pay much heed to thje actions of any man. But one could not pnss him by with a single glance. And from this esteem my love grew. I saw that Bnrtrand had ambition not to climb to the summit at any cost, but to perform all duties. I saw that he was a true son and brother, bearing cheerfully heavy family burdens. I heard him speak considerately and humanely of the mistakes of other men. And I saw that he, [loved me. Oh, Valentine, do you know what such happiness is ? No, only the heart which is almost frozen to death can realize the joy of such a heavenly resuscitation. But my love did not make me blind. I had long recognized that Bcrtrand, like all mankind, had his failings. His painful, almost, strained sense of honor and his family pride were not free from a eedain pedantry. He believed himself, through his position as a state official, under obligation to have regard to a hundred minor and often unimportant considerations. As to my poverty, he was utterly indifferent to that. That I was a widow and no youthful maiden would not for one moment have influenced his decision to marry me, for I heard him express himself on this subject, when a very dear friend of his married a widow. But that I had been the wife of Robert Othmer, the traitor and the man who had attempted the king's life—that he would never havo overlooked. How much I suffered at that time ! Should I reveal my secret to him and forever seal his lips upon that sweet secret of his love which he was about, to reveal to me ? Or was it simple madness to hope that he would disregard it all for my sake. And in a frightful hour the conversation turned on Otlmier's crime. Bortnmd's mention of the complete recovery of the Icing, who had recently accorded him an interview, was the beginning of the conversation. Then Bertram! wont on to .say that he entirely approved of Lieutenant Othmcr's decision to leave thearmy and lieu from Europe, for in our kingdom as well as in all other German lands, his nanus was disgraced, and all doors to preferment or happiness forever closed ; he added that he understood the traitor's wife had gone to America also, and that was well. Some one interrupted, that on the contrary lie had heard that the poor wife was dead, and Bcrtrand added that God had been merciful to her. And I —I, Robert otinner's wife, sat there dumb, as one turned to stone'

Ottilie sobbed aloud, as the sad memory of that trying day once more oppressed her, then she took her hands from her face, and continued excitedly :

1 You may say that the hour had come in which I should have spoken or bave fled from-his presence forever. My heart would not. It cried out that another's curse should not shut me out for all Unto from this life's happiness ; 1, in \vliose heart many failures were recorded, but not one sinful thought. jSTo, no, a thousand times no ! Bertraml asked me to marry him. He said that he himself was not rich, and that in so doing I should assume heavy duties, whiclj only a great unselfish love could enable me to discharge. Oh I could have wished that his life's cares were ten times as great as they were ; the greater the burden the better could J prove my love. I told him that, but 1 also told him. that I dare not become his wife. I spoke of my poverty, of my duty toward a penniless member of my own family, for whom I must earn bread, of the dark deed which a near relative had ('unlimited, hut I added that my name, the namo of Warnsdorf was untarnished. He pnssed these obi jections lightly by, and asked no questions nor showed any curiosity concerning the kinsman who had been a criminal.

' So. I battled against my happiness for a year. 'During that time I learned that the love which bound Bertrand and me together was undying. That his life would be as miserable as mine if we were not united, and that what our natures demanded, it scorned a holy duty to fulfil. Not for pleasure and glitter, but for earnest labor were our lives to become one. [ could lighten the last suffering of his dear invalid mothpr, educate his little brother into a brave, honest man, and make for ourselves a very heaven on earth. Was it not light to place the happiness of so many lives before tho luemory of the I sin of one miserable existence ? What law of church or state was I disobeying 1

' And Sabiue, uiy',child, what did she lose ? Nothing. She had everything to gain. Her very existence depended upon my exertions, and, as sorrowful experience bad taught me, I could ho sure of little ; sickness might attack me again, and I- was becoming | each day less able to battle against it. In fact, nu accident depriving me for ilic time <>'f employment was a possibility which I might have to face at any moment. As the wife of this man, I should possess a modest but secure^

home, my simple wants, would always bo supplied, and all my exertions could be turned to some employment which would secure my child against want; or dependence. .

'To see her for a few weeks, as I then did, would, I knew, in the future, not be an impossibility. More happiness with my child I could never expect, oven though I remained unmarried. ISo tho determination grew, and clung to me, to marry Bertram! without telling him my secret.' CHAPTER VIII, A HAPPY MISERY. ' Without doubt,' said Othtner, in his quiet, soothing manner, ' you had individually, the right to take this step. That you had been Robert's wife was a misfortune,, but not a crime. It was neither logical nor healthy to avoid the company of every human creature on account of this calamity. And you had also to think of the family which your marriage to Aster was to found.' 'We have had seventeen years of pure and perfect happiness, , cried Ottilie, in a passion of love. Each day has proved to me that I acted rightly. Bertrand's mother was made happy, and died in my arms, with a prayer on her lips for me. Francis is an honest, lovable man ; my children are good and kind-hearted, repaying us well for all our care ; and my husband—oh! learn to know him in order to love,and honor, htm, but he could not survive my loss !' 'Be assured, dearest. I swear | I shall never reveal your secret. But tell me how, in this little world of yours, it was possible for you to conceal all this ? And then we will have to consider what is best for me to do,' said Othmer, thoughtfully. Ottilie was silent for a moment, and then continued : 'When I had finally made up my mind, I obtained permission to visit my aunt. She, who had so hated Othmer, rejoiced over the happy turn which affairs had taken, and commended

most heartily my decision to be silent to the death regarding the terrible past. We decided what whatever money I could earn by translating or other home toil should be sent to her,

and through her all Sabine's living expenses and education should be paid. Near or with my old kinswoman I could see Sabine every year, for my aunt lived in a distant sequestered village, where she resides to this day. At my marriage, I presented my parents' marriage certificate, and a written statement from

my aunt, my only living kinswoman, giving her free consent to the marriage. More papers were not needed and these few were unquestionably correct. When Sabine grew older she learned of the stain which lay on

her father's name. She knew that inexorable circumstances kept me from

her. What these circumstances were she had never learned, neither does she know my present name. Her foster parents died several years ago, and since that time she has lived in Berlin a member of a worthy city official's family, assiduously pursuing the study of painting. She hns great talent and will, I trust, bo able to turn it to profitable account. For many years I

have been able to earn a thousand marks for her, and as that amount was not always spent, my aunt has saved a couple of thousand against a day of distress, "During the first years of our married life, Bertrand insisted that my aunt should visit us. For the past ten years her increasing years have prevented her doing so. A visit to us was always her greatest delight.' ' And did you never make the attempt to toll your husband all, since your marriage ?' asked Othmer. ' Such love as you bear each other gives and demands confidence.'

'I decide! within myself to tell him

the truth after our marriage ; but my cowardly heart in its thirst for happiness, forbade. 'He first must become fixed in his love and respect,' I thought. x\.nd wtyen Mary was born, a cry went forth from my very soul for my firstborn, my banished clu'ld ; and in my first horn , of happiness the memory of Sabine stood near me. But I have learned self-repression ; I have trembled every hour for fear my happiness would be torn from me. An earnest, searching glance from my husband made me shudder. Perhaps he knew all! Every letter, which I saw in his hand made me tremble.' Was

he bringing the disclosure of my secret ?. If I have erred through my concealment of the truth I have been

nmished every day, every hour ! My lappiness has been without peace. I ive on the volcano's brink. And with

it, a ll—strange contradiction — this weight of care has brought its blessing. It Ifas made me courageous, patient, industrious, capable of renunciation and has added to my woman's strength. I have been without repose, but I have known that the years have strengthened my husband's love and that hns boon my exceeding great ro-

ward. That thought has boen unalloyed bliss—l can shut my eyes and think that in the day when ho does

learn the truth, he will not doubt my

worth, So the years have come and with increasing time tho difficulty of confession had grown. ' And at last, I said to myself:

R o b er t—he was my youth's misfortune ;

Bertrand he is the very essence of my life. Every pulse throb within me is his ; every hour since our marriage has been replete with the love we bear each other. On my former life, Bertram! had no claim, for my soul has ever been unsullied. What I dit| was n0 u c —it was the service of a new and blessed life. I would take my secret with me to the grave, or leave it behind i? I felt that Sabine ? s fate was

uncertain. And wltlf your- coming came the fear whether it would be possible to- longer conceal the truth from Bertram}. , ' It is possible, , said Othnior, while a new light burned in his eyes, ' It in possible ; listen to mo, I will settle in Berlin, and take Sabine to myself ; she shall be my child. Bo at rest over her future fate. I am rich ;

Sabine shall be my heir. I long for a family and a homo ; Sabine will realise these longings, and will receive from me a fatherly affection.'

Ottilie rose, with a cry of intense joy, and threw her arms around Othmer's neck.

.. .«It is almost beyond belief,' she gasped. ' Can it be true ?' Sabine shall have a home at last! Shall not have to earn the hard, bitter bread of dependence as I once had ! Oh, I thank you.'

', And more,' said Othmer, who had been considering the whole situation. 1 Sabine is from this moment my daughter—for I shall immediately make her my child by adoption before the courts—l can speak of her at once to your husband. And if Sabine is an intelligent girl, I can tell her everything, and she can very soon establish a kinswoman's intercourse with your house. .

Ottilie was too overcome to express a word of thanks. Silently she murmured a prayer to her God. So peace was to come to her soul at last, and the constant and distressing thought that her eldest daughter was always to be denied the blessing and protection of a parent's love was set at rest forever.

1 1 behove,' muraiered she, to herself, ' I should have died in agony if I had ,been forced to tell it all to Bertram!.'

[to be continued.!