“Is it so?” said Otto. “Why, then, what are we? Are the very best—”
“There is no best in man,” said Gotthold. “I am not better, it is likely I am not worse, than you or that poor sleeper. I was a sham, and now you know me: that is all.”
“And yet it has not changed my love,” returned Otto softly. “Our misdeeds do not change us. Gotthold, fill your glass. Let us drink to what is good in this bad business; let us drink to our old affection; and, when we have done so, forgive your too just grounds of offence, and drink with me to my wife, whom I have so misused, who has so misused me, and whom I have left, I fear, I greatly fear, in danger. What matters it how bad we are, if others can still love us, and we can still love others?”
“Ay!” replied the Doctor. “It is very well said. It is the true answer to the pessimist, and the standing miracle of mankind. So you still love me? and so you can forgive your wife? Why, then, we may bid conscience ‘Down, dog,’ like an ill-trained puppy yapping at shadows.”
The pair fell into silence, the Doctor tapping on his empty glass.
The carriage swung forth out of the valleys on that open balcony of high road that runs along the front of Grünewald, looking down on Gerolstein. Far below, a white waterfall was shining to the stars from the falling skirts of forest, and beyond that, the night stood naked above the plain. On the other hand, the lamplight skimmed the face of the precipices, and the dwarf pine-trees twinkled with all their needles, and were gone again into the wake. The granite roadway thundered under wheels and hoofs; and at times, by reason of its continual winding, Otto could see the escort on the other side of a ravine, riding well together in the night. Presently the Felsenburg came plainly in view, some way above them, on a bold projection of the mountain, and planting its bulk against the starry sky.
“See, Gotthold,” said the Prince, “our destination.”
Gotthold awoke as from a trance.
“I was thinking,” said he, “if there is any danger, why did you not resist? I was told you came of your free will; but should you not be there to help her?”
The colour faded from the Prince’s cheeks.
III
Providence von Rosen: Act the Last
In Which She Gallops Off
When the busy Countess came forth from her interview with Seraphina, it is not too much to say that she was beginning to be terribly afraid. She paused in the corridor and reckoned up her doings with an eye to Gondremark. The fan was in requisition in an instant; but her disquiet was beyond the reach of fanning. “The girl has lost her head,” she thought; and then dismally, “I have gone too far.” She instantly decided on secession. Now the Mons Sacer of the Frau von Rosen was a certain rustic villa in the forest, called by herself, in a smart attack of poesy, Tannen Zauber, and by everybody else plain Kleinbrunn.
Thither, upon the thought, she furiously drove, passing Gondremark at the entrance to the Palace avenue, but feigning not to observe him; and as Kleinbrunn was seven good miles away, and in the bottom of a narrow dell, she passed the night without any rumour of the outbreak reaching her; and the glow of the conflagration was concealed by intervening hills. Frau von Rosen did not sleep well; she was seriously uneasy as to the results of her delightful evening, and saw herself condemned to quite a lengthy sojourn in her deserts and a long defensive correspondence, ere she could venture to return to Gondremark. On the other hand, she examined, by way of pastime, the deeds she had received from Otto; and even here saw cause for disappointment. In these troublous days she had no taste for landed property, and she was convinced, besides, that Otto had paid dearer than the farm was worth. Lastly, the order for the Prince’s release fairly burned her meddling fingers.
All things considered, the next day beheld an elegant and beautiful lady, in a riding-habit and a flapping hat, draw bridle at the gate of the Felsenburg, not perhaps with any clear idea of her purpose, but with her usual experimental views on life. Governor Gordon, summoned to the gate, welcomed the omnipotent Countess with his most gallant bearing, though it was wonderful how old he looked in the morning.
“Ah, Governor,” she said, “we have surprises for you, sir,” and nodded at him meaningly.
“Eh, madam, leave me my prisoners,” he said; “and if you will but join the band, begad, I’ll be happy for life.”
“You would spoil me, would you not?” she asked.
“I would try, I would try,” returned the Governor, and he offered her his arm.
She took it, picked up her skirt, and drew him close to her. “I have come to see the Prince,” she said. “Now, infidel! on business. A message from that stupid Gondremark, who keeps me running like a courier. Do I look like one, Herr Gordon?” And she planted her eyes in him.
“You look like an angel, ma’am,” returned the Governor, with a great air of finished gallantry.
The Countess laughed. “An angel on horseback!” she said. “Quick work.”
“You came, you saw, you conquered,” flourished Gordon, in high good humour with his own wit and grace. “We toasted you, madam, in the carriage, in an excellent good glass of wine; toasted you fathom deep; the finest woman, with, begad, the finest eyes in Grünewald. I never saw the like of them but once, in my own country, when I was a young fool at College: Thomasina Haig her name was. I give you my word of honour, she was as like you as two
