She was all but gone when the rite of extreme unction was completed, and they could only stand round her, Eberhard, Christina, Ursel, and the old Baroness, who had returned again, watching the last flutterings of the breath, the window thrown wide open that nothing might impede the passage of the soul to the blue vault above.
The priest spoke the beautiful commendation, “Depart, O Christian soul.” There was a faint gesture in the midst for Christina to lift her in her arms—a sign to bend down and kiss her brow—but her last look was for her brother, her last murmur, “Come after me; be the Good Baron Ebbo.”
CHAPTER V
THE YOUNG FREIHERR
Ermentrude von Adlerstein slept with her forefathers in the vaults of the hermitage chapel, and Christina Sorel’s work was done.
Surely it was time for her to return home, though she should be more sorry to leave the mountain castle than she could ever have believed possible. She entreated her father to take her home, but she received a sharp answer that she did not know what she was talking of: the Schlangenwald Reitern were besetting all the roads; and moreover the Ulm burghers had taken the capture of the Constance wine in such dudgeon that for a retainer of Adlerstein to show himself in the streets would be an absolute asking for the wheel.
But was there any hope for her? Could he not take her to some nunnery midway, and let her write to her uncle to fetch her from thence?
He swore at woman’s pertinacity, but allowed at last that if the plan, talked of by the Barons, of going to make their submission to the Emperor at Linz, with a view to which all violence at the ford had ceased, should hold good, it might be possible thus to drop her on their way.
With this Christina must needs content herself. Poor child, not only had Ermentrude’s death deprived her of the sole object of her residence at Schloss Adlerstein, but it had infinitely increased the difficulties of her position. No one interfered with her possession of the upper room and its turrets; and it was only at meal times that she was obliged to mingle with the other inhabitants, who, for the most part, absolutely overlooked the little shrinking pale maiden but with one exception, and that the most perplexing of all. She had been on terms with Freiherr Eberhard that were not so easily broken off as if she had been an old woman of Ursel’s age. All through his sister’s decline she had been his comforter, assistant, director, living in intercourse and sympathy that ought surely to cease when she was no longer his sister’s attendant, yet which must be more than ever missed in the full freshness of the stroke.
Even on the earliest day of bereavement, a sudden thought of Hausfrau Johanna flashed upon Christina, and reminded her of the guard she must keep over herself if she would return to Ulm the same modest girl whom her aunt could acquit of all indiscretion. Her cheeks flamed, as she sat alone, with the very thought, and the next time she heard the well-known tread on the stair, she fled hastily into her own turret chamber, and shut the door. Her heart beat fast. She could hear Sir Eberhard moving about the room, and listened to his heavy sigh as he threw himself into the large chair. Presently he called her by name, and she felt it needful to open her door and answer, respectfully:
“What would you, my lord?”
“What would I? A little peace, and heed to her who is gone. To see my father and mother one would think that a partridge had but flown away. I have seen my father more sorrowful when his dog had fallen over the abyss.”
“Mayhap there is more sorrow for a brute that cannot live again,” said Christina. “Our bird has her nest by an Altar that is lovelier and brighter than even our Dome Kirk will ever be.”
“Sit down, Christina,” he said, dragging a chair nearer the hearth. “My heart is sore, and I cannot bear the din below. Tell me where my bird is flown.”
“Ah! sir; pardon me. I must to the kitchen,” said Christina, crossing her hands over her breast, to still her trembling heart, for she was very sorry for his grief, but moving resolutely.
“Must? And wherefore? Thou hast nought to do there; speak truth! Why not stay with me?” and his great light eyes opened wide.
“A burgher maid may not sit down with a noble baron.”
“The devil! Has my mother been plaguing thee, child?”
“No, my lord,” said Christina, “she reeks not of me; but”—steadying her voice with great difficulty—“it behoves me the more to be discreet.”
“And you would not have me come here!” he said, with a wistful tone of reproach.
“I have no power to forbid you; but if you do, I must betake me to Ursel in the kitchen,” said Christina, very low, trembling and half choked.
“Among the rude wenches there!” he cried, starting up. “Nay, nay, that shall not be! Rather will I go.”
“But this is very cruel of thee, maiden,” he added, lingering, “when I give thee my knightly word that all should be as when she whom we both loved was here,” and his voice shook.
“It could not so be, my lord,” returned Christina with drooping, blushing face; “it would not be maidenly in me. Oh, my lord, you are kind and generous, make it not hard for me to do what other maidens less lonely have friends to do for them!”
“Kind and generous?” said Eberhard, leaning over the back of the chair as if trying to begin a fresh score. “This from you, who told me once I was no true knight!”
“I shall call you a true knight with all my heart,” cried Christina, the tears rushing into her eyes, “if you will respect my weakness and loneliness.”
He stood up again, as if to move away; then paused, and, twisting his gold chain, said, “And how am I ever to be what the happy one bade me, if you will not show me how?”
“My error would never show you the right,” said Christina, with a strong effort at firmness, and retreating at once through the door of the staircase, whence she made her way to the kitchen, and with great difficulty found an excuse for her presence there.
It had been a hard struggle with her compassion and gratitude, and, poor little Christina felt with dismay, with something more than these. Else why was it that, even while principle and better sense summoned her back to Ulm, she experienced a deadly weariness of the city-pent air, of the grave, heavy roll of the river, nay, even of the quiet, well-regulated household? Why did such a marriage as she had thought her natural destiny, with some worthy, kind-hearted brother of the guild, become so hateful to her that she could only aspire to a convent life? This same burgomaster would be an estimable man, no doubt, and those around her were ruffians, but she felt utterly contemptuous and impatient of him. And why was the interchange of greetings, the few words at meals, worth all the rest of the day besides to her? Her own heart was the traitor, and to her own sensations the poor little thing had, in spirit at least, transgressed all Aunt Johanna’s precepts against young Barons. She wept apart, and resolved, and prayed, cruelly ashamed of every start of joy or pain that the sight of Eberhard cost her. From almost the first he had sat next her at the single table that accommodated the whole household at meals, and the custom continued, though on some days he treated her with sullen silence, which she blamed herself for not rejoicing in, sometimes he spoke a few friendly words; but he observed, better than she could have dared to expect, her test of his true knighthood, and never again forced himself into her apartment, though