Chapter IX: For Life and Death

Eagerly did Charlie Pierrepont await the arrival of the Brieftrager, or letter-carrier, who brought him a brief note from Heinrich, saying that he meant to take his sister for a drive that evening, and that Charlie would find her in the little church at Burtscheid at the hour of seven. The note was signed, as usual, '_Ihr treuer Freund_, HEINRICH.' After all that had occurred, how delightful and encouraging it was to find her brother signing himself 'Your devoted friend,' as of old!

'The little church of Burtscheid?' said Charlie, after perusing the note for the third or fourth time; 'it is a strange place to choose.'

But Ernestine was a strange girl, and, with regard to this farewell meeting, had that in view which Charlie could not foresee. Ten hours had to elapse before the appointed one came; and to Charlie, who passed the day almost watch in hand, the time seemed interminable. Evening came, however, at last; and the shadows of the church spires were falling eastward when Charlie set out for the trysting-place, which is a mile and a half from the gates of Aix, and connected therewith by a handsome avenue of trees. The village is now chiefly celebrated for its mineral waters; but 'the abbey of Burtscheid,' says Forster, a writer at the close of the last century, 'is beautifully situated, and finished with all ecclesiastical splendour. Close by, a small wood runs towards a large reservoir, and as you advance you come to a narrow valley enclosed by woody hills, where several warm springs are soon discovered by the vapour that rises from them, and the large reservoir is quite filled with hot water. As you walk along a series of beautifully shaded reservoirs you see the romantic ruins of the old castle of Frankenburg.'

Thus the trysting-place selected by Ernestine was quite near her home. The church was an appendage of the abbey mentioned by Forster. It was a lonely place, surrounded by a burial-ground, where, as usual in German cemeteries, the inventions of the mason and carpenter rarely go beyond an urn, a cross, or a broken pillar in fashioning a tombstone, and where, for reasons to be afterwards mentioned, few came to promenade, as the public usually do in public burying-grounds.

At the gate stood a handsome britzka, with a pair of horses, the reins of which were held by Heinrich, who was without groom or other attendant.

'Ernestine?' said Charlie, grasping the hand of his friend.

'She is in the church. We have not been here three minutes. Do not detain her long, Carl, as I would not have suspicion excited. Meantime, I shall smoke a cigar.'

Charlie hastened into the edifice, for the Herr Pastor of which, in happier times, Ernestine and Herminia had worked many altar-cloths, pen-wipers, slippers, and smoking-caps. It was a plain, whitewashed edifice, ancient Gothic in some parts, patched with modern brickwork elsewhere; and a subdued light stole through the windows on the portraits of certain defunct Herr Pastors hung upon the pillars, the oaken pews, and the rows of black iron spittoons in some, with kneeling hassocks in others. Before the rail of the altar, Ernestine was kneeling, in prayer apparently.

There was no one else in the church, and on hearing Charlie approach, she threw herself into his arms, and for some time could but sob passionately and utter his name in a choking voice, while he patted her cheek and kissed away her tears. Then she became more composed, and taking Charlie's face between her soft and ungloved hands, gazed into his eyes with a tender smile.

'You will yet love me, Carl, in spite of all that mamma has said?' she whispered.

'Love you!' he exclaimed, 'what on earth could make me cease to love you?'

'How enchanting it is to be with you again, my own Carl! You will write to me from--from France, when Heinrich writes to me or Herminia, and I can reply in the same manner.'

'Thank you, darling, for the delightful promise.'

'No power on earth must separate us, Carl. I have resolved that such cannot, shall not be.'

'The Baron----'

'Ah, don't speak of him at this precious time,' said she, contemptuously; 'that odious Grünthal--such a mouth he has! When he laughs you can almost see it behind him.'

'Behind him, darling--how?'

'The corners of his mouth might meet behind his head.'

This was somewhat of an exaggeration, but as it was like some of Ernestine's speeches in merrier times, she made Charlie laugh.

'Yet, to such a man _they_ would assign you!' said he.

'If they dare!' she replied, with a little gesture, peculiarly her own, as it was partly imperious and partly child-like.

Her tears began to flow again, and she said:

'It is in vain that the Graf storms, and that mamma tells me every vow that has passed between us must be forgotten, that when you left Frankenburg you lost all claim on me, and I was, and am, perfectly free. I am not free, Carl; I have promised to become your wedded wife, and no other shall have my heart or hand while I live!'

She spoke with strong passion, and as she lay in the arms of her lover, her whole delicate form was trembling violently.

'But for this war, I would implore you to take me away with you, and make me your wife in spite of them all--your dear little wife, Carl. Wherever you went, there Ernestine would be with you, and we should live but for each other, and love each other as we have always done.'

'And this war once over, if God spares me, I shall come, at every risk, at every hazard, and take you away--on this I had already resolved, darling.'

'When that time comes, dearest Carl, I will live on your smiles by day, and rest my head on your bosom at night.'

There was a smile on the eyes and on the lips of the girl as she spoke, though her heart was torn by the misery of the coming separation. Suddenly she said:

'Kneel with me before this altar, ere some one interrupts us. Let us make a promise to be true to each other in life and in death----'

'Death, darling?'

'In sorrow and joy, peril and safety; sickness and health, in death and in life! Repeat after me, what I say.'

Clasped hand in hand, and kneeling face to face, they each promised to be faithful, loving and true to the other, under all circumstances, exactly as if they had been wedded, till death parted them. The words she dictated were strangely nervous and solemn--solemn even to being fantastic--chilling, yet somehow charming, and they were never forgotten by Charlie, who repeated them after her as one in a dream.

In the usually tender eyes and soft face of Ernestine there was, for a time, a sad yet stern expression of resolution and self-mastery, which Charlie failed to analyze, though the memory of it long haunted him.

'We have forged our spiritual chain, beloved Carl,' said she, 'and cannot break it now.'

'Nor shall it ever be broken!' he replied, caressing her tenderly.

'_For life and death_ our bond be recorded in Heaven!' said the strange romantic girl; 'kiss me, Carl, kiss me--I feel much happier now.'

'Surely Heaven will spare me for your sake, my love.'

'If not, we shall meet there, Carl--for I should not be long behind you, there, where there are no harsh parents, "where there is neither marriage, nor giving in marriage,"--then we shall be re-united, Carl, and live our dreams of love over again.'

The girl's manner was exquisitely tender, yet sad, and so earnest that there came a time when Charlie remembered it, occasionally with terror. The voice of her brother was now heard.

'Heinrich is very impatient,' said Charlie.

'One moment, Carl. If I were to come to you when dead, would you fear me?'

'When dead?' said Charlie, looking down on the sweet upturned face that lay on his shoulder; 'what _do_ you mean, Ernestine?'

'I scarcely know; but I should not fear _you_, love. I have some strange emotions in my heart this evening. I do not think even the grave would keep me from you; but would it keep you from me?'

'I fear it would, darling,' said he, with a half smile, though rather bewildered by all this; 'battle trenches are often pretty deep and full.'

'Oh, horror, Carl; don't talk of such an end as that!'

He regarded her anxiously, fearing that sudden sorrow was affecting her mind. Again the voice of Heinrich was heard. She drew down the veil of her hat to conceal the redness of her eyes, and Charlie led her out to the britzka. All was over now, and they were separated till Fate or Chance should enable them to meet again.

Those who saw Ernestine looking back from the britzka, and Charlie lift his hat more than once, as he walked slowly down the avenue that led to Aix, could little have imagined the strangely solemn betrothal that had just taken place between these two, in the little church of Burtscheid.