The Alpine Fay

"Because I cannot endure to stand idly and unsympathetically by while every one else is toiling to the very death!"

There was a stern reproof in her words, but Ernst did not seem to understand it: "No, you certainly are not unsympathetic, you are actually trembling with emotion," he observed. "But, in fact, the men are using their utmost exertions in spite of the danger that continually threatens them."

"Because the engineer-in-chief is always foremost in peril," Veit continued the sentence. "If he were not everywhere, showing them an example of scorn of all danger, they would waver and hesitate; but such a leader inspires even the timid. There he stands in the very centre of that dam which the water may carry away at any moment, and issues his orders as if he could control the entire mountain-realm. For three days now he has been battling with this accursed Alpine fiend, who seems positively mad with fury, and I verily believe he will get the upper hand of her. But I must go back to the doctor. Good-bye."

He went, and the president, who just then returned to his companions, saw him as he vanished within-doors. He shuddered involuntarily; the appearance of this man was one more evil omen,–it reminded him that a danger menaced him which had nothing to do with the present peril, already terrible enough.

His short conversation with Wolfgang had deprived Nordheim of the last gleam of hope. If the upper stretch of railway were destroyed, what would remain of all the buildings, the erection of which had absorbed millions, and which he could not possibly restore? He had from the beginning owned the chief part of the railway stock, and of late, in view of the enormous profit he hoped to gain upon his retirement, he had greatly increased the number of his shares, so that the tremendous loss would be his almost alone. He knew that his property, invested in many other speculations, could not stand such a blow, and if Gronau should make good his threat and accuse him publicly, all was lost. The millionaire secure in his position might perhaps have defied him, the half-ruined speculator would be overwhelmed; Nordheim knew the world in which he had lived so long.

Neither his energy nor his presence of mind stood him in stead now. The man who had for so long been the spoiled darling of Fortune, for whom everything had turned to gain, could not understand how she could suddenly prove thus false to him. He had always been a bold, clever man of business, but he had no force of character; in misfortune he was pitiably cast down. In dull, dumb despair he stood gazing at the men, at whose head the engineer-in-chief had again placed himself.

Wolfgang seemed to be everywhere; one moment he was standing on the most imperilled part of the dam, anon he breasted the tempest in the centre of the bridge, and then he hurried to the station-house to issue his orders thence. He was dripping from head to foot,–the water was trickling from his hair, from his clothes; he did not seem to feel it, or to be in need of either rest or refreshment, and yet nothing but the most fearful tension of mind and body sustained him in the conflict which had now been going on for three times four-and-twenty hours. These were hours when Wolfgang Elmhorst might have forced even his bitterest enemies to respect and admire him.

And his mortal enemy was thus forced, but none the less did his hatred and jealousy burn fiercely. Waltenberg was familiar with danger,–he had often invoked it and dallied with it recklessly,–but there was something far beyond dalliance in the unconquerable energy with which Elmhorst thus devoted himself to duty. He knew that his was a forlorn hope; half of his work was already destroyed, he could not save the rest, and yet he worked on, seeming determined to die rather than yield.

And as he thus struggled, Ernst Waltenberg on horseback looked on at 'the very interesting spectacle,' but was conscious of the part he had condemned himself to play. He had invited Erna to ride with him to the scene of disaster; the same calculating cruelty which had tormented her by silence had dictated the proposal. He knew she would accede to it, since it would give her an opportunity to see Wolfgang again, and she should see him in the midst of the danger to which he so recklessly exposed himself, she should tremble in mortal distress, and yet never betray by a change of feature the anguish of her soul. Elmhorst was right: this man's love was mere selfishness. What was it to him that the woman he loved was tortured and in agony, if but his savage thirst for revenge were allayed? Erna should suffer as he suffered; he would be as pitiless to her as fate had been to himself.

But he underestimated the fearless nature of his betrothed when he thought that she would merely tremble at this danger. Her eyes were indeed riveted on Wolfgang in breathless anxiety, but they flashed with passionate admiration, with proud satisfaction, on beholding how he bore himself in the conflict, how he gazed into the terrible countenance of the Alpine Fay and strove with her to the death. In this mortal struggle he was for her all hero, her whole soul went out to meet him. Every shadow which had formerly obscured his image in her heart was dispersed in this light; he stood before her, as he had confronted Nordheim, free from all shackles in the triumph of his own true nature.

Ernst was thus obliged to feel the shaft which he had shot so cruelly rebound upon himself. He had meant to show Erna the danger of the man whom she loved; he had shown her only his heroism. To be sure, he stood guard over her, determined to prevent a meeting, but he could not prevent the mute language of their eyes, the glances that sought and found each other in spite of distance and separation, of tempest and destruction, and in this language they told each other everything. Wolfgang felt that at this moment the barriers which his wooing of Alice had erected between himself and his love were levelled, and in the midst of the hopelessness of his efforts there gleamed upon him a ray of light, like the gleam of sunset indeed, but all-inspiring.

It seemed in fact as if the success of the work of salvation depended upon the presence of this man. The most dangerous of the torrents which rushed wildly against the railway-dike had been successfully turned aside, Elmhorst having diverted its course to a deep cut in the rocks, whence it fell harmlessly into the Wolkenstein abyss, carrying with it the masses of earth and stones which had been so destructive. The most imminent danger was averted, and for the moment the tempest seemed to subside. The rain ceased, the wind became less violent, and it began to look brighter about the Wolkenstein.

There was a few minutes' pause in the work. The president and Waltenberg, who also had alighted, walked along the bridge, where some of the workmen were gathered, to observe the diverted torrent foaming in the abyss. Everything looked more hopeful.

The engineer-in-chief, however, stood on one side apart from the rest. He did not hear the cheerful exclamations of the men, but, leaning forward, seemed to listen intently to a sound muttering on high through the air, like the distant roll of thunder; his eyes were fixed upon the crest of the Wolkenstein, and suddenly his face took on a death-like pallor.

"Away from the bridge!" he shouted to the rest. "Save yourselves! Run for your lives!"

His last words were drowned in a dull rumble that grew to a crash as of thunder, but his cry of warning had been heard. The people scattered hastily; they felt the approach of something terrible,–there was no time to understand what it was; they deserted the bridge as quickly as possible.

Nordheim and Waltenberg were carried away by the rush, and the former reached firm land, but Ernst stumbled and fell while yet on the bridge. Past him and over him the others ran wildly; in the selfishness of mortal terror every one thought only of his own safety, while Waltenberg, stunned by his fall, lay on the ground quite unable to rise for the space of a minute, when seconds were precious.

Suddenly he felt a strong arm grasp him and lift him from the ground, then bear him onward, to release him only when the stout trunk of a tree was reached, around which he could clasp his own arms to hold himself upright.

Then came the wind, howling and roaring like a hurricane,–a blast to which all that had gone before during the last three days had been but as the sighing of a breeze,–and everything in its path was prostrated or carried away. This was the herald of the Alpine Sprite, preparing a way for her; and now she herself descended from her cloud-veiled throne. A roar as of a thousand peals of thunder filled the air, echoing from every height, from every abyss, as if the entire mountain-realm were crashing to fragments; the rocks seemed to tremble, the earth to rock, as this terrible something, white and phantom-like, thundered past. It lasted for a minute, and then there was silence,–a silence as of death.

The avalanche had torn its way from the peak of the mountain directly into the abyss, and destruction marked its course. The extensive, protecting, enclosed forest at the foot of the cliffs had vanished, and where it had stood there was a desolate, dreary waste. The course of the stream was blockaded; the chasm was half filled with jagged masses of ice, from among which projected trunks of trees and huge fragments of stone, and where the bridge had thrown its bold arch from rock to rock now yawned sheer emptiness. Two of the huge shafts were still standing, the rest were partly or entirely torn down, and about them hung some of the iron ribs, bent and snapped like reeds; all the rest lay below in the abyss. She had avenged herself, the savage Alpine Fay. Crushed and splintered at her feet lay the proud creation of man.

CHAPTER XXV.

NOT ALL DESPAIR

A scene of indescribable confusion followed upon the catastrophe. At first no one fully grasped what had occurred, and when at last it became clear, all rushed to the rescue. The warning shout of the engineer-in-chief had indeed averted the worst,–at the instant of its destruction no one had been upon the bridge; but some of the men lay senseless, thrown to the ground by the concussion of the air, others had been more or less injured by flying stones and bits of ice; no one, however, at first seemed mortally hurt, and all who were able were intent upon aid. There were shouts and cries, and a running to and fro in wild confusion. Very few preserved their presence of mind, and these few could not make themselves heard.

One group, however, assembled about a severely wounded man, was quiet enough, and in a few moments this group became a centre of attraction. Engineers and workmen crowded around with faces of dismay, a whisper ran from lip to lip, "The president? Nordheim himself? For God's sake bring the doctor!"

It was indeed President Nordheim who lay here bleeding and unconscious. He had reached what he thought a place of safety, when one of the heavy iron stanchions of the bridge, torn from its place, had felled him to the earth. Erna and Waltenberg were busied about him, and all were doing what they could to restore him to consciousness, when the circle opened to admit the engineer-in-chief and Dr. Reinsfeld.

Benno was rather paler than usual, but perfectly calm, as he knelt down and began to examine the injury. The pain of this examination seemed to rouse Nordheim; with a groan he opened his eyes, and gazed into the countenance of the man bending over him. He did not recognize him, but probably fancied he saw his early friend, whom the son closely resembled, for with an unmistakable expression of horror and a convulsive movement he tried to rise and to push aside the helping hand. With another agonized groan he sank back, the blood gushing from his mouth.

The by-standers observed only the signs of physical pain. Benno alone divined the truth; he bent still lower, and as he gently put his hand beneath the sufferer's head he said, softly, "Do not reject my help. It is given you freely, from my heart!"

Nordheim was unable to speak, and the effort he had made exhausted him; again he became unconscious. The young physician examined with all possible gentleness the injury in the breast, and then turned with a very grave face to Waltenberg and Elmhorst.

"You have no hope?" the latter asked, in an undertone.

"No, nothing can avail here. We must try to get him home; he may reach the house alive if he is carried with extreme caution. Fräulein von Thurgau, will you kindly go first and prepare his daughter, that the shock may not be too great? We must not conceal from her that her father is dying; he cannot possibly live until to-morrow."

Then he gave the necessary directions. A litter was hastily constructed, and the wounded man was laid upon it with infinite care. Stout arms were ready to aid, and the sad procession slowly took its way towards the villa. Erna preceded it, and Reinsfeld, promising to follow immediately, turned his attention to the other wounded men who required his skill, although none of them were mortally injured.

"Waltenberg too stayed behind. He paused, hesitating and seeming engaged in an inward struggle, but when he saw the engineer-in-chief walk towards the Wolkenstein chasm he followed, and overtook him.

"Herr Elmhorst!"

Wolfgang turned; his face was unnaturally calm, and there was a hard ring in his voice as he said, "You come to remind me of my promise? I am at your service at any hour; my duties are at an end."

Ernst had entertained no such intention; he made a gesture of dissent: "I think neither of us is in the mood to pursue our quarrel at present. I am sure that you, at least, are not fit for it."

Elmhorst passed his hand across his brow; now when the terrible tension of his nerves had relaxed he first perceived how utterly exhausted he was.

"You are probably right," he said, with the same rigid, unnatural look. "It comes from overwork. I have not slept for three nights; but a couple of hours' rest will restore me entirely, and, as I said, I am at your service."

Ernst silently gazed into the face of the man who had just lost his all; this forced calm did not mislead him. A reply was upon his lips, but he suppressed it, and his glance wandered to the spot where he had been thrown down in his flight. Just there one of the columns had fallen, and the iron part of it was buried deep in the earth. There he would have lain crushed and mangled but for the hand which had rescued him from destruction; perhaps he was not as unconscious as he seemed of whose the hand was.

"I must go and see how the president is," he said, hurriedly. "Dr. Reinsfeld has promised to stay with us to-night, and we will send you word of what happens."

"Thanks," said Wolfgang, seeming both to hear and to speak merely mechanically: his thoughts were elsewhere; and when Waltenberg turned away, he slowly walked on to the place where the Wolkenstein bridge had stood.

The night that ensued was a terrible one for the family and household at the villa. Its master lay struggling with death, which seemed slow to come in the midst of such agony. Incapable of motion or of speech, but entirely conscious, he knew that the son of the former friend whom he had deceived and betrayed, condemning him to a life of poverty and hardship, while he himself enjoyed wealth and distinction as the fruits of his treachery, was unwearied in his efforts to minister to him, to soothe the death-bed from which he could not dismiss the dark messenger. Nothing could be more ready and unselfish than the aid afforded by Benno, and this very forgetfulness of self awakened the dying man's most pungent remorse. Face to face with death falsehood and deceit vanished, truth alone showed its inexorable countenance, and the effect was annihilating. The agonized struggle lasted, it is true, but for a single night, but in that time were compressed the torture of a lifetime and the penance of a lifetime.

When day at last dawned in mist and clouds, struggle and agony were at an end, and it was Benno Reinsfeld's hand that closed the dying man's eyes. Then he gently raised from her knees Alice, who was sobbing beside her father's body, and led her away. He spoke no word of love or hope to her,–it would have seemed like desecration to him in such a moment,–but the way in which he put his arm around her and supported her showed plainly that he now claimed his right, and that nothing could part them more. He never could have been a son to the man who had so wronged his father, but that would now be spared him if Alice should become his wife; the wealth also which had been the fruit of treachery had mainly vanished. All barriers between the lovers had fallen.

Erna also, when all was over, retired to her room. Alice did not need her: she had a better comforter beside her.

The girl sat pale and worn at the window, looking out into the gray, misty morning. Alien as her uncle had seemed to her, harshly as she had often judged him, the suffering of his last hours had obliterated every thought of him in her mind save that it was her mother's brother who lay dying.

Her thoughts now, however, were not with the dead, but with the living, with him who was perhaps standing in the dim dawn beside the ruins of his work. She knew what it had been to him, and felt the blow with him. Erna would have given her life to be able to stand beside him now with words of consolation and encouragement, and instead she must know him alone in his despair. She paid no heed to Griff, who had crept up to her and laid his head in her lap with sorrowful sympathy in his brown eyes; she gazed out fixedly into the rolling mist.

The door opened softly; Waltenberg entered and slowly approached his betrothed, who, sunk in a revery, did not perceive him until he stood beside her and uttered her name.

When Waltenberg thus addressed her she started with an involuntary expression of terror and dislike, which did not escape him; his smile was bitterly sad.

"Are you so afraid of me? You must endure the intrusion, however, for I have something to say to you."

"Now? at this moment, when death has just crossed our threshold?"

"Precisely now; if I wait I may–lose courage to speak."

The words sounded so strange that Erna looked up, surprised. Her eyes encountered his, but did not find there the gleam which had so terrified her of late. In his dark look there glowed somewhat which was neither all love nor all hatred,–perhaps a combination of both,–she could not tell.

"Go on, then," she said, wearily. "I will listen."

He paused and looked fixedly at her, and at last said, with slow emphasis, "I come to bid you farewell."

"You are going? Now, before my uncle has been laid to rest?"

"Yes,–and never to return! You mistake me, Erna. This is no farewell for days or weeks; it means that we are parting forever."

"Parting?" The girl looked at him incredulously, only half comprehending his words; they came upon her too suddenly for her to grasp all their meaning.

"You evidently have no belief in my magnanimity," Ernst said, harshly. "It is true that yesterday I could more easily have annihilated you both, you and your Wolfgang, than have given you back your troth. That is over. He has taught me how to subdue an enemy. Do you think I do not know whose hand it was that snatched me from a terrible death yesterday? Without its aid I should have been crushed at the entrance of the bridge. You saw it,–I know that,–and will only the more worship your hero, whom you watched yesterday with an enthusiasm that transfigured you. This deed of his exalts him to an ideal hero in your eyes. What am I in them?"

"Yes, I saw it," Erna said, looking down, "but I did not think you recognized him, stunned as you were, and in the general confusion."

"A mortal enemy is always recognized, even while he is saving one's life. I tried to thank him yesterday, just after the catastrophe, but I could not bring my lips to frame words of gratitude to that man; they would have choked me. Let him hear them from you. Tell him that I revoke my challenge, and that I release him from his promise, as I release you from yours. Now we are quits,–more than quits: I give him what is tenfold dearer to me than the life he saved for me."

Erna had grown very pale in the certainty of what she had long suspected: "You challenged him? That was the meaning of your interview?"

"Do you suppose that I could have borne to know him happy in your arms?" Waltenberg asked. "But for what happened yesterday I would have shot him down like a dog; and he promised to be at my service as soon as the Wolkenstein bridge was completed. Fate has released him from his promise."

The bitterness in his tone no longer affected Erna; she heard only the anguish in his voice, felt only what the renunciation was costing his passionate nature. In gentle entreaty she laid her hand upon his arm: "Ernst, trust me, I know the full extent of the sacrifice you are making for me. You have loved me intensely–"

"Yes, and I was fool enough to fancy that passion such as mine must force you to love in return. I thought that if I carried you to another quarter of the globe, and put an ocean between you and Wolfgang Elmhorst, you would learn to forget, and to turn to the husband beside you. I have learned my error. I never could have torn that love from your heart; if I had killed him you would have loved him dead. Now, in his misery, your whole soul flies out to him. Go to him. I am no longer in your way. You are free!"

"Let us go together," Erna entreated, earnestly. "Offer him your hand in amity; you can, for you are now the generous one, the benefactor. It is you whom we have to thank."

He thrust aside her hand: "No, I never will meet that man again. If I should see him I could not answer for myself, all the fiends within me would break loose once more. You cannot dream what it has cost me to conjure them down; let them rest."

Erna did not venture to repeat her request; she comprehended that so passionate a nature might renounce, but could not forgive. She bowed her head in mute acquiescence.

"Farewell!" said Ernst, still in the harsh, hostile tone which had characterized him throughout the interview. "Forget me. It will be easy at his side."

She looked up to him; her eyes filled with tears: "I never shall forget you, Ernst, never! But I shall always remember sadly that you left me in bitterness and hatred."

"In hatred?" he exclaimed, with an outburst of passion, and suddenly Erna felt herself clasped in his arms, pressed to his heart, while his kisses were rained upon her hair, her brow, with the same wild intensity of tenderness which she had so dreaded and which had always failed to arouse in her the least return of his affection. This time there was in his caress something of the madness of despair. He tore himself away and was gone. The short, stormy dream of the love of his life was over forever!

Meanwhile, the day had fairly appeared. The rain had ceased in the night, and the wind was not so violent,–the wild uproar of nature had begun to subside.

The work of the previous day still went on, however, although, since the Wolkenstein bridge was gone, there was little more to save. This last blow had been the heaviest, although the entire railway had been incalculably injured; very few of the numerous bridges and structures were not in need of repairs, and, in view of the general destruction, the completion of the undertaking seemed impossible. Its author lay dead in his house, and the intended transfer of the railway to the company was of course impossible. How and when, if ever, others would come forward to carry out his schemes time alone could show.

Such were probably the thoughts occurring to the mind of the man standing alone on the brink of the Wolkenstein chasm and gazing down at the ruin below him. The autumn morning was very cold; in the valleys and depths wreaths of gray mist were curling, long trains of clouds hovered about the mountains, and a gloomy sky looked down upon the wet, sodden earth, which bore melancholy traces of the turmoil of the previous day. Uprooted and broken trees, fragments of rock, mud, and heaps of stones were everywhere to be seen, and in many a spot the traces could be perceived of the gallant struggle of man in his fight with the elements. The roar of the cataract was not so threatening as it had been, but it still filled the air as the water dashed from the height, and the wind had not yet left the dripping storm-tossed forests in peace.