The Prussian-Saxon boundary defines also the bounds between the
Hohenwald estates, that lie entirely on Saxon territory, and the
Prussian domain of Gruenhagen. The boundary-line here makes a great
curve into Saxony, so that the Gruenhagen lands are almost shut in by
the Hohenwald forests and fields. The Gruenhagen forest indeed forms a
continuation of the magnificent woods of beech and oak that surround
Castle Hohenwald, the boundary-line between them being only marked out
by a narrow path, so overgrown with moss and underbrush that only
careful observation can detect its course.
The vicinity of the two estates has always been, since the memory of
man, a fruitful cause of quarrel between the respective proprietors of
Hohenwald and Gruenhagen, each being strictly jealous lest his neighbour
should infringe upon his rights. At times some of the Hohenwald cattle,
when the herd-boy was not sufficiently on the alert, would stray into
the Gruenhagen fields and be taken into custody by Herr von Poseneck's
people, and on one occasion the Hohenwald forester had actually
sequestrated the fowling-piece of Herr von Poseneck, when that
gentleman, who was devoted to the chase, had in his hunting attempted
to make a short cut through the Hohenwald forest. There had also been
various trespasses upon the rights of the chase which were hardly to be
distinguished from poaching committed on both sides of the boundary by
enthusiastic Posenecks and Hohenwalds.
These innumerable quarrels had begotten a hostility between the Barons
of Hohenwald and Poseneck, which had been handed down from generation
to generation, and which was by no means lessened by the fact that,
since the annexation of Saxony with Prussia, the Posenecks had become
Prussian noblemen. No Hohenwald ever visited Gruenhagen, and even in the
days when Hohenwald had been renowned for its brilliant entertainments,
at which were assembled all the country gentry and many families from
beyond the border, no Poseneck was ever invited within its gates.
The hatred of the Hohenwalds for the Posenecks was so great that
Freiherr Werner, although he was not wanting in a certain amiability,
could not suppress a sentiment of exultation when, in 1849, Kurt von
Poseneck, who had allied himself with great enthusiasm to the
revolutionists, was forced to sell Gruenhagen to his brother-in-law, the
Amtsrath Friese, and emigrate to America with his family to escape the
trial for high treason that threatened him as a member of the extreme
left of the Frankfort National Assembly.
Since then, however, the animosity between Gruenhagen and Poseneck had
slumbered, for the new possessor of Gruenhagen was a man who detested
litigation, and who did all that he could to avoid giving cause for
offence to the Hohenwalds, while he overlooked any slight trespass on
their part. Thus open strife was avoided, but the old dislike only
smouldered. Freiherr Werner had transferred it to the Poseneck's near
relative, the Amtsrath, whom he detested for his Prussian extraction.
Like master like man! All the inmates of the castle and the inhabitants
of the village of Hohenwald hated everything relating to Gruenhagen. The
Hohenwald servants, from the steward and inspector to the commonest
stable-boy, held the "Gruenhagen Prussians" for an odious race of men,
and, as they had received strict orders from the Freiherr not to be led
into any disputes, avoided all association with the Gruenhagen people.
Thus the road from Gruenhagen to the village of Hohenwald wellnigh
disappeared beneath weeds and grass, for there was not the slightest
intercourse between the two places. Was it to be wondered at, then,
that a Hohenwald plough boy, driving his team in the meadow bordering
upon the Gruenhagen lands, stopped his horses and stared in surprise at
a young, well-dressed man sauntering slowly along the disused road,
crossing the boundary, and then, when near the village of Hohenwald,
striking into a by-path leading directly to the Hohenwald oak-forest?
The fellow looked after the stranger until he was lost to sight in the
forest, and then whipped up his horses, resolving to acquaint the
inspector that very evening with the remarkable occurrence.
The stranger noticed the ploughboy's wonder, but it merely provoked a
smile as he slowly loitered along the meadow-path. Now and then he
paused and looked around, surveying with evident pleasure the lovely
landscape spread before him, the fertile fields and meadows, girdled by
the glorious oaken forest, now clothed in the delicious green of early
spring. As he reached its borders he paused again to look back at the
charming village of Hohenwald, nestled on the edge of the forest, and
at the stately mansion of Gruenhagen, overtopping the farm-buildings,
granaries, stables, and cottages about it.
How near the two estates were to each other and yet how wide apart! A
smile hovered upon the young man's handsome face as he called to mind
the strange hatred of the two proprietors for each other. He had
laughed aloud when the Amtsrath Friese had told him of it at Gruenhagen,
and he could not now suppress a smile, for such an inherited aversion
was entirely inconceivable to him; it was a folly for which there was
no possible explanation.
Entering the wood, he pursued the narrow path through the thick
underbrush, and gazed about him with intense admiration. Nowhere else
in Europe had he seen such magnificent old oaks; they belonged
exclusively to the Hohenwald domain, whose proprietor cared for them
most tenderly, and never allowed any of the giant trunks to be felled
except those which nature had decreed should yield to time. The Baron
could well afford to cultivate his love for his oaks; and whatever
might be done in distant parts of the forest, no axe was ever allowed
to work havoc near the castle among his old oaks and beeches in his
dear "forest depths." The narrow foot-path crossed a broad road through
the wood; here the stranger paused irresolute and looked about him
searchingly. To the right the road wound through the forest, in whose
depths it vanished; to the left it led through rows of trees up a
gentle incline to Castle Hohenwald, one of the wings of which the
stranger could discern in the distance. He had not thought himself so
near the castle; the foot-path must have led him astray. According to
the directions of the Gruenhagen inspector, he should be upon the path
which, cutting off a corner, was a more direct road to the Gruenhagen
woods than the one leading from the mansion; but if this were so, it
ought not to have brought him so near to Castle Hohenwald. He
hesitated, pondering whether to follow the path on the other side of
the road or to turn round, when his attention was arrested by a
charming sight. Galloping upon a magnificent and spirited horse, there
suddenly appeared upon the road from the castle a girl scarcely more
than a child. She managed her steed with wondrous case and security;
the mad gallop gave her no fear; she sat as firmly and even carelessly
in the saddle as though the horse were going at an ordinary pace;
indeed, she even incited him to greater speed with a light touch of her
riding-whip.
How lovely she was! A young girl, judging by her slender, well-rounded
figure, and yet only a child. There was a bright smile upon her
charming face, her eyes beamed with happiness, and her dark curls,
blown backwards by the breeze, escaped from beneath her light straw
hat.
She was very near the stranger when the horse suddenly started and
shied, probably frightened by the young man's light summer coat among
the trees.
A practised horseman might well have lost his stirrup through such an
interruption of the swift gallop, but the young Amazon kept her seat
perfectly, punished her horse by a smart cut with her whip, as she
exclaimed, "What are you about, Pluto?" and then, as with a strong
steady hand she reined him in, looked to see what had caused his
terror.
A stranger in the Hohenwald forest! Celia had reason enough for
astonishment, for she could scarcely remember ever having seen any save
the people of Hohenwald upon her father's estate. And this was an
elegantly-dressed stranger, no forester or peasant, but a young man
evidently from the higher walks of society. Now a well-educated young
lady would certainly have found it becoming in such an unexpected
encounter with a stranger in the lonely forest to display a certain
amount of embarrassment, perhaps of timidity. Not so Celia. She scanned
the intruder upon her father's domain with a long, searching look,--the
sensation of fear she knew only by name, and there was no cause for
embarrassment. She was at home here, upon her native soil. She had a
perfect right to ask the stranger bluntly, "How came you here? Who are
you?"
The stranger bowed very respectfully. "I think," he replied, "that I
have the honour of addressing Fraeulein von Hohenwald."
He was evidently a very polite and agreeable young man,--"the honour of
addressing Fraeulein von Hohenwald." Celia suddenly felt very much grown
up. Hitherto she had been only Celia. Even the servants, who had known
her from infancy, called her nothing but Fraeulein Celia. Fraeulein von
Hohenwald sounded delightful. She quite forgot to pursue her inquiries,
and answered, "Yes, I am Cecilia von Hohenwald."
Again the stranger bowed low, and taking a little card-case from his
breast-pocket, produced a visiting-card, which he handed to her,
saying, "I must pray your forgiveness for presenting myself in this
informal manner as your nearest neighbour."
Celia read the card. "Kurt von Poseneck!" she exclaimed, and the tone
of her voice as well as the expression of her eyes manifested such
surprise and even terror, that for Kurt all the inherited hatred of the
Hohenwalds for the Posenecks found utterance in this brief mention of
his name.
When the Amtsrath Friese, his uncle, had told him of the fierce hatred
between the Hohenwalds and the Posenecks that had been handed down
through generations, Kurt had laughed heartily, but now when he thought
he saw that this insensate hate had taken root in the heart of this
lovely child, he was filled with a sense of painful regret. "What have
I done to you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald," he said, sadly, "that my name
should so startle you?"
"It does not startle, it only surprises me," Celia replied, quickly, as
she looked with increased interest and a greater degree of attention at
this young man, who did not in the least resemble the picture she had
formed from the tales of Frau Kaselitz of a member of the evil-minded,
cross-grained quarrelsome Poseneck family.
Certainly Kurt von Poseneck looked neither cross-grained nor
quarrelsome as his frank eyes met her own kindly and yet sadly.
Her first inspection had inclined her in the stranger's favour, and
Celia now decided that he was a very fine-looking man, almost as tall
as her brother Arno and far handsomer, for Arno looked stern and
gloomy, while Kurt smiled kindly. His full brown beard and moustache
became him admirably. Celia thought his expression exceedingly
pleasing; she had never supposed that a Poseneck could have so frank
and honest a smile.
The girl was quite incapable of dissimulation,--her thoughts and
sentiments were mirrored in her eyes,--and Kurt perceived to his great
satisfaction the first startled expression vanish from her face as she
looked at him with a very friendly air.
"I thank you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald," he said, "for those simple
words. I was afraid you shared the melancholy prejudice that has been
the cause of so many terrible disputes between our families in former
times, and this would have specially pained me in you."
"Why specially in me?"
The question was simple and natural, but yet not easy to answer.
"Because--because--well, then, honestly and frankly, Fraeulein von
Hohenwald, because as soon as I saw you I said to myself, 'Let the
Hohenwalds and the Posenecks quarrel and hate one another as they
choose, Fraeulein Cecilia von Hohenwald and Kurt von Poseneck never
shall be enemies!' Forget the mutual dislike that has divided our
families. Will you not promise me this? I know it is a strange request
to make of you, but you must forgive my bluntness. I returned to Europe
only a few months ago, and cannot forget the fashion learned upon our
Western farm in America. I hope you will not blame me for it."
"Oh, no; on the contrary, I like frankness. Werner always scolds me for
having my heart upon my lips; he is odious, but papa and Arno take my
part."
"Who is Werner?"
"My brother, the Finanzrath. I thought you knew; but indeed you cannot
know much about us if you are only lately come from America."
"More than you think. My father used often to tell me of Gruenhagen and
Hohenwald, and my uncle Friese has talked of you to me also. I knew and
admired you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald, from his description, and I am
doubly rejoiced that chance has brought us together. But you have not
yet answered me. Will you grant my request and promise me that for us
the old family feud shall not exist?"
"With all my heart!" said Celia; and in ratification of her promise she
held out her hand to Kurt, although her horse seemed to take the
stranger's approach very ill, and grew restless.
Kurt took the little proffered hand. "Peace is formally concluded,
then," he said, gayly. "We are to be good friends, and I trust,
Fraeulein von Hohenwald, that if you should meet me again in the
Hohenwald forest, bound for the Gruenhagen wood by the shortest way, you
will permit me to exchange a few friendly words with you."
This Celia promised readily; but at the same time she pointed out to
Kurt that he never would reach the Gruenhagen wood by pursuing a path
leading directly to the lake in the Hohenwald park, and offering to
show him the path he was seeking, she walked her horse beside him.
She never dreamed that there could be anything unbecoming in her
readiness to show him the right way through the lonely wood; she
thought it very natural that she who was at home here should direct a
stranger aright, and quite at her ease, she chatted on to Kurt as to an
old acquaintance.
He told her of his life in America, and spoke with such affection of
his parents, who had been dead now for some years, and with such loving
tenderness of his sisters, who were married in America, that Celia
could not but be interested and attracted by him. He told her how he
had served in the Northern army in the war with the South, attaining
the rank of major before it was over. He had then resigned, and, after
his father's death, had disposed of the American property, and had now
returned to Germany to assist in the management of the Gruenhagen
estates, which, as his uncle's declared heir, would one day be his. He
had spent a few months in travelling in England, France, and Italy, and
had arrived only three days before in Gruenhagen, where his uncle had
given him the warmest of welcomes.
All this Kurt detailed to his guide on their way through the forest,
and he also expressed to her his sincere regret that, as his uncle had
told him, there was no possibility of establishing friendly relations
between Hohenwald and Gruenhagen, and that he himself could not even
venture to pay a visit to Hohenwald to show that he had inherited
nothing of the old family hatred.
"Oh, no, it would never do," Celia said, sadly. "Papa would be terribly
angry; his orders are positive that no visitor shall ever be admitted
to the castle. Arno would have liked so much to ask his dearest friend,
a Count Styrum, to stay with us; but, although papa thinks very highly
of the Count, and says himself that he must be an excellent man and a
worthy son of his father, who was once papa's dear friend, he could not
be induced to let Arno send him an invitation."
"Of course, then, I cannot venture to come, but I hope at least to make
your brother Arno's acquaintance; this will surely be facilitated by
his being an intimate friend of my cousin, Karl Styrum."
Celia shook her head dubiously. Arno was just as dear and good as papa,
but just as disinclined to come in contact with strangers. He never
left Castle Hohenwald except when some inspection of the estate was
necessary; he spent all his time in studying learned books.
"Are you, then, quite alone in the lonely castle?" Kurt asked,
compassionately, but Celia laughed aloud at his question. "I alone and
lonely!" she cried. "What can you be thinking of? I have my own darling
papa, and Arno, who is so kind; you cannot conceive how kind he is.
Then I have my tutor, dear old Pastor Quandt, to whom I go every
morning from nine to eleven; that is, I always have gone to him until
now,--how I shall do in the future I cannot tell, for only think, now
in my old age I am to have a governess."
Kurt laughed, and Celia laughed too, but the laugh did not come from
her heart. "You must not laugh at me," she said, with some irritation.
"I am afraid I have said something that I ought not. Tell me frankly
and honestly, are my manners so odd that I really need a governess?"
"What a very strange question, Fraeulein von Hohenwald!"
"Answer it by a simple 'yes' or 'no.' Ought I to have a governess or
not?"
Kurt looked at her, with a smile. "Do you really want a frank answer?"
he replied.
"Of course I do; it would provoke me very much not to have it!"
"I am afraid you will be provoked with me for giving it, but I will do
as you ask. In truth, I think you might learn much of a really good
governess, and that she would do you no harm in spite of your 'old
age.'"
"How odious of you!"
"Did I not say that I should provoke you by my frankness?"
"No; I am not provoked with you, quite the contrary. I see now that
Werner was right. If you, who have only known me a quarter of an hour,
see that I need a governess, it must be so. But here we are on the
borders of Gruenhagen, and there is the path that will lead you back to
the house."
She stopped her horse, and pointed out to Kurt with her riding-whip a
narrow path, so grass-grown that it could have been detected only by
some one very familiar with the locality.
"And you really are not angry?" Kurt asked, unpleasantly surprised by
his abrupt dismissal.
Celia looked thoughtful, and after an instant's pause held out her hand
to Kurt. "No, I am certainly not angry with you," she said, cordially.
"I was provoked, I do not deny it, that you should have thought Werner
right; but you meant no unkindness, I am sure, or you would not have
been so frank."
"I assuredly meant nothing but kindness!"
"I am sure of it, and it makes me all the more sorry that you cannot
come to Hohenwald. It would be so pleasant to have you tell me more
about America and your adventures there. But that cannot be, and it
will be long before we see each other again, unless we should meet by
chance in the forest."
"I trust in my good fortune."
"Well, we may possibly chance to meet again soon, since I take my ride
almost every afternoon about this hour, and am very fond of the broad
road leading towards the Gruenhagen woods. Adieu, Herr Kurt von
Poseneck."
"Au revoir, Fraeulein von Hohenwald."
She gave him a friendly little nod, touched her horse with the whip,
and vanished in a minute along the road leading to Castle Hohenwald.
Kurt looked after her vanishing figure, and then resigned himself to
delightful reflections. Was it not something more than chance that had
decreed that he, who had found his way so often in American forests,
should lose it here, and thus make the acquaintance of this charming
girl?
The next day about four o'clock Kurt was seized with an irresistible
desire to inspect the forests; he could not stay in the house; it drove
him forth, much to his uncle's surprise, who, however, ascribed it to
the love of nature engendered by his life in the open air in America.
Kurt did not this time, however, pursue the path he had taken on the
previous day; he remembered the ploughboy's gaping wonder, and did not
choose to become a theme for gossip to the Hohenwald servants; he
followed, instead, the more direct course across the Gruenhagen fields
to the woods, but scarcely had he reached it, when chance guided him to
the very spot upon the broad road leading from Castle Hohenwald where
he had been so unfortunate as to frighten Celia's horse. The same
chance that led Kurt to this place arranged that Celia also, who had
hitherto been very careless about the time at which she took her
afternoon ride, suddenly required her horse to be saddled on the stroke
of four. Old John, the groom, could not imagine why Fraeulein Celia
should all at once be "so very particular." She never had seemed to
care whether the horse were brought to the door a quarter of an hour
sooner or later, and now she insisted sharply upon punctuality,
although it was the Baron's birthday, and the old servant had had a
great deal to do, as Fraeulein Celia knew. She could scarcely restrain
her impatience to be gone, and as she galloped off down the road, the
old man looked after her with a thoughtful shake of the head.
"We may possibly chance to meet again soon," Celia had said to Kurt as
she took leave of him, and chance conducted her to the very spot where
she had met him yesterday, and where she now met him again. From afar
she espied his light coat among the trees, and her lovely face was lit
up with a happy smile.
Had she expected him? Impossible! She had made no appointment with him.
She knew enough of social rules to understand that a young lady could
not appoint a rendezvous with a young man whom she had seen but once,
and then only for a short time. Of course it was chance that had
brought them both to this spot at the same time, but she was very glad
of it, and greeted Kurt with a charming smile.
It was quite natural that she should now walk her horse that Kurt might
walk beside her, although it cost her a struggle with Pluto to induce
him to agree to this new order of things. Kurt walked beside her,
looking up at her with admiration. How graceful was her every movement
as she reined in and controlled her impatient horse! She held the curb
in a firm grasp, but there was nothing unfeminine in the strength thus
put forth. For a while her whole attention was given to her horse, but
when she had reduced him to a state of obedient quiescence she replied
kindly to Kurt's greeting, and when he expressed his pleasure that a
fortunate chance had again brought them together, she answered, with
perfect freedom from embarrassment, that she also was much pleased. As
she spoke, her smile was so arch that he could not but laugh. And then
they laughed together like two children. They knew well what made them
laugh, although they said no more about it.
It sounded almost like an excuse when Celia said that she had come from
home nearly a quarter of an hour later than usual this afternoon, old
John had been so long saddling Pluto, but that she could not scold him,
for he was very old now, almost seventy, and he had been up half the
night helping her to hang oaken garlands all about her father's beloved
garden-room, that he might be surprised by their beauty when Franz
rolled him in from his bedroom at five o'clock on his birthday morning.
And her father had been very much delighted,--he so loved his
oaks,--and he had been specially pleased with a tobacco-bag that she
had embroidered for him as a birthday gift. He was not very fond of
embroidery, but he knew how hard it was for her to sit still at any
kind of work, and he had been touched by the trouble she had taken for
him.
Thus Celia talked on, and Kurt listened with rapt attention, as if she
were imparting to him the most important secrets. Her delight in the
garlands of oak-leaves and in the completion of her gift for her father
charmed him. He thought her almost more lovely now than when, a few
moments before, her eyes had sparkled and flashed in her struggle with
her horse. He did not know which to admire more, the blooming girl or
the lovely child; he only knew that both were adorable.
On the day previous, Kurt had told of his adventures in the war and his
life in America; to-day he begged Celia to describe to him her life in
Castle Hohenwald, and she did so willingly. She was glad that Kurt
should have in his mind a true picture of her dear old father, whom
strangers could never portray truly, for no one knew how dear and good
he was. Arno too, Frau Kaselitz and Pastor Quandt had often told her,
was just as little known or appreciated as his father. She had seen
yesterday, from the compassionate way in which Kurt had spoken of her
solitude at Castle Hohenwald, how false was his conception of the life
there; now, strangers might think what they pleased of it, but Kurt von
Poseneck must know what happy days she led there with her kind papa and
her dear Arno.
And so she described it to him, beginning with her father, so truly
kind, although a little hasty perhaps now and then, bearing pain so
patiently, never requiring any sacrifice of his people, but always
ready to befriend them. All who knew him loved him. The old servants
declared that there never was a better master; even the Herr Pastor had
a great respect for him, and only regretted that he had withdrawn from
the world, and was in consequence so misjudged. Arno, too, was as
kind as he could be. He might look stern and gloomy, but he was not
so,--only very sad,--and for this he had good cause. He had been
betrothed, and had lost his love, of whom he was inexpressibly fond.
Celia did not know how it had happened. Frau Kaselitz would not tell
her anything about it, and she could not ask Arno, for when the
engagement had been broken some years before, her father had forbidden
her ever mentioning the subject to her brother. He had travelled for a
long time, but travel could not make him forget his grief; that was why
he seemed so stern and gloomy, although he was always gentle and kind
to his father, to her, and to the servants and villagers. If any of
them were in trouble they always came to Arno for help; and even when
it was impossible to help them he always had a kind word for them.
Celia's praise of her eldest brother was by no means so enthusiastic.
He was a very good fellow, but then he was not Arno; still, he was very
wise, and could always persuade his father to do as he chose. She had
been told that in his boyhood Werner was very irritable and passionate,
but he had quite conquered this fault. Now he rarely allowed himself to
be carried away by anger; his self-control was so great that even when
he was deeply irritated he could preserve a perfect calmness of manner,
and this was why he had such influence with his father, that whatever
he wished to have done at Hohenwald was done. If he did not succeed in
one way he tried another. Thus he had contrived that in spite of his
father's dislike of having a stranger in the house he had consented to
the engagement of a governess.
As she said this Celia could not suppress a little sigh, although she
instantly laughed, and added, "Well, it may be best,--you think so, and
I will do what I can, and receive Fraeulein Mueller as kindly as
possible."
Werner, she went on to say, came but seldom to Hohenwald, usually only
once a year, to be present on his father's birthday, when he stayed
only two, or at most three weeks. He was always very good and kind, but
she could not love him as she did papa and Arno; she could not tell
why, but so it was, and she could not deny that she was always a little
glad when he went away again. She was quite sure that papa and Arno
felt just as she did, although neither of them had ever said one word
to that effect, but she had observed that papa breathed more freely
after the carriage had rolled away with Werner.
Then Celia described the few people, not her relatives, with whom she
had daily intercourse--Pastor Quandt, her tutor, an old bachelor nearly
eighty years of age, but still hale and hearty, and dear and good, and
Dr. Bruhn, the village physician, also an amiable old bachelor, and
Frau Kaselitz, the housekeeper, who could not do enough to show her
love for her darling Fraeulein Celia. She, Frau Kaselitz, was the
childless widow of one of the former stewards of Hohenwald, and had
passed her entire life either in the village or at the castle. She was
as good as gold; far too kind; she, Celia, knew that Frau Kaselitz
spoiled her and made a governess so desirable--as he had thought it,
the girl added, with an arch glance at her companion. She could not
deny herself the pleasure of this little thrust.
Celia's lively description soon made it possible for Kurt to have in
his mind a vivid picture of the simple life at Castle Hohenwald, and
his admiration for the lovely speaker was increased tenfold. What a
treasure of simple content she must possess, to preserve such a
cheerful gayety of mind with so little in her surroundings to induce
it!
A long conversation followed upon Celia's narrative; she required, in
her turn, to be told of Gruenhagen and its inmates. She asked about his
uncle Friese, and was amazed to learn that he was an amiable, kindly
old man, who only desired to live at peace with all men. According to
Frau Kaselitz and the Hohenwald servants, he was a cross, quarrelsome,
purse-proud old person.
In such mutual explanations the time sped rapidly, and Celia, as well
as Kurt, was surprised to find that they had reached the Gruenhagen
woods and the end of the broad road that led through the Hohenwald
estate.
"It is time for me to turn back," said Celia, with a slight sigh.
Kurt did not venture to remonstrate, although he felt as if he should
have liked to talk on with her forever, and although in Celia's manner
there was an indirect appeal to him to ask for a prolongation of the
conversation.
"Indeed I must turn round," Celia added, with an interrogatory glance.
"I am afraid you must," Kurt replied, suppressing his desire, and
yielding to more prudent suggestions. Then, holding out his hand to
Celia, he continued: "Chance has been so kind to-day that I trust it
will prove no less so in the future, and so I do not say 'farewell' to
you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald, but 'till we meet,' and may that be
speedily!"
Celia smiled as she nodded her farewell to him, and rode back along the
forest road; and on the following day chance was again so amiable as to
bring about a meeting between the young people at the same spot in the
woods. Yes, chance here proved steadfast and true, and day after day
the pair passed slowly along the forest road to the Gruenhagen woods,
deep in innocent but profoundly interesting conversation. Kurt was on
the spot with unfailing punctuality at four o'clock, and a few minutes
later Celia would appear on Pluto, who now greeted Kurt with a neigh,
and was no longer impatient at the slow walk along the road to the
Gruenhagen woods. For ten days the skies smiled upon Kurt's forest
walks, but then May, which had hitherto shown him such favour,
justified the reputation for variability which she shares with April.
At Gruenhagen a cold rain pelted against the window-panes, through which
Kurt disconsolately watched the skies, covered with dull gray clouds
that gave no hope that the weather would clear that day, nor perhaps
for several days to come.
The Amtsrath had just finished his after-dinner nap and lighted his
long pipe. Sitting in his arm-chair and comfortably sipping his coffee,
he was not in the least incommoded by the rain that so interfered with
Kurt's good humour; on the contrary, he thought it good growing
weather, for
"Whenever May is wet and cool,
The farmer's store-house will be full."
He had often lately looked up to the sky in hopes of rain, and he was
glad that it had come at last to scatter abroad its blessings over
field and fell.
"A fine soaking rain," the old man said, with a smile, to Kurt, who, he
felt sure, must agree with him.
"Soaking indeed," Kurt replied, not by any means so pleased as his
uncle had expected; but then the old man was thinking of his meadows
and Kurt of Celia, whom the soaking rain would surely prevent from
taking her daily ride.
The clock in the Gruenhagen church-tower struck four; Kurt took his hat.
"Where are you going?" asked his uncle.
"To take a walk in the woods."
"In such weather?"
"A few drops of rain will do me no harm."
The Amtsrath shook his head, for the few drops of rain were, as Kurt
himself had admitted, a steady, soaking downpour. Still there is no
accounting for tastes, and if forest walks in a pelting rain were among
Kurt's American habits, his uncle had no objection to make.
As Kurt stepped out into the open air, and the huge drops were driven
into his face by the wind, he hesitated a moment. There was no
possibility of meeting Celia in the forest in such a storm. Still,
suppose she should persist in taking her ride? It was possible; no, it
was impossible; nevertheless, Kurt would not fail to be upon the
appointed--no, it had never been appointed--spot in the forest; he
could then tell her the next day that he had been there in spite of the
storm and rain, that he had not, indeed, expected her, but that he had
thought of her. He knew that she would laugh at him and tease him about
his walk in the rain, but he so liked to hear her laugh, she was so
wonderfully charming in her gayety.
In spite of the increasing rain that soon penetrated his light summer
dress, the way did not seem long; he thought of her, and perhaps
because he had no hope of seeing her that day her image was all the
more present to his mind. During the past ten days a very peculiar
relation had been developed between Kurt and Celia. While Kurt
sauntered along the forest road beside Pluto they talked together like
brother and sister. Celia was never tired of hearing all that Kurt
could tell her of America and the life he had led there, and his
conversation had opened to her an entire new world of thought and
emotion. Brought up in a narrow home-circle, whence all strangers were
excluded, the girl had had no idea that people of culture could
entertain any views and opinions save those shared by her father, by
Arno, and by the old pastor her tutor. It was, for example, one of her
articles of faith that across the boundary, just beyond that strip of
meadow in Prussia, evil reigned triumphant. Prussian! The word stood
for all that was contemptible,--rapacity, low ambition, greed of gain,
and arrogant conceit. Like a good Saxon, Celia hated the Prussians from
her very soul, and worst and most to be hated among them all was
Bismarck, whose name her father never uttered without coupling it with
some opprobrious epithet. Kurt was the first to present to her mind
other views with regard to the state of affairs in Germany, and she
listened to him with profound interest. It was exquisite enjoyment to
Kurt to talk with Celia, and to note her rapt attention to all that he
said, her quick espousal of any cause advocated by him. He loved her,
and he knew that he loved her, but not for the world would he have
addressed to her one word of love; it would have been a sin against her
childlike innocence. His experience of life, spite of his youth, had
been so wide and varied that he could not but be aware what risk there
was for Celia in these daily interviews with a young man in the
solitude of the forest; and could he have seen her anywhere else, could
he but have sought her at Hohenwald, he would have abstained from his
daily walks for Celia's sake. But they offered him his only opportunity
for meeting the girl, and he had not the strength to refuse to embrace
it. He could not but yield to the spell that lured him daily to the
forest road, but he pledged his honour to himself that he would be
nothing to Celia save a friend and brother, that he never would betray
the childlike trust she reposed in him.
Now first he felt what an absolute necessity for him the daily meeting
with Celia had become,--now, as he walked on in the wind and rain,
constantly repeating to himself that she certainly could not leave the
house to-day. In spite of this repetition, a yearning desire for a
sight of her spurred him on along the accustomed path. He never heeded
that in pushing through the trees and bushes he had become fairly
drenched with rain. He reached the broad castle road: the distant wing
of the castle, a glimpse of which could be had from here in fine
weather, was veiled in mist. Sadly he leaned against the trunk of a
giant oak, conscious that until this moment he had cherished a hope
that perhaps in spite of the rain Celia might take her afternoon ride;
she was no city-bred fine lady, but a strong, healthy child of nature,
who was not afraid of the rain. Now, however, as he looked forth into
the comfortless, white, impenetrable fog, his last hope vanished.
But what sound was that? Surely something like the distant neighing of
a horse. And now--yes, there was no mistaking Pluto's loud neigh, close
at hand, as a tall figure emerged from the fog, and the next moment
Celia reined in her horse beside Kurt.
"I thought so!" she cried, triumphantly. "I knew you would not mind the
rain!" Then, as she looked at him, she burst into a merry laugh. "Good
heavens! how you look, poor fellow! You could not be wetter if you had
fallen into the lake!"
Kurt laughed with her. How odd it was that the huge waterproof that she
wore detracted not a whit from her beauty and grace! A gray waterproof
can scarcely be called an elegant garment, but Celia looked lovely in
this one. Her fresh rosy face smiled enchantingly from out of the hood
that she had drawn over her head, and from beneath which tiny curls
were rebelliously fluttering out into the wind and rain.
"It certainly is a 'fine, soaking rain,' as my uncle says," Kurt
rejoined, laughing. "It has drenched me, but I have many a time tramped
through a wood in worse weather than this, and even slept soundly on a
hill-side in just such a pour, with only a soldier's blanket over me.
The rain can do me no harm, but you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald, are very
wrong to come abroad in such weather."
"And yet you expected me to do it."
"No; I was sure you would prudently stay at home. It is no weather for
you to ride in."
"No? Still, here I am, you see. Neither Pluto nor I ever mind the rain;
but then we are neither of us at all prudent. And besides, you do not
tell the truth. Why are you here if you thought I should not come? I
had more confidence in you. I knew I should find you here, and I should
have been terribly angry if you had stayed away for the rain. For
indeed I had to see you to-day. I have so much to tell you. Only think,
the new governess is really coming this evening!"
"Indeed? Then the Finanzrath has carried his point."
"Of course; just as he always does. He wrote to Fraeulein Mueller, and
sent the letter to Frau von Adelung in Dresden. I could not help hoping
that the Fraeulein would decline to come, for papa consented to Werner's
plan only upon condition that he should truthfully describe the life
she would have to lead at Castle Hohenwald. Werner did so. He read his
letter aloud to papa, Arno, and me, and I must confess he did not
flatter any one of us. If I had been Fraeulein Mueller I never would have
said 'yes' to such a letter."
"Did he give so terrible a description of the castle and its inmates?"
"The castle and all of us. He made Arno out a gloomy woman-hater, and
called me a spoiled child. Was it not odious of him?"
"He meant no wrong."
"Oh, I know you agree with him! Now, confess honestly that you think me
a spoiled child, or rather do not confess it, or we shall be sure to
quarrel. Let me tell you more. Werner told Fraeulein Mueller that at
Castle Hohenwald she would be cut off from all social intercourse, that
she could neither receive nor pay visits, and that the family circle
there could not indemnify her for such seclusion, since neither papa
nor Arno was an agreeable companion. In short, he painted existence
here in such gloomy colours that papa said Fraeulein Mueller must be a
very extraordinary person if she accepted such a situation. But she has
accepted it. Her answer came to-day,--a very odd reply. Papa and Arno,
as well as Werner, shook their heads over it. They could not make it
out. So it is no wonder that I cannot comprehend it either. I have
brought it to you to read, that you may tell me what you think of it."
"You have brought me the letter?" Kurt asked, in surprise.
"Why, yes; I know you always tell me the truth when I ask you for it,
and when Werner gave me the letter I thought to myself, 'Herr Kurt von
Poseneck shall read it;' so I kept it and brought it with me. There,
read it; but be careful not to let it get wet. Wait a moment; I will
hold my waterproof out so as to shield it from the rain."
Celia handed Kurt the letter and protected it with her cloak while he
read it.
"An excellent hand," he said, as he opened it: "firm and clear. They
say that the handwriting shows the character of the writer; if that be
true, this letter should impress one greatly in Fraeulein Mueller's
favour."
"That is just what Arno said; only he added, 'Only to be the more
bitterly undeceived afterwards.' But read, read, I beg you,--I am so
anxious to know what you think of the letter."
Kurt read the short note, which ran as follows:
"Dear Sir,--Your description of the life at Castle Hohenwald so
perfectly accords with my wishes and inclinations that I accept with
pleasure the honourable position offered me of companion and teacher
to Fraeulein Cecilia von Hohenwald. I shall arrive at the station at
A---- by the afternoon train, at a quarter-past eight on the
seventeenth, hoping to meet the carriage which you tell me will be sent
for me from Hohenwald.
"With much respect,
"Anna Mueller."
"Well, what do you think of it?" Cecilia asked, eagerly. "It does not
seem odd to me at all. I think it simple, clear, and decided."
"But what does she mean by saying that Werner's ugly description of the
life here accords with her views and inclinations? Arno says that must
be a falsehood; that no girl could like such a place, and that Fraeulein
Mueller must be a false, exaggerated person to say that she accepts such
a position with pleasure. Papa thought the same; and even Werner said
that the brevity of the note impressed him disagreeably, while Arno
insisted that its short, decided tone, its want of all conventional
courtesy, was the only thing in it to recommend it. What do you think?"
"I think we should be overhasty in adopting a prejudice against the
lady upon reading her short note, which to my mind contains nothing to
inspire it. Why should we distrust her declaration that the life in
Castle Hohenwald is to her taste? If it were not so, could she not
decline the position offered her? It certainly speaks well for her that
she makes use of no stupid conventional phrases, and she shows a
correct appreciation of her duties towards you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald,
in calling herself not your governess, but your companion and teacher.
I really cannot see any reason why you should form an unfavourable
opinion of Fraeulein Mueller. Take my advice and receive her after your
own frank, cordial fashion. Do not be swayed by your brother Arno's
(pardon me) unjustifiable prejudice, but see and judge for yourself,
and you will be sure to judge rightly."
"Yes, I will," Celia said, cheerfully. "I knew you would give me good
counsel, and I shall follow it. But now," she continued, with a sudden
gravity, "we must discuss one point which I have never ceased to think
of since the letter arrived to-day. What will become of my beloved
liberty? Is it not lost from the moment that Fraeulein Mueller arrives at
Castle Hohenwald?"
"It may be somewhat restricted, and is it not perhaps best that it
should be so, Fraeulein von Hohenwald?"
"Ah, you are thinking again that I need a governess. You will make me
seriously angry. I am not a child, and I will not have my liberty
restricted! I am willing to learn. I will sit still for hours and play
the piano every day, but I will not be put into leading-strings. It is
not kind of you to wish it for me, Herr von Poseneck. What will become
of my afternoon rides if Fraeulein Mueller thinks it unbecoming for a
young lady to roam about the forest alone?"
Celia's words told a joint in Kurt's armour; had he not often reflected
that the propriety of these rides was questionable? It was hard for him
to carry out his resolve of always being frank and true towards Celia,
but he did it. With a sigh, he replied, "Fraeulein Mueller would not be
far wrong if she did think so."
Celia suddenly reined in her horse, and looking down at Kurt with eyes
large with wonder, she said, in a tone expressing painful regret, "And
you tell me this?"
"Yes, Fraeulein Celia," and for the first time he avoided the formal Von
Hohenwald; "yes, I tell you so, because I always will be honest and
true to you."
Celia made no reply; she urged Pluto into a walk again, and rode beside
Kurt in silence. She had never reflected whether these meetings in the
forest were becoming. She had made no appointments with Kurt, but
chance--no, it had not been chance entirely after the first meeting;
she knew that she should meet him, but she could not reproach herself
with having made any appointments. She was quite blameless. Quite? Why,
then, had she never mentioned these daily meetings at home in Castle
Hohenwald? Why had she never uttered the name of Kurt von Poseneck to
her father or Arno, and never even said a word when Arno had casually
mentioned the fact that a son of the Poseneck who had emigrated to
America had returned, and was living at Gruenhagen with the Amtsrath,
whose heir report said he was to be? Her father, Arno, and Werner had
discussed the Posenecks at some length; why had she never said a word,
although she could easily have set them right upon several points?
Hitherto she had simply followed her impulse to see Kurt, whom she
liked so much, daily; but now, suddenly, she became aware that
something about these meetings was not just as it should be.
After a long pause, she said, dejectedly, "I think you are right, Herr
Kurt; I have acted very unbecomingly; but then we never made any
appointments, and it was so pleasant to meet by chance. You have told
me so much to interest me, I could always listen to you for hours; but
if you think it improper, I will not ride on the forest road again. It
will be hard, for lately I have looked forward all the forenoon to this
hour of talk with you."
The girl's childlike, innocent frankness enchanted Kurt; he yielded to
an irresistible impulse to seize and kiss the hand that hung down near
him. Then, startled at what he had done, he instantly dropped it, while
Celia, not in the least startled, looked at him with a happy smile.
"Is it really so wrong for us to spend one short hour here every day
talking together?" she asked, looking down kindly into his face.
He could not withstand the magic of her look; all the wise rules that
he had laid down for himself melted in the light of her eyes like snow
before the sun. "No, dearest Celia! A thousand times no!" he cried,
rapturously. "I swear to you by my honour that you never shall have any
cause to regret your confidence in me. I will not ask you to continue
your rides,--you shall not promise me to do so,--but I will be here
awaiting you every day; nothing shall prevent me. Although you should
stay away for weeks, you will find me here whenever you come at this
hour."
"And you shall not await me in vain," Celia replied; and as she leaned
down towards him their lips met for one instant in a fleeting kiss.
Then she suddenly wheeled her horse about and was gone.
Kurt stood for a while motionless. Long after the lovely rider had
vanished in the gloom he still saw her in spirit, and felt her kiss
upon his lips. He hardly noticed that the rain, which had ceased for a
few minutes, was pouring down with renewed violence; that a sharp wind
was blowing, colder than before. He stood like one entranced in the
lonely forest, and, when unconsciously he turned towards home, he never
heard the howling of the tempest. Not until the bough of an oak-tree,
torn off by the wind, fell directly across his path did he waken from
his revery.