"Once I was roaming about in the forest, my mind full of this sweet

goddess, whom I then believed in as I did in genuine pearls and real

gold, but whom I afterwards met again in Paris under different

circumstances; I was dreaming, and thus lost myself, or was led by my

guide, Chance, to a clearing which a band of gypsies had chosen for

their temporary encampment. A few small huts built of clay and

wickerwork in very archaic style, a fireplace over which an old dame

was roasting a stone-martin, deerskins and rags hanging on the branches

to dry--this was the picture which suddenly met my eye. The whole band

was away with the exception of the old witch, a few little babies who

rolled about in the sand in paradisiac nakedness, and one young girl of

about fifteen--"

The baron filled his glass and drank it at one gulp.

"Of about fifteen--perhaps she was older--it is difficult to determine

the age of gypsy girls. She was slender and agile like a deer, and her

dark eyes shone with such a magic, supernatural fire, that I was seized

by a rapture of delight as I looked deeper and deeper into them, while

she was telling me my fortune by reading the lines in my hand. My fate

could be read much more clearly in her eyes than in my hand. I was

delighted, enraptured, beside myself--the world had disappeared in an

instant. You must bear in mind that I was twenty years old, and

romantic as few men are, even at that early age; but I felt that to be

a gypsy, to feed upon stone-martins, and to sun one's self in the eyes

of a gypsy girl was the true and only purpose of life upon earth. I

stayed with the gypsies I know not how many days. My friends at the

chateau thought I had been torn by wolves. But one evening, when the

sun had already disappeared behind the mountain wall which protected

our encampment towards the north, and while the band were still away, I

was sitting with the Zingarella at the foot of an old oak-tree, and was

happy in my young love--when----

"I verily believe there is somebody coming"--the baron said,

interrupting himself--"was not that a strange voice?"

"I hope not," said Oswald.

The door opened; old Hermann looked in and said:--

"Baron Cloten wishes to present his respects, sir; are you at home?"

"Oh no!" replied Oldenburg; "but, to be sure, I cannot very well

decline seeing him; he comes to--hm, hm!"

"Do not let me prevent you from being hospitable," said Oswald, rising.

"I pray, stay!" said the baron; "I hope he will not remain long. He

comes in a certain affair in which he wants my advice. That is all.

Show him up stairs, Hermann."

A moment afterwards Baron Cloten entered. He wore a riding-coat and

top-boots, and seemed to have had a long ride. At least he looked very

much heated. Oswald's presence seemed to annoy or to embarrass him; at

least he spoke to him with striking formality, after having shaken

hands with the baron.

"Very warm to-day," he snarled, seating himself in the chair which the

baron had offered him; "Robin is covered with sweat,---told your groom

to rub him down with a wisp of straw. Keeps an animal marvellously

well. Pleasant wine--what is it?--famous wine--had some the other day

at Barnewitz--not half as good. Apropos Barnewitz--no bad effects,

baron? Left somewhat early--heat really abominable----"

"Won't you put down your hat, Cloten?"

"Thanks! Am going away directly. Only wanted to see--quite near

here--was at Grenwitz--everybody out there--came over here to see how

all were."

"But you surely have a few minutes?"

"Not a moment--'pon honor," said Cloten, emptying his glass and rising;

"call in to-morrow, perhaps. Good-by, baron."

Cloten again bowed very formally to Oswald and went to the door,

accompanied by the baron.

"I pray, don't trouble yourself," said Cloten.

"I just want to have a look at Robin," replied Oldenburg, and then to

Oswald; "excuse me a moment, doctor."

Oswald was alone. The remarkably cool manner of the young nobleman had

offended his pride, though he tried to convince himself that he

despised him. He walked up and down in the room, much excited. His

hatred of the nobility had been fanned into a flame; even Oldenburg's

manner seemed to him to have been less cordial while Cloten was there.

His eye fell upon the green silk curtain between the two bookcases,

which had struck him before.

"I wonder what this veiled image means? Perhaps a voluptuous Correggio.

At all events, a key to the better knowledge of this strange man.

You'll excuse my curiosity, _monsieur le baron_?"

Oswald pulled the silken cord of the curtain, and the youth at Sais,

who lifted the veil before the sacred image of Isis, could not have

been more startled than Oswald was when he saw, not a richly tinted

Italian painting, but in a niche, a bust of chaste white marble, which,

in spite of the antique hair-dress and a slight attempt to idealize,

was nothing else than a striking portrait of Melitta. There was her

rich waving hair; there her beautiful smooth brow, the straight,

delicate nose; there were the soft lips, looking dewy even in marble!

Before Oswald could recover from his amazement to find himself thus

face to face with his beloved one, the baron entered.

"Please excuse my indiscretion," said Oswald, who had not been able to

draw the curtain back again; "but why do you keep veiled images here

which belong in a sanctuary, and not in a common reception-room?"

"You are right," replied the baron, without a trace of confusion; "this

green veil is, like most veils, only a provocation; and, by the way, it

is very foolish to conceal the copy when the original can be seen at

any time by those who will take the trouble of going to Palermo and

asking for leave to see the villa Serra di Falco."

"Indeed?" said Oswald, annoyed by the imperturbable calmness with which

the baron tried to make him swallow his story. "Ah! in Palermo? I had

been tempted to look for the original nearer home."

"You mean in Berlin, at the Museum!" said the baron. "There is a Muse

there which looks very much like this bust, but if you examine it more

closely you will soon see the difference."

"Yes," replied Oswald; "the nose there is more decided, and the

carriage of the head is slightly different, and altogether the

resemblance with Frau von Berkow much less striking than in this bust."

"Do you think so?" said the baron, rising and going up to the bust.

"Really, you are right. There is really a slight resemblance between

this bust and Frau von Berkow. Well, that does not make me like the

work any less, as there are few ladies in the world whom I love more to

be reminded of than that amiable and clever lady."

The baron drew the curtain over the bust, as if he wished to end the

conversation.

"Come, doctor," he said, "sit down and try to forget that Cloten, this

cleverest of all young men, has ever been here."

"I believe it is high time for me to be gone," said Oswald; "the sun is

near setting--I should not like to get home too late, to-night

especially."

"As you like it," said the baron. "Welcome the coming and speed the

parting guest! I have a great mind to accompany you some distance. Are

you fond of riding?"

"Rather so."

"Then we'll go on horseback, if you like it I will take one of my

servants. Excuse me a moment--I must change my dress and give a few

orders."

* * * * *

"You sit your horse very well, doctor," said the baron, as they were

slowly riding along on the height of the bluff a quarter of an hour

later. "It is really remarkable what talents you have in these things.

I believe there is no branch of bodily skill in which you would not

quickly become a master."

"It is all the more remarkable, because my plebeian descent and my

modest education do not entitle me to any of these aristocratic gifts."

"What a pity my name is not Cloten," said the baron.

"Why?"

"Because then I would not suspect your irony in the most remote way,

and, on the contrary, be moved by your touching modesty to overcome an

antipathy amounting almost to hatred."

"Is that Baron Cloten's sentiment towards me?"

"Do you think any dandy likes to see another man surpass him in

pistol-shooting, dancing, courting, etc., if that is the pride of his

little soul? Women and weak men never forgive that superiority. I

amused myself royally that night at Barnewitz to watch the faces they

were making at you, of course behind your back, and unfortunately

enjoyed the malicious pleasure of doing everything to fan the flame of

their jealousy."

"Why unfortunately? I assure you I mind very little whether these

gentlemen think well of me or not."

"Oh, no doubt you do. But as long as you live in this neighborhood you

are compelled to meet these people, and it is a rule of the simplest

wisdom of the world not to offend your fellow-passengers by treading on

their corns.--Who on earth comes racing over there across the fields?"

This exclamation was caused by the mysterious horseman whom Oswald had

noticed at his arrival, and who was now trotting across the heath so as

to reach the road at a distance of perhaps six hundred yards ahead of

them.

Oswald told the baron his experience with the horseman.

"We must find that out," said the baron; "let us trot."

They had scarcely trotted a few yards when the man before them started

his horse also. It looked as if he were stealthily turning round now

and then, but as the twilight had come on it was not easy to be quite

sure of that.

"Let us try a gallop," said Oswald; "I see the mysterious man is

repeating his man[oe]uvres of the afternoon."

They were on a wide level plain, which sloped off gradually towards the

fishermen's village, following the stony and less level ground on which

Oldenburg's villa was built. The soil was nothing but a thin crust of

earth, covered with meagre heather, and spread directly over the rock

itself, so that the horses going faster and faster beat hard upon the

stony subsoil.

The mysterious man had no sooner heard the sound of their hoofs than he

had followed their example; he was now galloping before his pursuers,

keeping exactly the same distance.

"Stern chase is a long chase!" said Oldenburg, who seemed to take

pleasure in the matter. "That fellow must have a capital horse. Just

look how he flies, scarcely touching the ground! Don't you know,

Charles, who that can be?"

"No, sir," said the groom, who was now riding in a line with the two

gentlemen. "It cannot be anybody from the neighborhood, or we would

have overtaken him long since."

"Charles flatters himself with the idea, you see, that he commands the

best and the fastest horses far and near," observed the baron.

"He won't stand it long, sir!" said Charles.

"We must see that," replied the baron.

"Suppose we make an end of the matter by giving the reins to our

horses," said Oswald, a few minutes later. "We shall then soon see

whether we can overtake him or not."

"Very well," said Oldenburg, "_en avant!_"

The three riders gave the reins to their horses. The noble animals,

delighting in their freedom, and as if they knew that their reputation

as the best racers in the whole neighborhood was being tested, rushed

along with maddening speed, first breast to breast, till Oldenburg's

black horse took the lead and maintained it in spite of all efforts on

the part of the other two horses.

The mysterious man had allowed his pursuers to approach him to within

about four hundred yards. They thought already the chase was over and

the groom had saved his own honor and that of his horses, when suddenly

the man before them gave the spur to his thoroughbred, and, bending his

head low down upon the mane of the animal, shot off with a speed which

soon made even the incensed groom aware that it was useless to try to

overtake him.

"I believe it is the devil himself," he said, through his teeth.

Oldenburg laughed. "So do I," he said. "Let us give it up."

It took some time before the excited horses could calm down again. The

mysterious man was still riding at full speed, and in a few moments he

had disappeared in the lane which led down to the fishermen's village.

Half an hour afterwards they reached the gates of Grenwitz. Oswald got

off his horse and gave the reins to the groom, to shake hands with the

baron.

"If you were not too much bored," said the latter, "I hope we may

repeat the experiment soon again. Good-by!"

Oswald reached his room without having met a soul in the quiet

courtyard or in the silent house. As he was leaning out of the open

window and looked down into the darkening garden, he saw two persons

walking up and down in the avenue, whispering and laughing. They were

Albert and Marguerite. They had evidently improved the good opportunity

to advance in their conjugation of _aimer_.

CHAPTER X.

"DEAR SIR! To succeed in all undertakings equally well is not given to

any one, not even to the most favored knight. You will therefore, it is

hoped, understand why a person, who has watched with much astonishment

the process you have made in the favor of a certain lady, is anxious to

become personally acquainted with the magic charm you possess, and

therefore desires to see you. If you are disposed to afford him this

pleasure, you are requested to take a walk this evening, at eleven

o'clock, near the smaller Grenwitz gate. Under the old beech-tree on

the road to Berkow you will, if you consent, find a carriage to convey

you to the place of rendezvous. There you will find everything required

to begin a more intimate acquaintance.

"It need hardly be mentioned, that, of course, an affair of so much

delicacy has to be treated with the utmost secrecy. The coachman will

ask you '_Qui vive_,' and if you answer '_Moi_,' he will know that you

are the right person. _Au revoir, monsieur!_"

This was the text of a letter which the mail-carrier from the

neighboring town handed Oswald on the evening of the next day.

He read the odd note several times before he could recover from his

surprise. Who was the "person" who wished to make his personal

acquaintance? What "lady" was meant? Had the mystery of the forest

chapel fallen into indiscreet hands? Could Baron Cloten be the author

of the challenge? The peculiar, cool manner of the young nobleman at

their last meeting favored this presumption. Or was the meeting

accidental, and the mysterious rider the real writer? Was he, perhaps,

one of Cloten's spies? On the other hand, was not the conversation

which Baron Barnewitz had had with Oldenburg, and which Oswald had

heard as an unwilling listener, sufficient evidence that Cloten had

quite enough to do with his own difficulties?

Oswald passed in his mind all the young nobles in review whose

acquaintance he had made at the ball, and his suspicion was finally

fixed upon young Count Grieben, that tall blonde youth who made such

amusing efforts to be brilliant, and to win favor with the coquettish

Emily--efforts in which he failed with equal success. He seemed to be

most likely to be the author of some of the phrases in the letter.

What was he to do? Should he expose himself to the perhaps very ignoble

vengeance of the young noblemen? Should he enter the lists without

knowing anything of the weapons, the witnesses, the place, or even his

adversaries? Could any fair-minded man blame him if he took no notice

of the challenge of an anonymous writer?

But he probably had not to deal with fair-minded men. Had he not

already found out, and seen it proved by his experience, that in these

privileged circles the pleasure of the individual stood for right, and

the most frivolous whim of the moment served as a motive for action?

Had he not found this to be so even in the two characters which were so

far above the common mass, in Melitta and Oldenburg?

And would they not charge him, if he declined the challenge, with want

of that delicate sense of honor of which these nobles were so proudly

boasting?

No, no; he must take up the gauntlet, however contemptible the hand

might be that had thrown it down in the dark. He must show these young

noblemen that he was not afraid to meet their revenge alone,

friendless, and unarmed.

His blood was boiling. He walked up and down in his room in great

excitement.

"Come on! Come on!" he hissed through his teeth. "I wish they would

place themselves one by one opposite to me; my hatred would give me

strength to overthrow them all. Quite right! Quite right! What have I

to do here among these wolves? To be torn or to tear. I ought to have

foreseen that."

Oswald felt how a new evil spirit rose from the deepest bottom of his

soul, which his eye had never yet fathomed. A wild passion, a burning

thirst for revenge, a mad desire to destroy seized upon him; it was the

intense, frantic hatred of the nobility which he had felt as a boy,

while he loaded the pistols for his father behind the city wall, when

the latter shot at the ace of spades and each time aimed at the heart

of a noble man; when he read at school, in Livy, of the haughty

arrogance of the Tarquins, or in his room, of the tearful story of

Emilia Galotti. And they were no fictions! Here, in this castle,

perhaps in these same rooms which he now occupied, a victim of the

cruelty of a nobleman had bled to death; here the poor, unhappy, and

beautiful Marie had paid with a thousand burning tears for her folly in

believing the word of a noble tempter.

She had been victimized because she was a frail woman, and because she

had no weapons but tears--tears which found no pity. Those tears had

never been atoned for. How if he should arise as her avenger--if he

should avenge those tears of a low-born maid in the blood of a

nobleman?

Such thoughts passed through Oswald's mind while he was making a few

hasty preparations for the case of an unlucky event--little as he

thought it likely to happen, for he saw himself only in the part of an

avenger. He burnt a few letters which he did not wish to fall into

strange hands; he arranged his other papers, and finally wrote a few

lines to Professor Berger; but he soon tore them up again and threw

them into the fire.

"_Tant de bruit pour une omelette_," he said, "the wretches do not

deserve that I should give myself so much trouble for their sake."

He awaited the appointed hour with impatience.

At last the great clock struck ten. He heard the servants going to bed;

even from Albert's room a light was shining down upon the dark garden.

It struck half-past ten. Oswald dressed himself carefully, took a rose

from a bouquet which he had gathered in the garden, and put it in his

button-hole.

Then he slipped noiselessly down the narrow steps on which Marie, on

that stormy night had escaped from the chateau into the garden, through

the garden and out at the gate which led into the courtyard, and from

which it was only a short distance to the little gate where he was told

he would find the carriage.

The night sky was covered with clouds, through which a few scattered

stars only pierced their way; it was so dark that Oswald had to walk

very slowly, until his eye had become accustomed to the darkness, if he

did not wish to risk falling into the ditch on either side of the road.

Suddenly a large dark object loomed up before him, and at the same

moment a rough, deep voice cried out: "_Qui vive?_"

"_Moi!_" answered Oswald.

He saw the outlines of a tall form which opened the door of the

carriage and let down the steps.

As soon as he had got in the door was closed after him, and the horses

started; he could not see whether the person had jumped upon the box,

or whether it was the coachman himself.

Coachman and horses must have known the road well, or be able to see as

well at night as in open daylight, for the carriage drove with a

swiftness to which even an impatient lover could have had no objection.

The road was in good order, and although now and then a stone was lying

in the track, the carriage was so well hung on excellent springs that

one hardly perceived the jolt.

Oswald leaned back in the swelling cushions. The soft velvet seemed to

exhale a perfume, which filled the narrow compartment like the boudoir

of a pretty woman. Oswald even fancied it was the same perfume which

Melitta ordinarily used. And suddenly he felt as if Melitta were

sitting by his side--as if her soft warm hand were touching his--as if

he felt her breath on his brow--as if her lips were lying lightly like

a zephyr on his own.

And this delicious dream effaced the reality. Oswald forgot what was

before him; he did not think of the future; he knew not where he

was--and only she, she herself filled his soul. The memory of her sweet

grace, her goodness, her intoxicating beauty overcame him like a

spring-tide of bliss. The precious images of those happy hours which he

had spent by her side, at her feet, rose before his mind's eyes with

marvellous clearness; he saw them all, from his first meeting on the

lawn behind the chateau at Grenwitz, to the moment when she turned from

him, tears in her eyes, in that night of hapless memory, when the demon

of jealousy struck its sharp claws into his wounded heart.

"Forgive me, Melitta! forgive me!" he groaned, burying his head in the

cushions.

Suddenly the carriage stopped. The door opened, the tall man who had

let down the steps before helped him get out, gave him his hand, led

him a few steps up to a large glass door, where, through the red

curtains, a faint light was bidding him welcome. The door opened, and

Oswald found himself in the garden-room in Melitta's chateau, and

Melitta wound her arms around his neck, and Melitta's voice whispered:

"Forgive me, Oswald! Forgive me!"

"You cruel man," said Melitta, after the first wild storm of delight,

with its showers of joyous tears, had passed away. "How could you shut

up your heart for so many days when you knew I was standing outside

knocking for admission? But I will not scold. You are here and all is

right again."

She leaned her head on his breast and looked up at him smiling through

her tears. "Is it not, darling? Is not all right again? Now Melitta is

again what she was before to you, what she will ever be to you, in

spite of all pretty girls of sixteen, be their name Emily or----"

"Melitta!"

"Or Melitta! For there is but one Melitta, if thousands bore that name,

and that one am I! And how could you forget such a weighty matter! What

trouble you have caused old Baumann! I will say nothing of myself, for

joy follows grief and grief follows joy, and if two love each other

honestly, a few tears more or less, a few sleepless nights, a few

letters begun and torn to pieces again, matter, after all, very

little--but poor Baumann! Just imagine! The first day I was very calm,

for I thought: he will come soon enough, and fall down at your feet and

ask your pardon! But when you did not come, nor on the second, nor on

the third day, then my heart failed me, and I dare say I looked

wretched enough, for as I was sitting here, resting my head in my

hands, I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder, and when I looked up,

good old Baumann was standing before me, and said: Shall I go and see

why he is staying away so long?--Ah do, dear Baumann, I said. Then the

good soul went, without saying a word, and did not return till late at

night. Did you see him?--Yes, ma'am! He is well and hearty; I have had

a race with him."

"Then old Baumann was the mysterious horseman?"

"Of course, and he laughed in his quiet way when he told me that you

had been after him, as if he meant to say: The children! They thought

they could overtake me on Brownlock!"

"Then that was Brownlock, of whom Bruno has told me so much! Well, now

I can explain it all."

"Can you? Then you will also explain it, I hope, why Baumann sat down

and wrote that letter at my dictation. The old man refused, and said: A

duel is no child's play, and that is carrying the joke too far. But I

laughed and wept till he gave way; so he took Brownlock once more this

morning and rode to town to mail the letter."

"And if I had not accepted the challenge?"

"Baumann asked me the same question, and I answered: Fie, are you not

ashamed to say such a thing, Baumann?"

Oswald laughed. "Of course! we must always be ashamed when we say or do

something that does not suit the world, as it exists in your little

heads."

Melitta made no reply, and Oswald saw that a shadow flitted across her

face. He knelt down before her and said, seizing her hand as it hung by

her side:

"Have I offended you, Melitta?"

"No," she said, "but you would not have said so a week ago."

"How do you mean?"

"Come, get up! Let us go into the garden. It is hot in the house; I

long to breathe the cool night air!"

They went down into the garden and walked up and down, arm in arm, till

they came to the low terrace, where Oswald had found Melitta when he

called upon her that Sunday afternoon. They sat down under the

pine-tree, which spread its branches over them as if in protection. The

night was marvellously silent. The trees stood quiet, not a leaf

stirring, as if they were fast asleep; fragrant perfumes filled the

warm, dry air, and glow-worms were wandering through the night like

bright tiny stars.

"You did not answer my question, Melitta," said Oswald. "What is it the

last eight days have changed in me? Am I not the same I was; only that

the bitter regret at having hurt your feelings has made my love for you

deeper and warmer?"

Melitta made no reply; suddenly she said, speaking low and quick:

"Have you seen much of him since that Sunday at Barnewitz?"

"Of whom, Melitta?"

"Well, of--of Baron Oldenburg. God be thanked, I have said it. It is so

childish and foolish in me to have hesitated so long to speak of

Oldenburg, and to tell you what our relations have been,--and yet I

felt you had a right to know it, and I was bound to lift the veil from

my past, wherever it might appear dark to you. This feeling grew so

overwhelming in me, especially when I found that you had become

intimate with the baron, that I wanted to see you at any price, and

this suggested to me the foolish plan."

"I have no such right as you say," replied Oswald, "to be foolishly

curious. I have to be grateful for the love which you grant me, and I

am grateful for it, as for a sweet gift from on high. There was a time,

I confess, when my love still knew what doubt was, but that was not yet

true, genuine love. Now I cannot imagine that I could ever cease to

love you, or that you could ever do so. I feel even as if this love was

not only intended to be eternal, but had actually existed before, in

all eternity. I do not know if you ever loved before; it may be, but I

do not comprehend it, and would not comprehend it, even if you were to

say so expressly."

"And I assure you," said Melitta tenderly, coming closer to Oswald, "I

have never loved till I saw you; for what I before called love was only

unsatisfied longing after an ideal which I bore in my heart, which I

could find nowhere, and which I had long despaired of ever finding."

"And you fancy that I am this personified ideal? Poor Melitta! How soon

you will awake from this dream! Awake, Melitta! awake--it is time yet!"

"No, Oswald, it is too late. There is a love which is as strong as

death, and there is no awaking from it. No! No awaking. I feel it. I

know it. And if you were to turn your face from me, and if you were to

push me from you--with you I know not what offended love, what insulted

pride are--nothing but immeasurable, unfathomable, inexhaustible love.

Till now I only knew that I could love; how much I could love, you

first have taught me....

"And now also I can speak freely of the time when I did not yet know

you--for then my life was only apparent life and all I felt and thought

was only a vague dreaming without connection and sense. I know that

now--now since I have opened my eyes in the sunlight of your love, and

life lies clear and transparent before me, so that the deep night which

surrounds us looks to me brighter than formerly the brightest day. Now

I can speak of the Melitta of former days as of a strange person for

whose doings and sayings I am no longer responsible; now I can and will

tell you what that portrait in my album means--that detached leaf which

frightened you so, darling.--Yes, I saw it all; you changed color, and

you did not comprehend how I could ask your opinion of a man whom you

could not but think my lover. And yet Oldenburg never was my lover, or

there must be strange degrees in love, of which the lowest is as far

from the highest as the earth is from heaven.

"I knew Oldenburg from my childhood. My father's estate adjoined Cona,

where you were yesterday. My aunt, who undertook my education after my

mother's death, and Oldenburg's mother were warm friends, and met

almost daily. So did we children. Oldenburg was several years older

than I, but as girls are always ahead of boys in their development, we

did not feel the difference in age much; we played and worked together;

we were good comrades--ordinarily, for not unfrequently we fell out,

and then we had sharp words and quarrels and tears. I rarely gave cause

for them, for I was not obstinate, and always ready to give way, but

Adalbert was excessively sensitive, stubborn, and self-willed. The

double nature of his character, which he afterwards tried to harmonize

and to conceal from all but the most sharp-sighted, was then very

evident. It was impossible not to become interested in him, but I doubt

if anybody really loved him. This he felt, and this feeling, which he

bore about with him like a concealed wound, made him early a

hypochondriac and a misanthrope. It was of little use to him that

everybody admired his eminent talents, and that no one doubted his

courage, his love of the truth--his stubborn, self-willed ways repelled

all and offended all. Even his tall, ungraceful figure and his awkward

motions contributed to turn the hearts of men away from him. At least

it was so with me. I had from childhood up felt irresistibly attracted

towards all that was beautiful and graceful, and had a real horror of

what was ugly and ill-shapen. I could not love Adalbert, although he

was sincerely attached to me with great tenderness, which he carefully

hid under an appearance of coldness and rudeness. When his passionate

temper got the better of his attempted calmness, he would even reproach

me bitterly on account of my heartlessness and my fickleness.

"Such were our relations till Adalbert, at sixteen, went to college,

for he had persuaded his guardian--his mother had also died in the mean

time--to let him go to the city. Now he came but rarely to Cona, and

then only for a few days. Then I was for two years at boarding-school.

Thus it came about that we met only in passing, till he went to the

University at Heidelberg. When he returned from there, and from a long

journey, I had been married two years.

"He did not come to Berkow till a considerable time afterwards. Our

meeting was strange enough. He seemed to accept the changed state of

things only as a _fait accompli_, which we submit to because we cannot

help ourselves. He did not trouble me with questions; he asked for no

confidential communication, which the sole friend of my childhood and

early youth might well have demanded. He did not reproach me; he did

not tell me that he had loved me, that he had hoped to obtain my hand,

although I afterwards learned that that had been so, and that the news

of my marriage, which he received at Heidelberg, had nearly driven him

mad, and laid him for weeks and months upon the sick-bed. He tried by

silent observation to obtain a clear idea of my situation. I saw that

nothing escaped him, that not a word I uttered, not a gesture I made

remained unnoticed. This consciousness of being continually watched by

such sharp eyes was by no means agreeable, especially as there was much

that ought to have been very different from what it actually was. Soon

we were as we had been in childhood; only there occurred no violent

scenes, as our passions had subsided. As he then had brought me all the

pretty shells, and stones, and flowers which he found on the beach,

among the rocks, and in the garden, so he now told me all his

indefatigably active mind could discover in the field of science: now a

fine poem and now a deep thought--and he felt it not less deeply now,

if I treated his treasures as carelessly as I had done with the flowers

which I allowed to perish, and the stones and shells which I threw

away. I knew I had no better friend than he, and he knew that in all I

felt for him there was no love; all the more disinterested was his

friendship, and all the more unwarrantable the fickleness with which I

treated him.

"His friendship was soon to be proved. The melancholy into which Carlo

had fallen, soon after Julius' birth, assumed a more and more dangerous

form. Attacks of unexpected violence, the precursors of the last

fearful catastrophe, became more frequent. He would now admit no one

near him but Adalbert, although he, the _bon-vivant_ of former days,

had been in the habit of laughing ruthlessly at the baron, who was his

junior, and yet thoughtful and melancholy himself. How often had he

ridiculed him, how often called him contemptuously the Youth of Sais!

Now he accompanied him everywhere; now Oldenburg's voice was the only

one which could drive away the dark demons that fought for his mind, at

least for the moment. And the self-sacrificing spirit with which

Oldenburg performed this service of love cannot be sufficiently

praised, and I ought to thank him for it all my life long. Then came

the catastrophe. Oldenburg stood faithfully by me in those dark days,

or rather, he took all the burden and the responsibility upon himself,

and managed all and everything with such energy and sagacity that I had

only to consent.

"Carlo had been carried to an Asylum at the South, and I was left alone

here at Berkow, devoting myself entirely to the education of my Julius,

who was then five years old, and for whom I had secured Bemperlein as a

teacher and a friend, thanks to Oldenburg's recommendation. The baron

came less frequently than formerly, but still quite frequently, as I

thought. It seemed to me that a tender note mingled at times with his

friendship, and hardly had I noticed this than I thought it my duty to

point out to him, as gently as I could, that his visits were probably

too frequent. This was perhaps very ungrateful in me, but we women find

it very difficult to be grateful to those whom we do not love.

"Next day Oldenburg had left the country. No one knew where he was.

Somebody reported him, six months afterwards, in Paris; a year later he

was seen in London. He was here, and there, and everywhere, carried

about by his wild heart and his insatiable thirst for information.

"Thus four years had elapsed and little had changed in my position. I

thought but rarely of Oldenburg; I had nearly forgotten him. I yielded

then--now three years ago--to the persuasions of my cousin and his wife

to accompany them on a trip to Italy. One evening as we were in the

Coliseum Oldenburg suddenly stood before us. 'At last!' he said,

pressing my hand. He pretended to have met us quite accidentally; but

he confessed to me afterwards that he had heard in Paris, I know not

from whom, of our proposed journey, that he had followed us from Munich

and missed us everywhere, till at last he had overtaken us here. I must

confess I was heartily glad to meet him, and was a little gratified to

find that it was not quite accidental. Everything combined to give

Oldenburg a good reception. We easily become attached even to strangers

in travelling; how much more welcome is the friend of our youth whom we

unexpectedly meet with abroad? Oldenburg had travelled all over Italy,

and knew the painter of every altar-painting in every church and

convent. His instructive conversation contrasted most markedly with the

stupid talk of my relatives, and besides, Oldenburg had by this time

polished off the rough edges of his character in the intercourse with

good society. His manner was, in spite of his almost extreme abandon,

as you now see it, thoroughly aristocratic. In a word, he now impressed

me in a manner which I would have believed impossible before. It was

not love that I felt for him, but it was more than the cool friendship

which I had so far offered him alone. But, strange enough, the more I

felt my secret antipathy, which I had cherished from early childhood,

give way to an almost cordial attachment, the harsher and colder became

his manner towards me. When we were all together, he addressed his

conversation almost exclusively to my cousin, and treated me like a

spoilt child, who is only indulged to keep it from crying. This

offended my vanity; and this offended vanity, and the jealousy I began

to feel of my cousin, made me try in good earnest to win Oldenburg's

affection, which I feared I had lost by some unknown cause. This

produced an entire revolution in Oldenburg's manner. He overwhelmed me

with attentions; he seemed completely to forget Hortense, and whenever

we were alone he exhibited a passion which first made me wonder and

then frightened me. And yet he avoided any open declaration, and left

me continually in doubt whether this was one of the mad freaks in which

he still quite frequently indulged, or the expression of a deep-rooted

attachment. It was impossible not to admire Oldenburg at that time. His

genius unfolded its most brilliant powers. He was the soul of every

society; they vied with each other who was to have him, and as he spoke

French, English, Italian, and I know not how many languages, with

fluency, every nation seemed to be willing to admit him as one of their

own. And yet he made me the queen of every festivity, he compelled all

to do homage to me; he displayed the treasures of his richly stored

mind only to lay them at my feet;--what wonder that I could not long

remain indifferent, and that I soon fancied I loved him? Without openly

encouraging him, I let him go on, and permitted him, when we were

alone, to treat me with the familiarity of our childish years; when we

met in company, to show me all those attentions which we generally

accept only from a declared lover."

"Hush, Melitta, I think I hear somebody in the garden."

"I heard nothing."

"Are we quite safe here?"

"Quite so. But let us go into the house; it seems to me the night dew

is beginning to fall."

They rose and went arm in arm towards the steps which led from the

terrace into the garden. As they came down the last step, a man

suddenly stood before them. The meeting was so unexpected to Oswald and

Melitta that they involuntarily started back. But it was impossible

to escape it, and besides, Mr. Bemperlein--for it was he, and no one

else--had already recognized them, as the stars had come out in full

splendor, and the light from the window of the garden-room fell

directly upon their faces.

"Great heavens, madam! what brings you here?" cried Mr. Bemperlein.

"And I ask that of you," said Melitta; and then to Oswald, whose arm

she was still holding, in a low voice: "Be calm, darling, he will not

betray us."

"Julius has not had an accident? Speak, Mr. Bemperlein, I have no

secrets for--Oswald."

Mr. Bemperlein seized Oswald's hand and pressed it, as if he wished to

say: Now I know all, you may rely on me.

"No," he said, "Julius is well and hearty. But I have received a letter

from Doctor Birkenhain, who says that Baron Berkow's condition is such

that they expect his end every day. It is not thought that he will

recover his consciousness before he dies; but Doctor Birkenhain thought

it his duty to let you know how matters stand. I presume at least that

this is what the enclosure means. I brought it myself, so that you may

dispose of me at once, if you should decide to go on. The carriage in

which I came is still at the door; I cut across the garden."

The three had reached the garden-room by this time. Melitta had drawn

her arm from Oswald's and gone up to the lamp to read the letter which

Bemperlein had brought. Oswald saw her turn very pale, and her hand

which held the letter tremble nervously. Bemperlein stood there,

turning his eyes from Oswald to Melitta, and back again from Melitta to

Oswald, like one who has been suddenly roused and cannot convince

himself whether what he sees is reality or a dream.

Melitta had read the letter. "There, Oswald," she said, "read and tell

me what I must do."

Oswald glanced at the letter, which summoned Melitta, as Bemperlein had

presumed, to start immediately for Birkenhain if she wished to see her

husband once more before his death.

"You must go, Melitta, beyond doubt," said Oswald, folding up the

letter. "You would never forgive yourself if you neglected this duty."

Melitta threw herself passionately into his arms: "I meant from the

beginning to go, but I wanted you to confirm my decision," she said. "I

shall start to-night, instantly. Will you go with me, Mr. Bemperlein?"

"That is what I came for," said Bemperlein. "We have prepared the whole

plan. If we start in an hour we shall reach the ferry by sunrise. On

the other side we can take post-horses to B----, and thence go by

railway. Thus we reach Birkenhain day after to-morrow, at the latest."

"You dear, good friend," said Melitta, taking both of Bemperlein's

hands in her own and pressing them cordially.

"Pray, pray, madam," cried Mr. Bemperlein, "quite on the contrary--I

mean--only my duty, nothing more."

"I will get ready at once," said Melitta, taking a candle. "You stay

here, Oswald. If any one should see you here, you will have come with

Bemperlein. But no one will see you."

Melitta had left the room. Soon the silent house awoke to the sound of

hurried steps, of doors which were hastily opened and closed, and of

low voices speaking anxiously one to another.

Of the two men, neither dared for a time to break the silence. Both

felt the strange nature of the position in which they suddenly found

themselves, especially Bemperlein, who had not yet been able to recover

from his surprise. Melitta stood so unattainably high in his eyes that

he found it absolutely impossible to comprehend how any mortal could

attain so high; and yet he was so accustomed to look upon everything

she did as undoubtedly right and good, that he dared not make an

exception of this case.

"We meet quite strangely again, Mr. Bemperlein," Oswald said at last.

"Yes indeed, yes indeed!" replied Mr. Bemperlein. "My coming here was

neither expected nor desired, I understand that perfectly. The poor

lady! But what courage! What decision! I have always said she is not

made of common clay. A real blessing that Doctor Birkenhain had the

good idea not to write to her directly. Thus I can do something, little

though it be, for her support."

"You happy man!" said Oswald "You can work for her and help her, while

I can do nothing but wish her a pleasant journey, and then fold my

hands idly in my lap."

"I really pity you with all my heart, really," said Mr. Bemperlein. "It

is a hard task which you are expected to perform; but where there is

much light there is also much shade. We will write diligently. You

shall hear of every step we take. And then, I hope, our journey will

not be long, and especially I trust we shall find Baron Berkow dead

when we get there."

"You hope that? And yet you seem to think it important to go there?"

"Assuredly!" said Mr. Bemperlein. "There are certain sad duties which

must be performed--not to please the world, which could, and might not,

blame us if we left them unfulfilled, nor for the sake of others whom

we could benefit by what we do, but because of the respect we owe to

ourselves. But you know all that, of course, much better than I do. You

have yourself advised this journey, although you lose most by it. It

must be a terrible sensation to be thus suddenly torn from one's

paradise! Strange, strange! The more I think of it, the more natural it

seems to me. Yes, yes; that you should love this glorious woman is

perfectly natural, is,--I might say, so logical that the contrary would

be sheer nonsense. Everybody must love her, and the nobler the soul is

that loves her the deeper the love. Your heart is a noble heart, your

soul harmonizes with all that is beautiful, hence you cannot but love,

love with all your heart and soul this best and most beautiful of all

women. And on the other side: Is she not free? If not before men,

certainly before the Judge who looks into the heart? Did she ever love

her husband? Could she love him, sold as she was by her own father to a

man who bought her with money, at a time when she was too young still,

and too innocent even to suspect such villany? Oh! it makes my blood

boil to think of it! I am so glad it has all come about in this way! I

congratulate you most heartily. I am a plain, insignificant man, and

would never have dared to lift up my eyes so high; but when I see

another man boldly and bravely stand on that eminence my heart fills

with admiration, which is perfectly free from envy, and once more I

wish you joy and all blessings with my whole heart!"

Mr. Bemperlein seized both of Oswald's hands and pressed them warmly.

His eyes filled with tears; he was deeply moved.

"And I thank you with all my heart," said Oswald, touched. "The good

opinion of a man whom I esteem is worth a thousand times more to me

than that of the whole stupid world. The world will condemn our love,

but the world knows nothing of justice."

"No," said Mr. Bemperlein, "and yet it does judge us, and we have to

submit to its sentence whether we choose or not. And this thought alone

casts a deep shadow on the sunny pictures of such pure, disinterested

love. But I will not make your head heavier at such a moment, when it

is no doubt heavy enough. Fortune favors the brave and the strong. You

are bold and strong; you are doubly so since you love, and faith is

said to be able to move mountains. What faith can, love surely will not

find impossible. But hush! there comes the baroness."

The door opened, and Melitta appeared in her travelling costume. Old

Baumann stood by her.

"I am ready, dear Mr. Bemperlein," she said, and then throwing herself

into Oswald's arms: "Farewell, darling, farewell!"

CHAPTER XI.

The Baroness Grenwitz had more than one good reason for not taking

Oswald with them on their projected trip to Heligoland, and during the

three days' visiting at all the neighbors, she had considered maturely

how she might manage this without compromising her dignity. She was

delighted therefore when Oswald, at her return,--the day after

Melitta's departure,--eagerly seized upon her question: If he would not

prefer using the time of their absence for his own recreation. She was

still more delighted when he went so far as to express his intention

not even to remain at the chateau, but to make an excursion, perhaps

over the island, which he had not yet seen, or perhaps to Berlin, where

he was expected by friends. Anna Maria was so enchanted with this

unexpected result that she did not trouble herself about the motives

that might have influenced Oswald, nor about his sombre, absent manner,

and the indifference with which he witnessed the preparations for their

journey, and with which he even took leave of Bruno on the day of their

departure. Perhaps he was angry because they did not invite him;

perhaps he did not know where he was to stay. At all events, he would

not remain at the chateau, and perhaps he might actually have his

knapsack on his back at one gate, while the family coach with the four

heavy bays and the silent coachman was grandly rolling out at the great

portal.

But Mr. Albert Timm was allowed to stay. He had no such absurd

pretensions as the haughty Dr. Stein; he was easily satisfied; and then

he could work so comfortably in the lonely house, and it was so

important to have the plats completed promptly. Mademoiselle had been

ordered to provide everything for Mr. Timm. Strangely enough, it had

never occurred to the baroness that it might not be considered quite

proper to leave a young girl of twenty and a young man of twenty-six in

a lonely chateau with only a handful of servants, who were under the

control of the young girl. The virtuous lady would have turned up her

nose, she would have thought it unpardonable, if she had been told that

young Count Grieben and Emily von Breesen had been left alone in a room

for five minutes, but the surveyor, Albert Timm, and the housekeeper,

Marguerite Hoger--good Heavens! what was the use troubling one's self

about such people? that would have been asking too much! And Marguerite

had not even a father or a mother to whom one might have been

answerable--she had no relations whatever--how can one be expected to

be responsible for a person who is standing quite alone in the world?

They had, however, asked Mrs. Jager to see from time to time that the

orders of the baroness were strictly carried out. Mrs. Jager was an

excellent lady, consequently Marguerite was under excellent

supervision.

Little Marguerite was under such excellent supervision that Albert

could not sufficiently praise the wise foresight of the baroness.

"I wish they would never return," he said to the pretty Genevese as

they promenaded in the garden arm in arm; "I wish they would capsize

between Heligoland and the Downs, where it is deepest and we could live

here, in clover, to the end of our lives. What do you think, little

Margerite, would you like to be the wife of Albert Timm, Esquire, owner

of Castle Grenwitz, etc.? Wouldn't it be famous? Then I would keep you

a carriage and horses, and even a housekeeper, which you could plague

as they plague you now."

"I am content with little if I can it share with you."

"Noble thought! But better is better, and--well, we'll see all that

when we are married."

"And you will marry me, really? Ah, I can it believe scarcely! Why

should a man, _comme vous_, to whom the whole world is open, marry a

poor girl who not even is handsome?"

"That is my business. And besides, you are richer than I am. Three

hundred dollars----"

"Three hundred twenty-five dollars," said Mademoiselle Marguerite.

"All the better--that is something to begin with. If I add my own

fortune"--Mr. Timm felt in his pocket and produced a few coins--"we

have three hundred and twenty-five dollars, seventeen silber-groschen

and eightpence. That is quite a capital."

"We shall buy for it a little house."

"Of course."

"I shall give lessons in French."

"Of course."

"And you will be industrious and work."

"_Comme un forcat_--oh, it is going to be a charming life," and Mr.

Timm seized the little Frenchwoman around the waist and waltzed her

around in the bower in which they were chatting.

"I must go in now, to give the servants their supper," said Marguerite,

withdrawing herself.

"Then run, you little monkey, and come back again as soon as you can,"

said Mr. Timm.

He looked after her as she ran away. "Stupid little woman," he said;

"really thinks I am going to marry her. What a fool I should be--for

three hundred dollars! Formerly I lost as much at play in a night. It

is grand, what these girls fancy; and yet this one is not as stupid as

she looks, and seems to have studied the great Goethe, in spite of her

horrible jargon, to some advantage: 'Yield to no thief, but with the

ring on your finger.' Hm, hm! I shall have to buy her a wedding-ring,

after all! The three hundred dollars would not be so bad! These

abominations of creditors! Not even here they leave me alone."

Mr. Timm felt in his breast pocket and drew from it several letters of

suspicious appearance, which he carefully unfolded and perused, after

having ensconced himself in the corner of the bench. His face,

generally merry enough, grew darker and darker. "Upon my word," he

growled, "these fellows are becoming insolent. If I could satisfy the

roaring lions with a couple of hundreds they might be silent, at least

for a while."

"Hm, hm! The three hundred dollars which little Marguerite has in the

Savings Bank would be very convenient. It would, after all, be better

for her to be poor. For, of course, every sensible man can see that I

am not going to fulfil my promise to marry her unless I am forced to do

so. If I am under moral obligations only, I fear I am not quite safe to

her; but if I should be under pecuniary obligations to her, her chances

are decidedly better. I can make her believe I will invest her money

where she can obtain a better interest, or some such thing. When the

stupid little things are in love they'll believe anything. And can she

invest her money better than in the purchase of a handsome fellow for

her husband, who would otherwise not think of marrying her? _Me

Herculem!_ I feel quite raised in my estimation by the thought, to

become a benefactor of the poor little girl. I must see at once what I

can do with her. If she refuses, I shall have to respect her for her

wisdom, but I won't be able to love her any more."

Albert rose and slowly walked up to the chateau, his hands folded

behind his back, as was his habit when his ingenious brain was busy

with the solution of a problem. Marguerite was busy in the lower

regions near the kitchen, and Albert went up to his room, in order to

give a few more moments undisturbed to his great purpose.

He bent over the paper which was stretched out on his drawing-board,

and on which he had done nothing since the departure of the family,

that is, for a whole week.

"If that goes on so, Anna Maria will marvel at the progress I have

made," he said; "it is really amazing what a superb talent for idleness

I have, or, to express it more elegantly, for the _dolce far niente_.

There are evidently in life enchanted lazzaroni, as there are enchanted

princes, and I am unmistakably such an enchanted son of sunny Naples,

who has been changed into a surveyor, compelled to eat his bread in the

sweat of his face. But how did it come about, I wonder, that I have

thus given way to my natural disposition for a whole week? Is little

Marguerite alone to blame for it? Hardly! Oh yes! Now I remember! I

want a map from the archive-room, and asked for the key a week ago. I

must go and get that map, or, by my burning love for little Marguerite,

this unfinished plat will remain a fragment for all eternity."

Albert went into the archive-room, a large apartment on the ground

floor of the old castle. The walls were covered, from the ceiling to

the floor, with receptacles full of old yellow documents and papers of

every kind, many of which were extremely old and would have been of

very great interest to the antiquarian. While he was looking among

these archives for the old map, a small bundle of letters fell into his

hand, which he would have hurled back, in all probability, into its

ancient home, like so many others, if his curiosity had not been

excited by the address on the outside: "For Baron Harald Grenwitz, at

Grenwitz." As excessive discretion was by no means one of Mr. Timm's

most prominent qualities, he broke unceremoniously the red tape with

which the letters had been bound together, and began to read one after

another--an occupation which proved so deeply interesting that he

forgot everything else, and did not even hear a carriage, which stopped

at the great portal, and caused no small sensation in the chateau.

CHAPTER XII.

Oswald had spent the week which had elapsed since the departure of the

family in the solitude of a fisherman's village, not far from Berkow,

where he had been entirely cut off from all intercourse with the world.

How he had got there he hardly knew himself.

Since Melitta had been so suddenly snatched away from him, he had been

seized with boundless indifference for everything that was not in some

way connected with her. She filled his whole soul. In this apathy he

had parted even with Bruno quite easily. He acceded to the wishes of

the baroness all the more readily, as he longed for solitude in his

present frame of mind. Thus he said yes to everything, and when he saw

the carriage start with the family inside, he felt as if he had been

relieved of a heavy burden. He hurriedly said good-by to Mr. Timm and

Marguerite, who remained at home, and flinging a light knapsack, which

dated still from his university years, upon his back, he wandered gayly

out at the door, like the hero in a fairy tale, without knowing where

he was going, or where he was to rest his weary head that night.

The sun was burning hot; Oswald remembered that it would be fresh and

cool in the forest. He turned off the road, and soon the pine-trees

were rustling overhead. The low whispering of the thousand green leaves

lulled him into sweet reveries. Dreamily he wandered on till he

suddenly came out upon the clearing where Melitta's chapel stood, under

the shelter of a broad, branching beech-tree that counted many hundred

years.

The door of the cottage was locked, the green blinds were closed, the

steps and the veranda carefully swept, as directed by the strict

regulations of old Baumann, who was now ruling supreme. He sat down

outside, lost in thought and resting his head in his hand. In the

branches of the beech-tree overhead, a little bird was twittering his

monotonous song in ever-repeated melancholy.... How lonely he felt--how

lonely and forsaken! Like a child which on its way back to beloved

parents has lost its way on the great heath. Here, at this very place,

he had been seated, the night before the party, with Melitta; she had

rested her head on his shoulder and her lips had whispered the

sweetest, most precious words of love. Now all was silent--so silent

that he could hear the beating of his own heart. Longing thoughts of

the absent one passed through his soul, as birds in their flight to the

South pass through the blue ether.

A ray of the sun, which made its way, hot and piercing, through the

foliage, admonished him that it was time to go on. He was not in a

hurry, it is true. It was an early hour of the afternoon, and he was

likely to find some place or other where he might stay over night. Thus

he sauntered through the forest on a path which he had not trod before,

and which led him, before he was aware of it, down to the beach. Now he

followed the strand, sometimes high up on a bluff, if the sea washed

the foot of the chalk cliffs so as to leave no path; at other times on

the clean shingle of the narrow beach. Here and there a brook came

rushing out from the interior of the island, breaking its way through

the tall ramparts, and covering by its moisture the whole dell with an

almost Southern vegetation. But, with the exception of these few green

oases, the eye saw nothing but bare rocks, sterile sand, the monstrous

blue ocean, and here and there a white summer-cloud immovable on the

blue sky, while below a lonely sail would dot the wide expanse. And

with this monotonous view harmonized the monotonous music of the

breakers, interrupted at times by the cry of a gull or the melancholy

piping of a sandpiper.

The monotony of these lines, these hues, these sounds, would have been

intolerable for a heavy, fresh mind, but it suited Oswald's state of

mind. There are hours when we welcome rainy weather or a dismal

landscape as old friends, on whose faces we can read their sympathy

with our sorrow; hours when sunshine and birds' songs and the merry

purling of a lively brook appear to us like an insult. Oswald's

melancholy mood harmonized with this sober mood of nature that seemed

to ignore happiness and joy, but knew all the more of the sorrows and

sufferings of life. Did not the sudden cry, the shrill piping of the

seamen sound like plaintive notes? Did it not sound as if the sea was

perpetually murmuring the confused riddle of life in half insane tones,

as the waves were breaking unceasingly and in monotonous accents

against the strand? And his own life appeared to him as aimless and

hapless as his wandering about among the rocks on the shore. Was it any

better than the mark he made on the hard sand which the next wave

washed away forever? Why was he born? why did he cause so much grief

and pain to himself and others, if it was all to end in nothing? And if

fortune really for once seems to smile, it is but for a moment; it is

but an illusion which a wicked fairy summons up from the inhospitable,

restless sea, to sink us the next instant in its unfathomable depth,

just as we fancy we are reaching the shore, with its waving palm-trees

and gorgeous palaces.

A small village which lay before Oswald was hid in the innermost

recesses of a little bay, surrounded on all sides by tall chalk cliffs,

except only a small opening towards the sea. There the water was as

smooth and silent as a pond in a garden. A few huts lay near the beach;

others followed the banks of the brook, which here fell into the sea,

after having washed its way through the deep and wide dell. Little

gardens, adorned with bright shells, were before the doors; on the

passages within, seen through the open entrance, and strewn with white

sand, nets were hanging on long poles; a couple of red-cheeked boys

were busy tarring a new boat, and before one of the larger cottages sat

three women knitting nets.

Oswald went up to them, and as they looked up with curiosity when they

heard his footstep, he asked them if he might be permitted to rest a

little there, and if they could get him a glass of water and a piece of

bread.

"Stine," said the oldest of the three women--a matron of stately

proportions, and an exceedingly good-natured, sunburnt face--to one of

the two young girls by her side, "get up and give the gentleman your

seat. Don't you see he is tired and hungry? Go into the house and bring

out what we have. Sit down, sir. You are, no doubt, a painter?"

"Why should I be a painter?" asked Oswald, taking the proffered seat.

"Well, no man in his senses would climb about in such a heat; it is

only people who are not quite right there (pointing with her forefinger

at her forehead) that do so. Well, never mind, Mr. Painter, I have had

one of your companions to stay with me here, who stayed two weeks; and

if you are as steady and orderly as he was, you may stay also with

Mother Carsten; but you must not bedaub the walls, I tell you that at

once."

Oswald could not help smiling as he saw himself thus unceremoniously

transformed into a travelling landscape painter. How? Should he accept

the harmless part which chance seemed to allot to him? He was perfectly

indifferent as to the place where he might stay; all he wanted was

solitude, and could he find deeper solitude than here in this secluded

bay, among these simple-hearted, good-natured people, who would not

mind it if he should spend half his days climbing about among the

rocks? And then he was near Berkow, from which he did not wish to go

far, since he had arranged it with Melitta, that if her absence should

be unexpectedly protracted, old Baumann would take charge of their

correspondence.

"Then you would let me stay here a few days?" he asked.

"Yes, but you must not bedaub the walls," said Mother Carsten.

"I promise I will not do that," said Oswald, smiling.

"Then you can stay as long as you choose. That is right, Stine, move

the table closer up to the gentleman; and look here, get some of the

old Cognac which Claus brought from England; pure water does no good in

this unreasonable heat."

* * * * *

Oswald had been staying nearly a week in the village, and he had never

repented for a moment his acceptance of Mother Carsten's invitation. He

enjoyed her highest favor. He had not made a line on the white-washed

walls of his little bedroom; he always had a kindly word for everybody,

even for the immensely old and almost crazy father of Mother Carsten,

who sat all day long in his easy-chair, staring at the sun and at the

sea, if his weary old eyes did not close in sleep, as was generally the

case. Mother Carsten said Oswald was as "orderly and staid" a man as

his predecessor, but that he was still less "right here,"--and the

forefinger went up to the forehead again,--than the other one. Mother

Carsten was induced to make such a strange remark by the fact that

Oswald not only did not cover the walls of his bedroom with charcoal

sketches of ships under sail, with cliffs around which the gulls were

fluttering, and with original faces of weather-beaten sailors, as his

predecessor had done, but that he did not draw or paint at all, but

simply ran about all day long on the strand, or pulled himself all

alone in a small boat so far out into the offing that they could hardly

make him out in the distance! How he could amuse himself all the time.

Mother Carsten could not divine; she would have probably thought it as

mysterious as ever if she had seen Oswald, as soon as he was alone,

draw a letter from his pocket which an old, odd-looking man had handed

to him several days before, and read it over and over again, as if he

had not long since known every word and every letter by heart. The

odd-looking old man, who rode one of those high-legged, long-necked

horses that Claus had seen in England, was, of course, no one else but

old Baumann on Brownlock. Oswald had sent him word, the day after his

arrival at the village, that he intended for the present to stay there,

and the same information had been sent to Grenwitz. The next day

already had brought him a letter from his beloved. It contained only a

few words, hastily written on the journey, just before retiring, in a

small town of Central Germany--a few words, confused and sad, but sweet

and precious, like kisses from beloved lips at the moment of wedding.

He had sent his answer back by Baumann, and was now looking daily for

another and a fuller letter with an impatience which was by no means

altogether joyous.

All minds busy with ideals are apt to complain that nothing here below

is perfectly pure, and that often as we strive to ascend into brighter

and purer regions, a painful burden of earthy matter drags us soon down

again to the eternal level.

Oswald also had frequently suffered from this difficulty; it had spoilt

many of his pleasures, it had made him dislike many good people and bad

musicians, it threatened even now to become fatal to his love. Not long

ago he had made the terrible discovery in his own heart that treachery

was lurking there when he thought it altogether filled with love. He

had excused himself, it is true, as to the scene in the bay-window at

Barnewitz, by saying: I was beside myself; I did not know what I was

doing--but can jealousy ever be an excuse for faithlessness? And then:

Was that jealousy at least perfectly dead now? Had it not blazed up

again in bright flames when he found Melitta's image behind the curtain

in the baron's room? Had he not listened to Melitta's recital with

breathless apprehension, ever fearing lest now a fact might come out

which would after all confirm his suspicions about that man--lest she

might, after all, have loved this remarkable man, perhaps without

knowing it herself? Had she not said: "I thought I loved him!" And at

the very moment when her story had reached the catastrophe which was to

explain everything, even her evident antipathy to Oldenburg at this

time--just then a message is brought of such a strange and weird nature

that it ends in upsetting Oswald's overwrought mind! It was not enough,

that he had in Baron Oldenburg a rival facing him in bodily presence;

he must now encounter, besides, a husband, or at least the ghost of a

husband, who rises from a night of insanity that has lasted seven

years, to beckon her to his dying bed--her, his beloved, his Melitta!

Oswald felt as if his own mind would give way were he to follow out

this thought. He had so completely forgotten that Melitta had ever been

married, that she had ever lain in the arms of another man, it mattered

little whether she had loved him or not--that she had ever accepted his

caresses--he crushed her letter, he could have cried aloud with pain,

he felt like dashing his head against the rocky cliffs. Why this poison

in the cup of his love? Why must the pure garments of his angel be

dragged through the mire of vulgar life? Why must a foul worm have been

gnawing at the beautiful flower? And if she were only free now! But

even when the night of insanity was to be swallowed up in the night of

death, she would not be free yet. She is the mother of her child, of

his child, and this consideration, forgotten for the moment, will

resume its place in the foreground, and she will have to give me up!

And yet, why should it not be so? Can I, the enthusiast for liberty,

ever marry the aristocrat? Can I dream of intruding upon a class of men

who will ever look at me askant? No! No! Rather live like these poor

fishermen, who must earn their daily bread at the risk of their lives

in their strife with the cruel ocean.

Thus Oswald's mind was wandering restlessly about in a labyrinth of

painful doubts as he himself was wandering among the cliffs on the

lonely shore, and who knows where this constant brooding on painful

riddles might have led him in the end, if an event had not occurred

which forced him unexpectedly, and very much against his will, to

return to that society which he hated so bitterly.

CHAPTER XIII.

For when he returned on the next following day, towards evening, from a

long absence to the village, he found a carriage and two horses

standing before the door of Mother Carsten's cottage. This was so very

unusual an event in this secluded part of the world, that Oswald at

once presumed something extraordinary must have happened. Women and

children, and the few men who were not out fishing, stood staring

around the carriage and the door of the cottage. They wanted to know if

Stephen, Mother Carsten's father, was really going to die this time, or

whether the young doctor whom Mother Carsten had sent for a few hours

ago, would once more save him in spite of his fearful cough.

This was what Oswald learned when he came in their midst. They stood

there with troubled faces, and were very talkative, contrary to their

usual habit. For Father Stephen was the patriarch of the village,

honored by all, even by Oswald, who, forgetful of his incognito, at

once hastened into the house and the sitting-room. The white-haired old

man sat there pale and languid, but apparently out of danger--thanks to

the opportune assistance of Doctor Braun, who was just trying to escape

from the expressions of gratitude with which he was overwhelmed by

Mother Carsten, her daughters, and half a dozen other women.

"Welcome!" he said to Oswald, as the latter entered, "Welcome indeed,

for I have a commission for you; will you permit me to deliver it at

once, as my time is short?"

The doctor took Oswald unceremoniously by the arm and led him out of

the house.

"Pardon my impatience," he said, as they were walking down the beach

arm in arm, "but you see I am running away from the thanks of these

good people; and secondly, I look upon you, although we have, to my

regret, met only once before, as an old acquaintance, for you have been

very much in my thoughts since we met last at Mother Claus' cottage.

But now for my message! You probably do not know that the Grenwitz

family have all returned from their great journey, which I had

prescribed a few days ago."

"No!" said Oswald, very much astonished.

"How should you know it, to be sure, in this secluded village,

inhabited only by rude ichthyophagi? Enough, they are all back! The

baron--so says reliable Anna Maria had a terrible attack of fever in

Hamburg. The doctor who was called in declared it would be madness to

undertake a sea-voyage under such circumstances, and advised a return

home. Anna Maria, who had always opposed the journey, approved highly

of his advice--_bref!_ they packed the whole family, Miss Helen

included, into the old family coach, and here they are back again since

last night! Of course they sent immediately for me. I have been there

this afternoon, and when I accidentally mentioned that I would have to

come to this village, the baroness begged me to tell you that they

would be delighted at Grenwitz to see you once more within the old

walls of the chateau. I replied that it gave me very particular

pleasure to execute their commission, and that I would offer you my

carriage and my company, if you were ready to return with me--an offer

which I herewith most respectfully beg leave to repeat."

Doctor Braun said this cheerfully and with much animation, as was his

wont, fixing his gray eyes, with the bright brown stars, steadily upon

Oswald. "I am not very welcome, I see; you need not conceal it from

me!" he added.

"Not at all," replied Oswald, "I mean I know very well to distinguish

the messenger from the message, as Achilles did when they stole his

Brisaeis."

"And who is the beautiful Brisaeis they have stolen from you?" asked the

doctor.

"Solitude!" replied Oswald.

"Well, I do not blame myself much for that," said the other, laughing;

"solitude is like the perfume of poisonous plants, sweet, but

intoxicating, and in time downright fatal, even for the strongest

constitutions. Will you follow my advice? Let the fair Brisaeis go her

way unhindered, wherever she wants to go; take a seat in my carriage,

and let us drive to Grenwitz, where you will, moreover, find a girl

that will make you cry out, at first sight: Here is more than Brisaeis!"

"Miss Helen?"

"Miss Helen--also a Greek name, and one of better sound than the other.

But the sun, or rather Helios, is lowering his chariot, and my horses

are becoming impatient. You will come?"

"Certainly!" said Oswald.

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later the carriage with the two young men was already

rolling swiftly towards Grenwitz, which was only an hour's distance

off. Oswald had been compelled to promise Mother Carsten that he would

soon come back again. Old and young had crowded around him with great

cordiality, calling Good-by, sir! after him, and thus showing that

without any effort on his part he had succeeded, during the short time

of his stay there, in winning the favor of the harmless good people in

a high degree.

The evening was extremely beautiful. The sun was hanging like a red

ball on the horizon and poured a magic light over the lonely landscape.

In the tall heather the cicadae were chirping; right and left, while

above the swallows were swiftly shooting to and fro in the clear soft

air. Oswald felt for the first time almost cheerful again, and had to

admit that the wise man by his side was right in saying that the

pleasures of solitude were paid for too dear.

"How sorry I am," he said, "that we have not been able to carry out our

intention of meeting more frequently."

"_L'homme propose et Dieu dispose_," replied Doctor Braun. "We must try

to do better hereafter. You will remain, I am told, for some time in

this neighborhood, and I also will probably not move to Grunwald as

soon as I had intended."

"You mean to settle there?"

"At least for a time. I am in competition here with an excellent man,

who has certainly far more experience than I have, but who still

suffers by the good luck I have had in some cases where I have cured my

patients, and because the world is ever running after something new,

though it may not be any better than what they had before. Two

physicians, however, is too much for this neighborhood; my colleague is

old and has to support a large family; I am young and as yet only

engaged to be married--consequently it is for me to make room for him."

"That is very generous."

"It may look so, but it is not quite so generous. I only pour out

the good water because I hope to find it still better. My future

father-in-law is one of the first physicians in Grunwald. Half of his

practice I shall certainly fall heir to when he retires, which he

contemplates doing. My future wife is at home in Grunwald, and as every

fish is most comfortable in its own little pond, and as I am, besides,

heartily tired of the company of Cyclops and Ichthyophagi--well, you

see my generosity does not go very far, after all."

"Would it be indiscreet to ask you the name of your lady?"

"Not at all: Miss Roban."

"I have often had the pleasure of meeting Miss Roban in company, when I

lived in Grunwald. My worthy friend, Professor Berger, used to call her

the only swan in an enormous flock of geese."

"You lived some time in Grunwald?"

"I have but just left it, after having led a most idyllic life in the

shady, silent street of the good old town for half a year, and after

having passed through my examinations under Berger's auspices."

"But--I fear you will complain of my indiscretion--what induced you,

when you once had that bridge of the blind and the lame behind you, to

prefer the still life of a tutor in a noble family to a sphere of

action in a larger circle? You have evidently all the qualifications

for the latter, while here it is simply impossible for you to develop

your full powers?"

"What induced me?" replied Oswald; "I hardly know myself. This only I

know: I always had an innate horror of what the world calls a permanent

place; then the influence of Professor Berger, who advised me earnestly

not to tie myself down before my time, but first to wander a few years

about in the world. My present engagement actually binds me to do so,

as soon as my pupils shall have wings able to bear them abroad."

"Do you know, I fear, or rather I hope, you will not be able to carry

out the plans of your eccentric friend as far as he intended?"

"Why?"

"Because--pardon me if I am too candid--because you are here in a false

position, which must sooner or later become unbearable. Such a position

is good only for one who cannot stand on his own feet, and is compelled

to lean upon others; one who is accustomed from childhood up to

subordinate his will to that of others, or rather, one who has no will

and no opinion of his own. You are nothing of the kind. You are far too

important for these people. They annoy you, and _vice versa_. You think

the baroness, what she really is, an ambitious, proud, avaricious

person, stupid in spite of her reading; the baroness thinks you, what

you are not, an immensely conceited, supercilious fool. You live in the

same house, you eat at the same table, and yet you have no more points

of contact than if a world lay between you. You stay together because

neither of you chooses to say the word that will part you till the

moment comes when one or the other will be compelled to utter it. Am I

right?"

"I cannot deny it."

"You see! And the matter will be worse and worse."

"Why so?"

"Till now you had in this house of fools only one noble being whom you

could love and pity, that admirable boy, Bruno; now, when you return,

you will find there a second client. I fear the poor girl has been

dragged away from her idyl, at the Hamburg boarding-house, in order to

play the principal part in a family tragedy. I fear there is a terrible

tempest ready to break upon the fair head of the unfortunate girl. As I

know you, you will try to ward off the blow and you will be

disconsolate if you fail. You look at me with open eyes, and I see that

you know as good as nothing of the secrets of the family with whom you

have been living now for three months. The thing is this: Anna Maria

lives in constant fear of the death of the baron, because, as soon as

he dies, she loses not only an old husband, but also the prospect of

laying up quite a fortune out of the surplus of her revenues. That is

why Malte is of less importance to her. Nevertheless, she fears for

him also, because at his death the entail passes out of the family,

and into the hands of a younger line, of which Felix Grenwitz, an

ex-lieutenant and well-known roue, is the representative. And now comes

the deviltry: to secure her influence even after the death of the baron

and of Malte, Anna Maria has concocted a match between Miss Helen and

her excellent cousin Felix. The poor child knows nothing as yet of this

interesting project; but I fear the great Felix knows all the more. He

is coming to Grenwitz in a few days--as the baroness says, to recover

his worn-out health, far from the exciting life of the city, in the

peaceful retirement of country life. In a word, it is the usual

_misere_ of Credit and Debit, the ordinary farce in which an innocent

doll-baby is trained and prepared, and you will have the happiness to

be allowed admittance to this sublime performance."

"That shall never be," exclaimed Oswald.

"Then you will give up your place."

"I suppose I must--or----" a tempest of passion filled Oswald's soul.

He thought of unhappy Marie, who now frequently appeared to him in his

dreams, with her hands crossed on her bosom, and looking like a

martyred saint; he thought of Melitta, who had been sold by her own

father! Now the rascality was to be repeated--before his eyes.

"Never, never!" he said.

"Then you will give up your place?"

"No; at least not till I have defeated that plan in some way or

other--before I have done all in my power to defeat it!"

"But what do you think you can do? My dear friend, generosity is a

virtue which has to be examined very closely, lest the crown of the

hero, of which we dream, changes into a fool's cap! Think of the noble

knight of La Mancha, and how his knightly body was beaten and bruised

for his benevolent intentions!--And then, are you sure that the

Andromeda, whose Perseus you propose to become, really desires to be

liberated? I do not know Baron Felix--perhaps he is better than his

reputation; I never said two words to Miss Helen--perhaps she is by no

means as good and sweet as she is beautiful."

"She is so, rely upon it," cried Oswald, warmly.

"It is well for you, you are not thirty yet!" laughed the doctor.

"Why?"

"Because you know what happens to enthusiasts at that time of life,

according to Goethe? They die--on the same cross which they have been

dragging through life so far. But here we are at the gates. Will you

permit me to set you down here? I have to make a visit in the village

and this is the nearest way; if I went through the castle it would

detain one too long. Day after to-morrow I shall be in Grenwitz. I hope

your pulse will be calmer then. I told you before: Solitude is simply

poison for your system. Adieu!"

CHAPTER XIV.

It was a superb sight which the courtyard of Castle Grenwitz presented

when Oswald entered through the dark portal,--a sight well calculated

to lull a careworn heart to slumber. The red evening sun was still

lying warm on the highest tops of the magnificent linden-trees, which

led up to the portal of the chateau, and upon the lofty battlements of

the old castle; but deep shadows had fallen already upon the space

beneath the trees, the sides of the walls, and the tall grass, which

everywhere cropped out between the pavement. The crowns of the

linden-trees, which were covered with a snow of white blossoms, exhaled

a sweet perfume which filled the whole atmosphere. All around reigned

such perfect stillness that the busy hum of insects was distinctly

heard; on the brim of the basin of the headless Naiad sat a little bird

and sang to the setting sun; high up in the rose-colored air a few

swallows were still swiftly shooting to and fro, as if they could not

leave the glorious bright air for their homes below.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Oswald approached the chateau. He felt the

charm of this evening hour, and knew that the first word spoken by man

would break it. But he met no one. The whole courtyard was deserted. He

ascended the winding staircase and went through the long passages, in

which his footsteps sounded loud, to his room. The windows were open;

the arm-chair stood in its right place; on the table, before the sofa,

stood a vase filled with fresh flowers, and the head of the Belvedere

Apollo had also been crowned with ivy. The room had been righted up by

one who knew the owner's peculiarities. Evidently Bruno had been at

work here.

Oswald was most pleasantly surprised by this silent and yet eloquent

welcome. It was like a warm hand which kindly pressed his own,--like a

breath that whispered his name. The storm in his soul, which had been

roused by the doctor's words, had passed away, and its place was filled

by melancholy sadness.

Oswald had been sitting at the window, leaning his head on his hand.

Suddenly he thought he heard voices from the lawn on the other side of

the chateau. He recollected that it was time he should seek out the

company and speak to them. He dressed, took a carnation from the

bouquet, and went down.

As he opened the door of the sitting-room, from which the glass door

led upon the lawn, he heard the voices more distinctly, and when he had

entered the empty room, he saw a part of the company busy upon the lawn

with the favorite game of the baroness. He softly went up to the door,

and remained standing at the very spot from which Melitta on that

afternoon had seen him for the first time, when he came from under the

trees, arm in arm with Bruno.

The company consisted of the baron and the baroness, Mademoiselle

Marguerite and Mr. Timm, Malte and Bruno, and a young lady who was

turning her back to Bruno, so that he could only see the slender, lithe

figure, whose charming outlines a simple white robe set off to great

advantage, and the luxuriant, slightly curling black hair, which,

parted in the middle, was taken up behind in countless braids and

plaits, following the contour of the marvellously well-shaped head.

Oswald's eyes were attracted, as if by magic spell, by this youthful

figure who stood there motionless, without leaving the place for a

moment, and who only at regular intervals raised the arms in order to

receive the graces sent to her with unerring accuracy by her neighbor

Bruno, or to send them on to Malte, who let them as regularly drop, and

bitterly complained that Helen was throwing so badly. He added that she

only did it to spite him, and that somebody else ought to take his

place.

"Then come here, Helen," said the baroness. "You really throw too

badly."

Mother and daughter exchanged places, and Oswald could now see Helen's

face.

It was one of those faces that are never forgotten again; one of those

faces which we remember with melancholy pleasure half a century later,

as we remember a warm summer evening on which we little school-boys

were playing in a garden and the laughing of the big girls came from

the garden-house; one of those faces which smile upon us when we are

most sad, like a ray of the sun on a dismal autumnal day, which, when

all is sad and sorrowful in our hearts, make us believe once more in

poetry, and in all that is good and divine.

Oswald was standing there lost in admiration, as we remain standing in

adoration before a sublime painting. It was not the lovely oval of the

charming face; it was not the large, dark, dreamy eyes which shone

forth from under the long, black lashes with such magic light; it was

not the full, rosy lips that laughed so bewitchingly, nor the dark

carnation of her velvety complexion--it was all and everything. Who can

catch the sunbeams? Who can reduce the song of the nightingale to

notes? Who can analyze beauty? Oswald did not attempt it; he only felt

that he never had seen, and never would see anything more beautiful in

all his life, and he fancied a sweet dream he had so often dreamt was

at last fulfilled, and he had found the Blue Flower for which he had

been looking everywhere in vain.

Oswald wished to speak to the company, but he felt as if he were

chained to the ground. An inexplicable anxiety seized him, a timid

fear, as if something fearful must happen next; as if at that moment

the secret powers of Fate were deciding on his weal and woe for

life.... He would have liked to fly away to the deepest solitude.

He noticed just then that the old baron, who might have found it too

cool out of doors, had left the circle, and was coming up to the house.

He made an effort and stepped through the glass door to meet him. His

appearance was of course noticed at once, and a universal: Ah, see

there, Doctor Stein! See there, the doctor! greeted him, while Bruno,

running and leaping up to him, had embraced him long before the others

could come near to greet him.

"Why, this is charming, doctor," said the baroness, with her most

gracious smile. "We were inconsolable at the thought that we would miss

you for weeks yet, and now you are here in our midst. What do you say

to our coming back so soon? Poor Grenwitz! he was very sick. Go in,

dear Grenwitz, it is really quite cool out here. We will all go in. And

our circle has been added to in the mean time. Where is Helen?--_Helene,

viens ici, ma chere!_ Let me present my daughter Helen to you. I have

made her hope that you will be kind enough to help her in supplying

the many things she ought to have learnt and has not learnt. For you

do not know how very imperfect the education of girls in boarding-schools

is in point of science! I am sure you will admit the little one among

your pupils? _Mademoiselle, n'avez-vous pas mon fichu? Ah, le voila.

Merci bien! et dites-donc qu'on allume la lampe!_ I think we will all

go into the salon."

"Certainly," said Mr. Timm, who had been unusually quiet so far. "Hard

weeks, pleasant Sundays, work in the day-time, and a merry bowl at

night, as the old Privy Councillor says. No allusion, madam, I assure

you!"

"But you would not be sorry, I am sure, if we understood the allusion,

eh?" said the baroness, apparently determined to charm everybody

to-night.

"I would not be true to myself if I were to deny it," said Mr. Timm,

placing his hand on his heart, "and you know, madam, I hate all want of

truthfulness."

"_Eh bien_," said the baroness, "and you shall yourself select the

ingredients. Will you arrange it with mademoiselle?"

"Famous," said Mr. Timm; "madam, permit me to kiss your hand," and

after having obtained and used the permission, he drew the little

Frenchwoman aside to teach her the receipt for a famous bowl of punch.

They had been sitting perhaps for an hour in the salon, pleasantly

chatting, Mr. Timm had sung several comic songs of his own composition

with the accompaniment of the piano, and performed a few burlesque

scenes, in which he represented two or three different persons with as

many different voices,--in short, he had done all in his power to amuse

the somewhat silent company, and yet been compelled to drink his

self-brewed punch almost alone,--when the baroness proposed that they

should retire. Mr. Timm requested, as his only reward for his efforts,

the permission to kiss the ladies' hands, which was granted him very

graciously by the baroness. Miss Helen, however, refused, and told him

curtly, and slightly contracting her beautifully arched brows, that the

artist's reward was in himself. Mr. Timm began to remonstrate, but

Oswald cut the matter short by wishing everybody "Good-night!" and

leaving the room with Bruno (Malte had gone to bed before), thus

compelling Mr. Timm, who lived in the same part of the building, to

follow his example. Altogether Oswald had not treated his old friend

exactly well, and it required all the good-nature and the humility of

the latter to bear it quietly, and to continue in his usual reckless

way of talking till they had reached their rooms.

"God be thanked!" said Oswald, when he saw himself alone in his room

with Bruno, "at last we are rid of the eternal talker. And I have not

yet been able to ask your pardon, Bruno, for my coldness and

indifference at our last parting, nor to thank you for forgetting it

all like a good brother.--Was it you who prepared me such a friendly

welcome? Who put those flowers there?"

"Yes----"

"And the ivy wreath around the head of Apollo?"

"Yes."

"And you put the arm-chair in its place?"

"Yes----"

"You dear, dear fellow! Come, let us both sit down in it, and now you

must tell me all about your wanderings, of the cities you have seen, of

the Cyclopes you have blinded, of the sufferings you have endured--all,

all in order, you know, as Polyphemus milks his sheep."

Oswald had thrown himself into the chair, and drawn Bruno down on his

lap. Thus they sat; the boy came close up to his only friend and began

to tell,--first describing ironically the journey; how now the baron

and now Malte had been unable to sit with their backs to the horses;

how, at last, both had taken a seat on the box, while the postilion

came into the carriage--and how much he, Bruno, had enjoyed it to see

ever new towns and villages, and at last Hamburg itself.

Then his recital assumed another tone. He described quite seriously the

impression made upon him by the city, the fine, stately houses, the

crowd in the streets, the activity in the harbor, the great basin, in

which the brilliant gas-lights were reflected, and what a superb effect

that produced, and how he had come near falling into the water, if

Helen had not held him. And when he had once mentioned Helen's name it

turned up continually, like a bright star amid dark clouds; how Helen

had wept upon leaving Hamburg; how she had dried her tears at her

mother's words: "You seem to be quite sorry to return to your parents,"

and how she had scarcely ever smiled after that during the whole

journey. For she is very proud, he added, but also very, very kind

towards all she loves, for instance, towards her father and also

towards me, although I would not pretend to say that she is fond of me.

Only this, the boy said, he knew, that one evening, when it was very

late and he very tired from the long ride, so that he could not keep

his eyes open any longer, she had sat very quietly and patiently, with

his head resting on her shoulder. He should never forget her for that;

and if ever the opportunity offered to render her any service, he only

wished it would be a matter of life and death, else it would not be

enough for him.

Thus the boy talked on, and the words fell like fiery sparks from a

house in full blaze, and his cheeks were all aglow. Oswald noticed that

the beautiful girl had made a deep impression upon the wild boy, but he

did not suspect how deep, how all-powerful this impression was, and

what a revolution this first sudden affection had produced in his

precocious and overflowing heart. He laughed at his pet's fiery

enthusiasm all the more wittily, as he shared it in no inconsiderable

degree, and Bruno, who accepted anything from Oswald, laughed too, and

laughing and joking they said "Good-night" to each other. Bruno went to

his room; Oswald sat down again in his chair.

The lamp was burning on the table before the sofa, but so dimly that

even the faint gleam of the moon, which was just rising above the

forest, could be distinctly seen in the room. A single star near the

delicate crescent shone from the nightly blue of the sky. The soft

balsamic air came in through the open window--it was so still that the

noise of the falling dew-drops could be distinctly heard. And now, as

Oswald sat and listened, he heard suddenly the sounds of a piano,

coming to him like the echo of an AEolian harp. It was evidently a most

skilful hand that produced them; first low, quite low, as if she feared

to awake night from her slumber, then very gradually louder and louder.

The accords floated slowly into a melody, and soon a soft alto voice

began to sing the song to which the melody belonged. Oswald could not

hear the words, but they seemed to be soft and sad as the air, which

spoke wondrously to the heart with its simple touching complaint.

Such music at such an hour would have charmed Oswald even if he had not

suspected who the singer was. But now that he knew there was no one

else who could sing here but the beautiful girl, before whom he had

that night bowed his soul in adoration as before an apparition from on

high, at seeing whom he had felt as if a new revelation was vouchsafed

to him--now it touched the innermost chords of his heart, and he felt

as if he must seek words to give vent to the overwhelming impression

which he could not otherwise master. He rose like a drunken man from

his seat at the window, he went to the table and wrote in wild,

incoherent words, which gradually arranged themselves and finally

assumed the shape of a sonnet. He locked it up carefully and went

back to the window. The moon and the stars were hid behind a dark

storm-cloud, which had risen behind them and now overhung that part of

the heavens. The song had ceased and the night wind alone sang in the

trees.

He closed the window and went to his couch. A heavy sleep fell upon

him, disturbed by anxious dreams. Now he was in a terrible fire, and

now he was to be torn by wild beasts; then again he felt that

indescribable anguish which seems to be a horror coming down to us from

another world, but always at the moment of greatest need an angel

appeared at his side and stretched a protecting hand over him, and this

angel bore the features of--Melitta.

CHAPTER XV.

As Oswald was looking for something among the papers on his

writing-table, on the following morning, he came upon a note, which he

had overlooked the night before. He recognized at once the handwriting,

which was as problematic as the writer, with its now bold and grand,

now scribbled and confused characters. Oldenburg wrote:--

"I have just received information which compels me to start immediately

on a distant journey, which may be extended I know not how long.

Certainly not less than a week. I write these lines to drop them at

Grenwitz, if I should not see you, which I would regret very much, as I

have much to tell you. I take our Czika with me, as the solitude does

not seem to me a safe place for her during my absence. I shall

certainly be back for the day appointed by the gypsy woman. Until then,

farewell.

"In great haste, and with still greater friendship,

"A. O."

Oswald was strangely impressed by this letter, for that divining power

which plays so prominent a part in matters of the heart, made him at

once suspect some connection between this sudden departure of Oldenburg

and Melitta's departure. Whether much that he heard about the relations

existing between the two appeared to him now in a new light since

Melitta's recital, or whether it was merely the vagueness of

Oldenburg's statement--enough, Oswald resented it as a kind of insult,

that he was continually encountering riddles in that direction. He

determined to go across to Berkow this very day, and to see if old

Baumann had a letter for him from Melitta.

Then his thoughts turned into another channel when his eye fell upon

the verses he had written the night before. He smiled now as he read

them over. "There your wretched imagination has played you another

trick," he said to himself. "You have only to hear of a pretty girl who

is to marry somebody else and not your highness, and you have a

paroxysm of pity with the girl and a paroxysm of hate against the man.

And then you have only to see the girl, and to find that she has large

bright eyes, and looks more attractive than half-grown girls generally

do, and a boy has only to tell you stories about this half-grown girl,

and you are forced to write miserable verses like these, which I

would put instantly in the fire if we were not unfortunately in the

dog-days."

But Oswald held no _auto da fe_, although the light of a candle would

have done him the same service, but put the paper away again in his

desk.

The morning greeted him so kindly from the dew-refreshed garden, that

Oswald could not resist the temptation to saunter about a little among

the flower-beds and in the shady avenues. Besides, it was early yet,

almost two hour's time, and the boys were still asleep.

Oswald hastened down and went to his favorite place, the immense wall

which encircled the chateau, the garden, and the courtyard, and on

which he loved to walk under the beeches and the walnut-trees,

especially in the morning, when the red rays of the sun were peeping

through the waving branches, and the half-wild ducks were enjoying

themselves heartily on the moss-grown moat.

Oswald sauntered leisurely along, enjoying all the charming details of

the delicious morning, and giving himself up to the enjoyment all the

more heartily to-day, as the loveliness, the soft beauty that

surrounded him here on all sides contrasted very strangely with the

sombre monotony of the seacoast, which he had of late continually had

before his eyes. Now he could hardly understand how he had been so

completely overcome by his bad humor. The doctor was right: solitude is

a sweet intoxicating poison which finally kills. I must consult the

doctor frequently. A clear head, which sees men and things always in

the right light. But still he is mistaken about the proposed match

between Miss Helen and her cousin. In the first place, she is much too

young; secondly, she is too beautiful; and thirdly, I won't have it. Do

you hear, _madame la baroness_? I won't have it! You will not carry out

your nice plan, however much you may stare at me with your big and

presumptuous eyes, and draw yourself up to your full height.

It was fortunate that Oswald was not pronouncing these words grandly

and pathetically, but murmured them merely in his beard, for just as he

was turning round the corner of the walk, which a projecting shrub made

still sharper, he found himself suddenly face to face with Miss Helen.

The meeting was so surprising to both parties that the young girl

scarcely succeeded in suppressing a loud cry, and Oswald, contrary to

his habit, became exceedingly embarrassed, and hardly knew whether to

speak to the young lady or pass her with a silent bow.

Miss Helen, however, relieved him from his doubts; for she found it

quite natural that the young tutor, whose powers of conversation had

not shone forth very brightly the night before, should not have the

presence of mind to start immediately a conversation. She thought it,

therefore, quite proper to help him, by making a harmless remark about

the fine morning.

"The fine morning, I see, has brought you out too."

"Yes, the morning is really very fine."

"Delicious. Have you always had such fine weather of late?"

"Always--I mean, a few rainy days excepted."

"When one sees the sky looking so deep blue, one would be tempted to

consider bad weather a fairy fable--don't you think so?"

"Certainly."

Miss Helen probably thought the very clever conversation had lasted

quite long enough, and as they happened to have come to a place where a

narrow flight of steps led down from the wall into the garden, she

availed herself of this opportunity to end the scene in her own

interest and that of her monosyllabic companion.

"Have you any idea what time it is?"

"Half-past six."

"Already? Then I must make haste to get back to the house before mamma

finds out that I am not there."

Miss Helen nodded carelessly with her head, stepped down the steep

steps, and went slowly between the flower-beds towards the house.

"The happy know no hour," said Oswald to himself, following the slender

youthful figure with his eyes; "my meteorological observations have

evidently not made her happy, and she was less anxious to get back to

the house than to get away from me. At all events, she seems to have

time enough to gather a pretty bouquet. It is no doubt intended for me.

I have evidently made a conquest. How she looked at me with her,

wonderful eyes, half pitying, half contemptuous, as if she meant to

say: I do you a great favor if I leave you alone with your bashfulness!

She is proud, says Bruno, but how well that pride becomes her! How can

a girl with such a face, such eyes, and such hair, be anything else but

proud? It is her atmosphere, in which alone she can live, as the eagle

in the highest regions of the air. The eagle is proud, too, and no one

blames him for it.... How very beautiful she is! A superb beauty that

need not be afraid of broad daylight, and that seems to be the greater

the more costly the frame is in which it is set. A weird kind of

beauty, too, that enchains us, and transfixes us as that of the deadly

beautiful Medusa. Ah! now I know it! It is the very face of the

Grenwitz family, of which Albert spoke--divine, and yet not without its

trace of the Evil One! Feature by feature! it is Harald's face

translated into the other sex; the same demoniac eyes, the same

intoxicating feature around the full, almost exuberant lips, the same

strength in the luxuriant bluish black hair which curls high up on the

broad, firm forehead!--Gracious mamma! You are sorely mistaken if you

fancy that forehead will easily bow to your decrees! Excellent Baron

Felix, you will have to do great credit to your name as the lucky one,

if you wish to succeed here! The morning is really delightful, and one

would really be tempted to consider bad weather a fairy tale when one

sees the skies so deep blue."

Oswald had of late been so exclusively occupied with his own affairs

that he now felt the want, for a change, to interest himself in the

affairs of others. The baroness was surprised at the sympathy with

which he entered upon her ideas at table, and during a long

conversation after dinner. He actually discussed with her several

questions which she raised about his instruction: Would it not be

expedient during the hot terms to commence the lessons at seven instead

of eight? Might not the afternoon lessons be altogether omitted? Did he

think the books which Helen had so far used for her studies of History

and Literature still suitable for her? Would two lessons a week suffice

for her? and did he think the morning or the evening better for the

purpose?

The old baron also was pleasantly surprised when Oswald proved an

attentive listener to the long history of his complaints. Oswald had

always treated him with great courtesy, and he had looked upon him as a

good and amiable young man, in spite of the decided opposition of Anna

Maria and the somewhat doubtful assent of the Reverend Mr. Jager. He

was glad, therefore, to be able to express this opinion today in

harmony with Anna Maria. The journey seemed in fact to have produced a

most happy influence on the baroness. Mademoiselle Marguerite, who

certainly had the means of forming an opinion on that subject, told

Albert: "She is changed _totalement_, she me has not scolded a single

time the whole day;" whereupon the ingenuous Albert said: "Yes; I think

myself the old dragon is quite enjoyable to-day." In a word, such peace

and harmony reigned to-day at Castle Grenwitz as had not been known

there for many a year. Everybody seemed to have forgotten his reasons

for being discontented with the others. This might indeed be the result

of different causes in each case, but as the effect was very pleasing

to all, they took for good coin what everybody offered as such--of

course reserving the right to pay him back in the same coin.

Oswald had not forgotten his meeting with Miss Helen in the morning,

and, fully conscious of the impression he had then produced on the

beautiful, proud young lady, he was pleased to find more than one

opportunity during the day to make his natural advantages more

prominent. When they asked him at table to tell what had happened to

him during the absence of the family, he described his solitary life in

the fishermen's village, assuming a half-amusing, half-sentimental part

in the little drama, and taking good care to leave the romantic mystery

undisturbed, in which he concealed his stay there. Good Mother Carsten

became an heroic dame; her red-haired daughters, Stine and Line, were

changed into lovely Undines, and the old half-idiotic Father Stephen

into a wise Merlin. The chalk cliffs of the coast rose to immeasurable

heights, and the breakers thundered amid the rocks with Ossianic

majesty. The company, although feeling the exaggeration, listened

nevertheless with breathless interest, and Oswald felt, as the fairest

reward for his fantastic improvisation, that Helen's large brilliant

eyes were immovably fixed upon him during his recitals, half in wonder

and half in doubt.

He had become so completely the soul of the company that they seemed

almost to resent it when he declared, directly after supper, that he

could not join them on their proposed walk through the beech forest,

because it was mail-day the next day, and he had to write several

important letters. If Oswald meant by this refusal to comply with the

well-known rule, that we must retire at the very moment when we have

made ourselves necessary to the company, then he could be well

satisfied with his success. Miss Helen, at least, condescended to ask

him downright to stay, and as he insisted, she turned so abruptly from

him that her anger was evident.

But Oswald had in this case other and better motives to keep him from

staying any longer. The bright star which had just risen above the

horizon, had not blinded him so completely that he should have

forgotten the other constellation which had looked down upon him so

long, and with such a constant, faithful, loving light. He had hoped to

find a letter yesterday already; he was afraid old Baumann might have

inquired after him the same evening on which he had left the village

with the doctor. He had told Mother Carsten, to be sure, that he was

going back to Grenwitz; but old Baumann could of course not bring him

Melitta's letter to the chateau, where it might so easily fall into

wrong hands. And yet Oswald longed anxiously for the long-expected

letter.

As soon, therefore, as he had left the company he stole away through

the garden and the big gate, which led almost immediately into the pine

forest between Grenwitz and Berkow. It was dark already under the tall

trees, with their broad overhanging branches. The wood, warmed by the

heat of the day, gave out a fragrant aroma in the cool evening. The

whole forest lay buried in almost painful stillness.

And now in this solemn evening hour, in this imposing forest temple,

the memory of Melitta overcame Oswald's heart. Her tall form, so lovely

in all its round fulness; her rich brown hair, which flowed so softly

in swelling waves from the head down upon the shoulders; her dark

affectionate eyes, her lovely playful manner,--and alas! above all, her

unspeakable goodness and love,--how clearly her image stood before his

soul! how ardently he vowed never, never to be faithless to her, the

good, the sweet, the lovely one, not even in thought, and to return

infinite love for her love, come what may!

Then he heard the hoofs of a horse on the soft ground of the silent

forest, and soon a horseman rose in the twilight, who came up at a

rapid trot. Oswald started with joyful surprise when he recognized old

Baumann on Brownlock.

"A letter? Do you have a letter?" he cried, with such vehemence that

Brownlock started aside.

"Quiet, Brownlock, be quiet!" said the old man, patting the horse's

slender neck. "Good evening, sir! I have looked for you down at the

village, but whereas I was informed that you had already yesterday gone

to Grenwitz, I was on the point of riding over there----"

"But how if you had not found me there? and under what pretext could

you gain admittance there?--But never mind--where is the letter?"

"Here," said the old man, who had in the mean time got down from his

horse, drawing quite a considerable package from the deep pocket of his

long overcoat.

"Hand it here!"

"Be patient, I pray, sir! I have thought of everything. This package,

as you may see, is well tied up and sealed, and bears the inscription:

'Herewith the kindly lent books, with many thanks. Baumann will hand

you the others as soon as I have read them,' and the signature: 'Your

most obedient, B.'--that means, of course, Bemperlein as well as

Baumann, eh?"

Old Baumann had, while he was speaking, untied the string, and taken

from one of the three books which it contained a letter, which Oswald

hastily opened and held towards the light to read. But the darkness was

too great already under the trees; he could only decipher the

signature: dearest darling.

"I cannot see," he said, sadly.

"If you had remained in the village, as you intended doing the other

day, or if you had yesterday sent word to old Baumann, you would have

been in possession of my mistress' letter before daylight was gone."

Oswald felt the reproach hid in these calmly spoken words, and he found

no difficulty to confess his wrong to Melitta's faithful servant and

friend.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "that I have given you all this trouble.

I have blamed myself all day long for my thoughtlessness, and now I am

severely punished for it, for I hold the dear letter in my hand, and

yet I cannot see how Frau von Berkow is, whether she is well, if she

has reached the town, and a thousand other things which I should like

to know, and which, no doubt, are all mentioned here"--and he tried

once more to read the letter.

"Well, well," said old Baumann, "don't trouble yourself about me; ten

miles more or less don't matter much to me or to Brownlock; and as for

the news you want to hear, I can tell you something about that,

considering that Mr. Bemperlein has sent me a letter, in which he tells

me at full length all about the journey and what has happened when they

arrived there." The old man had hung the reins over his arm and walked

by Oswald's side; the latter hastened his steps to get out of the

forest, and to reach Grenwitz and his room as soon as possible.

"My mistress--God bless her," said the old man, "accompanied by Mr.

Bemperlein, reached her destination on the third day, and without

accident Mr. Bemperlein at once communicated with Dr. Birkenhain, and

learnt that Baron Berkow was still alive, but not restored to

consciousness, and so weak that his dissolution was expected every

hour. That continued so till the day when the letter was posted, on

which day my mistress, in company with Mr. Bemperlein and----"

The old man paused and coughed.

"Well, and----?" asked Oswald, whose suspicions about Baron Oldenburg

were once more aroused.

"Well, and the doctor, of course, who else?" said the old man. "Well,

what was I going to say? You have confused me with your question, sir.

Ah, yes! In company with Mr. Bemperlein and the doctor went to see the

baron for a few minutes. He did not recognize her, and the baron was so

changed that he looked to my mistress, as she had said herself, like a

perfect stranger. He also spoke a few words, but not one could be

understood. Then they went away again, and immediately the baron had

fallen once more into a deep sleep, and the doctor said that would

probably be his condition till he died--which the Lord may bring about

very soon by his mercy, so that the poor man may be relieved of his

sufferings and my mistress may at last be able to breathe freely."

"Amen!" said Oswald.

"For you see, sir," continued the old man, "my mistress has not had

much happiness all her life long, and that grieves me, for I love her

as if she were my own child, and perhaps better. For I have never had

any children myself, but I see how other fathers do with their

children, and how they are not ashamed to treat them not as fathers,

and not even as Christian men. And the father of my mistress--well, he

was my master, and I have fought through many a campaign with him, and

we ought not to speak evil of the departed--but he was a bad man, and

yet not exactly bad either, only wild and reckless, like the youngest

officer in the regiment. The madder an undertaking was, the better he

liked it, and mad deeds and bad deeds often look so much alike it is

hard to distinguish them. He meant no harm with them, however, even

when he remained as fond of ladies after his marriage as he had been

before, but he broke my mistress' heart nevertheless, and she died when

her only child was only two years old. Then there was nobody there to

take care of her but old Baumann. I took her and played with her, and

afterwards, when she grew up, I learnt to read and write with her, for

I did not know it before, and a little French, and whatever else I

could get into my old head. And then I taught her how to ride, so that

she has not her equal on horseback, and thus I grew once more young

with her, and never wanted any children of my own, for she was my

precious, darling child, although I was but a poor ignorant cavalryman,

and she a great lady of high and mighty family. And I have often

thought in my mind, if she would not have had a better life of it if

she had really been my child? For to be great and rich is all very

well, but I think, nevertheless, those whom God loves are born poor. I

should never have dreamt of selling my own blood and flesh for vile

Mammon; I should never have been on my knees before my own child,

beseeching her to marry such and such a person to save her father from

disgrace, when I knew very well she did not love him, but that he had

money enough to pay all my debts and to keep enough for her and for

him. And matters were not quite so bad yet with Baron Barnewitz. What

he had lost at play he might have won again at play, and he did win a

good deal back again, so that he often told me afterwards, when he had

taken a little too much: 'If I had known, Baumann, that I would have

such luck at faro, then the--it is an ugly word and an honest man don't

like to use it too often--then I would have given that man Berkow

something else, but not my daughter. My only consolation is, he won't

live long, and then she can marry to please her heart.' Well, my master

did not live long himself, but long enough to see with his own eyes the

mischief he had done. Then he would have given his life to undo what he

had done, but those who deal with the devil need not wonder if God

leaves them to their master. So the beautiful young lady became a

widow, and yet she was not a widow. She had money enough now, but I

think she would have been happier if she had lived under a thatched

roof with a good man, than so miserably alone in a big, lonely house,

There was Julius, to be sure; but one swallow does not make a summer,

and a child is not a family. You see, sir, that often made my heart

bleed, and when I saw my mistress wander so lonely through the garden

of an evening, I have often prayed to God to take poor Baron Berkow in

mercy up into heaven, and to let my poor mistress be happy for once in

her life, like other women who are not worthy to unloose the latchet of

her shoes. The man need not be rich, for she has enough for both, if

wealth there must be--but he ought to have a head and a heart of the

right sort, and he ought to love her better than the apple of his eye.

And if I knew such a man, and could get her such a husband, and saw her

happy by the side of such a man--then I should pray: Now, Lord, let thy

servant depart in peace!--But here we are at the gate. Well, goodnight,

sir! If you should have an answer ready to-morrow morning to the letter

of my mistress, I will wait for it, between five and six, a little

distance down the forest. My mistress would be glad, I am sure, if you

were to write soon."

"I shall be there punctually at five," said Oswald.

"Well, half an hour does not matter," said Old Baumann, mounting his

horse again. "The mail does not leave before eight o'clock, and till

then Brownlock can make the way twice. I wish you once more good-night,

sir."

The old man touched his cap, turned Brownlock round, and trotted

through the pine-trees back to Berkow.

Oswald hastened to his room without meeting anybody, as the company had

not yet returned from their promenade. With trembling hand he opened

the letter, and perused it with breathless haste, in order to read it

over and over again, as we read letters in which every word touches us

like kisses that come from lips we love.

When he sat down late at night to write his answer, he heard the same

voice singing which had produced such overflowing enthusiasm in him the

preceding night; but to-day he closed the window, for he felt that his

admiration for the beautiful girl was, after all, treason against his

love of Melitta, although he tried, of course, after the manner of men,

to silence the voice of his conscience as well as he could.

Part Third.

CHAPTER I.

Unfortunately, the next day was to give him ample occasion for

practising that wicked art.

For that very morning, as he returned from his meeting with Baumann,

who had been waiting for him in the forest at the appointed place to

take his letter, he could not deny himself the pleasure of walking

about a little in the garden. He intended only to stay a few minutes,

to walk just once around on the great wall, but he had now made the

turn twice from the great portal back again to the great portal, and

was beginning to make it for the third time, for the morning was really

delightful, and, if his eyes did not deceive him, a light dress was

shining through the trees and shrubs on the other side. Probably one of

the village girls at work in the garden. How he was surprised,

therefore, when he found soon after that it was Miss Helen! He could

not think of avoiding her. There were only a few flights of steps

leading down into the garden. There was nothing left, therefore, but to

cross his hands behind his back and to saunter slowly on, watching the

birds as they fluttered about in the branches, and the ducks below in

the moat, and to be a little surprised when he met Miss Helen precisely

at the same time and the same place as yesterday.

Miss Helen returned his bow with that calm reserve which harmonized so

well with the somewhat sombre character of her beauty, although it

seemed almost too cold and too haughty for a girl of her youthful age.

Perhaps her greeting would not have been quite so formal if Oswald had

not on purpose suppressed every trace of pleasant excitement. Then

followed a short conversation, by no means overflowing with cleverness,

on the weather, and a few indifferent questions on Oswald's part about

the promenade of last night, with short answers by Helen. Then once

more a polite and cool exchange of formal phrases. Miss Helen continued

her walk; Oswald had finished his promenade, which he "always enjoyed

between six and seven on the wall,"--a statement by no means founded on

truth,--and went back to his room. "What a pity," he said to himself,

"that such splendid beauty should hold, after all, but an ordinary

soul! What would Professor Berger say, if he saw his lovely bud

unfolded now into a dark-red rose? Would he weave another wreath of

sonnets and press it on her rich hair? Good, dear Berger, was it a

suggestion of your good or your evil angel, both of whom continually

struggle for the mastery in your great soul, to send me here into the

camp of our enemies? I was to return laden with trophies, scalps of

slain Iroquois which we were to hang up in our wigwams to feast our

eyes--what would you say if you heard of the narrow escapes your Uncas

has had from being scalped himself? But I will keep one promise: I will

not fall in love with this early praised beauty--no, and if she were as

clever as she is beautiful."

When Oswald came down to dinner he was most pleasantly surprised to

find Doctor Braun, who had come a few minutes before, and had accepted

the baroness' invitation to stay to dinner.

The doctor appeared in a larger circle to as much advantage as in

private; an easy, sociable, and refined man, who evidently had very

unusual powers of conversation and perfect self-possession. And what

was still more attractive, and really won Doctor Braun the hearts of

all, at least of all men of sense, was his real or apparent

unconsciousness of all these advantages. Nothing was evidently farther

from him than to make an exhibition of himself; on the contrary, he

took pleasure in leading others to a clearer understanding of their

views, and thus he was not less a good and patient listener than a

skilful speaker--two virtues rarely found united.