Oswald saw with surprise that if the doctor distinguished any one in

the company, it could only be Miss Helen, and with still greater

surprise, that the young lady, when speaking to him, laid aside a part

of her haughty reserve. They had made music together before dinner,

playing a sonata for four hands; then Helen had sung a few songs, while

the doctor accompanied her. At table they sat by each other, and

conversed with animation about the different styles of music; the

doctor displaying a thorough knowledge of composition, and Miss Helen

at least a lively appreciation of matters of music; and when he took

leave, directly after dinner, she regretted his eagerness to go so

warmly, and begged him so earnestly to be sure and send the promised

music very soon,--no, rather to bring it himself, so that they might

play it together,--that the doctor might have boasted of a great

success if it had been his intention to make a favorable impression on

the young lady.

"You are not fond of music?" he asked Oswald, whom he had accompanied

to his room for the few minutes till the horses should be ready.

"No, and the harmony of sweet notes has so few attractions for me that

I closed my window last night when Miss Helen sang that barcarolle

which seemed to give you such delight."

"That is indeed remarkable. I do not remember ever having heard such

a--what shall I say--such a mystic alto voice."

"Might not the beauty of the performer affect the impartiality of the

judgment?"

"No; I assure you I judge quite impartially, although I must admit that

such spiritual beauty seems to belong more to the realm of dreams than

to stern reality."

The doctor had taken a seat in Oswald's arm-chair, and blew the smoke

of his cigar, which he had just lighted, in blue clouds through the

open window.

"Hers is a beauty," he said, "that would drive a painter to despair,

because her most delicate bloom cannot be expressed by lines and

colors; music alone can translate it. I wish Beethoven had seen her, or

Robert Schumann, and then you ought to hear the ghost-like, demoniac

composition which she would have inspired!"

"But which of us is now the enthusiast?" asked Oswald, smiling; "you or

I?"

"You!" said the doctor, "for the highest grade of ecstasy is silence.

He who still finds words for his enthusiasm has the reins still in his

hands. And then I can see a beautiful girl and admire her, without

enjoying, as you see, my cigar any the less. But you are capable of

forgetting eating and drinking and everything else, of throwing

yourself head over heels into the Charybdis of your enthusiasm, without

bestowing a thought upon the way out!"

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"Quite sure; I have studied you of late thoroughly, and I have found

that you are one of the finest specimens of a species of our race,

which is quite common in our day--descendants of the departed Doctor

Faust, _faustuli posthumi_, so to say, who have cut off their long

doctors' beards and exchanged the romantic costume of the Middle Ages

for the modern dress coat, without, however, losing their relish for

all kinds of enjoyment, and, like Faust, starving in the midst of

enjoyment."

"Problematic characters, Baron Oldenburg calls them," said Oswald.

"A capital definition," answered the doctor. "To be sure, the baron

ought to know, for he belongs to the brotherhood, and I dare say he

ranks high among them. At least I judge so from what I hear, for I have

never spoken to him, and seen him only once."

"The baron is an enigmatic character, whom it is very difficult to

judge fairly."

"How else could he be a problematic character? I am told you are one of

the baron's special friends--one of the few he has on earth. And that

is why I speak frankly. I cannot approve it, that a man of such eminent

talents should waste his life in idleness--in a kind of busy idleness,

the greatest reproach, in my opinion, that can be made against a man in

our day, when there is so very much to be done."

"How can the poor baron help it, if the bread and butter of every day's

life are not to his taste?"

"Do you think I like it?" said Doctor Braun, and he flushed up and his

eyes sparkled; "do you think that the great god Apollo, when he watched

the cattle of Admetus, and ate the mean food of a slave in the shade of

an oak-tree, did not long for the ambrosia and nectar on the golden

tables in the house of Zeus? Nevertheless he bore his fate and endured

it, as a greater one did after him. But I have always thought that the

true lot of man upon earth is to be subject to all that is human, and

yet never to forget the heavenly part within him; to contend until

death with the raving wolves of tyranny and falsehood, and to bear the

cross of all that is vulgar and mean, for the sake of that which

follows after Golgotha."

The doctor had risen; he walked a few times up and down the room

with rapid strides; then he stopped before Oswald and said, with

heart-winning kindliness: "Pardon me if I have offended you by one or

the other word I have spoken; perhaps I have been inconsiderate. But it

always excites me to see a superior man remain idle or follow false

lights. The former is the sin against the Holy Ghost, the gravest of

all our sins; the other is less grave, but almost equal. I absolve you

from the former, but I cannot but declare you guilty of the latter. You

know what I told you the other day about your position here; now, after

having seen you myself in this circle, I consider it still more

objectionable. Give it up before it is too late! It may be

unwarrantable indiscretion in me to speak to you thus, but you know we

physicians have the privilege of being indiscreet. Are you angry?"

"I should be the greatest fool if I were so weak," replied Oswald. "On

the contrary, I am very grateful to you for the sympathy you show me,

and which I am not deserving, I fear. But I think you look upon things

as a little too dark----"

"Only too dark?" said the doctor, laughing; "I do not see them gray nor

black; I do not see them at all; I am blind, purblind, in both eyes.

Adieu, _mon cher_, adieu! If after some days you should not feel quite

as well as you do at this hour, send for me! You shall see I am not a

doctor for the well only, but also for the sick!"

With these words the doctor hastily left the room, and a moment

afterwards Oswald heard the grating of the wheels on the gravel before

the portal of the chateau.

CHAPTER II.

We all know that it is the fate of good advice invariably to come too

late, or only at the moment when it ought to be followed at once, but

for one or the other reason cannot well be followed. The doctor's

advice was excellent; even Oswald saw that, especially as he had always

thought in the same way about his false position in this high and noble

family. But he could not find the way out of this labyrinth; at least

not for the moment. It was so natural that of late his love for Melitta

should have made him forget everything else, and lead him to consider a

measure which might remove him from her as the greatest misfortune. And

even now, when Melitta's journey and Baron Berkow's impending death

surrounded the present and the future alike with dark mystery, he could

not possibly decide on a step which was as important for Melitta as for

himself. And then, leaving Melitta out of the question, he had no

plausible reason for abandoning a position which he had bound himself

to retain for several years, unless he should resort to a violent

rupture. Such a _coup d'etat_, however, would always have been painful

and repulsive to a Hamlet-like nature, such as Oswald's was; and now,

when the baroness evidently made efforts to live in peace and harmony

with all the world, he could not even find an adversary to pick up the

gauntlet that he might choose to throw down for the purpose.

Besides, he had quite recently shown a most lively interest in the

plans of the baroness for the education of the boys, up to the time

when they should be ready for the proposed tour through Germany,

France, England, and perhaps also Italy. This interest would now appear

absurd or worse, if it should turn out that he never meant to carry out

these plans. He had also readily acquiesced in the desire of the

baroness to resume with Miss Helen several branches of study which she

had pursued at the boarding-school, and these lessons, which the

baroness proposed to attend for her own improvement, were to begin on

the very next day.

And, setting all this aside, he should have had to leave Bruno if he

went away from Grenwitz;--Bruno, whom he really loved like a brother,

whose brilliant talents he hoped to develop, and whom he desired most

ardently to introduce into the realm of science, and afterwards into

life itself.

The little trip seemed to have had a most happy effect upon Bruno, as

upon all the others. He had lost much of his sombre reserve; he sought

out company which he had formerly avoided, in common with Oswald, and

persuaded his teacher even to take part in promenades and other joint

excursions of pleasure. He did not suspect that Oswald was by no means

making a sacrifice when he yielded to his entreaties, but only

pretended to be reluctant in order to excuse himself in his own heart

for his inconsistency. When Oswald teased Bruno about this new interest

in persons and things which had formerly been indifferent to him, the

latter replied that he did not know what had happened to him; but that

he felt like a bird who, after being kept in a cage, had recovered his

freedom; like a flower when the sun was coming out, after storm and

rain. And really Bruno was merry like a bird, and, in his joyousness,

beautiful like a flower which is just opening to the light of day. One

could not help admiring the glorious boy; his kind ways were as

irresistibly charming as his defiance was repelling and at times

offensive. All agreed on this one point, that a great change had taken

place in Bruno, but how it had been brought about no one knew and no

one suspected.

And yet the cause would hardly have escaped an acute observer, nor

Oswald himself, if he had not been fully occupied with his own affairs.

The very first conversation with Bruno on the evening of his arrival

might have furnished him the key. As then Helen's name was continually

reappearing in his recitals, so now all he said and did had some

reference to Helen, although he was instinctively careful to place

others in the foreground, and to appear least interested in Helen

herself--just as a bird tries to lure the pursuer away from his nest by

his anxious fluttering to and fro. For not only shame is born in

secret; love springs forth in the same way, especially when the heart

that bears it is still young and innocent, so innocent that it hardly

knows what is going on, and only feels the one thing, that a god has

touched it. "What is the matter with the boy?" they asked, when they

saw how his eyes shone, how bold and proud his carriage was, how

elastic his step; when they heard his voice, which was now as soft as

the evening breeze, and then, in the excitement of a game, or whenever

his energy was roused, as clear and powerful as the sound of a trumpet.

And if it really looked at times as if Bruno had abandoned his secluded

habits only for his cousin's sake, this could surprise the others all

the less, as everybody seemed to have undergone some change, and was

ready to worship the newly risen star. Why else was the baroness now

all mildness and goodness? Why did she now always appear with a smiling

face at table, and endeavor not to let the conversation die out during

the meal? Why did the baron annoy the silent coachman by ordering the

fat bays whenever anybody but uttered a wish to visit this or that

remote place--an order which before the trip would have been looked

upon as an event? Why had Mr. Timm, for the first time, drawn forth his

dress coat from its corner in his trunk, and assumed, as it looked,

with the coat a less careless and easy manner? Why did Miss

Marguerite's voice sound less sharp now than formerly? And why had she

just now remembered that there were in her wardrobe a few pretty bows,

which had lain there unused for years? Why did even Malte pay attention

to the game when they played at graces, and try to catch the hoops

occasionally?

Did Miss Helen know that she was the cause of all these great and small

changes? It was hard to tell whether Miss Helen observed anything at

all; whether she was in good or in bad humor; even whether certain

members of the company existed or not, as far as she was concerned. Her

calm proud air rarely varied, and the smile she occasionally deigned to

show was so fleeting in its very beauty that it never betrayed the

share which the heart had in it. To her parents she was in all respects

the attentive and obedient daughter; to her brother the older sister,

who, if she knew how to respect his foibles, would also insist upon

being respected by him; to Mademoiselle Marguerite she was the kind

mistress, who is always fully conscious of the difference in their

relative positions; to Oswald and Albert quite the young lady, who has

been fully instructed how low the bow of a person in a humbler position

of life ought to be--and only to Bruno she was more cordial; in her

intercourse with him alone she gave up something of her haughty

reserve, which at other times seemed to be as much a part of herself as

the dark color of her magnificent hair, and the deep brilliancy of her

large gray eyes.

But even if the baroness complained to her husband of the very great

reserve in Helen's manner, and often remarked that her long absence

from home seemed, after all, to have alienated her in some degree from

her family, the fault lay less with the young lady than with the

baroness herself. It had been her own wish to keep Helen so many years

from the paternal house; it was she who had explained to her weak

husband, when he longed for his dear child, how very advantageous it

would be to Helen to be trained early in the strict discipline of a

school, and to remain there as long as possible. Long ago, already when

the little girl had affectionately leaned against her, she had only

replied with a cold air and a few cool French phrases, until the child,

growing older, had seen how hopeless the effort was to reach her

mother's heart, and abandoned the hope to soften it by her caresses.

The poor girl had to pay dear for the misfortune of not being a boy,

and of being unable to contribute anything towards securing the entail

to the family, and she would probably have been allowed to live a long

time yet in exile if her mother had not suddenly conceived the plan of

making her, after all, useful for that purpose by marrying her to

Felix, the heir-presumptive of the estate. The energetic woman doubted

not a moment that she would be able to carry out her project. Felix had

not only approved of it highly, but taken already all the steps which

the clever baroness had suggested to him as necessary for success. He

had thrown up his commission; he had left the city, the theatre of his

deeds, and gone to his estates, perhaps in order to look at the place

where the beautiful forests once stood which he had mercilessly cut

down to pay his most pressing creditors. Baron Felix was in the habit

of promising anything and everything to those who lent him money--why

should he not promise the baroness to marry her daughter if she engaged

to pay his debts and to help him to make his exhausted and ill-managed

estates once more productive? On that side, therefore, there were no

difficulties to encounter. On Helen's side she expected as little

trouble, or rather, up to this time, she had never thought of the

possibility of resistance. She had forgotten that she had not seen her

daughter for three years; that three years can make great changes, and,

among others, can make a proud young lady of seventeen of a timid and

submissive child of thirteen. She had forgotten that Helen had learnt

not to tremble any more before her mother, and had become far too

independent, thanks to her training by a strict but high-toned

governess, to submit her will thus _sans facon_ to that of another,

whoever he might be.

The baroness saw this almost at the first glance, when she met her

daughter in the reception-room of the Institute at Hamburg. There was

nothing to be said against the carriage of the young lady, who advanced

towards her mother neither too hastily nor too slowly, who kissed her

hand, and then, as if awaiting further orders, remained there calmly

and composedly. But the big eyes looked so firm and so proud, and the

words fell so well measured from her lips, that the mother felt she

could no longer count upon childlike submission or loving obedience

from this daughter, who looked to her almost a stranger. The great

project which she bore in her head quite ready, suddenly appeared to

her in a very uncertain light, and the first words she said to her

husband were: "I think, dear Grenwitz, we shall have to be very

cautious with our plan about that match. You would oblige me by leaving

the matter entirely in my hands. An awkward beginning, nay, even a hint

at the wrong time, might spoil it all,"--a suggestion which the old

gentleman was very willing to obey, as even his strong faith in Anna

Maria's infallibility had not been able to quiet all his scruples about

the proposed match.

The baroness saw that if Felix should not find favor in Helen's

eyes--and such a case was at least possible--nothing could be done by

intimidation or violence, and that gentle measures were not merely the

safest but the only way. This is what made her so kind, after her

fashion, so exceedingly kind to her daughter; and in order that the

others might not find out her purpose, or in order to keep in practice,

she was kind to them also. It was strange, however, that this sunshine

of favor seemed to warm her least for whom it was specially intended;

Helen did not change her calm, measured manner, her coldly polite

formality, in the least; the boarding school, which the baroness had

always praised to the skies, had evidently produced in Helen a model

young lady.

And yet this heart, apparently so cold and inaccessible, was well able

to feel warmly. When she took leave of her friends and her beloved

governess she had wept burning tears, though she dried them instantly

when her mother remarked on them,--she showed her father many little

attentions not easily suggested by mere politeness, and she could give

money to a poor child and then take him by the hand and speak kindly to

him. Her friends, of whom, however, she had only few, never found cause

to complain of heartlessness in her, and the letters she wrote from

Grenwitz proved that she was neither cold nor reserved with those she

loved. Thus she wrote, among others, to Mary Burton, a pretty young

English girl, whom she loved best of all her friends, and who had had a

great influence over her:

"But those are _tempi passati_, my dear Mary! I have now to learn to

enjoy my music alone, and to submit patiently to the company of people

among whom you are not. I miss you everywhere; I miss some of the

others also, and I do not yet see how it will be possible for me to be

happy without you. Do not think, however, that they are unkind to me

here! On the contrary, I must acknowledge that my good people here have

all met me most kindly. I did not expect anything else from papa, you

know--but, you have read my mother's letters! You thought they

resembled each other like so many flakes of snow. But she also is much

less severe than she used to be, and I may do and not do what I like, a

thing we always thought would be perfect bliss when we were at school.

My rooms are in the first story of the old castle, just above the

garden, and a door opens from my salon right upon it. Thus I can live

quite undisturbed, although I can reach the sitting-rooms through a

passage by a few steps. You know I was always afraid I would not be

able to indulge here in my favorite amusement of playing at night, when

everything is quiet. I have no such fear now, and I have enjoyed my

music every night since I have come here. I disturb nobody, unless it

be a couple of gentlemen who live somewhere above me in the same part

of the castle, but who fortunately belong to the class of men whom we

candidly call nobodies. They are the tutor, a certain Mr. Stein, and a

surveyor, whom papa employs, and who enjoys the aristocratic name of

Timm. Both might pass for handsome, or, to tell the truth, I almost

suspect you would call Mr. Stein 'handsome and very gentlemanly

indeed,' but you need not think for all that that either of them has

made an impression upon me. I have an antipathy against people in such

subordinate positions, as I dislike calico dresses and false jewelry.

They may do for governesses and such people, but not for us. I see them

at dinner and in the evening--otherwise I ignore their existence. I

sometimes meet Mr. Stein in the morning, when he takes his early walk

in the garden. For the birds are singing here so close to my windows

that I must get up, whether I choose or not. I would rather not meet

him, but what can I do? The poor man has to give six or seven lessons

in the forenoon, and so I cannot well forbid him to enjoy the only

morning hour he has free; and if I were to go later I should lose the

cream of the morning. I have to submit, you see, and can only say, _Non

sono rose senza spine!_ However, this Mr. Stein, although only an

imitation diamond, is so well polished that a less practised eye might

well take him for genuine. He has more self-control and better manners

than we generally find with people of low birth. He has a way of

telling you a compliment or an impertinence with the calmest air in the

world, as if he did not care in the least who you might be, which

amuses me at times.

"Thus he asked me yesterday, when we met the third time at the same

hour and the same place on the great wall, and had exchanged the same

phrases about the weather, if it would not be better hereafter to say

simply: 'As yesterday,' unless the weather should have changed. We

should thus avoid meeting in silence, which was always painful for

people staying at the same house, and yet reduce the cost of

conversation to a minimum, a saving which was not unimportant even for

the cleverest among us--and an ironical bow. That was pretty strong;

but, as I tell you, he says these things with such a quiet smile that

it is hard to tell whether he is in earnest or not. They all seem to

have a certain respect for him here, even mamma. But with Bruno he

stands on a very peculiar footing, and it is really a beautiful sight

to see them saunter through the garden, arm in arm, not at all like

tutor and pupil, but rather like two intimate friends, a real Orestes

and Pylades. This touching friendship, however, does not prevent Bruno

from playing at being my knight on every occasion. The boy reads in my

eyes what I want, or rather he guesses it and knows it even without my

looking at him. At times this almost frightens me. When I think during

the promenade: I might as well lay aside my shawl! Bruno is sure to

say: Shall I carry your shawl, Helen? At table he sits at my side, and

only hands me what I like; the other dishes he lets pass, and says: I

know you don't eat that, Helen! He is a darling of a boy, although that

name hardly suits him, for he will soon be sixteen, and he is tall and

strong like a youthful Achilles. I believe he would go through the fire

for me; into the water he jumped only yesterday for my sake. We were

walking in the evening on the wall, and the wind blew my straw hat into

the moat. My poor hat! I cried. Do you want it? asked Bruno.--Why, of

course, I said--but only jesting, for I knew the moat is quite deep,

and at that place it was some twenty feet wide. The hat was floating

towards the middle. Bruno was down the wall in an instant, and into the

water. I was frightened, and I believe I actually cried out. Don't be

troubled, said Mr. Stein, fortunately no one else was present,--Bruno

swims like a Newfoundland dog, and even if he should not return, he

would have died like a knight in the service of the fair. That is

always a consolation.--Fortunately, Bruno came swimming back after two

or three anxious minutes. Mr. Stein helped him on shore, and then they

went off laughing, and left me quite alone--a touching picture, no

doubt, with the soaked hat in my hand. But Mr. Stein seems to be quite

offended at me for having exposed his pet to such danger. At least he

did not appear this morning at the promenade; at table he was quite

monosyllabic, and begged me to excuse him from the lesson in

literature, which he gives me twice a week, because he had 'a

headache.' This fortunately did not prevent him from standing out in

the garden, in the broiling afternoon sun, for half an hour or more, as

I noticed from my window. He remained there almost immovable, with

folded arms, staring into the basin of a fountain, from which a Naiad

looked smiling down upon him.--He is a strange kind of a saint...."

The young lady had no doubt intended to state nothing but the truth in

this letter, which evidently revealed more of her innermost soul than

she probably supposed, but as to the reason for Oswald's sombre and

absent-minded ways she was nevertheless mistaken.

CHAPTER III.

It was the evening of the same day on which Helen was watching Oswald

near the fountain of the Naiad, from her window, that in a room of the

Hotel Bellevue, at N., a place celebrated on account of Doctor

Birkenhain's famous asylum for insane persons, a lady and a gentleman

were sitting near a door opening upon a balcony. Twilight had come;

guests were returning, dust-covered, from their afternoon excursions;

from time to time a carriage rolled by, in which beautiful ladies

were sitting, comfortably reclining on soft cushions. Then the street

became more quiet, and over the gardens rose the evening star in the

saffron-colored sky. The lady in the balcony door sat with her eyes

fixed on the star; the gentleman, who sat further back in the room,

looked at her. Both had not spoken a word for the last half-hour; now

the gentleman rose, came close up to the lady's chair, and said in a

low tone:

"I must go, Melitta."

"When will you call to-morrow?"

"I shall not come again to-morrow; I shall leave N. this very evening."

"But you promised to stay as long as possible, that is, till the

appointment with the Brown Countess forced you to return?"

"I meant to do so, but it is useless. I have had a long conversation

to-day with Doctor Birkenhain; he thinks it impossible that Berkow will

awake again before he dies. And suppose he should be roused, what does

it help him if I am present? The other day I came in twice, and what

did he want? Nothing--to ask me if the testament was securely kept!

That was all!"

"But he might change his last will----"

"No. At the time when he wrote his last will, before myself and old

Baumann, he was still in possession of his mind, though sick and

feeble; he made you his sole heir, as he was bound to do. He knew he

owed you at least that sign of repentance. He meant to say by that: I

am not quite as bad as you thought me; I see at least that I have made

you very unhappy, and I would try to undo what I have done, if it were

in my power."

"Let us drop that subject!" said Melitta, rising and leaning over the

railing of the balcony to look down into the dark street. Then she came

back into the room and said:

"Do you go straight back to Cona?"

"No, I mean to spend the time that is left me by going up the Rhine;

perhaps I shall come back here on my return."

"Then leave Czika here, will you? As a pledge that you do come back."

"Do you really wish it, Melitta?"

"You have once more been very kind to me."

"Then it is simply from gratitude?"

"And--friendship."

"Farewell, Melitta!"

"Happy journey, Oldenburg!"

The baron went slowly towards the door; there he stopped, and came back

once more to say:

"Have you always been convinced that I was your friend, Melitta?"

"Yes."

"Have you always been convinced that I loved you?"

Melitta was silent.

"No? Never, at any time?" asked the baron, in a low voice.

"Let us bury the past!"

"No, Melitta, let us speak of it. I may not find another such

opportunity in my life. No, no! For our old friendship, or whatever you

call it, is dead, since I was fool enough to let you see that I loved

you--and there is no bridge to span that abyss. For the moment we are

united by common distress; as soon as I leave this room we shall be

strangers again to each other. Melitta, by our former friendship, by

the memory of our common youth and its happiness, tell me, did you

never believe that I loved you?"

"I do not know----"

"That is hard," said the baron, "that is hard." He sank into a chair,

leaned his arm on the back, and hid his face in his hand.

He rose again, walked up and down with long strides, crossing his arms

on his breast, and said, as if speaking to himself: "Why should men

complain, who love and are loved again, if they are cheated out of

their hopes in one way or another? Why do they complain who love and

are not loved again, but at least have the consolation of seeing that

their grief is respected, and that others pity their suffering? No--to

love, as a son of earth can love, with all his soul, with every drop

of blood in his veins, and then to learn--not that he is not loved

again--pshaw, that is nothing--but that he is looked upon as a

pretender, a mere trifler--ha, ha, ha!--that is real bliss such as is

dealt out to the poor devils who are undergoing torture."

"And if I cannot believe that you love me, who is to blame for it? Who

arranged that scene in the garden of the village Serra di Falco? You or

I?"

"What?" said the baron, stopping suddenly, "are you really such a

novice in love that I must give you an explanation of that farce? Do

you really think that I--who do not easily overlook anything--had not

long since seen you behind the myrtle hedge before I sank at Hortense's

feet and invoked the sun, which had set long ago, and the moon, that

was not shining, and the stars, that knew better, to witness my burning

passion? Could you take that for a moment in earnest?"

"What else?"

"It was an allegory. I wished to show you: See, that is what you will

have left if you refuse me. You force me, who wish to worship a saint,

to seek forgetfulness in the arms of a----. Melitta, Melitta, confess!

You knew perfectly well it was a farce, but you found it convenient to

take it in earnest. You wished to get rid of me, and even at the price

of a misunderstanding!"

"And if that had been my wish--suppose it was my wish--is not the

gentleman's duty to honor the lady's will, especially if he loves that

lady?"

"And did I not honor it? Did I not leave that very night at a word, at

a mere sign? Have I not wandered about for three years, like Ahasuerus,

in foreign countries, and have I not, after my return, avoided every

opportunity to meet you, because I apprehended a misfortune? Was it my

will which made us meet at the ball at Barnewitz? Was it my desire

which brought us here together? No, Melitta, you cannot complain of me.

I have kept my love for you concealed in my bosom for long, long

years,--for I have loved you ever since I could think; since I knew

that the song of nightingales and sunshine and the roaring of the waves

are precious things,--and if I was fool enough to forget for a moment

how hopeless my passion was, I have paid dearly for my folly. I knew as

a boy already, that you loved your horse and your dog better than me,

and yet I checked my pride, and yet I humbled myself again and again

before you, I who never yet in all my life could utter a request to

human being!"

The baron continued his restless wandering through the room for a time,

and after some silence he paused again before Melitta and said:

"I humbled myself still more. I saw the woman whom my soul yearned for

as Dives did for a drop of water beloved by another; I saw her return

him a love for which I would have thanked God on my knees a thousand

times--and I did not stir! I tried my best not to hate the fortunate

man, I met him with cordiality and took him by the hand, I tried to win

his confidence and his affection, not to betray him and you, but

because I felt that your happiness was dearer to me than everything

else, and that the man whom you loved must either be loved by me too,

or die by my hand!"

"You are terrible, Oldenburg," cried Melitta, half rising from her

chair; "it seems I cannot hide the secret of the innermost recesses of

my soul from you."

"I am not terrible," said the baron, "I am only in the way, that is the

privilege of a friend. Do not think I have obtained your secret by

stealth! I have only kept my eyes open, that is all! Or do you think we

do not at last learn to understand the faintest vibration in the face

which we constantly see when we are awake, and, alas! but too often

also in our dreams? And when we have at last abandoned all hope of

being loved, we wish at least to be sure that he who is more fortunate

is not unworthy of his good luck."

"Oldenburg!"

"He is not unworthy, but--I am your friend, Melitta! He is not quite

worthy of you. He has many good and noble qualities, I know; but his

character has not been steeled in the thrice sacred fire of misfortune,

and thus he cannot appreciate good fortune. He is marvellously

susceptible for all that is beautiful and graceful, and so he adores

you; but this very susceptibility for all that is beautiful makes it

very difficult for him not to forget a fair and lovely object for the

sake of one that is fairer and lovelier. He cannot be constant. He is a

poet, and the poet's love is the ideal. He is capable of pushing aside

a precious jewel with contempt, if his sharp eye should notice the

smallest flaw; he seizes whatever the earth offers him with eagerness,

and casts it aside because it is of the earth; and even if it were

divine he would despise it if it had but a remnant of earthy matter

about it."

"You tell me only, Oldenburg, what I have told myself a hundred and a

thousand times."

"I know I do. You cannot find it difficult to understand such

characters, for they are akin to your own. But you are a woman, and

women do not go to the same extreme. You are, after all, willing to

submit at last, in spite of long resistance, and then you are proud of

your chains; man may boast of them for a time, as long as they are new,

but after a while he throws them aside. And so it will be here."

"No, no!"

"Yes, Melitta! It will be so, and--now I know what the dark storm-cloud

meant which I saw the other day hang over your head. You may be sure

the blow will fall upon you sooner or later, and when you are cast down

by its violence and do not wish to live any longer,--though you cannot

yet die,--then, Melitta, then you will perhaps be able to understand

what I suffer; then you will be sorry in your heart for the wrong you

have done me. Would to God you could be spared that awaking! The

penalty is so enormous! But, but--you will have to pay it. Farewell,

Melitta! Pardon me if I have pained you; it shall not happen again; it

is the first and the last time I have spoken thus to you. Farewell,

Melitta!--Melitta, have you not one kind word for me?"

Melitta had pressed her face into her hands; the twilight which reigned

in the room concealed all but the mere attitude of her form--she would

not or could not answer.

The baron held both his hands over her head.

"God help you, Melitta!" he said, and the voice of the proud, stern man

sounded soft and mild like a father's voice.

When Melitta heard the door close behind him, she started up from her

chair and stepped forward hurriedly. But halfway she paused.

"No, no!" she murmured; "it is better so; I must not leave him a ray of

hope."

She went slowly back to her chair. She sat down again and covered her

face once more with her hands. And now the long pent-up tears broke in

streams from her eyes. "I know it will come so," she murmured, "but why

must he cruelly break the short dream of my happiness?"

CHAPTER IV.

The postman who carried Helen's letter in the evening to town, had been

there once before in the morning of the same day. He had brought Oswald

a letter from one of his friends in Grunwald, who was at the same time

one of the few with whom Professor Berger was intimate. This gentleman,

a teacher at the University, wrote Oswald that he thought he was bound

to inform him promptly of an event which had created, the day before,

the greatest consternation in the city. Professor Berger had suddenly

become insane; at least no one had had the slightest suspicion of his

affection. He had come, as usual, at four o'clock to deliver his

lecture on Logic, and had commenced his discourse as ably and

ingeniously as ever. Then his words had gradually become more and more

confused, so that one student after the other had laid down his pen,

staring at his neighbor in wonder and terror. "Do you know, gentlemen,"

he had said, "what the youth of Sais beheld when he raised the veil

that hid the great secret?--the great secret which was to be the key to

all the confused riddles of life? You see, gentlemen, I take my head, I

open it thus, one-half in this hand, the other in that hand, what do

you see in this head of the great Professor Berger, at whose feet you

sit listening to his wise words, and taking them down with hideously

grating pens in your tiresome note-books? What do you see? Exactly what

the youth of Sais saw, when he raised the veil of truth: Nothing!

Absolutely nothing, nothing in itself, nothing for itself! And this

lesson, that all our best endeavors amount to nothing, that we spend

our life's blood for nothing, that, gentlemen, deprived the youth of

Sais of his senses, that has made me mad, and will one of these days

send you to an asylum, if you have any brains in your empty heads. And

now, gentlemen, shut up your stupid note-books, so that the scribbling

may come to an end, and join me in the noble and significative song:

There is a fly on the wall, a fly, a fly!" Berger had then commenced to

sing in a loud voice, beating his desk with his hands; had run along

the walls of the lecture-room, trying to catch imaginary flies, and had

each time opened the hand cautiously, looked in, and cried out

triumphantly: "Nothing, gentlemen, you see nothing, and ever nothing!"

Oswald's correspondent closed with the news that Professor Berger had

immediately been sent to the celebrated Insane Asylum of Doctor

Birkenhain, in N., and that he had allowed his friends to dispose of

him as they thought best, after they had persuaded him that he was

going to see there the Original Nothing.

Oswald was deeply moved by the contents of that letter. He had loved

and honored Berger as a friend; he had won his good-will in an unusual

degree, and been allowed to see more than anybody else, perhaps, of the

inner life of the eccentric man. How often had he listened to his

marvellous eloquence, when he, suddenly leaving the world of logic, had

entered upon a world of which all we know has been revealed to us by

intuition; a world so fantastic, so fabulous, but also so divinely

beautiful and pure, that Oswald forgot everything else, and fancied he

was walking bodily about in this Fata Morgana, till the magician let

the gorgeous image sink and vanish by a word of bitter contempt and

wild despair! And now this noble mind, with all its wealth, was

destroyed! This lofty intellect buried in the hideous night of

insanity!

Oswald felt as if the world was out of joint--so fearful, so

inconceivable appeared to him this calamity. Must not all fall to ruin

if such a magnificent pillar could stand no longer? Then friendship and

love also were probably nothing but fables--then it was, perhaps, also

more than a mere accident which betrayed to him this morning

Oldenburg's present whereabouts?--For when Oswald had glanced at the

letters which the postman had taken out of his mail-bag, to select his

own, he had noticed one, which was evidently directed in Oldenburg's

peculiar and unmistakable handwriting. The letter was for his steward

at Cona. Why should the baron not write to his steward? But Oswald also

noticed the stamp, which showed where the letter came from; and that

was the same town to which Berger had just been sent--the same place

where Baron Berkow had been living for seven years--the same place

where Melitta had now been a fortnight, two days longer than

Oldenburg's mysterious journey! Melitta, in her long letter which

Oswald had received through Baumann, had not said a word about the

baron; Bemperlein, however, must have written Baumann all about it, and

hence the old man had been so embarrassed when he mentioned the persons

who had been present at Melitta's visit to her husband. Why this

mysterious manner in a man who looked like frankness and candor itself?

Had he received orders to the purpose, or did he know his mistress so

perfectly, that he preferred not to tell the whole truth in a case like

this?

These were the evil thoughts which filled Oswald's heart, as he was

standing bareheaded in the hot afternoon sun, staring at the water in

the fountain with the Naiad, while Miss Helen, at her writing-table,

was wondering whether she was perhaps herself the cause of this

troubled state of mind. But before she could come to any satisfactory

conclusion about it, there came a knock at the door. The young lady

immediately locked her portfolio, and seemed to be deep in Lamartine's

_Voyage en Orient_, when upon her invitation the door opened and the

baroness entered.

"Do I disturb you, dear Helen?"

"Not at all, my dear mamma," said the young girl, rising and going to

meet her mother.

"You were staying so unusually long in your room to-day, that I thought

I had better see what keeps you here. Lamartine's _Voyage_! Well, quite

a nice book, but a little too romantic, I should say. To be sure, at my

age the views of life change, and with them our views on books and men.

But I am glad you are not idle, as you have the talent to occupy

yourself. I was almost afraid our monotonous life here would contrast

too badly with the gay animation of the Institute, and you might feel

the difference unpleasantly. We can do so little for your amusement

here! That was always my reply when your father wanted you to come home

from boarding-school."

"But I assure you, dear mamma, you trouble yourself quite

unnecessarily," said Miss Helen, kissing her mother's hand

respectfully. "I am very happy here, and how could it be otherwise? I

am once more in my paternal home, where everybody meets me with love

and kindness. I have all I can wish for. I should really be very, very

ungrateful, if I were to forget that for a moment."

"You are a dear, sensible girl," said the baroness, kissing her

beautiful daughter on the forehead. "You will give me great joy yet.

That is my certain hope, as it is my daily prayer. Ah, my dear child,

believe me, I stand in need of such a prospect, if I am not to succumb

to the many cares which oppress me."

The baroness had taken a seat on a small sofa; she looked quite

excited, and dried her eyes with her handkerchief.

"Why, dear mamma," said Miss Helen, with sincere sympathy, "I am only a

simple, inexperienced girl, but if you feel confidence in me, tell me

what it is? Even if I cannot advise or help, I can perhaps comfort you,

and that would give me very great pleasure."

"My dear child," said the baroness, "you have been away from your

father's house so very long,--come, sit down here, and let us have a

nice confidential chat,--that you know of course very little about our

circumstances. You think we are rich, very rich; but the truth is

almost the contrary; at least as far as we women are concerned.

The whole large fortune goes to your brother after your father's

death--which God Almighty will, I hope, defer for a long time yet--I

shall have nothing but the small insurance, and you, my poor child,

will be left without anything at all."

"But, mamma, I have always heard that Stantow and Baerwalde belong to

papa, and that he can dispose of them as he likes?"

"You are mistaken, my child; the two estates do not belong to him; they

may belong to him one of these days, if the real heir does not come

forward within a certain time. I cannot tell you all about that now, my

dear child, because that involves certain facts connected with your

uncle Harald, which are better not mentioned. Enough, we cannot count

upon the two farms with any certainty. All that is left us will amount

to a few thousand dollars, which your father and I have been able to

lay by from the annual revenue."

"Dear mamma, I wish you would not trouble yourself about me," said Miss

Helen. "I have not been spoilt in Hamburg, and the luxuries with which

your kindness surrounds me here are quite new to me. I shall be able to

be content with little--and then our dear papa is, God be thanked, so

active and hearty again, and has so quickly recovered from his fever

attack in Hamburg, that I hope we shall enjoy for a long time yet his

love and his excellent management."

"God grant it," said the baroness, "but I fear we shall have to be

prepared for the worst. Your father is by no means as hearty as you

think. He is always suffering, although he does not let us see it. The

doctor in Hamburg thought his case a very grave one. If he should be

taken from us you might easily have an opportunity to prove your powers

of endurance. But, dear child, you do not know what life is. It is much

easier to talk of poverty than to bear it. I know it from experience; I

was a poor girl when your father married me; I know what it means to

have to turn a dress again and again, for want of money to buy a new

one; I know what painful mortifications a poor girl of good family has

to endure."

"I cannot think, dearest mamma, that things will ever be quite so bad

as that. Perhaps it is because I am so young, or the fine summer-day

outdoors--but I cannot see the clouds that you speak of so sadly. I

shall----"

"Marry a rich and deserving man," said the baroness, with a smile which

did not render her more attractive.

"But, mamma----"

"I know you meant to say something else, my child. It is a jest now,

which, however, will soon change into reality, I hope. You are at an

age now when a young girl may very well begin to give a place to such

thoughts in her heart. Happy is she who chooses well; happier still, if

she leaves the choice to her parents, who wish nothing but to see her

happy, and who are aided in their efforts by the rich experience of a

long life."

"But, mamma, that is a long way off yet."

"Very likely, my child; however, we cannot know what Heaven may have

decreed. We have to leave these, as in fact all things in our life, to

His direction.--But who in the world is that man who is standing there

so immovable near that tree? I have left my glasses in my room."

"That is Mr. Stein, mamma; he has been standing there for half an hour;

I believe he has grown to the place."

"A strange man, that man Stein," said the baroness. "He has something

uncomfortable for me. I cannot by possibility understand him. How do

you like him, dear Helen?"

"Why, mamma, I have never thought about it, and with such people there

can be hardly a question about liking or not liking. I think they are

all pretty much alike, and the few points of difference are so

unimportant that they are hardly noticed. One is called Stein, the

other is called Timm, and that is nearly all."

"You are right, dear child," said the baroness. "These people are mutes

on the stage; they are only seen when the principal personages are

going out. Fortunately, I can promise you soon better and more

agreeable company."

"Who is that?"

"Your cousin Felix. I have just received a letter from him, the postman

is still in the kitchen; you can give him a letter if you think of

writing a few lines to Hamburg,--he announces his coming for to-morrow

or the day after. But was not that your father's voice? Good-by, dear

child; get ready; we shall dine a little earlier and go to pay some

visits."

The baroness kissed her daughter on the forehead and left the room.

Miss Helen drew out the letter she had so hastily hidden, in order to

add: "Mamma, who has just left me, is, after all, very kind indeed. She

told me of a visitor who is coming: Felix Grenwitz (the lieutenant). We

shall have a little more life now at Grenwitz, for it seems we can no

longer count upon Mr. Stein. Adieu, dearest, dearest Mary."

CHAPTER V.

If anyone should have taken a special interest in Mr. Timm, he would

have noticed that something extraordinary must have happened to him

lately. The black dress coat which he now daily wore, and the greater

care which he bestowed on his appearance, together with other kindred

changes in his general manner, might have been explained by Miss

Helen's presence, and the higher style which seemed to prevail at

Grenwitz. But what meant the grave expression which was now frequently

seen on his white forehead and in his blue eyes? What the silence to

which he, the talkative man, now condemned himself for hours? What,

especially, the restless industry with which he stood all day long bent

over his drawing-board, busy with pencil and brush? Up to the day on

which the family returned, Mr. Timm had given himself entirely to the

pleasures of a pleasant rural retreat; but from the hour at which he

had gone into the archive-room, and there found a small package of

letters tied up with a red silk cord, all had changed. Not that it had

been in Albert's nature to repent of his _dolce far niente_ during that

pleasant week--he, besides, worked so rapidly and easily that it was a

trifle to him to make up for lost time. It was surely not the plats and

the surveys, therefore, which troubled him now. Any one might have seen

that by looking on that afternoon into his room, which he had, to his

habit, carefully locked after him.

Mr. Timm was sitting on a lounge in his room, one leg crossed over the

other, his head resting in his hands, and blowing mighty clouds from

his cigar, while he was evidently thinking deeply. By his side, on the

lounge, lay the letters which he had found among the archives. There

were not many of them, all written in the same delicate handwriting,

and upon rather grayish paper, such as was universally in use, even for

letters, some forty years ago. The letters were rather old, apparently,

for the ink was very much faded; but no contrary date was to be found

anywhere.

"These letters ought to be valuable in some way," said Albert, speaking

confidentially to his best friend and only intimate, his dear own self,

"only I do not know how. If I should succeed in finding the answers, it

would go hard indeed if a clever fellow, such as I am, could not ferret

out the whole of the great secret. Besides, I think I am on the track.

It is improbable, though not impossible, that both should have died,

mother and child alike. Marie was evidently a fine girl, and that

little trouble and heart-sore could hardly have cost her her life. And

the child, illegitimate as it was, enjoyed, in all probability, the

proverbial good luck of such children. Therefore, the mother may be

alive, and the child may be alive. If they are both alive,--and I do

hope and wish it,--they either know something of the codicil to the

will of the noble scapegrace, or they do not. If they have been

informed of it,--which again is not very probable, since it would be a

perfectly sublime height of stupidity to shut the mouth against such a

roast pigeon flying about and seeking to be devoured,--they must be

made to apply for their property. If they should know nothing of it,

which is more likely, we must assist them in their lamentable

ignorance. In any case we must first of all find out where they are. It

is not to be presumed that they have concealed themselves in the

neighborhood. For in the first place Harald would have found them, when

he spared no money and left no means unemployed in his search; and

secondly, such people are very apt to run, on like occasions, as far as

they can; and thirdly, this Monsieur d'Estein seems to have been a very

sly fox, who would be sure to hide his little dove as safely as could

be done from the fierce lion. This monsieur is every way a very

inconvenient quantity in the problem, which I should like to eliminate

if I knew how to do it. If he did not die soon afterwards, he probably

did a good deal of mischief yet; perhaps he even married little Marie,

adopted the child, carried both of them back to France or to America,

and spoilt the whole game for me--who knows? That would be disgraceful;

for the story might really become highly interesting to me and to

others. I should like to see the faces of the two, if I appeared

before them and said: My good friends, what will you give me if I help

you to a nice little fortune of a hundred thousand dollars or so? Or

perhaps--and that might be the more convenient way of doing the

thing--I might present myself before dear Anna Maria some fine

afternoon, and say to her: Pardon me, madam, if I interrupt you, but I

found among the papers of my father, who, as you know, did business for

your departed cousin Harald, certain documents which enable me to trace

the legal owners of Stantow and Baerwalde with tolerable accuracy. My

sense of justice, and the special respect I entertain for you and your

daughter, are contending in my bosom. The one compels me to report my

discovery to the proper court; the other whispers to me to keep the

matter secret. What do you say, madam, if you were to re-enforce my

disinterested veneration by a few thousand dollars, which, upon my

honor, are very much needed just now?"

This suggestion seemed to inspire Mr. Timm. He jumped up from the

lounge and walked up and down in the room, gesticulating actively.

"That might become a gold mine for me," he said to himself. "I should

worry the old woman till her big gray eyes were twice as large. I

should put the thumbscrews on her, and every time I wanted money I

would give a turn or two. She would do anything rather than risk a

lawsuit. Then I should be, so to say, master in the house; then I could

drop the fool's mask and show myself in my true form. Then I might say

who was to marry Miss Helen; why, I might marry her myself if I chose,

and calmly look forward to the arrival of my good friend Felix, which

dear Anna Maria has just confided to me as a great secret. Not that I

am much troubled by it, any way, for friend Felix was the worthy pupil

of his master, and handled the cards as well as I did and would

probably not have fared any better than I did if he had not belonged to

an old family. As it was, Ensign Baron Felix Grenwitz escaped with a

reprimand, while Ensign Albert Timm had to quit the service. I am

curious how we shall meet. Perhaps he won't recognize me; perhaps he'll

try to get rid of the troublesome guest as soon as possible. Ha! How

things would change if these wretched letters did not skip over the

most important points with a levity and carelessness of which women

alone are capable!" Albert sat down again and commenced his letters

once more, although he nearly knew them by heart. He had carefully

numbered them, and perused them in the order in which they came.

No. 1.--"Sir:--I do not know you, and if you are the same person who, a

few weeks ago, intruded upon a conversation between myself and my

companion, and were so energetically rebuked by the latter, the same

who every evening pursues me when I return home from the store--then

you will find it but natural that I should decline making your

acquaintance. I pray you to spare me further requests, and all other

letters. I should have left this note unanswered like the others, if I

were not afraid to encourage your boldness by my silence. Surely no man

would refuse the request of a lady, and especially of an unprotected,

helpless woman?

"Marie Montbert."

No. 2.--"Sir:--You seem indeed to know how to obtain the forgiveness of

a woman whom you have offended.--Whatever may have been the motives

that induced you--you have dried many tears, you have saved a whole

family from despair. I myself was unable to do anything for my poor

countrymen--I could only pray to God to send them help. He sent you.

Show yourself worthy of such favor! Remember that he who asks for

reward has his reward already, and do not let your left hand know what

your right hand has done.

"Your humble servant,

"Marie Montbert."

No. 3.--"What do you know of my father's fate? For heaven's sake, sir,

do not trifle with the heart of a child! You say you have learnt from a

French colonel of the Grand Army, in whose regiment my father made the

campaign against Russia, everything about his experiences during that

year, and all the minor details about his death, shortly before the

passage of the Beresina. All this sounds so very improbable--and yet

how could you know anything about it except from good authority?--even

the colonel's name is right, as I see from my father's letters to my

mother. I do not know what to believe--but why will you not give me

this information, which you know must be of inestimable value to

myself, in my house, I mean in the house of the good lady who has been

in my mother's place for several months now? Why ask for a secret

rendezvous? Why force a child, who expects information about the death

of her father, to take a step which that father, if he were still

alive, could never approve of? I am not appealing in vain to your

generosity, I am sure.

"My lodgings are Ann Street, No. 21. If you are not afraid of three

flights of steps, I shall be ready to receive you tomorrow morning,

between 10 and 12 o'clock.

"Your humble servant,

"Marie Montbert."

No. 4.--"You insist upon a rendezvous which you say is by no means

secret, as it is to take place in the open street, in one of the most

frequented parts of the city, and at a time when the streets are still

crowded with pedestrians. You will state yourself, you say, your

reasons for declining to comply with my wish, 'however painful such a

step may be,' and you vow I shall approve of your motives as soon as I

hear them. Are you quite sure of that? But, it is true, you offer to

give--I am to receive--and so I must needs give way to your wishes. I

cannot, I will not, imagine that you mean to deceive me. You have been

so generous towards poor and unhappy people, you will surely not be

less so towards a poor unprotected girl.

"M. M."

No. 5.--"Dear Baron! Once more my heartiest thanks! Thanks also for the

delicacy with which you had arranged it all! How much I have wronged

you! But could I anticipate that you would make me acquainted with

Colonel St. Cyr himself? That I would hear from the lips of that

veteran, in my beloved mother-tongue, the heroic death of my father?

You would not have it that the colonel should find the daughter of a

hero, the last scion of a once rich and illustrious family, in such

reduced circumstances; you wished to spare me the mortification of

having to receive the Count of St Cyr and Baron Grenwitz in a garret.

You preferred to present me to him as the governess of a family whom

you knew, and it was after all perfectly right and proper that I should

call in your company upon the old gentleman, tired as he was from his

long journey, at his hotel. Once more a thousand thanks! Thanks also

for the silence by which you honored my renewed grief during the long

drive from the hotel to my lodgings! I know how hard it must have been

to a man of your liveliness. How have I deserved the interest you take

in my fate? Ah! I have been so ill-behaved towards you! You ask me,

finally, whether I believe now that you mean it well with me? This

letter may give you the answer. You leave the city tomorrow--farewell,

and may the enclosed little keepsake, worked by my hand at night,

remind you sometimes of

"Your grateful

"Marie Montbert."

"Now the little doll is ready and well trained," said Albert, who read

the familiar letter, with a strange and unnatural zeal, over and over

again. He sat there like a conjurer studying the rules of a rival in

the Black Art. "This Harald, it cannot be denied, was the real

Ratcatcher of Hameln. I should like to know what kind of a colonel that

was who invented the pretty story of the 'heroic death, shortly before

the passage of the Beresina.' Perhaps a colonel of devils; at all

events, one of his associates--the thing must have cost Baron Harald an

immense amount of money. However, it was spent to some purpose, for in

No. 6 he has made great progress!"

No. 6.--"I can hardly recover from my surprise. You back again! And

back for my sake! Back, because your desire to see me left you no rest!

Oh God! What is to become of it all! You are a rich nobleman--I am a

poor girl, who, whatever my ancestors once may have been, must now earn

my daily bread by hard work. My judgment tells me that all this can

only bring wretchedness upon me; that I ought to avoid you, flee from

you. What did I tell you yesterday? What did I promise? Oh, give me

back my promise! I cannot, I must not see you. I must never see you

again. I beseech you, leave the city. You must do it if you really love

me. Farewell. Thousand thanks!

"Your Marie."

"What eight days' absence must have done!" said Albert, lighting his

cigar again, which had gone out during his perusal of the last note.

"'Your Marie!' How the brave Harald must have chuckled when he read

this tearful epistle--here are the traces of the tears now. But let us

go on."

No. 7.--"You must take back the costly jewels which an unknown man left

here to-day. How have I deserved it, that you should think so meanly of

me? You know that I love you in spite of my reason, which reproaches me

constantly for it; I have not been able to conceal it from you any

longer, nor did I wish to do so; but you ought at least to leave me the

consolation that my love is pure and disinterested. These costly

rubies, this red gold, it burns in my hand like coals of fire--leave me

as you found me! If the poor simple girl could win your love, you see

yourself that poverty and simplicity are perfectly compatible with

love.

"M. M."

"Prettily expressed," said Albert, putting the letter on top of the

others, "but very stupid! Poverty and love are as compatible as fire

and water. I should like to know the burning love that would not be

extinguished if a bucket of poverty were poured on it! Pshaw! I ought

to know better. I think I would be capable of marrying poor little

Marguerite if I were a dignitary with an ample income guaranteed by the

State; but as I am nothing but a poor devil, with a famous appetite and

a real patent stomach, it would be a clear case of suicide if I were to

share the scanty ration with another person. Love! Nonsense! Love is a

most acceptable dessert after the dinner of life. A good dinner without

a dessert--_bon!_ a dinner with a dessert--still better; but a dessert

without a dinner--well, women may be able to do even with that, but it

does not suit my constitution. I wonder whether sweet Marie, if she is

alive, as I fervently hope, does not sometimes regret having rejected

the 'costly rubies and the red gold' for the benefit of other young

ladies, who deserved them less well? In the next letter the virtuous

little damsel becomes quite rampant."

No. 8.--"Aha! my dear, we can be jealous, can we? Who would have

suspected Baron Harald Grenwitz of such plebeian foibles? I must change

my lodgings--why? That I may not perish with cold in winter and with

heat in summer; that I do not risk every day breaking my neck on the

steep narrow staircase? Oh no! Simply because my good lord does not

like Mrs. Black, with whom I live, and because my good lord has found

out that a young Frenchman, a Monsieur d'Estein, lives on the same

story with me; that I am quite well acquainted with said monsieur, and

have actually been seen with him arm in arm late at night in the

street! Horrible! But in good earnest, dearest Harald, you have no

cause to complain. Mrs. Black is a very respectable, excellent woman,

to whom I am deeply indebted, and who has been like a mother to me as

far back as I can think; and as for Monsieur d'Estein, your jealousy

will be lulled to sleep, I hope, when I tell you that he is the same

little old gentleman on whose arm you saw me the first time in the

Park. Monsieur d'Estein could very well be my father, and really was my

father's friend. He is, like ourselves, descended from a family of

French refugees, and would long since have gone back to the land of his

fathers, since he has no relatives nor even friends here, if he was not

justly afraid that he would starve there, since everybody there speaks

the language which he here teaches to earn his daily bread. He is very

eccentric, but the kindest heart in the world. He would go for me

through fire and water, and be _au desespoir_ if he had the slightest

suspicion of our friendship. All this I would have told you last night,

but I wished to see if you could bear contradiction. Are you satisfied

now? _Au revoir, Monsieur le baron_.

"_Votre tres mechante_

"Marie M."

"This is the only notice about this Monsieur d'Estein," said Albert,

letting the letter fall back in his lap, and puffing out clouds of

reflection from his cigar; "no doubt the same man who afterwards

reappears as the Jew pedler in the old woman's story, when he first

reconnoitred the locality and then eloped with the oppressed Innocence.

I fear several letters must have been lost here, because the next

following note shows matters very much advanced."

No. 9.--"I have just received the--why should I not tell you?--the

long-expected letter of your aunt. She writes me in a trembling but

legible hand, that she values the happiness of her nephew more highly

than the peace of her few remaining days; that she was even pleased to

have such a motive for returning to her ancestral home, the place of

her birth, where she now also expects to die. She says she will start

on her journey, the last before the great journey home, on the 13th, so

as to reach Grenwitz before me, 'as you fear a _tete-a-tete_ with my

wild nephew' so much. I cannot tell how deeply I am touched by so much

goodness and love! How grateful I am to the dear old lady, and how I

long to kiss her withered old hands! Yes, Harald, if she, the matron,

the oldest of your knightly race, has thought me worthy of you, if she

blesses our union, I am willing to become yours. What pains me is only

this, that I am to steal away like a thief at night from the woman whom

I love as a mother, and from the man who has been both father and

brother to me. But then--it cannot be helped. You are right. They would

only make the parting harder; they would blame the whole as a romantic

adventure. They do not know you; they do not know how good and noble

you are! But I may at least bid them good-by in writing! Thank them in

a few words for all their love and kindness, and hold out a bright

future to them as a compensation for the grief I must needs cause them

now. Ah, that that future were the present! Your new valet, whom I, by

the way, like much less than the old one with the good face, told me

last night that all was prepared for day after to-morrow. I am glad I

am to travel in your carriage, and accompanied by your servants; the

thought of so long a journey rather frightens me. I hope soon to see

you, my dearly beloved.

"M. M."

"Well, now the little bird is in the net," said Albert, adding this

letter to the others, and tying them all up again with the red-silk

ribbon. "I could imagine the rest, even if I did not know it from the

old woman's story. I believe the old witch, the dear friend of my

excellent neighbor Stein; could tell a good deal more if she chose. I

must try to win her favor and to obtain admittance to her salons. I

wonder if she has not some things that belonged to Miss Innocence in

her possession, that might lead to further discoveries? The little one

can assuredly not have cleared all her chests and drawers so

completely, before her hurried flight at night, that the old woman

should not have gleaned a nice store of ribbons, shoes and stockings,

and perhaps also letters. She may keep all that in perfect security at

the bottom of that big wooden chest on which I lay myself sore that

afternoon, where it is now awaiting a joyful resurrection. There is an

idea for you!"

Albert had risen and gone before the mirror, probably in order to see

how such a clever head looked. "There is an idea," he repeated, and

kissed his hand to his double in the glass, who returned the compliment

promptly, "a very famous idea, which must be carried out at any hazard.

Perhaps the Jew pedler may have been a real Israelite, and agent of

Monsieur d'Estein; perhaps he only brought the girl a letter which

contained the plan for the elopement, and perhaps this letter might, if

found, put us on the track of the fugitives."

Mr. Timm suddenly paused in his monologue, and his face grew dark:

"Confound it," he murmured, "there is no money, that _nervus verum_,

that divining-rod by which alone treasures can be raised! Of course I

shall have to make several trips in order to find it all out. I must go

to Berlin, Ann Street, No. 21, third story, to look for information.

But travelling costs money, and my assets amount to about five

groschen, one of which I believe is counterfeit. I must make a forced

loan. Marguerite must help. I was near enough doing it the other day,

when the agreeable family suddenly returned and abruptly terminated our

idyllic life. To be sure, these miserable plats must first be finished;

otherwise Anna Maria won't let me go. I must submit to it."

And Mr. Timm lighted another cigar, unlocked the door, bent over his

drawing-board, and worked with a zeal as if he had no other plans and

knew nothing else in the world but the simple duty of a first-class

surveyor.

CHAPTER VI.

Baron Felix had arrived--in the middle of the night. He had left the

ferry early in his own carriage, when his valet suddenly remembered

that his master's dressing-case might not be with the rest of the

luggage, as he had placed it on board the boat between his feet and

probably left it there. A timid suggestion to that end--terrible

indignation on the part of Baron Felix, threats of boxes on the ear,

beatings and dismissal--a thorough search in the middle of the

road--finally return, as the _corpus delicti_ was really missing. The

ferry-boat, however, had unfortunately gone back in the mean time, and

with it the precious box. Several hours had to pass before it would

return, for the wind had lulled, and the men had to pull desperately

with their heavy oars. Baron Felix watched them through his pocket

telescope and became furious. At last, when the evening had come, the

baron could start a second time, this time with the dressing-case. He

was in a terrible state of mind. He had promised to arrive in Grenwitz

early that day, as he could not await the moment to see his fair

cousin. The delay might be interpreted unfavorably, and it was better,

therefore, to arrive at night than not at all. On the other hand, it

suited the taste of the ex-lieutenant by no means to travel by night

through the forest and over damp moors, especially in an open carnage.

He suffered--probably in consequence of indescribable exertions on the

parade ground and at drill of rheumatism, and feared a cold like the

plague. He chose, therefore, the least of two evils, and only

threatened Jean, his valet, to make his punishment on the next morning

depend on the nature of his cold.

It was therefore a matter of great rejoicing to Jean when his master

awoke next day in very good humor. They had tried to disturb the

sleepers at the chateau as little as possible, and had quietly taken

possession of the long-prepared rooms, with the aid of one of the more

wakeful servants. Baron Felix ordered his cacao to be brought to his

bed, and when he was dressed--he did very little of it himself--he sent

Jean to ask Mr. Timm to come and see him for a few minutes in his room.

For Albert's presence had been one of the first things he learnt when

inquiring about the state of things at the chateau.

"Ah _voila_, dear Timm, how do you do?" said Baron Felix, emphasizing

the last word in a peculiar manner, when Mr. Timm entered. "Pardon me

for troubling you so early; but I--why on earth has the donkey brought

me hot water again instead of warm water?--excuse me--Jean, warm water,

rhinoceros!--now tell me how are you, Timm? Glad to meet you here by

accident. How do you do?" and the baron held out one of the fingers of

the left hand, which he had just been drying.

"Thank you, baron, tolerably!" said Albert, touching the proffered

finger very lightly with two fingers of his own hand, for it was not

one of Albert's foibles to let himself be overawed by haughty

insolence--"I really thought _you_ would have forgotten me and my

name."

"Oh no!" said Felix, "I thought of it directly this morning, when Jean

counted out the company.--But how divine you look in citizen's dress!

ha, ha, ha! if our comrades could see you! really divine! upon honor!"

and Felix, a hair-brush in one hand and a small looking-glass in the

other, remained standing before Albert, and stared at him from head to

foot as if he were examining an animal from foreign lands.

"Do you think so?" asked Albert, dryly; "glad of it. Am sorry cannot

return the compliment. This much I can tell you, however--you don't

look any younger. Have you another cigar? or is the Havana you are

smoking the last of the Mohicans?"

"There, on the table," said Felix, "in the ebony box--press the spring

down--not younger? but I hope not older, I mean perceptibly--at least

you see I still enjoy all my teeth, and five-sixths of my hair," and

Felix brushed with infinite satisfaction the very pretty crisp curls

which covered his well-shaped head in surprising abundance.

"Well, the hair is tolerably fair," said Albert, pitilessly; he had

taken a seat on the sofa and examined Felix, as he stood before the

long mirror, with great delight; "but what has given you all those

wrinkles in your face? The bright morning light is really not good for

you any more. Formerly I used to compliment you on your likeness to

Byron; but now you are more like Byron's father. And then--you never

were particularly stout, but now you are really reduced to a minimum."

"The slimmer the more elegant," replied Felix, "and besides that comes

back. I have been kept rather short of late by my doctor."

"The old story?"

"Well, perhaps a new edition."

"Revised and augmented?"

"So, so; but it is all right now. We have become steady; we are going

to settle down. How do you like these trousers? I had them built. A

clever combination of the military cut and the civilian cut. We are

going to marry----"

"You ought to leave that alone, baron."

"Why?"

"At least you ought to many a sensible elderly woman."

"Why?"

"Because ere long you will need a motherly friend much more than a

pretentious young wife."

"Pshaw! _mon cher_, I have the honor to come from a race in which men

can live fast and yet long. A little rheumatism--that is the worst. How

do you like this coat?"

"Why, I cannot say. You know I never understood anything about these

things."

"I know. You were always the unclean vessel into which our good colonel

discharged his wrath. Do you know the poor devil has killed himself?"

"No; why?"

"Some say on account of debts; others, because he could not survive the

disgrace of having had a whole company appear in white trousers,

instead of cloth trousers, at the last parade. The commanding general

reprimanded him publicly."

"May he be happy!"

"Amen! Apropos, how long have you been here? I am told several weeks;

you must know the company inside and outside. Oh, what I wanted to ask

you! How is my worthy uncle and my excellent aunt? And how does my

cousin look? Did you ever see such a watch! Double second-hand--the

hand above shows months and days--direct from London--I believe it is

the first that ever was brought to the Continent. Apropos, who on earth

was that pretty black-eyed little thing we roused last night, and who

slipped by us in the passage, in a delicious little night-costume---she

looked like a sort of housekeeper, or some such thing? There is no

other visitor here now?"

"No----"

"Ah, quite _en famille_, then? Will you please pull the bell just over

your head? I think I look uncommonly well today?--Jean, did I not tell

you, you camel, that you must not wear that coat here?--go instantly

and put a new one on! and then go and ask if I can pay my respects to

the baron and the baroness."

"The baron has asked already twice after the baron."

"Well, then say I am coming directly--_au revoir_, dear Timm; I hope to

see you at dinner"--and with a last look at the mirror, and after

pouring some Cologne on his handkerchief, Felix left the room, while

Jean respectfully held the door open, without deigning to notice

Albert, who followed close behind him.

Mr. Timm looked after his friend with a bitter smile on his thin fine

lips. "Dear Timm," he murmured, "I'll teach you to say Dear Timm, you

monkey!"

It was the evening of the same day. They had just finished dinner,

which was always served on the terrace when the weather was good, and

were getting ready for a walk through the beech-forest down to the

beach, which the baroness had proposed. Oswald would have preferred

remaining behind, but Felix, who seemed to take a great fancy to the

silent, sober man, had begged him so earnestly not to spoil the

pleasure, that at last he decided to accompany them. Bruno was

rejoiced. They all started together, and soon reached the wood, where

the red evening lights were still playing merrily in the green

branches. Felix had offered his arm to the baroness, and Miss Helen

walked by the side of her father; Oswald, Albert, and the boys, and

Mademoiselle Marguerite, went before or behind, now singly, and now in

pairs, as the narrow forest path permitted. Felix, whom the physician

had warned against catching cold, found it cooler and damper in the

forest than he had thought, and wished in his heart the excursion might

soon come to an end. But he thought it best not to give utterance to

his secret wishes, but to compliment the suggestion of this romantic

promenade.

"I am glad I have anticipated your wishes," said Anna Maria. "I confess

I had not expected you would have so much taste for the simple

pleasures of country life. How fortunate it is that Helen has the same

taste! You will lead a very sensible, quiet life one of these days, as

it suits your position."

"Well, my position, dear aunt----"

"Will be very good, I doubt not; but you will have to work hard, dear

Felix, till you can breathe quite freely again. How long it has been

before we could remove the most serious obstacles here in our own

position! And, after all, our position will not be perfectly secured

till Stantow and Baerwalde are positively our own, and the other farms

are in the hands of new tenants. You ought to have your estates also

surveyed anew, Felix. You would find Timm a clever and diligent

workman. I was quite surprised to hear that you knew him before, as

cadet, I suppose?"

"Yes, dear aunt; he was a great----"

"Favorite--I doubt not. We all like him very much."

"I did not mean to say that exactly," replied Felix, laughing. "Still,

they were generally quite fond of him. He was an indefatigable joker,

and whenever some bold prank was to be played he was sure to lead.

However, it is well to keep an eye upon him; he is one of those people

who, if you give them the little finger, are sure to take the whole

hand."

"Ah! indeed!" said Anna Maria, raising her eyebrows; "I took the young

man to be modesty personified; he certainly is far more modest than,

for instance, Mr. Stein."

"Really!" said Felix. "Why, I thought Mr. Stein was fully aware of his

position!"

"Well, you will learn to know him better. He is one of the most

arrogant men of his class I have ever known."

"We'll soon get that out of him," said Felix, twirling his very

diminutive moustache. "With such people short answers are best. I know

that. These low-bred people are all alike. As soon as they find out

that we really mean to be what we are by right--the masters at home and

in the State--they become submissive. It is our own fault if they are

impertinent. They have to be kept down in a proper knowledge of their

position. You have been too kind to that man, that is all. To tell the

truth, I was wondering at dinner why Miss Helen should submit so very

patiently to some correction or other."

"Well, Helen is not generally a friend of his. She has a thoroughly

aristocratic aversion to everything plebeian. I hope you will encourage

her in these principles. Besides, that is the nearest way to her

heart."

"Well, I hope the way will not be so difficult to find," said Felix,

with a self-complacent smile; "I have some experience in that line, _ma

chere tante_."

"Which you will all need in this case, dear Felix. Helen is a very

peculiar character, hard to understand. I confess I have not ventured

yet to tell her of our plan. I wished first to see what impression you

would produce on her heart. You have the finest opportunity here to

show yourself in the most favorable light; there is not even a rival to

fear. We live very retired, and I shall take good care that our

retirement is interrupted as rarely as possible while you are staying

with us."

"Pardon me, dear aunt," said Felix, "if I differ with you on that

point. I should really have to pay forfeit if I had to be afraid of a

comparison with the young men of my class here in the country. On the

contrary, I am very anxious to measure myself with these goslings!

Every one of them whom I defeat is a step nearer to my goal, if it is

really so far off. No! Ask as much company as you choose. Make Helen's

presence and mine the pretext for giving little dinners, suppers, teas.

etc.; and then sum it all up in a great ball, on which occasion our

engagement can be proclaimed, and thus produce a sensation such as

these people have not often experienced."

"You are bold, dear Felix," said the baroness, who liked this method

all the less that it was rather expensive.

"What else would have been the use of my wearing a sword by my side so

long?" replied Felix, gallantly kissing her hand.

While the baroness and Felix were disposing so coolly of Helen and her

fate, she and her father had had a conversation which oddly crossed the

cunning plans of the baroness, and the idea of the victorious race

which the young ex-lieutenant so naively expected to win.

The old baron loved his beautiful daughter with all the love of which

his good heart was capable; he loved her all the better, as he had

always had great doubts about the justice of the law which excluded the

young girl from the entailed property. Besides, he felt the

indifference with which his wife had so far treated their daughter,

although he had been too weak to take measures to counteract it, and

especially to make an end to the exile in Hamburg. He had, likewise,

consented to the proposed match only because Anna Maria had persuaded

him that thus the inequality in the fortunes of the two children could

best be remedied, since Helen, as Felix's wife, would obtain possession

of the whole estate, if Malte should die without heirs. But here also

he had stipulated that Helen must give her free consent, and in return

he had pledged himself to leave the whole management of this delicate

affair in the hands of his wife, and especially not to divulge the

project before the time.

Recent events, however, had seriously shaken his resolution. In the

first place, he had thought of it while lying ill with fever in

Hamburg, that he might die soon, and Helen would then stand quite

alone, without his counsel, without his veto, which he was determined

to interpose between her and her mother's plans if it should come to

the worst. He had always loved his child, but now he almost worshipped

her. She was so beautiful, so proud, and yet so kind and modest with

him, that his heart was filled with anguish and sadness at the thought

of leaving this world without having secured her fate. If Felix had

been such a man as he desired for her, it would have been easier. But

Felix was far from pleasing him. The old baron had been a soldier in

his time, like Felix. He knew perfectly well to what temptations a rich

young man of good family is exposed in the army; he had himself not

always escaped from such temptations, and now, when his naturally

serious mind had developed itself fully, he repented bitterly of the

sins of his reckless youth. He had seen in his cousin Harald a fearful

illustration of the terrible effects which unbridled passions have even

on a superior man, and his experience in these cases made him see at a

glance that his nephew Felix had been a slave to similar passions, and

probably was so still. He had seen the young man a few years ago, when

he first entered the army. Then he recollected him as a slender,

well-built youth, with a fresh, handsome face, and bright, clear eyes;

now he found nothing but a sad shadow of the pleasing form of those

days. A ghastly leanness, deep furrows in the precociously old face,

the large blue eyes looking glassy, or shining in feverish glow, and

always with that impertinent, fixed gaze which speaks more eloquently

than a whole biography--his gestures sudden and short, evidently in

order to hide the weariness within; loud and quick in speech, and

judging all things with the same superficial arrogance--his whole being

eaten up with a diseased vanity--this was what the concerned father saw

in Felix, in spite of his good-natured efforts to cover up the worst

parts of the picture.

He regretted now having promised his wife not to interfere with her in

this matter. It seemed to him as if he had been too hasty, and at all

events he did not think he was breaking his promise if he tried to

sound Helen, how she felt herself on the subject. After they had been

walking for some time in silence, he said, therefore, taking her arm in

his:

"How is your health, my child?"

"Thank you, papa, pretty good; why?" replied Miss Helen, rather

surprised at the question.

"I thought you looked a little pale."

"That is the unfavorable light here under the green trees," replied the

young girl, merrily; "but I am really perfectly well."

"I was always afraid the sudden change of air, of diet, and even of

friends, might injure you. You have been a long time away from home."

"That was not my fault, dear papa."

"I know--I know! Nor was it my fault; I always advocated your return

from school, but----"

"Well, I am here now, and mean to make up for lost time. We will take a

great many walks together; I will read to you all your favorite books,

and we are going to have a quiet, happy life," and the young girl took

her father's hand and carried it to her lips.

"You are a dear, sweet child," said the baron, and his voice trembled

slightly; "God grant that I may long enjoy your presence here!"

"But, dear papa, don't give way to such melancholy thoughts! You are,

God be thanked, quite as well and as hearty again as ever. Why should

we not live a long time happily together?"

"But if you should leave us?"

"I am not going to die so soon, you may take that for granted," said

Miss Helen, laughing.

"God forbid! But children part with their parents in other ways besides

dying. When you marry we shall have to give you up once more, after

having but just gotten you back."

"Why, papa, don't you speak as if I were to marry tomorrow morning! I

have not even thought of it. Mamma, too, began to talk about that

yesterday. I am afraid you want, both of you, to get rid of me again."

"Ah, indeed! Your mother has spoken to you about that, hm, hm?" said

the baron, thinking of course that the baroness must have come out with

her long-prepared project, and admiring the skill with which she had

chosen the time, the day before Felix arrived; "ah, indeed? hm, hm!

Well, and how do you like your cousin?"

"Whom? Felix?" asked Helen, as yet not in the least suspecting the

connection of this question with what had gone before.

"Yes."

"He looks to me like the champagne we drank at dinner. The first drops

tasted very good; but when the glass had been standing a little while,

I found the wine quite flat and tasteless.--But you do not really

intend me for Cousin Felix?" asked Miss Helen, very eagerly, as the

thought suddenly flashed through her mind.

"Oh, no, by no means--unless you choose; I mean--we shall never force

your will in this respect," replied the old baron, rather confused, as

he dared not tell the whole truth, and yet did not choose to state an

untruth.

Helen made no reply; but the thought she had awakened was actively at

work in her mind. She compared the conversation she had had the day

before with her mother with her father's words just now.... It required

much less ingenuity than she possessed to discern the connection

between many casual remarks and the two interviews. Her proud heart

rebelled at the thought that her fate had been decided and her hand

disposed of without consulting her wishes, and asking her own opinion;

that this Felix, against whom her chaste heart was instinctively rising

in arms, might already look upon her as his own! These thoughts

occupied her mind so fully that she could not fall in with the loud

admiration of the company, as they stepped out of the forest upon the

bluff near the shore.

And yet it was a sight well worthy of enthusiastic admiration. The sun

had just sunk into the ocean, and seemed to draw down with it the

clouds shining brilliantly in a variety of gold and crimson hues. From

the point where it had set bright streaks of light were shooting up in

all directions, piercing the clouds, and losing themselves high up in

the deep blue ether. The sea was like a mass of fire near the horizon,

and golden sparks came dancing towards the shore on the crests of

the waves. The chalk cliffs, with their colossal clefts, and the

beech-trees crowning them, flamed up in the red evening light as in a

blaze. All around was solemn stillness, broken only by the dash of the

waves below upon the shingle, and now and then the shrill cry of a gull

fluttering restlessly over the waters.

The company stood about in groups, lost in admiration of the glorious

sight, which changed every moment Oswald, tired of the continuous Ahs

and Ohs, in which especially the baroness and Felix vied with each

other, had gone aside from the others and seated himself upon the

exposed root of an immense beech-tree.

"Have you room for me there?" asked Helen, coming up to him.

"I pray you will take my seat," said Oswald, starting up.

"Only for a moment; I do not know why, but the walk has tired me more

than usually."

"Perhaps you stayed too long in the garden this morning?"

"No, but _a propos_. how does it happen that I have not seen you

to-day--nor yesterday?"

"A mere accident."

"I am glad to hear that."

"Why?"

"To tell the truth, I was afraid I had driven you out of the garden; I

thought this constant meeting with one and the same person would have

become quite intolerable to you."

"You are too modest, I am sure."

"No, do not laugh at me; I really thought so--yes, and worse still; you

have become very silent since day before yesterday, and, as I fancied,

especially reserved towards me. Nor did you give me my lesson in

literature yesterday, which I anticipated with so much pleasure. Have I

given you, unknowingly, cause to----"

"What can you mean?"

"Well, sometimes I say things that sound harsh or arrogant; at least I

have been told so; but really I do not mean them----"

As Helen looked up at Oswald with her full, dark eyes, he stood before

her utterly lost in admiration of her beauty, and in wonder at her

sudden and inexplicable gentleness and sympathy.

"Why do you look at me so astonished?"

"Because I did not know so much kindness could be hid behind so much

pride."

"Do you think the world deserves seeing our heart?"

"A strange question from the lips of so young a lady."

"To be sure, we are not expected to think. At best we are pretty dolls,

to play with and to be given away to the first man who looks as if he

would like to have us."

"Cousin!" called Felix, "we are going down to the beach; will you join

us?"

"No," answered Helen, without looking round at the speaker.

"It is a charming walk," added Felix.

"May be," replied the young girl, curtly, without changing her

position.

But Felix was not the man to be defeated so easily. He came up to the

place where Oswald and Helen were sitting, and said:

"But, Helen, surely you will not refuse me the first request I ever

made of you?"

"Why not?" replied the other, and her voice sounded peculiarly harsh

and bitter. "I cannot bear begging and beggars, and you had better

learn that at once."

"Have you twisted your foot, dearest cousin?" asked Felix.

"Why?"

"Because you sit so still, and are in such awful humor," replied Felix,

laughing, and went to join the others, without giving a sign that he

had been hurt by Helen's manner.

"Will you not join the company, doctor?" asked Helen, on whose cheeks

the excitement of the last little scene was still glowing, while the

others began the somewhat steep path which led down to the beach.

"Do you wish to be alone?"

"Oh, no! on the contrary, I am glad you mean to stay. After the very

witty conversation at dinner, and since, I feel the want of talking

sense for a little while. You have not told me yet whether I have hurt

your feelings unwittingly, by some thoughtless word, perhaps?"

"No, not in the least. But I received some news night before last which

has distressed me deeply.... Do you remember a Professor Berger, whom

you met at Ostend three years ago?"

"Oh, very well! He is not so easily forgotten. I can see him now before

me, with his magnificent eyes under the heavy eyebrows, and always

something clever on his lips. What of him? He is not dead?"

"No, worse--than that--he is insane!"

"For God's sake! Professor Berger? The very picture of a clear and

lofty mind. How can that be? Did you tell papa and mamma?"

"No, and I beg you will not tell them; I could not bear just now to

hear the matter discussed."

"You were very fond of the professor?"

"He was my best, perhaps my only friend."

"How I pity you!" said Helen, and she showed very clearly in her

beautiful face the sympathy she felt. "Such a loss must be terrible.

And you are here quite alone with your grief, and no one to sympathize

with your suffering?"

"I have been accustomed to that all my life."

"Have you no parents, no near relatives?"

"My mother died when I was an infant; my father died many years ago; I

never had brother or sister, nor have I ever known any relatives of

mine."

Helen was silent, drawing lines in the sand with the point of her

sun-shade.

Suddenly she raised her head and said, in a tone that sounded half like

complaint and half like defiance:

"Do you know that one may have parents and brothers--yes! and even

relatives, and yet be quite alone, and feel very lonely! And you are,

after all, well off, for you are a man; you can act for yourself,

while----"

The young girl broke off here, as if she was afraid of being carried

away by her feelings. She rose and went a few steps beyond Oswald,

close to the edge of the precipice. It was a wondrously beautiful

picture, this proud, tall figure on the bright background of the golden

evening sky, which surrounded her glorious head as with a halo, while

the sea-breeze was playing with her dark curls. And to Oswald she

looked like a good angel, dropping kind, sympathizing words in his

sickened heart, like soft rain falling upon a withered flower. And now,

for the first time, he recollected his conversation with the doctor as

they returned from the village. It was true, then! This sweet, this

glorious creature was to be sold, to be sold like Melitta! She had said

so herself. He had just heard it from her own lips! She was standing

alone in the world; she could not act for herself; and yet she had

still sympathy and comfort for him, she who stood in such need of

sympathy and consolation herself. To protect the weak and the helpless

is man's right and duty--there would probably have been few adventures

into which Oswald would not have plunged without hesitation for the

sake of the fair sufferer. He did not remember that the knight's first

duty is to be faithful to the lady of his heart, and that to break a

lance for another, at the risk of losing her, speaks neither of wisdom

nor of generosity.

Suddenly a cry arose from the beach, where the others had in the mean

time arrived, and as Helen, who was quite free from vertigo, stepped to

the very brink and bent over the abyss, a second cry was heard, still

more piercing and more anxious.

"For Heaven's sake," cried Helen; "what can have happened? I thought I

heard Bruno's voice. Let us make haste and get down."

The two young people were quickly down, although the path which led

down in zigzag on the chalk cliff was steep and dangerous. When they

reached the beach, out of breath, they saw Bruno fainting and lying in

Albert's arms, while the others were standing around helpless.

"Fetch some water, quick!" said Oswald, taking the boy, untying his

neckerchief and unbuttoning his clothes. Nobody had thought of it.

"How did it happen?" asked Helen, taking Bruno's cold hands in her own,

and gazing anxiously in his fair, pale face.

"None of us know how," said the baroness.

"Perhaps an attack of vertigo," suggested Felix.

In the mean time water had been brought, and Oswald had washed the

boy's forehead and temples and chest. Helen remembered that she had a

flacon of Cologne in her pocket, and helped Oswald in his efforts to

revive the boy. He soon came to himself again. He opened slowly his

large eyes, and his first glance fell upon Helen, who was bending over

him.

"Are you dead, quite dead?" he murmured, closing his eyes again.

They thought he had lost his mind.

"Collect yourself, Bruno," said Helen, passing her hand lightly over

the boy's brow and eyes.

Bruno seized the hand and pressed it firmly upon his eyes, while two

big tears came oozing out from between the closed lids; then he raised

himself, with Oswald's assistance.

"I am quite right again," he said; "have I really been fainting? How

long have I been so?"

"Only a little while," replied Oswald, wiping Bruno's face with his

handkerchief and setting his clothes in order again.

"You have really frightened us; what in the world was the matter?"

asked the baroness.

"I do not know," replied the boy, whose pale cheeks suddenly flashed in

deep purple glow; "it came very suddenly. Thank you, thank you, I think

I can get on very well if Mr. Stein will help me."

"We'll go back," said the baroness. "How provoking that every little

pleasure must be spoilt by some mishap or other."

They made their way slowly up again, and returned, out of temper,

through the forest. Felix, who was afraid of taking cold, urged them to

make haste; Oswald remarked, dryly, he did not wish to detain the

company, and would follow slowly with Bruno. Helen declared her

intention to stay with Bruno; and the old baron, who had exhibited

throughout very warm, but very useless sympathy, proposed that the

company should divide into a vanguard and a rearguard; he meant himself

to stay with the latter.

"You will catch cold, dear Grenwitz," said the baroness; "I think you'd

better come with us."

"No, I prefer staying with the others," said the old baron, with an

earnestness which surprised all of them, and himself perhaps most.

He gave his arm to his daughter, but remained near Oswald and Bruno,

chatting with them leisurely, as he liked to do, and inquiring from

time to time how the boy came on.

"I am quite well, quite well," said Bruno, again and again; but Oswald

felt that he leaned heavily on his arm, and that his hands were cold.

Thus they reached the house, one by one. The old baron disappeared,

wishing Bruno a speedy recovery, while Oswald carried the boy at once

to his room and sent him to bed.

"You are worse, Bruno, than you wish to confess," he said, sitting down

on the edge of the bed; "you have your old pain, have not you?"

"Yes," said Bruno, and his teeth chattered, and cold perspiration broke

out on his forehead.

Oswald hastened to use the same remedy as before; and he succeeded in

this case also in relieving the patient, at least as far as the pain

was concerned.

"Will you not tell _me_, Bruno, what brought on the attack?" asked

Oswald.

"Oh yes!" said the boy. "I only did not like to tell while the others

were present, because they would have laughed at me. I had stayed

behind a little, and a projecting rock hid the others from my sight I

thought I could overtake them at any moment, and so I was walking on

slowly, often looking upward. Suddenly I saw Helen come so close to the

edge of the precipice, which there comes down a hundred feet or more,

that it looked as if she must fall if she moved ever so little. I cried

out in my anxiety--then she came still nearer, actually bending over,

and everything turned around me well, you know the rest. But there is

Malte coming. Goodnight, Oswald."

"Good-night, you mad boy."

Oswald kissed his pet on his forehead and went in deep thought to his

room. He leaned out of the open window and looked down in the garden,

lost in meditation. The night was dark; only here and there a single

star peeped for a moment through the canopy of clouds. At times a sound

came from the trees, as if they were speaking to each other in low,

confused murmurs; the fountain of the Naiad splashed gently and

abruptly, as if it were telling a weird old story.

"Your life is like this night," said Oswald to himself; "here and there

a star, which vanishes again, and then chaos and darkness. You were

right, dear Berger, our life is nothing, and quite sad enough to make

any man who has sense wish to get rid of it quickly. Now you are where

Melitta is, and Oldenburg too. Perhaps you see them pass by your cell,

arm in arm; perhaps that will make your mind return to you, while

others lose it at the sight. I might make a little trip to N., to see

my good friends. Who knows? The place might prove so pleasant that I

might stay there altogether."

"How is Bruno?" asked a voice from below. It was Helen's voice. Oswald

saw her white dress shine in the dark.

"Thank you; he is well," he replied.

"Good-night."

And the light dress vanished in the shrubbery.

"No, life is more than an empty nothing," murmured Oswald as he closed

the window. "If Berger had seen this girl, he would not have given up

life. And yet he has seen her, admired her, sung her praises even in

sweet verses, and yet he has lost his mind--oh, it is a fearful thing

this life--dark and ghost-like, and nothing real in it but the sweet

voice that bids you good-night!"

CHAPTER VII.

There are in the life of every family, as in that of nations, moments

when all the members feel more or less distinctly that something great

and extraordinary is going to happen. The dark future casts its shadow

far back upon the present, filling the minds of some with dismay and of

others with hope, but everywhere causing a restlessness which, in its

turn, contributes to bring about the crisis.

Such a time of feverish excitement had come for the company at Castle

Grenwitz also. Just now they had been so quiet--But Bruno's accident

might have told the acute observer that beneath the smooth even

surface, with its polite courtesy and its painful compliance with

social forms, there was something seething and heaving; secret love and

deep-hidden hate; hostility masked by the appearance of perfect peace

and good-will--heartfelt sympathies under the cover of indifference and

even antipathy. The very face of life had changed. The stillness, so

perfect as almost to become oppressive, which had formerly reigned in

the chateau, was now frequently interrupted. Baron Felix, who had

little disposition to play the hermit, could not deny himself the

pleasure of taking up one or the other of his favorite pursuits. The

day after his arrival his two superb saddle-horses had already come,

and thus larger excursions were made possible, when the carriage could

be escorted by at least two of the gentlemen on horseback. In a remote

part of the garden a rough shooting-gallery was knocked up, and during

the late afternoon hours the short, sharp crack of rifled pistols could

be heard in the quiet rooms that looked upon the garden. As riding,

shooting, and hunting are amusements which demand numbers, Oswald,

Albert, and even Bruno were never safe, lest Felix should come and beg

them and plague them till they yielded to his wishes, and became his

companions in one or the other of his pastimes. Felix was one of those

men who are never idle, without ever being well occupied; he would

spend hours at his toilet, and read between Beranger's songs or a few

chapters in the _Liaisons Dangereuses_, his two favorite books; or he

would play the first bars of a piece of music, stopping abruptly to

complete the training of his handsome pointer, and thus continually

waste very valuable natural gifts in the pursuit of frivolous and

bootless purposes. For Felix had been richly endowed by nature, and

even his idle and reckless life had not been able to destroy them all.

No one could mistake the desire for something better that was in him,

although it would show itself unfortunately only in a feverish

restlessness with which he took up everything that was new, in an

ambition to be everywhere the first, or at least to appear to be first,

nay, even in his unmeasured vanity, and the incredible attention which

he bestowed upon his appearance. He might have been saved, perhaps, if

he had ever discovered the higher purposes of life, or at least had

been forced to eat the bread of poverty. As it was, he slowly and

pleasantly drifted down the current of his passions towards the point

where he must infallibly sink and drown if a miracle did not intervene

to save him.

Could he have been in earnest in the change of life which he so often

discussed with the baroness? It may be doubted. He had become tired of

living in garrison, and his position was such that when he applied for

an extended leave of absence he was given to understand that he had

better leave the army altogether, if his health was so very feeble.

Just at that critical moment the baroness came with her offer about

Helen. Felix found here a resource of which he had never thought,--for

Anna Maria's views of money matters were well known to him from sad

experience,--and he seized it with both hands; although he by no means

liked the idea of marrying, still he was ready to yield that point.

Great was his surprise, therefore, when he found in his cousin, whom he

had never seen before, a girl more beautiful and more attractive than

any lady he had ever known before,--a being whom the proudest on earth

would be happy to call his own. Thus not two days had gone by before

Felix's heart was filled with a passion for his fair cousin, which,

closely examined, was probably nothing but sheer vanity, but which

appeared to him like a miracle. Selfish men are vain of everything,

even of their simple and natural feelings, and thus Felix never tired

of speaking to the baroness of his love, as of an eighth wonder of the

world, and overflowed even towards Oswald with his admiration of his

own bold hopes. Was his passion returned? Felix did not doubt it for a

moment. Had he not so far succeeded in all cases? Had not his luck with

women become proverbial among his comrades, each one of whom looked

upon himself as a Paris? And had he not seen again and again that love

is fond of hiding under the mask of indifference? It is true, his fair

cousin seemed to carry the comedy almost too far; she treated him with

a coldness, a contempt, which became almost offensive at times--but

this did not disturb him in his firm faith in his irresistible charms,

and he laughed at the baroness whenever she advised him to be cautious.

For Anna Maria, undisturbed by personal vanity, saw much clearer in

this matter than Felix. She could not help even admiring the consistent

uniformity of Helen's manner, and the modest firmness with which she

uttered and sustained her views; for the baroness valued energy of

character above other things, and most so in herself. There was

something in the haughty beauty of her daughter which she was

compelled to respect--a light from a higher world than that, filled

with self-interest and petty ambition, in which she was living

herself--Helen had, since that evening on the beach, become, if

possible, more quiet and reserved than before. She retired, whenever

she could do so, to her room. When she appeared in company she

generally attached herself to her father, or tried to manage it so that

Bruno became her companion when they walked out. She always had some

little service to give him to do; now he had to carry her hat or her

mantilla, and now to gather a flower on the other side of the ditch, or

to give her his hand in climbing up the steep shore. Bruno performed

every duty with a gentle earnestness which often provoked Baron Felix

to mockery; but the others, who knew the boy, and the unbridled

passions in his heart, were unspeakably touched. His whole being seemed

to be changed when Helen's eye rested on him. He became gentle and

kind, ready to help and to serve; a word from her, a mere sign of her

long, dark eyelashes, and he became quiet after a sudden burst of

temper. He rarely, however, showed his violence now, except against

Felix, for whom he entertained a hatred and a contempt which he hardly

attempted to conceal. He always had a scornful word for him in

readiness, and the many little exposures to which his unmeasured vanity

made him liable, found in Bruno a pitiless censor. He became all the

more annoying to Felix as his youth prevented the usual weapons from

being used against him, while a skilful blow from above was apt to be

parried with still greater skill. Felix himself felt this to a certain

degree, and if the boy appeared to him insignificant, he still proved

very troublesome. Wherever Helen appeared, there was Bruno also; and if

she ever had stayed behind during a walk, and Felix was just on the

point of speaking to her of his love, Bruno was sure to join them, as

if by agreement, and Felix, who knew nothing at all of botany and

mineralogy, had to leave the two to their scientific researches. How

would he have wondered if he could have found out that these

"researches," as he called them, were broken off the moment he was out

of sight, and that Bruno, tearing the flower in his hand to pieces,

cried out: "Look, Helen, that is the way you will tear my heart, if you

ever love this man Felix!"--"The old story, Bruno?"--"Yes, the old

story, and I will tell it as long as there is a breath in my bosom. Do

you think I do not know what it means when aunty and Felix put their

heads together, and look from time to time stealthily at you? Oh, I

have sharp eyes, and good ears, too! Yesterday, as I passed them, the

fine gentleman said: She'll come to her senses! She--that was you; and

come to your senses meant: She will forget her self-respect and marry a

wretched, vain peacock like myself"--"But how can you imagine such

things, Bruno?"--"Well, I think that is not so difficult. And you

imagine them too, I know, or why do you look so often straight before

you, in deep thought, and then suddenly at Felix or Oswald, as if you

were comparing the two with each other? Yes, just compare them! Then

you will see the difference between a man and--an ape!"--"Are you very

fond of Mr. Stein, Bruno? Is he always so sad and silent?"--"Oh, no! He

can be as wild as a colt; I don't know what is the matter with him now,

or rather I know it, but----" --"But?"--"But I must not tell--yes, I

think I can tell you; for you are not like the others. I always feel as

if you ought to look right down into my heart, as they say God does; as

if I ought to have no secret for you."--"But I do not want you to

betray a secret"--"I won't betray anything, because Oswald has never

said a word to me. I only know that he is so sad and silent since Aunt

Berkow is gone. We were talking of it at dinner to-day, how long she

would stay away, and whether she would marry again after Uncle Berkow's

death, and I saw how Oswald turned pale, and did not raise his eyes

from his plate during the whole conversation. And then, when Felix

remarked that Baron Oldenburg might be able to answer that question, as

he had gone to N. after Aunt Berkow, he suddenly raised his head, with

an angry look, and opened his lips as if to say something; but he said

nothing and bit his lips; and to-night he is sadly out of humor."--"And

all that means----" --"All that means, simply, that Oswald is very fond

of Aunt Berkow, and does not like her to be talked about; just as

little as I like it when aunty and Felix talk of you."--"Ah, you do not

know what you are talking about"--"Of course, that is always the

refrain: I don't know what I am talking about! I am a foolish boy,

hurrah! hurrah! I have no ears to hear, no eyes to see. Why? Because I

am only sixteen, and my beard is not as long as it might be."

How did Helen receive this news? Was she disappointed in her heart? Or

did she find another explanation for the melancholy look in Oswald's

blue eyes? Perhaps she would not have been able to explain it to

herself, but at all events it did not diminish the interest she had

felt for Oswald ever since that evening on the strand. She began to

observe him more closely than heretofore; she watched every one of his

words; she played and sang by preference the music he liked best, and

when he appeared once more in the garden in the morning, she was

rejoiced. She thanked him in her heart if he, who was so silent

everywhere else, always had some kind word for her, and entered

cheerfully upon every subject she suggested, sometimes seriously,

sometimes jestingly, but always in the cordial manner of an elder

brother. Did the charm of Oswald's personal appearance really begin to

have an effect upon the proud girl, susceptible as she was for

everything beautiful and noble? Was it jealousy, or was it simply a

kind of opposition to the plans of her mother, which appeared daily

more clearly, that made her take such an interest in a man whom her

aristocratic eye would otherwise have carelessly overlooked? The most

contrary sentiments contended in her heart, as often, on a deep blue

summer sky, light gray clouds are drifting aimlessly about till the

tempest breaks forth in its full power.

CHAPTER VIII.

The baroness had found herself inclined to follow Felix's advice, to

take a more active part in the social intercourse of the surrounding

nobility. She had reflected on it for some time, and then formed her

decision. Not a day passed now that the family was not either invited

out, or, more frequently, entertaining company at the chateau. People

seemed to be delighted at seeing Castle Grenwitz once more the place of

meeting for all the busy idlers of the neighborhood, and thus regaining

its ancient fame for hospitality. They approved highly of Anna Maria's

determination to exchange the convent life which she had led so far for

a new life, more brilliant, and more suitable to the old renown of her

noble family; they paid her so many compliments on her powers of

conversation, her talent to arrange large entertainments, that she

tried to plead the absolute necessity for such an outlay before her own

conscience, when it charged her with recklessness in going to all the

expense paused by the unusual hospitality.

It had happened in this manner that Oswald had met once more with

several persons whom he had seen at the ball at Barnewitz; but none of

those for whom he felt a special interest. It was a remarkable accident

which brought one afternoon almost all the persons together who had

then become better known to him. Some had been invited, others had come

by chance. Thus he saw, with very different feelings. Baron Barnewitz

and his wife Hortense enter the room; then Count Grieben and a few

others; but his interest in the matter became a very special and

downright painful one when at last, and quite unexpectedly, another

carriage drove up, bringing Adolphus and Emily von Breesen, with their

aunt, whose toothless mouth and sharp tongue Oswald had by no means

forgotten.

"This way, my fine young gentleman," cried the old lady, when she

noticed him after the first introduction. "Why did you not come to see

us, as you promised? Was that my reward for holding you up to my nephew

as a pattern of a well-bred young man who knows what he owes to ladies?

And for praising your pronunciation of French to my niece? Are you very

much ashamed? I honor you with my displeasure!"

"I do not deserve it, madam," said Oswald. "I was not able to come as I

would have liked to do; and even if I really should have committed such

a sin of omission, I am sure I have lost enough to be spared the

punishment of your displeasure."

"Oh yes--fine phrases, you never want them. You are not less uncivil, I

fear, than the other young men; you are only a little less awkward, and

I see I shall have to pardon you. Here is my hand, and now see how you

can make your peace with my niece without her scratching out your

pretty eyes."

Thereupon the lively old lady turned her back upon Oswald, and left him

to a _tete-a-tete_, for which he had no desire just then, with pretty

Miss Emily, who stood there before him with slightly flushed cheeks and

heaving bosom, not daring to raise her eyes from the ground.

Oswald was determined not to renew the childish and yet dangerous play

with the impassioned girl. He wished and hoped she would have seen her

folly. He was rather pleased, therefore, when Miss Emily answered the

few indifferent words which he addressed to her with apparent

unconcern, and then joined a group of girls who surrounded Helen, and

admired the new-fashioned cut of a dress which she wore for the first

time to-day.

His meeting with Baron Cloten also was less uncomfortable than he had

anticipated from his manner when they saw each other at Baron

Oldenburg's house. The young nobleman pretended to be very glad to

see him again; he inquired eagerly after Oldenburg, spoke of their

pistol-shooting at Barnewitz, and asked if Oswald would now give him

satisfaction.

Oswald was rather curious to see the meeting between Cloten and

Barnewitz. To his great surprise, however, there seemed to be an

excellent understanding between the two gentlemen; Oldenburg had

evidently proved an excellent diplomat in this affair. The fact was, he

had persuaded both that each one was eager to drink the blood of the

other, and thus induced the two men to listen to his suggestions for an

amicable arrangement, as they found, both of them, life far too

pleasant to risk it without very grave provocation. He had represented

Cloten's little trifling with Hortense as mere child's play to

Barnewitz, and vowed that he was persuaded Cloten had never stood in

any other relation to the good lady than many other acquaintances, he

himself for instance,--a wretched ambiguity, which the somewhat simple

husband, however, gratefully accepted as an evidence of his wife's

innocence. The young rustic Don Giovanni, on the other hand, he had

advised to be once or twice very rude, and even impertinent to

Hortense, in her husband's presence, and, above all, to pick out some

pretty girl among his friends, and to court her publicly. Cloten was

very glad to get off so cheap; he had followed Oldenburg's advice to

the letter, and begun, on the spot, to pay the most devoted attentions

to Emily von Breesen. So far, however, he had not been successful in

his efforts. Far from it. The thoughtless girl had overwhelmed him with

pitiless scorn and scoffing; his assurances of love and devotion were

met with ironical remarks, and his chivalrous services were accepted

with an indifference which would have driven him to despair if he had

been in earnest. And, as it happens in such things, he had gradually

come to be in earnest; Miss Emily was by no means one of those young

ladies whom one could with impunity see and serve almost daily. She was

so charming even in her wanton recklessness, so lovely even in her

insolence, that the unlucky bird-catcher caught himself, from day to

day, more and more in his own net, and would now have given almost

anything for a single kind word from the lips he adored. What was

therefore his delight when Miss Emily, whom he hardly dared to

approach, to-day met him with the greatest friendliness, chose him as

her companion during the promenade they made through the garden, sent

him to gather flowers for her, and to bring her a handkerchief she had

forgotten at the house, and, in a word, seemed to do everything to make

amends in an hour for all the insults of the last weeks!

Cloten was overwhelmed with happiness; his watery blue eyes beamed with

delight; he twisted his little moustache unceasingly, and smiled with

stupid vanity whenever some one whispered to him: "Well, Cloten, all

right, eh?" or, "That's right, Cloten, don't be afraid."

Oswald did not know what to make of the comedy. At first he thought

Emily only wanted to show him that she did not want admirers, for he

could not believe that so clever a girl, who, with all her faults and

foibles, was very lovely and exceedingly pretty, should take a fancy to

such a stupid man as Cloten. When evening came the company gradually

retired into the rooms adjoining the lawn, but Emily and Cloten

remained almost alone outside, and Oswald had at last to fall in with

the unanimous opinion of the company, that the engagement between Baron

Cloten and Miss Emily could no longer be doubted. He was sorry for the

girl, who could throw herself away in this manner; but then he thought

again: It was not worth while to reproach yourself so much about so

heartless a girl! They are, after all, in all probability, quite worthy

of one another. I wonder if Cloten is not ashamed to play such a farce

before the eyes of the woman he has loved?

He turned to Hortense, who was standing alone in the embrasure of one

of the windows. The pretty blonde seemed to-day to be pleased with this

neglect on the part of the gentlemen, although it was most

extraordinary, as she generally was one of the best-attended ladies.

"Are you not going to dance to-night, baroness?" asked Oswald.

"Are they going to dance?" she replied, as if awaking from a dream.

"Oh, certainly. They are just carrying the piano into the large salon.

Mr. Timm has offered to play. May I have the honor of the first dance,

if I am not too late?"

"Too late? Oh, no! Those times are gone by when I used to be engaged

for weeks ahead. I leave that to the younger ones now."

"You are pleased to jest."

"By no means; you are the first who asks me, and as I am afraid you

will be the last also, I think I had better not begin at all. I would

rather say: Come and sit down a little by me here, and let us have a

nice little chat while they are dancing. What do you say?"

"The question requires no answer," said Oswald, drawing up a chair for

Hortense.