"Won't you sit down? I am told, doctor, you have a great talent for

satire. Let me see a proof of your talent; you cannot be in want of

material, if you cast a glance at the company from our place here.

Which of the ladies do you think the prettiest?"

"You mean the least plain?"

"You scamp! It is true, though, that there is not much to be seen that

is pretty. A few nice dresses, perhaps. How do you like Helen

Grenwitz?"

"I do not see her at all. Where can she be?"

"There, on the right, near the door. She is speaking to her Cousin

Felix. How do they stand with each other? Has Cousin Felix yet made his

declaration?"

"Certainly not to me."

"I suppose not. But do you think he will propose?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I consider the whole thing quite inexplicable."

"Are you enthusiastic about Miss Helen?"

"Infinitely so."

"I suppose you take a special interest in all girls who are fresh from

school?"

"Only when they are really interesting."

"Not always. Or do you really mean to say that Emily von Breesen

deserves being called so?"

"I have never been enthusiastic about her."

"Well--but then she has been all the more so about you. Lisbeth was the

confidante of her grief, and Lisbeth has of course told me the whole

story."

"Oh, that is simply impossible."

"Don't be excited! You see the child has found consolation. To-day she

is hand in glove with Cloten; to-morrow she will have somebody else.

That girl has talent. She will do much in that line. I am only sorry

for poor Cloten."

"But why does he expose himself to the danger?"

"Certainly--and without his Mentor's advice?"

"Who is that?"

"Baron Oldenburg. He probably has misunderstood his friend's advice,

and will marry little Emily from mere blundering."

"You are pleased to speak to me in unfathomable riddles."

"I beg your pardon. Tell me, have you really become the baron's bosom

friend in this short time, as report says?"

"Report has, as usually, changed the mote into a beam."

"Do you think I mean it well with you?" said Hortense, and looked

Oswald full in the face.

"I have no reason to suppose the contrary," replied the latter, who

began to be peculiarly interested in the conversation, which he had

begun without any purpose whatever.

"Then follow my advice: have a care of the baron as of your bitterest

enemy."

"Why?"

"Because he is false to the core of his heart."

"Do you know him well? And--pardon me if I cannot at once believe so

grave an accusation of a man whom, I confess, I have esteemed very

highly until now--have you any evidence of his being false?"

"A thousand!"

"Can you mention one?"

"You will not betray what I am going to tell you?"

"I promise."

"Then listen. You know my cousin Melitta. Well, she has foibles as well

as all of us, but at the bottom she is a charming woman, whom I love

dearly, and whom I should be extremely sorry to see once more in hands

from which I thought I had rescued her forever. If Melitta is not as

good as she could be, Oldenburg alone has that on his conscience. He

turned her head, when she was quite young, with his foolish notions, so

that at last she knew no longer what was right and what was wrong.

Then, when she made that capital match with Baron Berkow, he disturbed

their good relations by his interference, and it was no wonder that

Berkow at last lost his mind from jealousy. I saw how that came about.

At last I succeeded in persuading Melitta to send Oldenburg away for a

few years. He went, but when we shortly afterwards were travelling in

Italy he reappeared, I know not whether by accident or called in by

Melitta. From her manner I should have supposed the latter. The old

story began once more. Solitary walks, low whisperings and vows, which

took place even in the presence of third persons--in short, it was a

downright unpleasant sight for one who, like myself, thinks rather

strictly in such matters. In vain I begged and besought Melitta to

think of her sick husband and of her child. I preached to deaf ears.

Then I determined to use desperate means. In order to prove to her

Oldenburg's worthlessness--of which I had heard on all sides fabulous

accounts--I pretended to let him fall in love with myself. It did not

require much effort, for the baron is both treacherous and reckless in

his passions. After a little while he pursued me with his adoration--of

course without committing himself before Melitta. At the same time he

spoke so heartlessly, so wickedly of my poor cousin, that I was

scarcely able to wear the mask which I had assumed. And yet I had to do

it till Oldenburg should be impassioned enough to run blindly into the

net which I had prepared. I managed it so that one day, in the garden

of the villa Serra di Falco, near Palermo, he made me a declaration of

love, while Melitta was standing a few feet from us behind a myrtle

hedge. Poor woman! It was a painful operation, but it was necessary.

Oldenburg disappeared of course the next morning. I tried to amuse

Melitta as well as I could, and I must confess she bore the bitter

disappointment, the cruel humiliation, better than I had expected. I

hoped the severe lesson would have opened her eyes, as to Oldenburg,

forever, especially when I found that the baron gave her time for

reflection by staying away for several years. But suddenly he turns up

again a few weeks ago. I anticipated evil at once--for the appearance

of this man is always the signal for some calamity. How he has managed

to regain Melitta's favor, and how it is possible that Melitta could be

weak enough to readmit him to her house, is more than I can tell. Both

of them possess a remarkable talent of concealing their actions from

the eyes of the world. I only know that a reconciliation has taken

place,--which I presume must have been a complete one between two

persons of such experience,--and, to keep the solemnity duly secret,

they have made a journey together, and where? To Fichtenau, the place

where Melitta's husband has been confined for seven years! Really, I am

sorry for Melitta. If she intended to ruin her reputation, she could

not have done more. For even if Berkow is really on the point of death,

what can Oldenburg have to do there, he who is the cause of the whole

misery? And does Melitta really think she can marry Oldenburg after

Berkow's death? Alas! If Oldenburg had to marry all the women to whom

he has vowed love in his life he would have a nice seraglio, from the

duchess to the maid, in which all nations and all races would be

represented. But, heavens! what is the matter with you? You look like a

corpse. Are you unwell?"

"It is only the excessive heat," said Oswald, rising. "Pardon me, I

pray, for leaving you so abruptly. I must try if the cool evening air

will help me."

He made Hortense a very formal bow, and went without waiting for her

answer.

"Well, what does that mean?" asked the latter, looking after him as he

hastened out. "Has my excellent cousin made another conquest there? And

have I unwittingly killed two birds with one stone? I meant only to rob

Oldenburg of his new friend; but if I have robbed Melitta at the same

time of a new admirer, so much the better. I should think that young

man could be made useful. To be sure, I must be a little cautious,

for Barnewitz has become a real Othello since that affair with

Cloten--there he is now.... My dear Barnewitz, do you look a little

after your poor, forlorn little wife? I have been sitting here all the

evening waiting for you."

"Why don't you dance?"

"Do you think I like to dance when you are away?"

"I have arranged a little game at cards with Grieben and some others,

but I can jump about with you some little time. Come! They are just

beginning a waltz! That is exactly my forte."

And the happy couple entered the room where the dancers were.

In the mean while Oswald was wandering about in the garden, restless,

like one who suffers terrible pain. From the open doors and windows

came bright lights and merry voices; around the lawn colored paper

lanterns had been hung by Anna Maria's direction, and the moonlight

became almost superfluous. From time to time a few couples would come

out and promenade in the balsamic night air. It was a pleasant, festive

scene, which, however, offended Oswald in his present frame of mind, as

when a friend smiles at our suffering. He went up on the wall, sat down

on a bench and stared, his head resting on his hand, into the water of

the moat, on which the rays of the moon were dancing in weird

confusion.

"Would it not be better you made an end to your miserable life?" he

murmured, "than to drag the burden of life still farther, to your own

harm and to nobody's joy? Will you vegetate on and on till every

illusion has been killed, and you have thrown everything overboard that

was once dear and sacred to you? Will you wait till your patience is

fully exhausted, like poor, great-hearted Berger? That, then, is the

true portrait of the woman before whom you knelt as before a saint!

That is the man whose hand you thought it an honor to press! You never

were anything but a foot-ball for her high and noble caprices; and he

condescended to make glorious baronial fun of you. But it cannot,

cannot be! Why not? Is not their whole life an unbroken intrigue? Here

the wife betrays the husband, and there the husband the wife? The

father sells his daughter for money, and the mother disposes of her own

flesh and blood. The friend cheats the friend. One coquette proclaims

aloud the secrets of another coquette, and you think they would treat

you better--you, the plebeian, who have to work for your daily

bread?--And yet! and yet! It is horrible! The wife whom you adored like

a goddess, perhaps even now in the arms of another, deceiving him,

deceiving you, only to be deceived by him in her turn! And you,

good-natured fool, you struggle like a madman against your passion for

the sweet, the glorious creature, the only pure one among these

witches; for she is pure and good, or there is nothing pure left in

this world. No, no! And if all around you is cheat and deceit, if all

betray you, look up to this high star; it is your star, for only what

is unattainably high is worthy of your love! Let the lizards and the

toads quarrel about the will-o'-the-wisp as they dance over the

morass."

A slight noise near him made him start up. A tall, slender figure in a

white dress was standing before him. Through a little opening in the

foliage above, a ray of the moon fell upon the slim form.

It was Emily.

"Hush!" she said, as Oswald rose with a suppressed cry of astonishment

"Keep where you are! I saw you leave the salon; I followed you, because

I wish to speak to you. I must do so. I shall not detain you long. I

only ask one word--one single word--that is to decide my whole life. Do

you love me? Yes or no?"

The young girl had seized Oswald's hand and held it with nervous

violence. "Yes or no?" she repeated, in a tone of voice which betrayed

but too clearly the intensity and madness of her passion.

But there was no echo to that voice in Oswald's heart; it remained

closed, like the house of a man who has been robbed the night before.

"You mistake no doubt the person," he said, with cutting sarcasm. "My

name is Oswald Stein; Baron Cloten is, as far as I know, somewhere in

the house," and he tried to loosen his hand from that of the girl.

"Have I deserved that?" she said, in a voice almost stifled by tears,

and let her arms sink in utter despair.

"The night is cool," said Oswald, rising; "the dew begins to fall; you

will take cold in your light dress. May I have the honor to take you

back to the house?"

"Oh my God! my God!" murmured Emily; "I cannot endure this! Oswald, do

not treat me thus! How I have longed for this moment! How I have

repeated to myself a thousand times all I would say to you. How I hoped

you would again take me in your arms as ... oh God! what am I saying?

Oswald, have pity on me! You cannot wish to punish my thoughtlessness

of this evening so cruelly! I only wanted to tease you a little. I

thought every moment you would come up and tell me,--but you did not

come, and I had to keep up the comedy, _bon gre, mal gre_."

"Are you quite sure, Miss Emily, you are not playing comedy at this

very moment?"

Emily made no reply. She sank with a groan upon the bench; she pressed

her face in her hands, and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.

Oswald was not one of those men who can see a woman weep unmoved. He

stepped close up to the unfortunate girl and said:

"Will you listen to me calmly a few moments?"

Emily's only answer was a violent sobbing.

"Believe me," Oswald continued, "I am heartily sorry for you; that such

a scene should at all have been possible; and I feel that I, and I

alone, am to blame for it. If I had told you that night what I must

tell you to-day, your pride would long since have made an end to the

matter.--I cannot love you. That sounds very strange, spoken to a woman

of such loveliness and sweetness, but it is nevertheless true. Why then

will you waste your love on one who shows himself so utterly unworthy

of such a precious gift? Why not render somebody happy by it, who has

more talent for being happy and for making others happy?--I am just now

so low-spirited that I am more than usually incapable of looking at men

and things in the right light. Pardon me, therefore, if I have offended

you just now by my bitter words. I had no right to use them; it was

thoughtless in me; I blame myself for them. I pray, I beseech you,

forget all that has happened between us! And do not allow this

mortification to lead you to sudden resolves, which you may and will

regret hereafter. You see what it is to bestow your affections upon an

unworthy person. If this cruel experience should aid you in the

selection which you will sooner or later make, I am willing to endure

for the moment your hatred and even your contempt."

Emily had, while Oswald spoke, gradually ceased to weep. Now she rose

and said, in an almost calm voice:

"Quite enough! I thank you. You have opened my eyes. You shall never be

troubled again, as far as I am concerned. Tell me only this one thing:

Am I victimized for the sake of another? Do you love another person?"

"Yes!" said Oswald, after a little hesitation.

"Very well! And now listen _you_! As I have loved you with all the

warmth of my heart, so I hate you now; and as a few minutes ago I would

have willingly given my love for you, so I wish now to be avenged on

you for this disgrace. And I will be avenged; I will----"

Again she broke out into passionate tears; but she checked herself

quickly.

"You do not deserve it, that I shed so many tears for you. Now crown

your conduct and follow me into the house, so that the whole world may

see what a fool I have been!"

And she hastened away from Oswald, down the wall, across the lawn, into

the salon, where they were dancing merrily. Cloten, who had in vain

looked for her everywhere, and now stood melancholy, leaning against a

door-frame, saw her at once and hurried to meet her.

"Why, Miss Emily! Caused me real anguish! Upon my word, was _au

desespoir_! Thought, in fact, one of the heavenly ones had eloped with

you."

"I have been quietly reflecting. Baron Cloten, on what you told me a

little while ago," replied Emily.

"'Pon my word! Are an angel! and I may hope?" asked Cloten, who of

course interpreted the reddened eyelids and the excited manner of the

young girl in his own favor.

"Go to my aunt!"

"Really? 'pon honor? I can't believe it!" exclaimed the young man, and

his surprise was by no means fictitious.

"Then do not go!" replied Miss Emily, in a tone which would have made

anybody else very much afraid about the firmness of the tie that was

about to be formed here.

"Great God! Emily, angel, do not be angry. I hasten, I fly----"

And Baron Cloten went away in most abject confusion to seek out the

aunt.

Emily remained standing on the same spot, pale, her arms folded, her

eyes fixed upon the groups of dancers, without seeing anything more

than if she had stared into vacancy.

"You are wiser than others," said a voice close by her.

It was Baron Felix; he had thrown himself into a chair, and wiped the

perspiration from his brow with a delicate handkerchief.

"Ridiculous to jump about in this heat; I think it is time to stop. And

now Helen has relieved Mr. Timm at the piano. That girl has strange

notions. Don't you think so, Miss Emily?"

"Perhaps she had no one to dance with."

"Impossible."

"Well, perhaps not the right one."

"_C'est-a-dire?_"

"The one she likes to dance with."

"I have always been here."

"You do not imagine _you_ are the happy one?"

"Who else?"

"Don't you know what has become of Mr. Stein?"

"No, why?"

"I only ask for Miss Helen's sake. Do you not see how her big, proud

eyes are searching steadily, but unceasingly, all over the salon?"

"You are surely not in earnest?"

"Why not? Is not Mr. Stein a very handsome man? And has not Miss Helen

very strange notions?"

"Miss Emily," said Felix, gravely, "will you do me the honor to tell me

whether you have any special reasons for such an assertion?"

"Of course I have special reasons."

"And will you have the kindness to mention them?"

"That I cannot."

At that moment Baron Cloten returned, his face beaming with delight.

"Miss Emily," he said, "your aunt wishes to speak to you. May I have

the honor to take you to her?"

"Directly," said Emily, and then to Felix: "Rely on what I told you.

You have sharp eyes and ears."

She took Cloten's arm.

"I must find that out," said Felix to himself when he was alone again.

"Helen's manner has really been extraordinary of late."

He went up to the piano. "Shall I turn the music for you, Helen?"

"Thanks," Helen replied dryly. "I play from memory."

After a short pause: "Please, cousin, go away. It makes me nervous to

have anybody stand so close behind me."

"It seems to me Doctor Stein stood yesterday half an hour behind you

and you did not show any great nervousness."

"Then I will rise," said Helen. She wound up with a short finale and

left the piano, without paying any attention to the general Ah! of the

dancers.

"That is rather strong," said Felix to himself.

"Why did Helen stop playing so suddenly?" asked the baroness, who had

watched the scene from a distance, and now came up.

"I do not know. She probably took something I said amiss. She is more

capricious and obstinate than I thought. Don't you think, aunt, that

man Stein, with his corrupt notions, may exercise a bad influence on

Helen as well as on Bruno?"

"I have always told you I have no faith in that man."

"Why don't you turn him out?"

"Without any cause?"

"Pshaw! That is easily found. Will you give me permission to find one?"

"But there must be no scene?"

"Let me manage that."

"You must bring it about that he shall himself ask to be relieved."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons.--And, Felix, do not speak of it to Grenwitz. Of

late he has become very self-willed. I am even afraid he thinks of

interfering with our plan. I pray you, Felix, be cautious! I should be

beside myself if we fail, after having represented the whole matter

everywhere as a _fait accompli_!"

"Pshaw! aunt! Anxious again? Rely on me; I'll carry out what I have

begun!"

CHAPTER IX.

When Oswald came to his room, after the painful scene with Emily von

Breesen,--for he found it impossible to return to the company,--he

found on his table a parcel, which must have been placed there during

his absence. The words: "Enclosed the books, with many thanks. Your

faithful B.," told him at a glance who had brought the parcel and what

it contained. And, strange! he hesitated to open it. He felt as if he

had no right to Melitta's letters, since his heart was no longer

entirely hers, as if, above all, she, who had never entirely given him

her heart, had no right to give him this sign of her love. At last,

almost mechanically, he opened the package. There were three books

within. From the middle one fell two letters--one from Melitta and one

from Bemperlein. Melitta's letter contained only a few cordial words,

complaining "of the long separation, during which, besides the long

distance, other disturbing elements also might come to stand between

their hearts," and finally expressed the hope of a speedy reunion. The

letter had no signature. "It might fall into wrong hands," said Oswald,

bitterly. "I will be still more generous; I will destroy this witness

of a love of which she begins to be ashamed." He burnt the paper in the

flame of his candle. Bemperlein's letter was fuller, but it spoke

almost exclusively of Professor Berger. Bemperlein had, during his

residence in Grunwald, seen very much of Professor Berger, to whom he

had carried letters from Oswald, and had become as enthusiastically

fond of him as the professor had become attached to himself. His

dismay, therefore, was great when Doctor Birkenhain informed him one

day that Professor Berger had just been brought to the asylum.

Bemperlein wrote Oswald that he had at once asked permission to visit

Berger; the permission had been granted, and he had since spent daily

several hours with the patient, who preferred his company to any other.

Berger, he said, spoke reasonably on all subjects except his fixed idea

of the Nothing. He was perfectly reconciled to being in an asylum,

"for," he said, "the difference between the people inside and the

people outside is only this, that the latter may and probably will soon

become what the people inside already are. If, for instance, Doctor

Birkenhain would just have the kindness to take his head to pieces, he

would perceive its utter emptiness with his own eyes, and choose a

nice, sunny room in his house, in order to meditate undisturbed on the

great Original Nothing." Bemperlein wrote that Berger's aberration of

mind was considered only temporary, and that Doctor Birkenhain hoped to

be able to restore the great man very soon to his friends and pupils.

"As for us," concluded Bemperlein, "the baroness will have told you all

that is of interest. I only add that we shall (God willing) not remain

here much longer. Baron Berkow is sinking fast; the consumption makes

rapid progress. Birkenhain gives him only a few days more. We shall

stay here, at all events, until all is settled. I anticipate that

moment with some impatience, which is perfectly disinterested. The

death of this unfortunate man, who has for long years already ceased to

live, will give new life to two persons--two persons who are

unspeakably dear to me."

"Really," said Oswald, letting the letter drop in his lap, "are you

quite sure of that, good Bemperlein? To be sure, your innocent heart

knows nothing of most noble treason and baronial cunning! And yet: Why

does he also say nothing of Oldenburg's presence? Why does he keep it

secret, when he knows of how much interest it must be for me? Is he too

in the plot? Well, then I will henceforth trust no one except myself.

We must howl among the wolves, and he is a fool who would be honest

among cheats and liars. If you deceive, I can do so too; if you play a

farce, I won't sit in the pit; if you laugh at others, I do not mean to

cry, and all's well that ends well. Ha, ha, ha!"

"I am glad to find you in such excellent humor," said a voice behind

him.

Oswald started up from his chair and stared, frightened at the tall,

slim form which seemed to have come out of the ground.

It was Baron Oldenburg.

"I beg your pardon," he said, offering Oswald his hand, which the

latter took with some hesitation, "that I present myself thus

unannounced, and coming, like Nicodemus, by night. But I have this

moment returned from my journey, and learnt from a servant who passed

me in the hall, with a waiter full of glasses and cups, that you had

gone up to your room. The man had just time to tell me the way, and to

go on with his glasses.--And here I am, and, as I said, delighted to

find you so merry; otherwise I should hardly have the courage to tell

you what brings me here. Do you know where we were a month ago this

day? It is the night which the Brown Countess appointed for our

rendezvous. If you are still sufficiently interested in myself and our

little ward to follow me, we can go to the appointed place."

"I shall be at your disposal in a few minutes," said Oswald; "permit me

only to change my dress."

He took one of the two candles that stood on the table and went into

the adjoining room.

"Dress yourself warm," cried Oldenburg after him; "it is very cool now

towards morning, especially in the woods."

"Hm!" he murmured, when Oswald had left him; "he looks pale and

haggard, and was less friendly than usual. I hope he has heard nothing

of my having been at Fichtenau. I wanted to keep it from him. I must

try to find it out. It would be unpleasant, for I do not like to talk

to anybody about Melitta and myself, and least of all to him."

In the mean time Oswald said, while dressing, to himself:

"Now, be wise as the serpent. If you play with me, I can play with

you."

He came back to Oldenburg.

"I am ready."

"Then let us go.--My carriage is at the door," said the baron, as they

went down the staircase that led into the garden. "The Czika is sitting

inside, wrapped in my cloak. Don't you agree with me that it is better

to take the child with us to the interview? If the gypsy woman is

really the child's mother, we owe her at least this attention. At all

events she can see that the child is alive and well, and tolerably well

contented with her new home.--But what does all this stir mean at the

chateau? Anna Maria is not ordinarily a friend of festivities. Did

Malte run away and come back, and is this the feast of the fatted

calf?"

"The question is not about a lost son but upon a returning daughter,"

said Oswald, forcing himself into a light tone; "Miss Helen has come

back from school. Since then there has been no end of festivities."

"_Tempora mutantur_," Oldenburg said, laughing, as they were crossing

the lawn; "I am exceedingly curious to see this marvel. I hope nobody

will notice us."

He went towards the steps which led up to the terrace. The doors were

now closed, as the air had cooled off outside; the windows likewise;

but the curtains had not been let down, and one could see from the

outside all that was going on in the brilliantly lighted rooms.

As they approached the window, they saw Helen sit just opposite to them

at the piano. Felix was standing behind her chair. He bent over her and

seemed eagerly to speak to her. Oldenburg's sharp eye had instantly

caught the group.

"Who is that young man?" he asked.

As Oswald made no reply, the baron looked at him and saw that he was

biting his under lip, while his eyes were fixed upon the two at the

piano. Felix was bending still lower; Oswald bit his lip till the blood

trickled down. Suddenly Helen rose and walked through the group of

dancers, who were startled by the sudden ceasing of the music, straight

to the window where Oldenburg and Oswald were standing. They moved back

into the shade. When she reached the window she remained quiet,

crossing her arms on her bosom and fixing her large gray eyes on the

moon, whose golden disc was floating in the deep blue night sky. It was

a face of irresistible power, mysteriously lovely and fatally

beautiful.--A gentleman--Adolphus--approached her and spoke to her. She

answered briefly, without changing her position, without scarcely

moving her lips. He bowed and went away. Then, as if she had

reconsidered, she turned round, went back to the piano, sat down and

began to play again. As if touched by a magic wand, the dancers resumed

their dance, and the gay picture which Oldenburg and Oswald had seen at

first was quite restored.

"Who was the fool who caused this intermezzo?" asked Oldenburg, as they

were going down the garden.

"Felix Grenwitz, her cousin."

"A nice little puppy; and the young beauty is to have him for her

husband--is that so?"

"I believe so."

"And what do you say to that?"

"What Hamlet said: 'Weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all

the uses of the world!'"

"My evil anticipations are about to be fulfilled," said Oldenburg,

through his teeth.

"You said?"

"I was wondering whether Charles had raised the top of the carriage, so

that my little Czika does not sit quite in the open air. I believe,

however, she would like it best if she never had any other ceiling

above her. During our journey she always was delighted when we

travelled at night, and she could see her beloved stars on high."

"And may I ask what took you away so suddenly from our neighborhood?"

asked Oswald, and his voice trembled.

"A matter of business which interests me only indirectly. The illness

of a man whose death may be of the utmost importance to two persons who

are dear to me."

The baron waited to see if Oswald would reply.

"I was vain enough to fancy that my departure would make some noise in

our society here," he added, when Oswald remained silent; "this seems,

however, not to have been the case."

"Everybody has been so accustomed for years to see you come and go of a

sudden that they no longer wonder," said Oswald; "but I think there is

the carriage!"

"Where is Czika, Charles?" asked the baron.

"She is fast asleep in the carriage, sir," replied the coachman, who

had come down from his seat to let down the steps. "I have covered her

carefully."

"We will take her between us, as the other day when we found her on the

high-road on our return from Barnewitz."

The baron was already inside.

"Is that you, master?" asked the child, awaking.

"Yes, my darling!"

"Who is the man with you?"

"Your friend, the man with the blue eyes."

"He must stay with us," Czika murmured, overcome by sleep and pressing

close up to Oswald, who had taken his seat. "Czika is tired; Czika

wants to sleep in your arms!"

"I believe," said the baron, when the carriage was in motion, "you have

made an indelible impression upon the child. She often speaks of you,

and asks why the man with the blue eyes does not come back again? She

always calls you so. The human heart is, after all, a curious thing.

The wisest of the wise has no key to it. What trouble I have taken to

win the heart of this child! I should like so much to call some one

being in this wide world my own! And have I succeeded? I hardly know.

She follows me, but only as a child would do when the mother has said:

Go with that gentleman, and behave well! I have surrounded her with the

tenderest affection, and yet I am to her now only what I was to her the

first day. She accepts everything, like a gift which we do not refuse

merely because we do not wish to offend the giver."

"But is not that more or less the way with all children?" replied

Oswald. "Is it not their privilege to be loved without being specially

grateful for it? And then: what is a love which counts upon a reward?

Is it not here also true, that he who asks for a reward has already his

reward?"

"I hope you may never experience that in your own case," said the

baron, with much feeling. "And may others never learn it through your

agency! You would not say so if you knew what hopeless love is; what it

means to carry about in you the feeling that your love, true, warm

love, is returned with indifference and coldness! No, no! A heart that

loves us is a treasure which we must not despise, and if we owned every

heart in the world; to have pained a heart that loves us is a

recollection which sears our conscience, and which no new love can ever

extinguish."

"And have _you_ had such experience?"

"Unfortunately I have! I have formed and broken many ties of love,

without feeling any remorse about it. I knew too well that I would not

break the dear hearts! Only once--I was quite young yet, and that must

be my excuse, if there can be one--only once I became guilty of the

crime of rewarding a woman, who I knew loved me truly and faithfully,

with vile ingratitude. The story would be ever present to my mind, even

if the Brown Countess had not recalled it to me in a strange way. Did I

not tell you how I met, quite accidentally, many years ago and far away

in Hungary, a gypsy girl----"

"Yes," said Oswald, "I recollect your story very well. Baron Cloten's

arrival interrupted you. I forgot afterwards to ask you for the

continuation. Was it not this way? You were on a visit to a friend whom

you had known in Vienna. You found the girl in a gypsy camp, as you

were roaming through the woods far from the house. The band had gone

away and left her behind. To see her and to love her was one. You spent

several days with her in romantic bliss. The story ended with the

following tableau: A gypsy encampment in the forest--sunset--under the

overhanging shelter of a broad, branching beech-tree, a loving pair on

a soft moss carpet----"

"You have a good memory," said the baron, "and you have reproduced my

state of mind at that time very faithfully. I was sitting then with the

Zingarella--Xenobia was her sweet name--in the manner mentioned by you.

I was singing the old song of love which would never end, and the poor

little bird trusted the false old melody, and came closer and closer to

my heart. Suddenly horses' tramp was heard in the silent woods, and

laughing and talking of a merry cavalcade. I had hardly time to push

the little one rudely from my lap and to rise, when the troop came

galloping from under the tall trees into the clearing. They were my

friends: the young Count Cryvanny, with his sisters, and several ladies

and gentlemen from the neighborhood. You may imagine the scene that

followed--I was at once surrounded and overwhelmed with questions.

Where had I been? How did I get there?--I thought you had been torn by

wolves! said one--or you had killed yourself from unrequited love!

cried another.--I have the key to the secret! Love is the cause, but by

no means unrequited love.--Look there! and he pointed with the handle

of his riding-whip at my poor Xenobia, who had crept behind the trunk

of the tree. Universal laughter rewarded the witty man. One face only

looked black. It was the youngest and prettiest of the three sisters,

whom I had courted last, and who, I believe, honored me with her favor

in her way--which, to be sure, did not amount to much. I was suddenly

very much ashamed of my poor Xenobia, and had only one wish, to get out

of this embarrassment without offending the proud Georgiana. I

pretended to be indignant; I said I had wandered about in the woods,

and that I had but just reached the encampment. 'But where does the

girl get the gold chain from around her neck, which we admired

only the other day, when you wore it?' asked Georgiana.--'She must

have stolen it from me,' I said, 'while I slept here, tired by my

wanderings.'--Then take it back.--I could have murdered Georgiana, but

I had bound myself by my bold falsehood. I could not recall it. Xenobia

anticipated me.--Here, sir! she said; take what I have stolen! and she

handed me the chain. I shall never in my life forget the trembling

hand, the face disfigured by pain and indignation. Let us get back

home! cried Count Cryvanny, there is a storm coming up!--I took the

horse of one of the servants, and off we went through the darkening

forest. I dared not look back at Xenobia. Georgiana, by whose side I

was riding, would never have forgiven me. I had fully reconquered her

favor, but at what cost? On the evening of the following day--I could

not get away sooner I hastened to the forest to make amends for my

wrong, but I found, after a long search, only the place of the

encampment. Xenobia was gone. The band had no sooner found their

retreat discovered than they had broken up their tents and moved, no

one knew where? I have never seen a trace again of Xenobia."

The baron was silent, and puffed the smoke of his cigar in mighty

clouds high into the air.

"You see," he began again, after a long pause, "I am pious enough, or

superstitious enough, if you prefer it, to believe that this wicked

deed of mine has brought upon me a curse which no repentance can

remove. That curse is fulfilled in my aimless life. From that day it

has been my fate to sow love and to reap indifference. And now you will

also understand what Czika is to me--an angel in the highest sense of

the word, a sweet messenger from on high, who sings Peace! Peace! to my

sick heart. The child's face, you know, has been for years before my

mind's eye, and I have told you how I thought twice to be near the

realization of my dreams. Here is the red rose Xenobia once more, but

in the morning dew of sweetest innocence. The red rose has no doubt

long since faded and withered amid the storms of life, and even if I

had kept it at that time--what would the world, the cold, impudent,

slandering world have said of the romantic love of a baron and a

zingarella! I was too young then, and could not have defended my poor

wife against the world: now I am a man, and have to protect a child

only, a foundling. I shall give the gypsy whatever she may ask, and my

warmest, sincerest thanks into the bargain. I hope she has not

forgotten the appointment--stop, Charles!--We must get out here and

walk through the woods. I know the way from of old. This is the hour

appointed by the Brown Countess. We are just in time."

"Had we not better leave the child here," said Oswald.

"Why?" inquired the baron, who had left the carriage.

"The child is so very much attached to the woman, who, after all, may

be her mother. Perhaps when she sees her again her old love of the

forest life may awake, and we shall at the very least have a painful

scene."

Oswald spoke in a low voice, for Czika was moving in his arms.

"Czika wants to go too," she said suddenly. "Czika wants to go into the

woods and see the moon and the stars dance in the branches. Czika knows

every tree and every bush."

She was standing on the damp wood-soil and clapped her hands with

delight, and danced and laughed and said:

"Come! come! You, master, and you man with the blue eyes! Czika will

show you a beautiful place; Czika knows every tree and every bush along

the whole road."

She slipped ahead on a narrow path, which left the road where the

carriage was standing, to enter the forest sideways, and then she ran

on, gliding through the bushes like a wild cat. The two men had much

trouble to follow. Czika was not to be persuaded to moderate her zeal.

Her only answer to all the Not so fast! of the two men was the clear

merry cry of the young falcon, which she uttered again and again,

louder and shriller each time. Suddenly an answer came through the

forest, the same proud cry which Oldenburg and Oswald remembered so

well from that morning when the gypsy woman answered the child's cry

from a great distance.

Now a rosy sheen became visible through the trees, which grew brighter

and brighter at every step. "We shall soon be there," said the baron,

who walked ahead.

In a few minutes they really came out upon the clearing, which Oswald

had seen on the afternoon when he saw Melitta for the first time at her

house. At the same place, near the edge of the pool, where the gypsies

were then cooking their meal, a fire was now burning, but large and

bright, as if to throw a flood of light upon the scene. The tops of the

mighty trees glowed in rich purple or were lost in dark shade as the

flames of the pile of wood blazed up or sank low; on the black mirror

of the pool another fire shone in dim glow, and surrounded by this

magic illumination the Brown Countess was seen on her knees before

Czika, whom she overwhelmed with kisses and caresses. The child tried

in vain to draw her up, and at last threw herself down by her side,

hiding her head in the bosom of the woman. This was the sight that

greeted the two men when they reached the clearing at last, completely

out of breath.

They stood there silent and motionless, almost overawed by the strange,

touching spectacle.

Then the gypsy rose, and taking the child by the hand she came up to

the two, and said to Oldenburg, who stared at her with his eyes wide

open:

"Do you know me, master?"

At that moment the flames blazed high up and fell with the brightness

of daylight upon every feature in the noble, proud face of the Egyptian

woman, and upon every line of her slight, lofty figure.

"Xenobia!" cried the baron, opening his arms, "Xenobia!"

The brown woman threw herself, with a cry of mad rapture, on his bosom,

and held him as if she would never part again with the man of her love.

But the very next moment she tore herself away from him, stepped back,

and stood there motionless, her arms crossed on her bosom. Czika was

standing between her and the baron, turning her large dark eyes full of

amazement from the one to the other.

The baron took her by the hand, and stepping up to the gypsy woman, he

said to her, in a tone which, in spite of all his efforts, betrayed his

deep emotion:

"Xenobia, is this child----"

He could not continue; in vain he tried to utter the word. At last he

stammered:

"Your and my child?"

"Yes, master," said the gypsy, without stirring, but fixing her dark,

bright eyes on the baron.

Oldenburg lifted the child in his arms and pressed her to his bosom.

Oswald felt he ought to leave the three alone, and went back into the

wood. There he sat down near the edge. It was the same place where he

had been lying the other day dreaming such glorious things of Melitta,

and where he had afterwards heard Czika play the lute, while the Brown

Countess was busy with the fire, and sang with her deep, sonorous voice

the Hungarian melody. What changes had taken place since that day! How

much he had lost and won since! Then his heart beat high with

expectation; now his soul was filled with sadness and grief. Why had

she made him so indescribably happy if her love was, after all, but the

sovereign whim of a moment, only an amusing play to fill up a vacant

day? Had he not all the time felt in his soul that she, the haughty

aristocrat, would drop him again sooner or later? Had he not, the very

first time when he heard Oldenburg's name mentioned, recognized in that

man almost instinctively his rival? And he had to confess now that that

man possessed everything calculated to kindle a heroic passion in a

great lady. Rank and riches, eminent talents, the courage of a knight

without fear or reproach, and just enough of the character of a man of

the world to captivate the fancy of a woman whose heart is not

absolutely pure.

And how attractive even his weariness of the world was, and his air of

suffering! One would imagine, hearing him complain as he did, that he

was on the point of going into the desert, to live there on locusts.

Now he will probably take the gypsy to his solitude, to while away the

hours till Melitta returns....

Oswald increased thus wilfully his own troubles of mind. The new

passion which inflamed his imagination made him deaf to the voice of

his conscience, blind to the evident proofs of the utter groundlessness

of his assertions. He had an indistinct consciousness of his own

weariness and exhaustion; he felt sick at heart, and perfectly unable

to come to any clear conclusions about himself. He pressed his face

into his hands, to see nothing, to hear nothing....

A hand, which touched his shoulder, aroused him from his revery. It was

Oldenburg. The baron was alone. The fire of the piled-up wood blazed up

fitfully, and was on the point of expiring. The moon, half covered by

drifting gray clouds, twinkled ghastly in the dark water of the pool.

The wind was whispering and wailing through the long reeds near the

shore.

"Where is Czika?" asked Oswald.

"Gone," replied the baron. "Let us go. It is late."

"Is she not coming back?"

"I do not know."

"And you have allowed this child, your child, to follow the wild gypsy

woman into the wide world?"

"What could I do? Is she not her child a thousand times more than mine?

Has she not borne it amid pains, fed it, sheltered it many, many years,

in rain and in sunshine, in need and in poverty, in the dark woods and

on the open highway? Has she not begged and robbed and done worse

things than that perhaps for her child? What have I done for my child?

Nothing! Nothing but to stamp the mother as a thief before the eyes of

a mob of nobles, nothing but to drive her from me like a lost dog, for

the sake of a wretched coquette! No! No! I have no right to the child!"

While the baron was speaking he pushed with his foot the half-consumed,

glowing firebrands into the pool, so that they turned black one by one.

"Why did the Brown Countess wish to see you, then? Why did she manage

to put the child into your hands? Why did she herself appoint this

rendezvous?"

"She wished to see once more the beloved of her youth, the only man she

had ever really loved. She wished to put his child into his hands and

then dive back into the darkness of the woods. But she cannot live

without the child, and the child cannot live without her. I had to let

them go both!"

"But why not take them both with you to Cona?"

"Shall I chain the falcon? The falcon is happy only in the immeasurable

ether on high; he dies in the foul air of our houses. Come! It is high

time for us civilized men to go to bed!"

The baron pushed the last firebrand into the water; the men turned to

go.

From between the hurriedly drifting clouds the moon was peeping

blear-eyed at the dark water of the pool, and the long reeds that grew

near the edges whispered: Here is a pleasant resting-place for all the

sorrows of earth!

CHAPTER X.

"Well! That embarrassment is luckily over!" said Albert, pushing a

parcel of bank-notes into a bulky, worn-out pocket-book, which

contained among other things a number of mercantile communications,

unanswered yet in spite of their ancient date. "After all, she is a

nice little woman; not over-bright--but that is in this case only an

additional virtue. I really think I could deny my nature and marry the

little Samaritan. Perhaps it would not be so bad. Who knows? There may,

after all, be somewhere within me the germ of a most excellent steady

citizen, which only needs the warmth of a domestic hearth to sprout

merrily. The thing is problematic, I admit, but not impossible, for all

that I see myself walking soberly of a Sunday, by the side of my wife,

through the fields, listening to the quarrels among the sparrows and

the complaints of my better half against the extortionate bills of

butchers and bakers, while before us walk two young citizens of the

world who bear a slight resemblance to myself, and behind us, in a

little wagon drawn by a maid of all works, a shrill little voice is

heard, which furnishes unmistakable evidence of my wife's admirable

qualities! Oh!..."

Albert groaned as if he had sprained his foot on a real stone during

this imaginary promenade. He started up from the sofa, and walked

thoughtfully up and down in the room, folding his hands behind

his back. "The plats are ready," he said, stopping before his

drawing-board; "Anna Maria has paid me; I have nothing more to do here,

and the baroness' question, when I thought I would leave, was clear

enough. How I hate this proud, good-for-nothing race--all of them, not

one excepted, not even the beautiful, high-nosed Helen, who always

looks at me with such cool contempt in her big, cold eyes; and least of

all my noble friend Felix, who I think would be delighted if he could

cut me out with Marguerite. If I could but play you all a good trick,

that you should think of me your life long! If I could, for instance,

discover the heir to Stantow and Baerwalde in the person of--Ah! There

is the rub! In whose person?"

"I can do something with the letters I have, but not much. As yet I

cannot even frighten excellent Anna Maria with them. If I could only

have a chance of examining that big chest of Mother Claus'! It is a

fixed idea of mine that there must be something to be gotten there. But

I have in vain reconnoitred the whole house; I have in vain watched it

by day and by night, to find a moment when the old witch should leave

it for a moment--she sits there like a toad in the rock.--_Apropos_ of

that amiable young man! I thought of making him the Pretender, _nolens

volens_, for he is too stupidly honest to look at the whole thing as a

merry, and at the same time profitable, masquerade. It is wonderful how

honest people are when they have all they want! The best way to get rid

of thieves would be to pension every one of them. And this Stein is not

even so lucky as that. He cannot have any money--why else would he

plague himself with these boys? He would be just the man to spend a

fortune handsomely. And so far everything seems to fit exactly. He has

the requisite age; he has told me himself that he has never known his

mother, or--his father excepted--any other relative. And, besides that,

he has a striking likeness to the older line of the Grenwitz family. I

only wish I were he, that is to say, with my brains added to what he

has ..."

A timid knock at the door interrupted Albert's meditations. As upon his

"Come in!" no one entered, he went to open the door. A little peasant

boy, fair-haired and bare-footed, stood there, looking at him with his

stupid eyes wide open.

"Whom do you want, my boy?"

"Are you the candidate here?"

"To be sure!" said Albert, always ready for any fun or joke.

"Mother Claus sends me----"

"Who?"

"Mother Claus sends me----"

"Come in, little one," said Albert, taking the boy by the hand and

locking the door when they were both inside.

"What does Mother Claus want of me?"

"Mother Claus is dying, and sends me to tell the candidate to come and

see her."

The boy breathed deep when he had relieved himself of the fearful

burden of his message. Albert took up his cap.

"I'll come directly. You run on and tell her I am coming directly. And

look here: If anybody in the house asks you whom you come from, just

say you have delivered your message. Here is a groschen, and now make

haste to get home again."

The boy scampered off, proud of Albert's generous present, and of

course utterly forgetful of the order to run home. When he had reached

the courtyard, he sat quietly down on the fountain of the Naiad, to

decide at leisure whether he should buy at once the whole world, or for

the present only a bullfinch, which another boy had offered him that

morning.

He might have been sitting there a quarter of an hour when he fell fast

asleep, tired as he was from running about all day. Thus Oswald found

him when he returned from a lonely walk. As the sight of the ragged

sleeping boy on the edge of the fountain looked picturesque, he walked

up to him. The boy started up and rubbed his eyes in bewilderment.

"How do you get here, boy?" asked Oswald.

"Mother Claus sent me!" said the boy, not knowing at that moment

whether he had delivered his message or not.

"What is the matter with Mother Claus?" asked Oswald, who at once

suspected that something must have happened to his old friend.

"Mother Claus sends me," repeated the boy; "she is dying, and sends me

to tell the candidate to come and see her!"

Oswald did not stop to hear more. He thought of the poor old woman, in

whom he had from the beginning taken so warm an interest, now lying on

her deathbed, perhaps alone, helpless, and no kind hand to smooth her

pillow--and he hurried as fast as he could through the small gate on

the road that led to the tenants' cottages, taking the same road on

which Albert had passed a quarter of an hour before....

Albert had slipped through the small gate and the garden as soon as the

boy was out of sight. No one had seen him leave the chateau. The family

had gone out, and he thought Oswald was in his room.

"_Fortes fortuna juvat_," he thought as he was running along under the

willow trees. "They are all out in the fields now. The old woman could

not have died at a more suitable hour. I only hope she is dead when I

get there, for I do not want to have to explain...."

He had reached the village in a few minutes, but he avoided the main

street, running along the little gardens behind the cottages, till he

came to Mother Claus' hut. Here he jumped over a low fence and entered

through the open back door into the passage. He listened. Nothing was

stirring. He only heard the ticking of the large Black Forest clock in

Jake's room, and from the village street the laughter of a couple of

children--Mother Claus' foster-children--who were wrestling in the sand

to enjoy the evening sun.

"Now I hope to heavens there won't be some benevolent soul in the

room," murmured Albert, cautiously pushing open the door which led into

the old woman's room.

He entered on tip-toe. It was quite dark in the low, small chamber.

Albert's first glance fell upon the chest, which was safe in its place

in the corner; his next upon the old woman. She was sitting in the

large arm-chair, "in which Baron Oscar had died." She had dressed

herself in her Sunday costume, her oaken stick was by her side--one

might have imagined she had been ready to go to Fashwitz to church, and

had fallen asleep a little before undertaking the long, long journey.

"Is that you, young master?" she said, with trembling voice, and

raising her head with the snow-white hair to look at the door. "Come

nearer, quite near, that I may touch you. Where are you? It is all dark

around me; I cannot see you. Is not the moon shining through the trees?

Do you hear the nightingale sing? Listen! How sweet! how beautiful!

Oscar, you must not abandon Lizzie; she will cry till she blinds her

beautiful eyes; and you must tell Harald not to worry poor Marie

so much, else she'll go out into the black night. Good-by, dear

child!--Yes, I'll burn everything; it is all safe in the chest. Mother

Claus cannot read, but the right man will come at the right time!"

The head of the poor woman fell on her bosom. Albert thought she

was dead. He went to the chest, raised the heavy top, and hastily

searched the contents. There were women's dresses, which could not have

belonged to Mother Claus--city-made dresses, such as young ladies wore

twenty-five years ago! withered bouquets, faded ribbons, a few simple

articles of jewelry; a string of red corals; a little gold cross on a

black velvet ribbon. All this might be of very great interest to

somebody else; but Albert pushed it impatiently aside. And still he

went on searching and found not what he looked for. At last--there! at

the very bottom of the chest, in a corner, and hid under a black silk

dress, quite a parcel--letters, documents--there they were! He slipped

it into the pocket of his coat; he took with both arms what he had

pulled out and stuffed it in again, pell-mell, as it came, closed the

lid; and as he rose from his knees, was not that somebody coming? In an

instant he was at the little window that looked upon the small garden

behind the house. He opened it, he squeezed himself through the narrow

aperture with a rapidity which would have done credit to an experienced

housebreaker, crept on all fours through the currant-bushes, leaped the

low fence, and disappeared amid the golden waves of a field of rye.

Just as Albert thus accomplished his retreat through the window, Oswald

entered the room, breathless with haste. He feared he had come too

late; he knelt down by the side of the old woman and chafed her

withered, cold hands in his own.

And this touch seemed to restore the dying woman once more to life. She

raised herself, and placing her hand on his head, she said, with a

voice which sounded as if it came already from beyond the grave: "The

Lord bless thee and preserve thee! The Lord give thee peace!"

"Amen," said Oswald.

The hands of the old woman fell gently on her knees. Oswald looked up.

The light of the setting sun fell through the low window upon her face;

it looked as if it were spiritualized in the rosy light. But the rosy

light vanished, and the gray evening looked upon the pale face of the

dead.

Oswald closed her eyes. From the other side of the house came the

ticking of the big clock, from the street the laughing and shouting of

the children at play.--What does life know of death? what death of

life? What does eternity know of either?

CHAPTER XI.

Next morning before breakfast Mr. Timm was gone. He had asked the baron

to send him to the nearest town from which he could take post-horses.

The baron asked him hospitably why he was in such a hurry, and if he

would not stay a few days to recover from his arduous labors? But

Albert pretended to have received an important order--the postman had

indeed brought him a letter--and the baron ordered the taciturn

coachman to get ready his heavy bays. Mr. Timm bade all a brief

farewell and drove off. Nobody missed him--nobody, with the exception

of the little Genevese. But she shed her tears in the retirement of her

chamber, and the company saw nothing of her grief but her eyes red from

weeping, which she intended to explain by a pretended headache, if

anybody should inquire. But no one inquired.

They all had enough to do with themselves! All were fully occupied with

what was nearest to their own hearts.

The death of the old woman was another blow to Oswald. Again he had

lost one of the few beings in whom he was interested. It seemed as if

his troubled mind was never to have any peace--as if the last bright

light was to fade on his sky, and deep night was to surround him on all

sides. He had seen Mother Claus but rarely, and yet it had always been

under such peculiar circumstances as to make in each case a deep and

lasting impression on his mind; he felt as if he had lost an old

relative, whose tender affections he had rewarded with indifference and

ingratitude. When he was last at her hut with Albert, he had determined

not to lose sight again of the old woman, to ask her if he could help

her, to inquire if anything could be done for her. She had thought of

him in her last hour, while he had not had a minute for her in all

these days! She had wished to bless him before she died--what had he

ever done to deserve such a blessing?--It was of little use now that he

provided for her funeral, that he and Bruno accompanied her to her last

resting-place when they carried the simple coffin on a farm wagon to

the graveyard at Fashwitz. It was of no use that he wrote to Grunwald,

ordering a small marble tablet, so that her grave might not be too soon

obliterated. But he thought how she would have thanked him during her

lifetime for the smallest part of all the trouble he took for her now

that she was dead!

Was it because he had not deserved it, that the blessing was not

fulfilled? The peace which she had implored for him with the last

breath of her lips would not come to his heart. Like a desperate man he

struggled with the maddening passion which had overwhelmed him of a

sudden like a fierce hurricane, but every day convinced him but more

and more of his inability to resist. He spent daily several hours in

the company of the beautiful girl; she met him with her kindly smile on

her proud lips as soon as the bright summer morning had ended the short

night, which yet to him seemed so long! At table he sat opposite to

her; her lessons by his side, and a hundred other occasions, inevitable

in so small a family at a country place, brought him again and again in

contact with the lovely one. He himself called his passion not love,

but friendship, deep interest--he tried to persuade himself that he

would have felt the same friendship, the same interest, if his

relations to Melitta had remained unchanged,--if accident had never

revealed to him Melitta's image in a new light Oswald would have been

the first to discover that it spoke neither of prudence nor of loyalty

to make deceitful accident the judge of the weal or woe of a woman he

loved so dearly, and that all these boastful reasonings were nothing

more than cunning sophisms of a wild passion; he would have discovered

this in any one else; but we lack only too frequently that prudence and

loyalty in our own affairs which we always have ready for others, and

to think and talk wisely and to act foolishly are, it is well known,

different things, which still can very well go hand in hand.

It is true that an impassioned heart could not very well resist being

touched by so much beauty, grace, and mind combined in one person. All

who came in contact with Helen felt the charm, the wonderful charm, she

possessed; it seemed almost impossible not to take at once part for or

against her with enthusiasm, so that even in the servants' hall lively

scenes occurred, in which her attractions were discussed. The taciturn

coachman would growl out that all was not gold that glitters, and the

good old cook would reply that the angels of course never came to visit

bad and envious men; then followed an angry and unprofitable discussion

about bad men in general and in particular, which led to strange and

sharp sayings on both sides, while the master and his family were

handled without gloves, and much was said down stairs that would have

struck horror into the hearts of the company up stairs. Thus they were

pretty well agreed in those lower regions that Baron Felix had not come

to Castle Grenwitz for amusement only, and his valet hinted that some

people could say a good deal about that, if discretion was not the

first duty of a good servant. He only desired to add, that his master

was apt to carry out whatever he undertook, and that, in his opinion,

there was not a young lady in this world who could resist his master

for any length of time--an assertion which called forth most violent

opposition on the part of the ladies present.

What these people discovered, Oswald's eye, sharpened a hundred-fold by

love, could not overlook. He saw daily how the baron made every effort

to win his fair cousin's love, how he brought into play all the skill

he had acquired in a thousand intrigues on the smooth floor of

brilliant salons in the capital, all the cleverness with which Nature

had lavishly endowed him, and all the advantages he enjoyed as a near

relative. He could not fail to see that the baroness sustained these

efforts with wise discretion in every useful way, seconding Felix as

indefatigably as ably. He would say: No! or remain silent, when Bruno,

after dinner or during a walk, would tell him, with angry face, of some

new impudence of "that ape Felix," but he knew very well that the boy

had seen or heard right, and his only consolation was that Helen's

pride would never consent to a union with a man so totally unworthy of

her hand.

As for Miss Helen, she went her quiet way, apparently looking neither

to the right nor the left, only she had become still more reserved in

her manner, and more sparing of her smiles. She also felt perfectly

well that she would have to stand alone in the struggle which was

impending; that she would appeal in vain to the heart of a cold,

selfish mother, the weak mind of an old father, or the courtesy of a

frivolous, reckless man like Felix, and that she would have to rely on

no one but herself. But this consciousness, which would have

overwhelmed any other girl of Helen's age, only served to rouse and to

inflame the courage of this high-hearted creature, in whom the whole

power of the family seemed to be concentrated, only in a nobler and

purer form. The reconciliation which had taken place between her and

her mother had only been apparent. Two persons are never more strongly

opposed to each other than when they aim at different ends, and yet are

equally well endowed with strength of will and powers of endurance.

There was no permanent union possible between the baroness, who knew

and pursued only worldly purposes, and her daughter, who followed an

ideal which might have been exaggerated, but was always lofty and pure.

Helen spoke freely of this in the letters, which she wrote more

frequently now than formerly, to her dearest and most intimate friend,

Miss Mary Burton. "Dearest Mary," she said in one of them, "how often

have you accused your fate, which loaded you with riches but robbed you

of all--parents, brothers and sisters, and even cousins--all those

friends of both sexes, which nature herself gives us for our way

through life! But, believe me, dear girl, there is a sadder fate than

yours. The melancholy you feel when you think of your loneliness in the

world has something sweet about it. How often have you spoken to me of

your brother Harry, whom you lost in the fall vigor of early youth, and

of your sister Hetty, who died a mere bud. You told me then that they

were not and could never be dead for you, because they lived brighter

and fairer in your memory. You said that the shades of the departed

were everywhere hovering around you, and that you felt far happier in

their society than among the cold, selfish men of this world. Oh,

surely life is not the first of earthly gifts, but love is. To live

without love is useless; love without life can still be sublime. Your

relatives are dead, but they live in you; my relatives live, but they

are dead for me. It is a sad word, darling Mary, but I will not blot it

out again, for it is true; and we have pledged each other to conceal

nothing, even though the confession be ever so painful. Yes, they are

dead for me, my relatives, and although I would give half of my life to

call them back to life, good wishes can do nothing here. Who lives for

us? Surely only those in whose hearts we can always find an asylum, to

protect us against every grief that oppresses us and against every

doubt that distresses us--those who wish only our happiness, and do not

find it in the fulfilment of their own wishes, in the gratification of

their own desires. And yet, this is the case with my relatives. Can I

open my heart to them? Must I not always fear to offend them if I speak

what I think? Do they care for my wishes? Do they not rather distress

me with their plans and suggestions, which make the blood curdle in my

veins? To be sure, my dear old papa--he would not abandon me if matters

came to the worst; but, great Heavens, is it not bad enough to have to

fear a worst? Ah, Mary, I cannot tell you how strange, how painful even

the spirit that reigns in this house is to me; how I long to be back at

school, where, if the outer world was closed to us, a fairer and a

richer world was open to us in our dreams, and especially in our

cordial friendship! Here I have no one whom I could admit into this

inner world, no one but a boy, who, of course, cannot understand me,

and a man whom I could love if he were my brother, but from whom I am

parted by an impassable gulf. You know of whom I speak. I will not

conceal from you that of late I have become more deeply interested in

this man than I should ever have thought possible--a confession which

may challenge your scorn, but which I owe to you, notwithstanding, from

the sacred nature of our covenant. He stands alone in the world like

yourself; his mother he has never known; his father died years ago, and

he never had brother or sister. He is quite young yet, but great hearts

live fast in a little while, and he must have seen and suffered much.

There is a shadow of melancholy on his brow, and in his large, dark

blue eyes, which is irresistibly touching to me; at times his lips

quiver with pain, so that I would give anything if I could go up to him

and say: Tell me what pains you, perhaps I can help you, and if I

cannot do that, I can at least sympathize with you. You know, dear

Mary, that I am a thoroughbred aristocrat, and that I have an innate

antipathy to all that is common and plebeian. We have both of us grown

up in the conviction that the lower classes lack not merely the

nobility of birth, but also the nobility of thought, and that we cannot

count, in them, upon an appreciation of what is best and highest in the

world. I must tell you now that I have changed my views in this respect

somewhat since I have come back to Grenwitz; that I have at least found

how this rule also has its exceptions. Stein is such an exception. I

never yet heard a word from his lips that would betray the plebeian,

but, on the contrary, many that were spoken from my soul, and that

found a loud echo in my heart. He speaks with more music in his voice

than I ever heard before, so that I often try for hours afterwards to

recall to my mind the manner and modulation with which he said one or

the other thing. There is an indescribable charm for me in his sweet,

melodious voice. I always felt as if men were speaking from the heart,

and I could say, after a few words: This man has a good heart, and that

man has a bad heart. And with Stein this proves to be correct. I have

seen many proofs of his good heart. Thus, there died a few days ago an

immensely old woman in the village, who was once upon a time

housekeeper at the chateau, and drew a little pension from papa. Nobody

took any notice of her except Stein, and he took care of her burial,

and accompanied, together with Bruno, her remains to the grave-yard.

They have blamed him for that at the house here, and I had to hear very

heartless remarks about it; especially from a certain person, who ought

to thank God if she ever thinks of a kind act, much less does one. But

I will not honor this person by saying anything more about her. I have

determined that she shall henceforth no longer exist for me, and hence

I will not even speak of her any more...."

This letter, in which Miss Helen spoke so unreservedly about the

persons by whom she was surrounded, never was answered, for it never

reached its destination.

CHAPTER XII.

It was in the afternoon. The old baron was napping in the sitting-room.

He sat in his large rocking-chair; the newspaper he had been reading

had fallen from his feeble, withered hand. He looked very much worsted,

like a really old man who had not many years to live, and whose life

might be very suddenly ended by a trifling attack. Anna Maria, no

doubt, thought so as she sat opposite to him in her accustomed seat,

looking at him long and attentively, apparently lost in deep thought.

Now she rose and spread a thin handkerchief over the sleeper's face.

Then she looked at the clock on the mantel-piece. It was nearly four,

the hour at which, according to the unchanging rules of the house,

coffee was served--in the garden, if the weather permitted it. The

baroness was on the point of rousing her husband, but she reconsidered,

went through the open door into the garden, and asked the servant who

was carrying the coffee if Baron Felix had been called already?--Not

yet, ma'am! Then go up stairs and tell him I beg he will come at once

to see me, and--wait! tell mademoiselle she need not come to help to

coffee; I'll do it myself; she had better stay in the linen-room.--And,

what was it? Oh yes! You need not tell the others yet that coffee is

ready!

The man went on his errands. Anna Maria passed the garden-house and

entered a long, perfectly shady avenue of beech-trees, which led from

the lawn to a copse, in which an old ruined chapel was standing. She

seemed to have forgotten entirely that she had sent for Felix, for she

went on and on, her eyes fixed upon the ground, till she reached the

end of the avenue and the little chapel.

It was a sweet, pleasantly melancholy place. Very old trees of gigantic

size overhung it with their broad leafy branches, so that not a ray

could pierce. The ground was covered with thick moss; long, luxuriant

grass was growing between the broken stones; the crevices in the old

walls were all covered with dark-green ivy, and here and there a tall

blooming shrub rose from the ruins. Upon the weather-beaten stone cross

in the empty window sat a little bird and sang. That was the only sound

heard far and near. It seemed only to make the stillness around more

deeply felt.

A lover of solitude would have been delighted with the place. But the

baroness hardly raised her eyes from the ground to look hastily around.

She had at all times little eye for the rays of the sun that came

trembling through thick foliage, for dark shadows and other features in

a beautiful landscape, and now her mind was preoccupied with very

different thoughts. She sat down on a stone bench immediately under the

empty window frame in which the little bird was singing, took a letter

from her pocket and began to read it once more.

It was the letter which Helen had written that morning, in the belief

that her mother's assurance she would never inquire about her

correspondence was to be relied on. Fully trusting in the sacredness of

letters, she had given it to her maid, with orders to carry it to the

kitchen, where the postman was refreshing himself with a cup of coffee.

The maid had met the baroness in one of the passages, and the latter

had asked her whose letter that was? Upon her answer that her mistress

had given it to her, the baroness had taken it with the remark, that

she would give it herself to the postman when her own letters were sent

down.

Thus Helen's letter had fallen into her mother's hands. It was an

accident--one of those accidents which evil spirits seem to bring

about, for the very purpose of confusing doubting minds still further,

and of leading them more surely away from the right path. Without this

accident it would probably never have occurred to the baroness that she

might thus find a way to her daughter's heart. But her plan of marrying

Helen to Felix had become a fixed idea in her mind, as it happens often

with selfish and self-willed characters. The state of her husband's

health seemed to her--justly or unjustly--very dangerous; Malte had

from his birth been very delicate, and the over-anxious tenderness of

his parents had made him still more so; thus it appeared to her more

than probable that Felix might ere long be master at Grenwitz, and she

thought it therefore wise policy to bind him to her interests as much

as she could. At first she had looked in this to Helen's advantage

almost as much as to her own, and found it very convenient that her and

her daughter's interest could be so pleasantly combined. Felix seemed

to be made to become the son-in-law of an imperious mother-in-law. He

was trifling, yielding, averse to business, and always disposed to let

things go as they chose to go, if he had but money or credit enough.

The baroness did not remember that such men are the hardest to manage,

because reckless frivolity and intense selfishness can very well go

hand in hand, and that these men are ever ready to sacrifice all who

oppose their selfish desires. She thought she had nothing to fear from

Felix. He had won her whole heart, as far as she had any heart, by his

courteous, accommodating manner, and his ever ready: As you like it,

dear aunt--do you settle that, please, dear aunt!

All the greater was her concern about Helen. She could not conceal from

herself that all her attempts to draw her daughter nearer to herself

had so far been fruitless. Of course, she blamed only Helen's "childish

disposition" and her "overwrought notions" for the failure, but that

did not change the matter itself. And now she had to see, moreover,

that Helen had evidently more confidence in her father than in herself,

that she was more warmly attached to Bruno than to her brother Malte,

and that she treated Oswald, and even Mr. Timm, more courteously than

her cousin. Felix had laughed when the baroness told him what she had

noticed; he had even said it was a good sign. The ruder the better!

was the ex-lieutenant's doctrine, which he accompanied with a

gallant comparison between horses and girls strongly smacking of the

guard-house. But the baroness had the habit of trusting her own eyes,

and her own eyes confirmed daily the correctness of her observation. At

last Felix also had begun to feel less sure of success. Emily's words

on that night had pierced his self-complacency like a barbed arrow.

Jealousy has hawk's eyes. Emily knew that only the love of another

could have produced such a change in Oswald, and that wonderful

instinct which in women more than replaces the slow logic of men, had

in an instant revealed to her that her rival could be no one else but

the beautiful Helen. Felix, in his rash manner of trying to get rid of

a troublesome thought, had at once communicated the matter to the

baroness, and she had meditated on it till she had come to the

conclusion that Emily's suggestion was too probable not to be

thoroughly investigated.

Just then accident had placed Helen's letter in her hand. This letter,

intended only for her daughter's most intimate friend, would probably

furnish her the key to her daughter's heart, and confirm or destroy her

suspicion. That, this key in her hand became a thief's tool--what did

it matter? She must have certainty at any price. And has not a mother

the right to know her daughter's secrets? And if this daughter, as she

feared, was going astray on a dangerous path, was it not the mother's

sacred duty to bring her back by any means in her power?

Thus the baroness had tried to quiet her conscience. Man never is in

want of excuses for an act which he has determined to commit at all

hazard.

And there she sat now on the stone bench by the old walls of the

chapel, with the little bird merrily twittering above, and the letter,

the unlucky letter, in her hand. She knew it almost by heart. The fruit

from the tree of knowledge, which he had so wickedly stolen, was

bitter, very bitter! She had never loved her daughter; now she hated

her daughter. It was true then! Her worst suspicions were confirmed.

Black ingratitude the only return for all her kindness! Helen on the

best terms with the two persons she hated most! Baron Grenwitz's only

daughter in love with a hireling, a low-born person, who received wages

and his board from her parents! For what meant, after all, those fine

phrases about Oswald's goodness of heart, and the sympathy she felt for

his secret sorrow? The baroness did not know much of the language of

love; but she did know that indifference does not speak thus. It had

come to this then! Helen wanted war! Well--war she should have. They

would soon see who was the stronger--the mother or the daughter. Could

she yield now? Let the disobedient child have her way? Sacrifice her

long-cherished plans to a foolish girl's whims? No, and a thousand

times, No!

But what was she to do? Try kindness once more, or drop the mask, and

command where prayers had been of no avail? And above all, how much of

the secret was she to tell Felix? Would his pride be roused if he saw

how little Helen thought of him, how she despised him, in fact? Might

he not draw back, and would not Helen then triumph after all?

Before the baroness could quite settle this point in her mind, she

heard steps near by. She hastily folded up the letter and concealed it

in the pocket of her dress.

It was Felix. He had found no one in the garden-house, and accidentally

looking down the avenue, he had thought he saw the baroness at the

other end.

"Ah! it is you," he said, as the baroness rose when he came near, "I

really did not know if it was you. The coffee is waiting, but, like

King Philip in the play, lonely and alone. Everybody seems to have

slept too long, like myself."

"Sit down here, Felix," said the baroness; "the coffee can wait. We can

talk here more at ease than over there."

"A charming secret place for a nice little rendezvous," replied Felix,

laughing, and sitting down by the side of the baroness.

At that moment the little bird ceased to sing that had been sitting on

the cross in the window, and flew into one of the trees. The pale face

of a boy, framed in dark curls, showed itself for a moment in the

opening, and looked down, but disappeared instantly at the sight of the

two on the stone bench.

"You are still always ready for a joke, dear Felix," said the baroness.

"Still!" replied Felix, "what has happened that I should cry? I suppose

you cannot forget what I told you the other night? Pshaw! I have long

since recovered from the fright; it was a false alarm, you may believe

me."

"I wish I could share your confidence, dear Felix; but I have my good

reasons for differing with you on that point. I have observed Helen

more carefully since then, and I cannot get rid of the idea that there

is something in the suggestion."

"But, pardon me, dear aunt. You have a marvellous talent for seeing

everything in dark colors. It was a childish notion of the little

Breesen; she wanted to annoy me--_voila tout_. I cannot imagine that

Helen would prefer a schoolmaster to myself. Why, it would be

ridiculous, _horriblement_ ridiculous," said the ex-lieutenant, and

looked with pleasure at his patent boots.

"And suppose Helen should not forget herself so far--or suppose it

should be only a child's caprice, to vanish with the next moment, are

you so well pleased with her manner towards yourself?"

"She will change her manner when she finds I am in earnest."

"And if she does not change it?"

"Well, then, we are, heaven be thanked, not married yet," said Felix,

lost in admiration of his boot, and hardly knowing what he was saying.

"Then we had better break off our conversation," said the baroness,

rising; "if you can speak with such indifference of the failure of a

plan which, I think, we both of us look upon with no small interest, it

is hardly worth while to discuss it any further."

"But, my dearest aunt," said Felix, starting up and kissing the

baroness' hand, "you are really in an awful humor today. How can you be

so offended at a word, which did not mean anything at all, 'pon honor?

It just slipped out so. You know my tongue often says things for which

I should by no means like to be held responsible. Sit down again, pray!

You were saying that Helen's manner towards me might not change. My

solemn answer is: I shall many her nevertheless. Those things come all

right when one sits in the carriage and is off for the wedding tour; at

first tears, then sobs, then pouting, then a little smile, and----"

"Enough," said the baroness, "you are an incorrigible wag, who----"

"Succeeds wherever he wants to succeed. And therefore let your scruples

go, and give us our coffee or it will be cold."

"Not quite so fast," said the baroness; "what would you advise now?"

"What I have always advised. Since I am not allowed to have anything to

do with the matter myself, you had better tell Helen: You marry your

cousin Baron Felix Grenwitz, and moreover within so and so many days!

That is settled! Selah!"

"Are you in earnest?"

"In full earnest! When are you going to give your great ball?"

"Day after to-morrow."

"Good! that is a capital opportunity to make our engagement public.

Just tell Helen: If you are not Felix's betrothed by Thursday evening,

you march back to school on Friday morning. You will see that will

settle it."

"I am afraid the threat will have the opposite effect. They have spoilt

Helen in Hamburg. I believe she had rather go back to-day than Friday."

"_Eh bien!_ Then send the little obstinate damsel to Grunwald, to the

model institute of Miss Bear. The little Breesen has been brought up

there, and she told me the other day it was rather a kind of

penitentiary than a boarding-school; but the harder it is the more

effective--I mean the threat. For I will be hanged if _ma chere

cousine_ lets matters go to such an extremity--pardon me, dear aunt, I

know you do not like such strong expressions."

"It is certainly a very bad habit of yours," said the baroness, rising.

Felix followed her example.

"Which I shall try to lay aside to please you," he added, offering his

arm to the baroness.

"One thing more," said the latter, pausing a moment, "do you believe

Grenwitz will consent?"

"If I believe it?" cried Felix, laughing in a manner which was by no

means flattering for the poor old gentleman, "if I believe it? _Ma foi,

chere tante_, has not my most worthy uncle been nearly twenty years

under your orders? How long is it since I have the honor of serving

under you? A few weeks, and I think I have learnt to obey pretty well

already!"

"You are a flatterer," said the baroness, graciously, "but nobody can

be angry with you."

And the worthy pair went off arm in arm.

When the voices could no longer be heard, the boy's face became visible

once more in the open window. It was even paler than before. The boy

threatened the two with a gesture of his arms, and his lips moved as if

they were murmuring a grim malediction. Then, when the two had

disappeared out of sight, he let himself down upon the bench where they

had been sitting. By the bench on the thick moss lay a badly folded

letter, which the baroness had dropped from her pocket. The boy picked

it up, and when he saw that it was in Helen's handwriting he pressed it

to his lips with passionate tenderness. Then he concealed it carefully

in his breastpocket, looked once more cautiously around, and the next

moment he had disappeared in the bushes.

CHAPTER XIII.

When the ex-lieutenant's cunning valet had spoken of the irresistible

power of his master in all love affairs, the fair sex of the kitchen

had cried out against him as uttering an insult to them all. But the

man of much experience had smiled mysteriously, leaning back in his

chair, after the manner of his master, and looking askant, but with a

most expressive twinkle of the eye at one of the ladies, who had shown

the deepest moral indignation, and the highest degree of eloquence in

the unprofitable discussion. At this glance pretty Louisa had suddenly

turned very red and become silent, so that she attracted the notice

even of the taciturn coachman, who gravely repeated his former remark,

that all was not gold that glitters. Thereupon pretty Louisa had begun

to cry, and the old cook had risen and openly charged the valet with an

unfair attempt to injure a poor girl by vile insinuations and "hateful

looks." The adroit fellow, seeing that he had gone too far, immediately

retraced his steps and assured them that his remarks had not been

intended for anybody present, and that the twinkling of his eye was

perfectly accidental. This very loyal and perfectly parliamentary

explanation had finally restored peace in the company assembled around

the kitchen fire.

Unfortunately, however, matters were exactly as the great man had

suggested--betraying, it is true, the secrecy which was due to his

master as a faithful servant, and which he was disposed to claim as a

special merit of his own. Baron Felix had the bad habit--bad for

himself and bad for his valet--of falling in love with every pretty

girl whom he met on his way through life, although it might be only for

a few days, hours, or even minutes, and to avail himself of every

possible opportunity for an intrigue. Thus he had not been twenty hours

at the chateau before he had found out that mademoiselle and pretty

Louisa were the two persons who might help him kill time at this

tiresome place, and during his troublesome courtship. Albert, his old

comrade in many a similar heroic affair, when they were both cadets,

had given him information about mademoiselle, and Jean, the valet, had

received orders to see how the land lay about pretty Louisa. Albert had

considered for a moment, thinking it might not be amiss to favor Felix,

so as to make his intimacy with mademoiselle a pretext for himself, if

he should wish to break with her at some future time. But finally the

hatred he felt against his former comrade, the lucky fool, and a kind

of jealousy he felt most unaccountably, had carried the day. He assured

Felix that mademoiselle had told him herself of her positive engagement

"to a candidate of divinity," heaven knows where, probably in Grunwald;

that he had tried himself to get into her good graces, but as he had

failed, he was quite sure any effort to succeed with the "black-eyed

Genevese girl" would be fruitless.

Felix was not generally the man to be intimidated by such suggestions,

but he was quite willing to abandon this enterprise, as his experienced

scout had reported to him, as the result of his reconnaissance in the

other direction, that there success was easy and sure. Don Giovanni

Felix had thereupon opened the trenches in due form, and was, of

course, by no means surprised when, a few days later, the little

fortification surrendered at discretion.

And yet it was by no means easy to carry out a gallant adventure in the

chateau. It had such a labyrinth of passages, so many large and small

staircases, which landed you suddenly in stories to which you had no

intention of going, and so many doors which all looked alike, and made

you enter any room but your own, that one who was not perfectly at home

there was almost sure to go astray. Felix had paid the penalty of being

a stranger, and had lost his way more than once by night, succeeding in

regaining his room only after much trouble and hours of fruitless

efforts. He preferred, therefore, to lie in wait for his little beauty

in the garden, where shady walks and discreet bowers offered many a

safe place for rendezvous, and which was as accessible to the denizens

of the lower regions as to the great people of the chateau.

Thus he had stolen out this night also, and was waiting for his poor

little victim in one of the bosquets, from which one could see the

offices as well as the lower windows of the chateau. The great clock

struck twelve--the hour fixed for the rendezvous. The moon was shining

brightly; the dewdrops on leaves and flowers glittered in its rays;

Felix could see by his watch that the castle clock was a quarter of an

hour behind time. The lights in the chateau had disappeared one by one;

only in two windows of the lower story towards the garden the light of

a lamp was still shining through the red curtains. Felix saw the vague

outlines of a figure at regular intervals appear, and then disappear

again--evidently the occupant was walking up and down in the room. Then

she must have sat down again at the piano, for single notes were heard,

like the notes of a bird, who tries to sing his songs as he dreams in

the moonlight; then they mingled into full accords, and at last

Beethoven's glorious _Sonate pathetique_ poured forth its rich

melodies, as if angels were singing while they hovered at midnight,

with outspread wings, over the earth, gathering all the joys and all

the sorrows of this world in their godlike hearts, and pouring them

forth in one solemn anthem full of unspeakable sadness and heavenly

sweetness. It would have been strange if Felix had really dared to lift

up his eyes and to raise his hands towards the pure, chaste girl who

was playing, without some feeling of remorse; for as he stood there,

leaning against a column with an urn on top, and listening, he felt his

own want of purity. He was not altogether without feeling; he could

even become enthusiastic about what was really great and beautiful,

although his enthusiasm did not last but a few moments, and vanished

like a pretty bright soap-bubble, with its thousand varying hues, at

the first rising of a frivolous thought. Who knows but that, at that

moment, he resolved to lead another life hereafter, and to lay aside

his follies?--and he had such a very good opinion of himself that no

doubt he thought it sufficient to resolve in order to succeed. He

listened to the music with a vague sense of reverence. His knowledge of

music told him that the Sonata could not have been played better, or

with more expression; he whispered at one or two passages: Brava!

brava! as if he had been in a concert-room. But Helen and Beethoven,

virtue and music, and whatever else might at that moment have passed

through his mind--all vanished in an instant, like a Fata Morgana, when

his ear heard a stealthy step approaching. It came from another

direction than that from which Felix expected his friend. But, then,

pretty Louisa might have gone out of her way to avoid the walks which

the moon lighted up with its bright light. The steps came nearer and

nearer, and Felix, conceiving the original idea of playing hide and

seek, stole back into the shrubbery. But what was his surprise when he

saw, instead of pretty Louisa, Bruno glide past him! He could not help

laughing at his mistake; but the next moment it occurred to him how

this might endanger his rendezvous, and that it would probably be wiser

to go back to the house. "Who knows how long the boy may loiter about

here? may be he is in love, or he is crazy? He looks as if he might be

either. Or he is moon-struck, and walks about here for a few hours. The

rascal! He is always in my way; I have a great mind to give him a

tangible proof of my friendly attachment for him. At all events I had

better leave here. It is not too late yet to plead my love of moonlight

for being out, but in a little while the excuse would hardly avail. I

mean, however, to tell my excellent aunt of these night excursions of

Mr. Stein's pupils."

Felix had nearly reached the house on his return without seeing Bruno,

and was already hoping the boy might have left the garden, and his

rendezvous might still be accomplished, when he suddenly caught sight

of Bruno, just as he was crossing the lawn. The boy was sitting on a

bench, his eyes fixed on Helen's window, from which music was still

pouring forth; and so perfectly lost in devotion that he did not notice

Felix till the latter was quite near him.

"What are you doing here so late at night?" asked Felix, whose anger

sought vent at least in a few rough words; "I shall tell your aunt."

"Mind your own affairs," said Bruno, who had started up in the first

surprise, advancing a few steps; but now, as he recognized Felix, whom

he hated, he stopped in bold defiance.

"You are an impertinent boy," said Felix.

"And you a blackguard," replied Bruno, standing before him with folded

arms.

"Who will punish you for your insolence," said Felix, boxing the boy's

ears. Bruno staggered back a few steps. Felix saw, half frightened, how

the boy's eyes began literally to burn; then he uttered a low, fierce

cry from the depth of his throat--a great leap, like that of a leopard

pouncing upon his victim, and the next moment Felix lay on the ground,

and Bruno's powerful hands held his throat with an iron grip. Felix

struggled desperately to shake off the boy and to rise again, but in

vain. As often as he rose a little, trying to push Bruno aside with his

arms, he felt his efforts paralyzed by superior strength, and the

slender fingers enclosed his throat firmer and firmer.

"Let me go, Bruno," he groaned.

"Commend your soul to God, for you must die," Bruno growled.

Felix felt his strength giving way, while that of his adversary seemed

to increase every moment. Deadly anguish fell upon him. He wanted to

call for help, but his trembling lips could not utter a sound; he felt

a low buzzing in his ears, which grew stronger and stronger; it became

dark before his eyes, though millions of small stars were shooting

about; fearful thoughts drifted like storm-laden clouds through his

brains.--Suddenly, when the last glimmer of consciousness seemed to be

extinguished, he felt the horrible burden leave his chest, and when he

at last gathered strength to rise from the ground, he was alone. The

moon was shining on the dark blue sky, the light in Helen's room had

disappeared, the music was at an end, and Felix might have fancied his

struggle with Bruno but a dream, if the reality had not been too well

attested by the violent pains he felt in more than one part of his

body, the sand that covered his clothes, and the ground turned up all

around him.

With a heart filled with shame and rage he went back to the house, like

a wolf who had attempted to surprise a flock, and had been driven back

to the woods, bitten and wounded by a noble watch-dog.

CHAPTER XIV.

The baroness had missed Helen's letter the same evening. This discovery

caused her no small dismay. The letter might so easily fall into wrong

hands--hands that might return it to the girl, and thus expose her in

her own daughter's eyes to sad disgrace! She should then irretrievably

lose all the advantage which she had obtained by this insight into

Helen's state of mind, and which she thought of rendering profitable to

herself by frequent allusions and threatenings. It was unlucky,

extremely unlucky!

The baroness remembered very distinctly having put the letter into the

pocket of her dress as Felix was coming up the avenue. The probability

therefore was, that she had lost it near the chapel. She remembered

also having pulled put her handkerchief once during the conversation,

in order to play the offended lady with greater effect. But it was too

late that night to make any search for it; she had to spend a sleepless

night, and wake up next morning with a violent headache. As soon as she

could, she went into the garden and to the chapel. There was no letter

to be seen, neither there nor in the beech avenue nor in the bower.

Very much disconcerted, the baroness returned to the house.

There new trouble awaited her. Oswald sent word that Bruno had passed a

sleepless night and was very unwell; would it not be better to send a

messenger on horseback for Doctor Braun? He also begged that Malte

might be kept down stairs, as he wished Bruno to be alone till the

doctor came. The baroness sent back word that she hoped his

indisposition would soon be over, and cause no interruption in the

regular lessons. As for the doctor, she would let him know when they

sent to town.

A few hours afterwards Felix sent his excuses for not coming to

breakfast; he was quite unwell, but would be certainly down to dinner.

Felix was indeed rather worsted by his encounter with Bruno. First and

foremost, the burning disgrace of having succumbed to a boy, and of

having escaped with his life only, thanks to an accident or a sudden

fit of generosity. It required the whole power of his frivolity to get

over that painful thought. He tried to persuade himself--and after a

while he did persuade himself--that the thing had not been so serious,

and that, if he had not slipped so unluckily just when Bruno had leaped

upon him, and if his "abominable rheumatism" had not paralyzed his

arms, he "would have shaken off the boy like a troublesome fly, and

treated him, besides, to a sound drubbing." That, however, in the mean

time he had received the drubbing, and the fly had taken good hold of

him, was clearly shown by the brown and blue spots which Felix had

carried off. On neck and shoulders as sure signs of his defeat. His

great valet was not a little surprised when he found his master in a

condition which reminded him forcibly of former days, when he was still

a cadet, and Cognac and Goulard Water formed regularly part of his

toilet. The great man, however, quickly proved that he had no more

forgotten the art of curing contusions and discolorations than his

master had forgotten the art of getting them, and by dinner-time Felix

was in a fit state to present himself in the drawing room. Still, he

was doubtful whether he ought to appear at table or not. It was

extremely painful to him to think of meeting Bruno, to see the boy's

dark eyes rest upon him, full of scorn and satisfaction, and perhaps to

have read in Oswald's face that he had been fully informed of the

events of last night. He felt, therefore, no small relief when Jean

told him that the company would be very much reduced at dinner to-day,

as Mr. Stein and Bruno would not appear. He only cast a glance at the

looking-glass, dropped a little more Ess. Bouquet than usually on his

lawn handkerchief, and passed through the door which Jean obsequiously

opened as light and free and as irresistible as ever, although burdened

with the memory of his recent defeat.

The baroness also felt no small relief when she found that Helen showed

no change in her manner or on her face, and in her large eyes. The

baroness was more attentive than ever to her daughter.

Nevertheless dinner was duller than usual, although Felix did his best

to make conversation. The old baron had gone himself to inquire after

Bruno, and was angry that the doctor had not yet been sent for, and

said that "if a wagon was going to town in the evening, to bring

various things for the ball to-morrow, that was no reason why one of

the servants might not have gone in on horseback early in the morning."

The baroness did not relish the imputed blame, and replied that it was

true she had forgotten that it was for Bruno and not for herself,

although she had suffered from a very bad headache, nor for Felix, who

had been quite sick during the night and the forenoon. Helen hardly

raised her eyes from her plate, and said nothing, while little

Marguerite's eyes were even more inflamed from weeping than on the

preceding days. Felix and Malte quickly exhausted their topics of

conversation, and thus the whole company was soon as silent as if they

had been attending a funeral meal in Egypt.

The baroness and Felix were left alone after dinner, as the old baron

withdrew to his rooms. Felix had been considering during dinner whether

he had not better mention the occurrence of last night--of course in

his own way--before Bruno should have an opportunity of speaking of it

to any one else beside Oswald. He therefore availed himself of the

_tete-a-tete_ with the baroness for that purpose. Laughing, and begging

her not to let the odd story get any farther, he then told her how the

beautiful moonlight had tempted him to go into the garden, how he had

found Bruno hovering around Helen's room in a very suspicious manner,

and how at last the boy, refusing to go to bed as he had ordered him to

do, had begun a quarrel, and made him slip and fall. He added, that as

soon as he had recovered from the surprise he had inflicted due

punishment on Bruno, who was probably still suffering from the

consequences.

The baroness was by no means pleased with this humorous account of a

very serious matter. Her apprehensions about the letter were excited

anew. Bruno late at night near Helen's windows! What could he have to

do there? The circumstance looked very suspicious. Could Bruno have

found the letter? Could he have wished to restore it to her? The

baroness groaned at the thought.

"What is the matter, dear aunt?"

"Oh, nothing! I only sigh at the trouble that man Stein has already

brought upon our house. If I regret anything in my life, it is that I

did not send him off the very first time I saw him. I had a great mind

to do so that evening, for hardly ever has anybody made so unfavorable

an impression upon me as that young man."

"But, dear aunt, why don't you do now what you omitted to do then? Turn

him out. I really do not understand why you hesitate."

The baroness was not disposed to acknowledge that she would have to pay

Oswald a thousand dollars if she broke the contract during the first

year. This sum she was by no means willing to sacrifice. But before she

could get an answer ready, the Reverend Mr. Jager's voice was heard,

inquiring if he would be permitted to see the baroness.

The next moment the reverend gentleman entered the room, accompanied by

his wife.

There was no difficulty in seeing that something extraordinary had

occurred to the worthy couple. The minister wore his new black dress

coat, which he only displayed on the most solemn occasions, and Primula

had adorned her bonnet with a most picturesque wreath of wheat-ears,

which made her look a shade more yellow than usual. The minister's eyes

tried in vain to assume their wonted expression of humility, the very

glasses seemed to sparkle with triumph, and as for Primula, her poetic

mind had evidently been freed from all earthly shackles; she could show

herself now as she really was.

"I come, madam," said the minister, gallantly kissing the baroness'

hand, "partly in order to inquire how you and all the dear ones are

to-day, and partly to report to you an event which we--I hope I may

venture to say we to my noble friend--which we have long looked for, I

may add, long hoped for, and which yet has come at last very

unexpectedly. I have received an appointment as professor at the

University of Grunwald."

"At first only as adjunct professor," added Primula; "but the full

professorship will follow soon."

"At the same time I have received a call to the University Chapel."

"Yes," added Primula, "Professor Darkling wrote expressly about that."

"Why, that is capital news," said the baroness. "Permit me to present

my nephew, Baron Felix--the Rev. Mr., I meant to say, Professor Jager

and Mrs. Jager, dear Felix--capital news indeed! At last, then! Well, I

always said it must come sooner or later; it is true we shall be the

losers, but then our friends will gain so much, and that ought to be

our first consideration. Let me congratulate you most heartily."

"And me too," said Felix.

"Thank you, madam, thank you, baron, very much obliged indeed," said

the professor, rubbing his hands with delight; "yes, yes; better late

than never. I have been looking for this ever since the reviews spoke

so--I may be permitted to say--so very handsomely of my last important

work, in which I established beyond all dispute the real text of the

long-lost works of Philochrysos, one of the fathers of the church."

"When are you going to leave us?"

"Well, probably in the fall; but possibly sooner. I propose to deliver

during the winter session three courses of lectures, and one special

course on the lost writings of Philochrysos."

"You attempt too much, Jager, too much!" breathed Primula in tender

accents: "oh these men! these men! Every one of them is a Prometheus

ready to take Olympus by storm."

"And who has inspired me with such bold hopes, if it is not you

yourself?" said the minister, gratefully pressing Primula's hand.

"Do you like pistol-shooting?" asked Felix, to turn the conversation.

"Well, a little, that is, no, I cannot say I like it. I used to be

tolerably successful in shooting hares and partridges, but since the

higher church authorities have pronounced very energetically against

such amusements, 'my irons lie idle in the hall,' as the poet says."

"Perhaps you might take up again the noble sport, now that you are a

professor," said Primula. "Ah, I think it must be glorious to meet an

enraged boar with a loaded pistol in your hand ..."

"I should advise your husband," said Felix, laughing, "not to venture

upon such an encounter without a rifle, and possibly a good stout

hunting-knife by his side. But seriously, professor, will you come and

let us have a little shooting at a mark?"

"Certainly, certainly!" cried the minister, starting up; "I am at your

service, at your service."

The reverend gentleman had turned rather pale; from his excitement one

might have imagined he was rushing to fight a duel where his life was

in deadly peril.

"Had you not better stay here?" asked Primula, who suddenly took a very

dismal view of the matter. "You are not quite as composed to-day as

usual. If an accident should happen just now, when you have reached the

goal of your wishes, Jager, I should not survive it," and the poetess

broke out in tears and clung to her husband, whose efforts to relieve

himself of the sweet burden were by no means very energetic.

"Gustava," he whispered, "dearest Gussy, it is not so dangerous as you

fancy. Are your pistols provided with hair-triggers, baron?"

"Certainly," replied Felix, not a little amused by this scene. "When

they are cocked you must not sneeze, or I will not be responsible for

the consequences."

"Stay, oh stay! husband mine!" Primula said imploringly.

"I suppose there is not much danger," said the minister, his lips pale

with terror.

"So said a friend of mine the other day," added Felix. "Have a care,

said I.--Nonsense said he, and took the pistol by the mouth. The next

moment he had lost one of his fingers."

"That is decisive," said Primula, rising; "Jager, you stay, I insist

upon it, I command you to stay. Do not meddle with things of which you

know nothing. Pistol-shooting is no child's play."

Such strong arguments were irresistible even for a great mind like the

Reverend Mr. Jager's. He sank back in his chair and said, wiping the

perspiration from his brow:

"You see, baron, married men are not their own masters. When you are

married you will see how the brilliant cavalier will change into the

prudent father of a family. But how is it, may I not offer you my

congratulations?"

And the minister inclined his head on the right shoulder, to smile at

the baroness, and then on his left shoulder, to bestow the same favor

on Felix.

"You may ask me again a few days hence," replied the baron, evasively.

"But, as I was going to say: Your appointment will make up for the loss

the university has suffered in Professor Berger. Are the two events

perhaps connected with each other?"

"Not directly, at least," said the minister, "although I am not

disposed to deny that Professor Berger would have used his influence by

no means in my favor, and thus his attack may be looked upon as a

favorable event, as far as I am concerned."

"Is there any explanation how this sudden attack has come on?" asked

the baroness.

"No, madam, sudden it can hardly be called," replied the new professor,

assuming a most grave manner, and drawing down the corners of his

mouth; "I confess I was by no means surprised, because I have always

looked upon the professor as partially insane. A man who can maintain,

as he did, that all so-called arguments in favor of the existence of

God, the Almighty Maker of heaven and earth, are but a false

conclusion, a _petitio principii_, such a man is already half insane. A

man who can talk frivolously about the sacred institutions of kings,

ruling by the grace of God, and of an hereditary nobility, is already

mad, although he be a professor and his lectures be attended by

hundreds of admiring listeners. I know very well it is written: Judge

not, that ye be not judged; but, nevertheless, I cannot but say that I

see the hand of God in this punishment."

"How would you like a game of ten-pins?" said Felix, who had been

standing in the open door, and who had heard nothing of the

conversation.

"With pleasure," replied the professor; "I understand all about those

balls. I used to be great at ten-pins when I was a student at

Grunwald."

"After coffee, dear Felix," said the baroness; "I have to talk with Mr.

Jager about some important business.--Is it not terrible, dear Mr.

Jager, that we must have a pupil of this abominable man in our own

house? That I should have to leave the innocent soul of my poor child

in such hands? For Heaven's sake advise me, what must I do to get rid

of the man in a decent way?"

"You cannot send him off unceremoniously?"

"We are mutually bound for four years, and therefore if we----"

"I see, I see," said the professor, who was fully aware of Anna Maria's

avarice; "hm, hm! We must find out some good reason! There is a law

which requires tutors, who are at the same time candidates for the

ministry, to obtain testimonials from the nearest minister, showing

their good standing as to morals, etc. We might make it very difficult

for Mr. Stein to obtain such a certificate," and the reverend gentleman

smiled cunningly.

"Do you know the last news?" cried Felix, holding a note in his hand,

which one of the servants had just brought him, as coffee was served in

the bower; "Cloten is engaged to little Emily; here he sends me, as his

best friend, the first information; others will not hear of it till

to-morrow."

"I can beat you there," said the professor; "who do you think, madam,

returned last night?"

"Well?"

"Frau von Berkow."

"Impossible!"

"I am quite sure of it. She has, in compliance with her husband's

wishes, brought his body to be interred at Berkow. The coffin will

arrive to-night, and to-morrow I shall hold the usual services."

"Then we cannot invite the fair lady to our ball to-morrow?" asked

Felix.

"But, Felix!" said the baroness, with a reproachful glance.

"Coffee is served," announced the servant.

"Then let us go in," said the baroness.

CHAPTER XV.

In the mean time Oswald had spent some sad, anxious hours at Bruno's

bedside. He had noticed of late Bruno's excited state of mind, and felt

deeply concerned about it. Explosions of violent passion, such as

Oswald had witnessed when he first came, but which had then almost

entirely disappeared for a time, had now again become more frequent and

violent than ever. A contradiction, a failure, a slighting remark at

table from the baroness, were sufficient to unchain the demon. In vain

had Oswald begged and besought him to control his temper, which exposed

him to the attacks of his adversaries and prevented his friends from

defending him--"I cannot help it," was his invariable answer; "it is a

power I cannot resist. It boils up within me, it gnaws at my heart, it

beats in my temples, and then I do not know any longer what I am saying

or doing."--If Oswald replied that he was not in earnest with his

efforts to control himself, Bruno answered angrily: Well, scold me as

the rest of them do; make common cause with them. I do not want

lukewarm friends; he who is not for me is against me.--Then, when he

saw how he had hurt Oswald's feelings by such speeches, he would throw

himself passionately into his arms and beg his pardon amid burning

tears.--Have pity on me, he said. You do not know how thoroughly

wretched I am.--In vain that Oswald urged him to tell him what it was

that oppressed him.--I do not know myself, Bruno replied; I only wish I

were far, for away from here, never to return any more; and then,

again, I do not want to go, not for anything in the world; I do not

know what it is; I believe I should like best to be dead.

Oswald tried his best to find out what could be the cause of this

strange state of mind; but, though often on the point of discovery, he

never found out the real mystery, which the poor boy concealed in his

innermost heart, perhaps from himself as much as from others. It is a

well-known fact, that even clever men often commit the strangest

blunders in their judgment of those who are nearest to them, while

others, at a distance, see clearly and distinctly. Impossible! exclaims

a father, who is told what a bad son he has; impossible! cries a

brother, when he first hears that his sister has engaged herself to his

best friend. At times we are blinded by affection, at other times by

antipathy; here it is indifference which makes us ignore a miracle that

happens before our eyes; there it is noble shame which makes us cast

down our eyes in order not to see a cheek blushing with guilt. No

prophet is accepted in his own country, and in most cases the heart of

one brother is to the other a book sealed with seven seals.

Thus it was the case here. Oswald consoled himself with the thought

that the years of transition from boyhood to manhood were always an age

of storms, within and without, and that strong, passionate characters

like Bruno's must, of course, suffer more than others. He knew, from

frequent conversations on such subjects, that Bruno's mind was a noble

one, and that his heart was pure "as the heart of waters." He was,

therefore, quite reassured on this score; but he did not suspect that

Bruno, noble and pure as he was, loved his beautiful cousin with all

the power of his strong heart, with all the fire of youthful passion,

with the unbounded happiness of a first attachment, with the silent

despair of a first passion which is not returned and cannot be

returned.

He had never before seen Helen. When he was brought to the house of his

relatives, three years ago, the young girl had already been sent to the

boarding-school. They mentioned her very rarely in the family, and when

they did so, it was with a few cool words only--a circumstance which

probably excited Bruno's attention. With that sympathy which the poor

have for the poor, and the forsaken for the forsaken, he felt

instinctively that she was, like himself, a sufferer and an outcast.

Gradually he formed in his mind a kind of ideal form of the absent

beauty, an image of all that his fancy could suggest. The very name of

Helen had something intoxicating for him, like the perfume of a

hyacinth, and contributed still farther to make this ideal image dear

to him. Then there had come a time when Aunt Berkow had for a while

usurped the throne in his heart, becoming to him the personification of

all that is highest and fairest in woman; when a kind word of Melitta,

a simple: You dear boy! or a passing caress from her soft white hand

could have sent him to brave every kind of deadly danger. It was just

at the time when Oswald first came to Grenwitz, that this enthusiasm

for Aunt Berkow had been at its highest. He had treated Melitta's son

like a younger brother, as he was in the habit of treating the mother,

in her youthful beauty, like an elder sister. Melitta used in those

days to come quite frequently to Grenwitz, and to bring Julius, and

Bemperlein, always mindful of his pupil's interests and pleasures, did

all in his power to foster this intercourse; thus Bruno had constant

opportunities of seeing Aunt Berkow, of rendering her a hundred little

services, to wait on her like a page, when she mounted her horse or

wanted somebody to hold her hat, her gloves, or her riding-whip. Aunt

Berkow was in those days incessantly on his lips, and Oswald had had no

objection to his telling him countless stories, in which Aunt Berkow

invariably played the principal part Melitta had no doubt contributed

largely to the rapid development of the boy, who passed in a few months

through stages which detain less fiery characters for years. It is a

very common error which women commit, to fancy that they can treat

boys, who are almost men already, still as children, and permit them

certain liberties which, a year hence, would be utterly inadmissible.

They do not bear in mind that a young man's heart is, at that age, in a

state of morning dawn, which may be disturbed by the slightest touch--a

slow fire, glimmering almost unseen in the green wood, which the least

puff of wind may fan into a blaze. They would be distressed if they

were told that they had, in all innocence, destroyed the innocence of a

friend, and yet that is but too often what they are doing.

Melitta saw herself, at last, that she could no longer put Bruno on the

same footing with Julius, or even with Malte, as she had done

heretofore, and when she now was speaking of the "boys," she meant

exclusively the latter two. She had commenced treating Bruno like a

friend or a younger brother; like a page who for the present does

woman's service, but who at need may be called upon to show his brave

heart and his strong arm. And indeed Bruno was so powerfully built that

in any personal conflict the odds would have been with him as a matter

of course. The classic statue of a Mercury, a Bacchus, or a youthful

Faun could not have been more symmetrically formed or more delicately

modelled than Bruno's lithe and yet powerful figure. His mere walk was

a pleasure to an experienced eye. Oswald, whom nature had endowed with

a keen sense of the beautiful, was delighted when he saw Bruno, before

taking his bath near the sea-shore, leap lightly from rock to rock,

with an accuracy which admitted of no doubt or fear, and then plunge

headlong into the waves from the last projecting cliff. Bruno, in fact,

knew no danger, and refused to see it where others trembled. Whenever a

venture, was to be risked, from which everybody shrank, when a runaway

horse was to be checked, a cherry to be reached on the topmost branch

of a tree, or a ditch to be leaped which seemed to be impassable--Bruno

would undertake it at once; he trembled with eagerness, his cheeks

burnt, he cast imploring glances at those he loved, and they could not

refuse him. They let him go, for they knew he could do more than

others. Such was Bruno: a youth rather than a boy, with a fire in his

heart that could have warmed a world.

Thus he saw Helen.