And all the melodies that had been slumbering within him awoke, and all

that he dreamt of as most lovely and beautiful, stood bodily before

him. The boy hardly trusted his own eyes; he was dazzled, almost

intoxicated; he was like a person who awakes from a beautiful dream to

a still more beautiful reality, and dares not speak, or breathe, in

order not to lose what he thinks may be merely an illusion of his

senses. Thus when the family first returned he went about the house as

in a dream, mild and kind towards everybody, contrary to his usual

manner. But then the blissful dream vanished, and his delight at the

glorious reality became almost painful. He had never been at peace with

himself, and his heart had ever been heavy; now he became the victim of

unceasing restlessness, which deprived him of sleep, and hunger and

thirst, which burnt within him like a fierce fever, and his poor heart

felt like a man who carries what is dearest to him on earth on his

shoulders, trying to escape from the enemy, and dreading every moment

to be overtaken and spoilt. He dared not utter Helen's name for fear of

betraying himself; he dared not open his eyes before her, and yet he

saw everything that happened, and the plan of the baroness was no

secret to him. His hatred of Felix was boundless, and he took no pains

to conceal his feelings. He defied the roue on every occasion by

scornful or satirical remarks, always hoping Felix would at last take

up the gauntlet; but the ex-lieutenant, like most people who despise

the world and themselves, submitted to much, and replied to the boy's

sarcasm with more or less clever witticisms, so that he always kept the

laugh on his side. And then he had, on the other hand, far too good an

opinion of himself to enter into a serious contest with an adversary

whom he thought so far beneath himself. Matters would not have come to

a point, even on the preceding night, if he had not been so very angry

with Bruno, or if Bruno had expressed himself a little less violently.

And Felix might have congratulated himself that he had escaped so well

from the encounter. He had been nearer to death than he thought. Bruno

had been maddened by the events of the last days, and Felix's brutal

treatment made the vessel of his indignation and hatred to overflow.

And now that the lava stream had once broken through the crater, what

could stop it on its destructive course? While Bruno was for a moment

contending with Felix, and as he knelt on his breast, there was but one

bloody red thought in the darkness of his soul: that Felix must die by

his hand; that God had delivered him into his hand so that he might, at

any cost, free the woman he worshipped from the monster he abhorred. A

few minutes, a few seconds, perhaps, and Felix would never have risen

again.

Just then Bruno had been startled in his terrible thoughts by a cry

close by him. Looking up, he had caught a glimpse of a female figure,

which he had at first taken for Helen. He had released his victim and

risen. The person had moved away; he had followed her till she had

vanished in the direction of the offices, and he had found out his

mistake. To fall once more upon his enemy, after having abandoned him,

seemed to be unmanly to him; he saw how Felix rose at last, after

several painful efforts. That had contented him; he had stolen away to

his chamber and his bed, his soul free from the guilt of murder. And

yet he was as much excited as if he had shed blood. His heart was

beating, his pulse went quick, and burning heat and cold chills

alternated with each other. The confused image of the scene of his

conflict ever presented itself to his mind, and the triumph of having

conquered his deadly enemy was sadly embittered by the recollection

that, after all, Helen was not free yet. This caused him far more

suffering than the violent pains he felt in his side as soon as he

became quiet again; they would not cease; on the contrary, they grew

worse and worse, and seemed to spread from the small point where they

had first commenced in all directions.

It was a long, painful night for the unfortunate boy, this short summer

night. Towards morning his exhaustion made him fall into a state which

only differed from waking by the increased horrors that filled his

brain. He started up, aroused by pain; he tried to rise in order to

wake Oswald, who slept next door (Malte had been sleeping down stairs

for some weeks), but he could not. At last--his pride resisted for a

long time--he called Oswald's name. A few moments more and Oswald was

by his bedside.

He started as he saw the boy, whose face was sadly disfigured by his

sufferings. His black hair hung in dishevelled locks over his pale

face; his dark eyes had sunk deep into the head and were burning with

fever.

"Give me some water!" said Bruno, as soon as he saw Oswald.

"For heaven's sake, what does this mean, Bruno?" cried Oswald, while

the boy was eagerly draining the glass he had handed him. "Why did you

not call me before? you never yet have had so bad an attack."

"It is not one of my usual attacks," said Bruno; "but it will soon

pass; I am better already. Don't trouble yourself, Oswald; when I am

lying on my side I feel it much less, hardly at all. It was only so bad

during the night; now that you are here, and the sun shines, it will be

better directly."

"Somebody must go for Doctor Braun directly," said Oswald, starting up.

"No, no!" Bruno begged; "don't do that. You know how I dislike that.

Nobody is up yet in the house, I am sure; you would only have your

trouble for nothing, and then--I want to ask you something. Come, sit

down again on the bed. I feel I shall not be able to get up, and this

letter must reach Helen at once."

Oswald thought Bruno was delirious; he felt his pulse instinctively.

Bruno smiled. It was a sad smile.

"No, no!" he said. "Don't fear; I am perfectly conscious; just listen,

and you will see that what I say is quite clear and coherent."

Bruno then reminded Oswald that he had said from the beginning Felix

had come to win Helen. Until yesterday he had had no absolute proof of

this, but since yesterday he was sure of it. He told him then how he

had in the afternoon sauntered down to his favorite place in the

garden, the old chapel, where he was wont to indulge in his reveries,

and how voices near by had roused him from the slumber into which he

had fallen during the heat of the day. He explained to him the manner

in which he had obtained possession of the letter, and how his desire

to return it at night to Helen, when she was, as usual, playing near

the open window, had brought about his encounter with Felix.

These passionate but clear and convincing words made naturally a

profound impression on Oswald. To-morrow, then, the fearful sacrifice

was to be made, and yet she herself knew probably nothing of it. They

evidently wished to take her by surprise--to force her to make a

promise which she would afterwards be too proud to take back again. And

what could this letter mean, which was evidently directed in Helen's

handwriting, and had been sealed with her signet ring--how could the

baroness lose her daughter's letter? It was not difficult to see that

there was treason in this, and that it was absolutely necessary to

return the letter to Helen, so that she might know the weapons with

which she was to be attacked, and might be enabled to prepare herself

for the impending crisis. The only question was, how the letter could

reach Helen? Bruno wanted Oswald to carry it himself to her, and to

tell her at the same time what Bruno had heard during the conversation

of the baroness with Felix. But Oswald declared such a thing utterly

out of question; Bruno, as a near relative and acknowledged favorite,

might risk such an indiscretion, but he, a stranger, could not possibly

venture to allude to such delicate matters.

"But," cried Bruno, "I thought you were her friend, I thought you were

fond of her? And yet here her whole life and happiness are at stake,

and you refuse to help her because it is not etiquette to do this and

that! Just think of it--if they make her say yes! It will drive me mad;

I shall not survive it."

"And yet, Bruno, I cannot speak about such a matter,--not I."

"Why not you?"

"Because--I told you, because I am a stranger; because she might say to

me: Sir, what is that to you? I will give her the letter; it is her

property, and she has a right to expect that the finder should restore

it to her as soon as possible. Don't you see, too, that this one fact

speaks volumes? She will know at once what she may expect from the

other side, and the attack will find her forewarned."

"Then you will give her the letter?"

"Yes, I will, and at once. I presume she will come down to take her

usual morning walk. But how are you?"

"Better, much better!" said Bruno, suffering agonizing pain, but

fearing Oswald might lose his opportunity to see Helen, "much better!

If I press my hand to my side thus, I hardly feel any pain. Make haste

and go into the garden and listen! Give her my love and don't tell her

I am sick! Say I am a little unwell--you know I am not really sick."

The boy sank back on his bed and tried to smile at Oswald. But it was a

smile full of pain, and when the door had closed behind Oswald, Bruno

hid his face in the pillows to smother his deep groans, the effect of

his heart's anguish as much as of his bodily pain.

CHAPTER XVI.

Oswald had in vain waited for Helen long after the hour at which she

usually came down into the garden. To-day she came not. He went

repeatedly past her window, but without seeing her. At last, when the

house began to be astir, he went back to Bruno, who was looking for him

impatiently. Bruno was beside himself when he heard of Oswald's

failure, and Oswald tried in vain to convince him that the baroness and

Felix would, in all probability, postpone the execution of their plan

to the last moment, and that therefore to-morrow morning would be time

enough for the letter to reach Helen.

"And now," said Oswald, "I must make arrangements to have the doctor

sent for; I cannot bear the suspense about your condition any longer."

Unfortunately, Oswald's efforts remained fruitless. The baroness had

sent a servant to tell him that "a wagon would go to town any way in

the course of forenoon;" but the man had not dared to carry him such a

message, and had told him a messenger would be sent at once. Thus he

waited patiently till noon. Then the old baron came to inquire after

Bruno. He had not heard whether anybody had yet gone to town, but he

promised to send at once. The old gentleman had been quite angry at

this "remissness." Oswald thought that now, surely, efforts would be

made to get a physician. But one hour after another passed, the evening

came, and no Doctor Braun appeared. He went down stairs to inquire

himself what was the matter. "The wagon that had gone to town had just

returned, but the doctor had been called away and would not return for

twenty-four hours. Another physician had been recommended, but as the

servant had received no orders for such a case, he had not dared to

bring him." Oswald was incensed at such neglect. He went at once to the

baron, whom he found with the rest of the company in the garden, and

asked for a horse to ride himself to town, so that something might at

last be done in the matter.

"I dislike leaving Bruno," he said, "but I see no other way."

"The sickness, I presume, is not so very serious," said Anna Maria.

"I can judge of that as little as you," replied Oswald, sharply; "it

seems to me that Bruno is in a critical condition, and I consider it my

duty to act accordingly, until somebody who understands such matters

has taken his case in hand."

"Come," said the old baron, "we will send old Jake. You need not leave

Bruno. Jake is an intelligent person. You can rely upon him."

Oswald bowed formally to the company and left with the baron.

"It is nice when a young man has such decided, self-assured manners,"

said the Reverend Mr. Jager, ironically.

"The Apollo of Belvedere," said Primula, ironically, or under the

inspiration of poetic ecstasy.

"I fancy His Highness will shortly come down from his pedestal," said

Felix.

"Strict masters do not rule long," said the baroness, with a look of

intelligence at the professor, which the latter answered with a cunning

wink of his right eye over his spectacles.

"Bruno has all the time something the matter with him," said Malte,

powdering his strawberries with sugar.

Helen said nothing. She sat quiet, fixing her eyes upon the ground.

Then she rose and went, without saying a word out of the bower and

towards the castle.

"You are coming back, Helen?" Anna Maria called after her.

"I hardly think I shall," replied Helen, turning round; "I feel rather

cool out here."

She went on. The baroness and Felix exchanged significative glances.

Jake went to town and came promptly back to say that he had been unable

to secure the other town physician also, who had been sent for to a

great distance to set a broken arm. They had, however, promised to let

the doctor know as soon as he returned, and thought he would certainly

come out as soon as he possibly could.

Oswald found it hard to rest contented, but what could he do? Bruno's

condition was much the same. The pain was perhaps less acute, but it

had spread over a larger surface. He tried his best to calm Oswald,

whose anxiety increased as hour after hour passed and no medical

assistance came to his relief. "It is nothing; I'll be better

to-morrow. I am much more troubled about the letter than about my

sickness. Could you not try, Oswald, to throw it through the open

window into her room? That is what I wanted to do yesterday. If you

should meet Felix, you can tell him to remember last night, and you'll

see how he will run; or rather, say nothing, but do what I ought to

have done, and kill him at once."

At last, when all hope was abandoned, a doctor came. It was an old man,

whom the repeated calls of the day had made impatient, and who murmured

something about "trifling complaints, not worth troubling old men

with," through his teeth. He scarcely looked at Bruno, said it was

nothing, and promised to come again next day, when he would bring a

lotion.

"Now we are as wise as before," said Oswald, when the doctor had left

them again.

"I told you there was nothing the matter with me. Go to bed, Oswald,

you need sleep as much as I do."

But neither of them found any rest that night. Oswald had had his sofa

moved by the side of Bruno's bed, and did not undress, so as to be

ready at any moment. Bruno's condition remained the same; only his

restlessness increased and he wanted continually to drink. Towards

morning Oswald had fallen asleep; Bruno waked him when the sun was

about an hour above the horizon.

"Oswald, I cannot let you sleep any longer, sorry as I am for it. You

must go into the garden; it is high time. If you cannot find Helen

to-day I shall have to get up myself to give her back her letter, and

if it should be my death."

"How do you feel?"

"Better."

"You always say so!"

"Make haste!"

Oswald went into the garden and up the wall where he had met the

beautiful girl so many mornings when his heart was light. But he had

never felt sadder than he did this morning. Bruno's sickness, the

impending catastrophe in the family drama, whose gradual progress he

had watched with such painful interest, and in which he saw himself now

compelled to play the unpleasant part of go-between--all this weighed

heavily on his soul and kept him from enjoying the beautiful morning.

He saw neither the warm sunlight nor the bluish shadows of the morning;

the perfume of countless flowers, the whirling and dancing of myriads

of merry insects, and the jubilees of joyous birds in the trees, all

left him untouched. The flowers would not restore his beloved to

health, and the birds could not attract Helen!

But see there! Her dress was shining through the trees and the shrubs

on the other side. It must be she. She was walking more rapidly, now

she had noticed him; she evidently wished to speak to him.

"God be thanked that I find you at last," she said, from a distance,

already; "I have not closed my eyes all night long from care and

anxiety. He is better--is he not? You would not have left him if he

were not, I am sure!"

"He is better, at least Bruno says so. But I fear he is anything but

well. You know he is a hero in endurance."

"Yes, indeed," said Helen. "I love him as I love my brother, no--much

more than my brother. I cannot bear the thought of losing him. You

cannot imagine how it troubles me to know that he is suffering."

"He is not less troubled about you," said Oswald.

"How so?" asked Helen, fixing her large eyes interrogatively on

Oswald's face.

"I do not wish to lose the precious moments of this interview by a long

introduction," said Oswald "This letter which I hold in my hand,

evidently directed in your handwriting, was found night before last by

Bruno near the old chapel, directly after a conversation between the

baroness and Felix. Bruno, who happened to be in the chapel, had not

well been able to avoid hearing it all. He has requested me to return

your property to you. I need not tell you that it has been held sacred

from the moment it fell into Bruno's hands."

Helen's embarrassment had increased with every word spoken by Oswald.

Her beautiful face now blazed up crimson, and now turned ghastly pale.

Her bosom rose, her hand trembled as she took the letter from the young

man's hand, recognizing it at the first glance as her own letter

written to Mary Burton. Horror at the treachery by which she had been

victimized; maidenly shame at seeing her innermost feelings thus

profaned, and indignation at the consciousness that somebody, whoever

it might be, had been made aware how disgracefully she was treated by

her family, by her own mother--all these feelings rushed at once upon

her like a hurricane, that threatened utterly to overwhelm her.

And it was this last sense of insulted pride which first found

expression.

"I thank you," she said, rising to her full stately height, "for your

zeal to serve me. But you and Bruno have probably attached greater

importance to the matter than it deserves. I have on purpose kept this

letter, because it contained several things which mature reflection

made me desirous should not be made known; I have probably dropped it

unawares. I remember I was near the chapel night before last; I----"

She could not continue; the tears she had repressed so long gushed

forth irresistibly and rolled down her cheeks. She turned aside, as if

she felt she could no longer control herself, and beckoned Oswald to

leave her alone.

Oswald was probably not less indignant than Helen. His whole love for

the proud, beautiful girl, for whom he would have cheerfully given his

life, and by whom he was in danger now of being so entirely misjudged,

rose within him like a well of boiling water, and filled his bosom to

overflowing. He would have liked to fall at her feet, to confess all he

had so long concealed from her; but he controlled himself by a

supernatural effort, and said, as calmly as he could:

"I assure you, Miss Helen, that this scene cannot be more painful to

you than it is to me, and that I should not have given occasion for it,

if Bruno's feverish impatience had allowed me any choice. I am grieved,

deeply grieved at appearing in a false light before you; I apprehended

at once, that it would be impossible for you to distinguish between the

message and the messenger."

He bowed before the weeping girl and turned to go away.

"No, no!" she cried, stretching out her hand as if to retain him. "You

must not leave me thus. Let those who have driven me to extremities

answer for it if I am forced to expose the honor of my own family. Yes,

you have rendered me a service, a very great service. This letter has

fallen by treachery into the hands of those who have been so little

able to preserve their booty. This letter separates me forever from

them. But it shall not cut me off also from Bruno, whom I love dearly,

nor from you, who have always been so kind and friendly. I have always

looked upon you as a friend; always esteemed and honored you--how much

so, you may learn from this letter. Read it if the whole world knows

what I think of you, you may surely know it too."

And the young girl handed Oswald the letter. Her face was crimson, but

not with anger or shame. Her dark eyes shone, but like the eyes of a

heroine who is about to sacrifice herself for a holy cause.

"Read it, I tell you!" she said, with a peculiar smile, as Oswald stood

gazing at her. "Fear not that I shall afterwards repent of it. I know

your heart belongs to a friend who has returned yesterday. I do not ask

you for anything but what I have already--your friendship. Read the

letter, and when you have read it, burn it!"

Before Oswald could sufficiently recover from his boundless amazement

at these strange words, to utter a single word, the young girl had

already reached the courtyard below and was hurriedly walking through

the rich parterres towards the chateau.

"What was that?" Oswald asked, trembling; "am I in a dream? Melitta has

returned? And just now?--now? ha, ha, ha!"

It was a fearful laugh. Oswald started and looked around to see if

anybody else had laughed, perhaps some grim demon enjoying his

sufferings.

The letter was still in his hand. He felt as if to read it meant to

lose Melitta entirely, and to cut the last tie that bound him to her.

For a moment Helen appeared to him like a beautiful witch, who had come

to tempt him.... If he should burn the letter without reading it? Might

not then all come right? Might not Melitta remain his after all?

And while he was thinking this over, he had mechanically opened the

letter and commenced reading it....

He had finished it.... he sat, his head resting in his hand, on the

corner of the bench upon which he had sunk down unconsciously. Before

him, on the green turf, bright lights and shadows were playing to and

fro; in the thick foliage overhead the morning breeze was whispering,

and birds were singing in subdued tones.... he saw it all, he heard it

all, but he felt nothing, nothing but the one great fact, that if there

ever had been a paradise for him on earth, he had been driven from that

paradise forever.

CHAPTER XVII.

It was a few hours later. The baroness was sitting in her room, in her

accustomed place near the open glass door. She had an embroidery in her

lap; but her hands were idle, and only when steps were heard

approaching the door, which opened upon the passage, she quickly took

up her work and sewed a few stitches, letting it drop again in her lap

when the steps had passed. This was several times repeated, for there

was an active movement going on at the chateau. Everybody was more or

less busy with preparations for the evening, and the economical

baroness found it very difficult to sit still, doing nothing, when her

presence was so necessary in kitchen and pantry. But she had sent a

request to Miss Helen to come and see her when she had done with her

practising, and she wanted her daughter to find her calm and disposed

to enter into a friendly, though serious, conversation.

At least externally calm. For in her heart there was little peace. The

trouble about the letter, it is true, seemed to be uncalled for. It had

evidently not been carried back to Helen, and that was, for the moment,

the main point. She felt at liberty to use all the arrows which she had

gathered from the letter, without being afraid of their rebounding upon

the archer. Nevertheless, the clever and courageous lady had never in

her life so anxiously looked forward to a conversation with any one.

And yet she had had many very serious interviews, as nearly the whole

administration of the large estate was resting on her shoulders alone.

She did not think very well of men generally, and valued each one

according to the price for which he would probably give up his

convictions. For the baroness believed that everybody had his price, a

belief shared by everybody who, like herself, served the god Mammon

with his whole heart, his whole soul, and his whole mind.

She would have liked to consider her daughter also under the general

rule, of which she herself did not claim to be an exception, but she

found it impossible. A secret voice, which she could not silence, told

her: Helen will not sell her soul for thirty pieces of silver, nor for

so many millions, nor for anything in the world. Another mother would

have been delighted with such an idea; she would have respected her

daughter as her better self, and worshipped her as her beau ideal. The

baroness knew no such enthusiasm. The spirit that throned on her

daughter's proud brow, and looked so great, so noble in her dark

eyes--that spirit was to her a strange, unnatural, and hostile spirit.

She had nothing in common with such thoughts. Helen was the child of

her mind, but not of her heart. Helen had inherited the gentle

disposition, and the honest upright character of her father the very

qualities against which the baroness was, in truth, continually

struggling. But she had, besides, the powerful intellect of her mother,

and was thus enabled to protect the holy things of her heart with the

sharp sword of the mind, without yet ever desecrating it by using it in

a bad cause and this combination made her so irresistibly attractive to

noble souls, so hateful to low and ignoble souls.

At this moment, however, the baroness took much trouble to show a

conciliatory, peaceful, and friendly disposition. The effort made her

almost disposed to tears. It may be that she looked upon tears as,

after all, probably the best means to touch her noble daughter's heart,

and to win her for her own selfish views.

There came a knock at the door, The baroness snatched up her work.

Upon her: Come in! Helen entered the room. The baroness was rather

near-sighted, and did not at once notice that the noble, proud face of

the young girl was deadly pale--not with that painful pallor which

cowardice gives to the cheeks, but with that marble paleness which

harmonizes very well with eyes full of heroic fire.

"I am sorry, dear child," said the baroness, "to have to interrupt you

in your early studies. I sent for you in order to speak to you about a

matter of the utmost importance. But sit down! Take that chair in which

your father usually sits."

"Thank you," said Helen, and remained standing.

The measured, almost curt tone, in which these two words were uttered,

made the baroness look up from her work. She noticed now for the first

time the pale cheeks of her daughter, and her own cheeks lost their

color.

"I hope you are not unwell," she said, and her voice was less firm than

usual. "If you are, we will postpone our conversation till another

time. You will need all your strength for to-night."

"I am perfectly well," replied the young girl; "I was myself on the

point of asking you to grant me an interview, since I also have to

speak to you of matters of importance."

"You to me?" said--the baroness, fixing her large, deep-sunk eyes upon

her daughter's pale face. "You to me? What can that be? Speak out!"

"It is this!" said Helen; "I found night before last near the chapel a

letter----"

The baroness raised her head, and cast at Helen a look in which

consternation, wrath, fear, and defiance were strangely mingled.

"A letter," continued Helen, "which I had written and given to Louisa

to be sent to the post-office. It was, of course, sealed when I gave it

to Louisa; when I found it, it had been broken open. I can hardly

imagine that Louisa, who is so very warmly attached to me, should take

sufficient interest in my correspondence to commit such a wrong at the

risk of being immediately turned out of the house. I must, therefore,

assure you that there is somebody else in the house who takes the

trouble to play the spy upon me. I intended, therefore, to come and ask

you what I ought to do?"

The baroness had been steadily sewing at her work while Helen was

speaking. Now she looked up and asked:

"For whom was the letter intended?"

"For Mary Burton."

"Did you speak very freely in your letter?"

"As friends write to friends."

"Did the letter contain things which you would not like to be seen by

others?"

"Certainly."

"Not even by your parents?"

Helen made no answer.

"Not even by your parents?"

"Yes."

"For instance, that your parents are dead for you, as well as your

other relations."

"You read the letter?"

"You see I did."

"Then I have nothing more to say or to ask."

Helen bowed and was about to leave the room.

"Stay!" said the baroness; "if you have nothing more to say, I have

some questions to ask, which you will be good enough to answer. As for

the letter, you need not give yourself any more trouble about it. When

parents permit their children to correspond without surveillance, they

expect that their children will be worthy of such a privilege. When

they see themselves deceived in this expectation they withdraw the

privilege. That is perfectly natural. But it is not at all natural that

a child, after having received nothing but affection from her parents,

should abandon them at once; it is not natural, when a child has the

boldness to conceive such a thought, to write it down, and to

communicate her disgrace to others. What can you say in reply?"

"Nothing."

"And if such a child takes all the love she owes her parents, and all

the affection she owes her other relatives, and bestows them upon

strangers, for instance, upon a so-called friend, whose only merit

consists in having been at the same boarding-school, or upon a boy who

has been taken into the house from charity, or upon a paid servant of

her parents,--yes, miss! a paid servant, with whom the parents,

moreover, are very much dissatisfied,--what can you say to that?"

"Nothing."

"And if your parents are still willing to forgive you, if your

relatives, whose affection you do not deserve, are disposed not to give

you up, if you see that parents and relatives join hands in order to

save your imperilled honor,--if they propose to give you in the person

of a husband a friend and protector, who will keep you hereafter from

committing such follies, to use no harsher name, and if one of your

relatives is willing to assume this difficult task of being your

husband, friend, and tutor,--have you nothing to say to that also?"

"Oh yes," replied Helen, who had been standing there, pale and

motionless, without moving a muscle, fixing her large dark eyes with an

expression of invincible courage, till she had risen to confront her,

"Oh yes! I have to reply to that, that I prefer death a thousand times

to becoming Felix's wife."

She said this calmly, slowly, weighing, as it were, every syllable.

"And if your parents insist?"

"Then I cannot and shall not obey."

"And if they announce to-night your engagement to Felix to the

assembled guests?"

"Then I shall say to the assembled guests what I have just said to

you."

"Is that your final decision?"

"It is, so help me God!"

"Well, then I give you up, as you have given me up! Go then, and throw

yourself into the arms of that beggar. But no! God be thanked, we have

still means to conceal such a disgrace from the world. To-morrow you

will pack your things, and day after to-morrow you will go back to

school."

A ray of joy broke from Helen's dark eyes, and a slight blush covered

her pale cheeks.

"I am perfectly willing to go!"

"But not to Hamburg," said the baroness, and there was cruel irony in

her words. "I have had enough of Mary Burton. You will go to Grunwald.

I have already written to Miss Bear. She is not quite as indulgent as

Madame Bernard, but there is no call for kindness and indulgence now.

Go to your room now. At six you will be ready dressed for the ball.

Consider once more what you are going to do. I give you time till then.

Now you can go."

Helen went to the door without saying a word. As she was about to go

out, the old baron entered.

"Where are you going to, my darling?" he said, cordially stretching out

his hand towards her.

Helen seized his hand, pressed it to her lips, and said:

"Do not condemn me till you have heard me, papa!"

Then she hastened out of the room.

"What is the matter with the girl?" said the old gentleman, looking

after her in astonishment.

"Come, Grenwitz," said the baroness, "I have to speak to you about some

important matters."

CHAPTER XVIII.

The conversation between the baroness and her husband lasted for some

time, but Anna Maria was unlucky today in her diplomatic negotiations.

She had not been able to bend her daughter's pride, and she was not

able, now, to convert her husband to her views, yielding as he

generally was. It is a well-known fact, that very pliant persons are

apt to become most obstinate and self-willed on some points. It looks

as if these points were impregnable fortresses, places of refuge for

the will of such men, to which they retire when they have been beaten

and overcome everywhere else, in order to defend their independence

here to the uttermost. The baroness had experienced this more than once

during her lone dominion over her husband. The latter generally

confided blindly in her, and worshipped her with a kind of idolatry;

but every now and then a spirit of opposition had risen in him, and

frequently in matters where she had least expected resistance. She had

always known how to avoid difficulties in such cases, by prudent and

timely concessions. She had paid little attention to these occurrences,

because they were generally caused by mere trifles. But if she had

compared these cases of "stubbornness" of the old gentleman with each

other, she would have found that they always showed the plain, honest

good sense, and the inexhaustible goodness of the baron, as arrayed

against some cunning, selfish measure on the side of his wife. The old

gentleman might not be considered very clever, but there was something

in him that was more powerful than all his wife's sophisms; a divine

spark which, if needs be, could still blaze up in a flame. This spark

of divine fire was the power of forgetting himself for the sake of

others, and of finding his own happiness in the happiness of others.

For there never was a greater truth uttered, than that charity is high

above all the knowledge and the highest powers of man, and the greatest

of all virtues.

People who look upon charity and love as very superfluous articles of

luxury, and who have little opportunity to see their efficacy in

themselves, are apt to forget these elements in their calculations.

This is what happened to the baroness. It had never occurred to her

that the baron might really love his child, and that he then would

naturally value her happiness more highly than all worldly advantages.

And now an almost incredible thing happened. The old gentleman declared

most positively that, if Helen was sure she could not love Felix, the

matter was settled once for all times. He did not deny the advantages

which such a match could not fail to secure to all the parties

interested, nor the pleasure with which he himself would have seen such

a union. But he insisted upon due regard being paid to Helen's peace

and happiness. And here he took his stand. Anna Maria did not spare

words; she even had recourse to tears. She painted Helen's defiance and

her improper conduct during the last interview in the darkest colors;

she threatened the old man that she would resort to extremities, and

leave him to choose between herself and his disobedient child, as she

did not mean to be disgraced by seeing her daughter triumph over her in

her own house--it was all in vain; the old gentleman maintained his

position with the utmost tenacity. He would not admit that Helen was a

bad girl; she might have been carried away by passion, but she was not

bad at heart; she would soon come and ask her mother's pardon. And even

if she should be less good than he believed her, even if she had

behaved badly towards her mother, that was yet no reason why she should

be forced into a hateful union. All the baroness could obtain was, that

Helen, if she still refused, should leave home for a time. The father

consented to this, because he thought it best for mother and daughter

to part for a time, until the passions should have subsided a little on

both sides. He did not object to Helen's going to Grunwald instead of

Hamburg, because that would enable him to see her more frequently, and

because he looked upon the whole arrangement only as a provisional one,

which would, in all probability, not last long. Anna Maria, on the

other hand, had to be content with this result, as she had constantly

to fear that Helen, driven to bay, might make that unpleasant affair of

the letter known to her father. This fear had made her less energetic

in the whole conversation than she usually was. Her bad conscience had

made a coward of her, and this cowardice had made it easier for the

baron to triumph. He kissed his wife on the forehead, as he always did

after a scene of more or less painful controversy, thanked her for her

readiness to fall in with his views and wishes, and expressed a hope

that the peace of the family would ere long be fully restored.

"I should feel wretched, if I had to see those I love best upon earth

divided among themselves," the good old man said, with tears in his

eyes. "I have prayed to God all these days for light to show me what I

ought to do in this matter. I should be sorry to have in any way

offended you, dear Anna Maria, for I know how much I owe you; but I

have also duties towards my daughter, and I cannot consent that you

should make her unhappy, with the best intentions in the world. God

knows, I desire nothing but your happiness; and now, my dear Anna

Maria, let us go to dinner, for, if I am not mistaken, dinner has been

announced twice already."

The baroness was to have no rest to-day.

The melancholy dinner, at which neither Oswald, who would not leave

Bruno, nor Helen, who excused herself on the plea of a bad headache,

had made their appearance, was over, and the baron had just gone out to

have a talk with Helen and to inquire after Bruno. The baroness had

remained alone with Felix, and knew she would have to tell him the

disagreeable news that their joint plans had been utterly defeated by

Helen's obstinate resistance and the baron's stubbornness. How could

she make such a confession, she who had boasted so much of her

unlimited power over her husband; she who had not only originated the

plan, but who had carried on the whole transaction! It was a hard task

for the selfish, ambitious woman.

How much she now regretted ever having read that letter! It had told

her little more than what she already knew, and how she had compromised

herself! She could no longer use her full authority against Helen, for

her daughter had a formidable weapon in her hands. Anna Maria knew full

well that the baron would never approve of such a breach of faith,

especially in his present state of mind. Nor could she be more candid

with Felix. She had to tell him that the battle was lost, and had not

even the consolation to be able to show him that it was lost only by an

unfortunate accident.

The bitter cap had to be drained. Felix could not trust his ears. He,

Felix, Baron Grenwitz, had been refused, spurned with contempt, in the

one single case in which he had been in earnest! And by whom? By a girl

fresh from school! And possibly for the sake of an obscure person,

whose sole merit was that he looked almost like a gentleman. Felix

behaved as if the world must come to an end now. To lose Helen well, he

might have found consolation for that; but to lose, with her, also the

prospect of seeing his debts paid, or rather, of seeing his credit

considerably improved, that was far worse, and a very serious matter to

a man like Felix. Helen's dower, the sums which his uncle had promised

to advance in order to enable him to make his exhausted estates once

more productive, all to be lost--no! they could not trifle with him in

this way! He had done all he could do; he had thrown up his commission

(better: he had been forced to leave the army); he had been authorized

by the baroness to make his engagement publicly known, and now--his

commission, his future wife, his honor--all lost!

"I shall blow out my brains," he cried pathetically.

The baroness tried to calm him--and she succeeded very quickly--by

promising him that, in spite of the failure in his courtship, the other

parts of the agreement should stand as if he had succeeded.

When they had settled this important point they were able to discuss

with a little more composure the question as to what might be the real

reason for Helen's refusal. To Felix's great astonishment, the baroness

insisted upon it, that there existed a regular attachment between

Oswald and her daughter. She would not tell what made her think so with

certainty; but she was so persistent that Felix at last admitted "the

thing might be possible, ridiculous as it was." "That man is a cunning

fox," he said. "Timm warned me against him from the beginning; I did

not attach much importance to what he said, because he and Stein seemed

to be good friends. But I see now Timm was right."

A servant brought the baroness a letter from Grunwald, that had been

sent by a special messenger.

"From Mr. Timm," she said, surprised, when she had opened the letter.

"I am quite curious to see what he can have to write. I hope he was

paid properly. Excuse me, dear Felix."

Her face, however, gradually assumed such an expression of

astonishment, consternation, and terror, as she went on reading, that

Felix could not keep from saying:

"But, dearest aunt, what is the matter? You have turned as white as the

wall!"

"Oh, it is hideous!" said the baroness. "It is scandalous! These

scoundrels! It is a regular plot! These scoundrels!"

"But, for Heaven's sake, what is the matter?" cried Felix.

"There, you may read yourself!" said the baroness, handing him the

letter, trembling with rage.

Felix took the letter and read:

"Madam:--It is not my fault if the contents of this letter should prove

unpleasant to you. You know the veneration I feel for yourself and your

whole family; you know the zeal I have always shown in your service,

and the gratitude I have felt for your amiable hospitality in former

days, and especially during the last happy days. If I must, therefore,

speak and act in a manner which seems to contradict these sentiments, I

hope you will see at once that the contradiction is only apparent, and

that I am compelled to act by a principle which is even higher than

personal friendship and individual respect: I mean the duty we all owe

to Justice.

"This innate sense of right, which I have no doubt inherited from my

sainted father, forces me to inform you, without the slightest delay,

of a most remarkable discovery which I have recently made.

"You know that my father was a lawyer in Grunwald; that his practice

was as large as his reputation for uprightness, conscientiousness, and

ability was extensive, and that he counted the very first families of

the province among his clients. Thus he stood also in his business

relations with Baron Harald Grenwitz, and was, moreover, as I have

often heard him relate, bound to him by personal friendship. At least

my father frequently mentioned that the late baron intrusted him with

the management of the most delicate family matters. The truth of this

assertion is strongly confirmed by the discovery of which I have spoken

before.

"It consists in this: I have found, by chance, several packages of

papers and letters, all of which once belonged to Baron Harald, and

were by him intrusted to my father for unknown purposes (as there is no

explanation given anywhere in the baron's handwriting, or in my

father's). In all probability they were intended to help my father in

discovering the child to which the baron had, in a special codicil,

bequeathed a considerable fortune. There is no doubt, at all events,

that such a search can only be begun by the aid of these letters and

papers, and, of course, they are indispensable for success. I am also

persuaded that nothing but my father's sudden death has prevented him

from obtaining such a result, and that an able lawyer could easily take

up the thread of his investigations where it dropped from the hand of

my father.

"The papers consist of, 1. A bundle of letters of a certain

Mademoiselle Marie Montbert, addressed to Baron Harald Grenwitz; 2. A

like bundle of letters written by the baron to the young lady; 3.

Several letters from a certain Monsieur d'Estein to Mademoiselle

Montbert; 4. Several family documents concerning Mademoiselle Montbert;

5. A perfect copy of the last will of Baron Harald, together with the

codicil, which contains, as you know, not only the conditions attached

to the legacy, but also the means by which the child in question may

most easily be discovered and authenticated. You know that the codicil

contains, in this part, the names of Mademoiselle Montbert and of

Monsieur d'Estein, and it need not be stated that these persons are the

same as those who wrote the above-mentioned letters.

"So far, all I have reported to you has nothing especially surprising

for those who are not personally interested in the affair. But what I

have to say next is so extraordinary that I must ask your permission to

state it in person, I can only tell you, that in Mr. d'Estein's letters

the name occurs which that gentleman proposed to adopt after having

succeeded in rescuing Mademoiselle Montbert, and that this name, if you

simply leave off the d' and the E, agrees with that of a gentleman who

has been living for some time in your family. I may add that, for my

part, I am fully convinced of the identity of this person with the

unknown heir to Stantow and Baerwalde, especially in consequence of

communications made to me by that person himself about his family and

his early youth.

"While this is my personal conviction, I have yet taken care not to

mention it as yet to the person in question, as, after all, there might

be some doubt about it yet, and I did not wish to excite hopes which

might possibly not be realized.

"I break off here, in order not to anticipate too fully my oral report

(perhaps you will shortly be in Grunwald? or do you desire me to come

to Grenwitz?), and also in order not to risk too much in confiding

these valuable secrets to a letter.

"Accept, madam, the assurances of my," etc., etc., etc.

"Here is a 'Turn-over,'" said Felix, turning over the last page.

"P.S.--As the papers are scarcely quite safe in my own rooms, I mean to

place them in the hands of a lawyer, in case _you should not, very

promptly, dispose of them otherwise_.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Felix; "there the fox shows his cunning! In case

you should not otherwise dispose of them, underscored: _i. e_., have the

goodness to name the sum which you think you can afford to pay for

these papers, and the secret goes no farther!--Ha, ha, ha! Yes, yes,

Timm is a clever fellow, I always knew that."

"Then you think he has really found the papers?" asked the baroness, in

astonishment.

"Why not?" said Felix. "The thing looks extremely probable, and I

advise you to buy the papers before they rise in the market."

"And do you also think that this--that this man--I can hardly speak of

it calmly--that this Stein is really Harald's son?"

"It is by no means impossible," said Felix.

"No, it _is_ impossible," cried the baroness, with great vehemence;

"the whole is a wretched plot, an abominable conspiracy between the two

sharpers. The letters are forgeries; they have been concocted and

written by the two rascals when they were here together. It is a mere

invention to frighten us and to extort money from us--or perhaps, ha!

now I see! Don't you see, Felix, what they are after? They want Helen!

One is to have the money, the other the girl! Ha, ha, ha! Capital! What

a pity Helen did not say anything of that also in her letter to Mary

Burton, for I wager she is in the plot too. But they shall not get

anything, not a dollar!"

"Do not take the matter too lightly, dearest aunt," said Felix. "I tell

you Timm is a clever fellow, and if the letters are really forgeries,

you will find they are prodigiously well done. They will give you

trouble. Will you listen to my advice?"

"Well!"

"Let me go to-morrow, or at some time, to Grunwald and talk with Timm.

I have had, in former times, many a conversation with him, and he knows

that I am not easily hoodwinked. We shall have to pay something, I am

sure, but I can get the papers cheaper than anybody else."

"And what is to be done with Mr. Stein?"

"He must be turned out in disgrace. Will you leave that also to me?"

"Yes, do what you like. Only relieve me of that man."

"I'll do it. There will probably be an occasion for it this very night.

The more noise is made about it the better. He shall lose all desire to

have anything more to do with us. But you must not say a word of it to

uncle."

"For heaven's sake no!" said the baroness. "He is capable of

introducing Mr. Stein, this very night, to the whole company as our

esteemed relative. He is almost childish now, and I can no longer trust

him in anything."

"Well then," said Felix, kissing his aunt's hand, "rely upon me. We'll

carry the matter through, I am sure. But I think, dear aunt, it must be

high time to get ready. For heaven's sake, it is five o'clock, and some

of the guests will come at six! How can I get ready in an hour?"

CHAPTER XIX.

Carriage after carriage came thundering through the great portal, drove

round the courtyard, and stopped before the door. Ladies and gentlemen

in full dress got out and followed the servants into dressing-rooms. A

few minutes later the folding-doors were thrown open, and they were

received by the old baron and Felix in the great reception-rooms in the

lower story.

Thus the whole nobility of the neighborhood had gradually assembled.

Not only the gala carriages in which they had come,--some with four,

and a few even with six high-bred horses, to say nothing of the

outriders in bright liveries,--but also the evening dress of the

gentlemen and the brilliant toilettes of the ladies showed that they

had come prepared for a magnificent entertainment. They thought,

moreover, they could tell what was the special occasion for this party,

as the baroness and Felix had not been sparing of allusions to an event

which might possibly take place in a short time! The baroness and Felix

had got themselves into a serious difficulty by these allusions, and

were now on the point of learning how much more troublesome it is to

silence gossip than to start it. The more modest among the guests

looked full of expectation, curious friends ventured upon allusions,

and a few impertinent neighbors even asked direct questions, till

they could scarcely preserve their polite equanimity during such a

cross-fire of examination. The company seemed to be determined to

believe in the engagement, and patiently waited till supper-time, when

they thought the truth would come out at last. A few only were

sharp-sighted enough to notice certain indications which made them

think the end not quite so near yet. They pointed out the unusually

formal manner of the baroness, who was at times almost embarrassed; the

frequent mistakes of the old baron, who was more absent-minded than

ever, and by no means looked like a happy father; and, above all, the

distance at which Baron Felix kept from Miss Helen, who looked more

like a beautiful statue of cold marble than like a young girl on the

day on which her engagement was to be made public.

For a time, however, the attention of the company was somewhat

preoccupied by the appearance of a lady and gentleman who were in good

earnest engaged, and presented themselves to-day for the first time as

such in public: Miss Emily Breesen and Arthur Baron Cloten. The young

couple had already paid the visits usual on such occasions in that

province, but the neighborhood was very large and some had not been

reached at all, while others had been unfortunately away from home.

There were, therefore, countless congratulations yet to receive and to

return. Emily and Baron Cloten formed the centre of a large circle of

ladies and gentlemen respectively, who found little else to talk of but

their happiness. Cloten seemed to be overjoyed; he was talking and

laughing incessantly, and it seemed to be miraculous that a single

little hair was surviving in his diminutive moustache--so very

industriously did he twist and twirl it through his fingers. Emily

seemed to bear her good fortune with more composure; the minority of

sharp-sighted observers even thought they noticed a dim cloud on her

brow, in spite of the efforts she made to smile upon everybody; they

also fancied that her eye was ceaselessly examining the company,

without ever resting for a moment on her happy betrothed.

There was evidently abundant food for gossip to-night.

The intimacy between Baron Cloten and Baron Barnewitz's lovely, but

dangerous wife, Hortense, had of course remained no secret in a society

so full of spies and tale bearers, and the last large party at

Barnewitz, with its unpleasant scenes between Cloten and Hortense's

husband, during which the unlucky lady fainted so inopportunely, had

lifted the last thin veil from this liaison. Everybody, therefore, was

full of curiosity to see how Hortense would bear her loss, and

especially to find out whom the blonde Loreley would choose for

Cloten's successor. Some supposed it would be Count Grieben, others

Adolphus Breesen. Both were equally eager to win the good-will of the

dangerous Circe. The former was a rejected lover of Emily's, and

therefore seemed to be specially fitted to become Cloten's successor;

the latter was by far the handsomest and cleverest young man in the

whole set--qualities which Hortense, with her own cleverness,

appreciated fully.

"I bet upon Grieben," said young Sylow; "a basket of champagne. Who

takes the bet?"

"I," cried Nadelitz; "pshaw! Don't I know Breesen?"

"Six bottles forfeit, up to the cotillon to-night?"

"Ha, ha! Do you hear? He is losing courage already; but I take it.

Done!"

"Really a famous woman, the Barnewitz," said Hans Pluggen; "I wish I

were one of the candidates!"

"Well, that wouldn't be so very difficult," said somebody else.

"I cannot imagine what you see in the Barnewitz," replied young Sylow.

"Now, if it were the Berkow! I wish she were here!"

"I dare say there are plenty who wish so," said one, laughing. "But you

know, I suppose, that Berkow is dead and the widow has come back?"

"Old news!"

"Well, do you know, too, that Oldenburg is going to be married?"

"Nonsense!"

"You may rely upon it. I have it from the Barnewitz. She surely must

know."

"Is Oldenburg coming to-night?"

"Felix said he had promised to come; but Oldenburg has his own ways."

Melitta's return and her husband's death were discussed in other

circles also besides those of the young men. Melitta was one of the

most popular ladies in society, and yet she had, strange enough, few

enemies and rivals. Now and then people spoke of her "eccentricities,"

of a desire to be apart and different from others; some said she was

too learned, others, she was coquetting with liberal politicians--but

generally her loveliness, her kindness, and unpretending manners were

readily acknowledged. Aside from such remarks, moreover, the charms of

her person were above all criticism. Hence, everybody seemed to be glad

that she had at last been relieved of the terrible burden, which she

had borne so sweetly, and was eager to know whom she would make happy

by giving him her hand. For no one doubted that so young a widow would

soon marry again. In some indefinite way a report had of late obtained

currency that Baron Oldenburg had the best prospect; it was even

whispered quite secretly, and as a mere _on dit_, for which no one

wished to be held responsible, that the intimacy between the baron and

Melitta was of old date, and that Baron Berkow had lost his mind very

opportunely. A few details even were mentioned, by those who claimed to

be particularly well informed, which could not have been true without

compromising Melitta's reputation very seriously. No one knew with whom

these reports originated. The sharp-sighted observers, again, ascribed

them to Hortense Barnewitz, who, they said, had thus avenged herself on

Oldenburg for a piece of advice he had given Cloten, which had led the

latter in his blind obedience to find himself engaged to Emily Breesen

before he well knew what he was doing.

In the mean time eight o'clock had come, and with it the hour at which

the ball was to commence. The baroness opened it with Count Grieben.

Count Grieben found it difficult to make himself heard, in spite of his

screaming voice, as the music preceded them during the old-fashioned

polonaise through all the rooms, and then, thanks to a happy

inspiration of his genius, across the lawn, through the darkest parts

of the garden, and back again into the principal ball-room, where it

ended in a solemn slow waltz.

"That is a good old fashion, baroness!" he screamed, delighted, into

his partner's ear; "my sainted father had it so, and my sainted

grandfather, and a great many more, no doubt. The old ones knew a thing

or two. Young folks are stupid folks. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, indeed, indeed!" replied the baroness.

Dance followed dance. The violins screamed, the bass growled. The faces

of the dancers began to look heated; the ladies used their fans

vehemently, and the servants, who continually went around with large

waiters of refreshments, saw them disappear more and more rapidly--but

there was no real enjoyment, and it seemed as if a cloud were resting

on the whole company.

"What on earth can be the matter to-night?" said young Grieben, wiping

his forehead during one of the pauses, and addressing a group of

dancers who stood in the very centre of the room; "we work ourselves to

death and nothing comes of it; there is no _en train_ in the matter."

"Well, you can dance a long time before your long legs are tired," said

young Sylow; "but you are right; I have drunk a couple of bottles, and

yet the more I drink the sadder I become."

"That is exactly my case," said a third; "I do not know what it can be,

but the ball at Barnewitz was a good deal merrier."

"What it can be?" said Breesen. "Well, I should think that was clear

enough. The old baron looks like a wet chicken in the rain; the old

baroness like a dethroned Hecuba--isn't it Hecuba? Felix quarrels with

everybody who comes near him, and Miss Helen has not said three words

all the evening. And you expect people to enjoy themselves? I feel as

if it were a funeral."

"Well, there is a sick man at all events," said Pluggen; "the old baron

just told me: Bruno has been sick in bed since yesterday."

"Ah, I suppose that is the reason why Doctor Stein has not come down?"

said Count Grieben; "I thought he was correcting exercises, perhaps,

and would come down after a while, ha, ha, ha!"

"Hush, Grieben," said Hans Pluggen; "the other day you spoke very

differently about the doctor."

"I said he was a consummate fool, whom I would enlighten on the subject

of his position, and I say so again."

"Why, that is word for word what Felix was saying just now; the doctor

seems to be a great favorite with the gentlemen."

"He is all the more liked by the ladies," observed Nadelitz,

ironically.

"Yes, indeed," added Breesen; "he is said to have made three sisters at

once unhappy at the ball the other day."

"At least they have not cried their eyes out, as they say Miss Emily

has done," replied Nadelitz, annoyed by Breesen's allusion to his three

sisters.

"You must not say such things!" cried Breesen, angrily.

"What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander."

"I called no names."

"Because everybody knew idiom you meant."

"But, gentlemen, _tant de bruit pour une omelette_!" said Pluggen. "I

wonder if you are going to quarrel about that man? why, that would be

the very way to make people believe that he is a favorite with the

ladies."

"Do you know the last news?" said Cloten, suddenly pushing his blonde

moustache into the group.

"Well?"

"Just imagine that Stein--but hush, there is Grenwitz--not a word, I

pray you!"

"Well, gentlemen!" said Felix, "will you please form a cotillon? I have

already twice given notice!"

Felix said this in a somewhat irritated tone of voice. His face,

generally pale, was deep red. He had evidently taken a good deal of

wine.

When the dance was over the same gentlemen, whose conversation Felix

had interrupted, met once more as if by agreement.

"Well, where is Cloten with his last piece of news?" asked Sylow.

"Here," said Cloten, coming up. "Just imagine this Stein--we are quite

_entre nous_ here?"

"Oh yes! Go on!"

"Has the impudence--well, guess! to fall in love with whom?"

"Ah, Cloten, you are unbearable! Are you going to tell us or not?"

"With Helen Grenwitz!" said Cloten, in a hollow voice.

"Well, not so bad!" said Sylow.

"That is just like the fellow," added Grieben.

"_Hinc illae lacrimae!_" laughed Breesen, who had retained a few Latin

phrases from his school-days.

"And the best of it is," continued Cloten, "Miss Helen is by no means

averse; _au contraire_, she is head over ears in love with him. Now, is

not that charming?"

"Who on earth has made you believe that bloody story?" asked Breesen.

"I have it from very good authority," replied Cloten, with a

significative wink of the eye towards that part of the room where Emily

was standing in conversation with Helen.

"Hm, hm!" said Breesen.

"The story is not improbable," remarked Sylow. "That explains the deep

melancholy of all the Grenwitz family; they look like mutes."

"Did not I always say there was something the matter tonight?" remarked

Breesen, again. "I am quite glad now I did not become more intimate

with the fellow; at first, I confess, I liked him very well. The man

has really something very winning about him."

"He is a famous shot!" said Sylow, meditatively.

"Famous or not famous!" said Cloten, "I verily believe you give him a

wide berth, gentlemen, because he is a tolerably good shot. No,

gentlemen, that will not do, really, that will not do! I propose that

we make amends for our first blunder and treat the man, if he should

ever show himself again among us, as he deserves--with the utmost

contempt."

"'Pon honor!" said Grieben, "Cloten, is right I shall make the fellow

acquainted with my hunting-whip."

"It is a pity he is not here, so that you could carry out your threat

at once!" said Breesen, ironically.

"_Quand on parle du loup_," said Sylow; "there he is! And his Pylades,

Oldenburg, as a matter of course, by his side."

The open folding-doors were really just then showing Oldenburg and

Oswald in the adjoining room. They conversed for a few minutes with

each other; then Oldenburg entered the ball-room, while Oswald was held

back by the old baron.

CHAPTER XX.

Oswald had spent nearly the whole day by Bruno's bedside after he had

returned from his memorable interview with Helen. He had tried to

forget himself while nursing his dear patient.

Bruno himself forgot his pain when he heard that Oswald had seen Helen

and given her the letter; he was so happy he did not even notice

Oswald's pale face and disturbed manner.

"Now all is right again," he said; "now she knows how she stands. Now

they cannot hurt her any more, for now she is forewarned. Oh, that

thought makes me feel quite well again."

Unfortunately, he was far from being well. The pain in his side

returned after a few minutes with increased violence. Oswald hoped the

doctor would certainly keep his promise and return in the course of the

forenoon. But the forenoon passed and no doctor came. Bruno's condition

did not grow worse, but neither did it mend, and Oswald knew too little

of medicine to be aware that a condition which does not improve grows

worse. However, when noon came without bringing the doctor, he did not

rest till a messenger on horseback had been sent to town. The man

brought back the lotion which the doctor had himself ordered at the

drug-store, but reported that the doctor was not in town, and that

Doctor Braun was not expected back till nightfall. He had been at the

house of the latter, and left word to send the doctor as soon as he

should return. Oswald felt very grateful to the considerate man, who

seemed to take a warm interest in Bruno's sickness. He breathed more

freely when he heard of Doctor Braun's coming, for he had great

confidence in him. In the mean time, however, he did not neglect the

means prescribed by the other physician; but it had so little effect

that Bruno at last begged not to be troubled any more with the useless

remedy. Thus the long, long hours passed one after another with a

weariness which only the sick man knows, who tosses restlessly on his

couch, and the friend who sits, his heart full of unutterable, and,

alas! helpless anxiety, by his bedside, waiting for the doctor who does

not come, or a symptom of change which never appears.

The old baron sent several times to inquire how Bruno was, and in the

afternoon he came up stairs himself. He thanked Oswald with great

cordiality for his kindness, patted Bruno on his hot cheeks, and

promised to give him the horse he had long wished for as soon as he

should be well again.

"I am exceedingly sorry," he said to Oswald, as the latter accompanied

him to the door, "that we must have company just to-day. It is very

painful to me to think that the house is open, and dancing going on,

while a member of my family is lying dangerously ill."

Oswald tried his best to quiet the good old gentleman, although his own

heart was full of anxiety. Nor did he dare to mention to the baron at

this time a resolution which he had formed during the last hours.

He had come to the conclusion that he could not remain any longer in

this house.

How he should be able to live without Bruno; how he should tear himself

away from the happiness of seeing Helen every day, he could not tell.

He only knew he must go.

This he repeated to himself, over and over again, as he smoothed

Bruno's pillow, as he took his burning hands in his own, brushed his

hair from his brow, or moistened his parched lips. There was almost

womanly tenderness in these loving attentions.

"If my mother were alive, she could not nurse me better," said Bruno,

pressing his hand gratefully.

"You never knew your mother, Bruno."

"I was only three years old when she died; but I remember my father,"

and now the boy began to speak of his father with feverish excitement;

how tall and strong and beautiful he had been; "not as slender as you,

but broader in the shoulders, and with long, dark locks that flowed

down upon his shoulders, like King Harfagar;" and of the little farm,

high up in Dalecarlia, which the father had worked with two servants

only, and how clever he had been at everything; and how he had wielded

his axe, although he had been page at the queen's court in his youth,

carrying her long silk train on state occasions; and of Thor, the fast

trotter, whom the father put into his sleigh; and of the northern

winter nights, when the stars on the black sky sparkled like diamonds,

rubies, and emeralds, so bright that the snow glittered in their light;

and of the northern lights, how they suddenly blazed up on the horizon

and stretched out their fiery arms to the zenith.

"We must make a trip to Sweden together," he said; "here winter is mere

child's play; there you will see real snow and ice! Here it is hot,

intolerably hot--I wish I were amid snow and ice!" And the boy tossed

his head restlessly on his pillow and asked for water.

Just then music was heard from the garden.

"What is that?" he said, standing up.

Oswald went to the window.

"It is the whole company," he said; "they are just coming out from

among the trees. Count Grieben and your aunt are at the head of the

procession. They were going to pass right under our window, but the

baron, who came next to Count Grieben, is telling them to take the

other way. The first couples are out of sight now, but more and more

couples are coming out."

"Has Helen come by yet?" asked Bruno, raising himself.

"No, not yet."

"Oh, why must I be in bed!" cried Bruno, sinking back exhausted by the

effort and the increased pain.

"There she is now!"

"Not with Felix, I hope?"

"No, with a young man I have never seen before."

"Never mind," said Bruno, "so she is not with Felix."

"Now the last have gone by," said Oswald, taking his seat again by

Bruno's bedside.

Bruno's restlessness seemed to have been increased by this direct

reference to Helen, which had heretofore been carefully avoided by both

of them. He began once more to speak of Helen. Oswald had to tell him

what she wore, whether she looked handsome, very handsome, handsomer

than any of the other ladies? whether she had smiled? or looked up at

his window?

"Oh, if I could but get up! if I could but see her for a moment!"

"You will see her soon again, Bruno!"

"I don't know; I want to see her so much just to-day, only for a

moment. I feel as if I had something to tell her that oppresses my

heart. And then, if she refuses Felix,--and she will certainly do

so,--she is to go back to school, and then it may be a long time before

I ever see her again. But I won't stay here if she goes away. Come,

Oswald, let us go to Hamburg. You are clever and know so much; you will

easily find employment, and I too--any kind of work, if I can only be

near her and see her from time to time."

He fell into a kind of stupor, and then again he suddenly started up.

"Why did Helen go away?"

"You are dreaming, Bruno; she has not been here."

"Nor Aunt Berkow?"

"No, Bruno."

"And yet I saw them both so distinctly. They came in hand in hand

through that door; Helen dressed in white, with a wreath of dark-red

roses in her hair; aunt Berkow in black, and her hair as she always

wears it. Aunt Berkow led Helen up to you, and you fell into each

other's arms and wept and kissed each other; and then aunt Berkow came

to my bed and said: Now, Bruno, now you can go to sleep. Then my eyes

closed; it grew dark around me; I sank with the bed lower and lower,

and quicker and quicker--then the fright waked me up."

"Do you feel worse, Bruno?" asked Oswald, troubled by these flights of

his imagination.

"On the contrary," replied Bruno; "that sleep has done me a great deal

of good. My pain is not as bad as before; but I feel very tired. I

think I could sleep now."

He turned his head, but a few moments afterwards he started up once

more.

"Oswald, will you do me a very, very great favor?"

"Certainly; what is it?"

"Pray dress yourself and go down stairs."

"Not for anything in the world."

"But, I pray you, do it for my sake! You see I am much better now, and

I should like to sleep, and I am going to sleep. You cannot help me

when I am sleeping?"

"But what am I to do down stairs?"

"You see, Oswald," said Bruno, "I should like to see Helen more than

anything in this life. And I cannot do it. I have no strength in my

limbs. But, if you see her, I shall feel as if I also had seen her.

Please, please go down stairs! You need not speak to anybody; only,

if you can manage it, tell Helen I send her my best, my very best

love--and perhaps she will say something in reply, perhaps she will

say: Give my love to Bruno! Then you must come straight back to me, so

as not to forget the tone of her voice when she said it. And listen,

Oswald, before I forget it. It might be, you know, that I die suddenly,

no--don't laugh, I am quite serious then, do not let them undress me; I

want to be put in the coffin just as I am. Look here!--You know I

always wear a medallion on my heart; it is my mother's; but that is not

the only reason why it is so sacred to me; there is a lock of Helen's

hair inside, which I cut off a long time ago in jest. If they should

take the medallion from me, I think I could not be quiet in my grave.

And now, please go! or it will be too late."

Oswald did not know what to do. If he did not do what the boy wished,

he might bring back his feverish excitement, which seemed to have

abated considerably. On the other hand, he did not like at all to leave

him, even for a moment. And yet he would have been delighted to see

Helen--only for an instant--so much must have taken place during these

last hours.

Bruno soon made an end to his doubts.

"You promised me," he said, sadly, "and now you will not do it. You do

not love me."

What could he do now? Oswald went into the adjoining room, his

bed-chamber, and changed his dress. He had probably never in his life

dressed for a party in a similar state of mind. The whole thing looked

to him like hideous irony. He started back when he saw his own

distorted face in the looking-glass. The last few hours seemed to have

aged him as many years.

He came back to Bruno's bed.

"Let me look at you," said the boy, half rising. "How well you look! So

stately and handsome!--kiss me, Oswald."

Oswald took the boy in his arms and kissed him on his fine, proud

lips--so pale and parched, alas! Then he let him sink softly back on

his pillow.

"I feel quite well, quite well," said Bruno. "Do not hurry yourself. I

shall sleep delightfully till you come back."

CHAPTER XXI.

In the hall down stairs Oswald met Oldenburg.

"I have a great mind to turn back again," said Oldenburg, after a

rather formal greeting, "I did not expect to find so large a party, and

came on horseback, so that I am not exactly fit for a ball, as you see.

Who is there?"

"I am but just coming down," replied Oswald; "Bruno has been quite sick

since day before yesterday; now he has sent me away because he wanted

to sleep."

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that," said Oldenburg; "I hope the boy is not

going to be really sick. Did you not tell me he was a great favorite of

yours?"

"Yes. Have you any news about----"

"About my Czika? No."

Oldenburg's face was clouded over. "Shall we go in?" he asked.

In one of the reception-rooms they met the old baron. Oldenburg

exchanged a few words with him, and then went into the ball-room, while

Oswald had to give the baron a circumstantial account of Bruno's

condition during the last hours.

"Well, that is nice, that is very nice," he said; "I hope he will

escape being really sick. I was almost afraid it might turn into

typhoid fever. Go and tell my daughter that Bruno is better; I know she

will be glad to hear it. She has asked me several times."

Oswald went into the ball-room. They were just commencing a new dance,

the last one before the great pause, during which supper was to be

served in the great dining-hall up stairs. There was a low divan

running all around the ballroom, and Oswald remained standing on the

step that led to it, near the door. The dancers near him were

continually changing. Once Emily and her betrothed came to stand almost

immediately before him. She pretended not to notice him; she laughed

and talked aloud, perhaps a little too loud, but it is difficult not to

exaggerate when one is playing a part which requires an effort; Baron

Cloten, on the contrary, availed himself to the fullest extent of the

privilege men in his position have a right to enjoy, and whispered

unceasing nonsense in his lady's ear with a most expressive smile.

Oswald had heard of the sudden engagement of the two; he knew probably

better than anybody else how it had come about. He recollected how

disparagingly Emily had spoken of Baron Cloten that night at Barnewitz.

Now she had promised to marry him! How happy they will be, Oswald

thought, and he had to confess that, if harm came of it, no one was to

blame but himself.

A few moments afterwards Helen found herself near him. She was dancing

with Sylow. Oswald had observed her for some time, and noticed that she

was standing cold and silent, like a marble statue, by the side of her

partner, who seemed to have discovered his utter inability to begin a

conversation, and was studying the chandelier with praiseworthy

industry. As soon as she saw Oswald, a flash of life seemed to pass

over her beautiful but sad features. She beckoned him with the eye to

come near her.

"How is Bruno?"

"Thank you, better; he was going to sleep."

"Are you going to stay?"

"No, I am going back directly."

"Give my love to Bruno--and here--take this rosebud to him."

Helen took a rosebud from the bouquet she was holding in her hand and

gave it to Oswald, who took it, bowing deeply. He noticed that Sylow

had suddenly withdrawn his attention from the chandelier and was fixing

his eyes upon his own face with an expression which was by no means

agreeable.

The next moment another couple was standing in this place.

"Did you see your old admirer, Emily?" asked Cloten.

"Who do you mean?"

"Why, Dr. Stein! he was standing right behind us."

"Ah, yes! My old admirer? Are you mad, Arthur?"

"Well, well. You need not be angry. I don't believe a word of the whole

story. But, for Heaven's sake! just look! He is speaking to Helen

Grenwitz--she gives him a rose. Well, that is too bad! Upon my word,

that caps the climax!"

"I told you there was an understanding between them. He beats you all."

"Upon my word! That is too bad! But I have taken care to make the

matter known."

"What have you done?"

"Well, I have told everybody what you mentioned to me in secret. The

whole ball-room knows it now, ha, ha, ha!"

"But I did not give you leave to do so."

"I thought you meant me to do so. Mr. Stein will pay for it if he does

not get out of the way immediately with his rosebud."

"What are you going to do?"

"I am not going to do anything myself, but we mean to teach the fellow

how to behave. It will be a glorious affair, I tell you. You shall hear

all about it when its over. Ha, ha, ha!"

The happy man led his betrothed back to her place, as the dance was at

an end, and turned to Sylow, who was coming towards him.

"Did you see it, Cloten?"

"I should think so."

"Is not it a scandal?"

"I am only sorry for poor Felix."

"We must tell him all about it. Do you know where he is?"

"He said just now he was tired dancing. He was going to the

card-tables. I think Barnewitz is keeping bank somewhere. Suppose we

go, too? There will be no more dancing until supper. We have just time

to win a few louis. What do you say?"

"Of course I'll go."

Emily had watched their conversation from a distance. She saw them

leave the ball-room, laughing, arm in arm. Oswald also had disappeared.

Suddenly, a terrible fear overcame her. She had been the first to

couple Oswald's name with Helen's name, to gratify her mad desire to be

avenged on him, and it was she who had, for the same purpose, informed

Felix of her pretended discovery. She had commenced telling the same

story to-night again, merely for the purpose of making an end to

Cloten's stupid teasing. Now only she became aware that she had gone

too far, and that she had, in all probability, exposed Oswald to very

great danger. And yet she loved him still with the whole strength of

her passionate heart. She might have murdered him with her own hands

when the fit of mad jealousy was on her, but the thought of exposing

him to brutal ill-treatment at the hands of Cloten and others was

terrible to her. She looked around in the ball-room to see where help

might be found.

Her brother happened to come near her. She called him:

"What do you want, little one?"

"Have you seen Doctor Stein?"

"Yes, why?"

"Did you not intend asking him out for a few days during the hunting

season? I am afraid it would look badly if we were to drop him so

suddenly altogether."

Emily had blushed deep purple as she said these words; her usual

presence of mind seemed to have forsaken her utterly.

"Invite him out!" cried Adolphus; "well, would not that be nice? So as

to make the stupid report immortal that Lisbeth has started about you

and him,--invite him to our house?--why, rather----"

"I pray you, Adolphus, be quiet! They can hear you all over the room!"

"Listen to me, little one," said the young man, in a low but very

decided tone of voice; "I do not like that. You know I love you dearly,

just as much as a brother can love his sister; but, for that very

reason, I must take care to keep you from doing foolish things. And I

shall take care, I assure you!"

With these words he turned his back upon her and went to join the

others.

Emily could hardly repress her tears. Her anxiety increased with every

hour. She must find means--one way or another. The resolute girl

bethought herself of a desperate step.

She went up to Helen, who was sitting not far from her on the divan,

with some other ladies, and said:

"One word, Helen."

"What is it?" asked Helen, rising.

"Come a little more this way.--Helen, you like Doctor Stein? I know you

do!"

"What do you mean?" asked Helen, and the tell-tale blush rose to her

pale cheeks.

"Never mind. I like him, too. Like him very much indeed, if you will

have it,--and that is why I ask you to tell him--you can do it, and I

cannot do it, or I would do it myself--to leave the party. Cloten, and

my brother, and the other men are furious about him. I am afraid they

have made a plot against him. Pray, pray, Helen, tell him to go--at

once--I should be beside myself if the slightest difficulty arose

between him and my brother or Cloten."

"But where is he?" said Helen, who knew, from other reasons, how very

probable Emily's apprehensions were. "I believe he has gone up stairs

again."

"If you are not sure of it, make it sure. Why not ask that servant

there?"

"Have you seen Doctor Stein anywhere?" asked Helen.

"He is on the other side of the house, in the card-room."

"Oh God! what shall we do?" asked Emily.

"Baron Oldenburg!" called Helen, "will you have the kindness to come

here for a moment?"

"With pleasure, Miss Helen," said the baron, who had been examining a

picture on the wall, his hands folded behind his back.

"What are you going to do, Helen?"

"Never mind! Will you do me a favor, baron?"

"_Mais, sans doute!_"

"Do please find out Doctor Stein; he is in the card-room, and tell him

I wish he would go back to Bruno at once. Do you hear: at once?"

It needed not Oldenburg's sagacity to see that this message, which

might have been carried just as well by a servant, had a deeper

meaning. Helen had taken the very greatest pains to state her request

in a natural tone of voice, but the effort was visible, and this and

Emily's intent gaze, together with her ghastly pale face, furnished a

very clear commentary to Helen's words.

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"I shall obey your orders promptly and literally," said the baron,

bowing, and leaving the ball-room with longer strides than usual.

In the mean time, Oswald had wandered about in the room without a fixed

purpose. He had at first intended, as soon as he had spoken to Helen,

to return to Bruno, but it occurred to him that the boy might be really

asleep, and that he should then only disturb him. Perhaps, also, the

vague hope of seeing Helen once more, and that demoniacal power which

drives men, unconsciously and unwillingly, to drift towards their fate,

kept him from carrying out his resolution. Hardly knowing how he had

come to that part of the house, he suddenly found himself in one of the

rooms on the other side of the chateau, where a number of gentlemen

were crowding around a large table. Some were seated, others standing.

Baron Barnewitz sat in the middle and held bank. He had apparently had

much luck. Large piles of gold and silver and bank-notes lay before

him, and were continually increasing. Felix sat near him. He played

passionately, but, as it seemed, without luck. His face was very red,

his eyes bloodshot, and the veins on his forehead swollen into knots.

He hardly listened to what some of his friends behind him said; some of

whom tried to encourage him, while others dissuaded him. Oswald

happened to come to stand right opposite him; Felix only noticed him

after some time, and it was very perceptible that his restlessness

increased more and more. He drank glass after glass from a bottle that

was standing at his elbow, and doubled and trebled his stakes, without

any other result than that he lost twice and thrice as much as he had

done before.

Another roll of gold had just wandered from his place to the great pile

before Barnewitz; Felix drew out his pocketbook, and selected a very

large bank-note from the papers it contained.

"You do not mean to venture the whole sum at once, Grenwitz?" asked

Grieben, bending his giraffe-like neck over him.

"Are you mad, Grenwitz?" said Cloten, who had just entered with Sylow.

"Ah, pshaw!" replied Felix. "That shortens the process."

"_Faites votre jeu, messieurs!_" cried Barnewitz, taking a new pack of

cards in his hand.

"Have you done, Grenwitz?"

"Yes. All right!"

"Queen of hearts for me. Ladies always for me. Thanks, Grenwitz. Glad

to see you again in that way."

Felix did not look as if he could reply to such a friendly wish. His

confused glance wandered around the table, and at last remained fixed

on Oswald.

"Ho, there!" he cried, at the top of his voice, "bring me a glass of

wine, sir!"

It was not until all eyes were turned upon Oswald, that he became aware

of being himself the person to whom these rude words were addressed.

"The fellow does not seem to hear well," exclaimed Felix. "I say, bring

me a glass of wine, do you hear?"

"I believe a glass of water would be more useful," replied Oswald, in a

calm, firm voice, and without changing his position.

It was so still in the room, one might have heard a needle drop.

"How do you like that, gentlemen?" said Felix, looking around. "My

uncle keeps a nice set of servants, don't you think so?"

"You had better show him who is master in the house," said Sylow.

"Or let him stay in school an hour longer," suggested Grieben.

"Or better still: Give him the switch, with which he punishes the poor

boys," said Cloten.

"Or punish him with the contempt he deserves," added Breesen.

Oswald turned his eyes from one to the other, like a lion who is

undecided whether he shall fall upon the dogs that bark at him or not.

He had drawn himself up to his full height. His hand, which he had laid

on the table, quivered a little, but surely not from want of courage.

"Are you going, or not?" cried Felix, jumping up and placing himself

directly before Oswald.

"Do not carry the impertinence too far," said Oswald, putting the

rose-bud, which Helen had given him for Bruno, into his button-hole;

"else I must make an example of you for the benefit of the other boys."

Felix extended his arm to seize Oswald. The moment he touched him,

Oswald took him in his strong arms, lifted him up bodily and threw him

on the ground, so that the glasses and the money on the table shook and

trembled.

"Who wants to be the next?" he called out, with a voice of thunder;

"Come on, you cowardly wolves, who hunt in packs."

His eyes shone with a wild desire to fight; his breast rose and sank

quickly, his hands closed instinctively, and he did not think his life

worth a pin at that moment.

All saw this, and no one dared to accept the challenge.

Felix had risen again, but only to fall into the arms of his nearest

neighbor. He was stunned by the heavy blow; the blood was streaming

from his nose and mouth.

A threatening murmur passed through the large room. Single voices were

heard, exclaiming: "Shall we submit to that?--Knock him down!--Don't

let him get away alive!"

They crowded around him; fierce cries and low mutterings were heard on

all sides; Oswald was looking for the one whose turn it was to be next.

Suddenly Oldenburg stood by his side.

"How, gentlemen!" he exclaimed, raising himself to his full stately

height; "twenty against one! The odds are too unfair in all conscience.

Perhaps you would like to call in a few servants to help you!"

His words acted like a charm. Everybody saw at once the disgraceful

scene in its true light. The more sensible felt obliged to the baron

for having saved them from the disgrace in which they would have been

involved a minute later. A few only seemed to take his interference

amiss.

"The matter does not concern you, baron," cried Grieben, angrily.

"Pardon me, Count Grieben," replied Oldenburg; "the matter does concern

me in two ways. First, because I think it is every gentleman's duty to

see that such affairs are carried out, I will not say decently, but at

least honestly; and secondly, because I have the honor of calling Dr.

Stein my friend. If you or any of your friends here desire to hold me

to an account for what I have said, I am at your service. In the mean

time, however, I beg you will allow me to arrange the difficulty of my

friend, Doctor Stein, in a manner fit for gentlemen. I shall be back

here in a few moments, to place myself at your disposal. You will give

me your arm, Doctor Stein?"

The baron took Oswald's arm into his, and led him out of the room,

through the midst of the young noblemen, who readily made way for him.

When they were outside, he said: "Now you must go to your room. I will

follow you in a few minutes. Of course you are the challenger?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall challenge Felix Grenwitz in your name. You choose

pistols."

"Yes. You will please challenge him, and whoever else may desire to

meet me."

"We will content ourselves for the present with Grenwitz. You do not

care for the others half as much, I suppose. When?"

"As soon as possible. To-morrow morning, as far as I am concerned."

"_Bon_, Ten paces distance!"

"Or five."

"Ten is enough. Leave the rest to me. _Au revoir_, then, in your room."

The baron returned to the card-room, where the last scene had taken

place. Twenty tongues at once were discussing the matter, but they all

became silent when he entered. Oldenburg delivered his message to

Grieben, who had undertaken to act as Felix's second. They agreed upon

a meeting at five o'clock on the next morning, or at ten, if Felix

should not have sufficiently recovered before, and the place was to be

a small copse on Baron Cloten's estate. Then the gentlemen returned--it

may be imagined in what state of mind to the ball-room, where

the ladies had been waiting for some time, to escort them to the

supper-rooms. Felix had been carried off by his friends to his rooms;

he was too drunk and too much stunned by his fall to appear again in

the company. Oldenburg returned to Oswald.

As he did not find him in his room, and presumed he was with Bruno,

from whose room a light fell through the half-open door, he went softly

across and found Oswald bending over the boy's bed.

"How is he?" he asked.

"I am afraid he is very ill," replied Oswald, looking up; "his sleep is

very restless, and his pulse galloping furiously."

"Let me see," said Oldenburg; "I know something of these things."

"He is indeed very ill," he continued, after a short pause. "How long

has this been so, and how did it come about?"

Oswald gave him, in a few short words, an account of Bruno's case.

"And the pain had entirely left him an hour ago?" asked Oldenburg.

"Yes, almost entirely----"

"Then you must be prepared for the worst I presume he has received a

serious internal injury, and now mortification has set in. One of us

must go for the doctor."--He looked at his watch. "It is ten; I was

going to return home before supper. My Almansor stands saddled at the

door. Do you go to town. I am perhaps of more use here, now, than you.

You have bright moonlight. The road is good. It is a little over two

miles to town. You can be there in ten minutes. Pull off your dress

coat and put on an overcoat. There! You will not want a whip or spurs.

Almansor is quite fresh. Now, don't spare him!"

The baron had helped Oswald to put on his coat, and placed his hat on

his head. Oswald submitted to it all. He came to himself only when he

was on Almansor's back, when the night-wind was whistling past his

ears, and houses and trees, hedges and fields, and gardens on both

sides were gliding by him spectre-like in the pale moonlight.

And now he was on the vast heath, which extended behind the village as

far as Fashwitz. He saw the moonshine glitter mysteriously on the black

water in the deep peat cuttings; he heard from time to time the hoarse

cry of a marsh-bird, whom he had frightened from his nest; otherwise

not a sound, nothing but the dull thunder of Almansor's hoofs and the

night-wind as it swept wailing and complaining across the heath.

And now, while he was in the very heart of the heath was not that

another horse he heard, or was it merely the echo? It came nearer and

nearer; Almansor pointed his ears and went faster and faster, as if he

were trying to escape from death. And yet it came closer and closer.

Oswald turned round, and vague horror seized him as he saw behind him a

black figure on a black horse, whose hoofs did not seem to touch the

ground.

A second more and the black horseman was by his side; the horses were

racing head by head and snorted at each other with wide open nostrils.

"What do you wish?" asked Oswald, mastering his terror.

"Not much!" replied the black horseman, in a deep, hollow voice. "Wish

only to report that my mistress has been back since day before

yesterday; thought the young gentleman might not know it. No harm done,

sir! Beg pardon! Good-night and good luck!"

The horseman threw his horse around, Almansor raced on, and the next

moment Oswald was quite alone once more.

Was it the offspring of his overwrought imagination? Was it reality?

Was it a phantom? Was that really old Baumann on Brownlock? Oswald

could not tell to save his life.

And again houses and gardens, hedges and trees flew by him on the right

and on the left, spectre-like, in the pale moonlight. A dog snapped

with a yell at Almansor's hoofs. The next moment all had vanished, and

boundless fields of grain waved and whispered on both sides of the high

road.

Then lights began to shine from afar; they came nearer and nearer. A

bell struck loud once; already a quarter to eleven! and once more

houses right and left, trees, and hedges, and gardens. Then a dark

town-gate, and then Almansor's hoofs on the hard pavement.

"Where does Doctor Braun live?"

"Down the street; the last house on the left."

Before that house a carriage was waiting. Lights shone from the open

house-door and the open windows of the lower story.

"Is the doctor at home?"

"Here!" said Doctor Braun, from a window. "Where from?"

"From Grenwitz. It is I. Make haste--Bruno is dying."

"Was just coming," called Doctor Braun, already at the door. "Take a

seat with me. I will drive myself. Charles can ride your horse back

slowly. Are you in? Good. Now let us be off."

The carriage thundered through the dark streets, through the narrow

gate, out into the silent moonlit night, which lay dreamily on fields

and gardens, on meadows and forests, full of sweet fragrance. They went

back the same way Oswald had come. The doctor's powerful horses trotted

fast; in a few minutes they were on the heath.

Neither of them had said much. Oswald had told Doctor Braun of Bruno's

complaint, like most laymen, dwelling on trifles and leaving out what

was most important. Doctor Braun had asked a few brief questions. Then

both had been silent for some time.

"You must be prepared for the worst," began Doctor Braun. "From what

you tell me, I should not wonder if we found Bruno no longer alive."

Oswald made no reply. He uttered a groan, like a man under torture when

the screws have had another turn.

The doctor whipped the horses, who now went off at full speed.

A few minutes later the carriage was at the great portal of the

chateau. Every window was bright with light. From the supper-room loud

music was heard. The servants were busily running to and fro.

When they entered Bruno's room. Baron Oldenburg rose from the bed, over

which he had been bending.

"God be thanked that you are coming," he said; "I have watched by many

a sick-bed, but I have never felt a longer hour than this."

He wiped his brow; his sad face was pale; he seemed to be deeply moved.

Dr. Braun examined the patient; then he remained standing by the

bedside, without looking at the others.

"Is there no hope?"

"None."

Then Bruno raised himself slightly.

"Is that you, mamma? Do you come to sing me to sleep? How was the old

song?"

And in a wondrously sweet voice, low, very low, like the notes of an

AEolian harp, he began to sing a Swedish song, as his mother might have

sung it to him years ago.

He was leaning back again on his pillow. Through the deep stillness of

the room Oswald's sobs alone were heard; the eyes of the other two men

were filled with tears.

"Is that you, Oswald?" asked Bruno; "why do you cry? Good evening,

doctor; where do you come from? I suppose I am at the end of my life.

Where is Baron Oldenburg? Give me your hand. You have been very kind to

me. Doctor, must I die? Yes?--tell me, I am no coward; I knew it

yesterday already; must I die? Then, Oswald, one more request; bend

over me, I will whisper it in your ear."

Oswald did as he was asked.

He rose and went to the door. Oldenburg had followed him.

"I know what Bruno wants. He has asked for her a hundred times. I will

call her. It is the last prayer of a dying man."

He went out; Oswald approached the bed again.

"Is she coming?"

"Yes."

"Put my pillow a little higher, Oswald, and put the lamp there, so that

the light falls right upon her. Thank you; that is right."

"She is not coming--yes, was not that her voice? Screw the lamp down,

Oswald, it is too bright in the room.--Helen!"

A blissful smile passed over his features.

"Helen! How pale you are; and yet how beautiful! Give me that rose on

your bosom. Oh, do not cry! Let me kiss your hand, Helen!"

Helen bent over him and kissed him on his lips.

Bruno put his arms around her neck.

"I love you, Helen."

His arms sank back on the coverlet Dr. Braun gently raised Helen. He

bent over the bed and listened for a moment. As he rose again he softly

passed his hand over the eyes of the departed.

CHAPTER XXII.

It was three days after the events of that night.

Early in the morning it had been raining. Now in the later forenoon the

sun was peeping at times through the heavy clouds, which rolled slowly

toward the east, driven by a damp west wind.

In the graveyard at Fashwitz, in the avenue of linden-trees which leads

from one end to the other, dividing the graves of the nobles from the

graves of the common people, two persons were walking up and down in

earnest conversation. At one of the gates of the graveyard which opened

immediately upon the high-road, an elegant carriage and two was

standing. Near by, a groom was leading two beautiful saddled horses by

the bridle. Coachman and groom conversed in subdued tones, as if they

did not wish to disturb the meditations of the old man with the long

snow-white moustache, who sat on one of the curbstones of the gate, and

looking from time to time, from under his heavy, overhanging brows, at

the two persons inside.

They were Melitta and Oldenburg. Melitta was not in mourning, but her

sweet, fair face had an expression of melancholy which it had never

worn before. Even the smile with which she replied to many a remark of

her companion was not the old joyous smile; it resembled the glimpses

of the sun through the dismal, melancholy clouds.

"And you mean really to go?" she asked, breaking a pause which had

occurred in their conversation.

"I rode over to Berkow to pay my farewell visit and to ask if you had

any commands for me. You see that it was not an idle ceremony, or I

would not have followed you here to the graveyard, although graves and

graveyards, you know, are not the places I love particularly to

frequent."

"And where are you going now?"

"I do not know yet. What can I do here? As I cannot live for her for

whom alone I care to live, and as our miserable age has no great

purpose to which a man may devote his life, I mean to go, like another

Peter Schlemihl, in search of my own shadow. I only fear I shall never

find it, or, if I do find it, it will leave me again at once, like the

last time."

"Have you never tried to find the Brown Countess?"

"No. It would have been of no avail. Wandering gypsies leave no traces

behind them; they are like ships sailing through the water. If I should

not return, Melitta, you must send for your bust, which I ordered from

young Goldoni in Rome. It is in my study at Cona; or would you like to

have it at once?"

"No," said Melitta, "you had better keep it. Your unbounded kindness

deserves a better reward than cold marble."

"Or marble coldness?" asked Oldenburg, smiling.

"That I do not give you, Oldenburg," said Melitta, with warmth; "really

not. I love you as one would love a brother who is a few years older,

who stands somewhat in the place of a father, and to whom one looks up

with cheerful respect and gratitude. It is our fate, that you must

needs love me in a different way, and that I cannot love you in any

other way."

"It is our fate, indeed, Melitta, and now let us say nothing more about

it. Against fate nothing can be done. We can only bow our head, and

accept the laurel wreath or the death-blow in silence. I might have

learnt that in these last days, if I had not known it before. And now,

Melitta, since you yourself have called me a brother, let me speak to

you like a brother. May I?"

"Yes," said Melitta, who had lowered her head at these last words of

Oldenburg's, after a short pause, and in a low voice.

"Overcome your love for Oswald! I cannot advise you to pull out the

arrow by one single effort, because I fear the wound might bleed till

you die; but do not resist the effect of time, which is almost as

powerful as almighty Fate. After a few weeks, or a few months, you will

think more calmly about it; will you promise me, like a good sister,

not to look upon these calmer and wiser thoughts as a sin against your

love?"

"Yes."

"For, Melitta, he is lost to you, even if he should overcome this last

passion of his. His mad hunt after an Ideal, which he cannot find

anywhere upon earth, because it only lives in his imagination, will

lead him to another and another love. He will ever think: This is what

you have been looking for in vain; and he will ever discover the

illusion, until he will take at last, in his bitterest disappointment,

a step which will relieve him of all further care for this wretched

world. These last days have brought him much nearer to this unavoidable

end."

"How are matters at Grenwitz?"

"Felix is out of danger, although at first he was given up. But he

will, in all probability, be an invalid for life--a heavy punishment

for one who has so long 'enjoyed the sweetness of flowers and broken

every flower.' Oswald's ball missed its aim only by a hair's breadth.

Felix owes his life to Bruno's death. Oswald did not say a word during

the whole duel; his face remained unchanged, only when Felix fell a

kind of smile passed over his features; he looked the very image of

perfect composure, and only the close observer could have noticed that

it was the snow on a volcano, and that from time to time a feverish

tremor ran through his limbs. He bore himself in the whole affair with

consummate tact, and even the host of adversaries had to acknowledge

that Cloten actually said, in his admiration, he was very sorry the man

was not born noble."

"And Helen?"

"Helen left, a few hours after the duel, with her father for Grunwald.

I believe they are going to keep the girl there for a time, in a kind

of honorable exile, till they have brought about a reconciliation with

her mother. In the mean time the good woman is simply beside herself,

and would have moved heaven and earth, and the police besides, to

destroy Oswald, if Cloten and others had not told her that Felix had

given the first provocation, and that a duel was simply unavoidable."

"And--Oswald?"

"I thought he had written to you?"

"Yes, but nothing about his plans for the future."

"Nor do I know anything about them. We have not exchanged three words

with each other. I only know that he has been staying with Doctor Braun

in town, to await what would come of the duel. I am glad he has chosen

so well. His new friend, Braun, seems to be a man of as much character

and cleverness as of goodness of heart. God grant that he may be a

wiser Mentor for our Telemachus than I have been able to be, with the

best will in the world. But now I must go, Melitta. Else my Almansor

will beat his hoofs to powder. Have you anything more to do here?"

"No," said Melitta, "we can go."

"Will you often come to this place?"

"Hardly. I only wished to see if my orders had been attended to. You

know, best of all, that the deceased, whom I came to see, has not been

alive for me for long years, and, properly speaking, never."

"Then let us go, Melitta."

The baron took the arm of the young widow, and led her down the avenue.

They did not say another word. Old Baumann opened the door of the

carriage. Oldenburg helped Melitta in and stood a moment, hat in hand,

by the open carriage. When the horses were about to start, Melitta gave

him her hand; he pressed it to his lips. He remained motionless for a

few moments, and looked after the carriage as it rolled away. Then he

beckoned to his groom, mounted Almansor, and rode off at full speed in

the opposite direction.

Two men had been watching this last scene, who had come into the

graveyard at the very moment when Melitta and Oldenburg left through

the gate opposite. They had placed a couple of wreaths on a new grave

near the gate, on the side of the nobles. They were Oswald and Doctor

Braun; both in travelling costume. They stood, arm in arm, on the steps

of the church, and thus witnessed the parting scene between Oldenburg

and Melitta. When the baron kissed Melitta's hand, an ironical smile

passed over Oswald's pale, sunken face.

"Let us make haste to get away from here," he said. "I feel as if the

ground were burning under my feet."

"I am ready," said the doctor. "If you had followed my advice you would

have left here long ago, and if you follow my advice now, you will

never return here. Our journey will give you back to yourself. You have

lost much, but nothing that cannot be regained. You have despised

reason and science, man's highest power, and yet you can never hope for

happiness except by such help, for,--you recollect the words of your

favorite poet:

'----what Amor has taken from us

Apollo only can restore:

Peace, happiness, and harmony,

And pure and powerful aspirations--'

Come--let the dead bury the dead! You must begin a new life now!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: "Illustrirte Zeitung," Leipzig, 9th February, 1867.

"Bibliothek der deutchen Classiker." Hildburghausen. Band xxix, p.

683.]

[Footnote 2: Curtis's "_Nile Notes of a Howadji_," 1857; Emerson's

"_English Traits_," 1857; a volume of American Poems, 1859; sec. ed.,

1865: Roscoe's "_Lorenzo di Medici_," 1859, etc.]

[Footnote 3: Since the above was in type we have become acquainted with

some charming "Novellen" by Spielhagen, but lately published, of which,

however, we cannot now speak. (His later works are: "The Fair American

Ladies," "Hans and Grete," "The Village Coquette;" his latest, and

perhaps most remarkable work, "Hammer and Anvil," has just been

completed. He also lately published two volumes of "Critical Essays,"

which are highly praised by the German reviewers. Two of the essays are

devoted to careful and appreciative criticisms of the American poets

Bryant and Poe.)]

[Footnote 4: "_Die von Hohenstein_ is by some considered to be superior

to _Problematic Characters_; not so romantic and poetic, but equally

rich in psychological truth, and more concentrated in form, more

crystallized."]

End of Project Gutenberg's Problematic Characters, by Friedrich Spielhagen