CHAPTER VI.

After this Clement never made a stay of any length in his father's

house. Each time he came, he found him harsher and more intolerant. His

mother was tender and loving as before, but more reserved: Marlene was

calm, but mute whenever they became earnest in discussion. At such

times she would rather avoid being present.

On a bright day towards the end of autumn, we find Clement again in the

small room where, as a boy, he had spent those weeks of convalescence.

One of his friends and fellow-students, had accompanied him home. They

had gone through their course at the University, and had just returned

from a longer tour than usual, during which Wolf had fallen ill, and

had desired to come hither to recover in the quiet of village life.

Clement could not but acquiesce, though of all the young men he knew,

Wolf was the one, he thought, least likely to please his father. But,

contrary to his expectations, the stranger prudently and cleverly

contrived to adapt himself perfectly to the opinions of the old couple;

especially winning the mother's good will, by the merry interest he

manifested in household matters. He gave her good advice, and even

succeeded in curing her of some little ailment with a very simple

remedy. He had been preparing himself to follow his uncle in his

business as apothecary: an avocation far beneath that for which his

natural talents and acquirements would have fitted him; but he was by

nature indolent, and was quite contented to settle down, and eat his

cake betimes.

Mentally, he never had had anything in common with Clement; and on

first coming to the vicarage, he had felt himself in an atmosphere so

oppressive and uncongenial, that he would have left it, after the most

superficial recovery, had not the blind girl, from the first moment he

saw her, appeared to him as a riddle worth his reading.

She had avoided him as much as possible; the first time he had taken

her hand she had withdrawn it, with unaccountable uneasiness, and had

entirely lost the usual composure of her manner. Yet he would remain in

her society for hours, studying her method of apprehending things, and

with a playful kind of importunity which it was not easy to take amiss,

taking note of her ways and means of communication with the outer

world.

He could not understand why Clement appeared to care for her so

little--and Clement would avoid her more than ever when he saw her in

company with Wolf. He would turn pale then, and escape to the distant

forest, where the villagers would often meet him, plunged in most

disconsolate meditations.

One evening, when he was returning from a long discontented walk, where

he had gone too far and lost himself, he met Wolf in a state of more

than natural excitement. He had been paying a long visit to Marlene,

who had fascinated him more than usual; he had then found his way to

the village tavern, where he had drunk enough of the light wine of the

country to make him glad of a cool walk among the fields in the fresh

evening air.

"I say!" he called to Clement. "It may be a good while yet, before you

are so fortunate as to get rid of me; that little blind witch of yours

is a pretty puzzle to me. She is cleverer than a dozen of our town

ladies, who only use their eyes to ogle God and man--and then that

delicious way she has of snubbing me, is a master-piece in itself."

"You may be glad if she ends by making you a little tamer;" said

Clement shortly.

"Tamer! that I shall never be--and that magnificent figure and lovely

face of hers are not calculated to make a fellow tame. Don't believe I

mean to harm her. Only you know, sometimes, I think if she were to be

fond of one, there would be something peculiar in it. A woman who can't

see--who can only feel, and feel as no other creature can--I say if

such a woman were to fall upon a fellow's neck, I say, the feeling

might prove especially pleasant to them both."

"And I say, you had better keep your sayings to yourself."

"Why? Where's the harm? what harm would there be in making her fall

just a very little bit in love with me, to see how her nerves would

carry her through the scrape? In general so much fire finds its safety

valve in the eyes, but here----"

"I must beg you to refrain from making any such experiments," flared up

Clement. "I tell you very seriously, that I do not choose to see or

hear anything of the kind, and so you may act accordingly."

Wolf gave a sidelong look at him, and, taking hold of his arm, said

with a laugh: "I do believe you really are in love with the girl, and

want to try a few experiments yourself. How long have you been so

scrupulous? You have often heard me out, before now, when I have told

you what I thought of women."

"Your education is no concern of mine. What have I to do with your

unclean ideas? But when I find them soiling one so near and dear to me,

one who is twenty times too good for you to breathe the same air, that

is what I can and will prevent."

"Oho!" said Wolf tranquilly--"too good you say? too good? It is you who

are too good a fellow Clement, far too good! so take yourself away, out

of my air, good lad."

He clapped him on the back, and would have moved on--Clement stood

still, and turned white; "You will be so good as to explain the meaning

of those words;" he said resolutely.

"No such fool; ask others if you wish to know--others may be fond of

preaching to deaf ears; I am not."

"What others? What do you mean? Who is it dares to speak slightingly of

her? I say who dares?" He held Wolf with an iron grasp.

"Foolish fellow, you are spoiling my walk," he growled, "with your

stupid questions; let me go, will you?"

"You do not stir a step until you have given me satisfaction," cried

Clement, getting furious.

"Don't I? Go to the bailiff's son if you are jealous! Poor devil! to

coax him so, till he was ready to jump out of his skin for her, and

then to throw him over! Fie! was it honest? He came to pour out his

grievances to me, and I comforted him. She is just what all women are,

says I, a coquette. It is my turn now, but we are up to a thing or two,

you know, and may not be inclined to let our mouths be stopped, when we

would warn other fellows from falling into the same snare."

"Retract those words!" shouted Clement, shaking Wolf's arm in a

paroxysm of rage.

"Why retract? if they are true, and I can prove them? Go to! you are

but a simpleton!"

"And you a devil."

"Oho! I say, it may be your turn to retract now."

"I won't retract."

"Then I suppose you know the consequences. You shall hear from me as

soon as I get to town."

And having thus spoken in cold blood, he turned back to the village.

Clement remained standing where he was.

"Villain!--miserable scoundrel!"--fell from his lips; his bosom heaved,

a cruel pain had coiled itself about his heart, he flung himself flat

upon the ground among the corn, and lay there long, recalling a

thousand times each one of those words that had made him feel so

furious.

When he came home at a very late hour, he was surprised to find the

family still assembled. Wolf was missing. The vicar was pacing

violently up and down the room. His wife and Marlene were seated with

their work in their laps, much against their custom at so late an hour.

On Clement's entrance the vicar stopped, and gravely turned to look at

him.

"What have you been doing to your friend?--Here he has packed up and

gone, while we were all out walking, leaving a hasty message. When we

came home, we only found the man who had come to fetch his things. Have

you been quarrelling? else why should he be in such a hurry?"

"We had high words together. I am glad to find that he is gone, and

that I shall not have to sleep another night under the same roof with

him."

"And what were your angry words about?"

"I cannot tell you, father. I should have been glad to avoid a quarrel,

but there are things to which no honest man can listen. I have long

known him to be coarse, and careless in feeling, both with regard to

himself, and others, but I never saw him as he was to-day."

The vicar looked steadily at his son, and then in a low tone: "How do

you mean to settle this quarrel between you?" he asked.

"As young men do;" said Clement gravely.

"And do you know what Christians do, when they have been offended?"

"I know, but I cannot do the same; if he had only offended me, I might

easily have forgiven him, but he has insulted one who is very dear to

me."

"A woman, Clement?"

"A woman. Yes."

"And you love this woman?"

"I love her;" murmured the young man.

"I thought so," burst out his father. "Yes! you have been corrupted in

the town. You are become as the children of this world, who follow

wanton wenches, fight for them, and make idols of them; but I tell you,

while I live, I shall labour to win you back to God. I will smash your

idols. Did the Lord vouchsafe to work a miracle for you, for you to

deny him now? Far better have remained in darkness, with those gates

closed for ever, through which the devil and all his snares have

entered in, and taken possession of your heart!"

The young man had some struggle to suppress his rising passion. "Who

gave you the right, father, to suppose my inclinations to be so base?"

he said. "Am I degraded, because I am forced to do what is needful in

the world we live in, to crush the insolence of the base? There are

divers ways of wrestling with the evil one; yours is the peaceful way,

for you have the multitude to deal with. I have the individual, and I

know that way."

"It is a way you shall not go," hotly returned the father; "I say you

shall not trample on God's commandments. He is no son of mine, who

would do violence to his brother. I prohibit it with the authority of a

parent and a priest. Beware of setting that authority at nought!"

"And so you spurn me from your home;" said Clement gloomily. A pause

ensued. His mother, who had burst into tears, now rose, and rushed up

to her son. "Mother," he said earnestly, "I must be a man. I cannot be

a traitor." He went towards the door, with one look at Marlene, whose

poor blind eyes were searching painfully; his mother followed him--she

could not speak for sobbing. "Do not detain him, wife," said the vicar,

"he is no child of ours, since he refuses to be God's; let him go

whither he pleases, to us, he is as dead."

Marlene heard the door close and the vicar's wife fall heavily to the

ground, with a cry that came from the depths of her mother's heart. She

woke from the trance in which she had been sitting, went to the door,

and with an immense exertion, she carried the insensible woman to her

bed. The vicar stood at the window and never uttered a word; but his

folded hands were trembling violently.

About a quarter of an hour later, a knock came to Clement's door. He

opened it and saw Marlene.--She entered quietly. The room was in

disorder--she struck her foot against the trunk. "What are you going to

do, Clement?"

The stubbornness of his grief softened at once, and he took her hands

and pressed them to his eyes which were wet with tears. "I must do it;"

he cried, "I have long felt that I have lost his love. Perhaps when I

am gone, he may feel that I have never ceased to be his son."

She raised him up, and said; "Do not weep, or I shall never have

strength to tell you what I have to say. Your mother would say the same

if your father did not prevent her. And even he,--I heard by his voice

how difficult he found it to be so hard; yet hard he will remain--for I

know him well--he believes that he is serving the Lord by being severe,

and serving him best, in sacrificing his own heart."

"And you think the same?"

"No, I don't, Clement.--I don't know much about the world, nor the laws

of that opinion that forces a man to fight a duel; but I do know you

enough to know that every one of your thoughts and actions--and

therefore this duel also--is submitted to the severest test of

self-examination. You may owe it to the world, and to her you love;

only I think you owe your parents more than either. I do not know the

person who has been insulted, and do not quite feel why it should make

you so indignant, to be prevented doing this for her. Do not interrupt

me. Do not suppose me to be influenced by the fear of losing any

remnant of our friendship which you may have retained during the years

that have parted us. I would be willing to let her have you all to

herself, if she be able to make you happy, but not even for her sake

should you do what you are about to do, were she dearer to you than

either father or mother. From their house you must not go in anger, at

the risk of its being closed to you for ever. Your father is old, and

will carry his opinions with him to the grave. If he were to give way

to you, it would be at the sacrifice of principles which are the very

pith and marrow of his life; and the sacrifice on your side, would be

merely, the evanescent estimation in which you believe yourself to be

held by strangers. If a woman whom you love, could break with you

because you are unwilling to embitter the last years of your father's

life, that woman, I say, was never worthy of you."

Her voice failed her; he threw himself on a chair and groaned.

She was still standing by the door, waiting to hear what he would say;

and there was a strange look of tension about her brow--she seemed to

be listening with her eyes. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, laid his

two hands on her shoulders, and cried: "It was for you I would have

done this, and now for your sake I will not do it;" and rushing past

her, he ran downstairs.

She remained where she was. His last words had thrilled to her very

marrow, and a sudden tide of gladness broke over that timid doubting

heart of hers. She sat down on the portmanteau trembling all over. "It

was for you! for you!"--the words echoed in her ear. She half dreaded

his return; if he should not mean what she thought! and how could he

mean it?--What was she to him?

She heard him coming upstairs again; in her agitation she rose, and

would have left the room, but he met her at the door, and taking her in

his arms, he told her all.

"It was I who was blind," he cried, "and you who saw--who saw

prophetically. Without you, where should I have been now?--An orphan

without a future, without a home; banished from the only hearts I love,

and by my own miserable delusions. And now--now they are all my own

again; mine and more than I ever believed to be mine--more than I could

have trusted myself to possess."

She hung upon his neck in mute devotion; mute for very scorn of the

poverty of language. The long repressed fervour of her affection had

broken loose, and burned in her silent kiss.

Day dawned upon their happiness. Now he knew what she had so

obstinately concealed, and what this very room had witnessed; where

now, pledged to each other for life, with a grasp of each other's

hands, they parted in the early morning.

In the course of the day a letter came from Wolf, written the night

before, from the nearest village. Clement might be at rest, he wrote;

he retracted everything; he knew best that what he had said was

nonsense. He had spoken in anger and in wine.

It had provoked him to see Clement going about so indifferent and

cool, when, with a word, he might have taken possession of such a

treasure--and when he saw that Clement really did mean to do so, he had

reviled what had been denied to him.

He begged Clement not to think worse of him than he deserved, and to

make his excuses to the young girl and to his parents; and not to break

with him entirely, and for ever.

When Clement read this to Marlene, she was rather touched: "I can be

sorry for him now," she said; "though I always felt uneasy when he was

here--and how much he might have spared us both, and spared himself!

But I can think of him with charity now--we have so much to thank him

for!"--

WALTER'S LITTLE MOTHER.

WALTER'S LITTLE MOTHER.

On a still spring night, that had followed on a stormy day, a young

woman sat alone by her little lamp, watching and wakeful, although in

every other room of that old house, the lights had been put out above

an hour before.

It was in a narrow street of a little northern town, and not a footstep

was to be heard, save the watchman's, who stopped from time to time,

under the one lighted window, to sing out with especial emphasis, his

warning to be careful of fire and light. The casement was not closed,

and the lamp flickered in the night wind, that blew chill into the

room, stealing as it passed, the fragrance of the hyacinths that were

blooming in the window. But the girl did not close the casement; she

only drew her large brown shawl still closer about her shoulders, and

remained pensively looking over the book on her lap, towards the

sleeping town beyond; listening to the clock upon the tower as it

struck the successive quarters.

Opposite the deep old arm-chair in which she was reclining, a table had

been laid with a clean white cloth, and a little tea-kettle was singing

merrily beside a simple supper of cold meats, set out with a dainty

neatness that almost amounted to elegance. An arm-chair had been drawn

close to the single cover.

There was no other symptom of petticoat government in that large low

room. Discolored copper-plates, sketches in oils, fragments of antique

marbles, covered the walls, and lay about encumbering the furniture, in

artistical confusion. An old stove of green potter; had been crowned by

a Corinthian capital, blackened by the smoke and dust of years. Now, at

this quiet hour of the night, when the lamp in the centre left the

comers of the room in darkness, this motley assemblage almost haunted

one. The most incongruous things had been placed so close together, as

to make them all look strange.

The clock struck eleven. With a movement of impatience, the young woman

rose, and throwing down the little blue volume of which she had been

absently turning over the leaves, she went to the window and looked

out. Her earliest youth was past, and her countenance bore the stamp of

a resolute soul, that has suffered, and struggled, and ended by

becoming indifferent to evanescent charms. Yet if you looked longer at

that serious face, you could see that such charms had been intended for

it when Nature cast those features; but that life and fate had been too

hard for her, and blighted their original promise. Eyes and brow were

of the purest cut; the contour of cheek and throat was broad and

sweeping. Even a slight trace of the small-pox here and there, had not

deteriorated from the delicacy of her profile. One breath of

youthfulness, of gladness, of carelessness, and that severe mouth would

have softened into loveliness.

Even now, her countenance completely changed, as her watchful ear at

last discerned the echo of a footstep on the pavement, coming up to the

door, and a suppressed voice, humming a valse tune, as the key was

being turned in the lock.

"At last!" she murmured, as she drew back from the window; "and late

enough;--and what can make him sing? A glass too much, perhaps, and for

all my pains and patience, I shall only have to preach him sober."

She listened to the step upon the stairs, it was steady, elastic,

noiseless. "Not so bad after all," she said, with a sigh of relief,

"but that he should have taken to singing--?"

The door opened, and a fine-grown young fellow of about nineteen came

in, with a kindly salutation.

"How are you, little mother?" he said, taking off his cap, and

smoothing back the tangles of his thick flaxen hair. "Why did you sit

up for me? I told you I should be late. It was our last dancing lesson

for the winter, and they made a sort of ball of it. If some of our

young ladies and gentlemen had not been of such very tender years, we

should have been at it still. But not a few of our partners were

prematurely carried off, by their respective nursery maids;--a fact

they would not have owned for worlds--and so we had to break up without

dancing in the morning. You have been nodding a bit, I hope?"

"Not I, my son," she said, in a quiet tone. "Care keeps mothers awake

at home, when grown-up sons and daughters go racketing to balls and

parties. However I believe I should have done wiser in going to bed,

than in sitting up here with my teapot, waiting for light-footed young

gentlemen who, I perceive, have already quenched their thirst at a less

insipid tap than my domestic teapot."

"You perceive, do you little mother?" he answered gaily, disposing of

his long limbs under the little table as well as their length admitted

of; "and how do you perceive that?"

"This how: you never walked home singing in your life before; and we

cannot attribute any ordinary cause, to an effort of nature so

extraordinary as to produce what it never had. To be sure, the

production was accordingly."

He laughed. "What a wonderfully sagacious little mother! your

perceptions are correct as far as you see, but you don't see far

enough. I confess to some disturbance somewhere, but not in the upper

works, as you suppose. His worship the burgermeister's mild punch is

brewed with far too careful a consideration of the tender years of

upper tertia, to do much mischief among us other fellows. Altogether,

the refreshments affect the sober system, and I am afraid your

provender here will have to suffer for it I abominate the trash and

sweet-stuff they feed a fellow with at parties. Come, little mother,

just give us a spoonful more rum in this tea, and cure one giddiness

with another. For, as I said before, there is something wrong about me.

I _am_ hard hit."

He looked at her in mock distress, with a saucy sparkle in his deep

blue eyes. "Walter," she began, in some dismay, "what have you been

about? I trust you have not----?"

The young fellow helped himself to a slice of bread and meat, and fell

to his supper with a ponderous gravity, that was meant to cover a shade

of embarrassment.

"I suppose no man can escape his fate," he said, chewing away with

prosaic complacency, "sooner or later, there always must be a first

time; and when a fellow comes to be nineteen, it becomes an affair of

_amour propre_ to do as others do, and fall in--" he hesitated and she

laughed.

"In love?--I do believe this foolish fellow is trying to persuade

himself and me, that he has fallen in love!"

"No less;" returned the lad, swallowing the tea she had poured out for

him at a gulp; "I am afraid there is every symptom of that fatal

malady."

"Most prominent symptoms: a very unusual appetite; and twelve bars of a

valse, sung so false, as to make the very muscle model in the corner

stop his ears, if he could move his hands. May I enquire to whom these

miracles are to be attributed?"

A sly look of mystery came over his bright face; of which indeed the

chief charm was this first freshness and frankness of early youth.

"Guess," he said; "you see at present I am too intent on filling my

mouth, for any very coherent confession to come out of it."

And he fell to work again, and filled his plate, and cut large pieces

off a bright pink ham. She had drawn her arm-chair close to the table,

and looked quietly into his eyes.

"As if there were much to guess!--when one has the honor of knowing

every one of the young ladies, and more of their giddy partner and his

strong points (and his weak ones)--than he himself!--and we know him to

be an aspiring young man, for whom the best of all things is but just

good enough--and in every thing that beguiles young fools to folly, who

is there among our maidens that can vie with the daughter of our most

worshipful and puissant Burgermeister?--Did I not lay hands on a

certain drawing board a few days ago, that was ornamented with the name

of Flora in choicest arabesques?"

"Your tea is strong, little mother, but your prophetic sense is weak;"

said the young man with an affectation of pomposity; "of course I do

not attempt to deny"--he proceeded with a passing blush--"that I really

did at one time admire that smooth-faced little viper, who can slip so

cleverly through a thousand things that would pose a man--and besides I

may as well confess that I felt less provoked at my own mistakes,

because it amused me to persuade myself that it was love that made me

stupid, as it has made many a cleverer man before me. But to-night my

eyes were opened, and I saw that between us two there never could be

any question of love. If a certain muslin dress were but transparent

enough for us to look into her left side, we should discover nothing, I

lay my life, but a pair of ball-tablets and the last No. of the

'Modes'."

"And may I enquire what there is to justify a young gentleman in

harbouring such dire suspicions? Is a helpless young woman to be argued

out of her heart, simply because she may not hold it ready when certain

persons ask her."

"Proofs--we have proofs of what we advance;" returned the lad very

seriously; "I do not profess to be any very extraordinary judge of

character--in fact I suffered myself to be made a fool of for a time.

All this winter, you should have seen how this little Dalilah walked

round my beard,--to use a figure of speech, for this trifle of yellow

down is barely enough to swear by yet.

"Though I do dance deplorably, and never know whether it is a valse or

schottisch, or whether I am to begin with the right foot or the left,

still I was the acknowledged favorite. I was the eldest and biggest of

the company, and might be looked upon as a full-grown man and

champion." "A pike among the small fry;" observed his listener.

"As you please; she took me as full measure, and I let her--There _are_

feminine perceptions," and he smiled good-humouredly, "which would fail

to discern my manhood, even if I were to grow right through the

ceiling, and look down upon them from the mazes of a bristling beard."

"Certainly," she retorted; "you are my own little Walter, and will be,

if you live to be a grandfather. I shall always feel maternally

responsible for your faults and follies--and there is every prospect of

your keeping these maternal feelings in practice to the last day of

your life."

"Very possibly;" and he laughed again. "But to-day I really did do you

credit, I assure you, and was an honor to my education. Our ball queen,

you must know, proud minx! found me all at once too mean for even the

meanest services of her slaves. There was a young gentleman from the

bar, who had been so condescending as to join us. When I came in, with

my plain frock-coat and cotton gloves, he was pleased to take his

eye-glass, and to stare at me from head to foot. He was in tails, and

light-coloured kids, and naturally took the shine out of me, and would

you have believed it?--she would hardly vouchsafe to let me take the

tips of her fingers!--Oh! woman! woman, false and fair----"

"No sweeping condemnations, I beg."

"Oh! no. Heaven forbid! Of course there are angels among Eve's

daughters. Some--angels with flaming swords. Others--simply angels,

wearing their little wings neatly folded under innocent muslin

dresses--"

"As--for instance--?"

"While I was still standing, turning to stone at the assertion that

Fraeulein Flora had already disposed of all her dances, my indignant eye

chanced to light upon a face I had overlooked before--perhaps because

it could not ogle and grin as some can--and now I saw a pair of large

soft eyes pitifully fixed on mine, which seemed to say: 'Why did you

never look our way before?--we could have warned you long ago, to

beware of icebergs,' &c. &c.--all that eyes can say. So I resolved to

be a fool no longer, and I walked across the room, look you, with a

dignity--"

"I see!"--she interrupted drily; "I see him, as he walks over half a

dozen dresses, turning over as many chairs as he could find in his

way."

"Not this time, you unnatural mother, who are always ready to believe

the worst of your own son! I tell you, I walked up to Lottchen Klas

with the dignity of a prince--"

"Lottchen Klas, is it? A mother's blessing on your choice, my son!" she

said with great solemnity. "If this be your first love, it is not of a

disquieting nature. This is not likely to prove too absorbing--this

will scarcely keep you from better things. I only beg you will put no

nonsense into that poor child's head, do you hear?"

"I don't know what you take me for," he said with honest naivete. "I

did not say a word to her that I might not as well have said to a woman

of seventy."

"She will have been much edified by your conversation."

"Hm;--" he said; "_she_ began--she seemed to see that I could not be

contented to go on poking here, and never be more than a very middling

house-painter or decorator--that I had rather do anything, or go

anywhere, to get to a proper school, and have an architect's education.

How she knew, I can't say, but she began--"

"And you could not leave off, as I know you."

"Of course not, and she didn't want to; _she_ did not find it tiresome;

and then, between whiles, we danced; and I never thought I had been so

clever at it. You can't think how well she managed to keep me in order;

so that we hardly ever got out of time, and got through the quadrille

part of the business with only one very small confusion. Ah! she is a

sweet creature! and divinely good!--and I really don't believe I

ever could find a more suitable opportunity to fall in love. Look

here,"--and he pulled out a handful of bows and cotillion badges from

his waistcoat: "All these are to be put in the fire. Only this one

crimson bow was hers: and this is to be carefully kept, and laid under

my pillow to-night, and I am much mistaken if I do not find myself over

head and ears in love when I awake in the morning!"

"So that is still to come?" she said, passing her hand playfully over

his hair, "Alas! poor youth, I fear you may have long to wait!

To-morrow is Sunday, and when you get to your drawingboard, you are

most likely to find a slender shaft, or a well-proportioned capital,

more attractive than all the Lottchens ever born; and indeed my son, it

is not a pity! You have plenty of time before you yet."

She sat silent for a while, and thoughtfully staring at the little blue

flame of the tea-kettle, that had been singing a merry treble to her

voice. He too was silent, sighed, and shoved away his empty plate.

"Little mother," he said at last; "I daresay you are right. At least, I

suppose you should know more about these things than I do. Tell me

honestly now, in strictest confidence, as a mother should speak to a

grown-up son: how long is it since you loved your first love?--And why

did nothing come of it, as in general, they say, nothing ever did,

does, or can come of anybody's first love?"

A shade passed over her face. "Good boys don't ask questions;" she

said, shortly. "You be one; and fetch down our history from the

bookshelf, and let us read a chapter of it before we go to bed."

"Not to-night, little mother, please not!" he implored. "Indeed it

would be no use; it would be more waste time than ever, to drum any

more of those weary old stories into my hard head to-night. Tell me one

rather, as you used to do when I was a boy. I used to sit there, on

that very footstool at your feet. You could tell beautiful stories.

About the emperor Octavian, and the sons of Haymon, come now;" and

before she could prevent him, he had crouched down at her feet "Here I

am, and so now begin, little mother; I am sure a true love-story would

do me far more good than all those bloody battles, and cruel murders

you seem to think so necessary to my education."

He threw back his head with its shock of curls, and looked up with a

face it was not so easy to resist.

"You are a naughty curious boy," she said; and you turn upon me now, to

punish me for having spoiled you. You think I can deny you nothing; but

that is your mistake. Get up, sir, will you?--and go to bed, and sleep

away the presumptuous thought, that your little mother, who after God,

should be your first authority on earth, ever was, or ever could have

been, any such green gosling as you may have seen to-night. Well, do

you mean to go?"--He did not stir.

"What's the use of making a fuss?" he said playfully. "You know you

always end by doing what I want, naturally; because I never want

anything but what is reasonable. And now I want to hear this love-story

of yours--and I _ought_ to hear it, that I may not look like a

fool when other people talk of it, and wonder why you never

married--though--"

"Though?"

"Well, though you were so handsome,--they say."

"_Who_ says--?"

"Peter Lars for one; besides, I have only to open my eyes and see."

"You don't say so?"

"That is, to be candid, I never opened them till yesterday, when Peter

Lars was talking of it, and said he would give a great deal to have

seen you as you were when you first came, ten years ago. And then it

only just occurred to me that I had been struck with you at the time.

Since then, I never thought about it. I hardly knew whether you were

plain or pretty. You were my own little mother, and that was all I

cared for. But I see that Peter Lars, though I can't abide him, spoke

truth when he said--"

"When he said, I had once been handsome?--thank you!"

Walter reddened. "Nay, you must not take it that way; for I think, on

the contrary, yours is a face that could not alter much in half a

lifetime."

"Possibly," she answered quietly: "By rights, a face that has never

been young, should never grow old, unless the hair turns grey." A

silence followed, while the little flame under the tea-kettle suddenly

went out, and hushed that too. At last the girl resumed. "Yet I wrong

myself; I was as young once as the youngest--happiest--most careless.

If I changed so soon it was not my fault."

"Whose then?" he said, very softly, holding his breath to listen; and

as his head rested on her knee, he felt how she shivered through all

her limbs at the recollection.

"Whose fault was it?" he whispered, with his eyes fixed on the

ceiling--on a spot where a tiny ring of light was flickering above the

cylinder of the little lamp.

"It is not a long story," she said reluctantly; "but a story that is

neither new nor pretty: and so why should I tell it you? If you had

been a daughter, instead of being a son, I should not have let you grow

up to be nineteen, without having told it. It might not have done much

good, what stories ever did? But at least, I should have done my duty

by her, as a mother. But you that are a man, what good could I have

done, by telling you that man is a rapacious and a selfish animal. If

your own conscience has not taught you that, sooner or later it will."

"Rapacious? You know me better, little mother!"

"Right dear boy;" she said, much moved. "And if I had not expected you

to be different from other men, should I have taken the trouble, all

these eleven years to help you out of your childhood? No, dear, in that

sense you will never be a man: could you have even believed it possible

that a man could break his plighted troth to a helpless maiden, simply

because she told him that she had nothing to bring him, but her face

and her fair fame, and her sweet seventeen?"

Walter started from his seat, and took a few hasty turns about the

room; then dropping down again on the stool at her feet. "Tell me all;"

he said.

"What is there to tell?" she answered sadly. "What signifies name and

date and place? I have taught myself to forget it, but it has made me

old before my time--I could not forget that if I would, for my glass

tells me that every morning."

"Your glass tells fibs then," said Walter, interrupting her. "I have

watched you narrowly; when you are by yourself, or with a person you

dislike, you can look so grave and stem as to frighten people. But with

me, when you are cheerful, and especially when you laugh, I often think

there is not a girl I know, so young or so handsome as my own mamma."

She tapped him lightly on the mouth. "This is not the dancing-lesson,

where compliments are practised with the steps. But I know you mean it

kindly, dear; you want to comfort me for the mortifications of the

past. But you need not, my son; I have comforted myself for this lost

luck, and can even thank God that I did lose it. And was it not

strange? A month or two after the thing had been broken off, and he had

turned to a richer woman, Fortune was so mischievous as to send us a

legacy which nobody had ever thought of; my elder sister and myself

were now good matches, and my poor Rose who always had been plain, and

long given up all hopes of a husband, was found to be a very charming

creature, seen by the glitter of this unexpected gilding. Even an

artist was among her suitors, and he considered himself a very

fortunate man when she gave him the preference. I too did not want for

choice, but it gave me no trouble, either of head or heart. Only when

that man I had really loved came back to me, and had the impudence to

talk of an error of the heart, then, indeed, the bitterness rose to my

lips, and the disgust has remained. Especially when I hear people

talking of man's virtues. They have taken good care, since then, to

prevent my opinion changing; my poor sister--"

She stopped, and her eyebrows met with a sinister expression.

"Had she so hard a life of it?" asked Walter, timidly: "after I saw her

she never left her bed, and then our Meister seemed kind enough; she

always looked so sad, I used to pity her, though she never gave me a

good word. After you came, you know, I was even forbidden to go near

her: I often tried to think what made her so unkind. Of course I must

have been a burthen to her at first, when the Meister brought me home,

as a poor orphan boy, and she may have found it hard to have to appear

fond of me, because she had no children of her own. But I did all I

could to make myself of use, and certainly I did the work of any two of

our usual apprentices. Why did she always turn away her head when she

saw me, as nervous people do, when they see a poor blind worm, or a

mouse?--do you know why, little mother?"

"Forget it, dear," she said. "Poor Rose was an unhappy woman; she took

no pleasure in anything. _She_ really never was young at any time; not

even as a little girl--I never saw her really merry, while I used to be

full of mirth and mischief. In our own home, where we lived before our

dear mother died, it was quite different to this ridiculous little

puffed-up place, which is neither town nor country, and where people

are always standing upon their dignity, even though they were to

perish with it in their own dullness. When I hear of your stupid

dancing-lessons, and of the amusements you have here, that can as

little enliven the dreary winter, as the couple of wretched little

oil-lamps can the dull streets--then I really do feel as if I were--not

nine-and-twenty--but nine-and-ninety; and as if I had lived so long--so

long as to remember the days, when the children of men were innocent

and dwelt in Paradise."

"Did you ever care for dancing?"

"I danced all day, like the mermaids. Wherever I went and stood, I had

the three-quarter time in my toes, and the prettiest of the quadrille

tunes; and so I danced at my spinning-wheel, and while I was watching

the kitchen-fire, or plaiting up my poor mother's hair, who could not

easily lift her arms. Nay, even in church, I have caught myself singing

the Psalms, and beating valse time with my foot--and terribly ashamed I

was, afterwards, when I thought what a sin it was. It was a disease I

had; but I was soon cured. Ever after I found out that I had given

away my heart to a heartless man, my feet seemed shod with lead. I

never entered a ballroom again; and though in church my thoughts

were often far away, they were not in a merrier place, but in a

quieter--darker--farther above, or below the earth."

A silence followed, and they heard the watchman pass again, and the

clock strike twelve.

"This is the hour for the ghosts to dance," said Walter with a laugh,

and a sort of superstitions shudder. "What do you say to taking a turn,

little mother? I don't know why, but I do feel a most inordinate desire

to see you dance. The Meister is still at the Star. On a Saturday, you

know, he never comes home till one o'clock. We have the house to

ourselves, and may do what we please, without anybody's being the

wiser--unless indeed, that ricketty old cupboard should chance to fall

upon us, and crush us, and send us dancing into all eternity. Hey!

mamma, what do you say?"

He had jumped up, stroked back his hair, and stood before her, with a

make-believe of buttoning his gloves, and settling his necktie.

"Foolish fellow!" she said. "What has come to him to-night? He sings,

he falls in love, and now in the dead of night, he comes and calls upon

his own old mother to stand up and dance with him! Is this what comes

of spoiling sons, and letting them grow over their mother's heads?"

"Suffer me to say you are mistaken, honoured madam," he began, with

mock devotion. "It is, on the contrary, your duty, as guardian of my

unguarded youth--your serious duty--to convince yourself that I really

do grow in grace, and make progress in those ornamental branches of

education, which are indeed most foreign to my nature. At the close of

my course of dancing-lessons, it might be considered proper to hold

some species of examination."

She raised her eyes to his, with a look so grave, as to tone down his

mischievous mood at once.

"It is time to have done with nonsense," she said; and her voice

sounded almost sharp. "I would say goodnight, and leave you to yourself

this moment, only I see that you are not nearly ready for sleep, nor

will be, for ever so long--go, fetch the book. Even if you should not

learn much to-night--which indeed does not seem likely--it may help us

to get this nonsense out of your head, and that is always something

gained."

He sighed as he walked towards the narrow bookshelf upon the cupboard.

"Well, I suppose I must obey--for a change," he said, with a shake of

his head. "Only if I should never know anything more of Barbarossa,

than that his beard was red, it will be nobody's fault but yours."

"Well, and I suppose--for a change--I must temper my justice with

mercy," she said, returning to a jesting tone. "Leave that history, and

come and sit down here at my feet, and let me talk to you of gods and

heroes; and if you are a good boy, and pay attention, I will shew you

the pictures afterwards, as a reward."

She took up the little blue volume she had been looking through before.

"I only found this yesterday," she said, "in the lumber-room upstairs;

the title is 'Goetterlehre,' and it was edited in the last century by a

man called Moritz. There are some good verses of Goethe's in it; I know

you will like them."

He resumed his place at her feet, and she began. She had a clear voice,

and used it simply; only when her feelings became excited it would sink

to a moving melodious contralto. After she had read the first few

pages, and waxing warmer, began to recite the passage: "To which of

these immortals, the highest prize?" &c., &c.--the words almost turned

to song. She read the poem slowly to the end, and gently closing the

book--"How do you like it?" she whispered.

He did not answer. The eyes that had been dreamily fixed on the blue

ring of flickering light upon the ceiling, had been dropping gradually,

till at last they closed. His head was resting on her knee; he breathed

softly, and smiled in his sleep. "Is he thinking of his last valse?"

she said to herself, looking thoughtfully down on his cloudless brow,

and at the full red lips, above which a line of soft yellow down had

begun to shew itself. The lines of that blooming face were certainly

far from regular; but even in sleep, there was an intellectual charm

about it--a spiritualized sense of humour--that ennobled its

expression. Those lips had certainly never parted to laugh at or to

utter a scurrile jest.

Thus she sat gazing on the placid face of the sleeper; till wearied by

the thoughts that came sweeping through her brain in the stillness of

the night, she leaned back in her chair, her eyelids drooped, and she

too, fell into a slight dreamy kind of sleep.

An hour elapsed. The wind blew the casement open, with a gust of damp

night-air that extinguished the little lamp that had almost consumed

its oil.

A heavy dragging step was heard upon the stairs. She heard it even

through her dream, though the darkness prevented her waking quite. The

door opened, and a lantern threw its full ray of vivid light full upon

her face. She started up in alarm: "Is that you, Meister?" she said,

hastily passing her hand across her eyes.

A strange figure was standing on the threshold--a tall man between

fifty and sixty, in a long loose coat trimmed with fur, buttoned over a

faded red velvet waistcoat. He wore a cap or barret, placed so far

forward upon his grizzling curls, as also to cover the half of his

flushed forehead. One foot was shod with a coarse stout boot, and the

other, wrapt out of all shape, with a large felt slipper.

For all his uneven gait, and his uncouth appearance, there was that

about him which was well calculated to quell any inclination to laugh;

and the look from those sinister dark eyes, directed towards the group

formed by the two young people, was enough to make even this fearless

girl quail.

"What does all this mean?" he said, as he came forward and placed his

lantern upon the table. "What are you two doing here at this hour? Is

the boy asleep, or have you been acting a play?"

"I do not profess to understand you;" she answered, flushing up with

pride and scorn. "He is asleep, as you see. We were reading, and he

fell asleep; and then I did too."

"And the lamp? Why was the window suddenly darkened when I came up to

the house-door? Did you mean to make me believe that you were in bed,

and had been asleep for hours?"

She bent over the lad, and took him by the shoulder: "Get up, Walter,"

she said; "the Meister is here, and I wish to go to my own room, and

not to hear any more of what he may please to say in his drunken--"

"Who dares to say it is the wine I have drunk that makes me speak?" he

broke out in a tone so fierce, that the sleeper started, and springing

to his feet, stood upright before him with a penitent mien.

"Go to bed, Walter," he continued, with more moderation. "It is nearly

two o'clock. This is not to be borne! At this hour of the night--" His

eye caught the girl's, who had now recovered her usual self-possession.

"Ah, well!" he growled, "it will be put a stop to soon, in one way or

another." Then--"I have somewhat to say to you, sister-in-law. I shall

not be able to get up to-morrow morning; I feel my pains in all my

joints, and my leg as heavy as a stone. So I shall expect to see you in

my room, Helen; Good-night." He lighted a candle, took up his lantern,

and limped downstairs again to his own room.

The two he left behind him did not speak another word. The lad gave

Helen's hand a squeeze, and nodding to her with a look half penitent,

half drowsy, he went up to the garret-room he shared with the first

apprentice, Peter Lars, who had been asleep for hours. He threw off his

clothes, listening to the cats that were running riot upon the roof;

and only then remembered that he had left Lottchen's crimson bow to

perish with the others, instead of taking it up with him to sleep upon.

He laughed to himself before he fell asleep. "She is right," he

thought; "I don't suppose it _is_ the real thing."

* * *

Next day was Sunday, and Helen went downstairs betimes, to knock at the

Meister's door. He was lying upon the bed half dressed, in a faded

green dressing-gown, with a blanket thrown over his ailing leg; while

on the knee of the sound one, rested a heavy old book of plates, with

views of churches and Roman ruins. The room was on the ground-floor, at

the back of the house, and was filled with a greater disorder of

artistical fancy than even the parlour upstairs.

When Helen came in, he rested his head of weird grizzling locks upon

his fist, and partially raised himself. He only gave a slight nod by

way of salutation; he seemed to be bent on letting her speak first.

In the middle of the room she stopped. "You wanted to speak to me,

brother-in-law?" she said very composedly.

"Take a seat, will you, Helen;" and he pointed to a carved tripod stool

that was covered with drawings and rolls of paper.

"Thank you, no. I hope you will not want me long; I am busy, for

Christel is at church, and there is no one in the kitchen. What was it

you wished to say to me?"

He hesitated a moment, and threw a hasty glance to try and find out the

mood she might be in. Her serious face remained impassive.

"Doctor Hansen, the notary, was at the 'Star' last night," began the

Meister, while he turned over the leaves of his book with a show of

indifference. "He has never been seen in a wine-house, you know, since

that sick sister of his died. And this time he had a particular reason

for coming; and while he was walking home with me, he told me that

reason. In short, he wants to marry you, Helen!"

She did not move a muscle.

"What made him speak to you about it?" she said, very coldly.

"He wanted to know if I thought you hated him."

"What could he have done to make me hate him?"

"What indeed? He is an honorable man--there is not a contrary opinion

in the town; only he believes himself to be the object of your

particular aversion. Every time he tried to speak to you, he says, you

frowned and turned away."

"If I did, it was because I soon saw what he wanted of me. Where's the

use of being civil to a man, if he has to be rejected in the end?"

"And why rejected?"

She paused before she spoke: "Be candid, brother; did he not ask you

what my fortune was?"

"He asked me nothing of the kind."

"He had heard then, without asking, as much as was necessary for him to

know. He is considered a clever man of business, I believe?"

"What of that? can't a man of business have human feelings as well as

another? At all events he is in love now, Helen."

"In love, is he? you don't say so," and her lips quivered strangely as

she spoke; "how can he find time for that piece of folly, with all his

business? However, I suppose I should feel grateful to him, so you had

better save him farther trouble, and tell him that I cannot have the

honor--that I regret,--and so forth; and to comfort him, you can tell

him what a cross-grained treacherous race I come of, and what a

miserable mistake you made in marrying my sister. Only think how that

poor man would be to be pitied, if I were to play him such a terrible

trick, as poor Rose played you, and light the stove with all I am

worth, and only leave enough to bury me! Tell him that story, brother,

and I dare say he will be completely comforted."

She had turned white as she was speaking, and kept her eyes fixed upon

him, with a look of cool defiance he was not able to withstand; only

when she was about to leave the room, and put an end to farther

discussion, he recovered himself again. "I have not done yet;" he said

gloomily.

"Not yet?--but my patience will not last much longer."

"_Nor_ mine. I tell you plainly, I will not stand this nonsense with

the boy. In putting a stop to it I am only doing my duty by him."

"How long have you been so conscious of your duty to him?"

"Let by-gones be by-gones!" he said violently; "you will not stop my

mouth with them, as you suppose. I tell you I can't bear to see your

goings on with him; petting and patting that great grown fellow! I say,

it is bad for him, do you hear me?--and if you don't give over, I shall

find means to make you; you may take my word for it."

She opened her great grave eyes, and held her peace. Her

self-possession appeared to embarrass him, and he went on in a quieter

tone.

"I know what he owes you well enough; and what I have to thank you for;

there can be no question of that. If things had gone on as they did

when the boy first came, it would have been the ruin of him, body and

soul. It is bad for children to feel themselves hated, and I was not in

a position to save him from the feeling. You were a mother to him then,

and his affection for you is no more than natural--within proper

bounds. Wherever these are not, the devil steps in, and sows his tares.

I need not explain my meaning; enough--he is now nineteen, and you are

no more than nine-and-twenty. Don't let me see this sort of thing

again. He is _not_ to fall asleep over his reading as he did yesterday,

and the lamp _need_ not go out."

He averted his face, let his head fall back upon his pillow, and drew

up his suffering leg. Whether he really was in pain, or only wished to

break off the conversation, was not quite evident.

After a moment of breathless silence on both sides: "It is well," she

said, with smothered utterance; "there are not many things in the world

that could surprise me now; from _you_, nothing!--but that your way of

thinking could be so base as this, even I could scarce be prepared

for."

"Oho!" he said, very coolly. "Be so good as to spare these grand

expressions for an occasion where they may seem more fitting. What I

now say, and what I intend to do, I am ready to account for before any

jurisdiction whatever, and call on my own seeing eyes to witness.

Lovers are blind, we all know that; only they need not suppose other

people to be blind as well."

"Lovers!" she echoed, with an irrepressible gust of passion.

"Lovers; I say, lovers;" he repeated, with emphasis: "He, at least, is

on the high-road to that condition, whether he be aware of it or not;

and you must have lived these nine-and-twenty years in a maze, if you

really do not see that you are over head and ears in love with the boy.

You don't mean to come to me, I hope, with that trash and nonsense

about adoption and maternal feelings. The thing is as I state it,

whatever you may please to say. But if you do search your heart, and

ask yourself what is to be the end of it--whether you mean to go on

rejecting respectable men who would make good husbands, for the sake of

your nonsensical love-scenes with a half grown hobbledehoy----"

"Enough," she interrupted him, with glowing cheeks: "Now I assuredly do

know enough of yourself and your opinions. They cannot affect me much,

for I never had any ambition with regard to them. There are many things

in which we differ, only before I turn my back upon you, I should be

glad to hear what you have resolved upon in this matter."

"As I have repeatedly told you; I am resolved to make an end of this,

and part you two, the sooner, the better."

"And how?"

"As it turns out. If you take the wisest course, and marry Dr. Hansen,

it would be the best plan for all of us, and a better proof of your

sincerity with your motherhood, than all this ranting, and shrugging of

shoulders. If you cannot make up your mind to this, the boy will have

to go."

"As a Wanderbursch? As a common house-painter?"

"As a house-painter, of course; what else can he be? you know I am not

in a position to send him to an architectural school, or to afford his

keep for six or seven years, instead of having him here, to help me to

an honest livelihood, now that I am half a cripple."

"Well, you have spoken frankly to me," she answered after a pause; "and

I suppose for that much, I ought to thank you. What must be, will be,

one way or the other; meantime you are at liberty to think what you

please--and I know what I have to think."

She turned to the door, but as she laid her hand on the lock, he called

after her: "I asked Hansen to dine with us to-day. I don't intend to

say a word more upon the subject. You must give him your answer

yourself."

She said nothing, she only gave an absent nod, and went--but not into

the kitchen. Her heart beat violently as she flew upstairs, to take

refuge in her own room. It was off the sitting-room, with two narrow

windows, that looked out on the sunny street. As soon as she felt

herself alone, she sat down upon her bed, for her knees were knocking

under her, and she could scarcely stand. She sat staring at the motes

dancing in the sunbeam, that fell aslant upon the floor. As rapid and

impalpable as those whirling atoms, was the vortex in her brain. At

last, her eyes ran over; and, in a gush of passionate tears, she poured

forth the pain and grief she had repressed so sternly and so

scornfully, through all that hostile conference below.

* * * * *

About this time, Walter came in from a French lesson which, on Helen's

advice, he was in the habit of taking after early church. He went

straight to a large low room upon the ground-floor. The dining-table

stood in the centre of it, and a few old presses and cupboards, ranged

round the walls, contained the Meister's whole stock of decorative

designs, and all his plans and patterns.--Here, it was evident, a

feminine hand kept order. The boards of the dinner-table were polished

white with scrubbing. The sand lay still immaculate upon the floor, and

the large pots of ivy by the windows, shaded the purest, brightest

panes.

The room looked to the court and garden, and was entirely sunless; so

that Walter, who had taken out his drawing-board, and seated himself in

the best light, undisturbed by a single ray, very soon became absorbed

in his work.

There was an old villa outside the town, that had formerly belonged to

a family of rank, and had now been purchased by the rich Burgermeister.

There, among other rooms that wanted painting, was a large saloon in

the Rococo style, that had to be restored from the very foundation. And

for many weeks past, the Meister had refused all other orders, that he

might finish this master-piece within the appointed time.--Here, as

every where, Walter had to help him vigorously. But while with bold

pencil, he was grouping arabesques and wreaths of fruit and flowers,

adapted from old engravings, to renovate the obliterated ceiling in its

original style, he found it far more interesting to study the whole

plan of the building, and then, taking note of its measures and

proportion's, to work it out at leisure, after his own head, with its

sections, height and basements. He had only a sweet stolen hour or two,

on holidays, to spend on these. The Meister snarled and scolded him,

when he came in and caught him at such allotria--"Where's the good

of them?" he growled. "There are many things more needful to our

business--"

To-day, however, the old man was safe in his own room, tied by the leg,

and could not possibly disturb him; so he worked on quietly and

quickly, and hoped to have done by dinner-time.

All at once the door opened, and in slipped a small dark figure, with

his hands in his trowser's pockets, and his close shorn raven head

slightly inclined towards his left shoulder, which was visibly some

inches higher than his right one. He kept the lower part of his face on

the stretch of an everlasting grin--and while the thin lips always

seemed prepared for a whistle or a jovial smack, the restless grey eyes

had wicked gleams of malice, and cunning, and consuming desire.

"Good morning, young genius;" he said, coming round the table with

noiseless step; "busy as a bee?--When you come to my time of life," (he

was barely five-and-twenty), "you will have spent a good part of that

speed, and will be glad enough to take your Sundays easily as I do, in

having a good long sleep, and then in pleasantly getting rid of your

wretched wages, that are certainly not worth the keeping. Even now, if

you were not such a stiffnecked sort of virtue, I should say to you:

'Put that scrawl in the fire, and come with me. I could show you where

you may taste a sound French wine, that is well worth its price."

"Much obliged to you," said Walter coldly, "your taste is not mine,

Peter Lars; and I can't stand wine in the morning--"

"I know you can't," sneered Peter. "You are such a pattern of

propriety!--And for as tall and as broad as you are, you let yourself

be led about by a piece of womankind, like a cockchafer tied to a

thread. What we men think of that, you never care to know."

"Men!" echoed Walter, and with all the young fellow's kindheartedness,

he could not repress the look of irony that stole over his features.

"I say, men;" repeated the little dark one, and stretched himself in

all his limbs. "One need not be six foot high, to feel oneself a man by

the side of women's darlings, and giant babies in swaddling clothes."

"Thank Heaven, then, Peter Lars, for having made a man of thee, and go

thy ways rejoicing--What's the use of coming here to worry me? can't

you leave me to myself in peace? Do I look after you?" Peter came close

up to him, and peered in his face with a wicked smile.

"I do not mean to disturb you long," he said; "but I could not deny

myself the pleasure of congratulating so dutiful a son, on the

acquisition of a bran new step-papa. Ha! now I see our bright young

genius can vouchsafe to look at me;" and, in fact, Walter was staring

at him in speechless surprise.

"What are you talking of?"--he said impatiently.

"Of nothing, and of nobody less, than Mamsell Helene! who does not mean

to content herself, with petting her great big boy for ever; and begins

to feel a hankering after real legitimate babies of her own, and of

more natural dimensions."

"Don't be stupid!"--and Walter laughed, half in anger, and half amused

at the idea. It had never occurred to him before. "_She_ never means to

marry! That is a fact I happen to know."

"None of your arrogant contradictions, I beg," retorted Peter; "one may

be a very bright young genius, and yet see nothing of what is passing

in broad daylight--I have it upon the best authority. I know she is

going to be married, and moreover I can tell you, to whom."

"Tell me then."

"What can that signify to you?--To you, one step-father must be just as

inconvenient as another. Those happy days are over, when you made rain

and sunshine, and used to be her darling, and the core of her heart,

and the apple of her eye. At least the new Papa would be a terrible

ninny, if he were not prepared to decline with thanks a wedding present

as large as life--of such a stepson. And, indeed, it should be all one

to me, as well. Having always had the honor of enjoying the haughty

damsel's undivided aversion, it can make no difference to me, whether

her choice be M. or N.; it does not in any way alter my position, as a

vermin,--toad, bug, spider, worm--what you please--to be trodden upon

and crushed, were it not for the risk of soiling a dainty shoe----"

"Nonsense--you exaggerate, as you always do--but tell me--"

"Whether I exaggerate or not, nobody can tell except myself;" and he

distorted his ignoble mouth to a grimace of atrocious spite. "Why

should I make any secret of it?--On this very spot, not ten days ago, I

came and made her a formal offer of my hand and heart. Upon which she

just walked out and left me standing, as if I had been an idiot, not

worth answering!--Bah!--I can laugh at it now!--I can't think what

possessed me! I am not such a beggar as to care for her thalers.

If it were not for my own amusement, I could throw over the whole

concern--give up this daubing and scrawling business, and go home to my

own place, where my father and mother are well to do, living

comfortably on their own broad acres.--Only I was such an ass as to be

smitten with this scornful damsel, and I would have been willing to

forget that she is no chicken; (several years older than myself in

fact.) And she--I tell you she looked at me as if a toad had spit its

venom on her. Death and damnation! wouldn't I have given her a piece

of my mind! Only I thought: '_She_ will never marry--she will have

nobody--she must have found a thing or two in her past life, to disgust

her with man and marriage;' and so I choked upon my wrath. But this is

quite another affair. If she hangs out other colors, and capitulates to

another suitor, I see she did not think me good enough--"

He swallowed down the rest of his abuse, and only waved about his

hands, in confused convulsive gesticulation.

"Are you sure of what you are saying?" asked Walter in a low voice,

that was trembling with some strong suppressed emotion. "Who is the

man?--is it a settled thing?--And yet no--it is impossible--only last

night--"

"What do you venture to call impossible, when you are speaking of a

woman?? Bah! teach _me_ their tricks and dodges!--_I_ saw how late it

was last night, when you left her!--I dare say she would not let you

go, but coddled you to her heart's content, it being the last time. But

I tell you it is as true--as true as that the sun is shining.--She

is going to be married--and her choice is no other that wretched

quilldriver of a lawyer--"

"Hansen?--the Doctor?"--

"If he be not the man, and my story be not true, I give you leave to

call me rogue. Just now I was in the little lumber room off the

Meister's, where he keeps his samples of colors, and I was looking out

some that we shall want to-morrow--for he blew me up about them

yesterday--when I heard Mamsell Helene come into his room, and they had

a long confabulation. I could not hear it all, but the upshot of it

was, that she means to take him. Of course she made a fuss about

it--but when he said: 'He is to dine with us to-day, and you can give

him your answer,' she was mum as a mouse. If she did not mean it to be

favorable, I much mistake her if she would not have declined the

pleasure of eating her dinner with him first. She is not so fond of

speaking up, and saying no to a fellow, as I know by my own

experience."

"Surely you must have heard wrong, Peter;" and the young fellow fell

into a fit of musing; "it can't be possible."

"Can't be possible!--but what's the use of talking of men's business to

a baby. I only repeated the thing that I might not choke upon it. For a

girl like that, to go and marry a rusty fusty lawyer--a scribbler of

deeds and parchments! He has not a conception of what she is worth,

except in thalers! Ha!--would not she be a delicate morsel for an

artist, who looks farther than a trifle of white and red and those

mincing ways that attract the crowd. What does a lawyer know about the

lines of her face?--and that she has a figure fit to drive a fellow

crazy? She does not show it off, to be sure--she wraps to the chin, as

if she were a mummy,--more's the pity!--a stone might weep to see her!

But for a man who has eyes in his head, one little finger is enough to

construe the whole figure by, and you might search the world over,

before you could find--"

"Silence!" interrupted Walter passionately--"I will not hear another

word." He had sprung to his feet, with a flaming face. "Get out! I say,

and never let me hear that you have spoken your foul thoughts to any

other living soul--or else--"

And he struck his clenched fist upon the table, with a violence that

made the very walls shake.

"Milksop! baby face!" and Peter gnashed his teeth, while he retreated

from his immediate neighbourhood; "It shall go to its mother--it

shall--and have its pap--and sit on its own mammy's lap, and have a

smart new dress for her wedding-day. Ha! such a fellow as that is not

worthy of a man's confidence. I did feel sorry to see you in a cunning

woman's leading strings; and I pitied you--but now go to!--I despise

you as much as I pitied you before. We two have had our last words

together."

And with his most vicious look, Peter sauntered away, whistling.

Walter remained standing on the selfsame spot for half an hour, at

least, without moving. His brain was reeling--he fetched his breath

heavily, and shut his eyes, as though he felt ashamed to see himself by

the light of day, while such thoughts were seething in his imagination.

At last he heard Helen's step upon the stairs; he felt as if he had

been scalded, and impelled by some inexplicable instinct, he seized his

cap, and fled; through the garden, out into the open country.

She heard him go, but she had no suspicion that it was from her he

fled; she went to the window and looked after him as long as she could

catch a glimpse of his long light hair among the leafless shrubberies.

She thought she had wept away all that had been so heavy on her heart.

People who are sparing of their tears expect wonders from them, and the

good they are supposed to do, when they do flow. But she found they had

done very little to solace her.

What made her weep so bitterly? She had long schooled herself to meet

aggression with the tranquil energy of a mind, that no contradiction of

fate can disappoint or surprise, for the reason that it is entirely

without hopes or wishes.

She believed that she had nothing to expect from life--nothing to gain.

Now, she had been suddenly reminded how much she had to lose.

First of all:--to a proud spirit the bitterest loss--confidence in her

own heart. Those unsparing words, concerning her relations with a

child, whom she had seen grow up to manhood, had sounded strange and

incomprehensible when she had first heard them--she believed that she

could shake them from her, as an insult. Other cares that had arisen

during that interview with her brother-in-law, had then appeared more

urgent. But as soon as she had found herself alone in her silent room,

all other cares had dissolved like shadows, and the words she had so

scornfully disowned--these words alone remained.

She thought over the ten years that had passed, since she had first

entered that dreary house; when the intimidated boy, dumb between his

adopted parents, who quarrelled over him daily, with ever-increasing

discord, had come to her at once, and poured forth all the sorrows of

his little heart to her, and had clung to her with overflowing love and

confidence. Without many words, he had understood that she was to be

his protectress.

It was a task she did not find easy always, especially as opposed to

her own sister. But the compensation was a thousandfold, in her

tenderness for the child, in whom his early hardships appeared to have

blighted all the gaiety and elasticity of his age; and now under her

genial influence, she saw these expand, brighter and more spontaneous,

from year to year.

And she knew that he owed her more than this mere deliverance from

bodily durance. She had been as indefatigable in the tending of his

mind; in helping him to complete in private, the defective education of

the common school which he attended daily. In this, she had no small

opposition to suffer from her pupil and his artistic tastes; not to

speak of her own inclination to do his bidding, instead of enforcing

hers. Far pleasanter she would have found it, to sit working by his

side, listening to his good-humoured rattle, while he was busy over

some architectural drawing; than to tie him down to the thread of a

weary lesson-book, that was to drag him through some dry essentials of

education. But in all things she had taught herself to consider, first

of all, his real wants and future welfare. She had never trifled with

her maternal duties, nor been childish with her child.

Was it strange that, in time, the course of all her plans and wishes

fell into this single channel? that, waking or sleeping, he was ever

before her eyes? that these followed him, unconsciously, in all his

movements when he was present; and, when absent, that she looked as

constantly towards the door, and listened to nothing so interesting as

his returning step?

And now when she mentally compared him with, all the other men she had

known in all these years, was she not justified in believing that she

could do without any and all of these, if only he remained to her? And

there was no weak idolatry in this; she had never deceived herself. She

saw that he was neither handsome, nor graceful, not even of very

engaging manners; she often teased him about his awkward ways

and helpless movements, and his duncolored shock of hair; she

acknowledged that his features were commonplace; that his figure was a

clothes-stick, for all the tailor's pains to make a man of him. Yet

there was a charm about him, that even strangers and coarser natures,

she observed, seldom could resist; a breath of freshest, purest

youthfulness;--an innate tact of the heart; a dash of that genuine

genial humour, that lends wings to the soul, and raises it high above

the vulgar worship of any of the golden calves and idols of the day. It

was strange;--but with this young pupil of hers, in worldly matters a

child, she could discourse of the last aim and end of all mortal life,

as though they had been centenarians in experience, and in years.

Thus it had been, and this had been their happiness; and was it to be

no more? had it suddenly become so dangerous? Was it now to be avoided

as a snare? She had been told to her face, that it was for the sake of

this lad, that she rejected all her suitors. Well, she would not

attempt to deny it. She would have deceived any man to whom she would

have sworn to be only his. This feeling had grown to be a passion; but

a passion that was hallowed by years of purest tenderness, of most

unselfish sacrifice. She looked upon him as her own; and had she not a

right to him?--what would he have been, without her?

And was she really to give him up?--The thought was more than she could

bear. _He_ did not wish to leave her--_he_ knew how necessary she was

to him. Could there really be danger in remaining as they were?--To

him, certainly none; his whole life lay before him yet, wide and

distant. _He_ could not lose by perfecting his growth in shade and

solitude. To suppose that her own presence could prove dangerous to

him, seemed nothing less than madness. She felt herself older by ten

additional years to those she already was.

Could he ever possess her heart more entirely than he already did? was

that possible?--And if it were, what harm could it do her?--She had

nothing else in life to make it valuable to her, but this one feeling.

And yet she had been weeping,--long and bitterly. She felt as if some

mute veiled fate were ever by her side. With all her self-command, and

bracing resolutions, wherewith to strengthen herself in her own rights,

and in the consciousness that others could have no legitimate power

over her--except she gave it them--she could not overcome a feeling of

anxiety, and an instinct that their happiest days were over, and trials

and difficulties impending.

The Meister's threat of sending the lad away on his Wanderschaft, had

not seriously alarmed her. She knew that he would scarcely make up his

mind to part with him. Certainly not to drive him to a course so

contrary to his inclinations. To dispose of him in any other way, in

the Meister's position, would have been simply impossible. Yes, there

had been hard times of want, when Helen had gladly come to his

assistance; and thus he had become dependent on her, in a manner that,

though she never took advantage of it, made him feel a sort of tacit

obligation to desist from any very violent opposition to her wishes.

In fact no woman had less reason to fear the despotic interference of

any man in her fate. Yet words had been spoken, that never could be

made unspoken; and they had brushed the bloom off what had been dearest

to her on earth.

She only became clearly aware of this, as she looked after his

retreating figure in the garden, and felt almost glad that she had not

met him; for the first time she might not have been able to look

straight into his eyes. She had no idea that, within the last hour, he

too had been startled out of the peace of his unsuspecting mind. She

believed that the suffering was hers alone; and in the midst of her

anxieties, she found no small comfort in the belief, that like a true

mother, she had contrived to conjure over her own devoted head, the

hostile elements that were threatening his. This helped her to recover

her composure, for in the more absorbing troubles, she had almost

forgotten the disagreeable task before her, of having definitively to

reject and mortify a man, for whom she had never felt anything worse

than indifference.

When the clock struck the dinner-hour, she entered the large

dining-room with perfect self-possession; and received the notary, who

bowed low before her, as she would have received any other guest of her

brother-in-law. The Meister had left his bed, and joined them in his

dressing-gown, in anything but a holiday trim, or holiday humour. He

now lay stretched on a sofa, at a little distance from the table. An

old neighbour, a standing guest on Sundays, stood modestly waiting with

the two apprentice boys at the windows.

Walter came in such visible perturbation that he could scarcely stammer

out the commonest forms of salutation. Nobody however seemed to notice

this, except his little mother; who, perplexed by the sudden change

in his demeanour, threw him a look of dismay, which he felt too

conscious-stricken to receive with calmness.

The Meister enquired for Peter Lars, and scolded at his delay, until

they all sat down to table without waiting for him.

It was some time before any kind of general conversation could be

established. Walter kept his eyes upon his plate, and held his tongue,

without attending to anything that was passing round him. The old

neighbour, who, in general, was rather fond of playing the connoisseur,

and holding forth in rambling dissertations on drawing and effects of

color, was silent this time, as he saw the Meister neither spoke nor

ate, but ground his teeth for self-command in bodily torture. The boys

were tongue-tied, naturally, in their master's presence; and thus on

Helen, and on the Notary, who sat opposite, the whole cost of the

conversation fell.

There was nothing remarkable about his outward man. Only a fine

forehead, and a pair of clear calm eyes, were the attractions of his

face. And there was an expression of animated benevolence in his

countenance when he spoke, that, together with the masculine cast of

his features, was especially captivating to the confidence of his

hearers.

After the first awkwardness of his meeting with Helen, he became gayer

and more conversible than he was ever known to be. He spoke of his

travels in Sweden and Norway; of the Scandinavian races; of their

customs and holidays; of their national songs. He talked pleasantly,

for he never generalized, either in praise or blame--each thing was

distinctly drawn, given in its own peculiar coloring, with its

distinctive touches. Even old Christel, who waited at table, left the

door ajar to listen to him longer; and the Sunday guest applauded with

approving nods, shoving in here and there a choice remark or two upon

Scandinavian Art, which the traveller was so kind as to leave

undisputed.

And yet his pains were wasted. Helen's attention was an effort. Her

mind was engaged in speculations upon the possible cause of the cloud

that had come over her darling's spirits.

She hazarded a jest or two, to win him over to the general

conversation. But a beseeching, almost frightened look, from the young

dreamer, had each time induced her to desist.

The bottle of wine produced by Christel, had been emptied to the better

health of their host; it had been the lawyer's toast--who had returned

thanks silently by a slight nod. He had not drunk a drop, and hardly

waited for dinner to be over, to drag himself back to his own room, in

order to groan without restraint, and, unheard, curse his sufferings.

While the table was being cleared away, the others had gone upstairs to

take their coffee in the sitting-room. There, between the pictures and

plaster-casts with which the walls were covered, stood an old

pianoforte. It had not been opened for years; but now at Helen's

request, Dr. Hansen had seated himself before it, and played a few

national melodies from the North.

He then sang some of the songs, with a voice that, if somewhat

uncultivated, was very musical.

Helen had taken her work to the window, where Walter stood gazing out

into the street, without taking any notice of what was passing.

Under cover of the music she whispered a few questions. What ailed

him?--Had the Meister been scolding him? had he been quarrelling with

Peter Lars?--Peter's absence she thought suspicious.

Walter only shook his head; and at last, seized with an unaccountable

fit of restlessness, he jumped up, and was about to escape for

a solitary walk, when just then the door opened, and visitors

entered. They were relations of the Meister's, Lottchen Klas and her

mother--Lottchen Ellas, who, but yesterday, had stood so high in her

partner's estimation. To-day he only felt annoyed, when the little maid

came smiling in under her mother's wing, with a shy look of

satisfaction, that made him conscious that his defection would be a

great offence to her especially. However he hardly spoke a civil word,

to either mother or daughter; and when Helen began some playful remark

about their party of the night before, he fetched a book from the

cupboard, and in the face of all good breeding, he settled himself to

read, as though he had been in the remotest solitude.

Not long after, somebody proposed a walk, and, with the exception of

the old neighbour, who took his leave, the whole company was set in

motion. The mother walking in front, with Helen and Dr. Hansen; Walter

following with his pretty little partner. But he was as taciturn as

before--all along the peopled streets, and out by the town-gate to a

garden where the higher among the burghers were wont to enjoy their

Sunday afternoons,--he never spoke one word; he even neglected to bow

to passing acquaintances;--he had no eye for the dismayed little face

by his side, that grew cloudier and cloudier, until a shower of tears

appeared most imminently impending. Fortunately, before this crisis,

one of her yesterday's partners came up to the rescue, and did duty

both for himself and Walter.

Now, if he had been so minded, he might have stolen away and relieved

his oppressed soul from the shackles of society. But in the morning he

had had occasion to find out, that the tangle of his ideas grew worse

in solitude. And besides, he felt irresistibly rivetted to Helen's

presence, with chains he could not break. He kept an anxious watch over

every gesture, every look, every word, that might possibly throw some

light on his chances of really losing her.

He too had lived on heedlessly by her side, without ever asking

himself, how long this state of things was to last--What they called

the feeling that united them--so long as they _had_ it, what cared he?

From the time he could remember anything, or anybody, after the mother

that bore him, Helen had been the person most essential to his

existence.

And the last few years, that had brought him to the age of manhood and

independence, had only served to strengthen the closeness and

confidence of their relations. In the same proportion as he had grown

beyond her guidance in commoner things, he came more eagerly to seek it

in every thing that perplexed his head or heart. What she had been to

him;--sister, mother, friend, play-fellow--grave or gay, the companion

of every hour--he had no name for it. Indeed, he had never thought of

naming it: with regard to her, the terms handsome--charming--least of

all dangerous--had no sense for him; she was herself, and that was all

he cared for.

And now he was suddenly to reconcile himself to the perception, that

she was a woman like other women, creating passions;--attracting men,

awakening jealous rivalry. The idea seemed so preposterous, that he

felt as if his own life had become strange to him. Only last night,

when she had told him of her first love, he had listened, as he had

done when they used to tell each other fairy tales, and expound each

other's dreams--and now these most inconceivable realities had to be

accepted as facts--one man had been a suitor for her hand; another had

been silently rejected by her.--Would these last pretensions find no

favor in her eyes?--and if they did?--How insupportable he found the

torture, when he tried to think of her as the wife of any man living.

In his unsullied soul, there arose an indefinable sensation of wrong

and shame, that ran through his veins like liquid fire. He would have

given his life to shield her from a look; and when he recalled the

coarseness of his comrade's words, he involuntarily clenched his fist.

And yet, while he was walking behind her now, he could not take his

eyes from her. For the first time, he observed the grace of every

movement; he silently compared the classical lines of her neck and

shoulders, to the massive shapelessness of the elder lady, and the

insignificant prettiness of her little daughter. His eyes were opened,

and they saw her graceful walk, and the way she placed her slender

feet; and--when she turned to speak to her companion--the regularity of

her clearly cut profile, seen in the relief of her dark bonnet; and

then the glitter of her white teeth, when her lips parted, as they

often did, without a smile, but with a pensive and rather lofty look,

that was in keeping with the deep low tones of her voice.

Indeed she never smiled, unless when she was talking to him; this

discovery rewarded him for his eager watchfulness, when she was talking

to other men. She _did_ love him best; there could be no doubt of that.

Why then tolerate the attentions of a stranger, if he was to be nothing

more?

Thus he questioned himself, in his perplexity; when the perception

suddenly flashed upon him, that after all, if she _did_ feel youthfully

enough to begin life afresh, he certainly had no business to prevent

her--What compensation had he to offer her? Was it not the idea of a

maniac, to suppose that she was to go on for ever, sacrificing her life

to his; waiting upon him so long as he should think fit to go on

calling her his little mother, and keep dangling by her apron-string?

When they came to the coffee-garden, they found there was a band in the

saloon of the house, playing valses, and summoning the younger among

the loungers to go in and dance them; an impromptu ball was soon

arranged. The elders sat in the sunshine before the windows,

occasionally turning their heads from their coffee-cups, to look round

at the dancing vortex within, and see how their young people were

amusing themselves.

Lottchen had asked and obtained her mother's permission to join the

dancers, and now stood evidently waiting for Walter's assistance, to

take advantage of it. But he rose, and pleading a bad headache, he

walked away to escape from the noise and crowd; so with a sigh of

undisguised regret, she saw herself forced to accept the offered arm of

his more willing substitute.--

Helen saw what was going on but too plainly, and she had begun to

divine that she herself might be the cause of Walter's change of

spirits. How could he have heard of his adopted father's intentions?

and if he _had_ heard of them, why should they so affect him?--The

notion that jealousy could have any share in his vexation, never

suggested itself to her mind for a moment. She wanted to talk it over

frankly with him; only he had taken himself and his gloom for a

solitary saunter, along the highroad, past the last detached houses,

towards the open country, perfectly insensible to the charms of a

lovely afternoon in early spring. He came to a halt before an ancient

country-house long since deserted, and stood looking through the

railings at the neglected garden--The dried-up basin of the fountain,

that had long ceased to flow, was now filled up with decaying leaves

and exuberant nettles.

A kneeling nymph in the scanty drapery of the French school, with her

urn gently inclined, seemed bending over it, in melancholy

contemplation of the weeds. It was a pretty little figure, and would

have deserved a better fate. Now the sparrows made a perch of her

polished shoulders, and the wreath upon her head was crumbling into

dust. What kept Walter standing there so long, on the spot from which

he could best see the contours of that figure as they stood out against

the darkness of the grotto?

A measure or two of the merry music swept past him, borne on the

evening wind; he looked as if he were waiting for the lonely beauty to

rise to her feet, and come towards him. He could not tire of gazing on

those slender lines of beauty, which many a time before, he had passed

without even seeing, for all his artist eye--and now they seemed to

haunt him; he began to feel uneasy; he tore himself away, and heaving a

deep sigh, he thoughtfully retraced his steps.

He arrived just in time to see his party break up, but he did not join

it. He followed at a distance, keeping his eye upon it.

This time, mother and daughter walked in front, with Lottchen's

partner; while Helen and Dr. Hansen followed. He saw that she spoke

kindly to him, and fancied he could see that the lawyer no longer

doubted the fulfilment of his wishes. Now he even saw her laugh, at

something her suitor said.

Their way home took them past the house where Dr. Hansen lived; they

stopped before it, and he pointed upwards, and said something, to which

she returned no answer; but her eyes followed the direction of his

hand, and then they both walked on, as it appeared, in a graver mood.

Their distant watcher concluded that all was settled, and a feeling of

unutterable wretchedness overcame him. He stopped, and tried to think

where he was, and whither he was going?--He did not know, and he did

not care--Anywhere!--Only not to that home where he should inevitably

have to face her.

One of his former play-fellows came past, and found him standing; they

exchanged a few words, which ended in Walter's accepting an invitation

to take a glass of wine with him, and, arm in arm, the two young men

walked away, and turned down another street.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, conversing on indifferent subjects, the others had reached

the Meister's door; and here the women separated; but the lawyer

remained standing upon the threshold, as if he found it quite

impossible to part from Helen in this uncertainty.

She had looked round, more than once, for Walter, whose absence

disquieted her; she was not so entirely absorbed, however, in this

anxiety, as to forget the feelings of her present companion. She, too,

desired that they might come to an explication.

"This morning, my brother-in-law told me what you had confided to him."

she began, in a calm tone, but not with any coldness; "I have to thank

you for all the kindness and regard, which I acknowledge to be the

motives of the wishes you expressed to him. I have always entertained a

high consideration for you, and taken pleasure in your society. But my

life does not admit of any farther change. I do not wish to form any

other ties. I shall be quite contented if I may continue the old ones;

and have none of them prematurely broken. I owe you this frank

explanation, and I hope it will not lower me in your esteem."

He turned white, and some time passed before he spoke; "You will not

send me away without one ray of hope; may I never be any more to

you?--Ah! do not say that this is your only answer!"

"Indeed it must be. I should be very sorry to deceive myself, or you."

"And is there nothing else to part us, save your own disinclination to

change your present life?"

"My present life is enough for me;"--and she reddened slightly. "And I

find its duties sufficiently absorbing. Besides--but let us say no

more; my reasons are my own, and you may be convinced that I should

oppose no trifling ones. Give up this idea, I beg--indeed, it would not

be for your happiness."

She did not finish, for she saw that he did not listen; he bowed low,

and turned away, and left her without another look.

His whole manner had surprised and touched her; for worlds she would

not have given this earnest man the reasons that she had used against

her brother-in-law. She stood at the door awhile, and looked down the

street, to see if Walter was not coming home.

The night had quite closed in; a mild warm night like midsummer. She

could scarcely say why she felt so strangely loath to go into the

house.

At last she went upstairs, without first going into the Meister's room

to bid him good night, though she heard him hobbling about, in evident

expectation of her coming in to give him an account of what had passed.

But she longed to be alone; and the moment she reached her room, she

drew the bolt after her, and lightened her bosom with a few deep drawn

sighs. It was so dark, that she groped about some time before she could

find her matchbox, which was not in its proper place. Altogether, she

thought, some one must have been there, and disturbed the method of her

usual arrangements. At last she found her lamp; but before she had

lighted it, a musing mood came over her, to which she found the

darkness most congenial.

She went to the window, and leaning her brow against the cool glass,

she tried to live over the last few hours.

Here, on this very spot, she had poured forth her whole heart in a

torrent of tears. Now she felt it aching still, but there was a

sweetness in the pain.

She now foresaw that from year to year she would become lonelier and

more alone, and that at last she _would_ have to give up the only being

she loved. But her affection for him--_that_ she felt, nothing ever

could oblige her to give up. Even if he could be happy without her,

she, at least, never could care for any happiness that severed them.

On reflection, she became more composed; nay, cheerful. She began to

long for his return, that they might have a quiet evening together like

the last.

All at once, she heard a sound quite close to her, she thought it might

be he, and that she had overheard his step in the next room.

"Is it you, night-rover that you are, Sir?"

No answer--yet she felt certain that she had not mistaken. She listened

with sharpened attention; again that suppressed sound. "Who is there?"

she called out, with a leaping heart. Still no answer!--She went to the

table to light her lamp; suddenly a dark shadow was at her side, and a

nimble hand stopped hers, as she was about to strike a light. She was

not much startled:

"What are you doing here, Walter?" she said, drawing back; "how did you

get in? I thought I had bolted the door.--God in Heaven!" she shrieked.

"Peter Lars!--how is this!--What brings you here?"

It was so dark that she could not have recognised him; except for a

peculiar trick which he had, and she hated; a hoarse way of breathing

audibly.

And now she could distinguish the outline of his figure, and

involuntarily retreated towards the door; but with one bound, he had

intercepted it--

"Don't be frightened, Mamsell Helene," he said, with an ugly nervous

laugh; "I mean no harm. It is not, to be sure, that darling poppet, our

young man, who rules the house. It is only the vermin, Peter Lars, that

creeping, crawling worm. But a worm won't hurt you, if you don't crush

it, and unless you really mean to set that pretty foot of yours upon my

ugly head, and--"

"What do you mean by taking such a liberty?" she interrupted him, with

a show of self-possession: "Who ever gave you leave to come here, into

my room to make a scene? I should have imagined you to be sufficiently

aware of my opinion of you."

"Exactly so," he sneered. "It is precisely because I _am_ aware of it,

my very dear Mamsell, that I desire to know the reason of it, and what

I ever did to vex you. And as you never yet have done me so much honor

as to speak to me when we meet elsewhere, I took the liberty of waiting

for an interview here. If you should vouchsafe to tell me that I am

drunk, allow me to tell _you_ that you are wrong. I give you my word I

have not drunk a drop more than I found necessary to untie my tongue.

Pluck, you know, my dear young lady, is a thing a man never can have

too much of; and now I have enough to ask you what you are pleased to

object to in my humble person. Eh! we are so cosy here, quite by

ourselves--couldn't you be a trifle kinder? Or have you really no

kindness left for Peter Lars? Have you been so lavish to your own sweet

poppet, and to that precious quilldriver, your new betrothed? Have you

nothing to say to a fine young fellow like myself, an aspiring artist,

who is, without bravado, worth ten of such?"

"Be silent, sir, and leave the room this instant!" commanded Helen.

"Not another word! and you may thank the wine you have drunk, if this

insolence--"

"Oho! fair lady, softly! you will be ready to come down a peg or two in

a moment; after all, we are two to one, myself and my wine; and when my

pluck is up--not to speak of my love, and I adore you--Nay," he added

in a lower voice, "I would not harm you for the world. I really had no

bad intentions. If you had not been so stupid as to spoil my sport, and

find me out before it was time, I should have let you go to bed in

peace. I meant to have crept out after I had made sure that you could

not possibly escape me, nor shirk the answers to a question or two I

have to ask. I do assure you, proud Mamsell, I have the greatest regard

for you--quite a respect--and for all my pluck, if I do stand here to

keep you from the door, it is only because--"

He did not see the dangerous light in her eyes; her silence and

apparent impassiveness misled him.

"It would almost appear that I really have been so fortunate, as to hit

upon a humaner mood. If you would but listen to reason, adored Mamsell,

you would find that the varmint, Peter Lars--"

At the same moment he found himself firmly seized by the collar, and

thrust aside with a sudden jerk of a resolute woman's hand.

In the darkness, he fell over a chair, and got his feet entangled among

the bed-curtains; foaming at the mouth with rage and hate, he freed

himself, and rose; but the bolt had been withdrawn, and the girl had

flown.

She flew downstairs, and went straight into her brother-in-law's room,

waked him;--for as he lay on the sofa he seemed to have had the relief

of a short nap;--and told him what had happened. He rose in agitated

anger, took his burning candle, and went upstairs to her room with her.

But the room was empty. The little miscreant had escaped; In the whole

house there was not a trace of him to be found. The Meister called up

old Christel, bid her search carefully in every nook and corner, and on

no account whatever to open the door, if he should come back at a later

hour. Next morning he should be dismissed in form. Then he asked after

Walter, and growled when he heard that he had not yet come home; paced

up and down with angry gesticulation, heavily dragging his lame leg

after him, till at last he limped downstairs again, leaving his light

behind him, without saying one word to Helen, who had been standing

silent in the middle of the room.

As soon as ever she found herself alone again, she bolted herself in,

with trembling hands, and sank upon a chair by her bedside, pressing

her face into her pillows, that she might neither hear nor see a single

object that reminded her of the disgraceful scene she had just gone

through. After a time the dead stillness of the house brought more calm

to her agitated spirit, and quieted the blood that coursed so wildly

through her veins.

She rose and looked all through the room again, to convince herself

that she really was by herself. There was a recess where she kept her

dresses, closed by a curtain, and there he must have stood; she

shivered again as she saw the crumpled folds. To rid herself of the

odious recollection, she took down a book from her bookshelves, and

settled herself with it in a corner of the sofa. But to read it was not

so easy, she could not fix her scared ideas to the black letters before

her.

She found it insufferably hot and close in that small room, but she

feared to stir out of it in case of another ambush. She put down her

book, took off the dress that confined her movements, and felt relieved

as she walked up and down, with uncovered neck and arms, plaiting up

her long dark hair for the night.

Her candle was placed so near the glass, that she might have seen

herself quite easily; only her eyes were fixed upon the floor, and her

thoughts were far away.

In this manner more than an hour elapsed, and her weariness began to

warn her, that it was time to seek some rest, when the door of the

adjoining room was cautiously opened, and she heard a light step cross

it, and a knock at her bolted door. After the first thrill of momentary

terror, the recollection came, that the house had been shut up, the

miscreant flown, and Walter not come home.

"Is that you Christel?" she called through the door. A very subdued

"yes" came back to her. The old servant often used to come to her

before going to bed, to consult her in some kitchen dilemma. Without

farther demur, Helen unbolted the door--It was Walter who stood before

her in the darkness of the doorway.

"It is I;" he stammered, with a beseeching, almost frightened glance;

both faces turned crimson in a moment.

"Helen!" he began again, and she started when she heard him call her by

her Christian name. She felt his moody eager eyes upon her. In the

dress in which she now stood before him, she might have appeared in any

ballroom; only it had never so happened that he had occasion to see her

in any other than in her dark high morning-dresses of almost conventual

cut.

"What brings you here?" she asked in a tone of cool severity, that was

to serve as a mask to the emotion within. "How could you so mislead me?

Could not you have told me it was you? Go now, at once. This is no hour

for conversation."

He did not move, but stood gazing at her white shoulders, as if they

had been a vision. With ready tact, she felt that it was now too late

to cover them with a shawl, while a retreat towards the darker part of

the room, would have been an insult to herself.

"Do you hear me?" she repeated, in a tone he could not but obey; "I

choose to be alone just now. Any thing you can have to say to me, must

keep. I am more vexed than you seem to be aware of. To think that _you_

could deceive me! If it should happen again, we two are parted."

His eyes fell before her angry looks, and then she turned away

abruptly, and went back to the table, as though he had been already

gone, and he did go. She heard him gently shut the door, and slowly

walk across the adjoining room.

Before the last lingering step had died away, she was already steeped

in the bitterness of remorse and self-rebuke. She had condemned him

without a hearing. She called up the mute reproach of those mournful

eyes that had been gazing on her, and pictured to herself what he had

felt, when she had dismissed him thus. That day had separated them

more than they had ever been before. He had not been able to go to

sleep without talking it over, as they had always done. Now he had

come innocently to her door, and had answered her enquiry without

thinking--certainly without meaning mischief, and he had been sent away

like a detected culprit; expiating, unawares, the outrage of another

man, an hour before.

She found it so intolerable to be alone with this remorse, that she

fastened on her dress again, took up her light, and went into the

sitting-room.

She would have liked best to go straight up to his garret-room, to

excuse the flightiness of her temper, and to beg him to forget it and

forgive her, but from this, on reflection, she desisted. She would

rather go downstairs to old Christel, she thought, and speak to her

about some household matters; for which, to be sure, there was no

hurry, but she was yearning for the sound of some familiar human voice.