When a student of theology, somewhat advanced in life, he had entered

the household to assist in educating the young count, who was then

about six years old. The countess, already a widow, had taken a fancy

to the clever man, who was better versed in every other department than

that of theology--a fancy, which in spite of the tutor's insignificant

appearance, seemed to have ripened into a still warmer feeling. Not a

syllable on the part of the discreet speaker, only a peculiar glance

from his piercing eyes conveyed this inference. As his prospect of

advancement in his real profession became poorer and poorer, an old

predilection for physical science obtained a stronger hold upon his

mind; the idea of going to Berlin occurred to him, and he studied

anatomy there for several years, absorbed all sorts of surgical

knowledge, and at last, as the countess would not consent to dispense

with his services any longer, returned to the castle with the title of

doctor somewhat doubtfully obtained, but a most undoubted salary as

physician-in-ordinary, as his former pupil had left home some time

before to complete his education by foreign travel.

He had understood the art of maintaining his position, even after the

death of his patroness; he had sustained it principally it appeared, by

a marriage with the countess' by no means youthful waiting maid and

_confidante_. He spoke of this union with a lofty and sarcastic smile,

that like many other things in the clever man, greatly disgusted Edwin.

The gentleman seemed to perceive the impression his confidential

communications were making on his hearer. "My dear Herr Doctor," said

he, "you're still a young man, and have always been independent. You

can scarcely imagine how the habit of accommodating one's self to

others, and not being over rigorous, will in time degrade a man who

originally is by no means a scoundrel. Ah me! when I think of the days

when, with your dead father, I still worked toward our so-called

ideals! Yet he died a bookkeeper, and I've written prescriptions in

which I felt no faith. The longer one lives, the more plainly one

perceives that there are very few mortals so happy as never to be

placed in a false position, and that since it's a man's duty to

preserve his life, there's but a single weakness that dishonors him: to

believe what is false to be true. A pastor who assumes the duties of

his parish a disbeliever in revealed religion, and gradually allows the

voice of reason to grow weaker and ends by accepting the tenets of the

faith he preaches, or a physician who begins the practice of his

profession by disbelief in his own powers and ends by using his salves

and plasters with a look of grave importance not wholly assumed--they

falsify themselves and are utterly contemptible. But he, who in a world

that is only too willing to be cheated, does not befool honest

individuals, but swindles men in the gross, and meantime is ready at

any moment, like the Roman augur, to laugh in unison with other clever

men, seems to me to play his part as a weak mortal very tolerably.

There was a famous Berlin doctor here yesterday, Herr Marquard, who's

perhaps known to you by reputation. He performs on a large scale, what

I practice here on a small one, and the fact of his being more learned

is rather troublesome to him than otherwise, since each individual case

gives him scores of things to reflect upon. But he's a clever man, and

after the first fifteen minutes we no longer tried to impose upon each

other. The gentleman was no more successful with the young countess

than I, but she didn't make him feel her contempt so keenly as she did

my insignificant self. Well, as you see, my back is naturally more bent

than my colleague's. I can take more on my high shoulders."

He laughed softly, but seemed surprised when Edwin's only reply to his

extreme outspokeness was a curt: "Every one is entitled to his own

opinions!" During the doctor's cautiously whispered speech, our friend

had glanced from one member of the company to the other and said to

himself: "These are the people with whose companionship she has been

obliged to be satisfied for four long years!" The thought aroused

within him an unspeakable sense of oppression, sorrow, and indignation.

He took advantage of a pause in the card playing, to approach the

count, and pleading that he was fatigued by his pedestrian tour, to

take leave of him for the night. The count looked at him absently a

moment, as if he were some stranger whose face he could not instantly

recall, then pressed his hand with marked cordiality and apologized for

having enjoyed so little of his society that evening. He hoped to make

up for the loss on the morrow. Then he motioned the butler to show the

guest to his room, and returned to his game, in which fortune, to judge

from the piles of gold before his companions, turned her back on him as

usual.

CHAPTER V.

The room to which Edwin was conducted, was situated in a wing of some

considerable length, a modern addition to the old castle, which had

completely destroyed the symmetry of the rear of the edifice. The

windows looked out upon the park, and on the other side a small

staircase led down into the courtyard, which was surrounded by domestic

offices, so that from thence the apartments in this one story wing

could be reached without using the stairs and corridors of the castle.

The sun must have found free admittance to Edwin's room all day, for an

oppressive atmosphere greeted him, which was not improved even after he

had thrown both windows wide open. But under any circumstances, it

would have been long ere he could have attempted to go to sleep. The

events of the day and the anticipation of the morrow quickened his

pulses. He went to the window and gazed out into the garden, where the

lofty jet of a fountain fell into a basin lined with shells. The

windows and balcony of the dining hall projected in softly rounded

lines from the facade, now but dimly illuminated by a moon that was

about to sink below the horizon. The remainder of the edifice lay in

shadow, but in the other wing of the castle two lofty windows in the

second story were brightly lighted. He did not doubt for a moment that

_she_ occupied them. How many evenings he had gazed up at her windows

in Jaegerstrasse; now he found her here, once more in the count's rooms,

this time of her own free will, and yet--

Voices in the corridor aroused him from the reverie into which this

comparison had thrown him. The other guests were retiring to their

rooms; Edwin distinctly recognized the different voices as they bade

each other good night, and learned by the uniform double step, that the

brothers Thaddaeus and Matthaeus occupied the room on his right, while

that on his left was assigned to the fat landed proprietor. His right

hand neighbors were perfectly quiet, and if their thoughts were as much

alike as their faces, they could not have profited by any exchange. The

stout gentleman was more troublesome. After spending half an hour in

undressing, during which he whistled, muttered to himself, and several

times, as if recollecting some story he had heard in the evening, burst

into a roar of laughter, he at last threw himself on his bed so

heavily, that it creakingly threatened to break under the burden, and

almost instantly began to snore so persistently, and in such a variety

of tones, that Edwin, who had been about to undress, renounced all idea

of doing so and determined to spend the night in an arm-chair at the

open window.

But even this became at last unendurable, and moreover the moist breath

of the fountain allured him out into the silent night. He left the room

without his hat and soon descended the little staircase and opened the

door, which he found fastened with only a light bolt.

The courtyard lay as silent and deserted in the faint glimmering

moonlight, as the garden on the opposite side. In order to reach the

latter, he was obliged to pass around the whole wing, the stables, and

the servant's rooms. As he glided by the little windows, he saw a dim

light twinkling in one and involuntarily paused before it. He could

look into a narrow chamber, where a young girl was sleeping, not in her

bed, but on a stool before a low table, with her head leaning against

the wall. A lantern beside her revealed her round, pretty face and

graceful figure. She did not seem to have fallen asleep over her work,

but while waiting for something or some one. The step pausing before

her window roused her. She started up, hastily pushed her hair back

from her forehead, and exclaimed as if still half asleep: "Is it you,

Your Excellency?" Suddenly seeming to distinguish the strange face, she

uttered a low exclamation, and upset the lantern. Then all was still.

Edwin walked on, wondering which of his table companions was the happy

man expected. But when he passed through the courtyard gate into the

park, all these thoughts vanished, and the magic of the silent night

took complete possession of his senses.

He rested for some time on a bench near the fountain, cooling his hot

brow in the spray that filled the air around him; then walked aimlessly

down the principal avenue, and at last plunged into the more secluded

portions of the park, where only a faint glimmer of moonlight pierced

through the branches of the tall trees. Neatly kept paths ran in

various directions, here and there stood a bench, a summer house, an

umbrella-like tent, all tokens that the wanderer was not in the wild

forest. Even the stream he now found, flowed between low, regularly

formed banks, and was crossed at intervals by small bridges. Edwin

turned into the narrow gravel walk beside the noiseless water, but the

brook suddenly made a wide curve and ran under a high palisade, which

surrounded a pond. At this spot the woods were less dense, and the

stars were mirrored in the smooth surface of the little lake. Edwin

walked around the enclosure, hoping to find an entrance. He thought of

a bath here was tempting, and he saw at the end of the pond, under some

tall shrubbery, a little building that was evidently used for this

purpose. But a small entrance gate, which after some search he at last

found, was securely locked, and he was about to give up his intention

and return to the path, when he perceived a place in the palisade where

the stakes stood so far apart that a deer, in case of necessity, could

pass through. Urged on by his desire to bathe, he endeavored to widen

the hole, and at last with some difficulty, succeeded in forcing his

way through the opening.

He now went directly to the little building, but found it locked. The

shore here, which was overgrown with bushes and marshy plants, was not

suitable for bathing, but the opposite side, where a meadow sloped

gently down to the water, seemed very well adapted to the purpose, and

he bent his steps toward it. A feeling of strange delight stole over

him, as he walked on through the soft night air, beside the still, dark

water, from which no sound was heard save the melancholy croaking of a

frog. A few tall trees stood at the end of the little lake, and some

low bushes clustered around their roots. He determined to undress

behind this natural screen.

But he had not even commenced, when he saw on the opposite shore dark

figures approaching along the path by which he himself had come. As

they neared the palisade, he also heard low voices, which grew more

audible as they reached the little gate. Directly after a key rattled

in the lock, and he saw two muffled figures enter the enclosure, which

was lighted by the moonbeams--female figures wrapped in long black

cloaks with hoods--who, after securing the gate behind them, turned

toward the little bathing house.

He fairly gasped for breath, and began to consider whether he should

have time and opportunity to retreat unobserved through the opening in

the fence. But this seemed to be a dangerous venture. From the spot

where he stood, to the low bushes that grew along the enclosure,

there was not a tree or shrub to conceal him. And if he should be

discovered--in what a light would his nocturnal entrance into this

carefully guarded precinct appear!

But before he could think of any other expedient, all time for

reflection was over. The door of the bathing house was opened and a

slender white figure, whose unbound hair fell over her arms and

shoulders, appeared on the upper step of the little flight of stairs

that led into the lake. She raised her head and looked up for a moment

toward the night sky, which had become slightly overcast, then let the

bathing cloak wrapped around her fall, and stooped to the water to wet

her forehead and breast, the next instant she sprang down the steps,

disappeared a few seconds and then, shaking her dripping locks, rose to

the surface.

Her companion appeared at the doorway and called out to her, Edwin

could not distinguish her words but the bather replied in a smothered

voice. Then both were silent. The swimmer divided the water with long,

steady strokes, at intervals raising her head and shoulders above the

surface to shake back the thick hair from her brow. Her face looked

dazzling white in the dim light of the setting moon, but the middle of

the pond, to which she had swum, was too far from the trees on the

meadow, for any one standing there to obtain a distinct view of her

features. Thus the mysterious nixie swam up and down the lake ten or

twelve times, in the profoundest silence. Her companion had retired to

the little house, and none but she seemed to be breathing in the forest

solitude. Not a zephyr stirred the surface of the pond, not a leaf fell

from the trees; the croaking of the frog had ceased; only at intervals,

when the swimmer made a quick turn the water rippled audibly and the

rushes along the shore swayed to and fro.

At last she seemed to grow weary, and lying on her back, floated for a

time in a circle, so that only a little of the pale face appeared above

the water. While so doing she came so near the shore, that the watcher

behind the boughs could see the delicate white outline of the profile

relieved against the dark water, and distinctly perceived how the eyes,

raised quietly toward the night heavens, flashed with a peculiar light.

He had not doubted from the first moment the identity of the swimmer,

and his heart leaped into his throat, as he recognized again the never

to be forgotten face.

Finally as if the lake wished to draw the motionless figure down into

its depths, the head sank lower and lower in the noiseless waves, as if

resting on the softest pillows. At last the water rushed and whirled

around the sinking form; she hastily turned and with powerful strokes

swam back toward the steps.

Her companion was waiting, holding in her hands a large white linen

cloak, which she threw over the swimmer as she ascended the stairs. The

next moment both disappeared within the little house. The door, it is

true, remained half open, but in the darkness it was impossible to

distinguish anything within.

Ten minutes more elapsed, then the two muffled figures again appeared

and proceeding to the gate of the enclosure, opened it, relocked it,

and then retired along the foot path by which they had come.

A long time passed ere the secret witness of this scene left the spot

through the hole in the enclosure of the pond. As soon as he found

himself alone, he had instantly plunged into the waves, but it scarcely

calmed the strange tumult in his blood. As the rising night-wind now

tossed his wet hair and blew against his breast, it seemed as if

instead of cooling him, it was trying to fan the glimmering sparks in

the ashes of his memory.

He started at the thought and involuntarily paused, as something warned

him not to return to the castle. "No," he said to himself, "that would

be too cowardly, too pitiful. Four years, four such happy years--could

I again be the old defenceless fool? And all for a pair of white arms

and two nixie eyes? What power would man have over his own soul if the

forces of nature could never be successfully battled against? No, brave

heart, we will not evade the struggle."

He returned to the courtyard gate, after a long stroll in the park,

which had thoroughly exhausted him. It was about two o'clock in the

morning; the light in the countess' rooms was extinguished. Just as he

was about to enter, he saw a man step cautiously out of the door of the

room where the young girl slept and linger on the threshold a moment,

as if to bid some one farewell. The doorway was in the shadow and the

moon had set, yet as the late visitor now hurried past the buildings

with elastic steps and then cautiously groped his way to the wing,

Edwin distinctly recognized young Count Gaston; so the "endless

yearning" which ennobled him, did not seem to prevent him from

condescending to adventures which _had_ a beginning, a middle, and an

end.

CHAPTER VI.

The noise Edwin's next neighbor, the fat landed proprietor, made in

preparing for the hunt, roused our friend early the next morning from a

sound sleep. He was obliged to reflect a moment to remember where he

was, and that the events of the previous day had not been mere dreams;

then he hastily threw on his clothes and followed the servant who came

to ask if he could be of any assistance, into the great hall on the

ground floor, where the breakfast table was laid.

It was about seven o'clock; the day was dull and cloudy, and a damp

wind indicated rain. But the cheerful bustle in the courtyard, the

noise of horses and dogs, the shouts and exclamations of huntsmen and

servants prevented any feeling of depression from seizing the guests.

Besides the remainder of the company who gradually assembled in the

hall, congratulated each other on the excellent hunting weather which

had mitigated the heat of the preceding day. The chevalier alone begged

to be excused from taking any share in the day's entertainment. "The

only hunting he likes," whispered Count Gaston to Edwin, "is the

pursuit of yellow gold."

The Polish colonel, on the contrary, was full of sportsmanlike

enthusiasm, and related with the utmost seriousness, incredible

stories, at which the fat landed proprietor burst into roars of

laughter; but the brothers von der Wende did not seem any wider awake

in the morning, than they had appeared the preceding evening.

Neither the little doctor, nor any of the other household officers

appeared; but to make amends a plain old man with thin parchment-like

features and calm grey eyes arrived, and joined the gentlemen but

without sharing in the breakfast. Gaston introduced him to Edwin as the

head ranger. A slight curl of the corners of the mouth under the heavy

yellow moustache, told our friend what a correct estimation of himself

as an amateur sportsman, had been formed by this old master of the

noble game.

Their host appeared at last, greeted every one with monosyllabic

cordiality, and then approached the stranger.

"I thank you, Herr Doctor," said he, "for giving me the pleasure of

your company on our hunt, though you told me yesterday you were no

sportsman. You've only to say whether you'll accompany us on horseback,

or whether you prefer to drive in a light carriage over the beautiful

road that leads through the forest to the ranger's house, which is the

general _rendezvous_ and where, after the hunt is over, lunch will be

served."

"Unless you happen to have in your stable a descendant of Gellert's

grey, I must decide in favor of the carriage," replied Edwin smiling.

The count nodded carelessly, leaving it uncertain whether his knowledge

of horses extended back so far, and gave an order to the groom. He

seemed even more absent minded and gloomy than on the evening before,

busied himself in adjusting his hunting suit, and from time to time

glanced at his watch. "It's getting late," he said to the head ranger,

who had risen and was quietly awaiting his master's orders. "The

countess doesn't usually keep us waiting."

At this moment the butler appeared at the door, and said: "Her ladyship

is descending."

"_Eh bien_, gentlemen, if you please, we'll set out, and good luck to

our sport."

He hastily led the way into the ante-room, followed by the rest of the

company. In spite of the cloudy morning, the staircase was light enough

to make it easy to distinguish faces, even on the landing above. Edwin

was the last who entered the hall; he trembled and was forced to pause

on the threshold and close his eyes; everything was whirling around

him. When he opened them again, he saw a slender female figure

descending the broad marble steps, holding the train of her green

velvet dress under her left arm, and resting her right hand lightly on

the banister. Count Gaston was walking beside her, and a huntsman,

holding his plumed hat in his hand, followed. She wore a little green

velvet cap with a long grey veil, and her hair was simply dressed in

wide braids. All this Edwin could observe at leisure, as she was

talking to her companion and thus kept her head averted. She now

reached the lower landing and with a graceful movement turned toward

her husband, who welcomed her with knightly courtesy. She nodded a good

morning to him and her face was quite devoid of expression as she

raised her hand to her hunting cap to salute the rest of the party. At

this moment her foot caught in the folds of her riding habit, she

stumbled, turned pale, and with a gesture of alarm and a half

suppressed cry fell back into the arms of Gaston and the huntsman, who

had hastily sprung forward.

She could not have hurt herself seriously, yet it was at least five

minutes, ere, with the assistance of the two men, she again stood

erect, with a face whose ghostly pallor seemed scarcely warranted by

the little fright she had had. The other guests had rushed up to offer

their very unnecessary services, and Edwin and the head ranger alone

remained in their former places.

"It's nothing," they now heard the countess say. "I slipped and grew

dizzy for a moment. I thank you, gentlemen."

She bowed with a winning smile to the company and then, leaning on

Gaston's arm, slowly descended the rest of the stairs. When they

approached the main entrance to the castle, beside which Edwin was

standing, she started as if she could not believe her eyes.

"I have the pleasure of presenting to you an old acquaintance, my dear

wife," said the count--"the Herr Doctor Edwin, who has been our guest

since yesterday; an accidental meeting at the railway station--he's

taking a little pedestrian tour--I knew it would give you pleasure."

She did not answer immediately; her eyes were fixed upon Edwin but her

expression was undefinable. "Is it really you?" she said at last,

suddenly recalling her self-control. "It's delightful to see you again.

I thank you," she continued turning to her husband. "But why did you

wait until today--"

"It was late in the evening when we arrived. You don't usually appear

at that hour."

"True," she answered with an absent smile. "However, I might perhaps

have made an exception for the sake of an old acquaintance. You're very

welcome, Herr Doctor, I hope you'll remain our guest for some time."

She had removed her glove and now held out her hand to Edwin, who,

stammering a few incoherent words, pressed his lips upon it in great

embarrassment. Then she turned to the other gentlemen, addressing a few

courteous words to each. It was impossible to discover whether the

sight of her old friend had made any deep impression upon her. But

Edwin couldn't take his eyes from her face. When Count Gaston passed

him and whispered: "Well? Did I say too much?" his only answer was a

forced smile. He was ashamed of himself when he thought how stiff and

ill at ease he must appear, not to others but in her eyes. But there

seemed to be a spell upon him.

She had walked out to the flight of steps which led down into the

courtyard, where the head groom was holding the bridle of a beautiful

English horse which wore a lady's saddle. When it saw its mistress

approaching, it turned its head toward her with a joyful neigh and

impatiently pawed the ground. The countess paused a moment, patted the

animal's neck and let it take a piece of sugar out of her hand. Then

she prepared to mount, but when her foot was already in the stirrup,

she drew back again.

"I see I can't ride to-day," she said carelessly. "My foot is still

lame from the mis-step I made."

"If that's the case," replied the count, "don't tax it. The stag will

lead us a long distance to-day; it's the old one we chased last year,

but which finally escaped. I've ordered the hunting carriage for the

Herr Doctor. Perhaps it will be pleasant for you--"

"Certainly," she carelessly interrupted, without looking at Edwin. "We

can drive to the ranger's house together. I'll take Jean with me."

The lad, evidently proud of this preference, stepped forward from the

crowd of footmen, hurried toward the carriage, which stood a little

apart, behind the saddle horses and hounds, sprang on the box, and

taking the reins drove skillfully through the groups of huntsmen and

idle grooms to the steps.

"You shall witness my skill as a charioteer," said the countess in a

jesting tone to Edwin, who had hastily approached. "Don't be afraid; I

know how responsible science would hold me if I should upset one of her

votaries." Then she entered the carriage and took the reins and whip;

Edwin followed her, and urging on the beautiful animals she guided the

light carriage through the gate of the courtyard into the wide forest

avenue.

Her attention seemed to be entirely occupied with the horses; for the

first ten minutes at least she did not turn her eyes away from them or

utter a word. "How beautiful this forest is," said Edwin at last. She

smiled and then nodded gravely, but was still silent. She evidently had

not heard what he said. So he had plenty of leisure to watch her, and

was compelled to acknowledge that her beauty had really gained some

mysterious charm. The face was longer, the nose seemed to have

lengthened and the eyes to have grown larger and darker, but her smile

was no longer the same. It was not that strangely wearied sad smile,

that appears when we are too proud to show we have cause to weep, but

something far more mournful; a strange, fierce, implacable expression

hovered around the lips, the expression that a face might wear after a

heavy life storm in which every hope has perished, or when madness is

approaching. Edwin was overwhelmed with an emotion of such deep sorrow,

that after his fruitless attempt to break the ice, he remained

perfectly silent. The air was still and oppressive, a few solitary

drops fell, but there was no steady rain; not a bird moved in the

forest, no human being met them; only from the distance they

occasionally heard sounds from the hunting party, the barking of a dog

and the thud of horses' hoofs, which at last died away in the forest.

The road led through the village at the foot of the mountain. Peasant

women with their children stood in the doorways as they passed, and

eagerly greeted the young countess. A very young woman with a baby

stepped directly before them. Toinette stopped a moment, lifted the

rosy-cheeked little creature into the carriage, kissed it and asked the

mother various questions concerning it. When she gave it back to her

again, a crowd of village children had collected, who all held out

their little hands and cried good morning. The countess gave the oldest

a handful of shining silver. "You must divide it, Hans," said she.

"Give something to each. But you must be good and go to school

regularly." The mothers came forward and thanked her in the name of the

little people. The next moment the horses moved forward again, and they

left the village behind them.

"They love you very dearly here," said Edwin.

"I can't help it," she replied. "It's easy to seem like a divinity to

these poor people, if we merely treat them kindly. But if the gods have

no other happiness than that of being idolized, they're really not to

be envied."

Then they were both silent again. They had left the wide highway and

turned into a narrower road, where the carriage rolled noiselessly over

the soft earth. Meantime the sky had grown darker, and a fine warm

summer rain was beginning to sprinkle their faces. Suddenly Toinette

stopped the horses.

"If it will be agreeable to you," said she, "let's get out and walk a

little way on foot. We shall reach the ranger's house too early even

then."

He sprang out and offered her his arm, which she only touched with the

tips of her fingers. Jean, who was holding the reins, asked if the

countess would like an umbrella. "Why?" she asked. "It's scarcely

raining at all. Or yes, take it out of the case, the Herr Doctor will

be kind enough to open it."

"May I offer you my arm, Countess?" said Edwin.

Again she did not seem to hear him, but stood gazing into the dark,

silent forest, as if lost in thought. Then she shook back her

hair--Edwin involuntarily thought of the scene in the park the night

before--and took his arm. "Come," she said quietly. "Open the umbrella.

Doesn't this remind you of something? Haven't we walked together in the

rain before? To be sure, it was a long time ago, a whole life lies

between. Don't you think I have altered very much?"

"Certainly. You've accomplished the seemingly impossible; you have

become yet more beautiful."

She looked at him quietly, almost sternly. "Promise me not to say such

a thing again. It doesn't become you, and it wounds me. And don't

address me as 'countess.' I don't know whether I can still venture to

call you 'dear friend' as in old times; but I shouldn't like to have

you treat me precisely the same as an ordinary acquaintance. No, I've

grown old, much older than you suppose, so old that I often think I've

outlived myself, and you must perceive that too. But we won't talk

about that. Only tell me, why did you come here? I knew you would come

sometime; If I'd not been sure of it, who knows whether I should still

be alive! And yet it took me by surprise; for I could never imagine

what was to bring you to me again, after all that--"

She hesitated. He frankly told her of his interview with Marquard, and

that his old interest in her had been vividly awakened by the news that

she was only separated from him by a two hours' drive.

"No, no," she said as if to herself, "that was not it, you don't tell

me all. But as you please; I am weaned from wishing to know things that

are concealed from me. They're rarely pleasant. The more we get to the

bottom of people and things, the uglier they seem to us. Enough, you're

here, and I'm delighted to see you again, though at first I was as much

startled as if your ghost had appeared. More than once--on lonely walks

and in large assemblies--I've fancied I saw you just as you stood in

the hall below me, but it was only a freak of memory. You've not

changed in the least. If I could only forget these four years a moment,

I could fancy we were again walking beside the carp pond and I was

telling you Toinette Marchand's story. Those were pleasant times." Then

suddenly adopting a totally different tone, she continued:

"I heard you were married. Your wife was one of your old pupils. Have

you any children? No? That's a pity. Although, if nothing else is

wanting--! Tell me about your wife. But no, what can be learned from a

description? one can merely mention traits of character. One's real

nature is indescribable. You must bring her to me some day, will you?"

He nodded silently; but he knew that he should never do so.

"You've had a child and lost it," he said after a pause. "How much you

must have suffered!" She suddenly stopped and let his arm fall.

"_More than any human being suspects!_" she said with great emphasis,

laying a stress upon every syllable. "Let's say nothing about it. And

yet, why may I not speak of it to you, the only person I know who can

even understand what that anguish was, and also the only one who will

not be cruel enough to say: 'it served you right,' and you would have

more reason to say so than any other human being!"

She cast a backward glance toward the carriage, which was moving slowly

along about twenty paces behind them.

"Please shut the umbrella," she said in a low tone. "I'm so warm, the

damp air does me good. Dear friend, how often I've wished to be able to

talk with you so. I thought everything would then be easier. Although

in my hardest trials I should not have been able to show myself, even

to you, exactly as I was. I did not like to confess the truth to

myself; I dreaded to look in the glass, as if it were written on my

brow and I must die of shame if I read it. Now--when everything is

past--even the guilt, which I could not help--I only think of it all as

a great misfortune, the greatest that can befal a woman. You said I

must have suffered deeply when the child died. What will you think of

me, when I tell you--that I suffered as long as it lived, and ceased to

suffer when I lost it!

"It sounds horrible, does it not? And yet it is literally true. You'll

think me an unnatural mother, and you're right. But can I help it, that

I was born with this unnatural disposition, that everything which makes

others happy becomes a torture to me?"

"You're silent, dear friend. But what could you say? We should draw a

veil over that which is contrary to nature, and turn away. You were

also silent, in the olden time when I informed you through Balder, why

I must unfortunately live my life an exceptional creature; an unhappy

variety of the species. At first your silence wounded me deeply; I

thought, a friend ought not to make us suffer so keenly for what is not

our fault. Afterwards I saw that you were right to act as the heavenly

powers:

"'Then leave him to his punishment,

Vengeance for ev'ry earthly sin is sent.'

"You remember the reading? 'the sins of the parents upon the children

unto the third and fourth generations'?"

He stood still. "I don't understand a single word you're saying, my

dear friend. What? You sent by Balder--but do you not know that the

conversation he had with you, or rather with the count, was the last

that he ever held? And you told him--what? What, for God's sake?"

He had seized her hand and pressed it violently. "Toinette, speak, tell

me all. What is done and cannot be undone will at least be more

endurable if it is purged of all which the rude hand of malicious

chance may have mingled with it. You've misunderstood me; I now learn

this for the first time, and I have also misunderstood you. Speak,

speak--what thread did death sever, that would have guided us out of

the labyrinth into the right path?"

She shook her head. "Who knows? even if my message had reached you, you

would not have solved the problem! Of what use would it be? Can a heart

incapable of love become more lovable if you learn that it has very

natural reasons for being contrary to nature? A whim, a fit of

obstinacy, a childish caprice--a refractory character like Katharine

the shrew is not hopeless, since we need not once for all make a cross

against it and go our way. But the child of a forced love, the fruit of

a girl's bartered life--what can be hoped for, what aid can avail in

such a case?"

"And this--this is what I should have learned if my poor Balder had

survived that day. Oh! eternal Gods!"

"Yes indeed," she nodded with a bitter smile. "I thought you would have

taken pity on the poor monster and have borne with her for a time. I

hoped so for three days. Then, as I said, I thought: 'he's right'--and

came here with the old countess."

"Horrible!" he exclaimed, wiping his brow, on which drops of cold

perspiration were standing. "And so I--none other than myself--blind

and unsuspecting as I was--and your letter, which I did not

understand--the three days respite--"

"Calm yourself, my friend. It's not your fault; the threads of fate

were too delicately spun. Even if you had come, who knows whether I

might not still be here? True, if I had known then, what I know now--"

"What, Toinette, what!"

She hesitated a moment, then with closed eyes and her delicate brows

contracted in an expression almost threatening in its sternness, said

slowly and softly: "That my womanly nature would some day awake, that

the hour would come when, like every other lonely creature I should

long for a happy love--and that I then should belong to a man, of whom

my soul knows nothing, and who would force me to drain to the dregs the

sorrowful cup that broke my mother's heart!" She sank down upon a moss

covered stone beside the road, and buried her face in her hands.

Edwin stood before her; he did not feel the rain, which now began to

fall in heavy drops, did not pick up her gloves, which had slipped from

her lap and lay on the wet ground; he made no reply to little Jean's

question whether he should close the carriage, except to wave the

intruder away with his hand. All his thoughts were absorbed in the one

emotion of pity he felt for the woman once so deeply loved, who across

the gulf of years had suddenly once more approached so near him, as if

naught had even come between them.

"My poor dear friend," he faltered at last, "be calm, compose yourself,

you're no longer alone. I am here, I--" His voice died away. How false

and powerless was everything he could say. Toinette suddenly rose,

shook back her hair, as we do when reminded that we must hold up our

heads, and said with a forced smile:

"I believe we're getting wet. The little discomforts of life have their

use; they cause annoyance and compel a division even in the midst of

great sorrow. Give me your arm again, and open the umbrella. Ten paces

farther on is a beech wood, where the foliage is so thick that we might

quietly await a deluge. To be sure, my velvet dress is ruined, and I'm

not yet 'duchess' enough not to regret it. However, it can be replaced.

If there were nothing else--but come, come, you're standing as still as

a statue."

He mechanically obeyed, surprised at the sudden change in her

expression, and they walked on a short distance farther. "Yes, indeed,"

she said as if to herself, "in other things too, I might take my

present equals in rank for a pattern. It's very bad style to have any

feelings at all, especially to speak of them, and to trouble old

friends with them. But you must be lenient. I exhausted these

aristocratic expedients long ago; pride is a weapon, but a two edged

sword, as it were, a shield that pierces the arm with its sharp edges.

Now my heart, which is not thoroughly aristocratic, has run away with

me again. And for what do we have friends, except to abuse them? But

we'll be sensible and talk of more cheerful things. Your friend

Marquard, for instance, what do you really think of him? He has such

contradictory traits of character, that he resembles people with one

blue and one black eye, we never know which is of the right color. So

he too in the same moment is grave and frivolous, honest and not to be

trusted. A singular combination."

Edwin made no reply, he did not seem to have heard what she said. After

a long pause, during which he had gazed intently into vacancy, he

suddenly exclaimed: "And the child--your child? If your womanly nature

awoke too late, were you not a mother soon enough to at least find

consolation in that?"

"Oh! my friend," she replied, relapsing into her former tone, "these

are strange, sad mysteries. This child--I might perhaps have been able

to reconcile myself to the way in which I became its mother, but

unfortunately it looked so much like its father that it reminded me

with a thrill of horror, at what a price I had obtained it. Pray spare

me the memory of the time when, each day, I asked myself whether I

could endure to remain longer in this world! There are mothers who care

little for their children and would rather dance or flirt, than be

troubled with the charge of them. I--with my freshly aroused need of

loving, of pressing something close to my heart--rose every day with

the resolve to live only for the child; but when I approached its

cradle and saw its delicate, cold, aristocratic little face, with the

eyelids often half closed like its father's--I could not overcome my

repugnance, could not hug and kiss it, rejoice in its innocent voice

and baby ways. I sat beside it as if petrified, and it seemed as if I

could read my doom in its features, as if the silent little mouth said:

'Mother; why have you done this, why have you sold yourself, profaned

yourself without love? Now I shall atone for your sin, as you did for

that of your mother, who at least did not commit it of her own free

will.' And then, when it died, and I saw it lying before me in the

coffin, with the haughty pale little lips distorted, the eyes so

pitifully sunken--oh! my friend, it was strange that I did not fall

lifeless beside it. Do you know how terrible it is, when a dead body

seems to say: 'I've died to make room for you, we two cannot exist and

breathe the same air?' No more! Oh! it drives me mad--even now, when I

think of it for a single moment."

He felt how wearily she tottered on by his side, leaning heavily on his

arm; for a moment it seemed as if she were unable to stand erect; her

eyes closed, and her lips parted like one fainting. But the emotion

soon passed away. She drew a long breath, paused and looked at him with

a calm but sorrowful face.

"No doubt you remember," she began, "how on our excursion to

Charlottenburg we were engaged in a similar grave conversation, and how

I, in my inexperience, said it would not be difficult for a person to

give up the business of life, if he could not pay his expenses or

became totally bankrupt? You almost agreed, but adopted a different

phraseology and replied: 'that when we could neither be useful nor give

pleasure to ourselves or others, we might be permitted to leave our

post.' Well, I've advanced successfully so far that, without boasting,

I may be permitted to include myself among these chosen few. I could

leave a legacy to the village children, the only persons to whom I can

sometimes give pleasure, and the others who would perhaps miss me for

three days after the last honors were paid to my remains, must become

accustomed to it. But you see, dear friend, the most annoying part of

misfortune is, that it makes even a brave soul weak and womanish. Day

follows day, each adds its own contribution to the burden we bear, our

shoulders grow hard, and the heart becomes callous. How often I've

thought of Hamlet's soliloquy. But though he studied philosophy at

Wittenberg, and I've only received a few lessons from you--I know

better than he how the 'native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with

the pale cast of thought.' It's 'just the fear of something after

death;' what makes us cowardly, is the fear that the most delightful

portion of the feast of life will come after we have left the hall to

sleep away all weariness and sorrow. Perhaps it is childish, but I

never rise in the morning without hoping for some unexpected event that

might deliver me. There are countless pleasures on earth--am I the only

person to whom none are allotted? Must I alone never say--now I can die

in peace, for I know why I have lived?' Well to-day I'm glad that I

didn't lose patience, but lived on, though every evening found the hope

of the morning withered and dead. To-day I rose with a heavier heart

than ever, and only determined to join the hunting party because I said

to myself: 'sometime your horse will have more sense than you have

courage, and will throw you off and break your neck.' And then I saw

you--or your ghost, as I at first thought--standing among the people

who have acted as mutes in the farce of my life; then I at last felt

that for which I have always longed, a joy, a great, strong, real

joy--only at first it was too strong and overcame me. I'm entirely out

of practice in being happy."

"My poor friend," paid Edwin deeply agitated, "you will, you must get

into practice again. How happy I should be, if I could only succeed in

reconciling you to your life? True, I'm still too much of a stranger

here to fully understand the circumstances in which you are placed; but

my short acquaintance with your husband has disclosed nothing which

should make your estrangement irreconcilable. You know, and even the

greatest stranger must see, what a deep grief it is to him that he has

lost you, though you are his wife. He seems--whatever else he may

lack--to be a gentleman, whom only the false and shallow education of

his class has prevented from making something more of himself. I should

think, if you only desired it that for a fond glance, a kind word from

you he would do the most unprecedented things. Can you blame him for

surrounding himself with such society, if you deny him yours? Perhaps

the very bitterness that has come between you, has served to sink him

into a still lower depth. Now you've only to give him your little

finger, and I think you could lead him a long distance up the heights,

so high that these 'mutes' could not climb after you."

"Are you in earnest?" she asked looking quietly at him. "But why

shouldn't you believe all this. You've not lived with this man. Did I

know, myself, four years ago, that nothing is more hopeless than what

you call a gentleman? To be sure, in your sense, as you and your

friends are--where the inability to do anything unworthy arises from

your nature and the honest desire not to mar humanity--! But where the

point in question is only not to offend his consciousness of rank--oh!

my dear friend, I could tell you something that would arouse your

indignation, and yet to do it was not derogatory to the honor of a

certain 'gentleman.' No, no, it's very noble in you to persuade me to

do what is kind, but I'm very sorry I can make no use of your good

advice. When the hand has been cut off, you can't heal the stump with a

blister. That cut has severed the joint. Such a mutilated relation--"

At this moment they heard the beat of a horse's hoofs on the forest

road behind them, and, looked back to distinguish the rider, who was

approaching at a rapid trot. "Who's that!" said Toinette, "the doctor?

I'll wager he's following us, because he'll have no rest till he

discovers on what terms we stand toward each other. He's no gentleman,

and has never made any pretensions to being one. His highest idea, his

ambition, and his god, is prudence, which, of course, turns around no

other point than his own miserable advantage. He instantly sees the

weakest side of every man just as in his capacity of doctor, he

searches for the seat of disease, and treats him accordingly. Of course

he hates me; for physically I'm in such perfect health, that his skill

is lost upon me, and whatever else I lack, is inaccessible to his

diagnosis, while he knows I see through him. Beware of him. Even his

frankness is only cunning calculation. Well, Doctor," she called to the

approaching horseman, "have you decided to join the hunt after all?

You'll just be in at the death."

The rider, with a powerful hand, checked his steaming horse directly

before the countess and respectfully raising his oddly shaped

broad-brimmed hat, answered: "Her Excellency is fond of joking. I'm

known to have an aversion to the shedding of blood, except in my trade.

My motive for riding my brown horse out of breath is a diplomatic

mission, on which no one but myself sent me, but which, as a loyal

servant to my employers, I must discharge."

"To the point. Doctor, to the point! You're interrupting a very

interesting conversation. So--?"

"Then I almost regret having undertaken the mission," replied the

little man with an imperceptible expression of sarcastic mischief

hovering around his withered lips. "Their Highnesses the Prince and

Princess, with a train of followers of high and low degree, arrived an

hour ago on their way to Italy, whither His Highness Prince Bataroff

accompanies them. They greatly regretted not finding the family at home

but as they intend to spend the night at the castle, strictly forbade

that any messenger should be sent to the ranger's house to announce

their arrival. The princess instantly retired to the room she occupied

on her previous visits, and the distinguished gentlemen will amuse

themselves by shooting at a target, as they're too tired to follow the

hunt. I thought therefore the countess might perhaps desire to receive

the news at once. If I was mistaken, it's the same as if I'd said

nothing. No one at the castle knows what road I took."

A slight shadow had darkened Toinette's beautiful face. "Why to-day!"

she murmured to herself, then with a slight bend of her head to the

officious messenger, she added aloud: "Very well, Doctor, I thank you.

Ride on to the ranger's house, but let your horse have time to breathe.

It's not at all necessary for you to overtake the hunting party, until

the gentlemen have had time to breakfast quietly; do you understand?

With me, of course, it's rather a different matter. I shall return

immediately. Adieu, Doctor. You've again shown what a diplomat is lost

in you; perhaps Prince Bataroff can help you to a career in Russia.

I'll recommend you to him."

The little gentleman bowed with a constrained smile, evidently not

feeling exactly flattered, as he probably detected an under current of

meaning in the words, then for the first time greeted Edwin with a wave

of the hand, and, as his horse was already moving forward, drew his hat

again over his high forehead, which despite the rain, he had bared.

The countess stood a moment lost in thought. Not until the doctor,

whose horse had proceeded on a walk, had ridden a long distance into

the forest, did she suddenly look up. "Yes," she said, "we're still

here!" Then turning to Edwin with a bitter smile: "do you see how

difficult it is for me to get into practice in the art of being happy?

I'm not even allowed half a day with an old friend. Perhaps it's best

not to accustom myself again to a kindly voice. My aristocratic

sister-in-law--but you are not yet aware that the prince is my brother;

I mean my father's son, though of course that is a profound family

secret, which however everybody knows. I'm very fond of this brother,

and on closer acquaintance confess I felt ashamed of the by no means

flattering description I gave you of my princely admirer. You'll see

that he's a thoroughly manly gentleman; dear me, he might become still

more, but the cares of government his little wife imposes upon him,

give him no time. I ought to say nothing about this ph[oe]nix, but put

you to the test at once, though to be sure if she only stays one day,

she'll bewitch you and give no time for the disenchantment which would

surely ensue in the following twenty-four hours. Her character consists

in having none at all and in knowing the fact; therefore every day she

tries, with great expenditure of theatrical talent, to support a

totally different _role_; to-day the artless, to-morrow the

sentimental, the day after the heroic, always in every character a

lovely little princess, spoiled by happiness and the world. My poor

brother, who has some of my taste for the genuine, not only in luxury

but in his intercourse with society, of course doesn't like these

continual changes and deceptive appearances, and would even be unhappy

if the charming fair-haired little juggler hadn't made him madly in

love with her. Besides, there's yet another bond between them: in their

leisure hours, between dinner and the theatre, both study theology.

Nothing is more comical than to hear this child, amid the usual prattle

of the drawing room, uttering long perorations about Calvinism and the

guardianship of the Lord. You must broach the subject, it's worth the

trouble. She's given me up, after long efforts at conversion. I made no

secret of my godlessness and afterwards regretted it. How is she to

understand why I repel with loathing and horror the thought that all I

suffer is the work of an omniscient, omnipotent, and yet all merciful

Father? If the elements of my nature, which debar me from happiness,

have been found and united by a great blind dispensation of the course

of the world, and I must go to ruin under this evil combination--it's a

disagreeable, but not an unendurable thought. But a God-father, who,

_de coeur leger_, or out of pedagogical wisdom, makes an unhappy

creature like me wander about so sadly between heaven and earth, that

he may afterwards, to make up for lost time, allow me some

gratification in eternity--no, dear friend, all the aristocratic and

plebeian theology in the world can't make this theory plausible to me.

But come, we'll get into the carriage; I mustn't keep my guests

waiting. The prohibition to inform us, was of course only a pretense.

If we didn't come, they'd be very much vexed, as they would not believe

any well trained servants would heed such a command."

With these words, she walked rapidly toward the carriage, which Jean

had already turned, and without waiting for Edwin's assistance, sprang

lightly in. The latter remained standing beside the door.

"Don't be angry with me, dearest friend," he said in a voice trembling

with emotion, "but I feel utterly unable to return with you now, to see

strangers and unite in the light conversation of general society. Allow

me to take leave of you for a few hours. It's an old uncivil habit,

that only in complete solitude can I hear what my poor soul says to me

on some occasions. The forest is so beautiful, and the rain has ceased;

I'll wander hap-hazard through the thickets. This evening at any rate

I'll be with you, in case you need me."

"I'll impose no restrictions upon your liberty," replied the beautiful

woman, without turning her eyes from her horses' heads. "You're right

to avoid what's contrary to your nature and happy in being able to do

so! But you'll compensate me for these lost hours to-morrow--day after

to-morrow--the whole week. No; no objections! You want to restore me to

the old habit of being happy, and it will not be done so very quickly.

I've forgotten too much. Adieu, dear friend,--until this evening!"

She cracked the whip Jean had handed to her, the tall lad in the green

and silver livery sprang into the back seat, and away dashed the light

carriage, as if the horses wished to doubly indemnify themselves for

the unwelcome rest.

Edwin stood still a long time watching the flutter of Toinette's grey

veil, then with a heavy sigh, turned away and plunged into the network

of paths leading from the high road.

CHAPTER VII.

So deep a silence reigned here, that when he paused, he fancied he

could hear the sap rising through the trunks of the trees. The wind,

which had brought the rain, had changed, the brightest summer sky

arched over the cool forest. From the thicket of pines, a narrow path

wound through large tracts of hilly beech woods, past which the hunt

had rushed at so great a distance that the deer and hares had not been

startled from their repose, and let the lonely pedestrian pass by with

more curiosity than fear. But he scarcely disturbed them by a glance;

his gaze was turned inward; he was questioning his own heart, yesterday

so peaceful, and now agitated by a wild horde of painful thoughts.

He understood this impetuous heart well enough not to deceive himself a

moment as regarded the nature of the storm within. So fixed was his

habit of taking seriously everything he felt, and his honest endeavor

never to spare or palliate anything pernicious in his nature, that even

midst the indescribable confusion into which the last hour had plunged

him, he said steadfastly to himself as soon as he was alone: "You're

lost, if you remain." He felt, with deep horror, how all that four

years of the deepest, purest happiness had done to stifle the memory of

his old struggles, was baffled in a single moment. He did not deceive

himself about the matter, it was not commiseration for his friend's

cheerless fate that burned so passionately in his soul. If he had found

her radiant in happiness, pride and love, he would have felt no

differently.

But to know she was unhappy and that in suffering this misery she had

become a true woman, loving and needing love, that she clung to him and

to his firm soul--as she thought it--as to a last stronghold, fanned

the flames within him, and broke his resolute will.

What he owed himself, himself and his pure, faithful, noble wife, rose

so clearly in his mind amid all the confusion, that without shame, and

in the firm conviction that nothing could avail against his final

victory over these dark powers, he repeated Leah's name. He spoke to

her as if she were walking beside him, as if he were telling her about

his condition. "No, child," said he, "fear nothing for either of us. We

shall never part, never, never! Only have patience with me; the

elements are let loose and playing foot-ball with my heart. But

such a heart, child, which you have taken in your keeping and drawn

to you--no, it will not be thus played with long. If it is painful,

dearest, this storm, this rending and tearing within--it will pass

away, I hope, without your perceiving it. It's not true that we are

helpless drops of water in the sea of passions. We can recollect

ourselves, cling fast to what is right and good, like a mussel to the

cliff from which no surge can tear it. To be sure, the cliff might

totter, but the happiness we have found together is imperishable and I

will cling to it. And yet--can it be the same as of old, if we are

forced to remember how unhappy this poor woman will always be?"--

He lost himself in a dull reverie over the thought of what might be, if

he had no duties, and need not consider any one except the woman who

had clutched his hand like a person sinking in a bottomless gulf. If he

had only found her so four years ago!

Leah's image grew dim, he saw at this moment only the form of his

first, lost love, as he had now found her again--a shudder ran through

his frame, as he still felt the pressure of her hand on his arm, and

thought of the dark lustre of her eyes and those lips which he had only

once kissed on that drive through the moonlight. He smiled in the midst

of his horror, and yet he could scarcely breathe, so heavily did the

sultry atmosphere weigh upon his breast; without knowing what he did,

he repeated two lines of one of Rueckert's poems:

The taper's dim and flickering light

She has re-kindled with her smile--

So in happy wretchedness, forgetting where he was, he staggered through

the dense forest. He felt as if he were wandering through a region far

away from the world, where every thing that binds and separates human

beings, all strictly drawn lines of duty, were abolished and overgrown

by the wild luxuriance of the powers of nature, where a poor mortal

wanders aimlessly about, and so long as he remains in the enchanted

wilderness must give himself up to the sweet torture of hidden fires.

Several shots, which echoed in the distance, and the strange whining

yelp of the hounds suddenly roused him from this bewilderment. He

perceived that he was in danger of approaching within range of the

hunt. For one moment he thought how little was needed to reduce the

conflict in his mind to peace; a stray bullet--and all would be over.

But he felt no temptation to provoke this solution, far less could he

resolve to follow the track of human beings. He hastily bent his steps

in the opposite direction and then once more allowed his movements to

be directed by chance.

He had probably wandered to and fro for about an hour, when he entered

one of the numerous paths only wide enough to permit the passage of the

wood cutters' carts which intersected the forest in straight lines. He

was about to cross it, and to plunge into the thicket on the opposite

side, when a strange procession, approaching at a measured pace

scarcely a gun shot from the spot, made him pause, in spite of his

desire to shun the presence of man. First rode the little high

shouldered doctor, holding an eager conversation with a huntsman who

walked beside him. Behind them four peasants, who seemed to have been

acting as beaters, carried a litter, on which, lying upon coverlets

hastily rolled up into cushions, a stout figure was stretched, the

upper part of the body, despite the uncomfortable position, in constant

motion, the head turning first to the right and then to the left, and

the arms employed in eager gesticulation. The rear of the train was

closed by two horsemen, dressed exactly alike and mounted on horses of

the same color, in whom Edwin already recognized the brothers Thaddaeus

and Matthaeus von der Wende. They seemed, as usual, to be perfectly

silent, but hung their heads sorrowfully, and in their wonderful

resemblance to each other looked still more comical on horseback than

on foot.

When the caravan had approached still nearer, Edwin saw that the

shapeless struggling mass, under which the bearers gasped, was his

neighbor of the preceding night, the fat landed-proprietor. The jovial

gentleman who, in spite of a wide bandage around his left foot, was in

excellent spirits and from time to time broke the deep silence of the

forest with his roars of laughter, now turned on his couch, recognized

the pedestrian and calling him by name, nodded kindly and beckoned him

to approach. The bearers were very glad to set down the litter while

Edwin listened to the story of the accident, which the stout gentleman

related with much humor. He had taken his position under a large beech

on the edge of an opening in the forest. The twin brothers, who even in

hunting were inseparables, had posted themselves on the opposite side.

As the wounded stag, with a sudden turn dashed through the glade, two

shots suddenly echoed from that other side; the brothers, who in their

zeal for the chase had failed to remember the position of their fellow

huntsman, hit him instead of the stag. Whether he owed the bullet in

his leg to Matthaeus or Thaddaeus would remain undecided till the day of

judgment. As faithful twins, they had both taken deeply to heart the

Christian blood that had been spilled, and he was now vainly

endeavoring to console them for an accident which was really not worth

mentioning. "The only person who's a gainer by the affair is yourself,

Herr Doctor," he concluded with a pleasant laugh. "You'll be shown to

another room in the castle, where you'll be no farther molested by my

nightly snores, for the physician-in-ordinary will need to watch lest

fever should set in, and will meantime take up his quarters in your

room. But such a tough old skin as mine is not so sensitive, that one

need make any special fuss about a little hole in the leg. If it should

grow worse, I'll call you to my assistance, honored sir. You deal, I

hear, in philosophy; that must be good medicine for a man when he's

obliged to lie still, and is fairly beside himself for weariness two

weeks before the rye harvest. Ha! ha! ha! And tally-ho!"

He shook Edwin cordially by the hand, and the procession again moved

on.

The little doctor now allowed the litter and the melancholy couple that

brought up the rear to preceed him, and pausing watched the procession

for a time; then with a cunning twinkle in his eyes dismounted. "I'll

overtake them," he said joining Edwin, and allowing his docile animal

to crop the fresh grasses along the edge of the path. "I'm very glad to

have met you here, Herr Doctor; I've something to communicate which

it's unnecessary for other ears to hear, and here we're quite alone. I

see by the direction you were taking, that you're not in a hurry. If it

suits your pleasure, we'll stroll comfortably along the road; I'll not

detain you long from pursuing your fancy for untrodden paths."

"As you please," replied Edwin dryly, making no attempt to conceal how

little he desired the companionship forced upon him.

But the little doctor pretended not to notice his reluctance. He was

silent for a time and seemed to be considering how most skillfully to

begin his disclosures.

"Honored Herr Doctor," he said at last, "or perhaps in memory of your

father, I may be permitted to say my dear friend; pardon me if I speak

to you of a perhaps extremely uninteresting person--my own

insignificant self. You should know--and in spite of our recent

acquaintance, have doubtless already noticed--that the foundation of my

character is frankness and honesty. Clever men soon learn that it's not

worth their while to play a part; _le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle_.

But unfortunately in the universal masquerade people perform together,

it's difficult for the very persons who go unmasked to make others

believe that they show their own countenances. 'Take off your nose,

Herr Doctor!'--'But, Madame, I assure you it grows on my face'--'Who

will believe that? You're much too cunning a fox, when your profession

compels you to thrust your nose into everything, to use your own for

the purpose.' This is what we're told, my honored friend, and no matter

how much it nettles the real nose to be taken for _papier mache_,

nobody pities it. People compassionate only the simple, and God knows

they don't need it for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

He sighed and took from a small gold box, which looked as if it might

be a present from the late countess, a pinch of snuff, as if he wanted

to console his nose for its sad destiny of being misunderstood.

"You now perceive," he continued, as Edwin obstinately remained silent,

"that nothing can be more offensive to a man whose principal maxim is

frankness and honesty, than to have those whose opinions he values

believe him an intriguer. They thereby imply either that they don't

think it worth while to understand his character, or consider him too

pitiful a wight to venture to show himself as God created him. This

mortification, I must confess, is not a new experience to me, but old

as I am I can't yet summon up sufficient philosophy to endure it with

composure. So long as my patroness, the count's mother, lived, I was

now and then compelled to submit to humiliations, and forced to see

that I was considered an insignificant though useful man, a harmless

domestic animal, fed at the general crib. Since the young countess came

into the house--you, my friend, as I know, have long been attached to

her, of course in a very beautiful, intellectual relation, far beyond

all suspicion. But for that very reason, I think you'll be just the

person to do me a real service with the noble lady, whom no one can

more sincerely respect than I."

Edwin looked keenly at the little man. He really could not decide,

whether his quiet respectful demeanor was a mask or the outward

expression of his "frankness and honesty." "I'm curious to learn in

what this service can consist," said he.

"It's a very simple matter, my dear fellow, merely to aid the countess

in forming a somewhat better opinion of her most obedient servant;

nothing exaggerated, only mere fairness and justice. The countess, as

you've perceived, treats me with an aversion which, in the presence of

a third person, is concealed behind the veil of sarcastic courtesy. If

she meets me alone, even under the most favorable circumstances, I'm an

object on which to vent her displeasure, or I see her charming little

foot make a movement as if it longed to crush some worm or reptile, and

only refrained in order that the sole of the dainty shoe might not be

soiled. You'll admit, that for a man of my years this is not exactly

pleasant."

"But have you understood her aright? Why should she feel such a

passionate dislike to--"

"To a harmless domestic animal? Ha! ha! Because even the most innocent

creatures are made responsible for--hm! You understand me--I won't say

too much; but that the flower of mutual happiness, _felicitas

pratensis_, does not flourish on the soil of this marriage, but is

robbed of air and light by all sorts of weeds, can scarcely--as I've

seen you engaged in the most confidential conversation with Her

Excellency--have escaped your notice."

A deep flush crimsoned Edwin's face, and he was on the point of sending

the insolent spy about his business with a sharp answer, when the

thought of how unwise it would be to give the wily diplomat a direct

refusal, restrained him. "Perhaps you're mistaken in regard to the

degree of confidence the countess bestows upon me," he answered dryly.

"Well, well, let that pass," laughed the little doctor, pausing a

moment beside his horse, which was quietly grazing. "I'll do no

violence to your discretion, heaven forbid! But I--you may think what

you please of it--must unbosom myself entirely, that my old friend's

son may see my hands are clean. I know why the countess hates me; she

has not left me in doubt. You see, my worthy friend, ever since the

child was born--you understand me--since that time the marriage has

been practically the same as cancelled. Why so? Perhaps you know more

about it than I. And between ourselves, what concern is it of mine? I

didn't make the match; if it doesn't turn out happily, why should I

concern myself about it? But it's not to be expected that my former

pupil and present lord and master, the count, would take the matter so

phlegmatically. He asked me to discover the reason of his wife's sudden

dislike, which increased till she retired into convent-like seclusion.

He asked _me_, why I had never even had the honor of feeling my

beautiful mistress' pulse; at the utmost she might consult me if one of

her waiting maids had a sore finger; for she seemed to have formed an

unfavorable opinion of me at our first meeting. So nothing could be

done by me. Besides, I was convinced that no physical cause lay at the

bottom of her strange antipathy to her husband. What could it be?

You've seen him. He may not be quite so irresistible as he considers

himself; but as she didn't always dislike him--in short, the matter

seemed to belong to some other province than medicine. But we advanced

no farther than this. I counseled patience. But at thirty years of age,

when a man is madly in love, and moreover accustomed to have his orders

obeyed on his own domain, from his mother down to the youngest

groom--you understand that patience could not last long. There were

scenes, touching and brutal; for several months, every day brought

different weather, as sunshine or storm was tried to dispel the

unapproachable virtue in which this singular being enwrapped herself.

At last--this I have partly from the count himself, partly from the

maid, a person who would allow herself to be hacked into kindling wood

for her mistress--he seized upon a perfectly desperate expedient, from

which any sensible person who had any knowledge of this lady's

character would have dissuaded him; he attempted to give her, in a cup

of tea, a sort of love potion, whose principal ingredient was morphine,

in order--you understand--that old heathen Morpheus, has already

performed a great many just such services--but this time it seems he

conducted the matter awkwardly--and in short the plan failed and

everything was spoiled."

"Horrible!" exclaimed Edwin. "This--this is certainly--"

"Had you no suspicion of it?"

"What woman would relate such an affair, even to a mother or sister? My

God! what a man."

"Hm!" said the little doctor, looking him sharply in the face, "they're

human, and human actions are after their style. However, I think you

judge the count too harshly. You, as a platonic admirer, and the

countess' friend and adviser, can probably not imagine how a man feels,

who calls such a treasure his own, and yet knows it to be secluded in a

tower with seven gates, to which he has not the key. If, armed with a

rude club, he tries to burst the bolts--but we won't argue about it.

It's certain that, when he once suggested the idea, I firmly advised

him not to adopt it, merely on account of its doubtfulness and the

small probability of success. But you see, my friend, that's just what

she will not believe, though the count himself bore witness in my

behalf. She says such a disgraceful idea could never have originated in

the brain of a gentleman, with some sense of honor, who did not wish to

degrade his own wife to the level of a common wench. The plan and its

execution must have been suggested by some officious subordinate fiend,

and this shameful, and, with all his diabolical cunning, very stupid

devil, could be no one else than poor Doctor Basler, who in his

over-wisdom and in obedience to his master's commands, was quite

capable of playing a trick as simple as it was disgraceful."

He sighed, and as if in a fit of moral indignation, struck at the

blackberry bushes that grew on the edge of the forest. Suddenly he

paused, drew the bridle tight so that his horse was checked and stood

still, and said in his frankest tone: "There now, I've unburdened my

heart. The rest will follow as a matter of course. I'm an old man, and

it's not a consoling prospect, that on the next equally innocent

occasion, the noble lady's aversion will develop into open hatred and

revenge and she may insist upon sending me out of the house. I've

become accustomed to living here and should cut a poor figure out

in the world. For although I can't be driven from the door like a

dog--certain old obligations will not permit that--the gods know how I

should fare. And this lady, strange as it sounds, still has unlimited

power over my former pupil. I believe, if she made it the price of

reconciliation, that I should be drowned in a cask of Burgundy, I

should hardly escape with my life, in spite of the fact that we live in

the nineteenth century. So it would be kind and friendly in you, my

dear sir, if you would reason the countess out of this insane prejudice

against me. Good Heavens, I don't ask much; I've seen my best days; but

in return for the frankness and honesty with which I've always treated

her, to be taken for a venal scoundrel, a miserable wretch capable of

being hired for every secret deed of villainy, like a foreign bravo,

you must confess, is rather too much, and may well make the blood

seethe in the veins of an honorable man."

The last words were spoken from the saddle into which he had again

mounted. He seemed to take Edwin's silence for the assent which, in

such cases, is a matter of course among "men of honor." "I rely upon

you entirely," he cried, putting spurs to his little horse, "and am of

course ready to perform any service in return. Who knows whether the

harmless domestic animal, who signs himself Doctor Basler, may not yet

be useful; _homo sum, nihil humani_--that's always the refrain."

He waved his hat with a familiar twinkle in his eyes, spurred on his

horse, and trotted rapidly after the procession, which was already

considerably in advance.

Edwin was glad that they had parted so quickly. He could not have much

longer refrained from repaying his new friend's "frankness and honesty"

in the same coin, informing him that he felt entirely unable to play

the expected _role_ of mediator. His heart burned, his tongue was

bitter with loathing and suppressed indignation. He now clearly

perceived that there was no longer anything to hope for, the breech

could not be healed. But then what remained for _him_ to do, what had

he to accomplish here? And yet--how could he tear himself away, leave

her to herself, after he had learned how entirely she was right in

believing her life by this man's side a lost existence?

He again plunged into the forest and wandered about a long time through

the loneliest portions of the woods, a slave to the greatest mental

torture he had ever experienced, until at last he could think no

longer, because of exhaustion and over excitement. Toward noon he found

himself near a handsome farm-house, which stood in a secluded spot

beside a foundry. Here he obtained some food and asked for a quiet spot

to rest. He was shown into a large barn, where he threw himself down on

the freshly threshed straw. Ere long nature asserted its right to a

recompense for the previous wakeful night. He fell asleep, and the sun

had already sunk behind the hills, when the farm laborers returning

from their work roused the wearied man from his dreamless slumber.

CHAPTER VIII.

Edwin's first thought was that his long nap had fortunately debarred

him from dining at the castle with the aristocratic visitors. He hoped

also to evade them in the evening, and was therefore unpleasantly

surprised when he learned that all his wanderings had only led him

around the castle in a circle, and that he merely needed to cross a

hill to find himself at the gate in the rear of the park. He submitted

to his fate, allowed a day laborer's barefooted child to show him the

way, and reached the entrance just in time to see the last rays of

sunset reflected from the copper roof of the little corner tower.

He tried to slip unobserved into his room by the staircase that led

from the courtyard into the wing, but a footman, who seemed to have

been waiting for him, reminded him of the accident which had befallen

his neighbor in the adjoining apartment, and apologized for having

removed his luggage during his absence to a room in the upper story of

the main building--a beautiful front room, which Her Excellency the

countess said would undoubtedly please the Herr Doctor. But Edwin was

perfectly indifferent as to where he was lodged, when, on entering his

apartment he approached the high bay-window and saw outspread before

him in the calm twilight, the peaceful forest, the broad fields, and

tender hued sky arching over them, he felt for the first time that day,

lighthearted and at ease, and the heavy atmosphere of anxious thought

melted away. The servant lighted the candles on the pier table, asked

if he had any orders to give and then left the room with the remark

that dinner would be served in half an hour. Their Highnesses had

wished to wait till the Herr Count returned from hunting.

Edwin nodded absently. He was still undecided as to what he ought to

do. Instead of the oppressive fear of his own weakness which had driven

him all day through the forest, an eager desire had arisen to see

Toinette again, to hear the voice that made the inmost chords of his

being tremble, and to feel her glance once more rest upon him. It

seemed to him as if he should now be strong enough to play with the

fire, but the presence of strangers, of whom he must take cognizance,

annoyed him.

On the dainty table with gilded rococo feet, he had found his traveling

satchel, and mechanically began to unpack the contents. His portfolio

fell into his hand. He remembered the letter he had written to Leah

twenty-four hours before, and in what an unsuspecting mood! Then he

considered whether it would not be well to inform her immediately of

the events that had occurred, that the hardest part of the story might

have been told when he saw her again. He felt that he possessed at

least sufficient courage to attempt it, and had already taken out his

writing materials, when some one knocked at the door and Count Gaston,

attired in a very elegant black dress suit, entered with his usual

cordial impetuosity.

"Writing, Doctor?" he exclaimed laughing. "What? great thoughts came

to you in the forest to-day, that must be put on paper at once? You men

of science are enviable mortals. One of us, in order to methodically

exercise his vocation of enjoying life, requires such a complicated

apparatus; carriages for conveying kitchen utensils, baskets of wine, a

piano, Havana cigars, fair women, and various other necessaries. You,

on the contrary, wander through a wilderness, in which nothing grows

except beech acorns, oaks, and fir cones, and return home, fully

satisfied 'with your load of immortal thoughts,' as Lenau says. I

deeply regret that I must disturb you in this intellectual revelry, to

take you away to much more material enjoyment. Dinner will be served in

fifteen minutes, the beautiful princess is very anxious to make your

acquaintance, and if you want to dress--"

"I am already attired in the dress of a philosopher," interrupted Edwin

smiling, "who as you say must manage to do without complicated

apparatus; _omnia sua secum portans_. If the beautiful princess will be

satisfied--"

"Of course, my dear fellow. The point in question is only whether it may

not be a little embarrassing for _you_. To be sure, everybody wears the

uniform of his profession, and besides in traveling--for the rest, my

whole wardrobe and valet are at your disposal, in case you prefer--"

"Thank you, my dear count. You really remind me just at the right time,

of the duty which, on occasions of ceremony we owe the house whose

hospitality we enjoy. A queer fellow and cynic is in his proper place

in his tun, but the contrast between a vagrant's dress and these

magnificent apartments would make even Father Diogenes, if he possessed

any sense of harmony--"

"Why, my honored friend, you entirely misunderstand me. I'd not the

most distant intention--no, you must--you can in no case--"

"Yet allow me, my dear count, to pursue what I think the most sensible

course, especially as I've not the slightest appetite, for I took my

dinner at a farm house. Besides, if these noble guests intend to remain

so short a time, the presence of a total stranger--"

"You'll expose me to the anger of my adored cousin!" cried Gaston with

comical pathos. "Do me the favor not to be proud or obstinate. You must

know our party has already dwindled considerably. The twin murderers,

Thaddaeus and Matthaeus, have locked themselves up and are atoning for

their attempt on our fat neighbor's life, with Rhine wine and truffle

pates. Oginsky, on hearing that Prince Bataroff was to make one of our

party, was suddenly seized with such a violent headache that he went to

bed at once. Between ourselves, he probably fears that this Russian

knows his antecedents better than my dear cousin, whose eyes I hope may

be opened by this sudden headache. Therefore no one is left to pay

court to the charming princess, except the chevalier, who is usually as

silent in the society of ladies belonging to the great world as he's

talkative in the presence of the _demi monde_, and I, who with the best

intentions, whenever the object of my hopeless love is present, have no

other goddess beside her. Take into consideration the singular mood of

the master of the house, and that the young prince is no brilliant

talker, and you'll see the party will be a very dull one, and all the

blame will fall on my unfortunate self. Dear Doctor, be noble, be

sublime, come down with me just as you are. Otherwise I'll conjure up

all the powers of heaven and hell, and induce the mistress of the

castle to come in person to coax you away from your inkstand. Can that

alone satisfy your pride, or will you say even to this divine vision:

'Be kind enough not to stand in my light, Countess.'"

Edwin could not help laughing.

"You laugh!" exclaimed the gay young fellow. "That is, you'll yield.

That's the secret of all victories over the obdurate of both sexes;

it's only necessary to make them laugh. Oh! my proud, grave cousin! If

the brightest fire of my wit had ever allured anything more than a

gracious smile to her lips! But now come down to where you're eagerly

awaited. Only take care that you're not converted by the blue eyes of

the innocent high-born missionary. There's more joy in heaven over one

philosopher that repenteth, than over ninety and nine frivolous

children of the world of my stamp."

Still talking in the same strain, he seized Edwin by the arm, scarcely

gave him time to wash his hands, and then dragged him along the

brilliantly lighted corridors and down the broad carpeted steps of the

marble staircase.

When they entered the little _salon_ adjoining the dining hall, the

master of the house hastened toward them, greeted Edwin with his

stereotyped cordiality, and apologized for not having been able to see

his guest all day. The hunting party, from which he had unfortunately

missed him at the rendezvous, and his duties toward his new visitors,

had occupied all his time. Edwin bowed absently. His eyes were

wandering toward the new faces which he saw by the flickering light of

the wax candles. The tall, broad shouldered gentleman with the bald

head and long blond beard, who had been talking to the chevalier by the

window, and now cast a cold glance from his narrow grey eyes at the new

comer, was undoubtedly the Russian prince. On the blue silk sofa,

beside the countess, who had exchanged her velvet riding habit for a

heavy black satin dress, sat a little, dainty, fair-haired creature in

a most tasteful fanciful toilette, who, seen from behind, looked like a

half grown girl. When, as the count introduced Edwin to her, she turned

and raised a pair of laughing blue eyes to his, he could easily

understand that this fairy-like vision must exercise no little power in

converting unbelievers. Now, to be sure, beside the far nobler beauty

of the mistress of the house, the danger even to such a butterfly heart

as that of the young count, was not irresistible. Only her own husband,

a handsome young man with a delicate, thoughtful face, whose family

resemblance to the countess could not escape notice, seemed to be

perpetually under the spell of those childish blue eyes. At least his

own constantly turned toward them, and in the midst of his conversation

with others, he often paused to address some trivial question to his

wife. He held out his hand to Edwin in the most cordial manner, saying

that he had already heard a great deal about him and rejoiced in the

fortunate accident, which had at last procured him the pleasure of his

acquaintance. Toinette nodded to him with a strange smile, whose

meaning a third person would scarcely have guessed, but the young

princess received him with special graciousness, instantly proffered

him the empty seat beside her, and with all the coquetry of a spoiled

child made no concealment of the fact that she intended to fascinate

him as speedily as possible.

"You must stay with me a little while, Herr Doctor," she said stroking

the smooth head of one of the slender, tawny hounds, with her delicate

white hand, on which sparkled several beautiful rings. "Do you know

that I've scarcely ever, in all my life, been so curious about a new

acquaintance? You're the first live philosopher I ever saw. I've always

wanted--and perhaps dreaded a little--to know one, and now--"

"Now you see a very commonplace mortal, without cloven feet, even

without gloves, in which he could conceal his satanic claws, and who

only differs from other people in venturing, under the pressure of

necessity, to enter this noble society in the modest garb of a traveler

on a pedestrian tour."

"Whether you seem so commonplace to me," replied the beautiful blonde,

shaking back her curls and casting a laughing glance at her husband,

"is a doubtful question, which we'll not discuss here. Enough, you have

completely undeceived me."

"And what idea had you formed of a philosopher, Princess?"

"I had always imagined an elderly, yellow, thin man, with piercing

black eyes and scornfully compressed lips--something after the style of

Voltaire--a man in whose presence a cold shudder runs through one's

frame, and who rubs his hands with a gloomy laugh, partly from

malicious pleasure that he has deprived so many good, simple people of

the salvation of their souls, and partly because he himself is

freezing."

"I can assure you, Your Highness, that I find both the temperature of

this drawing room and the world outside perfectly comfortable."

"That's just what I perceived at once, and what greatly surprised me.

Perhaps, however, you're only a good actor, or don't you really

shiver?"

"So far as I'm aware," replied Edwin smiling, "philosophers have just

as warm red blood as other mammiferous animals. What made you suppose,

Madame, that we belonged to the amphibious?

"Your relationship to the serpent, whose evil business you continue. Or

do you do something besides persuading the poor children of God, that

they may eat of the tree of knowledge, although you know the punishment

that will follow--the loss of Paradise."

"And are you so certain, that our first parents felt warmer and happier

and more comfortable in the perpetual sunlight, than when they ate

their bread in the sweat of their brow? However this question is

difficult to decide and fortunately no longer comes under

consideration. We're not in Eden now, we must seek some compensation

for the sunny ignorance we've lost, and so far as my experience goes,

Your Highness, among the various means of keeping warm, the possession

of a genuine, honest philosophy is not the worst."

"What? You assert that reason can warm? A wisdom in which the heart has

no share--"

"And who told you that we conduct our business in such a divided

manner? The head having nothing to do with the affairs of the heart,

and the heart never venturing to suggest anything to the head? But, to

be sure, I forgot that Your Highness is engaged in deep theological

studies. For two thousand years we've been exposed to calumnies from

that quarter, which is not always easy to accept patiently, at least

from a beautiful mouth. However, didn't the Christian martyrs quietly

accept taunts and misrepresentation, without having the warmth of their

blood called in question?"

"You wrong me, Herr Doctor," she answered; casting down her eyes with a

bewitching blush; "I'm a simple, unlearned woman, who's only glad that,

'when clever men talk she can understand what they mean.' Ask my dear

friend, the countess. She'll bear witness that I am very unskillful in

making converts. One who thinks only with the heart, must at least have

so full a heart, that it will overflow of its own accord, as a vessel

of mercy, which cannot contain its wealth and must impart a portion to

other thirsty souls. But I'm more and more convinced that words are no

keys to heaven, that true theology doesn't consist in arguments about

dogmas. Even the profound revelations of the mystic--"

"Have you ventured into these abysses?" exclaimed Edwin.

"With a competent guide," smiled the beautiful woman, gracefully waving

her fan to and fro, "with a carefully tested safety lamp as a

protection--why not? It is so interesting, the secret terror which

seizes us when we see in the dim light of these deep ravines and caves,

as in an artificial mine, strange stalactites and the glimmer of metal

and have a suspicion of the treasures that may yet be concealed. One

returns to the bright daylight so willingly. You must not think me a

hypocrite. On the contrary, since I've gazed into the depths, I look at

all worldly pleasures with more grateful eyes as a gift of our Creator,

and rejoice that I can still be so childish, much more childish and

even more thoughtless than my dear friend here, who is ten weeks

younger than I, and has confessed that she neither prays nor holds any

intercourse with her God. Isn't it true, Toinette, am I unfit to be a

Moravian?"

"Who knows, dear Alexine?" replied Toinette, who during all this time

seemed to have only half listened to Gaston's eager whispers. "By way

of a change, in order to experience this emotion also, and if the right

spiritual guide should appear with a _differently_ constructed safety

lamp--"

"Horrible!" exclaimed the little blonde beauty, giving her neighbor a

light tap with her fan. "Don't believe a word of it, Herr Doctor. The

countess only slanders me so maliciously, because she has taken a

perfectly causeless prejudice against the vicar who accompanies me, and

who certainly has had a great deal to do with the present direction of

my mind. You'll make his acquaintance, and shall then decide whether he

deserves this aversion."

"To be made umpire on such a critical subject, whereby I must in any

case forfeit the favor of one of two noble ladies--"

"Is a martyrdom in the service of truth, which a philosopher cannot

escape. The vicar has a few letters to write; he is, even in worldly

things, my--our trusted counsellor. But I hope, in the course of the

evening--"

At this moment the folding doors of the dining hall were thrown open,

the butler in full gala dress appeared on the threshold with a silent

bow, the master of the house offered his arm to the princess, the

prince to his sister, and the remainder of the party followed the two

couples without any formality.

Edwin was seated at table next to the chevalier, who eat and drank with

the appetite of a ship-wrecked mariner, and at intervals carried on a

monosyllabic conversation in French with the young count, taking not

the slightest notice of his other neighbor. The place on Edwin's left

was apparently reserved for the chaplain of the princely household. Our

friend was therefore entirely alone and heartily glad to be so. He saw

behind the large silver epergne, filled with a superb bouquet of red

and yellow roses, Toinette's beautiful face, mysterious dark eyes, and

snowy neck, over which clustered her soft brown curls; her stately, yet

pliant figure leaned quietly back in her chair, as she allowed dish

after dish to pass untouched. Beside her sat the fair-haired princess,

who talked continually in her sprightly fashion, laughed, ate and drank

in the most coquettish manner, and more and more resembled a waiting

maid who has put on fine clothes and is skillfully imitating the

manners of a great lady.

She was eagerly endeavoring to persuade the count and countess, that

they could do nothing wiser than to make up their minds to accompany

her to Italy, and described so drolly the pleasures of a journey with

hundreds of adventures, attacks by _banditti_, miserable inns in which

there would be no accommodations for so large a company, and finally a

solemn audience with the Holy Father, in which she would assert that

among Protestants, kissing the slipper[9] was the husband's business,

that even Toinette joined in the laugh she excited, though she remained

firm in her refusal. Traveling did not agree with her nerves, she said

quietly. Her husband had eagerly agreed with the princess and spoken

more enthusiastically than was his habit, of former journeys through

the countries of the South. When he heard his wife decline so

positively a deep shadow darkened his brow; he turned suddenly pale,

twisted his moustache, and became perfectly silent.

"You ought not to give your final answer yet, Countess," said the

Russian guest, as he passed the fat fingers of his well kept hand

through his long beard. A certain nervous twitching of the brow was

perceptible as he spoke, while his little eyes completely disappeared

in the broad face, and the huge bald head bore an unpleasant

resemblance to a skull. "Princess Sascha has shown you the romantic

side of the plan. Now look at it also from the classical, artistic

point. It would be a ridiculous affectation for me not to confess with

frankness that you couldn't have a better cicerone in the museums and

churches, villas and ruins, than my humble self, or, as the Italians

say, _il povero Signor me_. This is my sixth visit to Italy. To be

sure, I can't show you many things that delighted me on my first five

journeys, for the simple reason that I've taken them to my own home.

_Que voulez-vous?_ We're considered Northern barbarians, always in

search of booty. A man must not be better than his reputation. But some

things still remain which are worth seeing, and as for your nerves,

Countess--perhaps there's but one effectual remedy for sufferings such

as yours: the magnetic fluid of art. I offer myself as your artistic

physician-in ordinary, and will guarantee a cure."

"And who tells you. Prince Bataroff, that I've not already tried this

remedy in Germany, and without success?"

"In Germany? Art in Germany? Unless you're speaking of music, which is

one domain of the German nature, or gymnastics--"

"I always supposed the Dresden gallery, which we studied for a

fortnight on our wedding tour, possessed some works of art for which

Italy might envy us, and the museums of Berlin, Vienna, Munich--"

"Don't mention those wretched forcing houses, in which I always feel

suffocated by the artificial heat with which, with scientific zeal, the

worthy Germans endeavor to correct their natural want of artistic

perception! My nerves, thank God, are as strong as I wish yours were,

but I really believe they would fail till I should be attacked by

hysteria, if I were compelled to spend two hours a day for a fortnight

in one of your national museums. Once, when on the cost of Finland, I

entered a hut--it was during one of those storms when the meanest roof

is welcome--and found the fisherman's family gathered round a box they

had just saved from a stranded ship. It contained some great lady's

jewels and dresses, which had suffered little damage, and now, seen

in the hands and by the light of the dim oil lamp of these worthy

half-idiots, were about as much out of place as are the Titians,

Rubens, Correggios, and Raphaels in your dear German cities, watched by

pedants, gaped at by snobs, and only separated by a thin roof from the

grey dull sky, which they suit as well as the Brussels laces in that

stranded chest suited the smoky atmosphere of a Finnish fisherman's

hut."

"You're mounted on your hobby again," said Toinette's brother, with a

subtle smile. "And you'll right; he who wishes to understand artists,

must go to the land of artists. But you forget one thing; if art is not

indigenous in our colder zone--ought we to abandon the hope that by

long and affectionate care it will at last become acclimated? Who knows

what we lack? That we do not, in our need, tamely submit with folded

arms, is no reproach to us, and when I look at German artists--"

"German artists? I implore you, my dear Prince, in the names of the

great masters, not to give these wretched bunglers so proud a name! But

no, I wrong them. They're no bunglers, but rather very skillful

mechanics or artisans, who have learned all the rules of their trade,

and feel a pride in their guild. German artists! I know them. There was

one, the most ridiculous bungler in the world, a certain Koenig, whom

his colleagues called the zaunkoenig, because he exhibited old hedges or

fences adorned with a few weeds, as landscapes. I made a wager with a

connoisseur and enthusiast, our worthy Baron L., that this poor devil,

who, in the wrath of God, was condemned to daub in colors, would

joyfully renounce 'art,' if any one would buy his poor talent, I mean

give him enough to live upon, on condition that he would no longer

paint."

"And did you win?"

"No, I lost, my dear fellow, and it served me right; I ought to have

known these German dreamers and idealists better. Just think, Countess,

the man discovered that an experiment was being tried upon him, his

'artist' pride awoke, and he acted as if life would not be worth the

having if he could not daily daub at his wooden landscapes; he wrote me

an impertinent note, throwing my favors at my feet--the title of court

painter, salary, future support, and even the whole sum he had already

received. I lost my bet, but Germany regained an artist, and with him

one fool the more."

Gaston laughed loudly and began to interpret the story to the

chevalier, who had not understood a word. The beautiful princess, who

had joined in the laugh, was just turning to Toinette to continue the

conversation about the journey to Italy, when Edwin's voice interrupted

her.

"I must beg you, Prince," he said with quiet emphasis, "to speak

somewhat more respectfully of the artist whom you choose to call a

fool. I have the happiness of being a son-in-law of that worthy

gentleman, and am therefore in a position to be able to form a more

correct opinion of his character and the motives of his conduct. It was

not wounded vanity that induced him to give up the pension which

condemned him to idleness. No one can have a more modest opinion of

him, perceive his deficiencies more clearly, than he himself. But as

he's in nobody's way when he paints his unassuming little pictures, he

has probably no reason to be ashamed of this innocent passion, which is

certainly as worthy of honor as many a so-called 'noble passion,' and

it was only a foolish mistake on the good man's part that your offer

was taken seriously. Yet why should not a great man amuse himself by

taking an affectionate interest in a little man? My dear father-in-law

thinks far too well of humankind to suspect that he was the object of a

contemptuous jest, made the subject of an experiment, such as Your

Highness might perhaps venture to try with your serfs. That he did not

decline this honor too courteously, is scarcely reprehensible in a man,

who is no fool. I, myself, was the person, who as soon as I entered

into the relation of a son, opened the old man's eyes and thereby

contributed to make you lose your bet."

A death-like silence followed these words, and for several seconds

nothing was heard but the chevalier's low whisper to Gaston: "_Qu'est

ce qu'il a dit, que le prince fronce si furieusement les sourcils?_"

But he received no answer.

While Edwin, with his eyes fixed steadily upon the prince, was awaiting

his reply, a new guest had entered the hall with noiseless steps and

had reached the empty chair beside Edwin. The latter now turned toward

him, and suddenly started up as if a thunder bolt had fallen.

Lorinser stood before him.

Not a feature of his face had altered since Edwin had seen him last,

only the carriage of the head had become a little bolder, and the

glance, which still as of old sought the ground or scanned the ceiling

in preference, now sometimes rested upon the person who confronted him.

Such was the case at this moment, when he would have had good reason to

cast down his eyes. He regarded his neighbor with a perfectly calm,

courteous smile, as if inviting him to keep his seat and not trouble

himself to make room for him. He was attired in faultless evening

dress, and only his noiseless entrance recalled the poor candidat, who

years ago had glided along such manifold crooked paths.

None of the guests, not even the mistress of the house, who during the

last scene had not turned her eyes from the speaker, noticed anything

unusual in Edwin's hasty movement.

"Allow me to introduce the gentlemen to each other," said the princess,

glad of an interruption to the embarrassing scene; "Herr Vicar

Lorenzen--"

"No introduction is necessary, Princess," interrupted Edwin with a

trembling voice. "This gentleman, although he seems about to deny it,

is only too well known to me; so well known in fact, that I'll give up

my place in this circle to him, without farther ceremony, and take

leave of the company for to-day."

"But Doctor!" cried Gaston, who had no idea of the cause of this

strange scene, "the philosophy which, without striking a single blow,

leaves the field to theology--"

"If my innocent remarks about German artists in general and your

father-in-law in particular, which were not intended to give offence,

are driving you away, I'm perfectly ready to make the _amende

honorable_," said Prince Bataroff, as he quietly stroked his beard and

glanced at the countess. "You have a tongue like a sword, Herr Doctor,

and I should think, after you've so bravely parried my assault, we

might conclude an honorable peace."

"I thank you for your friendly words, Prince," replied Edwin, "and

accept the peace unreservedly. If, nevertheless, I leave the table, it

is because it goes against my nature to sit beside a person whom I

believe--about whom I have my own opinion. Pray do not take this little

weakness amiss. It will only serve to show the princess how unfounded

was her supposition that a man must always possess cool blood to be a

philosopher." He cast a glance of icy scorn at Lorinser, and bowed to

the remainder of the party, carefully avoiding the countess' eyes.

"_C'est drole!_" said Bataroff, and he whispered something in the ear

of the princess. She did not seem to hear it. Her laughing face had

suddenly grown rigid with terror and was suffused with a crimson flush.

The master of the house rose.

"Herr Doctor," said he in an irritated tone.

"Will the Herr Count permit _me_ to ask this gentleman to explain why

he insults a peaceful guest of this noble house?" interrupted Lorinser

without the slightest token of agitation; "unless a sudden attack of

madness--"

"Unfortunately, I have still perfect control of my senses," replied

Edwin cuttingly, "and no one can more deeply regret that in return for

the hospitality which I have enjoyed in this house, I am placed in a

situation which compels me to cause such an unpleasant scene. But no

obligations of courtesy or etiquette can induce me to sit quietly

beside a person, whom I have good reasons for thinking anything but a

man of honor. Again I beg the master of the house and his noble guests

to pardon me; but there are instincts of the blood stronger than any

training. One who has a natural aversion to a toad or a snake must

leave the spot that such a reptile makes unendurable; in doing this,

however, I have no desire to offend any one who rejoices in stronger

nerves. Look me in the face, Herr--Vicar. Your brazen front was well

known to me in the days, when as Candidat Lorinser--"

"You wish to reproach me for having restored my name to the original

form used in my family before they left Denmark--"

"I don't grudge you any name and title you wish to adopt. If you could

efface the rest of your past as quickly--"

"Judge not, that ye be not judged," interrupted Lorinser, with

immovable calmness and unction. With the exception of a slight

quivering of the nostrils, not a feature of the pale but singularly

imposing countenance betrayed any special agitation.

"I appeal," he continued, "to my honored mistress the princess--that I

have never pretended to be a sinless man; the earth has never contained

but one such, and his disciples should remember that they are all

sinners and lack the renown which before God--"

"This is the introduction to a sermon, Herr Vicar," said Edwin; "I will

not interrupt and prevent you from edifying your congregation. But as I

am not a member I shall have the honor of taking leave of the company,

and bidding them all good night."

He bowed to the countess and left the hall, before any of the party

recovered from their surprise.

CHAPTER IX.

Edwin was scarcely in his room, to which a footman with a very

bewildered expression, had lighted him, when his excitement passed away

and bitter indignation and wrath took possession of him. He experienced

the gnawing discomfort which seizes upon everyone, when, while he does

not regret having yielded to a noble impulse, he must curse the

circumstances which forced him to disturb a social circle with his

righteous anger. He was a guest and had quarrelled with another guest

of the house, a house governed by the rules of society, which as far as

possible stifle all natural sounds, smother to a malicious whisper the

cry of indignation, and give vent to an implacable hatred, not in the

presence of ladies, but only in some lonely spot before two male

witnesses. He must have appeared like a man without education or

courtesy, a moralizing pedant. True, there were no means of justifying

himself--even to the most frivolous of these children of the world--for

his inability to breathe the same air with this man. But could he use

an expedient, which would have compelled him to expose the secret, the

honor of his friend? No; he must now submit to the consequences of his

action, and no matter how much he reflected upon the affair, he could

think of no other course which he could have pursued, without lowering

himself in his own eyes. He felt that he could do exactly the same

thing again in a similar event. So in the midst of all his annoyance,

he experienced the satisfaction of having been faithful to himself, and

began to reflect more calmly what course he should now pursue.

He could remain in the castle no longer. Even if he could be sure of

not meeting Lorinser again, he thought it his duty to aid the master of

the house, in causing the strange scene in which he played a principal

part to be forgotten as quickly as possible; this could be most

effectually done by the departure of the disturber of the peace, and

moreover Edwin wished to avoid any farther discussion of the matter.

Let them scoff at him and talk behind his back as they chose, let the

enemy who remained behind reap all the advantage from having kept the

field--what did he care? The one person, whose opinion he valued, would

not misunderstand him; that he knew, that, the last glance with which

she followed his retreating figure, had told him.

But had he come to the castle to chastise a worthless scoundrel, and

might he now leave feeling that his business had been well performed?

Could he leave her who had confessed that she had no friend but him,

who in the greatest complication of her fate, grasped his hand in

despairing terror? he was helpless to aid her it was true, but she had

appealed to him with the certainty that at least she would be compelled

no longer to bear her burden unaided by human help or sympathy. If he

suddenly failed her again, would it not sunder the last tie that bound

her to life? And yet, how could he hope to afford her any real

assistance? He scarcely knew how to help himself in the violent

conflict of feelings which her presence had aroused. He sat down on the

sofa before the little gilt table and buried his face in his hands.

A discreet knock roused him from this profitless reverie. At his "who

is there?" the little physician entered, with many apologies for

disturbing him at so late an hour. The great interest he felt in his

old friend's son had brought him there; he had received through the

servants who were greatly alarmed by the unprecedented scene, a

confused report of what had occurred, and thought he would not be

charged with indiscreet curiosity, if he applied to the right quarter

at once. He now, unasked, related that after Edwin had left the hall,

Lorinser had made a full confession and thereby completely regained his

former position. An old affair with a young girl, in whom Edwin had

been likewise deeply interested, was the cause of this mortal hatred.

Disappointed love had induced the poor creature, whom in spite of

the most sincere affection he could not resolve to marry and be

faithless to higher aims, to attempt to commit suicide. Fortunately she

was saved; but all the blame for the act had been laid on his

shoulders--in, short, it was a regular romance, and he seemed to have

related it very well. At least when he closed, the beautiful princess'

eyes were full of tears, and Count Gaston cordially shook hands with

him. In the opinion of these men of the world, it was of course rather

a credit to the pious gentleman that, in spite of his theological

wisdom, he too had had his _bonnes fortunes_ and such a romantic

adventure into the bargain.

Edwin laughed fiercely.

"My dear friend," continued the little man with a crafty face, which

vainly endeavored to wear an expression of friendly sympathy, "I

understand your feelings as indeed every one does, even the vicar, who

as he has repeatedly declared, cherishes no ill will toward you

notwithstanding your violent conduct."

"Indeed? Does the worthy man forgive me? Well, that _is_ ludicrous!"

"He praised you most warmly and apologized for your extraordinary

conduct. If he had known at that time, that you cherished an unrequited

love for the unfortunate girl, who lived in the same house--"

"My worthy patron," interrupted Edwin rising, "I'm really very grateful

to you, uncommonly grateful for your friendly communications. But as my

feelings, although you assure me you understand them, are still

misapprehended, and as I have my own reasons for not expressing my

opinion of the Herr Vicar's romance with the 'frankness and honesty'

which you take for your motto, I should consider it a favor if you

would leave me to myself and return to your patient. If, however, you

should find occasion, you may assure all who have admired the narrators

talent, that not only his style, but his inventive faculty also is yet

to be equalled; in a word, that no more shameless liar ever existed

than this fox in the sheep-skin of humility. And now I'll wish you as

good a night's rest as I trust to obtain for myself."

While uttering these words, he had accompanied the bewildered little

man to the door, opened it with a trembling hand, and closed it by no

means gently behind him. He was in a tumult of excitement, the blood

throbbed wildly in his temples, another moment and it would have been

impossible for him to have suppressed his indignation. He would have

poured forth all the bitterness of which his heart was full upon the

wretched sneak whose face, with its friendly simper, put him fairly

beside himself.

As soon as he was alone, his oppressed heart found relief in a loud,

scornful laugh. Then he went to the dressing table which stood beside

the silk canopied bed and drank a glass of water. By degrees his blood

grew calm. He went to the lofty bay-window, threw it wide open, and let

the pure night air fan his hot brow. "Am I not a fool?" he said to

himself, "to allow myself to be so much excited by that which was only

natural, and to be expected? Should it vex or humiliate me to be the

loser in a contest with such a master of hypocrisy? And ought I to

grudge the miserable knave, who has nothing better, this victory and

its costly trophies--a princess' tears and the pressure of a count's

hand? Fie upon me for allowing myself to be so overpowered with

disgust. I'm really indebted to this noble tale-bearer, for opening my

eyes to the true state of affairs. But away--away--away from here,

before the moon has disappeared behind the forest!"

He went back to the little table, opened his portfolio and commenced a

note to the count. After the disturbance of the peace of the household,

he wrote, of which he had unfortunately been the cause, he thought it

his duty to his host, as well as to the rest of the guests, to continue

no longer to be a recipient of the hospitality which had been so kindly

offered to him. He regretted that consideration for others prevented

him from giving explanations which, although his conduct might appear

an offence against etiquette, would justify it in every other respect.

As for the cause which had brought him here, he was fully convinced

that he had no power to undo what had been done and effect a

reconciliation. Perhaps, he concluded, time, which works so many

wonders, may bring about what at present the count positively refuses

to think of, and make a separation between two incompatible natures,

appear the only means of safety.

He had just sealed the note and was writing the address, when there was

another knock at his door. "Come in!" he exclaimed indignantly, for the

thought darted through his mind that the count might come to see him in

person and thereby render useless the letter, which would have spared

him any verbal explanations; then the door opened and Toinette entered.

"Is it you?" he exclaimed rushing toward her. "Do you come to me?"

She threw back the dark shawl she had wrapped around her, and he saw

that she wore a simple dress and had laid aside all her jewelry.

"I could not help coming to you," she said in her usual tone. "I wanted

to speak to you, and you--you're going away; I knew it, before seeing

the letter upon your table. You would have gone without bidding me

farewell. Would you not?"

"Perhaps it would have been the best course," he replied, clasping her

hand, which hung loosely by her side. "Tell me yourself, my dear

friend, have we ought to hope for, from any words we might exchange?

Fate does not turn for words. And yet I could hardly have made up my

mind to leave without a word. I intended to have gone to the farm house

on the other side of the forest, and from there to have sent you a

note, to say I would wait to hear from you in case you had any

commissions for me. But you have anticipated me. Are we not in danger

of interruption here?"

"What does it matter?" she replied with a gesture expressive of the

most utter indifference, as she seated herself on the sofa. "You mean,

will it not compromise me to make you a visit by night? Perhaps so. But

that's unfortunately not sufficient cause for separation. Otherwise I

should not have waited till I could visit a friend. The first person I

chanced to meet would have suited my purpose, the chevalier, or our

dear cousin Gaston, for instance, if I could break the chain so

easily." Then glancing at the letter, she added: "What did you write to

him?"

"Do you wish to read it? It's at your service."

"No; it makes no difference. You're going away--that says all--and

I--I must stay here."

He looked at her as she uttered these words in an expressionless tone,

as if only talking to herself. Her dilated eyes were fixed in a

terrified gaze, on the candles burning in the silver candlesticks as if

her life were fading and she was striving to rekindle the glimmering

spark by these tiny flames. Her face was colorless, but inexpressibly

attractive in its utter self-forgetfulness, which made the beautiful

woman seem like a helpless child that, frightened by the dread of

ghosts, files to some brilliantly lighted room and gazes straight at

the lamp, that it may see no spectral faces to right or left.

"What really brings me here," she said after a pause, "is a question I

wanted to ask you, but mind, I'm speaking to the philosopher, and not

to the friend of former days."

"Of _former_ days?"

"Let me go on. I want to ask you whether there is any justice on earth.

Or no, you need not answer. It's perfectly evident that gifts are

differently apportioned among men. That there is no justice, even in

heaven--not even according to the representations of religious

people--is also unquestionable, else what would become of the doctrine

of election? 'Many are called, but few chosen.' For why did not the

'so-called gods,' of whom your friend spoke that day of long ago, endow

all their creatures equally, if they had the power to be just?

Intentional partiality, voluntary malice--no, that would be too

fiendish. But now tell me, why must we endure degradation, neglect,

to better the condition of the children of happiness, yes, even

expulsion into bad company--such as you've found beneath this roof? Is

not self-defence in mortal peril allowable? To help ourselves I mean,

when one is wretched, disinherited, starving perhaps, and full dishes

are carried past him? Or do you think it a sin to break one of the ten

commandments under any circumstances? What? Are the gifts, powers, and

happiness of men to be different, and yet must they have but one rule

for their actions? Is the fainting beggar who plucks an apple from a

stranger's tree, as great a thief, as a man who has plenty to eat and

breaks into a treasury? Answer! Why may we not philosophize a little as

usual? You would find me a better pupil now, for I've gone through the

primary school and learned all the absurdities of this great world by

heart--yes indeed, by _heart_, and it ached enough at the task."

"Dearest friend," he replied, "if you knew how _my_ heart aches, aches

till it's ready to burst, you would ask no philosophy from me. When I

see and hear you, I have enough to do, not to give utterance to the

fiercest cry of woe that ever burst from the lips of a thinking mortal.

What could I say to you--except the most pitiful commonplaces. You

question me about the mystery of life. The clue to it, which one and

another fancies he has found, is but a new enigma; and it is equally

mysterious that there should be men who are forced to rack their brains

about this mystery until their hearts break, while others have never a

sleepless moment, but await the solution as patiently as the answer to

a charade which is to appear 'in our next number.' Meantime it is

ordered--or we must see to it ourselves--that life and its work,

thoughtless everyday work, withdraws us from our agitating search for

the solution to the riddle. Dear Toinette--"

"I know what you're going to say," she quickly interrupted. "My

idleness is the cause of all my sorrows. If I had something to do, I

should not have time to ponder four and twenty hours a day over what I

most lack. Is not that what you were about to say? To establish a

child's school or hospital, make clothes for deaf mutes, or in my

old age strive to cultivate a talent for painting or playing on the

piano--all I these would be delightful occupations! But I'm not

affectionate enough for one, or vain enough for the other. I don't love

human beings, my friend, I mean abstract human beings, mankind. And

yet, I know now that my only talent would have been love; but the love

I mean, is love for one man and that man's children, and because I

learned this too late--I must go to ruin--to ruin.

"But no," she suddenly exclaimed, and a passionate flush crimsoned her

cheeks as she pushed the table aside and rose from the sofa. "I will

not go to ruin, will not yield the right of self-defence and suffer my

claim to happiness to be wrested from me, as it is from every

disinherited soul. Words are of no avail against the decrees of fate,

didn't you say so, Edwin? You're right, we must act, if we desire to

win the respect of the 'so-called gods;' therefore I've come to you, my

friend. Do not look at me so! You know what has brought me here, even

if a wretched remnant of cowardice does not suffer me to express it. Be

merciful, spare me, and tell me that you know all and will not thrust

me from the only place where I can find happiness--your heart, Edwin!"

"Toinette!" he exclaimed--but he could say no more. She had thrown

herself into his arms and hidden her streaming eyes, her glowing lips

upon his breast.

"Calm yourself!" he ventured to murmur in her ear after a long pause,

his lips touching her hair; suddenly she raised her head, and her face

wore an expression of such blended happiness and anguish, that all his

strength failed. "This is too much!" he faltered. "Spare me! You do not

know what I have suffered!"

"I do know," she whispered amid her kisses. "I knew it in the first

hour we were together--you're still mine, as you have ever been--you're

mine, mine--as I've been your's, ever since I became a woman."

At this moment the clock in the old castle tower slowly struck twelve.

A shudder ran through the frame of the man who clasped to his heart the

woman who had been the object of his first love. It seemed as if a cold

spectral hand was passing over his heart, quenching the fierce glow

that threatened to destroy him. He released his lips from hers, and

gently pushed away the slight figure that clung to his breast. "What

have we done?" he exclaimed, retreating a step and averting his eyes.

"We have drunk when we were thirsty," said the impassioned woman,

without lowering her glance. "Oh! it was but a drop on the hot stone!

Why do you no longer look into my eyes, Edwin? Are you ashamed that you

still love me, because in the old days I was childish and cold, and

knew not what I did? The curse was still upon me, the curse of my

birth, for which I've had to atone through all these years of

suffering, to become at last another creature, a happy creature, new

born through your love, Edwin! When I first saw you, early this

morning, my heart received a blow that burst the lid of the coffin in

which it was buried; and in the forest, how your every word, your

glance, the pressure of your hand said to me: 'what are four years to a

feeling that's eternal? I'm the same man, whom once you made miserable,

but now all will be well again, since my happiness is yours.' Look into

my eyes, Edwin, and tell me, if you can, that I have deceived myself!"

She had approached him and taken his hand. He did not withdraw it, but

the glance that met hers was now so sad that she shrank back and let it

fall.

"You have seen aright, my poor friend," he said in a hollow tone. "I

_am_ the same man, whom you made miserable. Yet nevertheless you have

deceived yourself. What is now my happiness cannot be yours. Don't you

know it? Have you entirely forgotten that I no longer belong to myself?

My life is bound to another, and this other is dearer, should be dearer

to me than my own existence."

"I know it," she replied, as she approached the little table and

quietly rested both hands upon it. "But if it's true that this woman,

to whom in an outburst of pride and anger you gave your hand, really

loves you, will she be able to endure the sorrow, when she sees that

she alone stands in the way of your happiness? I, if placed in such a

situation, would rather die than assert a light which I had obtained in

an unguarded moment, and which had at last become a sin against the

claim of nature."

He gravely shook his head. "Listen to me," he said. "Sit down there, my

beloved friend, and let us honestly endeavor to find some way out of

this labyrinth. It would be easier for you to understand me, if you

knew the woman whose life is so firmly bound to mine that nothing can

separate us, not even what you call the claim of nature. She knows all.

I've concealed nothing of what I suffered through you--"

"And you will be silent _now_?"

"I should not wish to be so, even if I could. There's no one on earth,

since I lost my brother, who is so well acquainted with my every

thought, every emotion of my heart. She's really my other self, my

better self, far gentler, stronger, and more self-sacrificing than I,

and I can never think of what I owe her during these years, without

wondering at my own levity, that I do not feel oppressed by these

debts, nay that I often imagine I can repay them daily with interest.

If you knew this loving, lovely creature--"

"Spare me the embarrassment of knowing her now through your

description. I will go, I see I have too long--"