The Major had never felt his heart beat so violently, never when

stationed on some exposed outpost, never even in battle, as during the

reading; and yet it beat worse, after the conversation had taken so

threatening a turn.

He kept shaking his big head, and stretching out with his hands in the

air deprecatingly and beseechingly, as if he would say,--

"For heaven's sake, drop this talk! It's not good, 'twill only do

harm!"

Then he took another look at Sonnenkamp, shrugging up his shoulders.

"What _does_ the man mean," he thought, "by talking to us in this

style! We wouldn't put a hair in his path; what's the use of stirring

us up in this matter! Oh, Fraeulein Milch had the right of it, when she

urged him to stay at home to-day.

"How comfortable it would be to be sitting in the arm-chair, in which

Laadi is now lying! And one might have been asleep two hours ago, and

now it will be midnight before one gets home! And there's Fraeulein

Milch sitting up, and sitting up, till he comes in. It was like being

saved, when he took out his watch, and could say how late it was."

The Professorin came back at this moment, and told Roland that his

mother wished to see him. Roland went to her.

Eric accompanied his mother and the rest, as they set out for home

through the snowy night.

CHAPTER IX.

THE BIRD OF NIGHT IS SHOT.

Eric walked in silence with the ladies. The Mother spoke first,

saying,--

"I am glad that here, again, I have words of your father's to support

me. Nothing is more weakening and more to be avoided than repentance,"

he often said; "the acknowledgment that we have made a mistake must

come, quick and sharp, but then we must reconcile ourselves to

circumstances. I have deeply repented no matter how much good I may do,

that I have bound myself to this family so firmly that any drawing back

or loosening of the ties is extremely difficult. But now that it is

done, we must endeavor to make everything turn out for the best."

The Aunt, who spoke but little, added how painful it was that people

over whose lives hung some dark crime were banished, as it were, from

the kingdom of the spirit; and must meet everywhere with terrible

reminders.

They went on again for a while in silence. High above, from the

mountain crest, they heard the screech-owl, the harbinger of extreme

cold, uttering his dreadful cry; which rose and died away with a

mingled tone of lamentation and of triumph. The party stood still.

"Ah," said Eric, "what trouble Herr Sonnenkamp has taken to destroy all

the owls in the neighborhood; but he cannot do it."

They walked on once more without speaking. Everything seems a sign and

a portent to an excited mood. Hardly breathing the words aloud, the

mother said that Frau Ceres' emotion was incomprehensible. She had

thrown herself on her neck, sobbing and weeping.

"I do not know how to explain it," she continued; "there is some deep

mystery here, and it troubles me."

Eric told them of what had passed among the men, and how Roland, to his

alarm, had spoken of Parker. It was plain that Sonnenkamp wished to

erect into a moral system the existing relations of slavery.

"Nothing more natural," answered the Mother. "Whoever stands in such

relations all his life long, must make something for himself which he

calls moral principle. I cannot help thinking of your father again; he

has shown me a thousand times how people cannot bear to confess to

themselves that their life and actions are bad; they feel obliged to

prop them up with good principles. Yet, as I said, we must be quiet, we

have one good young spirit to be led to noble ends; that is our part.

Whence it sprang, or through what past life it may have come to us, is

not for us to determine. The past is our fate, the present, our duty.

There's another saying of your father's; and now good-night."

With a more composed mind, Eric returned to the villa. The owl had

flown from the mountain, and was now perched on the top of a tree in

the park, boldly sending forth its cry into the air. Eric heard it, and

Sonnenkamp heard it in the ante-room of his wife's chamber. There must

he, the father and husband, wait till his son came out, admittance

having been refused him while his wife spoke to Roland. At last the boy

came out, and his father asked him what his mother had said: he had

never done so before, but now he felt obliged to do it.

Roland answered that she had really said almost nothing; she had only

kissed him, and cried, and then asked him to hold her hand till she

went to sleep, and now she was sleeping quietly.

"Give me Parker's book," said Sonnenkamp.

"I haven't got it now; the Professorin took it away from me, and blamed

me very much for having read it secretly, and before I was old enough."

"Give my regards to Herr Eric; you have a better teacher than I

thought," said the father.

Roland went to Eric's room, but he had not yet returned.

The owl's cry was heard again from the tree-top in the park. Roland put

out the light, opened the window, took his rifle from the wall, fired,

and the owl fell from the tree. Roland ran down stairs, met Eric, and

told him that he had hit the bird; he then hurried into the park and

brought the creature in.

The whole house was in alarm. Frau Ceres was awakened, and her first

cry was:

"Has he killed himself?"

Sonnenkamp and Roland had to go to her room again, to show that they

were alive. Roland took the dead owl with him, but his mother would not

look at it, and only complained of having been deprived of her sleep.

The father and the son withdrew, and Sonnenkamp praised Roland for

having brought down the bird so promptly and boldly.

Eric went back to his mother, who must also have been awakened by the

shot, and he found her still awake; she too had feared that it had been

some suicidal shot.

The whole house was in a commotion, and it was some time before it

could be restored to quiet.

In his pride at having shot the owl, Roland forgot everything else, and

went contentedly to bed and to sleep.

But above in the castle, and below in Sonnenkamp's work-room, lights

burned late. Eric sat gazing at the flame, and strange forms moved

confusedly through his mind. There was Shakespeare's play, there were

all the people who had listened to it; but more than all he tried to

enter into Roland's mind; and it seemed a fortunate thing to him, that

the boy's love of sport had driven away all wondering speculation from

his mind. Action, action alone makes free. Where is it, the great

all-liberating power? It does not show itself. Independent of our will,

and of reflection, there is a great power in the Past and in the view

of God working in it, which alone can bring forth the deed. The deed is

not ours, but to be armed and ready is in our power.

At last Eric found rest.

Sonnenkamp paced up and down his great room like a prisoner. The lion's

skin with the stuffed head lay upon the floor, and the eyes stared at

him, till he covered the head with a part of the skin. He asked himself

again and again what he ought to do. This Herr Eric was teaching his

son to oppose him, and the Mother, who was always regaling them with

sayings of her husband, preserved in spirit, forever calling up, as

Pranken says, her husband's wandering ghost, the departed Professor

Hamlet--no, she was a noble woman.

But why had he taken upon his shoulders this beggarly family, so puffed

up with their own ideas? He could not shake them off, without

attracting attention. No, he would make use of them, and then throw

them away.

At last, a happy resolution quieted him. We must have new surroundings,

new diversions; and then, straight to the goal! The day after to-morrow

will be New Year's day. On New Year's day we will go to the capital.

With this thought Sonnenkamp also found rest at last.

CHAPTER X.

PLAYING COURT.

The first thing in the morning, Roland wanted to carry the owl, which

lay frozen outside his window, to Claus, who knew how to stuff birds.

All the events of the past day seemed to have vanished from his mind,

leaving no trace, in the joy he felt in his splendid shot.

"Stop!" cried Roland suddenly, as he was stretching out the owl's

wings, "stop; I've just thought of what a man said to me in my dreams;

he looked like Benjamin Franklin, but he was thinner. I dreamed that I

was going to battle; the music was making a great noise, discordant,

and broken by shouts, and every now and then the man said: 'A good

name--a good name'--and then there suddenly appeared thousands of black

heads, nothing but black heads, a perfect sea of them; and they all

gnashed their teeth, and I woke up in dreadful agony."

Eric could not answer, and Roland went on:--

"To-day is the last day of the year; we ought to enter upon a wholly

new world tomorrow; I don't know why, but I long to have it so."

Eric laid his hand on the boy's brow, which was feverishly hot.

Roland was summoned to his mother, who wanted him; Eric watched him

thoughtfully as he went; he felt also that a new page was to be turned,

without knowing what it was to be. He looked towards the door, for he

expected that Sonnenkamp would send for him. The man had shown on the

previous day such new and strange moods that an explanation was

necessary. What would it be? This could not be guessed. As if in a

vision, Eric saw Sonnenkamp in his own room, in a state of the greatest

excitement, sometimes bursting out violently, then calming himself

again. He heard the steps of two people approach his room. Roland

entered, holding his father's hand.

"Mother is asleep again," he said, "but there is some news. Eric, we

are going to the capital together, to stay all winter."

"Yes, I have decided upon it," said Sonnenkamp, in confirmation, after

saying good-morning to Eric, "and I hope that your mother will go with

us."

With calm deliberation, he went on to say that gay society would be

good for all of them, after the loneliness of their retired life in the

country; and, with a watchful look at Eric, he added:--

"We shall meet your friend Clodwig, and his charming wife, at the

capital."

Eric looked at him calmly, and said that he should feel it to be his

duty to meet all of Herr Sonnenkamp's social acquaintances.

"I have thought much about last evening," began Sonnenkamp, seating

himself near Eric. "You are a learned and also a bold man."

His manner was extremely polite, almost affectionate, for he was

inwardly happy when he could play the hypocrite; whenever he could make

fools of all around him, he felt an elevating and sustaining

satisfaction. He was in such good humor that he said to Eric:--

"I hope to convert you; to make you see that the best way of living in

the world is to hold yourself a stranger in it, and not to bother

yourself about the immediate regulation of the affairs of state."

"In some respects," answered Eric, "Aristotle agreed with you; he lived

generally in Athens, having a sort of certificate of residence without

being a regular citizen, and without being responsible either actively

or passively in the choice of rulers; for only in this way, as an

alien, could he live wholly in his ideas."

"I like that. One is constantly hearing something new and sensible of

the old philosophers. Then Aristotle was free also to go wherever he

pleased? That's good!"

Sonnenkamp looked amused. These learned gentlemen are very convenient;

they know how to find great historical reasons for what we do selfishly

or thoughtlessly. He smiled in a friendly way, and his smile did not

disappear, though Eric explained that what befitted a philosopher like

Aristotle very well would not do for everybody; for if every one were

like him, the world could not last; who would undertake municipal and

state affairs?

Sonnenkamp still smiled. This German pedagogue is a funny fellow, he

thought to himself; the very hour before starting on a journey, he is

ready for a learned discussion. Looking extremely well pleased, he said

to Eric:--

"I am very much obliged to you; one always learns something of you; you

are always up to the mark."

Every word was meant to give a stab, but Eric took it quite seriously,

and was grateful for the gratitude of Sonnenkamp, who was inwardly

excessively diverted by this man, so childishly unsuspicious with all

his learning.

He desired Eric and Roland to make the necessary preparations for the

journey, and then left the room, a servant having come to say that his

gracious lady was ready to see his master.

He entered Frau Ceres' room. She looked at him languidly as he said he

was glad she was better, and that she would be able to undertake the

journey to the capital on the following day. In glowing colors he

represented the pleasant life in the city, upon which they had a sure

hold through the family of the Cabinetsraethin, Count Wolfsgarten and

his wife, and also through Herr von Endlich's family.

He added in a very confident tone: "Be strong and charming, lovely Frau

Ceres; you will return to these rooms a Baroness."

Frau Ceres sat up, and only mourned that the dresses ordered in Paris

had not yet arrived. Sonnenkamp promised to telegraph directly, and

promised also that the Professorin should go with them, so that the

entrance into society could be made under her auspices.

"You may kiss me," said Frau Ceres.

Sonnenkamp did so, and she said,--

"I think that we shall all be very happy. Ah, if I could only tell you

my dream, but you never like to hear about dreams, and it is better

that I should not tell it. But there was a bird with great wings,

enormously large, and I was sitting on the bird, and was carried

through the air; and I was ashamed because I was not dressed, and all

the people below were looking up at me, and hooting, and shouting, and

laughing, and then the bird turned its head round, and it was the

Professorin, and she said: You are so splendidly dressed! and then I

had all my ornaments on, and my lace-trimmed satin dress--but I know

you don't want to hear my dream."

Sonnenkamp left the room in good spirits. The day was bright, a keen,

cold, sparkling winter-day, when the whole landscape, every rock, every

tree, stood sharply out against the blue sky; the ice had closed over

the Rhine, and a strange quiet, like a repressed breathing, lay over

the whole scene.

Sonnenkamp was glad that the bright daylight had driven away all the

spectres of the night, and brought fresh life. He immediately gave

orders in the stable, that two pairs of horses and a second carriage

should be sent to the capital. An hour afterwards, as he was walking

with Eric and Roland to the vine-clad cottage, they saw the horses,

covered with warm blankets, on the highroad, already on their way to

the capital. Roland begged that his pony might be sent also, and

permission was given; then he asked which dogs he might take, and when

told that only one must go he could not decide which it should be.

The Professorin's large sitting-room looked like a yearly fair; on

tables and chairs lay great packages of knit and woven woollen garments

for men and women. Fraeulein Milch was reading from a large sheet of

paper the names of various needy people, and a list of the articles

intended for them, while the Mother and the Aunt compared the bundles

with the list.

When this was done, Fraeulein Milch called in Claus, with his wife and

daughter, and the Seven-piper with his whole family. They were directed

to deliver the bundles to the people to whom they were addressed, and

were very ready to undertake the work.

"It's very well that you don't give any money," said Claus; "but

there's something wanting."

"What is it?"

The entrance of Sonnenkamp and Roland prevented his replying.

Sonnenkamp expressed much pleasure with the discreet manner in which

his money had been used, and spoke a few friendly words to Fraeulein

Milch, whom he had not seen since the morning when Roland was missing.

He asked for the Major, and learned with regret that he had not been

well during the night, and had not slept till nearly morning, so that

he was probably still asleep; he had, happily, a constitution which

always recovered its tone by sleep.

The Professorin asked to be excused, as she wished to send off the

things before she attended to her early visitors; she now asked Claus

what he meant by saying that an important thing was wanting.

"Yes," said the huntsman, "Herr Sonnenkamp is just the man for it."

"For what?"

"I mean that it is all well and good to wrap people up and protect them

from the cold; but hilarity and joy are still lacking, and I think

something ought to be done about warming up inside, and it wouldn't go

amiss to send every one of them a bottle of wine. Every year the people

see the vineyards before their eyes, and work in them, and most of them

don't ever drink, so much as a single drop of the wine."

"Good!" said Sonnenkamp. "Go to the butler, and tell him to put with

every bundle a good bottle of last year's wine."

Sonnenkamp was in a most lavish mood, for he put, besides, in each

bundle a gold-piece; but he almost spoiled the whole by saying to

Claus,--

"You see how much confidence I have in you. I have no doubt that you

will deliver it all faithfully."

All the huntsman's jolly good humor seemed damped, but he restrained

his anger, and only pressed his lips tightly together.

Roland helped carry the bundles to a cart which was waiting before the

house, Sonnenkamp wanted to prevent him, but the Mother made him a sign

to let him do it. With the last package, Fraeulein Milch disappeared.

In the emptied room Sonnenkamp told the Professorin of his plan of

removing to the capital, and begged her to accompany the family.

Gratefully, but most positively, the Professorin declined; and

Sonnenkamp had some trouble in hiding his vexation, when he found that

no persuasions could change her decision. He took leave politely, but

out of humor, and Roland promised to leave Griffin with her as a guard.

The Professorin felt that the boy wanted to be doing something for her

while he was away, and to sacrifice for her something which he cared

for.

"Life will go well with you." she said, as she pressed his hand.

Roland felt a thrill through his whole being; he had received one of

the holiest of blessings, though it was given in such simple words.

The Professorin had promised to come that evening to the villa, where

they were all to watch out the old year.

When she came, she found great black chests in the hall; in Frau Ceres'

parlor all the chairs were covered with clothes, and Frau Ceres was as

happy as a child, directing everything with an activity never seen in

her before. At last they all repaired to the dining-room and sat down

to tea.

All felt that a great break had come in their life; while the

conversation went on easily and continually no one noticed the time,

and all believed that it would be very hard work to keep awake till

midnight. The Professorin felt the strain, the haunting ghost, if one

may so call it, of the impending separation; they were, in fact, no

longer here, no longer together. She said more of this than she really

meant to, and told them of her entrance into the great world.

Frau Ceres was very attentive, and kept begging her to go on. Suddenly

she rose and asked her husband to leave the room with her. Sonnenkamp

soon reappeared, and begged the Professorin to do his dear little wife

a favor. She declared herself quite ready; and it seemed she was to

play the Princess, Eric the Court-Marshal, Sonnenkamp the Prince, and

Aunt Claudine the Mistress of Ceremonies. The Aunt resisted the

arrangement, and blushed deeply; but the Professorin persuaded her, and

managed to make her take the _role_ of the Princess.

After a little waiting, the folding-doors were opened. Eric stood at

the door with a wand, and led Frau Ceres, who glittered and beamed in

diamonds and pearls, to the throne of the Aunt.

The Aunt condescendingly dropped very slightly the fan which she held,

and Frau Ceres made a truly courtly reverence.

"Come nearer," said the Aunt. "It is very good in you to take up your

abode in our country."

"It was my husband's wish," answered Frau Ceres.

"Your honored husband is very benevolent."

"I thank you," replied Frau Ceres.

"If I were in your place," exclaimed Sonnenkamp, "I would say, Your

Highness, it is our duty, and we are highly rewarded for it by its

meeting your gracious notice."

"Please write that out for me, I will learn it," said Frau Ceres,

turning to her husband. She seemed to have grown younger, and her

cheeks glowed.

The Professorin was extremely animated, and after saying: "I am your

Mistress of Ceremonies," she led Frau Ceres to a seat.

"No, not so,--you must look after your train a little, and spread it

out handsomely. So,--that's light, and then open your fan, you have the

right to open it now, but not before. It is best to have it hung to

your wrist by a small cord; it falls so easily."

The jesting went on merrily; when twelve o'clock struck, Roland

cried:--

"Father, now your health is being drunk by hundreds of people."

Sonnenkamp kissed his son, Frau Ceres kissed the Professorin, then bent

her head and waited calmly for a kiss on her brow from her husband.

Outside, the bells rang, and guns were fired.

"Welcome to the New Year! to fresh life!" cried Eric, as his pupil

gratefully kissed the hand which grasped his own.

In the neighborhood of the villa, there was much noise of guns and

shouting; and Sonnenkamp was quite indignant that the good German

police should allow such doings; it was nothing but rude vulgarity.

Eric said, on the other hand:--

"We can find in this inharmonious noise, if we consider it

psychologically, an expression of joy. Without knowing it himself, the

insignificant man who fires off a pistol, takes pleasure in the sense

of surprise that he can produce an effect so far off, and that so many

people must notice what he does. So this custom, barbarous in itself,

is to be explained; it gives force to the human voice, you see, to the

vociferous shouting."

Sonnenkamp smiled, and Eric was glad that he had brought, not his pupil

alone, but the father also, to a gentler view of humanity.

But Sonnenkamp thought: This walking university, these ready

catechetical answers on every subject, begin to grow a little tedious;

it is well that we are going into a wider circle.

Then he smiled, and bade Eric and Roland a cheerful good-night.

Warmly wrapped in furs and attended by two servants, the Professorin

and the Aunt returned to their own house; and soon all was still, and

every one dreaming of the New Year.

CHAPTER XI.

THE ICE BREAKS UP.

In the morning, when Eric and Roland were saying good-by at the green

cottage, a message came from Fraeulein Milch to offer herself and the

Major that day, as visitors to the Professorin.

The Professorin praised to aunt Claudine the tact of the housekeeper,

who evidently felt that they would be lonely on that day.

It was snowing steadily, and from her closed window the Mother made a

sign of farewell to her son and to Roland, who drove by in the first

carriage, and afterwards to Herr Sonnenkamp and Fraeulein Perini, who

bowed from their carriage: Frau Ceres lay in the corner, closely

wrapped up, and did not move.

The Major and Fraeulein Milch soon arrived. The Major kept himself under

strict military discipline, and allowed no slight indisposition to

change his stiff bearing; he was rather hoarse, and could say even less

than usual, but he offered the congratulations of the New Year to the

ladies with as much cordiality as formality.

"This year," he said, "will complete the fifty years that we have lived

together."

He pointed to Fraeulein Milch, and his hand said, Not a better creature

walks the earth. But his looks said still more, which was not so easily

understood.

They had a very cheerful dinner, and Fraeulein Milch told them how many

pleasant things she had already heard about the valuable presents, in

the various houses.

The Major forced himself to master his indisposition, to be fit company

for the three ladies; he praised the Professorin for knowing how to

make such excellent soup, though she was such a learned lady.

"Yes, yes," he laughed, "I've really had to force Herr Sonnenkamp to

have soup at his table. You see, if I had to go a day without soup, I

should feel as if I were wearing my boots without stockings; the lower

story of the stomach is cold."

They laughed at this comparison, and the Major thus encouraged,

continued:--

"Yes, Frau Professorin, you know everything; can you tell me how it is

that though this day is just like yesterday, we feel that there's

something peculiar about it because it's New Year's Day? I feel as if

I'd put on clean clothes for the whole year."

Again there was a general laugh, and the Major chuckled, well pleased;

he had done his part, now he could leave the others to themselves.

After dinner, the Professorin insisted that the Major must take his

nap; she had had the library warmed on purpose, and the Major was not a

little proud that he was to sleep in the arm-chair there.

"Ah," he said, "I can sleep as well as the best Professor; but so many

books, so many books! it's frightful to think that a man can read them

all! I don't understand how it's possible."

The Major slept the sleep of the righteous; but he would have had no

rest if he could have guessed what was passing between the ladies.

Fraeulein Milch sat at the window by the Professorin, who listened in

astonishment as the simple housekeeper said how strange it was that

Eric should have consented to read the harrowing drama of Othello; the

Major had been driven almost crazy by it, and, besides, there were so

many points in it which could not be touched upon in the family.

"Do you know the play?" asked Frau Dournay.

"Indeed I do," replied Fraeulein Milch, her whole face flushing to her

very cap-border. Then, to the Professorin's surprise, she went on to

remark upon the poet's wonderful stroke of art in placing the young

married pair on the island of Cyprus, where strong wine is produced and

drunk, not always in moderation; for in that solitude, and under that

hot sun, wild, burning passions were fostered, too. The greater the

happiness of a fondly loving pair on such an island, the more miserable

would they be if any discord rose between them.

The Professorin listened as if a new person were speaking, whom she

had never known before; but she said nothing of her thoughts, only

asking:--

"Do you think then that the play was unsuitable to have been read there

because Herr Sonnenkamp has been a slave-holder?"

"I would rather not say more about it," said Fraeulein Milch evasively.

"I do not like to talk about the man; it rejoices me,--no, that isn't

the right word,--it makes me easier that he scarcely notices me, and

seems to think me too insignificant to be looked at. I am not angry

with him for it, but rather grateful, because it is not necessary for

me to look at him; and friendliness towards him would be hypocrisy."

"But you must not turn me off in that way. Can't you tell me why you

thought it unsuitable for being read?"

"I cannot."

Aunt Claudine, thinking she saw that Fraeulein Milch had something to

tell which was not for her to hear, quietly left the room.

"Now we are quite alone," said the Professorin, "you can tell me every

thing. Shall I assure you that I can keep a secret?"

"Oh, I am only sorry that I have gone so far," stammered Fraeulein

Milch, drawing her cap-strings through her fingers. "It is the first

time for fifty years that I have paid a visit, or eaten at a stranger's

table; I ought not to have done it; I have not yet gained self-control

enough."

Her face quivered, and her brown eyes glowed.

"I thought that you looked on me as a friend," said the Professorin,

holding out her hand.

"Yes, so I do," cried Fraeulein Milch, seizing the hand with both her

own, and pressing it with fervor. "You cannot tell how I thank God for

having granted me this before my death; since I devoted myself to him,

I have renounced all the world; you are the first--oh, I think you must

know all, you need be told nothing."

"I do not know all. What do you know of Herr Sonnenkamp?"

Fraeulein Milch hung her head sadly, then put both hands before her

face, crying,--

"Why must I tell you?" Then she rose, put her mouth to the

Professorin's ear, and whispered something. Frau Dournay threw her head

back, and grasped the sewing-machine, which stood before her, with both

hands. Not a word was spoken. Outside, all was still, except for the

cawing of a flock of crows which were hovering over the Rhine.

"I do not think you would tell me such a thing on a mere rumor," said

the Professorin at last. "Go on, and tell me plainly how you learned

it."

Fraeulein Milch looked round timidly, and answered:--

"I have it from the most trustworthy of men, whose nephew has sent a

child here to be educated; he knows the name which Herr Sonnenkamp

formerly bore, and all about his past life. But, dear, noble lady, why

should not a man be able to take up a different life, a new existence,

whatever he may have done?"

"Of that another time," interrupted Frau Dournay; "tell me the name of

the man who has told you this."

"So be it then. It was Herr Weidmann."

The Professorin covered her face with her hands. "What are you saying

of Herr Weidmann?" asked the Major, entering suddenly. "I can tell you,

Frau Professorin, that any one who doesn't know that man, doesn't know

one of the best and truest men in the world. He's one of God's

masterpieces, and God himself must have satisfaction in him; every day,

when He looks down from heaven, he must say: The world isn't yet so

bad, for down yonder I have my Weidmann; he is a man--a genuine man.

Everything is included in that, there's nothing more to be said."

Both women felt a sense of relief in the entrance of the Major, who now

prepared to go home with Fraeulein Milch. After they had gone a few

steps, the Professorin called Fraeulein Milch back, and asked in a

whisper,--

"Does the Major know, too?"

"Oh no, he could not bear it. Forgive me for having laid such a burden

on you. Believe me that it is not made lighter to me, but heavier."

The guests departed; and soon after, the postman brought a letter from

the University-town. Professor Einsiedel, who for twenty years had

brought his New Year's greeting to Frau Dournay, did not choose to fail

in it to-day; they were cordial and significant words which he wrote,

but they seemed to come from a different world. Twice she read the

postscript, for there was a greeting for Eric, with the message, that

the Professor would soon send him a book on slavery which was announced

as just published; and he added the exhortation that Eric should finish

his work within the new year.

The Professorin looked thoughtfully at the words. What did it mean?

Eric had never spoken to her of any such work. She passed her hand

through the air before her brow, as if she would drive away every

strange thought. A recollection rose within her. This very morning she

had been expressing her sorrow to Aunt Claudine that she could no

longer dispense any charity of her own, though it was the duty of every

one to give from his own store. What she did seemed nothing; only the

gifts seemed of importance. Almost involuntarily, she opened the box in

which lay the money that Sonnenkamp had intrusted to her. How could she

say in future to those who received it: You must not thank me, but Herr

Sonnenkamp.

She collected herself, and went to the library, where she stood gazing

out of the window. It seemed as if something were actually gnawing at

her heart. In spite of inward reluctance, she had allowed herself to be

brought into these relations, and her power of clear and intelligent

perception seemed clouded.

Down the river there was a heavy roar, with a sharp cracking sound, as

if a new world were opening; the ice had broken up. Great blocks were

floating down the stream. They were hurled, against each other, turned

over, crushed into fragments, brought together again, and floated on.

Every block, large and small, was crowned with a wreath of snow, formed

by the icy splinters that were ground to powder and thrown on top by

the breaking up; the fragments floated down the river so swiftly that

one realized, for the first time, how rapid and strong the current

always is.

The sun set in a glowing sky across the Rhine; half aloud, the

Professorin said to herself:--

"This first day of the year, which is now declining, has brought me a

terrible experience; it must be borne, and turned to some good end."

BOOK IX.

CHAPTER I.

ARRIVAL AT THE VICTORIA.

A line of carriages was standing in front of the Hotel Victoria in the

capital; multitudes of sparrows were fluttering about them while the

drivers stood together in groups, or walked to and fro, bandying jests

with one another, and beating their arms across their chest to keep off

the cold. The sparrows quarreled together, and after picking up all

the crumbs they could find, took their flight. The drivers had

exhausted their jokes and lapsed into silence. What more could be said

and done on a winter's afternoon in the snowy, deserted streets of the

capital? Everything is as still as the blessed prince whose stone image

stands on the great column, with a cap of snow on his head and snow

epaulettes on his shoulders. The parade is over, the officials are

sitting in their offices, and the shutters of the Casino are closed for

the better enjoyment of the cards by lamp-light. There is a change of

guards at Prince Leonhard's palace, over the way; the soldiers wear

large cloaks, and carry pistols. The man released from duty whispers

something, which seems to be of no great moment to the one who succeeds

him. An official messenger carrying a bundle of papers comes along,

meets a court-lackey wrapped in a long coat that almost touches the

ground; exchanges a pinch of snuff with him, and passes on. Such is the

life of a small capital on a winter's afternoon.

But now wide awake! there is something going on. A great stir began

among the coachmen, and up came the courier Lootz, with a wagon load of

trunks.

Now there was abundant material for conversation. It was fine to have

this "Gold-nugget, the King of California," come to the capital.

"Run up to your father, the bell-ringer, and tell him to set all his

bells going," cried one.

"Give me a drink that I may shout a good huzza," said another. "Now

begins a merry winter for us. Gold-nugget will scatter more money than

three princes, and seventeen counts, with seven barons into the

bargain."

"Let me tell you something," chimed in a third. "Let's send a

deputation to him when he arrives; he will do it, he is just the fellow

for it. I've a plan."

"Out with your plan."

The man thus addressed,--a little humpback, with intelligent, cunning

eyes,--kept his comrades in suspense for a while, and then said,--

"We will petition Herr Sonnenkamp to give every coachman a daily pint

of wine. He will do it, you see if he doesn't. If I had seventy

millions, I would do it too."

A broad-shouldered, somewhat disreputable-looking coachman said,--

"I have been a hotel-keeper myself; I know what that means. The

landlord of the Victoria has got a winter guest who will keep the house

warm, and the wheels well greased."

Within the hotel, meanwhile, were none but smiling faces. Even the

handsome landlady was handsomer than ever to-day, as she took a final

survey of the sumptuous suite of rooms on the first floor, and found

that all was in order, only a covering here and there still remaining

to be spread. The feet of the butlers, waiters, and maids, as they

hurried to and fro, made no sound on the thick, soft carpets. The

gorgeous silk furniture glistened and gleamed, as if grateful at being

freed from its mourning wrappers, and allowed to show itself to the

light.

Lootz was full of business; he seemed bent upon trying every kind of

sitting-place; now one chair and now another, here a sofa and there a

lounge, he ordered to be differently arranged. Even the beds he

appeared disposed to test, but contented himself with pressing the

springs up and down a little. One blue silk boudoir, that opened on a

charming balcony, he re-arranged entirely with great skill and

excellent taste.

All was at last ready.

When evening came on, the whole long suite of rooms was illuminated;

all the burners in the chandeliers, on the tables, and on the mantles

being lighted. The entrance hall was decked with flowers. Now they

might come.

The head-butler, with a cigar in his mouth, stepped into the streets

and surveyed the row of windows with great satisfaction; but with

still greater, did he look across the streets at the residence of the

Crown-prince, where all was dark and deserted; how jealous they will be

there!

A carriage drove up full of the servants of the establishment, men and

women, then another, in which were Eric and Roland, and finally

appeared a coach drawn by four horses. Bertram drew up at the door, and

out stepped Herr Sonnenkamp followed by Fraeulein Perini, and lastly by

Frau Ceres, enveloped in the costliest furs.

The coachmen before the house forgot their agreement, and raised

no cheers for Sonnenkamp. Amidst utter silence he and his family

entered the vestibule, where the bearded porter in a laced coat and

broad-brimmed hat presented his, silver-headed cane. He stood

motionless as a statue; only his eyes sparkled. His face assumed a

satisfied expression as they ascended the warmed, lighted, and

flower-hung stair-case. Frau Ceres was not in good humor, having slept

almost the whole way; she sat down before the open grate, and consented

after a while to have her furs taken off.

Sonnenkamp inspected all the rooms, saying, when he came to those

intended for Roland and Eric,--

"All the comforts of this world have their price; those who have

nothing must turn coachmen, and freeze down there, waiting for a

passenger."

He returned to, his wife's boudoir, where Frau Ceres was still sitting

motionless on a luxurious seat before the fire.

"What shall we do to-day?" she asked languidly.

"There is still time to go to the theatre."

"Dress myself over again? I won't."

Here, happily, the Cabinetsraethin was announced.

She was greeted with words of welcome, and very welcome she was. She

apologized for not having been on the spot to receive her dear friends

and neighbors upon their arrival, as she had intended, but a visit from

Countess Graben had detained her. They thanked her, and were enchanted

at her obliging politeness.

Eric and Roland were summoned to receive the Cadet, who had come also.

"Where is your mother?" inquired the Cabinetsraethin. "She is coming

presently, I hope?"

Eric did not answer, and Sonnenkamp quietly interposed, saying that the

Frau Professorin was unwilling to give up her country-life.

"That will cause general regret," returned the Cabinetsraethin, smiling

as if she were saying something very amusing. "All the beau-monde are

depending upon having this amiable, witty, universally esteemed lady

another season among them."

"She must come," said Frau Ceres.

Sonnenkamp was sorely vexed. Did the whole glory of his house depend

upon the esteem in which this woman was held?

His displeasure was increased by the lady's adding in a confidential

tone,--

"The accomplishment of our beautiful and noble plan will be much

hindered and delayed by the absence of the Frau Professorin, _nee_ von

Burgholz," as she always took pains to add. Herr Sonnenkamp would

hardly be able to draw the best society to his house, she thought,

without the lady's presence, adding, with what she meant for an

expression of great modesty, that she should spare no exertions on her

own part, but that she could not accomplish nearly as much as the Frau

Professorin _nee_ von Burgholz.

The numerous lights in the great drawing-room appeared to Sonnenkamp's

eyes to burn less brightly; he had sufficient self-control, however,

not to betray the extent of his vexation.

The Cadet proposed that Roland should take part in a quadrille, which

was to be performed on horseback by the first nobles of the court,

towards the end of the month; in the royal riding-ring he could find a

place as squire among the other citizen cadets, and engage in some of

the evolutions.

Roland was delighted at the idea, but Herr Sonnenkamp cut the matter

short by saying,--

"No! you will take no part."

He did not give any reason; there was no need to say that he did not

choose to have his son make his first appearance among the common

people admitted on sufferance.

The Cabinetsraethin had plenty of court news to tell, such as who had

already given entertainments, and whose balls were still to come off,

besides many a piquant bit of gossip, only half told on account of the

presence of the children. The betrothal of the eldest son of Herr von

Endlich, whose superb house was so famous, was soon to be celebrated,

though there was reason to fear that tidings of death would soon be

received from Madeira, whither the young pair had gone who were married

in the summer.

The Cadet invited Roland to go with him to the theatre that evening, to

see a grand ballet.

Eric looked in embarrassment at Sonnenkamp, who however said,--

"Certainly; go, Roland."

For the first time Eric saw his pupil led away from him, and taken to a

place of entertainment, among a class of people, whither he could not

accompany him. His heart trembled.

Roland had asked that Eric might go too, but the Cadet explained that

there were no more places to be had; it was with great difficulty that

he had been able to secure one for his friend. So Roland departed,

saying to Eric as he went,--

"I shall come back to you as soon as it is over."

Eric became more tranquil. He could not prevent Roland's falling into

company, and receiving impressions, which threatened the subversion of

all his noble tendencies. He could only trust that his will and his

conscience might be strong enough to withstand the danger.

Half with pride and half with regret, the Cabinetsraethin told of her

son's precocity and cunning in the pursuit of adventures, and lamented

almost in the same breath that Manna should be passing this brilliant

season in the solitude of the convent; it would have been so pleasant

for her, together with Frau Ceres, to introduce such a lovely girl into

society.

Sonnenkamp replied that next winter would be time enough for that.

CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST NIGHT IN THE CAPITAL.

Eric soon withdrew; he went to his chamber, but found no rest. Here he

was, in the city where he had been born and brought up, living in a

strange hotel, and in the service of a stranger. He quickly fought down

these reflections and the weakness they engendered, and wrote a letter

to his mother announcing their arrival, and begging her to let no

persuasions induce her to come to the capital. He took the letter to

the post himself, and spent some time in wandering through the quiet,

deserted streets of the little capital. He knew every house in them.

Here and there lived some companion of his youth, some family friends;

what relations he should hold to them now he could not tell.

He passed the great building where the antique relics were kept, and

for a moment allowed himself to fancy what his position would have

been, if he had received the post of director here.

He walked restlessly to and fro, and finally entered a beer-house, took

his place in a corner, and listened to the talk of the men, who, with

long pipes in their mouths, were laughing at each other's poor jokes,

and discussing matters of all kinds.

His attention was roused by the mention of Sonnenkamp's name; a stout,

red-faced man was saying,--

"I must begin now to take my very best meat to the Victoria, for Herr

Sonnenkamp knows what is good."

A printer whom Eric recognized said, "Our editor, Professor Crutius,

declares that he knows Herr Sonnenkamp, but he isn't willing to tell us

anything about him."

Eric's interest was still further excited. The men went on to tell of

the immense sum daily paid to the landlord of the Victoria, then of

Sonnenkamp's reported purchase of the Rabenecke palace, and of his

admission to the ranks of the nobility as being a thing as good as

settled. Here some remarks were made, in too low a tone for Eric to

catch, which raised a general laugh.

"I call you to witness," said a stout man whom Eric recognized as a

flour-dealer and baker, "that I say now this Herr Sonnenkamp is sent on

a secret mission. The young nobles in the South want an emperor, and

this Herr Sonnenkamp's designs to aim higher, perhaps, than any of us

imagine."

"Then you can go with him and be court-baker," said one, whose

rejoinder was received with a burst of laughter.

"What's that to us?" said another; "the man brings plenty of money into

the country. If a hundred of them came, I don't care what they are

after, as long as they bring us their money."

The speaker was a short, round-bodied little man with a great

meerschaum pipe. He emptied his covered glass as he spoke, and called

out to the bar-maid,--

"Bring me a fresh one; I have deserved it, for I am the cleverest of

the lot."

Eric slipped out of the room, glad not to have been recognized.

At the door he received a friendly greeting from a young man whom he

had no recollection of having seen before, but who recognized him as

one of the singers at the musical festival. He was a teacher in the

scientific school in the capital, and announced to Eric that he had

been proposed to the school-teachers' union as an honorary member.

Eric thanked him and passed on; meeting in the street a great stream of

people and carriages coming from the theatre; he hurried to the hotel,

that Roland might find him there on his return, and happily arrived

before his pupil. He waited in his room, but no Roland came; he went to

the drawing-room, but he was not there; on the contrary, he was himself

asked if Roland had not yet returned.

The Cabinetsraethin observed, with a smile, that they need feel no

uneasiness, for Roland was with Cuno, and of course enjoying himself.

She expressed her regrets that she too must now take leave of the

company, and, drawing Sonnenkamp into the embrasure of a window,

presented him with an Almanach de Gotha for the new year, a book which,

as she gracefully remarked, should henceforth never appear without the

name of Sonnenkamp being in it; and she bound herself from this day

forth to pay him taxes in the shape of this canonical book, to be

delivered to him yearly as long as she lived.

Sonnenkamp was duly grateful, and escorted the lady to her carriage.

On returning to the drawing-room, he said to Eric:--

"I had supposed you would have made Roland more worthy of confidence;

in spite of his promise, he has not come home."

Eric was tempted to answer that it was the father, not he, who on this

very first evening, when the boy was hardly out of the carriage, had

given him permission to go his own way. He restrained himself, however;

any discussion would be useless.

"I cannot go to bed till he comes," complained Frau Ceres.

"Have you any idea where we can look for him?" asked Sonnenkamp of

Eric.

"It is not necessary, for here he is," returned Eric.

Roland entered.

His mother began to complain and his father to scold, because he had

not kept his word.

"I deserve neither complaints nor reproaches," said Roland. "I had

great difficulty in getting away from the company at the door of the

restaurant whither I accompanied them, but would not go in."

All was made smooth again, and they went to bed.

"Why do you not ask me how I enjoyed the theatre?" asked Roland when he

had entered his room.

"I preferred waiting for you to tell me."

"It was very fine; there were beautiful girls, and Cuno knew them all

by name, and had some story to tell of every one; stupid stories they

mostly were. For hours we had nothing but leaping and bending this way

and that, without a word being spoken. Suddenly, I began to wonder what

Benjamin Franklin would say if he could see it, and that spoiled all my

pleasure. Cuno called me a snob, and I let it pass quietly, but he

added something else which came near causing a duel."

"May I know what it was he added?"

"No; it was about you, but--of course you would not care for it. You

are not anxious that every one should understand you, and whatever the

world may say----"

"Say no more, dear Roland, I beg; I don't care to know what people say

about me; it only burdens the mind without helping us to be better. But

you have borne yourself well, and may sleep with an easy conscience.

This has been your first experience under fire, and will not be your

last. Only keep true to yourself and to me. Good-night."

Eric lay down with happy thoughts, and with happy thoughts Roland fell

asleep.

CHAPTER III.

THE GREAT WORLD IN THE LITTLE CAPITAL.

While Sonnenkamp, the next morning, was looking through the court

calendar and making a list of the visits that were first to be paid,

Eric, also, was arranging his programme. He determined to free his mind

from every personal disquietude, as the only means of being able to

devote himself to the new difficulties of his task.

In a large close carriage, made half of glass, with two servants in fur

coats sitting on the box, and the footman behind, Sonnenkamp and Frau

Ceres drove about the city. The question whether Roland's cards should

be left too had been carefully considered, and it was finally decided

in the affirmative.

Eric used the day's leave of absence he had obtained in visiting some

of his old comrades, and spending some time with them at the military

club. He was more cordially greeted than he expected, and the men he

met were better and sounder than he remembered them. Of course the

talk was of the newly-established gaming-table, of horses and

ballet-dancers, but there was a prevailing seriousness among many of

his comrades. The great excitements of the day, which were affecting

all minds, were not without their results even in this military club.

One young man, who sat in the window with Eric, went so far as to envy

him for having struck out for himself an independent career.

Eric's mind grew quite light and tranquil after visiting a few more of

his friends, and he returned to find the Sonnenkamp family in good

humor also.

On this first day, the Cabinetsrath, with his wife and two daughters,

was invited to dinner. The dresses had come from Paris, and were

already the town-talk of the little capital, the custom-house officials

having told their wives, and they their relations, that dresses had

been received from Paris finer than any in the wardrobe of the Queen

herself. They were duly admired by the ladies, and everything was in

the best possible train. Sonnenkamp had his party at whist in the

fashionable club-house, to which the Cabinetsrath introduced him; and

as they rose from table, Bella and her husband were announced as the

first visitors.

Bella's gait, manner, and dress always suggested not only invisible

servants in livery to appear, but a carriage and horses besides; she

always looked as if she had just left her carriage, or was about to

enter it; it was so in the drawing-room, and so in the street. She was

extremely animated, and only to Eric regretted that his mother still

continued in the country. She told Sonnenkamp that Otto would arrive in

a few days, with the Russian prince, for the two men were to take part

in a French comedy that was to be performed at court, in which she also

was to play. She made Sonnenkamp give her a considerable sum of money

for the purchase of articles to be sold for the benefit of the poor, at

a fair held at the beginning of the next month, by the first ladies of

the capital. Sonnenkamp promised further to place at her disposal some

beautiful plants from his greenhouses.

Clodwig was tired, and stipulated beforehand that little should be

expected from him in the way of society. The representatives were

assembled in both houses. Prince Leonhard, the brother of the reigning

Sovereign, a man who had seen the world for himself, and had even

travelled in America, had been chosen President of the Chamber of

Lords, Clodwig being Vice-President, but having to perform most of the

duties of actual President.

While they were still together, they had the pleasure of receiving an

invitation from Herr von Endlich to a great ball. Bella could not help

repeating what was said by the scandal-mongers, that Herr von Endlich

gave his great entertainment thus early, lest the daily expected news

of his son-in-law's death should prevent his giving it altogether. This

was just the height of the season; they had come to town quite early

enough. It was said that the Court would be present at Herr von

Endlich's ball; at least the brother of the reigning Prince might

confidently be expected, for he maintained relations with society quite

independent of the palace. Bella was also called upon to admire the

Parisian toilettes in the adjoining room, and advised Frau Ceres to

reserve the handsomest for the entertainment Herr Sonnenkamp himself

would give.

The evening at Herr von Endlich's was very successful. The nobility,

notwithstanding the wound inflicted upon their pride by the Sovereign's

inconsiderate raising of the rich wine-merchant to their ranks, were

largely represented. It was a singular step for him to have taken, very

unlike the almost priestly solemnity with which he usually regarded all

affairs of court etiquette. He perceived his mistake, and liked to be

made to forget it. A sure way of winning his favor was to show

cordiality to Herr von Endlich. So it happened that the company

assembled at the house of this newly made noble, was the most brilliant

of the season.

Herr von Endlich was shrewd enough to invite some distinguished members

of the House of Deputies, and even two of the extreme opposition, not,

however, without first having made sure that the Court would take no

offence at such a step. The Court itself was not present, except in the

person of Prince Leonhard. He had made no secret of his disapproval of

this conferring of new titles, but as a subject of his brother, he

appeared at the ball, and conversed freely with the members of the

opposition, especially with Herr Weidmann, the President of the House

of Deputies.

Although the Prince represented his brother, and always spoke of him

with great deference, he was not averse to hearing such remarks as,

"Ah, if you were the ruler, there would be a different order of things;

then we should have a model country." In court circles a secret

compassion was felt for Prince Leonhard, because custom made it

desirable, in fact even necessary, for him to affect liberal views, to

popularize himself, as the aristocracy called it. He encouraged arts

and sciences, and even political movements; the journal which was

understood to be secretly supported by him slightly favored the

opposition.

Prince Leonhard made the circuit of the rooms arm in arm with Clodwig,

which was no slight mark of distinction. The Count must have mentioned

Eric to the Prince, for he called him from his place behind the first

row of those who were waiting to be saluted, and said aloud:--

"I am glad to see you again, my dear Dournay; you have become a great

scholar, I hear. Well, well, you always had considerable talent that

way; you showed it even as a boy. How is your honored mother?"

Eric expressed his thanks, with a tone of happy relief that the first

meeting with Prince Leonhard had passed off so pleasantly. No trifling

compliment was paid him by the Prince, who added:--

"I should be glad if you would bring Herr Sonnenkamp to me; where is

he?"

Sonnenkamp, unhappily, was not to be found. By the time he was summoned

from the smoking-room it was too late; the Prince was already opening

the ball with Bella.

Herr von Endlich was beaming with happiness, but Sonnenkamp's face wore

a singular expression when he learned that the Prince had desired

Captain Dournay to present him. A still more striking contrast existed

between the dispositions of the two men. The Wine-count possessed a

confident, self-satisfied manner, with sufficient tact, however, to

prevent him from giving offence. His every word and motion plainly

implied his superior knowledge on all points. He could enter into

conversation with men of the most dissimilar pursuits, and make a good

appearance in the eyes of all. The fact of his being financier,

political economist, agriculturist, merchant and ship-owner, and

thoroughly acquainted with everything connected with those pursuits, he

allowed to be taken for granted; but besides these, he was able to

converse with equal intelligence upon the exact sciences and all the

statesmen of Europe. He was a careful observer, and knew how to turn

his observation to good account.

Sonnenkamp, who was often one in a group of persons to whom Herr von

Endlich would be talking, was made to feel, perhaps for the first time

in his life, quite like a school-boy, in fact, extremely insignificant.

He was standing with some others listening to Herr von Endlich's

account of the casting of steel, when the Prince approached, and

observing that the conversation ceased abruptly upon his arrival,

said:--

"Pray, let me not interrupt you," and listened with apparent

gratification while Herr von Endlich explained the whole process, as if

he had spent his whole life as a worker in a machine shop.

Upon Sonnenkamp being presented, the Prince inquired if he had

practised grape culture in America.

Sonnenkamp replied in the negative.

With a sudden change of subject, the Prince then asked again whether he

knew Theodore Parker, whose preaching he had heard with pleasure.

Here again Sonnenkamp was unfortunately obliged to say no, feeling

himself wretchedly poor and ignorant.

The Prince perceived the stranger's embarrassment, and desiring to

introduce a subject on which he could not fail to be at home, asked

whether he believed in the possibility of a peaceable settlement of the

slavery question.

The bystanders listened with interest, while Sonnenkamp proceeded to

state that the horrors generally associated with the idea of slavery

had no actual existence, and that the abolitionists might be very well

intentioned, but certainly they did not set to work in the right way.

"You must tell me more about this matter of slavery sometime; you must

come to see me."

"Your Highness has but to command," replied Sonnenkamp, most happy that

the conversation should end here.

Eric stood through the greater part of the evening near Weidmann, but

desirous as he was of giving his undivided attention to the excellent

man, he found it impossible to keep his eyes from wandering towards

Bella. Bella was in the highest spirits. There was something Juno-like

about her appearance. There was a dignified ease and a magnificent

fulness of outline, with a look of pride and self-possession; she had a

significant word for some, and a lighter for others; age she cheered,

youth she made more gay, and all with an inimitable grace and nobleness

of manner.

A constrained expression sometimes hovered about her lips, but as she

passed from one to another she had a cheerful smile for all, and there

was a magic charm in her friendliness. Even in her outward appearance

she remained a mystery, for no one could tell the exact color of her

eyes, though all were fascinated by their glance.

You might hate Bella, but you could not forget her.

Such must have been Dr. Richard's experience. The Doctor had been

unjust to her, Eric thought, for Bella's leading principle was

ambition, and ambition directed to great ends would appear like

greatness. The feeling that he also had done her injustice, made his

manner towards her more friendly and respectful. Bella seemed to divine

what was passing in him, and nodded to him from time to time graciously

and significantly.

Eric's manner set her mind completely at rest; for in fact she had

sometimes secretly thought: What if this tutor should boast--pah! no

one would believe him. Besides, he is by nature too noble to boast.

And what had happened between them, after all?

She had already found a subject of pride in her first contrition;

having begun by persuading herself that the whole thing had been a

passing exuberance of spirits, a tempting pastime, nothing but sport,

in fact.

And who could contradict her?

She appeared to herself in the light of a heroine who had gloriously

overcome temptation.

Her rehabilitation was so complete as to become the main fact in the

case; indeed, the whole thing seemed to her like a romance she had read

in some book; it had certainly made a great impression upon her, it had

ended differently from what she had expected; but now it was finished,

done with, laid aside, returned to the desk of the library. Yes, Bella

could laugh at the idea of her still being so impressionable; she was

almost proud of being still so naive in her feelings, still capable of

being carried away. Now it was all over, and she was ready for

something else.

She exchanged a few words with Eric and Weidmann, rejoicing that the

two had found one another, and hoping that Eric would often come to see

Clodwig and herself, that so they might enjoy some more intellectual

talk together, and be brought to a knowledge of their true selves in

the midst of this whirl of society. She also asked Eric to take her

some day into the Cabinet of Antiques, and give her some instruction

about them. With a tone of sisterly advice she reminded him that

etiquette required the making of certain visits on his part, in order

not to be left out of society.

She was rejoiced to hear that he had already done part of his duty in

this respect; and in reply to his remark that he had even inquired for

the Sovereign's negro, but found he was spending the winter in Naples

with the invalid princess of the royal family, she asked:--

"Ah? Herr Sonnenkamp sent you then to the nigger on some special

commission?"

Eric replied that he did not understand the question, upon which Bella

hastily changed the subject, saying that it was only an idle jest; and

soon afterwards she was laughing and talking with Sonnenkamp, and

calling his attention to a man in the company, the brother of Herr von

Endlich, who kept the most fashionable tailor's shop in the capital.

Herr von Endlich could not help inviting his brother, who was a person

of consideration in the city; and it was thought an excellent joke,

that the man who sold the clothes yesterday could see now how well they

fitted his customers.

Sonnenkamp congratulated himself that he would at least have no such

intolerable family connections to dread when he should enter the ranks

of the nobility.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BLUE RIBBON.

Every evening was spent now at the theatre, or at some great

entertainment. The morning did not begin till noon. In accordance with

Bella's advice, Eric had made the requisite visits, and was generally

included in the invitations.

He beheld this society life with fresh eyes, like one coming from

another world. What lay behind these smiling, gaily-dressed exteriors,

and the friendly greetings they exchanged with one another? He

shuddered as he looked at the white-cravatted crowd. In the

smoking-room each man vied with another in telling lewd tales, and then

returned to the married ladies and young girls in the dancing-hall, and

put on his most courtly manners.

Eric for the most part kept modestly in the background, but Bella was

exceedingly friendly and confiding in her manner towards him. She

floated gaily down the stream of intoxicating pleasures, pleased to be

one of the first, if not the supreme.

The Russian prince also was very gracious to Eric, and talked to him a

great deal of Knopf and of a wonderful American child at Mattenheim.

Pranken saluted him in silence, hardly ever exchanging a word with him.

By the first dignitaries of the State and the Court, Eric was kindly

received, and heard from various quarters of the praise bestowed upon

him by the Countess von Wolfsgarten and her husband.

Eric's acquaintance with Weidmann had reached that point where both

regretted that they could see so little of each other, and yet with the

best intentions could come no nearer together. Only once did they

succeed in getting a deeper insight into one another, and here too,

strangely enough, it was when the conversation was personal. They were

speaking of Clodwig, for whom both expressed equal respect, but

Weidmann could not help saying:--

"I admire this power, but I could never exercise it. Our friend has the

faculty of entering heartily into the sphere in which he lives; I mean

by that, he can put on and off his moods of mind as he does his

dress-coat. His own tastes lead him to live among entirely different

interests, interests directly antagonistic to all this whirl and

confusion; but the moment he enters this sphere no trace of any

antagonism appears in him; he seems perfectly in harmony with the life

about him."

Eric took his meaning, and said he could now understood a reproach that

he had been tormenting himself with. Weidmann's eye rested thoughtfully

upon him as he spoke.

"People say, at one time, that we should try to sift every experience,

should take fire at this thing or that; and again, they require us to

pass over things indifferently, and let them go without a protest. I

cannot do that, and therefore am not suited for society."

Weidmann appeared to take a different view of the matter that disturbed

Eric, for he replied that he ought to be perfectly satisfied with

having succeeded in fostering noble thoughts in a boy of Roland's

character and position.

Often, whole evenings passed without Eric's seeing Roland, so

constantly was he surrounded by the young dancers of both sexes, who

praised and petted him like some favorite plaything. Every night he

came home with his breast covered with favors in the German, and the

day found him weary and absent. Eric noticed that perfumed notes were

sometimes handed him by the porter. Any regular course of study was out

of the question. Roland went about through the day, humming the music

of the night before, which was still running through his head. He

preserved with great secrecy in his writing-desk the cards engraved

with the order of the dances, and many other souvenirs besides; and his

face began to wear an expression of reserve.

Pranken was delighted to see his family, as he called the Sonnenkamps,

thus admitted into society. It was now arranged that Roland should take

part with the others in the French comedy. The young Countess

Ottersweier, who was to take the part of a page at the court of Louis

Fourteenth, was ill with the measles, and her part was assigned to

Roland. A beautiful dress was ordered for him, and all his thoughts

were now turned to the play and the rehearsals that were to precede it.

When the first dress-rehearsal took place, and Roland showed himself to

his parents in his becoming costume of close-fitting white silk tights,

they were full of admiration; his mother in especial could not restrain

her expressions of rapture. Roland glanced at Eric, who for some time

had been looking gloomily on the ground. He wanted to ask him why he

was so pedantic, for that was what his fellow-actors called him; but he

checked himself, and only said:--

"I promise you I will learn again, by and by, all the lessons you give

me, only let us be merry now."

Eric smiled; he felt that his pupil was having destroyed in him what

could never be repaired; but what could he do? The question indeed

passed through his mind whether he should not leave, now that all he

had so carefully planted and nurtured was taken and trampled under

foot; and only the thought that nothing would then stand between Roland

and destruction kept him at his difficult post. Still he considered it

his duty to communicate his anxiety to Sonnenkamp, who comforted him by

saying that American youths were ripe in years, and masters of their

own lives, when Germans would be still sitting on a bench at school,

and grieving under a master's criticism.

"I fear," said Eric, "that Roland is losing the best possession that

man can win."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He should learn above all things to find his best pleasures in

himself."

"So you would like to make a scholar of him, a man who can boil his own

coffee?"

"You understand me very well, and I understand your joke. You know that

what I mean to say is this, that the man who can find no pleasure

within himself will find none in the world. On that point we in a

manner agree with the church people, only we understand it somewhat

differently. Whoever will be happy must enter into the kingdom of

heaven that is open in every human soul; who does not that, is always

dependent on voluntary or purchased service and respect."

Sonnenkamp listened to Eric's quiet enthusiasm with a nod of assent. He

agreed with his ideas, but thought them strangely mixed with an

ecclesiastical asceticism which he merely interpreted into the language

of the world.

While Roland was at the rehearsals of the French play, Eric would often

spend his time at the teachers' club, and was pained to find here also

an aristocracy. The teachers of the higher schools were separated from

those of the primary. Eric was received by many as an old acquaintance,

and found himself followed by the fame he had won at the musical

festival, for the teachers are the chief supporters of vocal music.

They had a private singing club here, and Eric sang with his comrades

more beautifully than ever.

He often stole away from this noisy company and joined the meetings of

the humbler school-teachers, where he seemed to be transplanted to

another planet.

Here sat the serious, earnest men, most of them worn with work,

discussing questions pertaining to their calling, as how best to

influence and guide a child's soul; and out in the world, a soul

trained to the best of human ability was squandering the teacher's

whole long and painful work in a single evening.

If we knew what was to be the result of our labors, we could not live;

the best part of our own ideality is our ignorance of the future, and

our belief in a full completion of our plans.

Eric could not resist telling Herr Sonnenkamp of his evenings in the

school-masters' club, and Sonnenkamp was much interested in his

account. He thought it very fine to have other men cultivate the ideal.

"They are happier than we," he said, as he drank his heavy Burgundy.

On the evening preceding the performance of the French play, Roland, at

his father's bidding, invited all his fellow-actors to a party at the

hotel. The gentlemen came, but none of the ladies except Bella. She

took Sonnenkamp aside, and told him confidentially that he would never

succeed in drawing ladies to his parties, till he had in his house the

Frau Professorin nee von Burgholz. She only half acknowledged to

herself that she should feel a little ashamed to meet, on her return to

the country, a person with whom she had so often discussed the

emptiness and worthlessness of the amusements of society, and was

therefore anxious to have all brought into the vortex, that none need

have to fear the reproachful glances of another; but besides this, it

was perfectly true that Sonnenkamp without the von Burgholz would never

accomplish what with her aid would be an easy matter.

Bella was malicious enough to tell Sonnenkamp that the Cabinetsraethin

fleeced him, while in society she disowned him, and described their

connection as one purely of necessity and neighborhood.

Sonnenkamp was doubly incensed, but had to look unconcerned.

The play came off. Roland's beauty and ready grace were the theme of

general admiration. Even Bella, whose versatility was admirably

displayed by the numerous changes of costume and character that her

part had demanded, was quite thrown into the shade by the enthusiasm he

excited.

The Queen summoned Roland to her side and conversed for some time with

him; both were observed to smile as they talked together. The King came

himself to Sonnenkamp and his wife, and congratulated them upon their

brilliant son, at the same time asking when he was to enter the school

of cadets.

"When a name shall have been graciously bestowed upon him," replied

Sonnenkamp calmly.

The King frowned, bowed, and passed on.

Sonnenkamp drew a long breath. He had evidently made a mistake to

introduce the matter at such a time and in such a way; but it could not

be helped now, and forward was the word. He cast angry glances around,

as if he would like to have doubled the whole glittering assembly up in

his fists, and kneaded it into what shape he pleased.

His temper was not improved by Pranken coming up, and asking what he

could have said to the King that had so ruffled him. Sonnenkamp did not

consider it necessary to acknowledge his mistake.

Eric looked with melancholy upon the scene around him; near the pillar

against which he was leaning, a beautiful palm languidly drooped its

fan-shaped leaves. It perishes in the sultry air under this bright

flood of gas-light, he thought, as he gazed at the plant; if it be

restored to a favorable atmosphere, it still pines and perhaps perishes

utterly. Will it be so with Roland too? How expect him to strive after

the ideal, after a higher activity, when all this splendor and homage

have been offered him?

Eric found himself, he could hardly tell why, imagining Professor

Einsiedel here; and the thought called a smile to his face, for just

such a Professor Einsiedel was he. What then are we who live only in

the region of thought? Spectators; nothing but spectators, while there

is the world with its driving and snatching after enjoyment, every one

plundering and appropriating whatever he can seize. Why will you stand

aside? Why not hurry and scuffle with the rest? His breath came quick

and short, his cheeks glowed. He was in this mood, when Roland came to

him and said:--

"If you are not satisfied with me, I care nothing for the rest."

Eric gave him his hand, and Roland continued:--

"The Queen wants me to be photographed in this dress, and so do all the

ladies. The other actors will do the same. Is it not fine?"

"Certainly, it will be a pleasant memento for you by and by."

"Ah, by and by! by and by! it is pleasant now, I don't want to know

anything of by and by. Oh, if we only did not have to sleep, and

undress, and to-morrow be different again! If we could only live on

like this for a hundred years without stopping!"

Eric perceived how completely Roland's head was turned by all the

adulation he had received; it was no time now to try to turn the

current.

But he himself was put in a state of unwonted excitement before the

evening was over.

He had noticed Bella talking very earnestly with the Minister of War,

formerly colonel of his regiment, who presently approached him, and,

after saluting, and talking of indifferent matters, finally asked if he

would not like a professorship in the school of cadets when his pupil

entered.

Eric expressed his cordial thanks for the great kindness, but could

give no decided answer. He was startled at the next question, whether

he had made any definite plan for himself, after the completion of the

young American's education; he had made none. Still more was he

startled, when his questioner further asked if he should not then

return to his literary and scientific pursuits, as he had heard the

highest hopes expressed of him by those who had known him in the

university.

Eric was perplexed; all such pursuits he had sacrificed. What was to

become of him? To make matters worse, he had drawn his mother also into

these relations.

After the Minister had gone, he caught Bella's fiery glance fixed upon

him, and he seized the first opportunity that offered, to thank her for

having so kindly recommended him to the Minister of War.

"All jealousy--all jealousy; I want to get you out of the house before

that fascinating Manna returns." Bella was in great good humor.

The next day, while Roland was with his companions at the

photographer's, decorated with a new blue ribbon which he had secretly

fastened on his dress, and while servants were distributing cards of

invitation to the great Sonnenkamp ball, Sonnenkamp himself,

accompanied only by Lootz, drove to Villa Eden.

CHAPTER V.

A STRONG HAND IS POWERLESS.

The Frau Professorin was sitting at the window of the warm and

comfortable sitting-room. Carpets and cushions within, and moss

without, shut out every draught. The sewing-machine at which she sat

moved so easily, that scarce a sound was heard from it. From the river

came the noise of the grating and crashing of the great masses of ice,

as they struck against one another, changed their shapes, and floated

on again.

She often looked out across the river and into the country, and saw the

smoke rising from the houses in the different hamlets; she was familiar

with the life there now.

Accompanied sometimes by Fraeulein Milch, sometimes by the huntsman, but

generally by Sevenpiper, whose cheerfulness she took great delight in,

she had made her way everywhere, ordering and helping with word and

deed. There was a constant passing of visitors back and forth, some

coming with thanks, and some with new petitions. She thought herself

highly favored in being allowed an activity so abundant, and so

immediately fruitful in results.

But the Frau Professorin was not without higher pursuits, for she read

over again her husband's favorite books, and studied his comments

written on almost every page, drawing thence a strength which enabled

her to live in silent communion with the departed. Her husband's words

she generally read aloud; it did her good to move her lips, and hear a

voice speaking his opinions. Often also she had to read aloud, in order

to drive away the thoughts which crowded upon her at all times,

thoughts about Sonnenkamp, his life and character, and what he had been

in the past, but especially about Manna, and the feelings that were

working in her. She thought she understood now the meaning of Manna's

words to Roland when she was leaving her parents' home: "I too am an

Iphigenia." She repeated to herself, as she sat at work, the song of

the Fates, in Goethe's drama, and her heart was burdened by this

mystery of the children's having to suffer for the sins of the parents.

In the midst of these sonorous and powerful lines, she heard the sound

of wheels stopping before the house. Perhaps it was the Doctor coming

to sit an hour with her, as he often did; she knew he liked to have her

stay quietly in her place. But it was another step that approached,

another knock at the door, and Herr Sonnenkamp entered.

"Are you quite alone?"

"Quite alone."

The Frau Professorin was greatly embarrassed; this was the first time

she had seen Sonnenkamp since hearing that about him which she could

never tell him; it required all her self-control to enable her to offer

him her hand. He drew off his fur glove and grasped her hand in his.

For the first time she felt the steel ring on his thumb like a cold

snake. With terror she saw her hand in his. This hand of Sonnenkamp's,

so thick and hard, with the fingers bent back and the flesh growing

over the nails, was the hand of the Pharisee in Titian's picture of the

tribute money. So between the thumb and forefinger does the Pharisee

hold the piece of money, and there is an evil, violent, and

hypocritical look, if we may so express ourselves, about the hand. She

remembered standing one day, during her wedding journey, in the picture

gallery at Dresden, when her husband covered for a moment the face of

Christ and that of the Pharisee, and drew her attention to the

wonderful drawing of the two hands, which in themselves revealed the

opposite characters of the men. With the speed of lightning did those

thoughts and images pass through the lady's mind.

Sonnenkamp observed this emotion, so unlike her usual calm

self-possession, but naturally attributing it to surprise, said with

ready tact:--

"I have often noticed that intellectual persons who live much in

themselves, and especially noble women of superior cultivation, are not

fond of surprises; I must therefore beg your forgiveness for this one."

The Frau Professorin looked at him in amazement. How was it possible

that a man, whose life in the past had been what this man's had, could

understand such subtle emotions and express them so delicately? She

confessed that he had rightly interpreted her emotion, and asked

whether his visit was to herself, or one of inspection to his

establishment. The question was an awkward one, she knew, but she could

think of no other at the moment.

"My visit concerns no one but yourself," said Sonnenkamp; "and I almost

regret my purpose of disturbing this beautiful repose. I come from a

life of such confusion as makes it hard to believe that repose like

yours can exist upon the same planet. We live in a perpetual whirl; the

only comfort is that we have still the power of sleeping."

"I am familiar with this excitement of carnival time," said the lady

smiling. "How we long for quiet, and yet are ever pursued by the music

and laughter of the evening before."

Sonnenkamp now openly declared the object of his visit; and with great

humility begged the Frau Professorin to confer upon his house the grace

and dignity which she only could give it.

The lady regretted she must decline; she was no longer fitted for

gaiety.

"I should not have thought your views of life would be gloomy, but

rather free and cheerful."

"I believe they are. I do not consider our life as a dismal charitable

institution, from which all cheerfulness is banished. It is right that

youth should dance, and not think of the people who are shivering with

the cold, and of the grief and misery everywhere, at the very moment

they are moving so gaily. I love cheerfulness; we have no strength

without it."

"Give us your help then; all the more will we devote ourselves

afterward to our poor brothers and sisters of the great human family."

The Professorin had to struggle against a feeling of indignation, that

would rise within her, at the idea of the man trifling thus with words

like these. She looked at his hands as if there was blood upon them,

and these blood-stained hands were offering her festive wine.

She could say no more, she only shook her head, repeating,--

"I cannot; believe me, I cannot."

"Then," began Sonnenkamp, "I shall proceed at once to tell you the

secret of my life."

The Professorin had to put both hands on her table to steady herself.

What was the man going to say! She silently inclined her head, and

Sonnenkamp told how it was his unwavering desire, and a matter of

necessity for his wife, Roland and Manna, that he should be raised to

the ranks of the nobility.

The Professorin shuddered. What? Did this man dare to propose such a

thing? The von Burgholz spirit was roused within her. How could a man

with such a past as his have such presumption?

Sonnenkamp watched her eagerly. Something was going on in the mind of

this woman which he could not fathom. She kept silence, making no

response to the confidence he had honored her with.

"Why do you not answer?" he asked at last.

The lady controlled herself and said, as she inclined her head somewhat

backwards:

"Shall you not find it hard to bear another name?"

Sonnenkamp looked keenly at her.

"I found it hard as a wife," she continued, "to bear another name."

"Excuse me, my dear lady," replied Sonnenkamp courteously; "you had to

take a citizen's name; it is much easier to assume a noble one."

He exhorted her, urged his request upon her more earnestly, enforcing

it by the warmly expressed wish of the countess Bella.

The Professorin insisted that no one, even though admitted to the

closest friendship, could decide upon the life she should lead; she was

resolved never to return to society.

Sonnenkamp was driven to extremity. He believed that the Professorin's

only objection was to appearing as a dependant, and that she would no

longer refuse, if a free and independent position were assured her. In

a manner, therefore, at once unassuming and emphatic, he told her that

he should here, and now, put into her hands a sum of money sufficient

to maintain her in an establishment of her own for the rest of her

life. He put his hand in his breast-pocket as he spoke, and drew out

his pocketbook.

"No, sir, I beg of you," answered the Professorin, coloring deeply and

fixing her eyes upon his fingers,--just so did the Pharisee hold the

piece of money. "It's not that, I assure you. I am ashamed of no

position, since I have the true honor within myself; neither do I fear,

as you possibly imagine, being too deeply moved by contact with any of

the relations of society. I have voluntarily resigned all connection

with it. I have made no outward vow, but I beg you to respect my

decision as the vow of a nun, as you would if it were the decision of

your daughter. I regret that I must beg you to urge me no further, as

no inducements could have any influence upon me."

It was hard for Sonnenkamp to control his anger, and restore the

pocket-book to its place.

He rose and went to the window.

For some time he gazed fixedly out, then turning round with a smile, he

said,--

"There in the river are floating the blocks of ice; a soft breath

bursts the icy covering; why might not also, my honored friend--you

will allow me so to call you--every one has in his life a something--I

know not how to call it, an action, a purpose--you understand what I

mean--that ought not to fetter all our future."

"Allow me to say," returned the Professorin, "that in my case this

would be a breach of faith. I have nothing left in the world but

fidelity to myself."

"You fill me with admiration," said Sonnenkamp, hoping to gain his

point by expressions of admiring respect.

He was obliged to assume a gracious and smiling exterior while inwardly

chafing, for the Professorin was immovable. There was an imploring

manner about him; as if he would say: I know no way of help but through

you; yet he found himself unable to put it into words.

The Professorin felt that she must do something kind to the poor rich

man, must give him something to restore his cheerfulness and courage,

and with hearty sincerity she said,--

"Let me express to you the thanks of the hundreds whom you have fed and

comforted. You have made me very happy by employing me as the medium of

your benefactions, and I desire that you should feel yourself the

source of happiness to others."

With great animation she described the excellent order into which the

neighborhood had been brought, and how her help had not waited for

sickness, either physical or moral, but had helped forward those who

were sound. She told so many beautiful and touching incidents, that

Sonnenkamp could only stammer out as he gazed at her:

"It is all well--very well--I thank you."

He once more gave her his hand and left the room. At the front door he

encountered Fraeulein Milch, but hurried by almost without looking at

her.

Fraeulein Milch found the Professorin washing her hands with all her

might, as if she feared she should never wash them clean from the man's

touch.

"Did he tell you he was to be raised to the ranks of the nobility?"

asked the Fraeulein.

The Professorin looked at her in amazement. How came this simple

housekeeper in her seclusion to know everything?

The butcher from the capital, Fraeulein Milch said, who had been buying

a pair of fat oxen from her neighbor, had spread the report.

Secrets creep out through strange channels.

CHAPTER VI.

GOLD GIVES FAME.

A stranger is inspecting the house, the garden, the park, the

hot-houses, the stables. Who owns them all? An American, about whose

past life there is a mystery.

Sonnenkamp returned to his old home-life as in a dream; he looked back

upon a time long past; it was no longer himself, but a stranger who was

examining the place; he who had built, and planted it all was dead.

Sonnenkamp smote his forehead with his hand, to banish the spell which

was overmastering him. What power was weaving it over him, and

depriving him of his own personality? Nothing but this woman's poor

pride in her own virtue.

"I still am, I still will, and all of them shall serve me," he said

aloud to himself.

He examined the trees in the garden; a pure tender covering of hoar

frost upon the branches kept them motionless, and threw over all around

an aspect of such stillness, yet so shining and glorified, that the

spectator involuntary held his breath. Here and there trees and shrubs

had been cut down by his direction, as was necessary in order that the

artistic effects that were aimed at in the laying out of the park

should be preserved; and Sonnenkamp never allowed the growth of the

trees to exceed the conception he had in his mind when planning his

grounds.

Two fine Newfoundland dogs, which had always been his close companions,

he ordered to be let loose, and smiled as the creatures leaped upon him

full of delight at greeting their master. There was something that

could give him a joyous greeting and be glad in his presence; dogs

after all were the best creatures in the world. He made the entire

circuit of the place with the dogs, and when he reached the fruit

orchard looked about him with a pleased smile; the carefully trained

branches, with their mantle of snowy rime, were like the most delicate

works of art. He only wished that he could transplant them just as they

were into the capital, and set them up before the astonished eyes of

his guests.

His guests! Would they really come? Would not this entertainment so

pompously announced end in humiliation? The branches of fruit-trees can

be trained and beat at will; why are men so obstinate? Suddenly his

face broke into a smile. He had heard a great deal said of a famous

singer who was enchanting all Paris; she must come, cost what it would,

and she must pledge herself to give no public concert, but to sing only

in his drawing-room, and perhaps at court. He would offer the

contemptible beau-monde of the capital what no one else could.

He had the dogs shut up again, and heard them whining and barking. That

was all right; the only kind of creatures to have were those that could

be sent for when you wanted them, and shut up when you were tired of

them.

Sonnenkamp had the horses harnessed at once and drove to the telegraph

station, whence he sent a message to his agent in Paris, stating

exactly his plan, and ordering the answer to be returned to him at the

Capital. Animated with fresh courage, full of contempt for the whole

world and of pride in his own fertile invention, he drove back to the

hotel. That same evening he received the intelligence that the singer

would come. Pranken was with him when the message was received.

Sonnenkamp was anxious to have the world at once informed of this

extraordinary entertainment which he was able to offer them; it should

be announced in the court journal. But Pranken was opposed to any such

public announcement, and advised that one and another of the guests

should be confidentially informed of the pleasure in store for them;

and then every one would be flattered by the confidence, and would duly

spread the news abroad. Pranken himself undertook to communicate the

extraordinary intelligence to some of his favorite companions at the

military club.

The singer came, and exercised a greater force of attraction than the

Frau Professorin could have done.

Bella appeared early on the evening of the ball, and congratulated

Sonnenkamp on his great success; and in fact nothing was wanting to the

brilliancy of the entertainment. The popular Prince appeared with his

wife, and the rooms were filled with the cream of the society of the

capital; the American Consul-general, with his wife and two daughters,

was present also; everywhere were heard expressions of admiration of

the host, and thanks for his generosity. Frau Ceres alone was somewhat

out of temper at having her own splendor eclipsed by the wonderful

talent of the singer, who drew the whole company about her. The Prince

talked with her a full half hour, while with Frau Ceres he spoke but a

few minutes.

Sonnenkamp moved among his guests with a feeling of triumph in his

heart. Outwardly he affected great modesty, but inwardly he despised

them all, saying to himself,--

A handful of gold can work wonders; honor, distinction in society,

everything, can be had for gold.

Two topics engrossed the conversation of the capital the next day: Herr

Sonnenkamp's ball, the like of which the city had never seen, and the

death of the young husband of Fraeulein von Endlich, news of which had

been received the evening before, but had been kept back in order not

to deprive the family and numerous connections of the Court Marshal

from enjoying Sonnenkamp's ball.

The next evening, the paper edited by Professor Crutius contained a

witty article upon the two events, sarcastically blending the news of

the death with the Sonnenkamp ball. The splendor of the occasion was

thus partially dimmed, and Sonnenkamp discussed with Pranken the

possibility of gaining over this poor devil of an editor also with a

handful of gold.

Pranken opposed the plan, on the ground that no communication of any

kind should be held with these communists, as he called all those who

were not in sympathy with the government; and this man, who scorned no

means that could further the plan of being admitted to the nobility,

was amazed that Sonnenkamp should not be ashamed of employing bribery

here.

Sonnenkamp appeared convinced, but appealed to Eric, who before had

been the medium of conveying relief to the man, and desired him to put

himself again in communication with him, and let him know that

Sonnenkamp was ready to assist him if he were in need.

Eric emphatically excused himself.

The singer was not summoned to Court, it being contrary to etiquette

that she should sing there after appearing in the house of a private

citizen. She left the capital, and Sonnenkamp, ball, and music were

soon forgotten.

Sonnenkamp was even obliged to submit to the humiliation of not being

invited himself to Court. He was openly given to understand that the

Sovereign had been much displeased with his having, at the French play,

so awkwardly introduced a matter which needed to be handled with the

greatest delicacy. Pranken told him this in a tone of malicious

pleasure mixed with regret; Sonnenkamp should always keep in mind that

he was to be indebted to him for his patent of nobility.

The evening of the court ball, which was the one subject of

conversation throughout the capital, and which was attended by two

noble families from the Hotel Victoria who had come from the country

for the purpose, was a most trying time to Sonnenkamp; yet he had to

hide his rage and exert himself to comfort Frau Ceres, who kept

insisting on leaving the capital at once, since this was the one thing

she had been aiming at, and now it was all over.

Even the Cabinetsraethin absented herself this evening, being obliged,

to her great regret, as she said, to appear at Court. Thus the family

sat by themselves; and this evening, for the first time, Eric managed

to acquire again a firmer hold upon Roland's mind, for Roland, too, was

full of indignation. He listened in silence, but with dilating eye, as

Eric described the emptiness of all worldly honors if we have not a

consciousness of self-respect within us; for they make us dependent

upon others, and such dependence was the most abject slavery.

At the word slavery, Roland rose and asked Eric if he had forgotten his

promise of telling him how different nations dealt with slavery. Eric

was amazed that the subject should have dwelt in the boy's mind through

all the excitement he had undergone, and promised to give him the

history of the whole matter, as far as he was able, when they should

return to Villa Eden.

Sonnenkamp had great difficulty in concealing his sense of injury, yet

he must not give additional weight to the slight that had been put upon

him by allowing his feelings to appear. The family of the

Cabinetsraethin he took especial pains to load with friendly attentions.

They must be made to keep to their bargain; they had had their pay, and

were not to be allowed to cheat him. He made the young cadet a spy upon

his son, giving him money for taking Roland to the gaming-table,

tempting him to high play, and then making an exact report of his

behavior. He was not a little surprised at the cadet's reporting that

Roland utterly refused to play, because he had promised Eric never to

gamble, even for an apparently trifling stake.

Sonnenkamp would have liked to thank Eric for this great influence over

his son, but judged it best to feign ignorance of the whole matter. He

begged Bella, when she came for Eric to fulfil his promise and take her

to the cabinet of antique casts, not to disturb his wife's present

tranquillity by referring to the court-ball.

Eric took Roland with them to the museum, and though Bella said

nothing, she understood his motive for doing so. On their way thither

they met the Russian prince, and Bella ordered the carriage to stop and

invited him to accompany them, thinking that thus the party could

divide into two groups, the Russian walking sometimes with Roland, and

she with Eric; but she could not manage it so; Eric did not once let go

of Roland's hand.

They stood long before the group of Niobe and her children, Bella

jokingly protesting that the teacher, who seeks to protect the boy from

the arrow of the god, was of the Russian type. Eric might explain as

often as he would that the head was a modern addition and represented a

Scythian, that the teacher was a slave who attended the boy to school

or wherever he went, as one of our lackeys might, she still insisted

that he was a Russian. As Eric called attention to the fact, that the

maiden in the centre of the group clings to her mother Niobe and hides

her face in terror, while the boy by the side of his attendant

voluntarily turns toward the danger, and with outstretched hand strives

to avert it, Roland gazed fixedly upon him, and turned almost as white

as the plaster itself; his eye sparkled, and the soft dark hair just

beginning to show on lip and chin seemed to tremble. On the way home he

drew close to Eric, and trembling as if with cold said:--

"Do you remember when that letter with the great seal came to your

parent's house?"

"Certainly--certainly."

"Then you should have been director, and is it not strange, here stand

these figures day and night, summer and winter, waiting for us, and

keeping still, and looking on while we are dancing and dying."

"What are you talking of?" asked Eric, alarmed by Roland's strange tone

and manner.

"Oh, nothing--nothing. I don't know myself what I am saying. I seem to

be only hearing the words, and yet am really saying them. I don't know

what is the matter with me."

Eric hurried the feverish boy home.

CHAPTER VII.

THE SCHOOLMASTER AND NIOBE'S SON.

Every day, whenever Frau Ceres saw Roland, she would say:--

"Why, Roland, how pale you look! Does he not look very pale?" Here she

invariably appealed to Eric, and upon his answering in the negative

seemed reassured.

But one day when the Mother exclaimed in terror:--

"Why, Roland, you do look so pale!" Eric could not deny it.

"I don't know what is the matter with me," he complained as Eric took

him to his chamber.

"Everything seems to be turning round me," he said as he looked about

the room.

"What does it mean? Oh! Oh!"

He sank down on a chair and burst into a sudden fit of weeping.

Eric stood amazed.

The boy seemed to lose consciousness, and, with his eyes wide open,

stared at Eric as if he did not see him.

"Roland, what is the matter?" asked Eric.

Roland did not answer; his head was like ice.

Eric gave a pull at the bell, and then bent over the boy again.

Sonnenkamp entered, to know why they did not come to dinner. Eric

pointed to Roland.

The father threw himself upon the lifeless form, and a piercing cry was

wrung from his breast.

Joseph was sent in haste for a physician, and by the use of strong

salts Roland was restored to consciousness. His father and Eric

undressed him and put him to bed, the poor boy moaning all the while,

and his teeth chattering with the chill that followed the first attack

of fever.

Sonnenkamp looked in terror at the anxiety depicted on the physician's

face when he saw his patient.

"It is a very violent attack; I don't know what the result may be. Has

he often such?" asked the doctor.

"Never before! never before!" cried Sonnenkamp.

After the application of various restoratives Roland was able again to

speak, and his first words were:--

"I thank you, Eric."

The doctor left, after giving strict orders that the patient should be

kept quiet, so that if possible he might sleep. After an hour of

anxiety, during which Eric and Sonnenkamp scarcely ventured to speak to

one another, he returned; and having examined Roland again, he

pronounced that the nervous system had been overstrained, and that he

was threatened with nervous fever.

"Misfortunes never come singly," said Sonnenkamp. They were the only

words he spoke that night, during the whole of which he watched in the

adjoining room, occasionally stealing on tip-toe to the sick boy's bed

to listen to his breathing.

When Frau Ceres sent to know why they did not return to the

drawing-room, they sent an evasive answer and begged her to go to bed.

Having understood, however, that Roland was slightly unwell, she came

softly to his bedside during the night, and seeing him quietly sleeping

returned to her own room.

"Misfortunes never come singly," Sonnenkamp repeated when the next

morning at dawn the physician pronounced the fever to have declared

itself. He ordered the most careful nursing, and wanted to send for a

sister of charity, but Eric said that his mother would be the best

nurse Roland could have.

"Do you think she will come?"

"Certainly."

A telegram was at once despatched to the green house, and in an hour

the answer came that mother and aunt were on their way.

The news of the beautiful boy's severe illness spread rapidly through

the city. Servants in all manner of liveries, and even the first ladies

and gentlemen, came to inquire after him.

The noisy music of the noon parade startled Roland as it passed the

house, and he screamed:--

"The savages are coming! the savages are coming! the red skins, the

savages are coming! Hiawatha! Laughing-water!--The money belongs to the

boy; he didn't steal it.--Hats off before the baron, do you hear?

fly!--The blacks!--Ah! Franklin!"

Eric offered to request the Commandant for an order to have the band

pass through another street, or at least stop playing when passing the

hotel.

A sudden thaw having carried away the snow, it was found necessary to

spread straw before the whole front of the Hotel Victoria, to deaden

the sound of the wheels.

Eric's mother received a most cordial greeting from Sonnenkamp, and did

her best to soothe Frau Ceres, who complained that it was horrible to

have Roland ill, and that she had to suffer for it, as she was ill

herself. At the Mother's suggestion, which Sonnenkamp at once adopted,

being only too happy to have anything to do, any new means to try, Dr.

Richard, who was familiar with Roland's constitution, was also

telegraphed for. He arrived at a late hour of the night, and approved

of all that had been done for Roland. He laid his chief injunctions

upon Eric and his mother, impressing on them the necessity of guarding

themselves as much as possible from the nervous excitement attendant on

a life in a sickroom, of taking plenty of rest and amusement, going out

often and refreshing their minds with new images. He would not leave

them till both had given a promise to this effect.

After a consultation with the attending physician he prepared to

depart, but when shaking hands at parting stopped to say:--

"I must warn you against the Countess von Wolfsgarten."

Eric was startled.

"She has remedies for every possible disease; and you must politely but

resolutely decline whatever she, in her dictatorial way, may press upon

you."

"He is not going to die, is he?" asked Sonnenkamp of the physician, as

he stood upon the steps.

The physician replied, that in extreme cases the powers of nature were

all we could rely upon.

Sonnenkamp fairly shook with rage, rage against the whole world. With

all his wealth he could do nothing, command nothing; but must fall back

upon the powers of nature, in which Roland had no advantage over the

son of a beggar!

Frau Ceres lay upon the sofa in the balcony room among the flowers and

birds, staring vacantly at them, scarcely speaking, and eating and

drinking almost nothing. She did not venture to go to Roland's bed, but

required to be informed every hour how he was.

The entire want of union among the members of the household became now

apparent. Each one lived for himself, and thought every one else was

there only for the purpose of adding to his or her comfort.

At noon a great event occurred, nothing less than the reigning Princess

sending her own court physician. Sonnenkamp was full of gratitude for

this distinction, which unhappily he had to receive under such

melancholy circumstances.

Day and night, Eric, his mother, and aunt sat, now by turns, and now

together, by the sick boy's bed. He knew no one, but lay the greater

part of the time in a half sleep; sometimes, however, in an access of

fever, he would start up with a glowing face and cry:--

"Papa is dancing upon the black people's heads! Give me back my blue

ribbon! Ah, ah!" Then as if in an ecstacy he would exclaim, "Ah! that

is the German forest! quiet, Devil! There, take the may-flowers--blue

ribbon--the boy has stolen the ring--the laughing sprite--respect to

the young baron--back, Griffin!"

The touch of Eric's hand upon his forehead always soothed him. Once

when his father was present, Roland sang a negro song, but so

unintelligibly that they could hardly make out the words. Suddenly,

however, he cried out:--

"Away with those great books! take away the great books! they are

written with blood!"

Sonnenkamp inquired if Roland had ever sung the song when he was well;

and if Eric knew from whom he had learned it. Eric had never heard it.

Sonnenkamp's manner towards Eric and his mother was full of humble

respect. He gratefully confessed that this illness, which threatened

his very existence, had yet given him that which otherwise he might

never have obtained. He had never believed in human goodness and

unselfish devotion; but he saw them now displayed before him in

unceasing activity. He would gladly kneel before the Mother and worship

her, he added with an expression that came from his heart, for she had

refused to come for pleasure, but was ready at once when called to

night-watching and the exercise of sorely tried patience; he should

never, never forget it.

The Mother felt that there was another patient here needing her care,

besides the fevered boy who lay there with closed eyes. Her intercourse

with Sonnenkamp became more intimate; he complained to her of his

never-resting grief, and again and again would come the thought: What I

desire, I desire only for this son. If he die, I shall kill myself. I

am worse than killed now, and no one must know it. Here is a being who

has no past, must have no past; and now his future is to be taken from

him!

"Am I to have no son because I was no son?" he cried once, but quickly

controlling himself he added: "Do not heed me, dear lady; I am speaking

myself like a man in fever."

The Mother begged him to compose himself, for she was sure that by the

mysterious laws of sympathy, any excitement in those about him would

react upon the patient.

In the stillness of the night the Mother sat by the boy's sick-bed,

listening to the chimes that rang out the hours from the church tower;

and these bells, heard in the night by the sick-bed of the poor rich

boy, brought up her own life before her.

Eric often reproached himself for his too great indulgence, in having

allowed Roland to be drawn into that whirl of excitement which was now

perhaps killing him; and he remembered that day in the cold gallery

before the Niobe, when the fever first showed itself. He was another

whom the Mother had to soothe. She alone preserved a firm balance, and

offered a support on which all others could lean. She handed Eric the

letter she had received from Professor Einsiedel on New Year's day, and

asked about the scientific work which she had not before heard of. Eric

explained how it had all come about. His mother perceived that he had

yet learned nothing of Sonnenkamp's past life, and took care to tell

him nothing, thinking he ought not to have the additional burden of

such knowledge at this time of anxiety for the sick boy, and of

increased difficulties in the way of his training.

In obedience to Dr. Richard's strict directions, the Mother often went

out to visit her old friends, among them the wife of the Minister of

War, and was greatly comforted at learning that Eric could have a

professorship in the school of cadets, when Roland entered the academy.

She always returned home greatly cheered from these visits.

Eric, too, made calls, spending many hours with Clodwig. Bella he

seldom saw, and then but for a short time; she evidently avoided now

any interview with him alone.

Pranken took great offence at Eric's mother having been sent for

without his advice; these Dournays seemed to him to be weaving a net

about the Sonnenkamp family. He came sometimes to inquire for Roland,

but spent most of his time at Herr von Endlich's, in the society of the

young widow lately returned from Madeira.

Much as Eric had desired to become better acquainted with Weidmann, the

whirl of society had hitherto prevented, and now that the Parliament

was no longer in session, Weidmann had left the capital without any

closer relation having been formed between them.

Weeks passed away in trembling suspense. The sick boy's wandering

fancies took a wholly new direction. He imagined himself with Manna,

and was constantly talking to her, caressing her, jesting with her, and

teasing her about the picture of Saint Anthony. Manna had not been told

of her brother's illness; it seemed useless to burden her with anxiety,

when she could do nothing to help.

Sonnenkamp continued to be greatly vexed that there was nothing to be

done but to wait for the forces of nature. He sent considerable sums of

money to the poor of the capital and to all the charitable

institutions; he reminded Eric of what he had told him of the teachers'

union, and handed him a handsome sum for the furthering of the objects

of the association.

One day he asked the Professorin if it were not possible that prayer

might help the sick. She replied that she knew no positive answer to

such a question, that Sonnenkamp must compose himself, and be glad if

he could cherish such a beautiful faith. He looked sadly at her.

Roland talked so constantly with his sister, that Sonnenkamp asked the

physician if Manna had not better be sent for, and was delighted at

receiving an affirmative answer.

It was a comfort to him in the midst of his duties, to think that now

he could force his child from the convent, and never let her leave him

more. His heart rejoiced in the prospect of being able to have both his

children with him, when Roland was well again. He walked up and down

the room, rapidly opening and shutting his hands, as if he were leading

his children by his side.

The careful Lootz was despatched to the convent with an urgent letter

enclosing the doctor's directions, to which he would gladly have added

a few words of the Professorin; but she was resolved to interfere in no

possible way of Manna's plan of life, even in a case of extreme

necessity, and refused to write.

CHAPTER VIII.

A SISTER OUTSIDE THE FAMILY.

Snow lay upon the roof of the convent, and upon the trees, meadows, and

roads of the island; but within the great house was an animated twofold

life, for the whole sacred narrative was here rehearsed afresh in the

minds and before the eyes of the children. Every day were recalled

those mighty events, so touching and blessed, that took place in Canaan

nearly two thousand years ago. Manna lived so entirely in these

representations, that she often had to stop and force herself to think

where she was. She was seized with a longing to make a pilgrimage to

Jerusalem, to kiss the soil of the Holy Land, and there atone for all

the evil done by those who were near to her, and those who were

strangers to her.

Her eyes beamed as with a fire from above, while with wonderful power

she repeated the sacred history to little Heimchen, who was again sick

in bed. But the little girl made her smile to-day by asking:--

"Is there snow in Jerusalem too, then?"

Manna had scarcely considered what season of the year it was, so

entirely was she absorbed in the life she was describing. As she turned

to look at the melting snow, a lay-sister entered and handed her a

letter.

"Where is the messenger?" she asked.

"He is waiting in the reception-room."

"I will give him an answer," returned Manna, and began to read her

letter a second time.

She paced the cell backwards and forwards; at one moment she wanted to

seek the Lady Superior and ask what she should do, but the next, her

heart shrank at the thought. Why ask advice of another human being? She

looked at her hand, which had been pressed upon her eyes. You cannot

weep, said a voice within her; you must not weep for aught in this

world.

"What is the matter?" cried Heimchen from the bed. "What makes you look

so cross?"

"I am not cross, I am not cross; do you think I am?"

"No; now you look pleasant again. Stay with me, Manna--stay with me;

don't go away--stay with me, Manna. Manna, shall die."

Manna bent over the child and soothed her. This is the first trial, she

thought, and it is a hard one. Now I must show whether love of mankind,

of the Saviour, is stronger in me than family affection. I ought, I

must! She committed Heimchen to the care of a lay-sister, and,

promising soon to return, descended to the church. At sight of the

picture, which made her think involuntarily of the man who was with

Roland, she covered her face with her hands, threw herself in deep

contrition upon her knees, and prayed fervently. Thus she lay long, her

face buried in her hands. At length her decision was made, and she

rose. I ought and must, and I can! I must have strength for it! I am

resolved to live only for the service of the Eternal. Roland has good

care taken of him; he recognizes no one; if I go to him it will be to

remove my own distress, not his. Here, on the other hand, is Heimchen

sick and needing me. There is no question as to my duty; I will stay at

the post where not my will, but that of the Highest, has placed me.

She remembered the Lady Superior telling her how her father and mother

had died, and she could not leave her convent to go to them. Manna

resolved to do the same thing voluntarily, under the compulsion of no

vow. She trembled as she thought that it might be better for Roland if

he could die now before he fell into sin, and perhaps had to hear the

dreadful secret. The idea was almost more than she could bear, but she

held her resolution fast.

Manna returned to her cell, meaning to write and tell all that was in

her soul, but she could not. She descended to the reception-room, told

Lootz simply that she could not go back with him; and then, returning

again to her cell, looked out upon the landscape. Life seemed frozen

within her, but as the melting snow dripped from the roof, so her tears

broke forth at last, and she wept bitterly; yet her decision remained

unshaken. The whole night was spent in watching and prayer, and the

next morning she told her story to the Lady Superior, who made no

answer besides a silent inclination of the head.

Again in her cell, Manna read the letter, and was made aware for the

first time that Eric's mother was nursing Roland. The paper trembled in

her hand, as she read of Roland's constant talking with her in his

fevered ravings. Why did her father write nothing of Pranken? Where was

he? she asked herself; then, indignant that her thoughts should still

cling to the world, with a sudden resolve she flung the letter into the

open grate, and watched it break into momentary flame, and then float

in light flakes up the chimney. So had it been in her heart, so ought

it to be; nothing more from the outer world should reach her.

CHAPTER IX.

GROWTH DURING ILLNESS.

"He is saved!" said the doctor, and "He is saved," was repeated by

voice after voice through the whole city.

The doctor enjoined double care in guarding Roland from the least

excitement of any kind, and when the boy complained of the horrible

tedium of his sick-room, both Eric and the doctor laughingly reminded

him that he had his good time in the first place, and that ennui was

the first sure step towards recovery. Roland complained also of being

kept hungry, and then added, his face seeming to grow fuller and fairer

as he spoke:--

"Hiawatha voluntarily suffered hunger, and do you remember, Eric, my

thinking then that man was the only creature that could voluntarily

hunger? Now I must practice what I preached."

Roland showed himself particularly full of affection toward Eric's

mother. He maintained that she was the only person he had recognized

during his delirium, and that it had caused him the greatest distress

not to be able to say so at the time, but the wrong words would keep

coming from his mouth. Even the Mother did not stay with him long at a

time.

He rejoiced to see lilies of the valley in his room, and remembered

that he had dreamed of them.

"Was not Manna with me too? I was always seeing her black eyes."

Heimchen's illness, they told him, prevented her leaving the convent.

He wanted to see the photograph taken of him in his page's dress, and

said to Eric:

"You were right, it will be a pleasant recollection to me by and by.

Indeed the by and by is already here; it seems to me two years ago. Do

give me a glass, for I must know how I look."

"Not now," returned Eric; "not for a week yet."

Roland was as obedient as a little child, and as grateful as an

appreciative man. The second day, he begged Eric to let him relieve his

mind by speaking out what was in it.

"If you will speak calmly I will hear you."

"Listen to me then, and warn me when I speak too excitedly. I was on

the sea, and dolphins were playing about the ship, when suddenly there

was nothing to be seen but black men's heads, and in the midst of them

a pulpit swimming, in which stood Theodore Parker preaching with a

mighty voice, louder than the roaring of the sea; and the pulpit kept

swimming on and on with the ship----"

"You are speaking excitedly already," interposed Eric. Roland went on

more quietly, in a low tone, but every word perfectly distinct:--

"Now comes the most beautiful part of all. I told you how as I lay in

the forest that time when I was journeying after you--nearly a year ago

now--there came a child with long, bright, wavy hair, and said, 'This

is the German forest;' and I gave her mayflowers, and she was taken up

in a carriage and disappeared; you remember it all, don't you? But in

my dream it was even more bright and beautiful. 'This is the German

forest,' was sung by hundreds and hundreds of voices, just as it was at

the musical festival, oh, so beautifully, so beautifully!"

"That will do," interrupted Eric; "you have told enough, and must be

left alone awhile."

Eric told his mother of the strange fairy story, which that decisive

journey had given rise to in Eric's mind--he had heard of it before

from Claus--and mentioned as a singular circumstance, that this second

revolution in the boy's nature resulting in his illness, should have

recalled to him this story.

The Mother was of opinion that something similar to the story must

actually have happened, but warned Eric not to refer to the subject

again, for every recollection of past events retarded recovery and a

return to a natural state of mind.

The first time Roland could stand up, they were all surprised to see

how much he had grown during his illness. The down too, on his lip and

chin, to his great delight, had increased perceptibly. When he saw, for

the first time, the straw spread before the house, he said,--

"So the whole city has known of my illness, and I have every one to

thank. That is the best of all. How many I owe gratitude to! Whoever

shall come to me now, for the rest of my life will have a claim upon

me."

Eric and his mother exchanged glances as Roland spoke, and then cast

their eyes to the ground. Wonderful was the awakening to life displayed

before them in this young soul.

"Did Eric tell you that I had seen Pranken? asked Roland.

"Yes. Now lie down to sleep."

"No," he cried; "one thing more!"

He called for his pocket-book, in which he had written the name of the

groom whom he had suspected of robbing him on his night journey.

Reproaching himself for having hitherto neglected to inquire about him,

he charged Eric to find the man, who was now a soldier in his regiment

here, and bring him to his room.

The soldier came, and received from Roland a sum of money very nearly

as large as that in the purse at the time. Eric had no need to have

given such strict injunctions to the man not to excite Roland by much

talking, and vehement expressions of gratitude, for the soldier had no

power to speak a word. He felt as if he were in fairy land, at being

thus summoned into a great hotel, before a beautiful sick boy, and

presented with such a sum of money; it was like being transported into

another world.

Contented and happy, Roland lay in bed again. He begged his father,

when next he came to his bedside, to give away all his clothes, for he

would wear none of them again.

"Do you want to put on your uniform at once?" asked Sonnenkamp.

"No, not now; but I want to go home soon, as soon as we can, back to

the villa; home, home!"

Sonnenkamp promised all should be as he desired.