.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42426
   :PG.Title: Gold Elsie
   :PG.Released: 2013-03-28
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: \E. Marlitt
   :MARCREL.trl: Mrs. \A. \L. Wister
   :DC.Title: Gold Elsie
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1868
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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GOLD ELSIE
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      GOLD ELSIE

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      FROM THE GERMAN
      OF

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      \E. MARLITT

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      AUTHOR OF "THE OLD MAM'SELLE'S SECRET."

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      BY
      MRS. A. L. WISTER.

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      PHILADELPHIA:
      J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
      1868.

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      Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
      J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,

      In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States in and
      for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

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.. _`CHAPTER I.`:

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   GOLD ELSIE

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   CHAPTER I.

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It had been snowing all day long,—so steadily that the
roofs and window-sills were covered deep with spotless
white cushions.  And now the early twilight fell,
bringing with it a wild gust of wind that raged among the
falling snow-flakes like some bird of prey among a flock of
peaceful doves.

Although the weather was such that the comfort-loving
inhabitants of any small town would hardly have sent
their dogs out of doors, not to mention venturing their
own worthy persons, yet there was little difference to be
seen in the size of the crowd that usually frequents the
streets of the large Capital, B——, between the hours of
six and seven in the evening.  The gas lamps were an
excellent substitute for those heavenly lights which would
not make their appearance.  Carriages were whirling
around corners in such tempestuous haste that many a
pedestrian rescued life and limb only by a sudden leap aside,
while curses both loud and deep were hurled after the
coachmen enveloped in their comfortable furs, and the
elegant coaches which contained behind their glass doors
charmingly dressed women, whose lovely flower-crowned
heads, as they peeped from among masses of muslin and
tulle, certainly had no suspicion of the fire and brimstone
called down upon them.  In the warm atmosphere,
behind the huge shop windows, elaborately curled and
frizzed wax heads, surrounded by blond and black scalps,
stared out upon the passers-by.  Smiling shopmen
displayed their fascinating merchandise, and withered old
flower-sellers stood among their fresh-blooming bouquets,
which exhaled beauty and fragrance beneath the light of
the lamps that shed a brilliant glare upon the slippery
pavement and upon the flood of human life streaming by,
revealing the pinched, blue features and the desperately
uncomfortable movements of all, old and young.

But stay,—not of all!  A female figure has just entered
one of the principal streets from a narrow by-way.  A
small threadbare cloak closely envelopes her slender form,
and a worn old muff is pressed against her breast,
confining the ends of a black lace veil, behind which two
girlish eyes are glowing with the sunlight of early youth.
They look out joyously into the whistling snow-storm,
rest lovingly upon the half-open rosebuds and dark purple
violets behind the glass panes of the shop windows, and
only veil their light beneath their long dark lashes when
sharp hail-stones mingle with the driving snow-flakes.

Whoever has listened while childish fingers, or
sometimes fingers no longer childish, confidently begin upon
the piano a well-known melody, which goes bravely on for
a few bars, then is arrested by a frightful discord
followed by a wild grasping after every key on the
instrument except the correct ones, while the patient teacher
sits by, ceasing to attempt to evoke order out of chaos by
the usual steady marking of the time, wearily waiting
until the panting melody is seized again and carried on
with lightning rapidity through several easy bars as over
some level plain,—whoever has thus had his ears stretched
upon the rack, can understand the delight with which
this young girl, who has just given two music lessons in
a large school, offers her hot cheek to the wind as to an
energetic comrade, whose mighty roar can breathe wondrous
melodies through the pipes of an organ or over the
strings of an Æolian harp.

Thus she passes lightly and swiftly through the storm
and crowd; and I do not for an instant doubt that if I
should present her now upon this slippery pavement to
the gentle reader as Fräulein Elizabeth Ferber, she would
with a lovely smile make him as graceful a courtesy as
though they both stood in a ball-room.  But this
introduction cannot take place,—and we really do not need
it, for I forthwith intend to relate to the reader my
heroine's antecedents.

Baron Wolf von Gnadewitz was the last scion of a
famous house whose remote ancestry could be traced back
into the dubious twilight which even preceded that golden
age when the travelling merchant, journeying through
some sequestered pass, was forced to surrender his costly
stuffs and wares to a knightly banner and shining steel-clad
troup of retainers as often as to the buff-coated highway
adventurer.  From those illustrious times there had
been handed down, in the crest of the Gnadewitzes a
wheel, upon which one of these same noble ancestors had
breathed out his knightly soul in consequence of having
spilt rather too much ignoble trading-blood in one of the
above-mentioned assaults upon his merchant prey.

Baron von Gnadewitz, the last of his race, was
chamberlain in the service of the Prince Royal of X——, and
possessor of various orders and large estates, as well as
of those peculiarities of character and disposition which
were, in his estimation, befitting the high-born, and which
he was accustomed to designate as "distinguished,"
because all common men, bound by work-a-day moral
considerations, and compelled by the stern necessities of life,
lose all taste for the inimitable grace and elegance of
vice.

Baron Wolf von Gnadewitz was as fond of pomp and
show as his grandfather, who had forsaken the old castle
Gnadeck upon a mountain in Thuringia, the cradle of his
line, and had built him in the valley below a perfect fairy
palace in the Italian style.  The grandson allowed the old
castle to fall into decay, while he enlarged and improved
the modern mansion considerably.  Yes, it seemed as
though he entertained not the smallest doubt but that his
latest descendant would be found occupying this favourite
palace at the day of judgment, for the old castle was quite
dismantled in order that the vast chambers of the new
abode might be thoroughly furnished.  But he reckoned
without his host.  Wolf von Gnadewitz had a son, 'tis
true,—a son who, at twenty years of age, was so complete and
thorough a Gnadewitz that the illustrious image of his
ancestor who had perished upon the wheel paled before
him.  This promising youth one day, upon the occasion
of the great autumn hunt in the forest, struck one of his
whippers-in a fearful blow upon the head with the loaded
handle of his hunting-whip—a fearful blow, but a perfectly
just punishment, as every one of the guests invited to
the hunt declared, for the man had stepped upon the paw
of a favourite hound so clumsily as to render the
animal entirely useless for a whole day.  And thus it
happened that, a short time afterward, Hans von Gnadewitz
was to be found not only upon the boughs of the
genealogical tree in the hall of the new castle, but suspended
by a rope around his neck to a bough of one of the actual
trees in the forest.  The beaten whipper-in expiated the
deed upon the scaffold, but that could not bring the last
of the Gnadewitzes to life again, for he was dead,—irrevocably
dead, the physicians said; and the long tale of
robber-knights, wild excesses, hunting orgies, and
horse-racing came to an end.

After this terrible catastrophe, Wolf von Gnadewitz left
the castle in the valley, and indeed that part of the country,
and dwelt upon one of his many estates in Silesia.  He took
into his house to nurse him a young female relative, the
last survivor of one of the collateral branches of his house.
This young relative proved to be a girl of angelic beauty,
at sight of whom the old baron entirely forgot the object
for which he had invited her beneath his roof, and at
last determined to clothe his sixty years in a
wedding-garment.  To his exceeding indignation, however, he
now learned that there might come a time, even to a
Gnadewitz, when he could no longer be regarded as a
desirable *parti*, and he fell into a violent rage when his
young relative confessed that, in utter forgetfulness of
her lofty lineage, she had given her heart to a bourgeois
officer, the son of one of his foresters.

The young man possessed no worldly gear, only his
sword and a remarkably fine manly person; but he was
rich in mind, accomplished, amiable in disposition, and
of stainless character.  When Wolf von Gnadewitz, in
consequence of Marie's confession, turned her from his
doors, young Ferber carried her home with delight as his
wife, and for the first ten years of their married life would
not have exchanged his lot with that of any king on
earth.  Still less would he have made such an exchange
in the eleventh year, for that was the eventful 1848; but
with it came fierce struggles for him, and an entire
alteration in his circumstances.  He was obliged to decide
between two duties.  One had been inculcated while he was
in his cradle by his father, and ran thus: "Love your
neighbour, and especially your German brother, as
yourself;" the other, which he had in later years imposed
upon himself, commanded him to draw the sword in his
master's interest.  In this strife the teachings of his
childhood conquered entirely.  Ferber refused to draw
the sword upon his brethren; but his refusal cost him
his commission, and with it all assured means of
subsistence.  He retired from the army, and soon afterward,
in consequence of a severe cold, was stretched upon a
sick-bed, which he left only after years of disheartening
weakness.  He then moved with his family to B——,
where he obtained quite a lucrative situation as
bookkeeper in an extensive mercantile establishment.  It was
high time, for his wife's small property had been lost
shortly before by the failure of a bank, and the
remittances of money which came to the distressed family
from time to time from Ferber's elder and only brother,
a forester in Thuringia, were all that kept them from
extreme poverty.

Unluckily this good fortune was of short duration.
Ferber's chief was a pietist of the most severe description,
and spared no one in his zeal for proselytism.  His
efforts to convert Ferber to his own narrow dogmas were
met by such quiet but decided resistance, that the pious
spirit of the saintly Herr Hagen was seized with holy
horror.  Remorse at the thought of affording protection
and subsistence to such an avowed free-thinker, gave
him no peace by night or by day, until he had freed
himself from such a burden of guilt, by a note of dismissal,
which banished the tainted sheep from his fold.

About the same time Wolf von Gnadewitz went home
to his ancestors, and as during his earthly career he had
strictly conformed to the Gnadewitz custom of leaving
no insult, fancied or otherwise: unavenged, no worthier
conclusion to his life could be found than the will which
he drew up with his own hands shortly before he
descended into the narrow chamber of lead which was to
contain for all futurity his noble bones.

This manly document, which constituted sole heir to
his large estates a distant relative of his wife's,
concluded with the following codicil:

"In consideration of the undeniable claim which she
has upon my property, I bequeath to Anna Marie Ferber,
born von Gnadewitz, the castle of Gnadeck in the
mountains in Thuringia.  Anna Marie Ferber will understand
my benevolent intention in her behalf in leaving to her
a mansion crowded with memories of the noble race to
which she once belonged.  In full remembrance and
consideration of the good fortune and many blessings
which have always hovered above this ancient pile, I
hold it entirely superfluous to increase my legacy further.
But if Anna Marie Ferber, blind to the value of my gift,
should wish to sell or exchange it in any way, her right
to it must be abdicated in favour of the orphan asylum
of L——."

And thus, with the utterance of a biting satire, Wolf
von Gnadewitz betook himself to his funeral bed of state.
Ferber and his wife had indeed never seen the old castle,
but it was notoriously a crumbling heap of ruins, which
the hand of improvement had not touched for fifty years,
and which, when the modern abode in the valley was
completed, had been stripped of furniture, tapestries, and,
in the case of the main building, even of the metallic
roofing.

Since that time the ponderous oaken door of the
principal entrance had remained closed, and the dusty, rusty
bolts and bars had never once been withdrawn.  The huge
forest trees which were growing before it spread abroad
their mighty branches, and drooped them among the thick
brushwood at their feet, so that the deserted castle lay
behind the green impenetrable wall like a coffined mummy.

The lucky heir, who was greatly annoyed by seeing
so large a part of his woodland possessions in stranger
hands, would gladly have purchased the old castle at a
high price, but the cunning clause at the conclusion of the
codicil forbade any such transaction.

Frau Ferber laid the copy of the will which had been
sent her, and upon which there dropped from her eyes a
few tears of regret, upon her husband's desk, and then
took up her work,—some delicate embroidery,—with
redoubled, almost feverish industry.  In spite of his
exertions Ferber had been unable to procure another situation,
and was now doing his best to maintain his family by
translating, a labour but poorly paid, and even by copying
law papers, while his wife eked out their scanty means by
the proceeds of her needle, which she plied night and day.

But dark as were the heavens above the struggling
pair, one star rose quietly among the black clouds and
seemed not unlikely to indemnify them by its radiance
for all the storms with which fickle fortune had
overwhelmed them.  A presentiment of this gentle light
which was to beam upon his gloomy path possessed
Ferber when he stood for the first time beside the cradle
of his first-born, a daughter, and gazed into the lovely
eyes which smiled upon him from the baby face.  All Frau
Ferber's friends had been unanimously of opinion that
the little girl was a charming creature, a wonderfully
gifted child; indeed, they had declared it did not look in
the least like an ordinary baby, did not appear to belong to
the class of miserable little wretches, who, red as lobsters,
seem determined to scream their way through the world;
but,—here they had broken off; and it was intimated
that were it not for fear of the sneers of their liege
lords, and the utterly prosaic tendencies of the nineteenth
century, they should certainly suspect that some
benevolent fairy had been at work in this case.

They contended as to who should be so far favoured as
to hold the little creature at the baptismal font, and
should show the deepest tenderness for the little
god-daughter, declaring that the day of her baptism could never
be effaced from their remembrance; but this demand upon
their memories was altogether too great, for when Ferber
fell into difficulties, selfishness passed its finger over the
recorded day, and no trace of it remained in their minds.

This change, which little Elizabeth experienced in the
ninth year of her existence, disturbed her not at all.  Her
probable fairy protectress had, in addition to other rich
gifts, endowed her in her cradle with an invincible
joyousness of temperament and great force of will; so she
took from her mother's hand her scanty evening meal
as gratefully and gaily as she had once received the
inexhaustible delicacies presented to her by admiring
god-parents; and when on Christmas-eve the room was adorned
only by a poor little Christmas-tree hung with a few
apples and gilded nuts, the child did not seem to remember
the time when friends had crowded around to deck its
boughs with all imaginable toys.

Ferber educated his daughter himself.  She never
attended a school of any kind, an omission in her training
which cannot, unfortunately, in the present age, be
regarded as anything but an advantage, when we see how
many young girls leave school with far more knowledge
upon some subjects than is at all desirable or pleasing to
the anxious mother, who strives at home to preserve
unsoiled her child's purity of mind and heart, and often does
not dream how her tender care is made of no avail by
the taint which one impure nature in the school will
communicate, and which may perhaps colour an entire
after-life.

Elizabeth's pliant mind was finely developed beneath
the control of her gifted parents.  Thoroughly to
understand the study which occupied her, and to appropriate
its results in such a manner as to make them inalienably
her own were duties which she most conscientiously
fulfilled.  But she gave herself to the study of music
with an ardor that inspires a human being only when
engaged in a pursuit felt to be especially his own.  She
soon far outstripped her mother, who was her instructress,
and as when a child she would often leave her playthings
if she saw a cloud upon her father's brow, to
sit on his knee and divert him with some tale of
wonder, thus, as a girl, she would charm away the demon
of gloom from her father's mind by strange and
delicious melodies which lay like pearls in the depths of her
soul, until she brought them to light for the first time
for his relief and enjoyment.  And this was not the only
blessing springing from her rare talent for music.  The
exquisite touch upon the piano, in the garret in which the
family lived, attracted the attention of several of the more
aristocratic inhabitants of the house, and Elizabeth soon
had two or three pupils in music, and had lately been
employed in a large school as teacher of the piano, thus
sensibly increasing the means of subsistence of the family.

Here let us resume the thread of our story, and we shall
not shrink, I hope, from the trouble that we must take in
following our heroine through the wet streets upon this
stormy evening to her home and her parents.





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.. _`CHAPTER II.`:

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   CHAPTER II.

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Even during the long walk through the streets, alternately
straight and crooked, gloomy and bright, Elizabeth
enjoyed in imagination the delicious sensation of comfort
that the sight of the cosey room at home always caused
her.  There sat her father at his writing-table with its little
study-lamp, ready to raise his pale face with a smile when
Elizabeth entered.  He would take his pen, which had
been travelling so busily over the paper for hours, in his
left hand, and with his right draw his daughter down
beside him to kiss her forehead.  Her mother, who, with
her work-basket at her feet, usually sat close beside her
husband that she might share the light of his study-lamp,
would welcome her with tender loving eyes, and point to
Elizabeth's slippers, which her care had placed by the
stove to warm.  Upon the stove apples would be roasting
with a cheering hiss, and in the warm corner beside
it was the sofa-table, where the tea-kettle would be
singing merrily above its spirit-lamp, whose weak, blue
light illumined the regiment of tin soldiers, which her
only brother, Ernst, a child six years of age, was busily
drilling.

Elizabeth mounted to the fourth story before she
reached the dark, narrow passage which led to her
father's rooms.  Here she hastily took off her bonnet and
placed upon her lovely fair hair a boy's cap, trimmed
with fur, which she drew from under her cloak.  Then
she entered the room, where little Ernst ran toward her
with a shout of joy.

But this evening the light shone from the sofa-table in
the usually dark corner by the stove, while the writing-table
was left neglected in the gloom.  Her father sat
upon the sofa, with his arm around her mother's waist;
there was a joyous light upon the countenances of both,
and, although her mother had evidently been weeping,
Elizabeth instantly perceived that her tears had been tears
of joy.  She stood still upon the threshold of the door
in great astonishment, and must have presented a most
comical appearance with the child's cap surmounting her
amazed countenance, for both father and mother laughed
aloud.  Elizabeth gaily joined in their laughter, and
placed the fur cap upon her little brother's dark curls.

"There, my darling," she said, tenderly taking his rosy
face between her hands and kissing it, "that is yours;
and there is still something left to help on your
housekeeping, mother dear," she continued, with a happy smile,
as she handed her mother four shining thalers.  "They
gave me my first five thalers of salary at school to-day."

"But, Elsbeth," said her mother, with the tears in
her eyes, as she drew her down to kiss her, "Ernst's last
year's cap is still quite respectable, and you needed a pair
of warm winter gloves much more."

"I, mother? just feel my hands; although I have
been in the street for an hour almost, they are as warm
as if I had been holding them before the fire.  No; new
gloves would be a most superfluous luxury.  Our boy is
growing taller and stouter, and his cap has not kept pace
with him; so I consider the cap a necessary expense."

"Ah, you good sister!" cried the child with delight;
"even the little baron on the first story has not such a
charming cap as this.  How fine it will look when I go
hunting, hey, papa?"

"Hunting!" laughed Elizabeth; "are you going to
shoot the unfortunate sparrows in the Thiergarten?"

"Oh, what a miserable guesser you are, Madam Elsie!"
the boy rejoined, gleefully.  "In the Thiergarten, indeed!"
he added, more seriously; "that would be pretty sport.
No, in the forest,—the real forest,—where the deer and
hares are so thick that you don't even have to take aim
when you want to shoot them."

"I should like to hear what your uncle would say to
this view of the noble chase," said his father with a smile,
taking up a letter from the table and handing it to Elizabeth.

"Read this, my child," said he; "it is from your 'forester
uncle,' as you call him, in Thuringia."

Elizabeth glanced over the first few lines, and then read
aloud:

"The prince, who sometimes prefers a dish of bacon
and sauerkraut at my table to the best efforts of his French
cook in the castle of L——, passed several hours with
me at my lodge yesterday.  He was very condescending,
and informed me that he purposed employing an assistant
forester, or rather forester's clerk, for he saw that my
duties were too onerous.  I seized upon my opportunity,—the
game was within shot, and if I missed I had nothing
to lose but a couple of charges fired into the air;
now was my time.

"So I told him how the jade, fortune, had played the
very devil with you for this many a year, and how, in spite
of your fine talents and acquirements, poverty had knocked
at your door.  My old master knew well what I was
driving at, for I spoke, as I always do, in good German.
Thus far in my life every one has understood what I had
to say.  It is only the fops and fools of his court who
fawn around him, who would persuade him that good,
honest German is too coarse for royal ears, and that he
must always be addressed in French.  Well, my old
master said that he would like to offer you this situation as
forester's clerk, because he thought that with regard to
myself,—and here he said a couple of things that you need
not hear, but which delighted me,—old fellow as I am,—quite
as much as when in old times, upon examination-day,
the schoolmaster used to say, 'Carl, you have done
yourself credit to-day.'  Well, his highness has
commissioned me to write to you, and he will arrange matters.
Three hundred and fifty thalers salary, and your fuel.
Now think it over; it is not so poor an offer, and the
green forest is a thousand times pleasanter than your
confounded attics, where the neighbours' cats are forever
squalling, and where your eyes are blinded by the smoke
of a million chimneys.

"You must not think that I am one of those wheedling,
parasitical fellows who use their master's favour to
benefit all their own kith and kin.  No; I can tell you
that if you were not what you are, that is, if you were
not really talented and well educated, I would bite my
tongue out before I would recommend you to my master;
and, on the other side, I should always try to secure in
his service such an honest, capable fellow as yourself.
No offence; you know I always like a plain statement of
a plain case.

"But there is another matter to be considered.  You
ought to live with me, and it could be very easily
arranged if you were a bachelor, whom four walls would
content, with a chest for his solitary wardrobe.  But,
unfortunately, there is no possible room in my lonely old
rat's-hole of a forest-lodge for an entire family.  It is in
rather a tumble-down condition, and has needed a doctor
for some time, but I suppose the authorities will do
nothing for it until the old balconies come crumbling about
my ears.  The nearest village is half a league, and the
nearest town a league from the lodge; you cannot
possibly walk these distances every day, in the miserable
weather that we have here sometimes.

"Now old Sabina, my housekeeper, who was born in the
nearest village, has made a wild suggestion which I
herewith impart to you.  Old castle Gnadeck, the deceased
Baron Gnadewitz's brilliant legacy to you, is, as I have
told you, situated at about a rifle's shot distance from the
lodge.  Well, Sabina says that when she was a strong
hearty girl,—which, by the way, must have been
something beyond a quarter of a century ago,—she was a
chambermaid in the Gnadewitz household.  Then the new
castle was not entirely furnished, and did not suffice to
contain the crowd of guests yearly invited to the great
hunt.  And so part of the building connecting the two
principal wings of the old castle was somewhat repaired
and furnished.  Sabina had to make and air the beds and
attend to the rooms, to her great terror, and no wonder,—her
old brain is perfectly crammed with all sorts of witch
and ghost stories,—for the rest she is a most respectable
person, and rules my household with a steady rein.

"She maintains most firmly that this part of the castle
cannot be in a crumbling condition, for it was then in an
excellent state of preservation, and would, she is sure,
afford a capital shelter for you and yours.  May be she is
right; but are your children bold enough to brave the
ghostly inhabitants that are said to haunt those old walls?

"You know how vexed I was about your worthless
legacy, and that I have never once been able, since the
death of the sainted Wolf von Gnadewitz, to induce myself
to visit the old ruin.  But after hearing Sabina's tale
yesterday afternoon, I made one of my men climb a tree
which stood upon the only spot which could give you a
glimpse into the robber's nest, and he declared that
everything had fallen into decay there.  And this morning I
have been to the authorities in the town, but they would
not give me the keys of the castle without special
permission from your wife, and made, besides, as much fuss
about it as if the treasures of Golconda lay hid in the
mouldy old rooms.  None of those who placed the seals
upon the doors could tell me what sort of a place it was,
for they never entered it, under the impression that the
ceiling might fall and dash out their prudent brains, but
contented themselves with placing a dozen official seals
as large as your hand upon the principal entrance door.
I should very much like to investigate matters with you,
so pray decide quickly and start with your family as soon
as possible."

Here Elizabeth dropped the letter and looked with
sparkling eyes at her father.

"Well, how have you decided, father dear?" she asked
hastily.

"Ah," he replied gravely, "it is quite a hard task to
tell you our resolution, for I see by your face that you
would not for the world exchange this gay populous city
for the loneliness and quiet of the Thuringian forest.
Still, you must know that my application to the Prince
of L—— for the place in question lies sealed in that
envelope.  However, it is only reasonable that your wishes
should be consulted in some degree, and we can be
induced to leave you here in case——"

"Ah, no; if Elizabeth will not go I would rather stay
here, too," interrupted the little boy, clinging anxiously to
his sister.

"Never fear, my darling," she said to him with a laugh;
"I shall find a place in the carriage, and if I could not, you
know I am as bold as a soldier, and can run like a hare.
My longing for the greenwood, which has been the fairy-land
of my imagination ever since I was a very little child,
shall be my compass, and I shall get along bravely.  What
will papa do when, some evening, a weary way-worn
traveller, with ragged shoes and empty pockets, prays for
admission at the gate of the old castle?"

"Ah, then, indeed, we must admit you," said her father,
smiling, "if we would not draw down upon our crumbling
roof the hostility of all good spirits who protect courage
and innocence.  But you will have to pass by the old
castle if you wish to find us, and knock at some modest
peasant hut in the valley, for the ruined old pile will
scarcely afford us an asylum."

"I am afraid not, indeed," said his wife.  "We shall
work our way laboriously through wild hedges and thick
underbrush, like the unfortunate suitors of the Sleeping
Beauty, to find at last——"

"Poetry itself!" cried Elizabeth.  "Why, the first
delicious bloom will be brushed from our woodland life if
we cannot live in the old castle!  Certainly there must
be four sound walls and a whole roof in some one of its
old towers, and with heads to plan and strong willing
hands to execute, the rest can be very easily arranged.
We will stop up cracks with moss, nail boards over
doorways that have lost their doors, and paper our four walls
ourselves; we can cover the worm-eaten floors with
homemade straw mats; declare war to the death upon
the gray-coated, four-footed little thieves who would
invade our larder, and soon banish all cobwebs by a good
broom skilfully wielded."

With glowing looks, quite carried away by her dreams
of the future home in the fresh green forest, she went to
the piano and opened it.  It was an old, worn-out
instrument, whose hoarse, weak tones harmonized perfectly
with its shabby exterior; but, nevertheless, beneath
Elizabeth's fingers Mendelssohn's song, "Through the
dark green Forest," rang deliciously through the little
room.

Her parents sat quietly listening.  Little Ernst dropped
asleep.  Without, the howling of the storm was lulled,
but the snow was driving noiselessly past the uncurtained
window in huge flakes.  The opposite chimneys, no longer
smoking, had put on thick white night-caps, and looked
stiffly and coldly, like peevish old age, into the little attic
room, which enclosed, in the midst of the snow-storm, a
perfect spring of joy and gaiety within its four walls.





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.. _`CHAPTER III.`:

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   CHAPTER III.

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Whitsuntide!  A word that will thrill with its magic
the human soul as long as trees burst into leaf, larks soar
trilling aloft, and clear spring skies laugh above us.  A
word which can awaken an echo of spring in hearts
encrusted with selfishness and greed of gain, chilled by the
snows of age, or deadened by grief and care.

Whitsuntide is at hand.  A gentle breeze flutters over
the Thuringian mountains, and brushes from their brows
the last remains of the snow which whirls mistily into the
air and leaves its old abiding-place in the guise of
luminous spring clouds.  Freed from their wintry garments,
the mountains deck their rugged brows with wreaths of
young strawberry vines and bilberries.  In the valley
below, the rippling trout-stream is flowing forth from the
dark forest directly across the flower-strewn meadow.

The lonely saw-mill is clacking merrily, while its low
thatched roof shines white with the fallen blossoms of
the sheltering fruit trees.

Before the windows of the scattered huts of the
wood-cutters and of the villagers many an accomplished
bullfinch was singing in his little cage the airs which were
the fruits of a course of instruction in high art, daring
the winter in the hot, close room of his master.  And
his brothers in the forest were trilling wilder but far
sweeter lays, for their little throats inhaled the clear air
of freedom.

Where, a few weeks before, the melted snow had
foamed down from the mountain tops in a bed created by
its own torrent, beautiful moss was now weaving a soft
carpet, that would soon quite conceal the scarred breast
of the mountain, while here and there, through the thick
green the silver thread of some little stream glittered in
the sunlight.

Upon the highway running through a charming valley
of the Thuringian forest the Ferbers were travelling, in a
well-packed carriage, toward their new home.  It was
very early in the morning; the bell from a distant
church-tower had just tolled the hour of three,
wherefore only the shabby old sign-post by the roadside and
a herd of stately stags were permitted the sight of a
happy face that looked upon this lovely forest for the first
time.

Elizabeth leaned far out of the window of the dark
carriage, and inhaled deep draughts of the invigorating air,
which she maintained had already cleared away from her
eyes and lungs all the dust of the city.  Ferber sat
opposite, sunk in thought.  He too was refreshed by the
beauty and tender grace of the forest; but he was more
deeply moved by the delight in the eyes of his child, who
was so susceptible to the charms of nature and so
unspeakably grateful for the change in their circumstances.
How busy her hands had been since the Royal answer to
Ferber's application for the new office had been received!
There had been much to do.  She had shared faithfully
in all the cares which their departure from the city
brought upon her parents.  It is true the prince had sent
his new official a considerable sum of money for
travelling expenses, and the forester uncle, too, had shown his
usual generosity; but with the greatest economy it did
not suffice, and therefore Elizabeth had employed every
hour which she usually had for recreation in sewing
for a large ready-made linen establishment,—occupying
herself thus with her needle for many a night, after her
unsuspecting parents were sleeping soundly.

There had been one bitter experience amid all the busy
hurry, which had cost the young girl many tears.  She
had seen her dear piano borne off upon the shoulders of
two strong men to its new possessor.  It had to be sold
for a few thalers, because it was old and frail,—too frail
to be transported to the new home.  Ah, it had been so
true a friend to the family!  Its thin, quavering voice had
sounded in Elizabeth's ears tender and dear as the voice
of her mother.  And now, probably, unfeeling children
would thrum upon its venerable keys, and tease the old
instrument to speak more strongly, until it should be
mute forever.  But this sorrow was past, and lay behind
her, with much beside which she had sacrificed and
endured silently; and as she sat looking out into the
morning twilight, with eyes sparkling with delight,—eyes that
seemed to read behind the misty veil of the dawn all
kinds of brilliant prophecies for the future,—who could
have discerned in that figure, glowing with the
elasticity of youth, one trace of the fatigue of the last busy
weeks?

For another half hour the travellers drove along the
smooth, level highway, and then turned aside into the
thick forest by a well-kept carriage-road.  The sun was
just rising in the eastern sky, and shot his rays upon the
earth in splendid amazement at the diamonds with which
she had adorned herself during his absence.  In the night
a heavy shower had come up, much rain had fallen, and
the large drops were still hanging upon twig and leaf,
falling pattering upon the roof of the carriage whenever
the postillion touched one of the overarching boughs with
his whip.  What a glorious forest!  From the thick
underbrush at their feet the trees reared their colossal
trunks, and above, their boughs intertwined in a fraternal
embrace as though determined to defend their peaceful,
quiet home from light and air as from two deadly enemies.
Only here and there a slender, green-tinted sunbeam
would slip from bough to bough down upon the feathery
grass and the little strawberry-blossoms, sprinkled
everywhere like snow-flakes, even laying their little white
heads impertinently upon the road.

After a short drive the wood grew less dense, and soon
the retired Lodge appeared in the midst of a meadow in
the heart of the forest.  The postillion sounded his horn.
A tremendous barking of dogs was heard; and with a
loud whirr a large flock of doves soared, terrified, into
the air from the pointed gable of the house.

A man in a hunting uniform was standing at the open
door,—a gigantic figure, with a huge beard that almost
covered his breast.  He shaded his eyes with his hands
as he looked keenly at the approaching carriage, but
suddenly running down the steps, he tore open the door, and
threw his arms around Ferber, as the latter sprang out.
For one instant the brothers stood in a close embrace;
then the forester gently released the slender figure of the
younger, and, holding him by the shoulder at arm's length,
gazed searchingly into his pale worn countenance.

"Poor Adolph!" he said at last, and his deep voice
trembled with emotion.  "Has fate brought you to this?
But wait awhile, we will have you sound and well again;
it is not too late.  A thousand welcomes to you!  And
now let us stick together until the last great trumpet call,
when we shall not be asked whether we will stay
together or not."

He tried to master his emotion, and helped his
sister-in-law and little Ernst, whom he embraced and kissed, to
descend from the carriage.

"Well," said he, "you must have been knocked up at
an early hour, I must say, and that's hardly the thing for
women."

"What can you be thinking of, uncle?" cried Elizabeth.
"We are no slug-a-beds, and know exactly how the
sun looks when he says good morning to the world."

"Halloa!" cried the forester with a laugh of surprise.
"Who is that quarrelling with me in the corner of the
carriage?  Come out instantly, little one."

"I, little?  Well, sir, you will be finely surprised when
I do get out and you see what a tall, stately maiden I am!"

With these words Elizabeth sprang down from the high
carriage and stood on tiptoe, drawing herself up to her
full height beside him.  But although her slender,
graceful figure was something above middle size, she seemed
at this moment like a pretty king-bird measuring itself
with an eagle.

"Look," she said, in a rather disappointed tone, "I am
nearly up to your shoulder, and that is more than tall
enough for a respectable girl."

Her uncle, holding himself as erect as possible, looked
down upon her with a roguish smile of great self-satisfaction
for a moment, then suddenly picked her up in his
arms as though she had been a feather, and amid the
laughter of the others carried her into the house, calling
in a voice of thunder—

"Sabina, Sabina, come here, and I will show you how
the wrens look in B——."

He put his terrified burden down in the hall as gently
and carefully as though he were handling some brittle
plaything, took her head tenderly between his large hands,
kissed her forehead again and again, and said, "That
such a queen of Liliput, such a moonshine elf, should dream
of being as large as her tall uncle!  But, forest fairy as
you are, you know all about the sun, for your head is
covered with its beams."

As she was carried into the house upon her uncle's
arm the girl's hat had fallen from her head, revealing a
mass of fair hair, the golden colour of which was all the
more remarkable as her delicately pencilled eyebrows and
long lashes were coal black.

In the mean while an old woman entered from a side
door, and at the head of the first flight of stairs several
boyish faces appeared, which, however, vanished as soon
as they found themselves perceived by the forester.  "Oh,
you need not run away," he cried, laughing.  "I have
seen you peeping.  They are my assistants," he turned
to his brother; "the fellows are as curious as sparrows,
and to-day I really cannot blame them," and he glanced
archly at Elizabeth, who, standing aside, was binding
her loosened braids around her head.  Then he took the
old woman by the hand and presented her, with an air of
comical solemnity: "Fräulein Sabina Holzin, Minister of
the Interior to the Forest Lodge, High Constable in all
stable and farm affairs, and to every one therein concerned,
and, lastly, absolute monarch in the kitchen department.
While she is putting the dinner on the table do just as
she tells you, and all will go well with you; but, if she
begins with her stock of old proverbs and ghost stories,
get out of her way as quickly as possible, for there is no
end to them.  And now,"—he turned to the smiling old
woman, who was a miracle of ugliness, and who yet
prepossessed all in her favour by her honest eyes, by an
expression of roguery and fun that lighted up her face, and
especially by the spotless cleanliness of her attire,—"now
bring us as quickly as you can whatever pantry and
cellar will afford: I know you baked our Whitsuntide
cakes earlier than usual, that our travellers might have
something to refresh them after their fatigue."

With these words he opened the door opposite to the
one from the kitchen through which the old woman
disappeared, and showed his guests into a large apartment
with bow-windows.  But Elizabeth lingered behind,
looking through the door which led into the court-yard,
for, between the white picket fences which shut in the
feathered tribes on each side of the enclosure, she saw
gay beds of flowers, while three or four late-blossoming
apple trees stretched their rosy bloom-laden branches
over one corner of the space.  The garden was large,
climbing a short distance up the mountain side by terraces,
and even enclosing within its realm a beautiful group of
old beeches, outlying members of the forest.  While
Elizabeth, entranced, stood thus in the hall, the door of a side
wing of the house opened and a young girl stepped out
into the court-yard.  She was strikingly beautiful,
although her figure was rather diminutive, a defect for which
nature had seemed to wish to indemnify her by gifting her
with a pair of large eyes that glowed like dazzling black
suns.  Her abundant dark hair was arranged evidently with
an eye to coquettish effect, and several charmingly curled
locks had escaped just above the pale forehead.  Her
dress, too, although of simple material, betrayed in its
arrangement the greatest care, and the observer could not
but suspect that the skirt was so artistically looped not
merely that the hem might be kept from the dust, but also
with an eye to the neat little boot which it revealed, and
which certainly was not made to be hidden beneath the
heavy woollen stuff of the dress.

She had in her hand a bowl full of grain, and threw a
handful upon the stones at her feet.  A great noise
ensued; the doves fluttered down from the roof, the fowls
left their roosts and nests with loud cacklings, and the
watch-dog felt it his duty to assist in the universal
clamour by barking loudly.

Elizabeth was astonished.  It is true, her uncle had
been married, but he never had any children, as she
knew; who then was this young girl, of whom no
mention had been made in his letter?  She descended the
steps that led to the court-yard, and approached the
stranger: "Do you live at the Lodge?" she asked, kindly.

The black eyes were riveted searchingly upon her for
one moment, with a look of unmistakable surprise, then
an expression of annoyance flitted across her delicate lips,
which closed more tightly than before; the eyelids fell
over the glittering eyes, and she turned silently away, as
though entirely unconscious of the presence or address of
any one, and continued feeding the fowls with the grain.

Just then Sabina passed through the hall with the
coffee-tray.  She beckoned confidentially to Elizabeth, who
stood amazed, and, when she drew near, bade her follow
her into the house, saying: "Come, child, you can do
nothing with her."

In the sitting-room, Elizabeth found all as comfortable
and happy as if they had lived together for years.  Her
mother was sitting in a large arm-chair, which the forester
had pushed near a window that commanded a lovely view
down one of the vistas of the forest.  A large striped cat
had sprung confidingly into her lap, where it was purring
with satisfaction beneath the small hand that was gently
stroking it.  And for little Ernst, the four walls of the room
were a perfect museum of all imaginable curiosities.  He
had climbed into one chair after another, and was then
standing in speechless admiration before a glass case
containing a gorgeous collection of butterflies.  The two men
were seated, side by side, upon the lounge, in deep
consultation concerning the future abode of the family, and,
as Elizabeth entered, she heard her uncle say, "Well, if
the old ruin on the mountain cannot afford you shelter,
you must stay here with me.  I can move my writing-table
and all my other matters out of your way for awhile,
and then I will besiege the authorities in the town until
they consent to add another story to the right wing of
my old house."

Elizabeth took off her travelling cloak, and assisted old
Sabina to set the table.  The first shadow had fallen
upon the enjoyment that had filled her soul.  Never before
had any advance of hers been met with unkindness.  That
she owed this exemption from the ill humour of others to
her beauty, the charm of her manner, and the childlike
purity of her nature, which exercised an unconscious
influence upon all around her, had never occurred to her.
She had taken it for granted that she should experience
only kindness from all, since she was conscious of
meaning well by all the world.  Her disappointment at the
repulse was all the greater, because the sight of a young
girl of about her own age had caused her such surprise
and joy; and the beautiful face of the stranger had
interested her deeply.  The studied arrangement of the
girl's dress had not struck her, as she herself had never
yet known the desire of heightening her attractions by
the aids of the toilet.  Her father and mother had
always assured her that no time spent in the cultivation
of mind and heart was lost, and that if they were
what they should be, her exterior could never be
unattractive, whatever might be the form with which nature
had endowed her.

The thoughtful expression of Elizabeth's face did not
escape her mother's notice.  She called her to her, and
her daughter began an account of the meeting; but at the
first words the forester turned towards her.  A deep
wrinkle appeared between his bushy eyebrows, and made
his face dark and gloomy.

"Indeed," he said, "have you seen her already?  Well,
then, let me tell you who and what she is.  I took her
into my house some years ago, that she might assist
Sabina in her housekeeping.  She is a distant relative of
my deceased wife, and has no parents, brothers nor sisters.
I wished to do good, but I have provided myself with
a perpetual scourge,—although I do not deserve it.
She had not been here a month before I discovered that
she had not a single healthy thought in her entire
composition; she is a mass of exaggerated ideas and
inconceivable arrogance.  I had half a mind to send her back
to the place she came from, but Sabina, who has still less
cause than I to love her, entreated me not to do it.
Why, I cannot tell, for the girl gave her a great deal
of trouble, and was insolent.  I did all I could to tame her
haughty spirit by giving her regular duties to perform,
and for awhile matters went on pretty well.  But about
a year ago a certain Baroness Lessen came to live over
at Lindhof,—that is the name of the former Gnadewitz
property, which the heir-at-law sold to a Herr von Walde.
The possessor himself, who has neither wife nor child, is a
kind of antiquary, travels a great deal, and leaves his only
sister under the charge of the aforesaid baroness, more's
the pity, for she turns everything upside down.  Years
ago, when I used to hear great piety spoken of, all my
veneration was excited, and I wished at least to take my
cap off; but now, when I hear of such things, I clench
my fist and pull my hat down over my eyes, for the
world has greatly changed.  The Baroness Lessen
belongs to those pious souls who grow cruel, hard, and
narrow-minded out of what they call pure fear of the
Lord; who persecute a fellow-creature who does not cast
his eyes down hypocritically, but lifts them to heaven
where God dwells, as persistently as a hound hunts down
game.  This is the herd to which my excellent niece
belongs; there could not be a better soil for all the weeds
that her brain generates, and all sorts of annoyances are
the consequence.  She made acquaintance with a lady's-maid
over there, and spent all her leisure time with her.
At first I was content enough, until all at once she began
with her plans,—for our conversion, as she calls it.
Sabina was a miserable sinner, because she would not leave
off work, at least ten times a day, to pray; the poor
old thing, who never misses church every Sunday at
Lindhof, even through wind and rain, and often with
rheumatism racking her old bones, and who has lived a
faithful, laborious life, infinitely more religious than sixty
years of idleness spent upon her knees.  And then my
fine moralist attacked me; but there she found her match,
and contented herself with a single effort.  Then I forbade
all intercourse with Lindhof; but my prohibition was of
little use, for whenever my back is turned she takes
occasion to slip over there.  Of course, there can be no
question of any gratitude towards me; I have no bond
of union with her as her guardian, and that makes my
task of guiding and guarding her doubly difficult.  God
only knows what insane idea has taken possession of her
now, but for two months she has been perfectly dumb,
not only here at home, but everywhere.  For that space
of time not a single word has passed her lips.  Neither
sternness nor gentle entreaty produces the slightest effect
upon her.  She attends to her duties just as she used to
do, eats and drinks like every one else, and is not one
whit less vain or wise in her own conceit.  But because
she grew pale, and did not look very well, I consulted a
physician, who had formerly known her, with regard to
her health.  He assured me that her physical health was
excellent, and advised that she should be treated with
gentle firmness, as the minds of several of her family had
previously been somewhat affected.  He said, too, that
she would grow tired of her entire silence, and would
begin talking some fine day like a magpie.  I am content
to wait; but in the mean time it is a sore trial to me.
All my life I have longed to have happy faces around
me, and would rather eat bread and salt with cheerful
people than the costliest dainties with morose
companions.  Come, my Fair one with the golden locks," he
concluded, stroking Elizabeth's head with his huge hand,
"push your mother's arm-chair up to the table, tie a
napkin round the neck of that little rogue who is staring his
eyes out at my case of rifles, and let us breakfast together,
for you all need repose, and must rest your weary limbs
after your long journey.  After dinner we must begin to
think of Castle Gnadeck; but first strengthen your eyes
with a little sleep, lest they should be dazzled by the
splendour which will flash upon them up there."

After breakfast, while her father and mother were asleep
and little Ernst was dreaming in a large bed of the
wonders of the forest-lodge, Elizabeth unpacked in the upper
room, which her uncle had resigned to her, all that was
necessary for the coming night.  She would not for the
world have gone to sleep.  She went repeatedly to the
window and looked across to the wooded mountain which
arose behind the lodge.  There, above the tops of the
trees, she could see a black streak, which stood out
distinctly against the clear blue sky.  That was, as old
Sabina said, an ancient iron flag-staff upon the roof of
Castle Gnadeck, from which in times long gone by the
proud banner of the Gnadewitzes had flouted the air.
Was there behind those trees the asylum for which she
longed, where her parents might rest their feet, weary with
long wandering upon foreign soil?

And then her eyes sought the court-yard below, but the
dumb girl did not appear again.  She had not come to
breakfast, and seemed to wish to avoid all intercourse
with the guests at the lodge.  For this Elizabeth was
very sorry.  Although her uncle's account had not
been promising, a youthful spirit is not quick to
resign its illusions, and would rather be undeceived by the
bursting of its gay bubble than admonished by the
experience of age.  The beautiful girl, who could so
determinedly conceal her secret behind closed lips, became
doubly interesting to her, and she exhausted herself in
conjectures as to the cause of this silence.





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.. _`CHAPTER IV.`:

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   CHAPTER IV.

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After a most cheerful dinner, Sabina brought from
the cupboard a pipe, which she filled and handed with a
match to the forester.

"What are you thinking of, Sabina?" he said, rejecting
it with a comical air of displeased surprise.  "Do you
think I could find it in my heart to sit here and smoke a
quiet pipe while Elsie's little feet are dancing with
impatience to run up the mountain, and she is longing to poke
her little nose into the magic castle?  No, I think we had
better start at once upon our voyage of discovery."

All were soon ready.  The forester gave his arm to his
sister-in-law, and they started off through the court and
garden.  After they had gone a little way, they were
joined by a mason from the neighbouring village, whom
the forester had sent for that he might be at hand if
necessary.

They walked up the mountain by a tolerably steep and
narrow path through the thick forest, but this path
gradually broadened, and at last led to a small open space, on
one side of which arose what seemed like a tall gray rock.

"Here I have the pleasure," said the forester to his
brother, with a sarcastic smile, "of revealing to you the
estate of the lamented Baron von Gnadewitz in all its
grandeur."

They were standing before a lofty wall, which looked
like one solid block of granite.  They could see nothing
of any buildings that might be behind it, because the
surrounding forest was too thick and close to allow of a
sufficiently distant point of observation.  The forester led
the way along the wall, at the base of which thick
underbrush was growing, until he reached a large oaken
door with an iron grating in the upper half of it.  Here
he had had the matted growth of underbrush cleared
away, and he now produced a bunch of large keys which
had been handed over to Frau Ferber as she had passed
through L—— the day before.

The utmost exertions of the three men were necessary
before the rusty locks and bars would move, but at last
the door creaked, or rather crashed upon its hinges, and
a thick cloud of dust floated up into the air.  The
explorers entered and found themselves in a court-yard
bounded on three sides by buildings.  Opposite them was
the imposing front of the castle, with a flight of broad
stone steps, and a clumsy iron balustrade, leading to the
entrance door upon the first story.  Running from each
side of the main building were gloomy colonnades, whose
granite pillars and arches seemed to defy the tooth of
time.  In the centre of the court-yard a group of old
chestnut trees stretched their aged boughs above a huge
basin, in the midst of which couched four stone lions with
wide open jaws.  Formerly four powerful streams of
water must have poured through them from the bowels
of the earth, filling the entire basin; but now there was
only a small stream trickling through the threatening
teeth of one of the monsters, sufficing to sprinkle with
moisture the grass and weeds growing in the cracks of
the stone basin, and, by its low, mournful ripple, giving a
faint suggestion of life in this wilderness.  The outer
walls of the structure and the colonnades were all that
could be regarded without terror in this space.  The
window frames, from which every pane of glass had been
broken, showed the sad desolation within.  In some
rooms the ceilings had already fallen in; in others, the
joists were bent as though the lightest touch might
send them crashing down.  Even the stone steps seemed
half hanging in the air,—some mossy fragments had
already become detached from them, and had rolled into
the centre of the court-yard.

"We can do nothing here," said Ferber.  "Let us go on."

Through a deep, dark portal they entered another
court-yard, which, although much larger than the first,
by its striking irregularity produced an impression of
far greater desolation.  Here, a dreary, crumbling pile
of masonry projected far out, and formed a dark
corner never visited by a sunbeam; there, a clumsy tower
shot into the air, throwing a deep shadow upon the wing
at its back.  An old elder bush, leading a straggling
existence in one corner, with its leaves covered with
fallen crumbs of mortar, and some dry grasses between
the stones of the pavement, made the scene yet more
desolate.  No noise disturbed the deathlike silence
reigning here.  Even the jackdaws soaring in the air above
ceased their chatter, and the echoes of the footsteps upon
the stone pavement had a ghostly sound.

"Yes, those old knights," said Ferber, almost appalled
at the sight of the desolation around him, "have heaped
up these piles of granite, and thought that this cradle of
their race would proclaim the splendour of their name
through all coming centuries.  Each has altered and
arranged his inheritance after his own taste and convenience,
as we see from these different kinds of architecture, and
lived as if there were no end to it all."

"And yet each lodged here but for a little space,"
interrupted the forester, "and paid his landlord, the earth,
for his lodging with his own crumbling bones,—now
turned to dust.  But let us go on.  Brr—rr!—it makes
me shiver.  Death everywhere,—nothing but death!"

"Do you call that death, uncle?" suddenly exclaimed
Elizabeth, who had hitherto been awed and silent, pointing,
as she spoke, through a door which was half concealed
by an interposing column.  There, behind a grating, fresh
sunny green was shining, and young climbing roses
leaned their blossoms against the iron bars.

Elizabeth ran towards the door, and, exerting all her
strength, pushed it open.  The space upon which she
entered had probably been the former flower-garden, but
such a name could scarcely be applied to the tangled
wilderness of green, where not even the narrowest vestige
of a path could be discerned, and where here and there
only the mutilated remains of a statue appeared among
the mass of shrubs, bushes, and parasitical plants.  A
wild grape-vine had climbed to the upper story of the
building, and taken firm hold there of the window-sills,—its
green branches and wreaths falling thence like a shower
upon the wild roses and lilac bushes beneath.  And in
this secluded, blooming spot of ground, a buzzing and
humming were heard, as if Spring had assembled here her
entire host of winged insects.  Countless butterflies
fluttered over the flowers, and golden beetles were running
glittering across the broad fern leaves at Elizabeth's feet.
And above this little world of bloom and busy life several
fruit trees and magnificent lindens waved their leafy crests,
while upon a slight elevation were seen the remains of
what had once been a pavilion.

The garden was surrounded upon three sides by
buildings; the square was completed by a high, green
wall, which had been constructed of earth, like a dam,
and above which the trees of the forest waved a greeting
to their neighbours within.  Here were also the same
signs of decay,—tolerably well preserved outer
walls,—complete ruin within.  Only one building of two stories,
connecting two high wings, attracted attention from its
closed appearance.  The light did not shine through it, as
through its doorless and windowless companions; its flat
roof, finished in front and at the back by a heavy stone
balustrade, must have bidden defiance to time and tempest,
as had also the gray window-panes which peeped out
here and there from the tangled growth of vines that
covered everything.  The forester measured it with a keen
glance, and declared that this must be Sabina's famous
building,—possibly the interior might not be in as
crumbling a condition as the rest of the castle,—only he could
not understand how they were to get into the old swallow's
nest.  Certainly, the rank growth around the base
of the walls would have obscured all trace of steps or
door, even were there any such entrance.  They determined,
therefore, to venture up into one of the large side
wings by a worn but tolerably secure flight of stone steps,
and thus attempt to arrive at the interior of the
connecting building.  They succeeded in gaining ingress to the
tall wing, although they could keep their footing only by
clinging to the uneven walls.  They first entered a large
saloon which had the blue sky for a ceiling, and whose
only decoration was a few green bushes growing through
its walls.  Remnants of galleries, worm-eaten joists, and
various fragments of frescoed ceiling were heaped up in
piles, over which the explorers had to scramble as best
they might.  Then followed a long suite of rooms in the
same utterly desolate condition.  Upon some of the walls
fragments of family portraits were still hanging, upon
which, strangely and comically enough, only an eye, or,
perhaps, a pair of delicate folded hands, or a mail-clad,
theatrically-posed leg, was yet distinctly to be traced.
At length they reached the last apartment, and stood
before a high-arched doorway which had evidently been
bricked up.

"Aha!" said Ferber, "here they intended to cut off
this building from the universal desolation.  I think
that before we venture any further upon this break-neck
expedition it would be well to knock out these stones."

His proposal was at once favourably received, and the
mason began his task; he soon penetrated into a recess
in the wall, which he assured them was double at this
spot.  The other two men lent their assistance, and a
thick oaken door was revealed behind the masonry that
they cleared away.  This door was not locked, and yielded
readily to the mason's strong arm.  They entered an
entirely dark, close room.  One slender sunbeam, straying
through a crack showed them where to find a window;
the bolt of the shutter, rusty from long disuse, resisted
for some time the strength of the forester, and the trees
upon the outside opposed an additional obstacle to their
exertions.  At last the shutter yielded with a crash;
the golden-green sunlight streamed in through a high
bow-window and disclosed an apartment not broad, but
very deep, the walls of which were hung with Gobelin
tapestry.  Upon each of the four corners of the ceiling
were painted the arms of the Gnadewitzes.  To the
surprise of all, this room was entirely furnished as a sleeping
apartment.  Two canopied beds, with hangings dingy
with age, that occupied the two long walls of the room,
were all made up; the pillows were covered with fine linen
cases, and the silken coverlid still preserved its colour
and texture.  Everything that could conduce to the
comfort of an aristocratic occupant was here, buried, indeed,
beneath a mass of dust, but in a state of excellent
preservation.  Beyond this apartment, and opening into
it, was another much larger, with two windows; it was
also completely furnished, although in antique style, and
evidently with furniture hunted up from various other
rooms for the purpose.  An antique writing-table, its top
most artistically inlaid and resting upon strangely carved
claw feet, harmonized but poorly with the more modern
form of the crimson sofa; and the gilt frames, in which
hung several well-painted hunting pictures, did not
accord with the silver mountings of the huge mirror.
Nevertheless, nothing was wanting that could complete
the solid comfort of the room.  A thick, though
somewhat faded carpet was laid upon the floor, and a large
antique timepiece stood beneath the mirror.  A small
boudoir, also furnished, and from which a door led to a
vestibule and a flight of steps, opened from the larger
apartment.  Behind these rooms were three others of a
similar size, with windows looking upon the garden; one
of these, containing two beds and pine furniture, was
evidently intended for the servants.

"Well done!" cried the forester with a smile of
satisfaction; "here is an establishment that exceeds the
wildest flights of our modest fancy.  If the sainted
Gnadewitz could see us now he would turn in his leaden coffin.
All this we owe, I suppose, to the neglect of a housekeeper
or to the forgetfulness of some childish, old steward."

"But do you think we ought to keep these things?"
asked, in a breath, Frau Ferber and Elizabeth, who had
been silent hitherto from wonder.

"Most certainly, my love," said Ferber; "your uncle
left you the castle with everything which it contained."

"And little enough it was," growled the forester.

"But in comparison with our expectations a perfect
mine of wealth," said Frau Ferber, as she opened a
beautiful glass cabinet containing different kinds of china; "and
if my uncle had actually endowed me with an estate in
my young days, when I was full of hope and enthusiasm,
I doubt whether it would have made as much impression
upon me as does this unexpected discovery, which relieves
us all of so much anxiety."

In the mean time Elizabeth had gone to the window of
the first room which they had entered, and was trying to
part the boughs and vines which grew so thick and strong
all along this side of the building that they formed a
barrier through which only a greenish twilight penetrated.
"It is a pity," she said, as she found that her efforts
were vain; "I should have liked some glimpse of the
forest outside."

"Why, do you think," said her uncle, "that I shall
allow you to live behind this green screen, which shuts out
air as well as light?  Rely upon me to take that matter
in charge, my little Elsie."

They next descended the stairs.  These, too, were in
perfect preservation, and led to a large hall with a huge
oaken table in the centre, surrounded by spindled-legged,
straight-backed chairs.  The floor was of red tiles, and
the panels on walls and ceiling were covered with
beautiful carving.  This large apartment was provided with
four windows and two doors opposite to each other; one
of these led into the garden, and the other, which was
opened with difficulty, into a narrow open court-yard lying
between the building-and the outer wall.  Here the
syringas and hazel bushes were growing everywhere, making
an absolute thicket, through which, however, the three
men penetrated, and reached a little gate in the outside
wall which communicated with the forest without.

"Now," said Ferber, delighted, "every obstacle to our
living here is removed.  This entrance is most valuable.
We shall never have to pass through the older court-yards,
which are really dangerous places, surrounded as they are
by crumbling ruins."

They made one more tour through their newly found
home with an eye to its future arrangement, and the mason
was ordered to be upon the spot the next day that he
might convert one of the back rooms into a kitchen.
Then, after the oaken door leading into the large, ruinous
wing had been well bolted and secured, they took their
way through the gate in the wall, an undertaking difficult
indeed, on account of the thick bushes which opposed
their progress, but infinitely preferable to the perilous path
by which they had entered.

As the returning party entered the garden of the forest
lodge, Sabina came towards them, in great anxiety to learn
the results of their expedition, accompanied by little Ernst,
who had been entrusted to her care while his mother and
sister were away.  She had prepared the table with its
snowy cloth and shining coffee-service upon a shady knoll
under the beech trees, and now clapped her hands with
delight upon hearing of all they had found.

"Ah! gracious Powers," she cried, "I hope the Herr
Forester understands now that I knew what I was talking
about.  Yes, yes, all those things were left there and
forgotten, and no wonder.  As soon as the young lord was
buried, old Gnadewitz packed off as quick as he could,
and took every servant with him except the old
house-steward Silber, and he was childish with age, and
besides had enough to do to take care of all that was left
in the new castle; it was crowded with furniture and plate,
and he had a hard time to keep it all right; so everything
was left in the old rooms, and no one knew anything
about them.  Ah, I've dusted and cleaned everything
there often enough, and frightened indeed I was whenever
I came to that old clock, for it plays such mournful music
when it strikes, it used to sound like something unearthly,
when I was all alone at work in the old place.  Ah, how
time flies, I was young then!"

Then came an hour of rest and comfortable discussion,
while they drank their coffee.  As Elizabeth had decided
that nothing could be more charming than to awaken in
their own rooms upon Whit-Sunday morning,—when the
ringing of the church-bells in the surrounding villages
would come softly echoing through the forest glades,—a
view of the matter in which her mother sympathized,
they determined to undertake all the necessary repairs
and cleaning immediately, that they might occupy the
rooms upon the eve of Whit-Sunday, and the forester
placed all his men at their disposal.

Sabina had taken up her position upon a grassy bank
at a short distance from the table, that she might be at
hand if wanted; and that she might not be idle, she had
pulled up a couple of handfuls of carrots from the garden
and was busily scraping and trimming them.  Elizabeth
sat down beside her.  The old woman gave a sly glance
at the delicate white fingers, that contrasted so with her
own brown, horny hands, as they picked some carrots up
from her lap.

"Don't touch," she said, "that is no work for you,—you
will make your fingers yellow."

"What matter for that?" laughed Elizabeth.  "I will
help you a little, and you shall tell me a story.  You
were born here, and must know many a tale about the
old castle."

"You may be sure of that," replied the old housekeeper.
"The village of Lindhof, where I was born, belonged to
the Lords von Gnadewitz time out of mind, and you see
in such a little place as that every one talks and thinks of
the great people who rule over it.  Nothing happens of
any account in the castle that is not described and handed
down from father to son in the village, and, long after the
lords and ladies are dust, their stories are told by the
village girls and boys.

"Now there was my great-grandmother, whom I
remember perfectly, she knew many a thing that would
make your hair stand on end; but she had a monstrous
respect for every one at Gnadeck, and used to bob down
my head with her trembling hands whenever a Gnadewitz
drove by our cottage,—for I was but a little thing then,
and did not know how to make a respectable courtesy.
She knew about all the lords who had lived at the old
castle for hundreds of years; yes, many a thing that had
happened there, that must have outraged God and man.

"Afterwards, when I lived at the new castle, and had
to sweep the long gallery where their pictures were all
hanging upon the wall,—pictures of people whose very
bones had mouldered away,—I often used to stand still
before them and wonder to see them looking so like
everybody else, when they used to make such a fuss about
themselves, as if God Almighty had brought them down
to the earth with his own hands.  There were not many
beauties among the women.  I often thought, in my stupid
way, that if pretty Lieschen, the most beautiful girl in the
village, could only have been painted and hung in such a
rich gold frame, with a silken scarf and such quantities
of jewels upon her neck and in her hair, and the blackamoor
with his silver waiter standing just behind her lovely
face and neck, she would have looked a thousand times
prettier than the lady who was so ugly, and frowned so
with pride and arrogance that two great wrinkles went
up to the very roots of her hair.  And yet she was the
very one that the family was proudest of.  She had been
a very wealthy countess, but hard and unfeeling as a stone.

"Among the men, there was only one whom I liked to
look at.  He had a frank, kind, honest face, and a pair of
eyes black as sloes; but he had shown how true it is that
the good always get the worst of it in this world.  All
the others had a fine time of it as long as they lived.
Many of them had done harm enough in their time, and
yet their death-beds were as calm and peaceful as if they
had always been just and true; but poor Jost von
Gnadewitz had a sad fate.  My great-grandmother's
grandmother had known him when she was a very little girl.
Then they always called him the wild huntsman, because
he never left the forest, but would hunt there from
morning until night.  In the picture he had on a green coat
and a long white feather in his cap, that was most
beautiful to see dangling among his coal-black curls.  He was
kind-hearted, and never harmed a child.  While he lived
all the villagers prospered, and they wished he might live
forever.

"But all of a sudden he left this part of the country,
and no one knew, for some time, where he had gone,
until one night in a dreadful storm he came back as quietly
as he had gone away.  But always after that he was a
changed man.  The people of Lindhof prospered as
before, but they saw no more of their master.  He
dismissed all his servants, and lived alone in his old castle
with only one favourite attendant.

"And at last it began to be whispered that he was busy
with magic and the black art up there, and no one dared
to go near the castle even at high noon, let alone the
dark night.  But my old great-grandmother was a bold,
saucy girl, and used sometimes to pasture her goats right
under the walls of the castle court-yard.  Well,—once as
she was leaning against a tree there, gazing at the high
walls, and lost in thoughts concerning all that might be
going on behind them, suddenly an arm appeared above
them white as snow, and then a face fairer than sun, moon,
and stars, my grandmother said, and at last with a
sudden spring a young maiden stood upon the top of the
broad wall, and, stretching her arms up into the air, cried
out something in a strange tongue that my grandmother
could not understand, and was just about to leap down
into the deep ditch full of water that then entirely
surrounded the castle, when Jost appeared behind her, and,
putting his arms around her, begged and implored her
so that a stone would have melted at such entreaties
wrung from a heart full of terror and anguish.  And
finally he took her up in his arms like a child, and they
both disappeared from the wall.  But the veil became
loosened from the maiden's head and floated away across
the ditch to where my grandmother was standing.  It
was exquisitely fine, and she carried it home in great glee
to her father; but he declared it was woven by the devil,
and threw it into the fire, forbidding my grandmother
ever to go up the mountain near the castle again.

"Some time after,—certainly a whole year after Jost
first shut himself up so closely at Gnadeck,—he came
down the mountain very early one morning on horseback;
but you would hardly have known him, his face was so
haggard and pale, all the paler for the full suit of black
that he wore.  He rode very slowly, and nodded sadly to
every one whom he met; he never came back to this
place again; he was slain in battle, and his old servant
with him—'twas at the time of the thirty years' war."

"And the beautiful girl?" asked Elizabeth.

"Ah, no one ever heard tale or tidings of her again.
Jost left a large sealed packet in the town-house at L——,
and said that it was his last will, and must be opened
whenever news of his death should be received.  But a
short time after his departure, there was a terrible fire in
L——; a great many houses, and even the church and
the town-house, were burned to the ground with
everything which they contained, and of course the packet
was destroyed.

"Before Jost left, the pastor from Lindhof went to see
him several times; but the reverend gentleman kept as
quiet as a mouse, and, as he was already very old, he
soon departed this life, and everything that he knew
was buried with him.  So no living being knows anything
about the strange maiden, nor ever will know till the day
of judgment."

"Oh, never trouble yourself to keep the matter quiet,
Sabina," called the forester to her from the table, as he
shook the ashes out of his pipe.  "Elsie had better get
used as soon as possible to the terrible conclusions to your
stories.  Tell her at once—for you know all about
it—how the beautiful maiden one fine day flew up the
chimney and away upon a broomstick."

"No, I don't believe that, sir, although I know——"

"That the whole country is swarming with such creatures,
all ripe for the gallows," interrupted her master.
"Yes, yes," he continued, turning to the others, "Sabina
is one of the old Thuringian stock.  She has sense enough,
and her heart is in the right place; but when there is any
question about witchcraft she loses one and forgets the
other, and is nearly ready to turn any poor old woman
away from the door, just because she has red eyes, without
giving her a morsel of food."

"No, indeed, sir, I'm not quite so bad as that," the old
woman declared with some irritation.  "I give her
something to eat; but I always stick my thumbs in the palms
of my hands, and never answer one of her questions,—there's
no harm in that!"

Every one laughed at this charm against witches and
witchcraft, which the old servant told with the utmost
gravity as she arose and emptied the carrot-tops from her
apron, that she might prepare the afternoon meal, which
was to be eaten earlier than usual, as there was much to
do in the old castle before nightfall.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER V.`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V.

.. vspace:: 2

As Elizabeth opened her eyes the next morning, the
tall clock in the room below was striking eight, and she
started up with the provoking consciousness that she had
overslept herself; and it was all owing to a vivid and
terrible dream.  The golden atmosphere of poetry, which
had yesterday hovered around Sabina's narrative, had
become a gloomy cloud in the night, the shadow of which
embittered and burdened the first moments of her
awakening.  She had been flying in deadly terror through the
spacious, dreary halls of the old castle, always pursued
by Jost.  Thick curls were waving wildly above his pale
forehead, beneath which his black eyes gleamed upon her,
and she had just stretched out her arms in greater terror
than she had ever experienced in her life before, to defend
herself from him, when she awoke.  Her heart was still
beating violently, and she thought with a shudder of the
wretched girl upon the castle wall, who, pursued, perhaps,
as she had been, had sought relief in death, when she
was again captured by her tormentor.

She sprang up and bathed her face in cold water; then
she opened her window and looked out into the courtyard.
There sat Sabina under a pear tree, busy with her
churn.  All the feathered crowd of the place stood around,
looking impatiently for the crumbs that she threw to them
from time to time from a bowl upon the table by her side,
while she improved the occasion to rebuke the arrogant
and greedy, and to console the oppressed and down-trodden.

When she saw the young girl, she nodded kindly, and
called up to her to say that every one in the lodge had
been busy up there in the old castle since six o'clock.
When Elizabeth reproached her for letting her sleep so
long, she assured her that she had done so by the express
desire of her mother, who thought that her daughter had
overtasked her strength in the last few weeks of
excitement and exertion.

Sabina's kind, placid face, and the fresh air of the
morning soothed Elizabeth's nerves at once, and brought back
her thoughts to the world of reality which was just now
opening so brightly before her.  She took herself seriously
to task that, despite her uncle's fatherly admonition, she
had leaned out of the open window until midnight upon
the previous night, gazing across the moonlit meadow
into the silent forest.  But common sense often plays a
poor part when opposed to excited fancy.  Where it
should conduct a rigid examination and discriminate
wisely, it suddenly finds itself deserted in the
judgment-seat, and must retire in confusion, while the varied and
motley spectacle which fancy conjures up proceeds
without interruption.  Thus Elizabeth's self-reproaches soon
vanished before the picture which presented itself to her
memory, and still threw around her all the magic of a
moonlit night in the forest.

As soon as she had dressed, and drank a tumbler of
fresh milk, she hastened up to the castle.  The sky was
overcast, but only with those light, thin clouds which
foretell a fresh although not a sunny, spring day.
Therefore the birds' morning concert was of longer duration
than usual, and the dew-drops lay as large and full in the
cups of the flowers as if their existence for the day were
not threatened.

As Elizabeth entered the large gate of the castle, which
stood wide open, a huge green mound, piled up by the
fountain, met her eye.  It was formed of thistle stalks,
ferns, and bramble bushes, which had been torn from
their home in the garden, and were here bidding farewell
to their long, merry life.  The path through the arched
gateway of the second court-yard to the grating was
strewn with green boughs and leaves, as though a joyous
marriage train had been passing through the old ruins;
and even on the sill of a high window, that showed the
remains of coloured glass in the lacework of the stone
rosette of its pointed arch, some boughs had been caught
as they were carried past, and the trailing end of a wild
vine was coiling its living green lovingly around the
stone trefoil of the Holy Trinity, which betrayed
unmistakably that the dark, dreary hall within had once
been the chapel of the castle.

The garden, where it had yesterday been impossible to
take two steps, seemed to Elizabeth entirely changed.
A considerable part of it had been cleared, and showed
distinct traces of having been tastefully laid out.  She
could easily proceed along a partially cleared path, across
which timid hares and squirrels ran fleetly now and then,
until she reached the green rampart which had only
been seen from a distance yesterday.  At each end of
the long, grassy embankment, broad, worn, stone steps
led up to a low breastwork, over which one could look
out into the forest, and there, where the trees were
somewhat thin, through a green vista down into the valley,
where the forest lodge, with the white doves dotting its
blue-slated roof, was nestling cosily.  At the foot of the
embankment, just where the broad path terminated, was
a little stone basin, into which a strong stream of crystal
water flowed through the mouth of a mossy little marble
gnome.  Two lindens arched their boughs above this
gurgling brook, and threw their grateful shade upon the
tender forget-me-nots, which grew here in masses in the
damp earth and wreathed the little basin with their
heavenly blue.

Directly opposite the embankment lay her future
habitation, which, with its window-shutters thrown back and
the large door on the ground-floor wide open, looked so
bright and hospitable to-day that Elizabeth welcomed
with joy the thought that she was looking upon her home.
Her gaze wandered over the garden, and she thought
upon those moments of her childhood when, her little
heart full of unconquerable longing, she had lingered
behind her parents during some pleasant walk, and, with
her face pressed close against the iron grating, had gazed
into some strange garden.  There she had seen happy
children playing carelessly upon the greensward; they
could bend down the lovely roses that hung in such
clusters, and inhale their fragrance as long as they liked.
And what a pleasure it must be to creep under the flower-laden
boughs and sit there in the green, just like grown-up
people in an arbour!  But there was nothing for her then
but the look and the longing.  No one had ever opened the
barred door to the child with the wistful eyes, who would
have been only too happy if they would have thrust a
few flowers through the grating into her little hands.

While Elizabeth was standing upon the embankment,
the forester appeared at one of the upper windows of
the dwelling.  When he saw her graceful figure leaning
against the low breastwork, as, with her beautiful head
half turned towards the garden, she seemed sunk in a
reverie, his features were illumined by an expression of
pleasure and quiet delight.

And Elsie soon found him out, and nodding to him
gaily, bounded down the steps towards the house.  Little
Ernst ran to her in the hall, and she took him up in her
arms.

The assistance which the little boy had afforded had
been, according to his own enthusiastic account,
invaluable indeed.  He had carried bricks for the mason who
had been mending the hearth, had helped his mother to
shake out the beds, and declared with pride that the lords
and ladies upon the woollen hangings looked far
handsomer since he had brushed off their dusty faces.  He
threw his arms around his sister's neck as she carried
him up-stairs, assuring her all the way that he liked it a
thousand times better here than in B——.

The forester received Elizabeth in the antechamber
above.  He scarcely gave her time to say good morning
to her parents, but conducted her instantly into the
gobelin-hung apartment.  Ah, what a transformation!  The
green lattice-work that had obscured the window had
vanished.  Without, beyond the outer wall, the forest
retreated like side-scenes on either side, opening a full
view of a distant valley that was to Elizabeth a perfect
paradise.

"There is Lindhof," said the forester, pointing to a
large building in the Italian style, which lay tolerably
near to the foot of the mountain upon which Gnadeck
stood.  "I have brought you something that will show
you every tree upon the mountains over there, and every
blade of grass in the meadows of the valley," he
continued, as he held an excellent spy-glass before her eyes.

And then the grand, solemn mountain domes seemed
to approach, their granite peaks, sometimes crowned by a
solitary fir, breaking through the forest here and there.
Behind these nearest summits towered countless ranges
in the blue misty light, and from a distant, dim valley
which separated two giant mountains, arose two
slender, shadowy gothic towers.  A little river, a highway
bordered by poplars, and several gay villages enlivened
the background of the valley.  In front lay Castle
Lindhof, surrounded by a park laid out in princely style.
Beneath the windows of the castle extended a closely shaven
lawn, beset with small, quaintly-shaped beds glowing with
all the colours of the rainbow.  Thence Elizabeth's eyes
soon wandered, and rested delightedly upon the mysterious
gloom of an avenue of magnificent lindens, their heavy
foliage interlacing above their brown trunks, while here
and there drooping boughs swept the ground beneath with
their broad leaves.  They bordered a little crystal lake,
which just now looked melancholy enough amid all its
flowery surroundings, for its depths mirrored a cloudy
sky.  Now and then a swan stretched its white neck
curiously among the low-hanging linden boughs, and sent
a shower of feathery spray from its wings to sprinkle their
old trunks.

Hitherto Elizabeth had allowed the glass to range
restlessly hither and thither, but now she attempted to hold
it steadily, for she had made a discovery which excited
her interest most powerfully.

Under the last trees of the avenue stood a couch.  A
young lady lay upon it, her charming head thrown back
so that a part of her chestnut curls fell down across the
pillow.  Beneath the hem of her long white muslin dress,
which enveloped her form to the throat, peeped out two
tiny feet encased in gold-embroidered satin slippers.  She
held in her delicate almost transparent hands some
auriculas, which she was thoughtlessly twisting and waving to
and fro.  Her lips alone showed any colouring; the rest
of her face was lily-pale; one would almost have doubted
its being informed with life had not the blue eyes gleamed
so wondrously.  But these eyes with their depth of
expression were riveted upon the countenance of a man
who, sitting opposite, appeared to be reading aloud to
her.  Elizabeth could not see his face, for his back was
turned toward her.  He seemed young, tall, and well
made, and had a profusion of light-brown hair.

"Is that lovely lady over there the Baroness Lessen?"
asked Elizabeth, eagerly.

The forester took the spy-glass.  "No," said he, "that
is Fräulein von Walde, the sister of the proprietor of
Lindhof.  You call her charming, and certainly her head
is lovely, but she is a cripple; she walks upon crutches."

At this moment Frau Ferber joined them.  She too
looked through the glass, and thought the countenance
of the young lady most beautiful.  She was particularly
struck with the expression of gentle kindness which, as
she said, "transfigured the features."

"Yes," said the forester, "she is kind and benevolent.
When I first came here the whole country around was
full of her praises.  But matters are changed indeed, since
the Baroness Lessen has had the control of affairs over
there.  No more alms are distributed among the poor,
unless they are earned by hypocrisy.  Woe to the wretch who
asks any assistance there!  He will be turned away
without a penny, if he ventures to hint that he would rather
listen to the pastor in the village church on Sundays than
go to the castle chapel, where the chaplain of the baroness
every week calls down fire and brimstone, and every
imaginable pain of hell, upon the heads of the ungodly."

"Certainly such violent measures are poorly fitted to
win souls to heaven and inspire people with Christian
love," said Frau Ferber.

"They destroy all good, and foster hypocrisy, I tell
you!" cried the forester, angrily.  "Do they not set an
example of it themselves?  They are always reading in the
Bible of Christian humility, yet every day they grow
haughtier and more supercilious.  Why, they would actually
persuade us that their high-born bodies are moulded of a
different clay from those of their poor brothers in Christ.
It stands written, 'When thou doest thine alms, let not
thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth;' but no
hen ever makes more to-do over her newly-laid egg than
these people over their charities.  There are perpetual
collections, fairs, and lotteries for the poor, and the whole
neighbourhood is black-mailed, but when it comes to
taking the money from, where it is plentiest, their own
purses,—oh, that's carrying the joke too far, as the
saying goes.  I know people who have been for twenty
years collecting subscriptions from others to found a
poor-house.  These very people have a yearly income of six
thousand thalers, but of course it never occurs to them to
add one penny from their own store in aid of their
charitable project.  They must purchase a reputation for
benevolence and Christian self-sacrifice more cheaply than that.
Zounds! how it enrages me to see people wearing
their piety so pinned upon their sleeves!  Over there in
the castle a bell is set ringing just so many times a day,
that every one in the country around may say, when they
hear it, 'They are having prayers at the castle.'  The
closet, where God has commanded us to shut to the door
and kneel in prayer, is altogether too small to suit their taste.
And it is not only this trumpet-blowing that outrages me.
I hold it to be actually wicked to make such a mere everyday
form of the worship of the Holiest.  Do you suppose
that the maid-servant, with a hot smoothing-iron in
her hand, or the cook, who is just putting her roast to the
fire, can rejoice in the sound of that bell?"

"It is most certainly a dubious kind of piety," said
Frau Ferber, smiling.

"Or even the gracious ladies themselves, who are busy
with the last novel or a piquante bit of court scandal—for
an interest in all such things is quite consistent with the
loftiest piety—do you suppose they are able to divert
their thoughts in one instant from worldly affairs and turn
them all heavenwards?  But these people run in and out
of the kingdom of heaven without any thought or
preparation, and congratulate themselves upon the honour that
they are doing to the Creator."

"And does Herr von Walde sympathize with these
reforms of the baroness?" asked Frau Ferber.

"From everything that I can gather from the villagers,
I should judge not; but how does that mend the matter?
He is probably at this moment prying into the pyramids
that he may throw light upon antiquity; how should he
know that his cousin here is zealously doing her best to
blow out the advancing light of the present?  Besides,
I dare say he has a crack in his own brain.  The prince
of L——, who knows him well, wished some years ago to
make a match between him and a young person of
quality at court, but, as I hear, my gentleman refused the
alliance because the fair one's pedigree was not sufficiently
long."

"Why, perhaps then he may install as mistress of
Lindhof some fair daughter of a fellah, whose ancestors lie
among the mummies at Memphis," said Elizabeth, laughing.

"I don't believe he will marry at all," rejoined the
forester.  "He is no longer young, is too fond of a
wandering life, and has never shown any love for women's
society.  I'll wager my little finger that that fellow there
with the book in his hand thinks just as I do, and already
in his inmost soul regards Lindhof and all the other
charming estates in Saxony, and God only knows where else,
as his own."

"Has he any claims to them?" asked Frau Ferber.

"Most certainly.  He is the son of the Baroness
Lessen, whose family is the only one in the world related to
the brother and sister von Walde.  The baroness was
first married to a certain Herr von Hollfeld; that young
man is the fruit of that marriage, and by the death of his
father he came into possession of Odenberg, a large estate
on the other side of L——.  The fair widow was fully
conscious that her freedom must be made available to assist
her up at least one step in the ladder of human happiness
and perfection, and naturally this could only be attained
by a marriage with high rank, wherefore Frau von
Hollfeld one day became Baroness Lessen.  'Tis true the
baron's name had been made somewhat notorious by
several acts on his part which people of common, low-born
ideas might call dishonourable; but what matter for that?
Was he not a lord chamberlain, and did not the keys of
his office unlock many a door for him where St. Peter's
would have availed nothing, in spite of the power given
to them?  However, the baron died after two years of
marriage, leaving his widow a little daughter and an
enormous amount of debts.  I have no doubt she is glad
enough to queen it at Lindhof, for I hear that she has no
part or parcel in her son's property."

Here a maid from the lodge interrupted them with
bucket and broom, giving unmistakable signs that she
was about to begin the duties of her office in this
apartment.  The spy-glass was hastily closed, and while the
forester went into the garden to renew his labours there
in clearing away the luxuriant green from the lower
window-sills, Frau Ferber and Elizabeth busied themselves
with dust-cloths and brushes in restoring the furniture of
the room to something of its original appearance.





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.. _`CHAPTER VI.`:

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   CHAPTER VI.

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Whitsuntide was over.  The brazen bells had retired
into private life, and looked black and silent through the
loopholes in the bell-towers, that seemed like the coffins of
the melodious life which had so lately streamed forth
from them during the holidays.  But the bright flower-bells
in the forest, hanging loosely on their stalks, could
not forget the festival.  They had joined in bravely when
the air had quivered with the brazen clang, and still rang
gently with every breeze that swept through the
underbrush.  What did they care that the wood-cutter, his
holiday clothes and face all laid aside, tramped past them
in his heavy boots, whistling some rude melody!  The
forest heeded not, but kept up the same mysterious
murmur amid its branches like a thousand-voiced whisper of
prayer, and the little birds sang as before their matin and
vesper hymns in God's praise.

Up in old Castle Gnadeck, as in the forest, the festal
spirit of the holidays still reigned, although Ferber had
already entered upon the duties of his office, often making
unavoidable visits to L——, while Frau Ferber and
Elizabeth had, through Sabina, received several large
orders from a ready-made linen establishment in L——,
and were besides busy every day for some hours in the
garden which even in this first year gave promise of
abundant fruit and flowers.  Notwithstanding this constant
industry, there was a holiday air pervading the whole place,
arising from the consciousness in the minds of each one
of the family that there had come a happy turn in their
affairs; they were continually comparing their present
with their former situation, and the new and unaccustomed
life of the forest had an almost intoxicating effect
upon their spirits.

Her parents had given Elizabeth the gobelin room,
because there was the finest prospect from its windows, and
because the girl when she had first entered it had
declared that she liked it best of all.  The gloomy door
which led into the huge old wing Had been walled up
and gave no sign that such a dreary waste lay beyond
it.  The further end of the room was filled by one of the
renovated canopied bedsteads, and by the window stood
the antique writing-table, with its quaint inkstand and
writing utensils of porcelain, and two vases filled with
lovely flowers; while just outside the window, embowered
in the topmost branches of a syringa bush, was the
canary's cage; its occupant vying with the forest songsters
in its shrill trilling with all the envy of some spoiled
bravura singer.

While they were arranging the room, and Frau Ferber
was every moment bringing in some new piece of furniture
to add to it a greater air of comfort and luxury, her
husband went to the longest wall, and, stretching his
arms across it, banished to the anteroom the lounge that
had just been placed there.

"Stay,—this space I appropriate," he said with a
smile.  Then he brought a large bracket of dark wood and
nailed it upon the wall, which was wainscoted neatly to
the ceiling on this side.  "Here," he continued, as he
placed upon the bracket a bust of Beethoven, "this
mightiest mortal shall be enthroned alone."

"But that looks so blank and bare," said Frau Ferber.

"Only wait until to-morrow or the day after, and you
will, I am sure, admit that my arrangements are not to
be despised, and that Elizabeth will have both pleasure
and profit from them."

And on the next day, which had been Whitsun-eve,
he went to town with the forester.  They returned
toward evening, but did not enter through the gate in the
garden wall.  The great gate was flung wide open, and
four strong men bore in a large and shining object
through the ruins.  Elizabeth was standing near the
kitchen window, engaged, for the first time in her new
home, in preparing the evening meal, when the men
entered the garden with their burden.

She cried out, for it was a piano—a large, square piano,
which was immediately borne up stairs and placed in the
gobelin room under Beethoven's bust.  Elizabeth laughed
and wept at the same moment, as she rapturously
embraced her father, who had expended his little capital,
the proceeds of the sale of their furniture in B——, that
he might provide her again with what had been the
delight of her life.  And then she opened the instrument
and a flood of rich melody filled the rooms where the
silence of death had reigned for so many years.

The forester had come with her father to enjoy
Elizabeth's surprise and delight.  He now leaned silently
against the wall, as the wondrous sounds flowed forth from
beneath the girl's touch.  For the first time he heard the
true speech of the glowing life that animated the
delicate young frame.  How thoughtful and inspired was the
air of the finely-shaped head which crowned her graceful
form, so suggestive of earnest maidenhood!  Hitherto
only jests and merry repartee had been exchanged
between uncle and niece.  He often called her his butterfly,
because of the airy grace of her motions and her quickness
of mind, which never left her at a loss for a reply to
his merry attacks; but his favourite name for her was
"Gold Elsie," for he maintained that her hair was such
perfect gold that he could see it shining and shimmering
in the darkest parts of the forest as she approached, and
that it heralded her coming to him as the jewel in the
giant's shield had once announced his approach to Childe
Roland.

When Elizabeth had finished she spread her arms above
the instrument as if to embrace it, and, leaning her head
upon it, smiled the happiest smile; but her uncle
approached her softly, gave her a silent kiss upon the
forehead, and departed without a word.

From this time he came up every evening to the old
castle.  As soon as the last rays of the setting sun had
faded from the tree-tops, Elizabeth sat down at the piano.
The little family took their places in the large low
window-seat, and lost themselves in the fairy world, which
was opened to them by the great master whose image
looked down from the wall upon the inspired young
performer.  And then Ferber would think of how Elizabeth
had portrayed the free life in the forest when the letter from
her uncle had first arrived in B——.  'Tis true no elves
or gnomes appeared, but the spirits which the mightiest
of the masters of music had imprisoned in sound floated
forth from their prison-house on a flood of melody,
breathing into the solemn silence around a mysterious
life—a life of whose joys and sorrows every sympathetic
human soul is conscious, although to genius alone is
granted power to embody and reveal them.

One afternoon they were all sitting together at their
coffee.  The forester had brought his pipe and newspaper,
and begged of Elizabeth a cup of the refreshing beverage.
He was just about to read aloud an interesting article in
his paper, when the bell at the garden gate sounded.  To
the astonishment of every one, when little Ernst ran to
open it, a servant in livery entered and handed Elizabeth
a note.  It was from the Baroness Lessen.  She began
by saying much that was flattering with regard to the
young girl's masterly performance upon the piano, to
which she had listened for the two or three previous
evenings while walking in the forest, and concluded by
preferring a request that Elizabeth would consent, of course
for a stipulated consideration, to come to Castle Lindhof
every week and play duets with Fräulein von Walde.

The style of the letter was extremely courteous; nevertheless
the forester, after a second perusal of it, threw it
angrily upon the table, and said, looking steadily at
Elizabeth,—

"I hope you will not consent?"

"And why not, my dear Carl?" asked Ferber in her stead.

"Because Elizabeth is, and always will be, far too good
for those people down there!" cried the forester, with
some irritation.  "But if you choose to see what you
have carefully planted, choked up and ruined by poisonous
weeds and mildew—why, do it."

"It is certainly true," replied Ferber quietly, "that my
child has known until now none other than a parent's care.
We have endeavoured most conscientiously, as was our
duty, to cherish every germ of good, to foster every plant
of tender growth.  But we have had no idea of producing
a mere hot house flower, and alas for us and for her, if
all that we have unweariedly tended and nourished for
eighteen years is so loosely planted in the soil that it can
be torn thence by the first blast of life!  I have educated
my daughter to live in the world; she must battle her
way among its storms, as we all must.  If I should be
taken from her to-day, she must herself guide the helm
which I have hitherto held for her.  If the people in the
castle below are not fit associates for her, matters will
soon arrange themselves.  Either both parties will feel
their unsuitability to each other and all intercourse will
cease, or everything that offends Elizabeth's principles
will pass by her like idle wind, leaving no impression.
Why, you yourself never avoid a danger, but rather prove
your strength by meeting it bravely."

"But, zounds!  I am a man, and can take care of myself!"

"And how do you know that Elizabeth hereafter will
possess any support except what she finds in herself, or
have any sharer in the responsibility of her actions?"

The forester cast a keen glance at his niece, whose
earnest eyes were riveted upon her father's face.  He
who was to her the embodiment of wisdom and tenderness
was echoing her own ideas, and the expression of
her beautiful face showed what she felt.

"Father," she said, "you shall see that you have not
been mistaken—that I am not weak.  I never could
endure the trite image of the ivy and the oak, and shall most
certainly not illustrate it in my own person.  Be
comforted, uncle dear, and let me go down to the castle,"
she said, smiling archly at the forester, whose forehead
showed a deep frown of decided irritation.  "If the people
there are heartless, don't suppose for one moment that
they will make a cannibal of me, and that I shall eat my
own heart up.  If they try to crush me with supercilious
arrogance, my own inner standard of action shall be so
high that I can look down in pity upon the harmless
arrows of their scorn; and if they are hypocrites, I shall
turn with all the more delight to gaze into the sunny face
of truth, and be more deeply convinced of the ugliness of
their black masks."

"Fairly spoken, oh incomparable Elsie, and incontestably
true,—if only these same people would kindly hand
you their masks to examine.  But you will awake some
day to find that what you have believed to be gold is only
the merest tinsel."

"No indeed, dear uncle; I will not foolishly allow
myself to be imposed upon.  Remember, we have had many
trials since my childhood; they have not been borne
without teaching me some good lessons.  Certainly we must
all trust somewhat in our own strength, and I shall not
despair for a long time, even if upon my first experience
of the world I plunge into an abyss of Egyptian darkness,
full of frightful monsters.  But look, uncle dear, to what
your zeal for my soul's welfare has brought you,—your
coffee looks as though it could be skated upon, and your
meerschaum is at its last gasp."

The forester laughed, although the laugh was not from
his heart.  And while Elizabeth refilled his cup for him
and handed him a lighted match, he said to her: "You
must not suppose that my ammunition is exhausted
because I say to you, 'Well, well, go and try it.'  I look
forward to the satisfaction of seeing the courageous chicken
come flying back again some day, only too thankful to
creep under the sheltering wing of home."

"Aha!" laughed Frau Ferber, "you have no idea of
the stern determination in that little head.  But let us
decide.  I advise Elizabeth to pay her respects to the
ladies to-morrow."

The next afternoon at about five o'clock Elizabeth
descended the mountain.  A broad, well-kept path led through
the forest, which melted imperceptibly into the park.  No
gateway separated its carefully-tended grounds, with their
clumps of trees and feathery grass, from the wild woods
beyond.

Elizabeth had put on a fresh light muslin dress, and a
small, white, round straw hat.  Her father walked with
her as far as the first meadow, and then she went bravely
on alone.  No human being crossed her path during her
long walk; it even seemed as though the trees rustled
more softly here in the leafy avenues and arcades than
in the forest beyond, and as if the birds modulated their
notes more gently.  She started at the noise of the
crunching gravel beneath her tread as she approached the
castle, and wondered to find how timid the intense quiet
had made her.

At last she reached the principal entrance, and caught
sight of a human face.  It was a servant, who was busy
in an imposing vestibule, but who moved as noiselessly
as possible.  Upon her request that he would announce
her to the baroness, he slipped up the broad staircase
fronting the hall door, at the foot of which stood two
lofty statues, their white limbs half concealed by the
orange trees placed at their bases.  He soon returned,
and assuring her that she was expected, led the way
quickly up the stairs, scarcely touching the steps with
the tips of his toes.

Elizabeth followed him with a beating heart.  It was
not the grandeur around her that oppressed her, it was
the sensation of standing all alone in this new untried
sphere.  The servant conducted her through a long
corridor, past the open doors of several apartments, which,
furnished with extraordinary splendour, were heaped
with such a profusion of elegant trifles that a simple
child, unused to such luxury, would have supposed
herself in a fancy-shop.

Her guide at last carefully opened a folding-door, and
the young girl entered.

Near the windows, opposite Elizabeth, upon a couch lay
a lady in apparently great suffering.  Her head was resting
upon a white pillow, and warm coverings were spread over
her entire figure, which, in spite of its wrappings, betrayed
decided embonpoint.  In her hand was a vinaigrette.

She raised her head slightly, so that Elizabeth could
see her face distinctly; it was round and pale, and at
first sight by no means unprepossessing.  Upon a closer
view, the large blue eyes, that glittered beneath light
eyelashes and elevated eyebrows as light, looked cold as
ice, an expression in nowise softened by the supercilious
lines about her mouth and nostrils, and by a broad,
rather projecting chin.

"Oh, Fräulein, it is very kind of you to come!" cried
the baroness in a weak voice, which nevertheless sounded
harsh and cold, as she pointed to a lounge near her, and
motioned to Elizabeth, who courtesied politely, to sit
down.  "I have begged my cousin," she continued, "to
arrange matters with you in my room, as I am really
too ill to take you to hers."

This reception was certainly courteous, although there
was a considerable amount of condescension in the lady's
tone and manner.

Elizabeth sat down, and was just about to reply to the
question how she liked Thuringia, when the door was
suddenly flung open, and a little girl of about eight years
of age ran in, holding in her arms a pretty little dog,
struggling and whining piteously.

"Ali is so naughty, mamma, he will not stay with
me!" cried the child, breathlessly, as she threw the dog
upon the carpet.

"You have probably been teasing the little thing
again, my child," said her mother.  "But I cannot have
you here, Bella; you make so much noise, and I have a
headache.  Go away to your room."

"Oh, it's so stupid there!  Miss Mertens has forbidden
me to play with Ali, and gives me those tiresome old
fables to learn; I cannot bear them."

"Well, then, stay here; but be perfectly quiet."

The child passed close to Elizabeth with a stare and
an examination of her dress from top to toe, and mounted
upon an embroidered footstool before the mirror in order
the easier to reach a vase of fresh flowers.  In a moment
the tastefully arranged bouquet was thrown into the
wildest disorder by the little fingers, which busied
themselves with sticking single flowers into the delicately
embroidered eyelet-holes of the muslin curtain.  During this
operation large drops of the water, in which the flowers
had been placed, dropped from the stems upon Elizabeth's
dress, and she was obliged to move her chair, as there
seemed no likelihood that any stop would be put to the
proceeding, either by the little Vandal herself or by her
mother's prohibition.

Elizabeth had only had time to move, and to reply to the
reiterated question of the baroness, that she already felt
very happy and, quite at home in Thuringia, when the
lady hastily arose from her reclining posture, and, with
an amiable smile upon her lips, nodded towards a large
portière, which was drawn noiselessly aside and on the
threshold of the door appeared the two young people
whom Elizabeth had lately seen through the spy-glass; but
how strangely ill-assorted they now seemed to be, as she
saw them thus standing together.  Herr von Hollfeld, a
slender figure of great height, was obliged to bend very much
on one side to afford any support to the little hand that
rested upon his arm.  The sylph-like little figure, which
had lain upon the couch in the park, was no taller than a
child's.  The exquisitely lovely head was sunk between the
shoulders, and the crutch in her left hand showed how
helpless was her crippled condition.

"Forgive me, dearest Helene," cried the baroness, as
the pair entered, "for troubling you to come to me; but,
as you see, I am again the poor wretched creature upon
whom you are so ready to bestow your angelic pity and
kindness.  Fräulein Ferber," here she motioned towards
Elizabeth, as if presenting her, and the young girl rose,
blushing, "has had the kindness to come, in compliance
with my note of yesterday."

"And, indeed, I am very grateful to you fordoing so!"
said the little lady, turning towards Elizabeth with a smile
of great sweetness, and holding out her hand.  Her glance
measured the blushing girl before her with an expression
of surprise, and then rested upon the heavy golden braids
that appeared below the hat.  "Oh, yes," she said, "I
have already seen your lovely golden hair; yesterday as
I was walking in the forest you were leaning over a wall
up there at the old castle."

Elizabeth blushed yet more deeply.

"But because you were there," continued the little
lady, "I lost the pleasure for which I had clambered up
the height, the pleasure of hearing you play, which I had
enjoyed on the previous evening.  So young and child-like,
and yet with such a thorough appreciation of classic
music! it seems impossible!  You will make me very
happy if you will play often with me."

Something like a shade of displeasure flitted across the
features of the baroness, and a close observer might
have noticed a scornful contraction of her lips, but it was
lost upon Elizabeth, whose attention was entirely absorbed
by interest in the unfortunate little lady whose delicate
silvery voice seemed to come fresh from the depths of her
heart.

In the mean time, Herr von Hollfeld pushed a chair for
Fräulein von Walde close to the lounge, and left the room
without uttering a word.  But as he went out by the
door directly opposite to Elizabeth, she could not help
noticing that he directed a last long look at her before
slowly closing it after him.  It disturbed her, for his
expression was of so strange a kind that she hurriedly
glanced over her dress to see if anything there could have
struck him as odd or unsuitable.

For the last few moments Bella had been sitting upon
the carpet, playing with the dog.  It would have been a
charming picture, if the whinings and uneasy movements
of the little animal had not betrayed that the child was
teasing it.  At each loud cry from the dog, Fräulein von
Walde started nervously, and the baroness said,
mechanically, "Don't tease him so, Bella!"  At last, however,
when the animal uttered a most piteous howl, the mother
raised her forefinger threateningly, and said, "I must
call Miss Mertens."

"Oh," replied the child contemptuously, "I don't care
for her!  She doesn't dare to punish me, for you told her
she mustn't."

At this moment, the portière was gently drawn aside,
and a pale, faded gentlewoman appeared.  She courtesied
to the ladies, and said, timidly: "The chaplain is waiting
for Bella."

"But I won't have a lesson to-day!" the little girl
cried, taking a ball of worsted from the table and
throwing it at the speaker.

"Yes, my child, you must," said the baroness.  "Go
with Miss Mertens, and be a good little girl, Bella."

Bella, as though the matter affected her no more than
it did Ali, who had retreated behind the sofa, threw
herself into an arm-chair and drew her feet up under her.
The governess was about to approach her, but at an angry
look from the baroness she retired to the door again.

This disgraceful scene would probably have lasted much
longer if the baroness had not brought up a *corps de
reserve* to her assistance in the shape of a box of bonbons.
The child, after she had crammed her mouth and pockets
full, left her seat, and, pushing aside the hand which her
governess held out to her, ran out of the room.

Elizabeth sat petrified with astonishment.  The delicate
features of Fräulein von Walde also showed evident
disapproval; but she said nothing.

The baroness sank back among her pillows.  "These
governesses will be my death," she sighed.  "If Miss
Mertens could only learn how to treat, judiciously, a child
of Bella's sensitive, nervous temperament!  She never
takes into account social position, temperament, and
physical constitution.  She would model all after the same
pattern—the daughter of a grocer or a peer; a finely-strung,
sensitive nature, or a robust, rude, day-labourer
physique—'tis all the same thing to her.  Miss Mertens is a
disagreeable, pedantic schoolmistress; her English, too, is
detestable.  Heaven only knows in what mean little
English county she learned her native tongue!"

"But really, dear Amalie," said Fräulein von Walde,
"I do not find her English impure," and her voice sounded
exquisitely kind and soothing.

"There you come with your never-failing angelic
amiability; but, although I do not understand English, I can
always hear, in one instant, how much more high-bred
your accent is, my dear, when you are talking with her."

Elizabeth inwardly doubted the value of this estimate,
and Fräulein von Walde blushed with a deprecating gesture.

But the baroness continued: "And Bella hears it, too;
she will not open her lips when her governess speaks
English to her, and I cannot blame her in the least; it
provokes me excessively when this person blames the
child for obstinacy."

Under the influence of her irritation the voice of the
baroness, which had at first been very weak and suffering,
had grown perceptibly stronger.  She suddenly seemed to
become aware of this herself, and closed her eyes with an
expression of great weariness.  "Oh heavens!" she sighed,
"my unfortunate nerves are too much for me.  I grow
excited instead of being kept quiet; these vexations are
poison both to my mind and body."

"I would advise you, Amalie, when you are as nervous
and weak as you are to-day, to leave Bella without a fear
to Miss Mertens' care.  I am convinced that nothing can
be better for her.  While I fully understand your touching
anxiety on the child's account, I can confidently assure
you that Miss Mertens is far too gentle and cultivated a
person to do anything that would not conduce to her
welfare.  You look quite worn out," she continued,
sympathizingly.  "We had better leave you alone; Fräulein
Ferber will certainly have the kindness to accompany me
to my room."

So saying she arose, and leaning over the baroness
imprinted a gentle kiss upon her cheek.  Then she laid her
hand upon the arm of Elizabeth, whom the baroness
dismissed with a gracious nod, and left the apartment.

As they slowly walked through the various corridors,
she told Elizabeth that it would be a special delight to
her brother, who was so far from her, if she should resume
her music.  He used to sit alone with her listening to her
playing for hours, until a nervous malady that had
attacked her had forced her to give up her beloved music
for a long time.  Now she felt much stronger, and her
physician had also given his consent; she would be very
diligent, that she might surprise her brother upon his
return home.  Elizabeth then took leave.

She hastened with winged speed through the park,
and along the path which ascended the mountain.  In
the forest glade just before the open garden gate her
parents were awaiting her return, and little Ernst ran
lovingly to meet her.  What an air of home breathed all
around her here!  The greeting that she received showed
how she had been missed; the canary was singing merrily
in his green embowered cage, the garden laughed in beauty,
and in the background, under the group of lindens above
the cool spring, the snowy table was spread for supper.

The Italian castle with all its splendour, its aristocratic
air, and its oppressive silence, only broken by the clamour
of a spoiled child, faded behind her like a dream of the
night; and when she had imparted her impressions of all
that she had seen and heard to her parents, she concluded
with the words: "You have taught me, father dear, never
to form any settled judgment of others upon a slight
acquaintance with them, for such judgment runs a fair
chance of being unjust, but what can I do with my unruly
fancy?  Whenever I think of the two ladies, I see in
imagination a lovely young weeping willow, whose elastic
graceful branches are the constant sport of a furious tempest."





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.. _`CHAPTER VII.`:

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   CHAPTER VII.

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From this time Elizabeth went regularly to Lindhof
twice a week.  The day following her first visit Baroness
Lessen had arranged the hours for the lessons in a very
courteous note, and had insisted upon a most generous
compensation for Elizabeth's time.  These lessons soon
proved a source of much enjoyment.  Helene von Walde,
owing to the absence of all practice for many years, was
very deficient in technical knowledge and capacity, and
could not be compared at all with Elizabeth; but she
played with much feeling, her taste was refined and
cultivated, and she was entirely free from the wretched
habit, common to most dilettanti, of depreciating
whatever lay beyond her reach.  Baroness Lessen was never
present during the music lessons, and therefore the
moments of rest gradually became especially delightful to
Elizabeth.  At such times a servant usually brought in
some light refreshments.  Helene leaned back in her
armchair, and Elizabeth seated herself upon a cushion at her
feet, and listened enchanted to the flute-like silvery voice
of the unfortunate lady as she recounted many an
experience of the past.  The image of the absent brother here
played a principal part.  She was never weary of telling
of his care and thoughtfulness for her, of how, although
he was many years her senior, he was continually
studying how to gratify and humour her childish whims and
peculiarities.  She related how he had purchased Lindhof
only because, upon a visit which she had formerly made
in Thuringia, she had experienced great benefits from the
pure Thuringian air; everything showed how dearly he
loved her.

One afternoon, when they had been practising unusually
long, a servant entering announced a visitor.

"Stay and drink tea with me this afternoon," said
Fräulein von Walde to Elizabeth.  "My physician is here
from L——, and several ladies from the neighbourhood
have just arrived; I will send some one up to the castle
that your mother may not be anxious about you.  My
tête-à-tête with the doctor will not last long, and I shall
soon be with you again."

And so saying she left the room.  Scarcely ten minutes
had elapsed before the door opened and Fräulein von
Walde entered, leaning upon the arm of a gentleman whom
she presented to Elizabeth as Doctor Fels, from L——.
He was tall, with an intellectual countenance, and as soon
as he heard Elizabeth's name he entered into a lively
conversation with her, comically assuring her that his own
surprise and horror, as well as that of the entire respectable
population of L——, had really known no bounds when
it was reported that old Castle Gnadeck had received
within its crumbling walls inhabitants of flesh and blood.

Suddenly there was a rustling in the antechamber, and
upon the threshold of the door appeared two figures of
rather singular exterior.  Their great resemblance of
feature plainly revealed their relationship as mother and
daughter.  Both wore dark dresses, which, contrary to
the prevailing mode, fell limp and close around them, large
scarfs of black woollen stuff, and brown, round straw
hats, tied, in the case of the mother, with black ribbon,
while the daughter had a lilac bow beneath her chin.

Helene von Walde received the ladies courteously,
presenting them as Frau and Fräulein Lehr, and Elizabeth
afterwards learned that, residing in L——, they spent
their summers in lodgings in the village of Lindhof.

Immediately after their entrance the Baroness Lessen
appeared, leaning upon her son's arm, and accompanied
by a gentleman who was addressed by those present as
Herr Möhring, the chaplain.

The baroness was dressed in dark silk, but with the
greatest elegance, and made a most imposing appearance.
She paused for an instant upon the threshold of the door,
and seemed to be disagreeably surprised at Elizabeth's
presence.  She measured her with a haughty look of
inquiry, and replied to her courtesy by a scarcely perceptible
inclination of the head.

Helene noticed the look, and approaching her said in a
soothing whisper, "I kept my little favourite with me
to-day—I had already detained her so long."

This excuse did not escape Elizabeth's ear.  It offended
her, and she would willingly have flown away through
the window near which she was standing, had not pride
induced her to stay and brave the arrogance of the
baroness.  The great lady seemed entirely pacified by the
explanation of what had occurred without her consent.
She put her arm around Helene, stroked her curls
tenderly, and said a hundred caressing things to her.  Then
she requested those present to follow her to the adjoining
room, where tea was prepared.  She did the honours of
the tea-table, and discovered a talent, by no means to be
despised, for leading and carrying on the conversation.
With admirable tact, she contrived always to make
Helene the centre of attention without in the least
wounding the self-love of the others.

Elizabeth sat silent between the doctor and Fräulein
Lehr.  The conversation possessed little interest for her,
inasmuch as it related to people and circumstances
entirely strange to her.  Frau von Lehr had much to say,
and seemed perfectly instructed in every matter, private
or public, that had taken place during the last few weeks
among the people living around Lindhof.  She spoke
in a peculiarly mournful, suppressed tone of voice, and
at the conclusion of the rehearsal of each exciting piece
of news cast down her eyes and inclined her head with
great apparent humility and resignation, as though she
were a lamb suffering for the sins of the world.  Now
and then she drew forth from a huge reticule which she
carried a small bottle of rose-water, with which she
moistened her eyes, as they seemed weak with perpetual
casting towards heaven.

What a contrast between her and Helene's madonna
face, as it leaned against the dark plush of the lounge,
reminding Elizabeth more than ever of the water-lily
lying dreamily with its snow-white leaves upon the dark
surface of the lake!  To-day there was a strange glow
upon the delicate features.  It was not that all traces of
suffering had vanished, but there was a peaceful light of
content in her eyes, and a happy smile wreathed the pale
lips as often as she took up from her lap the bouquet of
rosebuds which Herr von Hollfeld had presented to her
when he entered.  He sat beside her, and sometimes
joined in the conversation.  As soon as he opened his
lips the ladies were silent, listening with the greatest
attention, although his talk was anything but fluent, and,
as Elizabeth soon discovered, betrayed not the slightest
originality of mind.

He was a very handsome man, of about four and
twenty.  There was great repose in the finely-cut
features, which at first seemed to indicate manliness and
strength of character; but any such impression which
their regularity might have produced was effaced by a
searching glance into his eyes.  Those eyes, although
they were large and faultless in shape, had no depth
whatever, and never lighted up with that meteoric flash
which so often reveals the man of intellect, even when he
does not speak.  Its want can be atoned for by that mild
glow which speaks of deep sensibility, and which,
although it does not instantly impress us, gradually
attracts and enchains us.  But there was nothing of this
to be discovered in Herr von Hollfeld's fine blue orbs.

This sentence, however, would have been echoed by
but few, for it was the present fashion, especially at the
court of L——, to regard Herr von Hollfeld as a prodigy,
whose silence gave warrant of unfathomable depths of
intellect and sensibility,—in which opinion the ladies in
and around Lindhof most cordially joined, as was
illustrated by the conduct of Frau von Lehr's very stout
daughter, who leaned forward, directly across the
modestly shrinking Elizabeth, and listened, as if to the
enunciation of a new gospel, whenever Herr von Hollfeld
opened his lips.  And she, too, appeared quite willing to
allow her light to shine.

"Were you not charmed with the lovely sermons with
which Herr Möhring edified us during the holidays?"
she asked, turning to Elizabeth.

"I regret not having heard them," she answered.

"Then you did not attend divine service?"

"Oh, yes!  I went with my parents to the village church
at Lindhof."

"Indeed!" said the Baroness Lessen, turning for the
first time toward Elizabeth, and smiling sarcastically.
"And were you greatly edified at the village church at
Lindhof?"

"Most truly was I, gracious lady," Elizabeth quietly
replied, looking calmly into the contemptuous eyes that
were turned upon her.  "I was deeply affected by the
simple, earnest words of the preacher.  His discourse was
not delivered in the church, but under the trees outside.
When the service was about to begin it was evident that
the little church could not contain the crowd of worshippers,
and an altar was constructed under God's free sky.
Such altars might often be erected."

"Unfortunately, they often are," said Herr Möhring,
who until then had spoken little, contenting himself with
confirming all Frau von Lehr's remarks by an amiable
smile or an assenting nod.  Now, however, his broad,
shiny face grew purple, and, turning to the baroness, he
continued, contemptuously: "Yes, most gracious lady, it
is only too true; the old idols are being replaced in the
sacred groves, and we shall have druids sacrificing to
them beneath the oaken shades."

"Really, that never occurred to me.  With the aid of
my wildest imagination I should never have dreamed at
the time that I was assisting at a heathen sacrifice,"
rejoined Elizabeth.  She smiled, but continued with serious
warmth: "It seemed to me, on that glorious spring
morning, as the tones of the organ streamed forth from the
open doors and windows of the church, and that reverend
old man spoke in such devout tones, as it did when I
entered the temple of God for the first time in my life."

"You seem to have an excellent memory, Fräulein,"
Frau von Lehr here remarked: "How old were you at
that time, if I may ask?"

"Eleven years old."

"Eleven years old!  Oh, heavens! how can such a
thing be possible?" cried the lady in holy horror.  "How
possible with Christian parents!  Why, my children were
familiar with the house of God from their earliest years,
as you can testify, my dear doctor."

"Yes indeed, madame," he replied with great gravity.
"I remember that you ascribed the attack of croup, by
which you lost your little son at two years of age, to a
couple of hours in the cold church."

Elizabeth looked up quite terrified at her neighbour.
The doctor had joined in the conversation hitherto only
by throwing in a sarcastic word here and there very drily,
which amused Elizabeth greatly, inasmuch as he was
always met by a reproving glance from the baroness.
When the young girl began to speak she had not noticed
him any more than had the others, whose entire attention
had been occupied with the wretched heathen child, so
that no one had observed how he was bursting with
inward laughter at the daring replies of the young
stranger, and their effect upon those present.  His
answer appeared thoughtless and cruel to Elizabeth; but
he must have known his companions well, for Frau von
Lehr was not at all offended, but replied with great
unction: "Yes, the Lord took the pious little angel to
himself; he was too good for this world;" then, turning to
Elizabeth, she said: "And so you were shut out from the
Lord's kingdom for the first eleven years of your life?"

"Only from His temple, gracious lady.  As a little
child I was instructed in the history of Christianity, and
with my first thoughts were blended ideas of God's
wisdom and love.  I cannot remember the time when I did
not hear of them from my father; but it is a firm
principle of his never to allow very young children to go to
church; he says they are entirely incapable of appreciating
the importance and meaning of what they see and
hear there; the sermon, which must be entirely beyond
their comprehension, wearies them, and they conceive a
dislike to the place.  My little brother Ernst is seven
years old, and has never yet been to church."

"Oh, happy father, who has the courage to frame and
execute such plans for his children's culture!" exclaimed
Doctor Fels.

"Well, what hinders you from letting your children
grow up without care, like mushrooms?" asked the
baroness with malice.

"That I can readily tell you in a very few words, most
gracious lady.  I have six children, and cannot afford to
have masters for them at home.  My profession prevents
me from teaching them myself, and, therefore, I am
obliged to send them to the public school and subject
them to its laws, which require them to attend church
regularly.  Just as little can I carry out my views with
regard to another subject,—the putting of the Bible into
the hands of young children.  The Sacred Book, which
contains the holy principles that should regulate all our
thoughts and actions, and, as such, should be regarded
with veneration by the young,—does not belong in their
hands at a time when childhood, with rare exceptions,
seeks amusement instead of instruction, and is always
curious to investigate whatever is forbidden and mysterious.
And, therefore, I know,—and any observant teacher
will admit,—that children who devote themselves
constantly to the perusal of the Bible, for which they are
commended by thoughtless parents, do not always search
for the text of the last sermon,—but read much else
beside,—often meeting with words and expressions which a
careful mother would guard them from hearing at home,
but whose significance is often made only too clear by
their intercourse with other children not so carefully
educated, left to the charge of ignorant and vulgar servants.
And suppose, even, that they seek explanation of certain
words and phrases from their mothers only; an intelligent
mother will always know, 'tis true, how to reply to
their queries, but she must, most certainly, forbid them
the use of many expressions which they find in the Bible,—let
us recall to mind the Song of Solomon,—and so the
first seeds of doubt and unbelief are sown in the childish
mind, which is wanting in the strength that only moral
culture and riper understanding can give."

Here the Baroness Lessen arose with a gesture of
impatience.  Upon her full cheeks, usually so pale,
two round, crimson spots had appeared, a sign to all
who knew her, of great irritation.  Fräulein von Walde,
who had been a passive listener to the conversation,
also arose, took her cousin's arm, and, leading her to
the window, asked whether she would not like to hear
a little music from Elizabeth and herself.

This propitiatory proposal was received with a gracious
inclination of the head,—the more especially as the baroness
did not feel herself quite equal to the doctor in a war of
words; and, as everyone must have seen her indignation,
she was quite willing to have it supposed that the
beautiful, soothing music was the cause of her refraining from
annihilating the impious defamer of her holy zeal, for she
was perpetually presenting Bibles to poor children.

She took her seat in a windowed recess, and looked out
upon the landscape, upon which the first shadows of
approaching evening were falling.  Her look was cold and
cruel,—an expression often seen in a certain kind of
light-blue eye, shaded by white eyelashes.  The corners of her
mouth were drawn down, a sign of great displeasure,
which did not vanish even when Schubert's Erlking,
arranged for four hands, was performed in a masterly
manner by Helene and Elizabeth.  The waves of melody
broke against that breast unfelt, as the waves of the ocean
upon a rocky shore.

When the last chord died away, the ladies arose from the
instrument, and the doctor, who had stood immovably,
listening, hastened towards them.  His eyes sparkled as
he thanked them for a treat which, as he assured them,
was richer than any he had enjoyed for years.  Here
Fräulein von Lehr's face grew scarlet, and her mother
cast a malicious glance at the unlucky enthusiast.  Had
not her daughter the preceding winter played several
times in public in L——, for the benefit of some
charitable association, and had he not attended every
concert?  However, the doctor did not appear to notice the
storms that he was calling down upon his head.  He
discussed Schubert's compositions in a manner that manifested
refined perception and a thorough knowledge of his subject.

Suddenly there was a harsh clash of chords upon the
piano; it seemed as though fingers of bone were
belabouring the keys.  They looked round with a start.  The
chaplain was seated at the instrument, with head thrown
back and inflated nostrils.  He raised his hands for a
second attack, and began a beautiful choral, which his
horrible playing converted into torture for sensitive ears.
Still it might have been endured, when, to Elizabeth's
horror, he began to sing in a nasal, snuffling tone;—that
was too much.  The doctor seized his hat, and bowed to
Helene and the baroness, the latter only vouchsafing him
a slight wave of the hand in token of dismissal, without
turning her face from the window.

An incomparable expression of humour hovered upon
the doctor's features.  He pressed Elizabeth's hand
cordially as he departed, and took leave of the rest with a
courteous bow.

As soon as the door closed behind him, the baroness
arose with excitement and approached Helene, who was
sitting in a corner of the sofa.

"It is intolerable!" she cried, and her sharp voice
sounded muffled, as if suppressed anger were choking
her, while her searching gaze rested full upon the little
lady, who looked up to her almost timidly.  "How can
you, Helene, here in your own house, hear our rank, our
dignity as women,—yes, even our holy of holies, which
we are bound so faithfully to defend,—assailed so grossly
without one word of reply?"

"But, dear Amalie, I cannot see."

"You will not see, child, in your inexhaustible patience
and long-suffering, that this doctor insults me whenever
he can.  Well, I must submit to that, for this is not my
house, and besides, as a Christian, I would rather
endure wrong than resort to retaliation.  But this
submission must cease when the sacred claims of the Lord
are assailed.  Here we should strive and struggle, and
not grow weary.  Is it not actually blasphemous for this
man to seize his hat, and, *sans façon*, take his departure
from the room while our hearts are being stirred and
elevated by the lofty thoughts which the truest form of
music, the choral, can alone express?"

She had spoken louder and louder, until she did not
perceive that her voice was entirely destroying the effect
of a touching phrase, just delivered by the unwearied
chaplain, whose efforts had not been intermitted for an
instant.

"Ah, you must not blame the doctor for that," said
Fräulein von Walde.  "His time is precious; most likely
he has a patient to see in L——; he was about to leave
just before we began to play."

"While that heathenish Erlking was going on, the
worthy man entirely forgot his patients," the baroness
interrupted contemptuously.  "Well, I must submit.
Unfortunately, in our degenerate days, the scoffers of our
faith have gained the upper hand."

"But, for heaven's sake, Amalie, what do you want
me to do?  You know only too well that Fels is
indispensable to me.  He is the only physician who knows
how to relieve me when I am in great suffering," cried
Helene, and her eyes filled with tears, while her cheeks
were suffused with a blush of irritation.

"I thought, Fräulein Helene,"—began Frau von Lehr,
who had hitherto sat in her corner silently, and on the
watch, like a spider in its web,—"I thought that the
welfare of our souls should be our first consideration; care
for our poor bodies should, in my estimation, rank second
in our view.  There are many other skilful physicians
in L——, with as great a reputation for learning as
Dr. Fels enjoys.  Believe me, my dear, it often gives great
pain to our Christian friends in L—— to know that a
scoffer, an infidel, is admitted to your confidence as your
friend and adviser."

"Even if I consented to sacrifice myself so far," replied
Helene, "as to employ another physician, I dare not take
such a step without first obtaining my brother's consent;
and I know that I should meet with determined opposition
there, for Rudolph is warmly attached to the doctor,
and puts entire confidence in him."

"Yes, more's the pity!" cried the baroness.  "I have
never been able to comprehend that weakness in
Rudolph's character.  Doctor Fels imposes upon him utterly
with his seeming frankness, which might better be called
insolence.  Well, I wash my hands of the affair, only for
the future I must decline any visits from the doctor, and
entreat you, my dear Helene, to excuse me when he is
with you."

Fräulein von Walde made no reply.  She arose and
looked sadly around the room for an instant, as if
missing something.  It seemed to Elizabeth that her eyes
sought Herr von Hollfeld, who had left the room
unperceived a short time before.

The baroness took up her lace shawl, and Frau von
Lehr and her daughter prepared for departure.  Both paid
several compliments to the chaplain, who had finished his
performance, and was standing at the piano rubbing his
hands with embarrassment; and then all took leave of
Helene, who replied to their good-nights in a tone of great
exhaustion.

As Elizabeth descended the stairs she saw Herr von
Hollfeld standing in a retired, dimly-lighted corridor.
During his mother's outbreak of anger he had sat quietly
turning over the leaves of a book, never joining in the
conversation by word or look.  His conduct had
disgusted Elizabeth, who had hoped that he would have
stood by Helene and silenced his mother by a few serious
words.  She was still more displeased when she noticed
that he was steadily regarding herself while he was
apparently occupied with his book.  He might easily have
seen her displeasure in her face, but he continued to stare
most insultingly.  She felt herself at last blush deeply
beneath his gaze, and she was the more provoked at
feeling this, as the same thing had occurred against her will
several times before.  It was remarkable that she never
went home from Castle Lindhof without chancing to meet
Herr von Hollfeld either in the hall, upon the stairs, or
stepping suddenly from behind a tree in the park.  Why
these meetings at last became painfully embarrassing to
her she could not have explained to herself.  She thought
no more about it, and usually forgot him entirely before
she reached her home.

He was standing now in the dark passage.  A black
slouched hat was pulled down over his face, and his
summer coat had been exchanged for a light cloak.  He
seemed to be waiting for some one, and as soon as
Elizabeth had reached the last stair approached her hastily,
as though about to address her.

At the same moment Frau von Lehr and her daughter
appeared on the landing above.

"Aha, Herr von Hollfeld," cried the elder lady, "are
you going to walk?"

The young man's features, which had seemed to Elizabeth
strikingly animated, instantly assumed a quiet
expression of entire indifference.

"I have just come in from the garden," he said negligently,
"where I have been refreshing myself in the soft
night air.  Attend Fräulein Ferber home," he said
authoritatively to a servant who issued from the servants' room
with a lantern, and then with an obeisance to the ladies,
he retired.

"How glad I am," said Elizabeth, as an hour later she
was sitting at her mother's bedside relating the events of
the afternoon, "that to-morrow will be Sunday.  In our
dear little simple village church I shall forget all the
disagreeable impressions which the last few hours have left
upon my mind.  I never could have believed that I could
have listened to a choral without being moved to
aspiration and devotion.  But to-day I was really angry, when,
amid the clatter of the teacups, and after an hour passed
in talk certainly not inspired by love of our neighbour, I
suddenly heard those tones which have always been
sacred to hours of meditation and serious thought.
Behind all this religious zeal there lies hidden boundless
arrogance,—that I saw clearly to-day; but if others feel
as I do, these people will scarcely make many proselytes.
Acknowledge, mother dear, that I am not naturally
antagonistic, and yet to-day I felt for the first time in my
life an irresistible desire to defy and contradict."

And then she spoke of Herr von Hollfeld and his
strange behaviour in the hall, adding that she could not
understand what he could possibly have wished to say
to her.

"Never mind, we will not puzzle ourselves about that,"
said Frau Ferber.  "If he should ever propose to
accompany you on your way home, do not fail to reject such an
offer peremptorily.  Do you hear, Elizabeth?"

"But, dearest mother, what are you thinking of?"
cried the girl with a laugh.  "The skies will fall before
such a thing happens.  If he could allow Frau Lehr and
her daughter, who consider themselves persons of
distinction, to go home without an escort, he will hardly
condescend to notice my insignificant self."





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.. _`CHAPTER VIII.`:

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   CHAPTER VIII.

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About a week after the arrival of his relatives the
forester had published an edict in his domicile, which, as
he said, had been hailed with joy by his prime minister,
and in accordance with which the duty of taking their
mid-day meal every Sunday at the Lodge was imposed
upon the Ferber family.  Those were joyous days for
Elizabeth.

Long before the first sound of the church bell they
usually set out for church.  In her fluttering white dress,
her soul filled with the consciousness of youth and
happiness, convinced that such a clear, lovely day, must bring
joy with it, Elizabeth walked beside her parents, and
looked eagerly for the moment when the round gilt ball
upon the village church tower at Lindhof emerged from
the waves of green in the valley below them; then from
the dark and silent forest paths to the right and left, groups
of church-goers from the different hamlets around would
appear and join them with kindly greetings, until, while
the bells were ringing, the whole assembly arrived in the
meadow just before the church, where the forester was
usually awaiting them.  He welcomed them from a distance
with sparkling eyes and a flourish of his hat in the
air.  In every movement of his tall figure, in his whole
bearing, might be read that inflexible integrity which
never bowed to the mighty ones of the earth, that
expression of manly power and force of character from which
we expect to see quick resolve and bold action result, but
which never suggests the tender emotions of a
sensitive nature.  Elizabeth declared that it was always a
touching surprise when a single gentle star beamed forth
at night from a sky covered with clouds, and that the
sudden look of melting tenderness that occasionally
illumined her uncle's frank, determined countenance, affected
her in like manner.  And she had many an opportunity
of observing this change of expression, for she had grown
to be the apple of his eye.  He had never had any children,
and now poured forth all the paternal affection of which
his large, warm heart was capable, upon his brother's
lovely child, who, he felt with pride, resembled himself in
many points of character, although in her they were
transfigured by the charm of feminine delicacy and refinement.

And she repaid his affection with the clinging love and
filial care of a daughter.  She soon discovered how to make
many an addition to his domestic comfort, and where
Sabina's penetration or capacity were at fault, she effected
many an improvement, with so much tact that the old
servant was never offended, whilst a new life opened upon
her uncle, surrounded by Elizabeth's tender care.

On the return from church, her uncle led Elizabeth by
the hand, "just like a little school-girl," as she said, and,
indeed, it looked like it.  The excellent sermon which they
had just heard, furnished matter for abundant conversation
and exchange of newly-developed thoughts and sentiments;
while the birds twittered and sang as though
determined to vindicate their right to speak here, and the
golden-green sunshine came quivering through the tops
of the trees, flecking their heads as they passed with its
transfiguring light.

At the farthest end of the long dim forest aisle, for it
was a very narrow path which led from the Lodge to the
village of Lindhof, a little point of light indicated the
meadow, in the middle of which stood the old house.
With every step the picture grew more distinct, until at
last they could distinguish Sabina waiting for them at the
door, shading her eyes with the corner of her white apron,
and retreating into the house when she saw them, that she
might take her stand behind the soup tureen, which was
smoking upon the table beneath the beeches, where she
fulfilled her duty with the air of a general upon a rampart.

But to-day Sabina had prepared a particularly delicious
repast, for in the centre of the table was piled a huge
crimson pyramid, the first wood-strawberries of the year,
hailed with delight by little Ernst, and by full-grown
Elizabeth too.  The forester laughed at the enthusiasm
of the big and little child, and declared that he had a
surprise to offer as well as Sabina,—he would have the horse
harnessed and take Elizabeth to L——, where he had
a little business to attend to,—a long-promised pleasure.
The young girl accepted his proposal with delight.

At table Elizabeth related the occurrences of the
previous evening.  Her uncle shook with laughter.

"The doctor's a bold fellow," he said, still laughing;
"but 'tis of no use, he has drunk his last cup of tea at
Lindhof."

"Impossible, uncle,—it would be outrageous!" cried
Elizabeth, earnestly.  "Fräulein von Walde would never
permit such a thing, she will resist with all her might."

"Well," he said, "I wish we could question the little
lady to-day with regard to her sentiments towards the
doctor, and you would see.  How can a strong will
inhabit such a frail dwelling?  That imperious woman will
soon influence her, and there is none to resist, for 'Heaven
is high, and the Czar afar,' as the Russians say.  We
know, Sabina, that many a strange thing has happened
since the rule of the baroness began, eh?"

"Ah, yes indeed, Herr Forester!" replied the old woman,
who was just putting a dish upon the table.  "When I
think of poor Schneider,—she is the widow of a
day-labourer in the village," she said, turning to the others;
"she always worked hard to make both ends meet, and
no one could say a word against her, but she had four
children to feed, and lived from hand to mouth.  And
matters went badly with her last harvest, and she had
nothing to give her children to eat, so she was driven to
do what was wrong, and took an apron full of potatoes
from a splendid field belonging to the castle.  But the
overseer, Linke, who happened to be standing behind a
tree not far off, saw her, sprang out upon her instantly,
and knocked her down.  Even if he had stopped there
'twould not have been so bad, but he kicked her brutally
as she lay upon the ground.  I had been to Lindhof, and
as I was passing beneath the cherry trees near the
village, on my way home, I saw some one lying upon the
ground,—it was the poor woman, bleeding profusely, and
with not a soul near her.  She could not move, so I called
some people, who helped me to carry her home.  The Herr
Forester was absent, but I was sure of his permission,
and so I nursed and tended her as well as I could.  The
people in the village were furious at the overseer,—but
what could they do?  There was some talk of arresting
him, but it all came to nothing.  Linke is one of the
saints, he is the baroness' right-hand man, turns up his
eyes, and does everything in the name of the Lord.  It
must never get abroad that such a pious man could
behave so inhumanly, and so the baroness drove to town
every day, and was wonderfully condescending, and, in
short, the story was hushed up, and the poor woman,
who has never entirely recovered, had to get along as
best she might, for neither she nor her children ever had
a bite or a drop from the castle all the while that she was
sick.  Ah! yes, the overseer and the baroness' old
waiting-maid make a hard time of it for the poor people, they
keep a close watch to see who misses prayers or chapel
over there, and they have been the means of depriving
many an honest man of work at the castle."

"Don't say any more about it," said the forester.  "I
cannot relish my food when I think of these things, and
our pleasant Sunday, to which I look forward all the week,
must have no other shadows upon it than those cast by
the white, fleecy clouds up there."

As soon as the meal was concluded the forester's modest
little equipage made its appearance.  He handed in
Elizabeth, and seated himself by her side.  As she nodded a
farewell to the others, she glanced up at the house, and
started with actual terror at the eyes which were gazing
down upon her from a window in the upper story.  'Tis
true, the head disappeared instantly, but Elizabeth had
time to recognize the mute Bertha, and to convince
herself that she was the object of that look of rage
and hate, although she could not divine its cause.  Until
now Bertha had withdrawn herself entirely from all
intercourse with the Ferber family.  She never appeared
when Elizabeth was at the Lodge.  She took her Sunday
dinner alone in her own room, and the forester allowed
her to please herself in the matter.  He had no desire to
establish any relation between the two girls.

Frau Ferber had once made an attempt to address the
unfortunate girl.  Her gentle feminine nature could not
believe that mere wilfulness was the spring of Bertha's
extraordinary behaviour.  She suspected the existence
of some deeper cause, perhaps of some secret grief,
which made her indifferent to her surroundings, or
rendered her so irritable that she chose to remain silent
rather than be engaged in perpetual strife.  A gentle
word from her, a kindly advance on her side, would,
she hoped, unseal Bertha's lips; but she succeeded no
better than Elizabeth had done.  She was even so outraged
by the girl's manner that she strictly forbade all further
attempt at intercourse with her upon Elizabeth's part.

After a charming drive, Elizabeth and her uncle
reached their destination.

L—— was certainly a small town, and bore the
unmistakable impress of a small town, although the court
resided there from the appearance of the first primrose to
the fall of the last autumn leaf, and its inhabitants took
the greatest pains to adapt themselves, in their social life,
to the manners and customs of a large Capital.  But the
loud, uneasy creaking of the machinery of a most complicated
domestic economy could not be drowned by the rustle
of the most flowing and elegant crinoline.  The honest
townsfolk, who left their dwellings, with doors wide open,
in perfect safety, to earn their daily bread in the little
uneven streets, or in the strips of meadow land between
their houses, fell as far short of being peacocks as did the
ducks, that daily delighted to swim in the little brook
running directly through the town, of becoming stately
swans.

The situation of the place was undeniably delightful.
In the centre of a not very spacious valley, nestled at the
foot of an eminence whose summit was crowned by the
royal castle and domain, it lay buried in the dark, rich
green of avenues of lindens, and surrounded in spring by
the lovely blossoms of countless orchards.

The forester took Elizabeth to the house of an assessor,
one of his friends.  She was to wait for him there
until he had concluded his business.  Although made
cordially welcome by the lady of the house, she would
gladly have turned round and followed her retreating
uncle,—for she found herself, to her vexation, in the midst
of a large assemblage of ladies.  Her hostess informed
her that, in honour of her husband's birthday, she had
gotten up a set of tableaux from mythology, to rehearse which
was the cause of the present gathering.  At the
coffee-table, in a pleasantly-furnished apartment, eight or ten
ladies were seated, already dressed in mythological
costume, and upon the arrival of the stranger, they measured
her with glances that seemed to penetrate every plait and
fold of her simple attire.

All the goddesses, without exception, had submitted
themselves, in their costume, to the sceptre of the royal
fair of France, and wore their white robes over abundant
crinoline, which was then the fashion, "For," said Ceres,
a trig little blonde, upon whose flushed brow a whole
harvest was waving, "one looks so forlorn without crinoline;"
and how else could her dress have supported the huge
bunches of wheat ears and red poppies with which it was
adorned?  How Dame Ceres had managed this difficulty
in her days of splendour was a problem which no one
took the pains to solve.

Perhaps the artificial light of the evening would be
favourable to the remarkable arrangement of some of the
toilets, but now the bright sunlight illuminated and
revealed with cruel sincerity every pasted bit of gold-paper,
every paper-muslin scarf that should have represented
satin, and every basting stitch in the improvised tunics.
Several old-fashioned paste shoe-buckles glittered in the
girdle of Venus; and the silver crescent upon the forehead
of Diana showed the blotting-paper behind it at every
movement of the head which it adorned.

The hostess went from one to the other of her guests,
exerting herself for the entertainment of all.

"What a shame!" she said, entering the room after a
short absence, "Frau Räthin Wolf has sent to say that
her Adolph cannot come to-night; he is in bed with a
fever.  As soon as the note came, I ran across myself to
Doctor Fels; but there is no doing anything with that
man upon the subject of his children's education.  He
repeated his former refusal, and so ungraciously, that I am
quite outraged.  He says that he considers any part in
such entertainments with grown-up people entirely unfit
for half-grown boys like his Moritz, who get their heads
filled with a sense of their own importance, their minds
distracted from their lessons,—and Heaven knows what
besides.  He told me, most insolently, that he thinks I
should have done better this evening to have provided
my suffering husband—suffering, indeed, he is as lively
as a fish in the sea, except for a touch of rheumatism—with
a supper that he liked, than to have worried him
with such buffoonery, which will only deprive him of his
usual comfort and night's rest, and do no living creature
any earthly good."

"How coarse! how rude!  He is always pretending
to be a connoisseur of art, and doesn't understand it one
whit better than my little finger," was heard from one
and the other of the ladies.

"Let my experience console you, dear Adele," said
Ceres.  "Were it not that my husband cannot dispense
with his services as a physician, Fels should never darken
my doors again.  When I had that children's fancy-ball
last winter, which was acknowledged to be a great
success, he refused my invitation to his children; and what
do you think he said to me, when I begged him to allow
his little girls to come,—'Does it really give you pleasure
to see such monkey-tricks?'  I never will forgive him!"

Elizabeth suddenly seemed to see the doctor's intellectual
face, with its searching glance, sarcastic smile,
and the slightly contemptuous play of its finely-formed
lips.  She laughed inwardly at his rude replies; but she
was struck at the same time by the depressing thought,
how hard it is for a man to live up to his convictions.

"But what would you have, Frau Director?" broke in
Flora, a delicate, languishing figure with a pretty but
very pale face, who had hitherto been entirely occupied
in smiling upon her flower-decked reflection in an
opposite glass.  "He has treated us no better.  Two years
ago he told my father and mother to their faces, that it
was not only folly but want of principle—just think of
such a thing!—to allow me to go into society so young,
with my constitution.  Papa and mamma were furious,—as
if they did not know best about their own children!  It
was well that we all knew what prompted such tender
care on his part.  His youngest sister was then still
unmarried, and, naturally enough, she was by no means
pleased to see young girls usurping her place in society.
Papa would have dismissed the doctor upon the spot,
but mamma depends upon his prescriptions.  Well, they
paid no attention to his advice, and, as you see, I still
live."

The silence of the assemblage confirmed Elizabeth's
conviction that the triumph which Flora spoke of was a
very doubtful one, and that this delicate creature, with
her narrow chest and pallid face, would still have to
atone severely for the physician's neglected counsel.

Suddenly a barouche slowly passing down the street
attracted the ladies to the window.  Where she was
sitting Elizabeth could plainly see the object of the
universal curiosity.  In the elegant vehicle sat the Baroness
Lessen and Fräulein von Walde.  The latter had her
face turned towards the assessor's house, and she looked
as if she were diligently counting the windows of the
lower stories.  Her cheeks were slightly flushed, always
a sign in her of inward agitation.  The baroness, on
the contrary, was leaning back negligently among the
cushions, and appeared to be entirely unconscious of
everything around.

"The Lindhof ladies," said Ceres.  "But, Heavens! what
is the meaning of that?  They are entirely ignoring
Doctor Fels' windows.  There stands the doctor's
wife.  Ha, ha! what a long face; she tried to bow, but
the ladies have no eyes in the backs of their heads."

Elizabeth looked across at the opposite house.  A very
beautiful woman, with a lovely fair-haired child in her
arms, was standing at the window.  There certainly
was a puzzled look in her pleasant blue eyes, but the
delicate oval of her face was not in the least lengthened.
Attracted by the movements of the child, who stretched
out his little arms towards the fantastic heads at the
windows of the assessor's house, she looked across, and,
archly smiling, nodded to the ladies, who kissed their
hands, and replied to her salutation by all sorts of tender
pantomime.

"Strange!" said the hostess; "what could the ladies
mean by passing by her house without nodding to her?
They never went by without stopping before to-day.
Frau Fels would stand on the carriage-step for ever so
long, and Fräulein von Walde seemed to like her so
much—the baroness, 'tis true, often made a wry face.  It
certainly is very strange; but we must wait and see what
the future will bring forth."

"Herr von Hollfeld must have stayed at Odenberg.
He was with the ladies this morning when the carriage
passed," said Diana.

"How will Fräulein von Walde endure the separation?"
asked Flora, with a sneer.

"Why, is there anything in that quarter?" asked the
hostess.

"Don't you know that, child?" cried Ceres.  "We
can't tell yet what his sentiments are, but beyond all
doubt she loves him passionately.  In fact, it is almost
certain that the love is all on one side; for how can
such an unfortunate cripple inspire affection,—and in
such a cold nature as Hollfeld's, which has been
unmoved by the greatest beauties?"

"Yes, true enough," said Venus, with a glance at the
mirror, which Flora, in spite of her emaciation, had
entirely monopolized.  "But Fräulein von Walde is
enormously rich!"

"Oh, he can have the wealth at a cheaper rate," said
Flora.  "He is said to be heir to the sister and brother
too."

"Oh, the brother!" rejoined Venus.  "He had better
not rely upon his chances there.  Herr von Walde is a
man in the prime of life, and may marry at any time."

"Nonsense!" cried Ceres, excitedly.  "The woman is
yet to be born, or rather sent down from heaven, who
can touch him.  He is haughtiness itself, and has less
heart than his cousin.  How provoked I used to be at
the court-balls, to see him standing in the doorway with
his arms crossed as if they were glued together, and
looking down so arrogantly upon the crowd.  Only when
the princess, or one of the royal family, requested him to
dance did he stir from the spot, and then he was at no
pains to conceal that he cared not a bit for the honour.
Well, we know well enough what his requisitions are for
the woman at whose feet he will lay the proud name of
von Walde—Ancestors! ancestors she must have, and
her pedigree must date from Noah's ark."

All laughed, except Elizabeth, who remained very
grave.  Fräulein von Walde's behaviour had made a
deep impression upon her.  She was annoyed, and felt
that her views of human nature had been lowered.  Was
such a change possible in the course of a few short
hours?  The fact just stated by the ladies, that Helene
von Walde loved the son of the Baroness Lessen, would
have fully explained the influence exercised by the latter
to any one of a practical, matter-of-fact nature,—but not
to Elizabeth.

The elevating sentiment, described by the poets of
all ages and all climes as the truest and most ennobling
of which human nature is capable, could not possibly be
an incentive to unworthy conduct; and it was equally
hard to imagine how Herr von Hollfeld could inspire
that sentiment.  Here she judged from the one-sided,
personal point of view from which we are prone to pass
sentence on others; but whether from the instinct of
her true womanly nature, or whether she really
possessed the clear insight that sees in the lines of the
face the clear indications of the soul within and traces
them to their source, we cannot say,—certainly, in this
case, her judgment of a man with whom she had had
scarcely any intercourse was entirely correct.

Herr von Hollfeld was certainly not calculated to
personate the ideal of a refined feminine nature.  He neither
possessed intelligence nor wit, was inordinately vain, and
by no means content with the interest excited by his fine
person.  He was fully aware that most women will
forgive defects of person sooner than defects of mind; and
therefore he adopted the mask of silence and reserve,
behind which the world is so ready to see great intelligence,
originality, and strength of character.  There was no
man living who could boast of being upon intimate terms
with Herr von Hollfeld; he was cunning enough to elude
every attempt to test the quality of his mind, and avoided
all earnest conversation with men, while women, as soon as
they perceived the rough shell of his repellant behaviour,
were only too ready to cry, "the sweeter the kernel."  Herr
von Hollfeld understood his part,—he was moved by
secret desires and hopes, which were strengthened by the
difficulty attending their attainment.  Animated by no lofty
aspirations, he was the slave of avarice and sensuality.
To make his position a brilliant one from a worldly point
of view, he disdained no petty intrigue, and his office as
chamberlain at the court of L—— opened the way to
many such.  He deceived and lied, and was all the more
dangerous on account of the frank honest seeming
behind which men never suspected the low schemer, or
women the vulgar sensualist.

Elizabeth was glad when she saw her uncle turn the
corner and approach the house.  With a sigh of relief she
took her place in the carriage at his side.  She took off her
hat, and bathed her hot forehead in the fresh, delicious
evening breeze that swept gently by.  The last rays of
the sun were just gilding the trembling leaves of the
poplars by the roadside, and there was a rosy light upon the
fields of blooming grain; but the forest that enclosed in
its bosom Elizabeth's home lay dark and gloomy beyond,
as if it had already forgotten the sunny life which had
penetrated its inmost recesses so short a time before.

The forester glanced several times at the silent young
girl at his side.  Suddenly he transferred both reins and
whip to one hand, took hold of Elizabeth's chin, and
turned her face up to him.

"Come, let me see, Elsie!" he said.  "What! why,
zounds! you have got two wrinkles there in your
forehead as deep as old Sabina's furrows.  What has
happened?  Come, out with it!  Something has vexed you,
hey?"

"No, uncle, I am not vexed, but pained that you were
so right in your estimate of Fräulein von Walde," replied
Elizabeth, while a deep blush of emotion covered her face.

"Pained because I was right, or because Fräulein von
Walde has acted unworthily?"

"Well, because what you prophesied was evil, and——"

"And therefore it follows that you should be angry
with me.  He is always the criminal who tells the truth
in such a matter.  And pray, which of the utterances of
my worldly wisdom has been justified by time?"

She told him of Helene's conduct, and of what the
ladies had said.  The forester smiled meaningly.

"Oh women, women, and those women in especial!
They prophesy an immediate marriage if two people only
say good morning to each other.  But perhaps they are
right in this case,—it clears up much to my mind that has
hitherto seemed inexplicable to me."

"But, uncle, you cannot believe that any one would
sacrifice the best feelings of our nature to such a preference?"

"Many other things have happened, my child, for the
sake of such a preference, and although I do not for one
moment defend Fräulein von Walde's weakness and
submission; still, I shall henceforth judge her more leniently.
She succumbs to the power which leads us to forget father
and mother for another's sake."

"Ah! that is just what I cannot understand," said
Elizabeth, earnestly.  "How can any one love a stranger
better than father or mother?"

"Hm!" rejoined the forester, touching the horses lightly
with his whip, to accelerate their speed.  This "hm"
was followed by a clearing of his throat, and he changed
the subject, for he justly thought, "If that be so, she
will never understand my definition of love, although
I should speak with the tongues of angels."  And he
himself?—Far, far in the past lay the time when he had
carved the dear name upon the trees, and trained his deep
voice to sing love songs; when he had walked miles for
a single smile, and had hated as his bitterest enemy the
man who dared to regard with favour the object of his
adoration.  He looked back and rejoiced in that wonderful time,
but to paint it with its tempests of excited feeling,—its
tears and laughter, its hopes and fears,—was more than
he could do.

"Do you see that perpendicular black streak just above
the forest there?" he asked, after a long silence, pointing
with his whip to the mountain which they were approaching.

"Yes, indeed, it is the flag-staff upon Castle Gnadeck.
I saw it a few moments ago, and am now rejoicing
unspeakably in the thought that there lies a spot of earth
that we may call our own,—a place from which no one
has the right to drive us.  Thank God, we have a home!"

"And such a home!" said the forester, as his beaming
eyes looked around the horizon.  "When I was quite a
little child, how I longed for the Thuringian forest!  It was
all because of my grandfather's stories.  In his youth he
had lived in Thuringia, and had the tales and legends of
his home at his tongue's end; and when I had reached
man's estate, I came hither.  Then all the forest which
we see before us belonged to the Gnadewitzes, but I would
not enter their service,—my father had told me too much
about them.  I was the first Ferber from time immemorial
who had renounced their service.  I applied to the Prince
of L——.  The last of the Gnadewitzes divided his forests
because the Prince of L—— was willing to pay an
immense sum of money that he might enlarge his own
woodland possessions.  And thus it happened that the most
ardent desire of my youth was gratified, for I live now
in the house that may be called the cradle of the Ferbers.
You know that we came at first from Thuringia?"

"Oh yes, I have known that from my childhood."

"And do you know the story of our origin?"

"No."

"Well, it was long ago, and perhaps I am the only one
who now knows anything about it, but it shall not be lost,
for remembrance is all the gratitude that posterity can
show for a brave action,—so now you shall hear the story,
and then you can tell it again.

"About two hundred years ago,—you see we can trace
back a considerable pedigree,—the only pity is that we
have no idea who the mother of our race was,—if you
should ever be asked any questions concerning her by the
Baroness Lessen, or others, you can answer with
confidence that we suspect her to have been either Augusta
von Blasewitz,—for the story dates from the thirty years'
war,—or a vivandiere: perhaps she was a good, honest
woman, who clung to her husband through all the
hardships of the war, although I cannot forgive her for
forsaking her child,—well, then, about two hundred years
ago, as the wife of the huntsman Ferber opened her door
in the morning—the very door that now shuts upon my
home—she saw a little child lying upon the threshold.
She clapped the door to again in a great hurry, for the
forest was then swarming with gypsies, and she thought
it would prove to be one of their dirty brats.  But her
husband was more of a Christian, and took the child in.
It was scarcely a day old.  A paper was pinned upon its
breast, stating that the child was born in holy wedlock,
that he had been baptized by the name of Hans, and that
whoever would take care of him should receive further
revelations concerning him at some future day.  Hidden
in the child's dress was found a purse containing some
money.  The huntsman's wife was a good woman, and
when she heard the child was born of Christian parents,
and was probably the son of some honest soldier who
had left it here that it might not be exposed to the
dangers of the war, she took it to her heart and brought it
up with her own little girl as if they had been brother
and sister.  It was well for him that she did so, for no
one ever heard another word about his relatives.  His
foster-father afterwards adopted him, and, to make his
happiness complete, he married his foster-sister.  He, as well
as his son and grandson, lived where I live now, as
foresters to the Gnadewitzes, and they all died there.  My
grandfather was the first who left this place with his
master for one of the estates in Silesia.  As a boy, I was much
disappointed that some countess mother did not turn up
in the end who should recognize the foundling as her son,
stolen from her by the malice of an enemy, and bear him
home in triumph to her castle.  Later in life I learned to
endure the want of this romantic termination to the story
with a good grace, as I considered that in such case my
own appearance here would have been very dubious, and
my honest name pleased me too much to wish it changed
for any other; but imagine my sensations when I stood
for the first time upon the threshold where the little
foundling had passed the most helpless moment of his life, when,
deserted by his natural parents, sympathy had not yet
supplied their place.  The worn stone is undoubtedly the
same upon which the child lay, and as long as I live here
or have anything to do with the place, it shall never be
removed."

Suddenly the forester leaned forward and pointed
through the boughs, for they had entered the wood.

"Do you see that white spot?" he asked.

The white spot was the cap of Sabina, who was sitting
at the door of the Lodge waiting for them.  When she
saw the carriage, she rose quickly, shook the contents of
her apron, which proved to be a quantity of forget-me-nots,
into a basket, and came to assist Elizabeth to alight.

The horse trotted, neighing, behind the house, where he
was awaited and received with a caressing pat.  Hector
laid himself down upon the ground, wagging his tail
contentedly, and the doves and sparrows, which the noise of
the arrival had frightened away, returned and hopped
fearlessly about upon the green painted bench and table
under the linden, where, as the little rogues well knew,
the forester was in the habit of taking his morning and
evening meals.  He went into the house for a moment
that he might exchange his uniform for the more comfortable
garment worn at home, and soon returned, pipe and
newspaper in hand, to the linden, where Sabina soon
began to lay the table.

"'Tis a fact, it's a silly piece of Sunday work for such
an old woman as I am," said the housekeeper, laughing,
as she passed Elizabeth, who, sitting upon the stone
step which now possessed such an interest for her,
continued the weaving of the wreath which Sabina had
begun.  "But I have been used to such work from my
youth.  I have two little black pictures up in my room,
likenesses of my blessed father and mother; they certainly
deserve that I should honour them and hold them in
loving remembrance, so I hang fresh flowers around them
every Sunday, as long as there is a blossom to be had.
A couple of children from Lindhof bring me fresh ones
every Sunday, and to-day they brought me so many that
there is enough for a wreath for Gold Elsie; if she puts
it in a dish of water it will keep fresh all through the
week."

Elizabeth sat a long time this evening with her uncle.
A flood of memories came rushing over his mind, called
forth by his narration of the old story of two hundred
years before.  He recalled many a wish, plan, and
aspiration of his youth, which now provoked only a smiling
sigh of sympathetic pity,—they had all vanished before the
actual, like dust before the wind.  He talked them over
now, as one who, standing upon the land, hears the dash
of the breakers afar that cannot reach him.  Sometimes
he would make some witty attack, in the midst of his
recollections, upon Elizabeth, who would parry his thrusts
and retort merrily.

Meanwhile a light arose behind the trees, which had
blended undistinguishably with the dark heavens, but
which now stood out in strong relief against the bright
background.  Single rays shot like silver arrows between
interlacing boughs, and lay motionless like oases of light
upon the dim meadow, until at last the moon arose,
large and victorious, above the tops of the trees, and its
full lustre flooded the landscape.  The gentle breeze of
evening had long since folded its wings,—you could
have counted the shadows of the linden leaves upon the
moonlit earth, so distinct and motionless they lay.  All
the clearer was heard the gurgle of the little fountain in
the court-yard of the Lodge, and the low, indefinite
murmur from the woods, which Elizabeth called "the sleepy
rain" of the forest.

"There," said Sabina, crowning Elizabeth's head
lightly with the forget-me-not wreath, which she had just
completed.  "Carry it home so, and you'll not crush it."

"Then it may stay there," said she, laughing, as she
arose.  "Many thanks for my ride!  Good-night, uncle,
good-night, Sabina!"

And then she hastened through the house and garden,
and was soon outside the gate, which she closed behind
her, and flew along up the narrow moonlit forest path.
In the dwelling-room above, the lamp was burning; in
spite of the bright moonlight, its beams were distinctly
visible, for the front of her home lay in deep shade.

As she reached the little clearing, a remarkable shadow
fell across her path.  It was neither a tree nor a post,
but the figure of a man, a stranger, who had been
standing upon one side of the path, and now, to her terror,
approached her.  The apparition courteously removed its
hat, and Elizabeth's terror vanished on the instant, for
she saw before her the smiling, good-humoured countenance
of a well dressed, rather elderly man.

"I pray your pardon, Fräulein, if I have frightened
you," he said, as he looked kindly over the large, shining
glasses of his spectacles into her face.  "I assure you, I
have no designs either upon your life or your purse, and
am simply a peaceful traveller, returning to his home,
who greatly desires to know what the light in the ruins
yonder may betoken; and yet this moment convinces me
that my question is quite superfluous.  Fairies and elves
are holding their revels there, while the fairest among
them keeps guard in the forest around, that none may
invade their charmed circle with impunity."

This gallant comparison, trite as it may appear, was
not ill applied at this moment, for the slight girlish figure
in white robes, with the blue wreath crowning her
angelic countenance, and bathed in moonlight, might
well have been mistaken for a fairy vision, as it glided
so lightly among the trees of the wood.

She herself laughed inwardly at the quaint compliment,
but with a little pique at the thought of resembling
such a mercurial elfish being, and she replied to the old
gentleman with maidenly dignity.

"I am really sorry," she said, "to be forced to lead you
back to realities, but I fail to see anything in the light
yonder, except a commonplace lamp in the dwelling-room
of a forester's clerk in the service of the Prince of L——."

"Ah!" laughed the gentleman, "and does the man
live all alone in those uncanny old walls?"

"He might do so with a quiet mind, for over those
whose consciences are pure nothing uncanny can have
any power.  Nevertheless some loving creatures bear him
company, among the rest, two well-fed goats and a canary
bird, not to mention the owls, who have retired into
private life in great indignation, since the frivolous conduct
of human beings does not assort at all well with the solemn
views of life entertained by their grave worships."

"Or perhaps because they shun the light and cannot
endure——"

"That the new arrival should adore the truth?"

"Perhaps that, too; but I was about to suggest that
they fly from the two suns that have suddenly arisen in
the old ruins."

"Two suns at once?  That would be a terrible
experience for their poor owls' eyes, and might even prove
too much for a fire-worshipper," replied Elizabeth,
laughing, as she passed him with a slight inclination, for her
parents had just emerged from the gate in the wall, and
were advancing towards her.  They had come out with
some anxiety when they heard Elizabeth's voice and that
of a stranger, and they gently reproved her, after she had
related her little adventure, for entering so thoughtlessly
into conversation with strangers.

"Your badinage might have had unpleasant consequences
for you, my child," said her mother.  "Fortunately,
they were gentlemen."

"Gentlemen?" interrupted her daughter, with surprise.
"There was only one."

"Look around," said her father; "you can see for yourself."

And certainly just where the path began to descend
into the valley, two hats were plainly to be seen.

"So you see, mother dear," said Elizabeth, "what an
entirely harmless encounter it was.  One never stepped
out from behind the bushes, and there was certainly not
an atom of the brigand to be seen in the kind old face of
the other."

When she went to her room she carefully took the
wreath from her head, laid it in fresh water, and placed
it before the bust of Beethoven, then she kissed the
forehead of the sleeping Ernst, and said good-night to her
father and mother.





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.. _`CHAPTER IX.`:

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   CHAPTER IX.

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"Hallo, Elsie, do not run so!" shouted the forester,
the next day at three o'clock in the afternoon, as he
came out of the forest with his rifle on his shoulder and
crossed the meadow towards the Lodge.

Elizabeth was running down the mountain, her round
hat hanging upon her arm instead of resting upon the
braids that glanced in the sunlight, and as she reached
the house she flew laughing into her uncle's arms, which
he extended to receive her.

She put her hand into her pocket, and stepped back
a few paces.  "Guess what I have in my pocket, uncle,"
she said, smiling.

"Well, what can it be?  No need to puzzle one's brains
long about it.  Probably a little sentimental hay,—a few
dried flowers, kept for the sake of the melancholy
associations that they recall,—or some printed sighs over the
woes of the world, bound in gilt pasteboard?"

"Wrong, indeed; twice wrong, Herr Forester, for, in
the first place, your wit glances harmlessly aside from me,
and in the next—look here!"

She drew a little box from her pocket, and lifted the
cover.  There, upon green leaves, was comfortably lying
a large lemon-coloured caterpillar, with black spots, broad
bluish-green stripes upon its back, and a crooked horn
upon its tail.

"By all that is wonderful, Sphinx Atropos!" cried the
delighted forester.  "Ah, my sunbeam, where did you
find that exquisite specimen?"

"Over at Lindhof, in a potato-field.  Isn't it beautiful?
There, let us shut the box carefully, and put it back in my
pocket."

"What! am I not to have it?"

"Oh yes; you can have it,—that is if you are inclined
to pay for it."

"Zounds!  What a girl you have become!  Come, give
it to me,—here are four groschen."

"Not for the world.  You can't have it for one
farthing less than twelve.  When many a ragged, yellow old
bit of parchment,—that one can hardly bear to touch,—is
paid for with its weight in gold, certainly such a
perfect piece of Nature's workmanship is worth twelve
groschen."

"Yellow old parchment! never breathe such a word
into scientific ears, if you value your reputation."

"Ah, there are none such to be breathed into here in
the forest."

"Take care; Herr von Walde——"

"Is hiding in the Pyramids."

"But he might suddenly return and take a certain
self-conceited young person to strict account.  He is
cock-of-the-walk among learned men."

"Well, for aught I care, they may raise monuments in
his honour, and strew laurels in his path, as much as they
choose.  I cannot forgive him for forgetting, in the midst
of all that dead lumber, the claims that the living have
upon him.  While he is engaged in an enthusiastic search,
perhaps, for some wonderfully preserved receipt by
Lucullus, or lost in investigations as to whether the Romans
did actually feed their fish upon the flesh of slaves, the
poor employed upon his estate starve under the baroness'
rule—actually crushed beneath the yoke of modern slavery."

"Hallo! how his left ear must burn!  What a pity that
he cannot hear this confession of faith!  Here are your
twelve groschen, if you must have them.  You want to
buy some trinket or other, a feather, or ribbons for your
hat, hey?" he said, smiling.

She held her hat out at arm's length before her, and
contemplated with admiration the two fresh roses which
she had stuck into the simple band of black velvet that
encircled it.  "Does not that look lovely?" she asked.
"Do you think I would voluntarily hide my head beneath
nodding plumes when I can have roses, fresh roses?  And
there is your caterpillar, and now you shall know why I
want to black-mail you.  This morning the poor widow
of a weaver in Lindhof came to my mother, begging a
little assistance.  Her husband had had a fall, which injured
his arm and his foot, so that he has not been able to earn
anything for weeks.  My mother gave her some old linen
and a large loaf of bread.  She could do nothing more,
as you know.  See, here I have fifteen groschen,—from
my money-box,—there is not another farthing in it just
now, and three from little Ernst, who would gladly have
sold his tin soldiers to help the poor woman, and with
the price for the caterpillar I shall have a whole thaler,
which I shall carry to the poor thing immediately."

"Let me see.  Here is another thaler; and, Sabina,"
he called into the house, "bring out a piece of meat from
your pickling-tub, and wrap it up in green leaves.  You
shall take that too," he said, turning again to Elizabeth.

"Oh, you dearest of splendid uncles!" cried the girl,
taking his large hand between her slender palms and
pressing it tenderly.

"But take care," he continued, "that the piece of good
salt meat does not turn into roses.  It would be a sad
change for the poor weaver's wife.  You seem to be
following in the steps of your saintly namesake."

"Yes; but fortunately I have here no cruel Landgrave
to fear.  And if I had, I would tell the truth in spite of
him."

"Gracious gods, what a heroic soul it is!"

"But I think the courage to tell a lie would be far
greater, even though it were a pious one."

"True, true, my daughter.  I think I could hardly have
done it either.  Ah, here comes Sabina!"

The old housekeeper issued from the door, and whilst
she wrapped up the meat for Elizabeth, in accordance with
the forester's directions, she whispered to him that Herr
von Walde, who had yesterday arrived from abroad, had
been waiting for him for some time.

"Where?" he asked.

"Here in the dwelling-room."

Now they had been standing directly beneath the
open windows of this room.  Elizabeth turned quickly
round, blushing scarlet, but could see no one.  Her
uncle, without turning, shrugged his shoulders with an
infinitely comical gesture, stroked his long moustache,
and whispered, with a suppressed laugh: "Here's a nice
state of things!  You have settled matters finely,—he
has heard every word.7"

"So much the better," replied his niece, throwing her
head back with an air of defiance.  "He does not hear
the truth very often, perhaps."  Then bidding farewell to
her uncle and Sabina, she walked slowly away through
the forest in the direction of Lindhof.

At first she was annoyed at the thought that Herr von
Walde had been obliged, entirely against his will, to listen
to the judgment which had been passed upon him.  Then
she was sure that she should have told him just the same
truth to his face.  And as it was scarcely to be supposed
that he would ever trouble himself about her estimate of
him, it certainly could do him no harm that he had been
involuntarily the auditor of a frank, impartial sentence
passed upon him, even although such sentence came from
the lips of a young girl.  But how had it happened that
he had returned so suddenly and unexpectedly?  Fräulein
von Walde had always spoken of her brother's absence
as likely to continue for several years, and the day before
she had had not the slightest expectation of his return.
And then her encounter of the previous evening flashed
into her mind.  The old gentleman had said that he was
a traveller returning home; but it was impossible that he,
with his smiling, good-humoured face, could be the grave,
haughty proprietor of Lindhof, who, perhaps, was the
person that had remained concealed beneath the trees while
his companion was getting an answer to his inquiries.
But what could Herr von Walde want with her uncle,
who, as she knew, had never stood in any relation to
him whatever?

These and similar thoughts occupied her mind upon
her way to the weaver's.  Husband and wife were delighted
by the unhoped-for assistance, and heaped Elizabeth
with profuse professions of gratitude as she left the
house.

She passed through the village, and directed her steps
to Lindhof, where she had promised to practice as usual.
The lesson had not been postponed, notwithstanding the
return of Herr von Walde.  The proprietor's return had
worked a great change in the whole look of the castle.
All the windows of the lower story on the south side,
which had so long been dark and closed behind their
white shutters, now reflected the sunlight in a long, shining
row.  The apartments within were undergoing a thorough
airing and dusting.  A glass door stood wide open,
revealing the interior of a large saloon.  Upon one of the
steps which led down to the garden at the back lay a
snow-white greyhound, with his slender body stretched
out upon the hot stone and his head resting upon his
forepaws; he blinked at Elizabeth as though she had been
an old acquaintance.  At an open window the gardener
was arranging a stand of flowers, and the old steward
Lorenz was walking through the rooms, superintending
everything.

It was remarkable that all the people whom the young
girl met had, as if by magic, entirely altered their whole
expression.  Had a tempest swept through the sultry
atmosphere and a fresh breeze filled all the rooms, so that
voices sounded clearer, and bent forms grew straight and
elastic?  Even old Lorenz, whose face had always worn
so grim and depressed a look, as though there were a
weight of lead upon his shoulders, shot real sunshine
from his eyes, although he was scolding one of the maids;
Elizabeth looked on in surprise.  She had only seen him
before gliding about upon the tips of his toes, and in low,
suppressed tones announcing guests to the ladies in the
drawing-room.

In amazement at this sudden bursting into bloom of
new life and activity, Elizabeth turned towards the wing
appropriated to the ladies.  Here the deepest silence still
reigned.  In the apartments of the baroness the curtains
were closely drawn.  No noise penetrated through the
doors by which Elizabeth passed.  The air of the
passages was heavy with the odour of valerian, and when at
the lower end of one of the halls, Elizabeth saw through
an open door one human face, what a change met her
eye!  It was the baroness' old waiting-maid who looked
out, probably to see who was so bold as to invade the
solemn repose of the corridor.  Her cap was set upon her
false curls all awry, and the curls themselves were but
loosely put on.  Her countenance wore a troubled
expression, and a round, red spot on each cheek, betokened
either high fever or some violent, mental agitation.  She
returned Elizabeth's salute shortly and sullenly, and
disappeared into the room, closing the door noiselessly
behind her.

When Elizabeth reached Fräulein von Walde's apartment,
she thought that she had arrived at the last act in the
mysterious drama which had begun in the baroness'
rooms, for no "come in" answered her repeated knock.
Not only were the curtains here drawn, but the shutters
also were closed as she saw when she gently opened the
door.  The profound quiet and the darkness deterred
her from entering, and she was about to shut the door
again when Helene, in a weak voice, called to her to
enter.  The little lady lay on a couch at the farther end
of the room, her head resting on a white pillow, and
Elizabeth could hear that her teeth were chattering as if with
cold.

"Ah, dear child," she said, and laid her cold, damp
hand upon her young friend's arm, "I have had a nervous
attack.  None of my people have observed that I am lying
here so ill, and it has been terribly lonely in this dark
room.  Pray open the windows wide,—I need air, the
warm air of heaven."

Elizabeth immediately did as she desired, and when the
daylight streamed in upon the pale face of the invalid, it
revealed traces of violent weeping.

The sunshine aroused more life and motion in the room
than Elizabeth had anticipated; she was startled by a loud
scream which proceeded from one corner.  There she
discovered a cockatoo, with snow-white plumage and a
brilliant yellow crest, swinging to and fro upon a ring.

"Heavens! what a fearful noise!" sighed Helene, pressing
her little hands upon her ears.  "That terrible bird
will tear my nerves to pieces!"

Elizabeth's glance rested amazed upon the little stranger,
and then explored the rest of the apartment, which looked
like a bazaar.  Upon tables and chairs were lying costly
stuffs, shawls, richly-bound books, and all kinds of toilet
articles.  Fräulein von Walde noticed Elizabeth's look,
and said briefly, with averted face: "All presents from
my brother, who returned home quite unexpectedly yesterday."

How cold her voice was as she said it!  And there was
not the slightest hint of pleasure to be discovered in her
features, swollen with weeping; the large eyes, usually so
soft and gentle, expressed only vexation and annoyance.

Elizabeth stooped silently and picked up a gorgeous
bouquet of camellias, that was lying half faded upon the
floor.

"Oh yes," said Helene, sitting up, while a slight flush
appeared on her cheeks, "that is my brother's good-morning
to me; it fell down from the table, and I forgot it.
Pray put it in that vase there."

"Poor flowers," said Elizabeth, half aloud, as she looked
at the brown edges of the white petals, "they never
dreamed when they opened their tender buds, that they
were to bloom in such a cold atmosphere!"

Helene looked up into her friend's face with a searching,
troubled glance, and for an instant her eyes expressed
regret.  "Put the flowers on the sill of the open
window," she whispered quickly, "the air there will do them
good.  Oh, heavens!" she cried, sinking back among her
cushions.  "He is certainly a most excellent man, but his
sudden return has destroyed the harmony of our delightful
home life."

Elizabeth looked almost incredulously at the little lady
who lay there, her clasped hands raised, and her eyes
lifted to heaven, as if fate had decreed her a most bitter
trial.  If she had failed yesterday to find the key to
Helene's conduct, she was certainly more puzzled than
ever to-day by this incomprehensible character.  What
had become of all those sentiments of fervent gratitude
that had breathed from every word whenever Helene had
spoken of her absent brother?  Had all the sisterly
tenderness which had seemed to fill her heart vanished in a
single moment, so that she now lamented what, according
to her own words, she had so lately regarded as the most
delightful thing that could happen?  Even supposing
that the returned brother did not sympathize with the
circle in which alone she felt happy, if he should oppose
her dearest wishes, was it possible that coldness and
anger could exist between two beings whom fate had
bound together by so close a tie, a tie which must bring
them all the nearer to each other, since one was so
helpless, and the other so alone in the world?  Elizabeth
suddenly felt profound pity for the man who had sailed
on distant seas and wandered through strange lands so
long, only to be greeted as a disturbing element when
he once more appeared at his own fireside.  Apparently
there was one tender spot in his proud heart, love for
his sister; how deeply wounded he must be that she had
no loving welcome for him, and that her heart was cold
and hard towards him!

Occupied with these thoughts, Elizabeth arranged the
flowers in the vase.  She returned not a syllable to
Helene's outbreak, which had so maligned her brother to
stranger ears.  And Helene herself, shamed probably by
Elizabeth's silence, seemed to be conscious that she had
lost her self-control, for she suddenly, in an altered voice,
begged her to take a chair and stay with her for awhile.

At this moment the door was violently flung open, and
a female figure appeared upon the threshold.  Elizabeth
was at some trouble to recognize in this apparition
in its neglected, careless dress, betraying every sign of
great agitation, the Baroness Lessen.  Her scanty locks,
usually so carefully arranged, were streaming from under
a morning-cap across her forehead, no longer white and
smooth as ivory, but flushing scarlet.  The stereotyped
self-satisfaction had vanished from her eyes, and she
presented a most insignificant appearance as she looked shyly
into the room!

"Ah, Helene!" she cried anxiously, without noticing
Elizabeth, and her corpulent figure advanced with
unwonted rapidity.  "Rudolph has just sent for the
unfortunate Linke to come to his room, and he abused the
poor man so violently and loudly that I heard him in
my bed-room on the other side of the court—Heavens! how
wretched I am!  The morning has agitated me so
that I can scarcely stand, but I could not listen to such
injustice any longer, and sought refuge here.  And those
servile wretches, the other servants, who, while Rudolph
was away, scarcely dared to wink their eyes,—there they
stand now boldly beneath the windows, taking a
malicious pleasure in the misfortunes that are befalling a
faithful servant.  Everything is destroyed that I had
arranged so carefully and with such pains for the
salvation of this household.  And Emil is at Odenberg!  How
miserable and forlorn we are, dearest Helene!"

She threw her arms around the neck of the little lady,
who started up pale as ashes.  Elizabeth took advantage
of this moment to slip out of the room.

As she passed along the corridor leading to the
vestibule she heard some one speaking loudly.  It was a deep,
sonorous, manly voice, which grew louder now and then
under the influence of excitement, but there was no
sharpness in its tones even when they were loudest.  Although
she could not distinguish a word, the tone thrilled through
her,—there was something inexorable in the intonation
of the emphasized sentences.

The echo in the long corridor was deceptive.  Elizabeth
did not know whence the voice proceeded, and she
therefore ran forwards quickly that she might the sooner
reach the open air.  But after a few steps she heard, as
though the speaker were directly beside her, the words,
"To-morrow evening you will leave Lindhof."

"But, most gracious Herr!"—was the answer.

"I have nothing else to say to you! now go!" was
uttered in a commanding tone; and just then Elizabeth,
to her terror, found herself opposite a wide-open folding
door.  The tall figure of a man stood in the middle of
the room, his left hand behind him, and his right pointing
to the door.  A pair of flashing, dark eyes met her
own as she passed hastily through the vestibule and into
the garden.  It seemed as if that look, in which there
glowed an indignant soul, pursued her and drove her
onward.

As the Ferber family were sitting at supper, her father
told with expressions of pleasure how he had made the
acquaintance of Herr von Walde that day at the Lodge.

"Well, and how does he please you?" asked his wife.

"That is a question, dear child, that I might be able
to answer if I should happen to have daily intercourse
with him for a year or so, although even then I cannot
tell whether I should be able to give a satisfactory
reply.  The man is very interesting to me—as one is
continually tempted to try to discover whether he really
is what he appears,—a perfectly cold, passionless nature.
He came to my brother to learn the particulars concerning
the affair between his superintendent and the poor
labourer's widow, because he had been informed that
Sabina had been an eye-witness of the ill treatment she
had received.  Sabina was obliged to tell how she
discovered the poor woman.  He asked about everything, even
the smallest circumstance, but in a very short, decided
manner.  What impression Sabina's account made upon
him no one could tell; his looks were utterly impenetrable,
not the smallest change of countenance betrayed
his thoughts.  He comes directly from Spain.  From the
few remarks that he let fall, I judge that his sudden return
to Thuringia is owing to a letter from some one of his
friends here, telling him of the mismanagement of affairs
upon his estate and the unhappiness among his tenantry."

"And his exterior?" asked Frau Ferber.

"Is pleasing, although I have never seen so much
reserve and inaccessibility expressed in a man's
bearing I entirely understand how he has the reputation
of boundless haughtiness; and yet I cannot, on the
other hand, convince myself that such exceeding folly can
lurk behind such remarkably intellectual features.  His
face always wears the look of cold repose of which I
have spoken; but, between the eyebrows, there is what
I might call an involuntary, unguarded expression of
what a superficial observer might think sternness; to me
it seems settled melancholy."

Elizabeth listened thoughtfully to this description.
She had already learned how that cold repose could be
entirely laid aside for a time, and she told her father of
the scene which she had witnessed.

"Then sentence has been passed sooner than I
anticipated," said Ferber.  "Possibly your uncle may have
done his part towards this end by his strong language,—he
does not hesitate when asked for an opinion.  He
was so frank with Herr von Walde, that he felt quite
relieved and retained not an iota in his heart of all that
had been vexing him in the course of the past year."





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.. _`CHAPTER X.`:

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   CHAPTER X.

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Scarcely a week had passed since the evening mentioned
in the last chapter, but these few days had brought
about great changes in the household at the castle of
Lindhof.  The dismissed superintendent had already been
replaced by a new man, whose power, however, was very
limited, as Herr von Walde had undertaken the chief
oversight of affairs himself.  Several day-labourers who
had been summarily dismissed, either because they were
warm adherents of the village pastor, and had, on
account of their work, been frequently absent from prayers
at the castle, or because they did not care to listen to
the chaplain's sermons, were again working on the estate.

The day before, Sunday, Herr von Walde, accompanied
by the Baroness Lessen and little Bella, had attended
service in the village church at Lindhof.  To the surprise
of all, the chaplain, Herr Möhring, had appeared in the
organ-loft as one of the audience, and at noon the worthy
pastor had taken dinner with the family at Castle Lindhof.
Doctor Fels paid daily visits there, for Fräulein von
Walde was sick.  That was the reason why Elizabeth
had not been requested to give her another lesson, and
also, as the forester said, why the Baroness Lessen "had
not been banished to Siberia, for," said he, "Herr von
Walde would not be such a savage as to make his ailing
sister still more ailing, by depriving her of the society
which was dearest to her.  He knew that if his mother
left, Herr von Hollfeld's visits would also cease."  It was
malicious to say so, but, as he added, "incontrovertibly
just."

In the village it was well known that it had required
several terrible tempests to clear the air at Castle
Lindhof.  For the first three days after his arrival Herr von
Walde had taken his meals alone in his private apartments,
and the letters which the baroness' waiting-maid
had delivered to him, at all times of the day, from her
mistress, were returned unopened, until at last the
violent illness of his sister had brought about a meeting
between her brother and her cousin by her bedside.
Since that day intercourse had again been apparently
established between the two, although the servants
declared that they exchanged scarcely a word at table.
Herr von Hollfeld had been over once to greet the
returned traveller, but it was observed that he rode away
with a perceptibly lengthened face, after a very short stay.

On a melancholy, rainy day in August, Elizabeth was
again requested by Fräulein von Walde to spend half
an hour with her at the castle.  The lady was not alone
when she entered the room.  Herr von Walde sat in the
recess by the window.  His tall figure was leaning back on
a couch, his head nearly touching the light-coloured wall
behind him, so that his dark-brown hair stood out in
strong relief against it.  His right hand, which carelessly
held a cigar, was resting upon the window-sill, while his
left was raised as if he had just been speaking.  His
neighbour, the Baroness Lessen, was bending towards
him, and, with a most winning smile upon her face,
seemed to be listening intently to his words, although, as
it appeared, they were not addressed to her, but to
Helene.  She was sitting tolerably near him, and had
some crochet work in her hand.  Fräulein von Walde
was lying upon a lounge.  A full dressing-gown entirely
enveloped her small figure, and her beautiful brown
curls escaped from beneath a morning-cap, trimmed with
pink ribbons, which heightened, by force of contrast, the
pallor of her countenance.  The cockatoo was perched
upon her hand, and from time to time she held him caressingly
to her cheek.  "The terrible bird" was now called
"darling," and might scream as loud as it liked,—it was
only soothed by a tender "What's the matter with my
pet?"  Here, then, all was peace and reconciliation.

Upon Elizabeth's entrance Helene beckoned to her
kindly, but it did not escape her that there was a slight
embarrassment in the little lady's manner.

"Dear Rudolph," she said, as she took Elizabeth's
hand, "let me present you to the delightful artiste to
whom I owe so many pleasant hours,—Fräulein Ferber,
called by her uncle, and in all the country around,
Gold Elsie.  She plays so deliciously that I entreat her
to make us forget the gray and gloomy skies above us this
afternoon.  You see, dear child," she continued, turning
to Elizabeth, "that I am still too weak to assist you
at the piano; will you have the great kindness to play
something alone for us?"

"With all my heart," replied Elizabeth.  "But I shall
play timidly, for there are two formidable powers to
oppose me,—the gloomy heavens, and the favourable
expectations that you have awakened of my performance."

"Pray allow me to excuse myself for an hour," said
the baroness, as she collected her working materials and
arose; "I should like to drive out with Bella,—it is so
long since the poor child has taken the air."

"Really, I should suppose that she could easily take it
here at any time, by simply putting her head out of the
window," said Herr von Walde dryly, knocking the ashes
from his cigar as he spoke.

"Heavens! are you unwilling, Rudolph, that I should
take a drive?  I will instantly remain at home, if——"

"I can conceive of no reason why I should be unwilling.
Drive as often and as much as you like," was
the indifferent reply.

The baroness compressed her lips, and turned to
Helene: "We have decided, then, to take coffee in my
room.  I shall not stay out long, on account of the mist.
I shall be back punctually in an hour, and shall depend
upon the pleasure of conducting you to my room myself,
dearest Helene."

"That pleasure you must resign," said Herr von
Walde.  "It has been my office for many years, and I
hope my sister does not think me grown too awkward
during my absence to discharge it."

"Most certainly not, dear Rudolph; I shall be greatly
obliged, if you will be so kind," cried Helene, quickly,
looking anxiously from one to the other.

The baroness conquered her vexation bravely.  She held
out her hand to Herr von Walde, with a smile of great
sweetness, kissed Helene upon the cheek, and rustled out
of the room with an "au revoir."

During this conversation, Elizabeth observed more
closely the features of the man, whose glance and voice
had impressed her so profoundly.  It is true, her terror,
for really the emotion caused by her first meeting with
him was nothing less, had been renewed for a moment,
as on entering she caught sight of Herr von Walde.
How quiet the eyes were now, which had seemed
before to flash fire; his look, as it rested upon the
baroness, was icy cold.  With this expression in his eyes,
the upper part of his face, which bore the stamp of great
sternness, grew to iron.  A carefully arranged chestnut-brown
moustache covered his upper lip, and his beard;
which was unusually fine and silky, fell in soft waves
upon his chest.  Herr von Walde did not look young,
and although his well-knit figure had preserved all its
elasticity, there was that indescribable composure and
self-possession in his whole manner and heaping peculiar
to the man of riper age, and which inspires involuntary
respect.

When the baroness had left the room, Elizabeth opened
the piano.

"No, no! no notes!" Helene cried to her, as she saw
her turning over the music-sheets.  "We want to hear
your own fancies; pray extemporize."

Elizabeth seated herself immediately, and soon the
outer world was all forgotten by her.  A wealth of
melody welled up in her soul, which carried it far aloft.
At such moments she knew that she was gifted beyond
thousands of her fellow-mortals, for she had the power of
giving expression to the most hidden emotions of her
heart.  The purity of her whole inner world was
mirrored in sound; she had never been obliged to seek for a
melody which should embody her feeling, it lay ready
in her soul,—ready as the feeling itself.  But to-day there
was something blended with the tones that she could not
herself comprehend; she could not possibly pursue and
analyze it, for it breathed almost imperceptibly across the
waves of sound.  It seemed as though joy and woe no
longer moved side by side, but melted together into one.
As she was herself impressed by this strange presence,
she penetrated still deeper into her world of
feeling,—gradually the clear depths of her pure, maidenly soul
were revealed to the listeners; they stood, as it were,
by some transparent, magic fountain, and saw within its
quiet waters the lovely form of the young girl reflected,
with twofold distinctness, for there was a perfect harmony
between her exterior and her interior being.

The last faint chord died away.  Large tear-drops
hung from Helene's lashes, and her pallor was almost
supernatural.  She glanced towards her brother, but he
had turned his face away, and was gazing out into the
garden.  When at last he looked towards her, his features
were as calm as ever, only a slight flush coloured his
brow; the cigar had dropped from his fingers and lay
upon the ground.  He said not one word concerning her
playing to Elizabeth, as she rose from the piano.  Helene,
whom this silence distressed, exhausted herself in flattering
expressions, that she might induce her young friend
to forget, or, at least, not to notice the coldness and
indifference which her brother displayed.

"Was it not delicious?" she cried.  "The people in
B—— could have had no idea of the golden fountain of
music bubbling up in Elsie's heart, or they would never
have allowed her to wander into the Thuringian forest."

"Have you lived until now in B——?" asked Herr von
Walde, fixing his eyes upon Elizabeth.  She met his gaze
for an instant; the ice had all melted, and was replaced by
a wondrous radiance.

"Yes," she answered, simply.

"It was a sad experience to come suddenly from a
large beautiful city, which offers every imaginable
diversion and enjoyment, to the silent forest, and live upon
a lonely mountain.  You were, of coarse, inconsolable at
the exchange?"

"I regarded it as a piece of undeserved good fortune,"
was the unembarrassed reply.

"Indeed?  Most strange!  It seems to me that one would
hardly choose the thistle when the rose might be had."

"Of course, I cannot presume to pass judgment upon
your opinions."

"True, because you do not know me; but my idea is
almost universal."

"Yet surely it is very one-sided."

"Well, then, I will not combat further your peculiar
taste, with which you would scarcely find any one to
sympathize among companions of your own age.  I will rather
believe, for your credit, that it was not so easy to leave
your friends."

"But it was very easy, for I had none."

"Is that possible?" cried Fräulein von Walde.  "Did
you have no intercourse with any one?"

"Oh, yes, with the people who paid me."

"You gave lessons?" asked Herr von Walde.

"Yes."

"But did you never feel the want of a female friend?"
cried Helene quickly.

"Never, for I have a mother," replied Elizabeth in a
tone of deep feeling.

"Happy child!" she murmured, and drooped her head.

Elizabeth felt that she had unwittingly touched a sore
place in Helene's heart.  She was sorry, and longed to
efface the impression.  Herr von Walde seemed to read her
thoughts in her face, for, without noticing Helene's
emotion, he asked: "And did you desire to live in the
Thuringian forest especially?"

"Yes."

"And why?"

"Because I had been told from my earliest childhood
that my family had its origin in the Thuringian forest."

"Ah, yes, you belong to the Gnadewitzes."

"My mother's name was Gnadewitz.  I am a Ferber,"
answered Elizabeth, with decision.

"You say that as if you were thankful that you did
not bear the name of Gnadewitz."

"I am thankful for it."

"Hm!—in its time it has made a fine noise in the
world."

"None pleasant to hear."

"Why, what would you have?  At every court it was
pure gold, for it was very old, and the last of those who
bore it were heaped with dignities and honours, on
account of the antiquity of their name."

"Pardon me, but I cannot possibly understand how—"
she blushed, and was silent.

"Go on; you have begun the sentence, and I depend
upon hearing the end."

"Well, then, how sin can be honoured, because it is
old," she rejoined, with hesitation.

"Softly! they say that several of the Gnadewitz lineage
were brave and true."

"That may be; but is there not great injustice in the
idea of rewarding their merit, centuries after, by honouring
those who are neither good nor true?"

"Should not noble deeds live forever?"

"Most certainly; but, if we refuse to emulate them,
we certainly are not worthy to share in their rewards,"
was Elizabeth's prompt answer.

A carriage rolled up the avenue.  Herr von Walde
frowned, and passed his hand across his eyes as if he had
been rudely awakened from a dream.  In a moment
the door opened, and the baroness entered.  She, as well
as Bella, who was walking by her mother's side to-day
with quite an air of grown-up dignity, had not yet laid
aside her bonnet and mantle.

"I am glad to be at home again," she cried.  "The air
to-day is horrible.  I repented a hundred times having
left the house, and shall probably atone for my maternal
solicitude by a heavy cold.  Bella was so anxious to see
for herself how you are, dear Helene, that I allowed her
to come in with me."

The child went directly up to the lounge.  She did not
appear to notice Elizabeth, who was sitting close by, and
brushed past her so rudely, as she bent to kiss Helene's
hand, that a button upon her sack caught in the
delicate trimming of Elizabeth's dress and tore it.  Bella
lifted her head and glanced at the mischief she had done;
then she turned and went across to Herr von Walde to
give him her hand.

"Well," said he, withholding his hand, "have you no
apology to make for your awkwardness?"

She made no reply, and retired to the side of her
mother, upon whose cheeks the ominous red spots
appeared.  The look which she cast upon Elizabeth showed
that her daughter was not the cause of her irritation.

"Well, child, can't you speak?" asked Herr von Walde,
rising.

"Fräulein Ferber sat so close," said the baroness in a
tone of excuse, as Bella continued obstinately silent.

"Indeed, I should have moved aside.  There is no great
harm done," said Elizabeth, and she held out her hand to
Bella with an enchanting smile.  But the child took no
notice of it, and hid both her hands in her dress.

Without a word, Herr von Walde approached her, took
her by the arm, and led her directly to the door, which he
opened.  "Go instantly to your room," he said, "and do
not come where I am again unless I particularly desire
you to do so."

The baroness was raging inwardly.  Her countenance
worked for a moment, but what could she do?  She was
powerless to contend with the violence and barbarism of
this man, who was master here, and who now took his
seat again with a composure that betrayed an utter
unconsciousness of the cruelty of his behaviour.  Her
prudence obtained the upper hand.

"I hope, dear Rudolph," said she, and her voice trembled
a little, "that you will not reckon this slight
misdemeanour against Bella.  Pray, make some allowance,—it
is all the fault of her governess."

"Miss Mertens?  Indeed, it must have cost her, with
her innate gentleness and refinement, infinite pains to
train Bella to conduct herself as she has just done."

The baroness blushed scarlet; but she controlled
herself.  "Heavens!" she cried, determined to change the
subject; "this stupid circumstance has made me forget
to tell you that Emil has ridden over from Odenberg.
He got wet through on horseback, and is just changing
his dress.  May he pay his respects?"

Helene's cheeks glowed, and a ray of happiness shot
from her eyes; but she said not a word, only drooping
her face so as to conceal every sign of her inward agitation.

"Certainly," replied Herr von Walde.  "Does he intend
to make some stay here?"

"He will be here for a few days, with your permission."

"By all means.  Then we shall see him in your room
when we come to take coffee."

"He will be most happy.  Will you not come immediately?
My maid tells me that all is in readiness there
to receive you."

Elizabeth arose, and prepared to take her leave.  Herr
von Walde, as soon as he saw this, looked inquiringly
at the baroness.  Doubtless he expected that she would
extend an invitation to the young girl, but just at this
moment the lady discovered that the gardener's arrangement
of the flower-stand in the window was "too charming,"
and in enraptured contemplation of a bunch of
azaleas she turned her back upon Elizabeth.

Fräulein Ferber courtesied profoundly and left the room,
after Helene had repeated, in a trembling voice, her
expressions of gratitude.  Without, in the corridor, she met
Herr von Hollfeld.  At sight of her he quickened his pace,
casting a lightning glance around to assure himself that
no listener was near.  Before she was aware of it, he had
seized Elizabeth's hand, imprinted a glowing kiss upon
it, and whispered: "How rejoiced I am to see you once
more!"

Her astonishment was so great that she could not at
first find a word to say.  She drew back her hand as
though she had been stung, and he accepted her repulse,
because at that very moment the door of Helene's room
opened, and Herr von Walde appeared.  Hollfeld raised
his hat to Elizabeth as if he had just seen her, and his
features subsided instantly into an expression of utter
indifference as he walked towards his relative.

Elizabeth was disgusted with his farce,—first, at the
insulting familiarity, which made her blood boil with
indignation, and then, at the denial of any acquaintance before
a third person.  Her maidenly pride was deeply wounded.
She reproached herself that she had not rebuked his
impertinence boldly upon the spot.  A crimson flush glowed
in her cheeks with shame that she should have been
treated so by any man; it seemed as if the spot upon
her hand, where his hot lips had rested, still burned, and
she hastily held it beneath the stream of a fountain in
the park, that the imaginary stain might be washed away.

Much agitated, she reached her home, and complained
with tears to her mother of the insult that she had
received.  Frau Ferber was a sensible woman, possessed of
clear, calm insight.  She was convinced by Elizabeth's
resentment that her child's heart was not in the least
danger, and her fears were laid to rest.  It was easy to
defend her from attacks from without; but who could
guard her from the grief that a misplaced attachment
would entail upon her?

"You know now what manner of man Herr von Hollfeld
is," she said.  "It will not be difficult strictly to
avoid all future contact with him, and if he should
presume in spite of your efforts, he must be sternly repulsed.
His conduct seems to be the result of aristocratic
conceit and cowardice, two qualities which will probably
deter him from any further advances, when he discovers
how disagreeable they are to you.  But at all events,
familiarize yourself with the thought that your behaviour
towards him must of necessity create an enemy who will,
at some future day, put a stop to your intercourse with
Fräulein von Walde.  Of course such a consideration
cannot for one instant lead you to hesitate as to your line of
conduct.  Go on your way then, my child, quietly and with
self-possession.  I should certainly not advise you to give
up your visits to Castle Lindhof."

"Assuredly not! no, that I will not do!" cried Elizabeth,
quickly.  "What would my uncle say if the chicken should
actually come flying back to creep beneath the shelter of
home?" she added, smiling through her tears.  "It would
be wretched indeed, if with all the strength of which I
have boasted, I am not strong enough to repulse an
impertinent man so effectually that he shall desist from all
future advances."

She recalled her conversation with Herr von Walde,
and found, to her great satisfaction, that she must
certainly be exceedingly brave, for assuredly it had required
no small exercise of courage, while confronting that stern
countenance, to declare her own convictions, which
attacked so decidedly the proud edifice of his ancestral pride.
She had expected every moment to see his glance sheathe
itself in ice again, as it had done in conversation with the
baroness; but the singular glow and expression which had
so struck her when first he addressed her, had not faded
from his eyes,—she could almost, in fact, believe that
she detected beneath his moustache a smile lurking
around the corners of his mouth.  Perhaps he had
determined to-day to enact the part of the lion towards
the mouse.  He had magnanimously permitted a little
girl to pour out her naive ideas at his feet, where they
might remain lying, since to bend his aristocratic back to
pick them up and examine them was not to be thought
of,—they probably amused him as exemplifying the saying
of the dog "baying the moon."  She repeated all this
continually to herself, that she might stamp afresh upon her
treacherous memory his general reputation for boundless
arrogance.

She could not tell how she became conscious of it, but
she was now perfectly aware that she should suffer
unspeakably if Herr von Walde's arrogance was ever
exercised towards her; so she must be doubly on her guard
and not allow herself to be misled by his observance of
the usual forms of common politeness, of his high regard
for which the next day brought her a most convincing
proof.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XI.`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XI.

.. vspace:: 2

She had just gotten ready, the next afternoon, to go into
the garden with her work-basket, when the bell rang at the
gate in the wall.  In consideration of the scene of the day
before, her surprise was certainly justifiable, when, as the
gate was opened, she saw Bella standing before her.  Behind
the child stood Miss Mertens and the elderly gentleman
with whom Elizabeth had lately had an evening encounter.
As she entered Bella extended her hand, but looked shy and
confused and said not a word.  Elizabeth, much amazed, at
once guessed the reason of her coming, and tried to help
her in her embarrassment by saying how glad she was to
have a visit from a little girl, and by asking her to come
into the garden.  But Miss Mertens stepped forward.

"Do not make it all so pleasant for Bella, Fräulein
Ferber," said she, "she has been expressly ordered to
make an apology to you for her misconduct yesterday.  I
must insist upon her speaking."

These words, spoken with much firmness, and still
more, perhaps, the sheltering darkness of the hall through
which Elizabeth was leading her by the hand, at last
loosened Bella's tongue, and she softly begged pardon for
her fault, and promised never to be so naughty again.

"And now that is happily settled," cried the gentleman,
as he advanced to Miss Mertens' side, and with an
arch smile made a low bow to Elizabeth.

"It may, perhaps, strike you as very odd," he said,
"that I should attach myself to this reconciliation
deputation, with which I have no concern; but I have an idea
that on such occasions people are rather inclined to
overlook all slight transgressions, and so,—there can be no
more favourable moment for the smuggling in of a
stranger.

"My name is Ernst Reinhard; I am the secretary and
travelling companion of Herr von Walde, and I have
had no more earnest desire for a week past than to
become acquainted with the interesting family at Castle
Gnadeck."

Elizabeth kindly extended her hand.  "These old walls
have witnessed so many of the misdeeds of the robber
knights of old, that we have no right to condemn
smuggling; you will be cordially welcomed by my parents."

She led the way, and opened the huge oaken door
leading into the garden.

Her parents and uncle, who, with little Ernst, were
sitting under the lindens, arose as the strangers entered,
and came towards them.  Elizabeth introduced them all
round, and then, at a sign from her mother, returned
to the house to order some refreshments for the guests.
When she came back again, Bella had already laid aside
her sack and parasol, and with a joyous face was
sitting in a swing, which had been hung between two trees.
Ernst was swinging her, and seemed not a little proud
of his new playmate.

"Indeed," said Reinhard, pointing to Bella as she flew
up in the swing, shouting with delight, "no one who
had seen that child this morning and her sullen bearing,
as she went into Herr von Walde's apartment to ask
forgiveness for yesterday's misconduct, or her defiant and
angry expression, when he told her that he could not
receive her again until she had personally begged
pardon of Fräulein Ferber,"—here Elizabeth reddened, and
became absorbed in the preparation of some bread and
honey for the two children,—"would recognize her for the
same being, whose face is now beaming with the innocent
joy of childhood."

The hour passed very pleasantly.  Miss Mertens
was both refined and cultivated, and Reinhard told many
delightful stories of his travels and researches.

"Probably we should not have thought of returning
home for some time," he said in concluding an interesting
account of adventures in Spain, "had we not received
unfavourable accounts from Thuringia, which, following fast
upon each other, induced Herr von Walde to give up new
plans for travel.  The ambition of power often makes its
possessor blind.  The incautious request from a feminine
pen that Herr von Walde would pension off the good old
village pastor at Lindhof, because he had grown prosy
and was incapable of training the souls under his care,
capped the climax of our unwelcome hews, and we set
out for home immediately.

"When, late in the evening, as we approached Lindhof,
we left the highroad and our carriage, that we might go
the rest of the way on foot, we met with a most
charming adventure.   How odd! look, Reinhard, what do
you suppose is the meaning of that light in the ruins
of Castle Gnadeck?' asked Herr von Walde.  'It means
that there is a lamp there,' was my reply.  'We must
investigate this,' said he, and we ascended the hill.
The light grew brighter, and at last, to our
astonishment, we saw that it streamed from two high
illuminated windows.  And then, light steps were heard
behind us, something white fluttered among the bushes,
and suddenly, what I took for a being of ethereal mould
hovered before us upon the moonlit sward.  I took
heart and approached, expecting every moment that the
airy form would vanish before the breath of my lips; but
alas! its own lips opened, and told of two well-trained
goats and a canary bird."

All laughed at this account.

"While we were descending the mountain," Reinhard
continued, "my master said not a word; but from certain
signs I judged that he was quite as ready to laugh at me
as you were; it would have been a fine thing if you could
have accompanied us as a good fairy, for we left all the
moonlight and beauty behind us upon the mountain, and
had to walk on through the dim valley, where the mists
were rising, and where there was nothing, not even a
wandering zephyr to bid us welcome home.  At Castle
Lindhof numberless lights were flitting to and fro like
will-o'-the-wisps.  The carriage, with our luggage, had
already arrived, and seemed to have produced the same
effect by the sound of its rolling wheels, as that ascribed
to the thunder at the day of judgment, for there was such
hurry, confusion, and disorder reigning there when we
arrived, that, for my part, I should have been thankful to
retrace my steps, and lay my weary head upon the first
quiet, mossy spot that I could find in the forest.  The
only person who, in the midst of the universal agitation,
presented an appearance of placid self possession was the
chaplain, Möhring.  He had put on a white cravat with
great despatch, and welcomed the master of the house at
the foot of the grand staircase in a speech full of unction."

"The reign of that stern gentleman is at an end now,
is it not?" asked the forester.

"Yes, indeed, thank God!" replied Miss Mertens.
"He will leave Lindhof in a short time.  Baroness
Lessen's influence has procured him a good parish.  He could
not endure to sink back into insignificance where he had
so lately held sway.  I can readily understand it, for he
had ruled with all the persecuting zeal of a tyrant who
seeks to tread every one beneath his feet.  He would
not allow a thought in his kingdom without his
permission, and even the baroness, his mistress, upon whom
he smiled so servilely, felt his iron rule.  Every one in
the household, without exception, was obliged to write
down, in the evening, the thoughts and sentiments that
had occurred to them during the avocations of the day.
I can see before me now the poor housemaids, to whom
even a short letter to their friends at home is a greater
task than a long ironing-day, sitting in that cold room
on the winter evenings, holding the pen in their tired
clumsy fingers, and beating their poor brains for
something to say.

"'Yes, if the chaplain had worked as hard as I have
done the whole day,' one would whisper softly but
angrily to another, 'he would not relish writing much.'"

"Indeed, I think so," cried the forester.  "What a
shameful system of torture and oppression has been
carried on there under the cloak of service to the Lord!"

"The worst of it all is," said Ferber, "that unless a
man is possessed of great culture, or of a special fund of
good humour, he ends by detesting not only his tormentors
but the whole subject of religion that causes him such
suffering.  Thus, he is led more and more astray from all
faith, while his outward observance of forms must be
stricter than ever, his subsistence depending upon his
wearing the mask well.  All this gives the death-blow to
true religion among the people."

"Well, we are fortunate in at least having one among
us who has force of character enough and sufficient
strength of will, to say, 'Thus far shalt thou go and no
farther!'  Zounds! it came upon us like a second deluge!"
said the forester.

"True, Herr von Walde is possessed of an energy and
force of character such as falls to the lot of but few,"
replied Miss Mertens, quickly.  "His mouth is closed, but
his eyes are wide open, and servility, malice, and
hypocrisy quail before them and drop their masks."

In the mean while Reinhard had been attentively
examining the walls of the ruinous wing of the old castle
which bounded the garden on the south.  Three large,
pointed, arched windows, faultless in shape, extended
upward to the height of the second story from about
six feet from the ground.  Close beside them a curious
jutty projected far into the garden, forming a deep
corner, where grew a giant oak, which stretched some of its
boughs through the two nearest sashless windows far
into the airy, cool apartment within, which must once
have been the chapel of the castle, intended to
accommodate a large number of worshippers, for it extended
through the entire depth of the wing.  Opposite these
windows were three others of like dimensions; they had
been less exposed to wind and weather, and had
preserved some fragments of coloured glass in their
delicately carved stone rosettes.  Through them could be
seen the dark court-yard, with its crumbling, ghostly
walls like a picture painted in gray.  The garden side of
this wing looked gay and odd enough.  The most
extravagant caprice had here heaped together all styles of
windows and decorations; judging by the exterior, the old
building must have been a perfect labyrinth of rooms,
passages, and staircases.  The jutty alone seemed to
be in a most dangerous state of decay.  It inclined
perceptibly to one side, and appeared to be awaiting the
moment when it should bury the blooming life of the oak
beneath its masses of stone.  It had thrown a green
mantle coquettishly over its falling form,—an impenetrable
garment of ivy wreathed it all over from the ground to
the ruinous roof, and effectually concealed every crack and
aperture in the masonry.  Some sprays of the ivy had
crept across the oak and climbed up to the sculptured
arms on the principal front of the chapel, which looked
forth grimly enough from beneath its intrusive decoration.

"I attempted," said Ferber, "to explore this wing as
far as I could, shortly after my arrival here, for its
peculiar style of architecture interests me greatly; but I
could not get farther than the chapel, where, indeed, it
seemed dangerous to stay long.  You see the whole upper
story has fallen in, and the weight of the ruins has caused
the ceiling of the chapel to sink considerably, so that it
seems ready to tumble at the slightest breath of wind.
The jutty has only lately looked so threatening in
consequence of several severe storms.  It must be taken
away, for it makes a part of the garden inaccessible to us.
If I could have engaged any workmen, it should have
been pulled down before now."

After this explanation, Reinhard had no further relish,
as he expressed it, for wandering about in the old ruins.
But he was all the more interested in the connecting
building, and Ferber arose to show his guests his dwelling.
And first, they ascended the rampart behind them.
Ferber was very capable and skilful, and employed every
moment of his leisure in improving his new possession.
With his own hands he had mended the steps which led
to the top of the rampart, and they arose now smooth
and white from the close-shaven turf which clothed its
sloping side.  On top, the tolerably wide plateau was
strewn with fresh gravel, and in the centre of it,
embowered in the linden boughs which overshadowed the basin
below, stood a group of home-made garden chairs and a
table.  While they leaned against the breastwork and
enjoyed the confined but lovely view from the steep
mountain over the valley beneath, Elizabeth told the story of
Sabina's ancestress, for doubtless this rampart had been
the scene of her narrative.

"Br-rr!" said Reinhard, shuddering.  "What a leap it
would have been!  The wall is high, and when I
imagine below there, instead of that mossy carpet, the
sluggish, slimy waters of a castle-ditch full of frogs and
lizards, I cannot possibly understand the resolution
required to throw one's self over."

"But," said Miss Mertens, "despair has led many a
one to seek a death even more horrible."

At this moment Elizabeth saw with her mind's eye
the glowing, passionate expression with which Hollfeld
had hastened towards her on the preceding evening.  She
remembered the disgust that she had experienced at
his touch, and she thought to herself that it was not
very difficult to imagine the position of the persecuted
girl.

"Come in, child," said her uncle, rousing her from her
reverie.  "Are you listening to hear the grass grow that
you stand there so silent?"

Beneath his clear gaze, and at the sound of his strong,
honest voice, the terrible vision vanished in an instant.
"No, uncle," she replied, laughing, "that I shall not
attempt, even though I do boast that I have wonderfully
keen eyes and ears for the processes of nature."

He took her hand, and led her after the others, who
were just entering the house.  At the top of the steps,
Bella came running to Miss Mertens.  She had several
picture-books in one hand, and with the other she drew
her governess into Elizabeth's room.

"Only think, Miss Mertens, you can see our castle from
here!" she cried.  That they were the owners of Lindhof
she seemed firmly to believe, and no wonder.  The way
in which the baroness had, until now, wielded her sceptre,
had left no doubt in the child's mind that her mother was
the indisputable mistress of Lindhof.  "Look," she
continued gaily, "do you see the path down there?  Uncle
Rudolph has just ridden past.  He saw me, and waved
his hand to me.  Mamma will be glad that he is kind to
me again."

Miss Mertens admonished her to be a good little girl,
and get her hat and sack, for it was time to go.

Elizabeth and Ernst accompanied them out into the park.

"We have stayed too long," said Miss Mertens anxiously,
as she took leave of the Ferbers and stepped out
into the forest-clearing.  "I must be prepared for a
tempest this evening."

"You think the baroness will be vexed at your
remaining here so long?"

"Without doubt."

"Never mind,—you must not repent it.  We have spent
such a delightful afternoon," said Reinhard.

The children had wandered on before them, hand in
hand, and disappeared now and then among the trees on
either side of the path, plucking flowers.  Hector, who
had forsaken his master to accompany them, leaped
joyously hither and thither, never forgetting to return now
and then to be stroked and patted by the gentle hand of
Elizabeth, the lady of his love, as her uncle said.

Suddenly he stopped, and stood still in the centre of
the path.  They had nearly reached the borders of the
park.  Through the forest they could see the vivid green
of the lawn, and the plashing of the nearest fountain
was audible.  Hector had discovered a female figure hastily
approaching.  Elizabeth recognized her instantly as silent
Bertha, although her whole appearance seemed strangely
altered.

She could have had no idea that any one was near,
for, as she walked, she gesticulated violently with her
arms.  Her cheeks were crimson, her eyebrows contracted
as though in the greatest agony of mind, and her lips
moved as though she were talking to herself.  Her white
hat, which she had decked with flowers, had slipped from
her dark braids, and was hanging upon her neck by its
loose red strings, which, as her motions grew still more
earnest, became wholly untied, and the hat fell on the
ground without the knowledge of its owner.

She came rapidly forward, and did not raise her eyes
until just as she stood close to Elizabeth.  Then she
started as though stung by an adder.  In a moment the
expression of anguish upon her countenance was changed
to one of the bitterest anger.  Hate flashed from her eyes,
her hands clenched convulsively, and while something
like a low hiss escaped her lips, she seemed as if about
to spring, raging, upon the young girl.  Reinhard
instantly placed himself by Elizabeth's side, and drew her
slightly back.  When Bertha saw him, she uttered a low
cry, and rushed madly into the thicket, through which
she forced a path, although her clothes were torn by the
thorns, and she struck her forehead against the drooping
boughs.  In a few moments she was lost to sight.

"That was Bertha, from the Lodge!" cried Miss Mertens,
with surprise.  "What can have happened to her?"

"Yes,—what can have happened?" repeated
Reinhard.  "The young creature was in a state of terrible
excitement, and seemed to grow actually furious at sight
of you," turning to Elizabeth.  "Is she related to you?"

"No indeed," she replied.  "She is only distantly
connected with my uncle, and I do not even know her.
She has avoided me from the beginning most resolutely,
although I wished much to be on friendly terms with
her.  It is clear that she hates me, but I cannot tell
why.  Of course it troubles me, but her character is not
sufficiently pleasing to induce me to attach much
importance to her dislike."

"Good Heavens, my child, there is no question of
dislike here!  The little fury would have gladly torn you to
pieces with her teeth."

"I am not afraid of her," replied Elizabeth, smiling.

"But I would advise you to be careful," said Miss
Mertens.  "There was something actually demoniac in her
looks.  Where could she have been?"

"Probably at the castle," remarked Elizabeth, as she
picked up Bertha's hat, and brushed the moss and dried
leaves from it.

"I think not," rejoined Miss Mertens.  "Since she has
been dumb she has, very strangely, ceased visiting
Lindhof.  Before then she came every day, attended the Bible
Class, and was a great protegée of the baroness, but
suddenly it all came to an end, to the surprise of all.  Only
now and then, in my solitary rambles in the park, I have
seen her gliding through the bushes like a snake,—indeed
she seems to me to bear an affinity to that reptile."

They had already reached one of the gravelled paths
leading through the park, and it was time to take leave of
each other.  They separated with mutual cordiality.

"Now, Elsie," said Ernst, as the other three vanished
behind a group of trees, "we'll see which of us will reach
the corner first."  The corner was the entrance to a narrow
forest-path which led directly to the foot of the mountain.

"Agreed, my darling," laughed Elizabeth, and began to
run.  At first she kept even step with the little boy who
was beside her; but just before the goal was reached, she
flew forward lightly as a feather, and stood in the entrance
of the path, and, to her terror, close to the head of a horse
which snorted violently.  Hector, who was by her side,
barked loudly.  The horse leaped aside and stood erect
upon his hind legs.

"Back!" cried a powerful voice.  Elizabeth snatched op
the little boy and sprang with him out of the way, while
the horse rushed out of the forest, and, scarcely touching
the ground with his hoofs, galloped madly across the
meadow.  Herr von Walde was seated upon the frightened
animal, which did its best to throw its rider.  He,
however, sat firm as a rock; only once he leaned from
his saddle and struck with his riding-whip at Hector, who
was leaping and barking about the horse, greatly
increasing its fright.  For awhile it bounded wildly over
the meadow, then suddenly turned away and disappeared
into the forest.

Elizabeth's teeth fairly chattered with fright at the
horrible accident which she had no doubt would shortly occur.
She took Ernst by the hand and was about to run to the
castle for assistance, when, before she had gone many steps,
she saw the horseman returning.  The animal was much
more quiet, his bit was covered with foam, and his legs
trembled.  Herr von Walde patted his neck caressingly,
sprang off, tied him to a tree, and then approached Elizabeth.

"Pray forgive me," she said in a trembling voice, as
soon as he stood beside her.

"What for, my child?" he rejoined gently.  "You have
done nothing.  Come, sit down upon this bank, you are
deadly pale."

He moved as if to take her hand and lead her to the
spot which he had designated, but his arm dropped
instantly by his side.  Elizabeth mechanically obeyed
him, and without another word he seated himself beside
her.  Little Ernst leaned against his sister and fixed his
large beautiful full eyes upon Herr von Walde's face.  The
boy had been frightened for one moment when the horse
had first appeared, but the gallop around the meadow had
amused him, for he had no suspicion of danger.

"What did you intend to do when you came running
so hastily into the forest?" Herr von Walde asked
Elizabeth after a short silence.

An arch smile played about the still pale lips of the
young girl.  "I was pursued," she replied.

"By whom?"

"By this boy," pointing to Ernst, "We were running a race."

"Is the little one your brother?"

"Yes;" she looked lovingly in the boy's face and passed
her hand over his dark curls.

"And she is my only sister," said the little fellow with
great emphasis.

"Indeed!  Well, you seem quite fond of this only
sister," said Herr von Walde.

"Oh yes; I love her dearly.  She plays with me just like
a boy."

"Is it possible?"

"Oh yes; if I want to play soldiers she puts on just
the same kind of paper hat that she makes for me, and
marches, drumming up and down the garden, just as long
as I choose.  And before I go to bed she tells me lovely
stories while I am eating my supper."

A bright smile broke over Herr von Walde's face.
Elizabeth had never seen it before, and she found that it
gave an indescribable charm to features which she had
thought immovably stern; it seemed to her like a clear
sunbeam breaking through a thick, cloudy sky.

"You are quite right, my boy," he said, drawing the
child towards him; "those are most valuable talents to
possess; but is she never angry?" he asked, pointing to
Elizabeth, who was enjoying like a child, Ernst's
revelations, which seemed comical enough to her.

"No, never angry," replied the boy, "only serious
sometimes, and then she always plays on the piano."

"But, Ernst——"

"Oh yes, Elsie," he interrupted her eagerly; "don't
you remember when we were so poor in B——?"

"Ah, there you are right," she replied with
composure; "but it was only when papa and mamma had to
work so hard that we might have bread to eat; it was
much better afterwards."

"But you still play on the piano?"

"Yes," answered Elizabeth laughing, "but no longer
for the reason which Ernst gives.  My father and mother
are now provided for."

"And you?" Herr von Walde persisted.

"Oh, I?  I am quite brave enough to fight life's battle
and win my own independence in the struggle?"

"How do you propose to do it?"

"Next year I shall go somewhere as a governess."

"Does not Miss Mertens' example deter you?"

"Not at all.  I am not so weak as to wish for a
luxurious life while so many others in my circumstances
take upon themselves so bravely the yoke of service."

"But here there is question not only of service but
of endurance.  You are proud.  It is not only your look
at this moment which tells me so, but every sentiment
which you uttered yesterday."

"Indeed, it may, perhaps, be pride that induces
me to rank real dignity of character far above any
mere exterior advantages which egotism has invented
and maintains, and for that very reason I believe that
one human being can humble another only by setting
before him an example of moral and intellectual greatness
which it is impossible for him to imitate,—never by
insulting treatment."

"And you think that these views will steel you against
all the mortifications great and little which a heartless,
capricious mistress might heap upon you?"

"Oh no, but I need never bow before her."

A short pause ensued, during which Ernst approached
the horse, examining him attentively.

"From what you said yesterday, I gathered that you
are attached to your present home," Herr von Walde
began again.

"Yes, more than I can tell."

"Ah!  I can understand that, for this is the loveliest
spot in Thuringia.  How then can you so easily endure
the thought of leaving it again?"

"On the contrary, I shall not find it at all easy; but
my father has taught me that our pleasures must yield to
our necessities, and I understand perfectly that it must
be so.  I confess that I cannot easily comprehend how one
can give up what is so pleasant except at the command of
necessity."

"Ah! that was aimed at me.  You cannot conceive
how a man can voluntarily hide himself in the pyramids
when he might breathe the cool, sunny air of Thuringia."

Elizabeth felt a burning blush suffuse her cheeks.  Herr
von Walde had humourously alluded here to the jesting
conversation that she had had with her uncle, to which
he had been an involuntary listener.

"If I should attempt to explain this to you I should
fail, for you seem to me to find all that you look for in
your home circle," he said after a moment's silence.
He had leaned forward and was mechanically drawing
figures with his riding-whip upon the ground at his feet.
He spoke in those deep tones which always appealed
powerfully to Elizabeth's mind.  "But there is a time for
some of us," he continued, "when we rush out into the
world, to forget in its whirl and novelty that we cannot
find happiness at home.  If a man cannot fill up a
painful void in his existence, he can at least ignore it by
devoting himself to science."

This, then, was the sore spot in his heart.  He had
not found the affection in his own home that he longed
for, and that he had a right to claim and expect from a
sister for whom he manifested always the purest and
most self-sacrificing tenderness.

Elizabeth had comprehended this pain, even before she
had seen Herr von Walde, and, at this moment, when he
alluded to it so openly, she longed most fervently to
console him.  Words of sympathy hovered upon her lips, but
she was possessed suddenly by an unconquerable shyness
which prevented her from speaking; and as she glanced
up at him and marked the firm lines of his profile and his
brow which was so proud and commanding, while his
voice sounded so gentle and melancholy, the embarrassing
suspicion flashed upon her that he had forgotten for a
moment who was sitting beside him; his aristocratic ideas
would cause him bitterly to repent the moment when, under
the influence of a sudden self-forgetfulness, he had revealed
a glimpse of his sternly guarded consciousness to an
insignificant girl.  This thought dyed her cheeks again; she
arose quickly and called Ernst.  Herr von Walde turned
in surprise, and for an instant his eyes rested searchingly
upon her face; then he also arose, and, as if to confirm
her suspicion, stood at once proudly calm and composed
before her,—but she noticed for the first time that sad,
gloomy expression between the eyebrows, which her
father had spoken of, and which impressed her just as his
voice had done.

"You are usually very quick to think,"—he said,
evidently trying to give the conversation a gayer turn, and
slowly walking along by Elizabeth's side,—she was going
for Ernst who had not heard her call.  "Before one has
quite finished a sentence the answer is plainly ready on
your lips.  Your silence, therefore, at this moment, tells
me that I was quite right when I said that you would not
understand me, because you have found all the happiness
that you look for."

"The idea of happiness is so different with different
people, that indeed I hardly know."

"We all have the same idea," he interrupted her; "it
may still slumber in you."

"Oh, no!" she cried, forgetting her reserve and with
enthusiasm,—"I love my friends with my whole heart,
and am most happily conscious that I am loved in
return!"

"Ah, then you did not quite misunderstand me!  Well,—and
your friends,—there must be a large circle to whom
you open your heart?"

"No," she cried, laughing,—"their tale is soon told!
My parents, my uncle, and this little fellow here," and she
took Ernst by the hand as he came running to her, "who
grows larger and makes more demands upon me every
year.  But now we must go, my darling," she said to the
child, "or mamma will be anxious."

She bowed courteously to Herr von Walde,—it seemed
to her that the shade upon his brow had disappeared.
He raised his hat to her and shook hands with
Ernst,—then he walked slowly towards the horse that was
pawing impatiently, untied it, and led it away by the
bridle.

"Do you know, Elsie," said Ernst, as they were ascending
the mountain, "whom Herr von Walde looks like?"

"Whom?"

"The brave knight of St. George, just when he has
killed the dragon."

"Aha!" she laughed.  "But you have never seen any
picture of the brave knight."

"I know that.  Still I think he looks like him."

And she too had thought of the resemblance when she
had seen him controlling his unruly steed.  At this moment
she remembered the pang she had suffered at the thought
of a probable accident, and her unspeakable delight at
seeing him return from the thicket unharmed.  She stood
still, and with a smile of wonder laid her hand upon her
throbbing heart.

"Now see," said Ernst, "you have been running too
quickly up the mountain.  I could not keep up with you.
What would uncle say if he knew it?"

She walked slowly on, like one in a dream.  She
scarcely heard the child's reproof.  What then was this
strange half-consciousness which had yesterday mingled
itself with her melodies, causing them to mourn and to
rejoice at the same moment?  Again she felt it take
possession of her soul more mightily and intoxicatingly than
before, but it was just as mysterious and incomprehensible.

"But, Elsie," cried Ernst, impatiently, "what is the
matter with you?  You are walking so slowly that it will
be dark before we reach home."

He took hold of her dress, and tried to pull her on.
This call from the outer world was too energetic to be
any longer withstood,—Elizabeth roused herself and
walked on quickly, to the child's entire content.

When they reached the castle Elizabeth laid Bertha's
hat, which was still hanging upon her arm, upon the table.
She was unwilling to mention her meeting with the girl
to her parents, for she rightly judged that it would make
them anxious, and that they would relate the occurrence
to her uncle, who had been so angry and bitter of late
whenever Bertha was alluded to, that Elizabeth feared
that if he heard of the meeting in the wood he would put
a stop to the annoyance by immediately dismissing the
cause of it from the Lodge.  Ernst had noticed neither the
hat nor her desire to conceal it, so there was no danger
that he would betray her.

After supper Elizabeth walked down to the Lodge.  She
met Sabina in the garden, and heard to her satisfaction
that her uncle had gone to Lindhof.  She gave the hat
to the old housekeeper, and told her of Bertha's
extraordinary behaviour, asking in conclusion whether she were
at home yet.  Sabina was indignant.

"Indeed I think, child, that if you had been alone she
would have scratched your eyes out.  I don't know what
will become of her.  These last few days she has been
worse than ever.  She does not sleep at nights, but walks
up and down in her room, talking again—but only to
herself.  If I had but the courage to open her door just when
she is at the worst,—but I could not do it though you
would give me heaps of gold.  You will laugh at me, I
know; but she's not right.  Look at her eyes—they
sparkle and glow as though all the fire of the Blocksberg were
burning in them.  No, I shall hold my tongue; the Herr
Forester sleeps soundly, and so do the rest,—but I wake
at the slightest noise, and I know perfectly well that
Bertha is up and away many a night, and when she goes the
great watch-dog is gone too from his kennel.  He is the
only one in the house that loves her; and, fierce as he is,
he never touches her."

"Does my uncle know this?" asked Elizabeth with surprise.

"Not for the world!  I wouldn't for my life tell him,
for who knows what mischief would come of it?"

"But, Sabina, only think.  You may do great harm to
my uncle by remaining silent.  The house is so lonely if
there is no dog in the yard——"

"But I stand at the window of my room and watch
until she comes from the mountain and chains up the dog
again."

"What a tremendous sacrifice to make to your superstition!
Why not tell Bertha——"

"Hush! not so loud, there she sits!"  Sabina pointed
through the fence to the pear tree in the court-yard.  Upon
the stone bench under the tree Bertha was sitting,
apparently quite composed, trimming carrots.  The crimson of
excitement had passed away from cheek and brow, and
given place to a livid pallor.  Elizabeth could see now
that the girl had lately grown much thinner.  Her delicate
nose looked pinched, and her cheeks had lost their lovely
oval.  There were dark ridges around her eyes, and
between her eyebrows there were two deep wrinkles in
the delicate skin which gave a sullen expression to
the face, but, in connection with certain lines around
the mouth, lent an air of deep melancholy to her look.
The sight cut Elizabeth to the heart.  Some misery was
burdening the soul of that lonely creature, misery all the
harder to endure because it was borne in silence.  She
forgot all the dislike of her which Bertha had always
shown, and took several quick steps towards her, that
she might lay that weary head upon her breast and
say, "Rest here, poor child!  Tell me of the grief that
you are struggling with in such loneliness, and I promise
to aid you to endure——" but Sabina seized her arm and
detained her.

"You must not go," she whispered in terror; "I will
not let you.  She is just in a condition to stick that knife
into you."

"But she is so terribly unhappy.  Perhaps I can
convince her that only the kindliest sympathy moves me."

"No, no!  I'll soon show you whether anything can
be done with her."

Sabina descended the steps into the court-yard.  Bertha
let her approach without raising her eyes.

"Fräulein, Elizabeth found it," said Sabina, holding
the hat towards her; then she laid her hand upon the
girl's shoulder, and continued kindly: "She would like
to say a few words to you."

Bertha started up as if she had received a deadly
insult.  She angrily shook off Sabina's hand, and darted
a furious glance towards the spot where Elizabeth was
standing,—a proof that she had known before that she
was there.  She threw her knife upon the table, and by
a hasty gesture overset the basket at her feet, so that
the carrots were scattered around upon the pavement.
She ran into the house.  They heard her through the
open window shut the door of her own room and bolt
it behind her.

Elizabeth was stupefied with surprise mingled with
much pain.  She would have so liked to console the
wretched girl, but she now perceived that it was not to
be thought of.

For a week past she had been daily to the castle.
Fräulein von Walde had been steadily improving in
health since the afternoon when, as the baroness tenderly
expressed it, she had found a cure in the coffee which she
herself had prepared, and in Herr von Hollfeld's arrival.
She was diligently practising several duets, and at last
confided to Elizabeth that she wished to celebrate her
brother's birthday fête the last of August.  It was to be
a very splendid celebration, for she intended to make it
also a welcome home to the long absent traveller.  On
that day he should first hear her play again after so many
years, and she knew what a pleasant surprise it would
be to him.

Elizabeth always looked forward with a mixture of
pleasure and dread to these practisings.  She did not
know why herself; but the castle and park had
suddenly become dear and attractive to her; she even had a
kind of tender regard for the bank where she had sat
with Herr von Walde, as if it were an old friend; she
made a little circuit in order to pass by it.  Herr von
Hollfeld's behaviour inspired her, on the contrary, with
very different feelings.  After she had several times
foiled his attempts to meet her by a hasty avoidance
of him, he came to Fräulein von Walde's room, one
day, and begged permission to remain there during
the lesson.  To Elizabeth's terror, Helene, with delight
beaming in her eyes, assured him that he was doubly
welcome as a convert who had hitherto had no taste
whatever for music.  He now made his appearance
regularly, silently laying some fresh flowers upon the piano
before Helene as he entered, in consequence of which
she invariably struck several false chords.  Then he retired
to a deep window-seat whence he could look the players
directly in the face.  As long as the practising continued
he covered his eyes with his hand, as if he wished to shut
out the world that he might resign himself entirely to the
charms of music.  But, to Elizabeth's vexation, she soon
observed that he only covered his face so as to conceal
it from Helene; from behind his hand he stared the whole
time fixedly at Elizabeth, following her every motion.  She
shuddered beneath those eyes which, usually so dull and
expressionless, always burned with a peculiar fire when he
looked at her.  Under this hateful ordeal she often had to
exercise great self-control in order to play correctly.

Helene apparently had no suspicion of the cunning
which Hollfeld had employed to attain his end.  She
often stopped playing for awhile and conversed with him,
that is, she talked herself, and, usually, very well.  She
listened to his monosyllabic replies,—which were empty
and foolish enough,—as if they were the words of an
oracle wherein more meaning than met the ear was to
be found.

He always departed a few minutes before the end of
the lesson.  The first time that he did so, Elizabeth
discovered him from one of the hall windows that
commanded an extensive view of the park, standing waiting
at the entrance of the forest-path, by which she must pass.
She defeated his intention, not without secret self-gratulation,
by paying a visit of an hour to Miss Mertens, who
received her with open arms; and she grew so fond
of the governess that she never passed the door of her
room without entering for an hour's quiet talk.

Miss Mertens was almost always depressed and sad.
She saw that her stay at Lindhof was becoming impossible.
The baroness, suddenly deprived of her sovereign
authority and its consequent manifold occupations, was
often bored nearly to death.  She was obliged to wear
her mask of gentleness and content while she was with
her relatives, which was hard enough, and therefore all
her ill humour had to be pent up within the locked doors
of her own apartment.  But she never vented it upon
Bella, for, looking upon her child more as a born baroness
than as a daughter, she restrained herself; nor upon her
old waiting-maid, for whom she had, no one knew why,
what the old steward Lorenz called "an ungodly sort of
respect."  Nor could she scold the lower servants without
offending the master of the house, and therefore all her
malice was wreaked upon the unfortunate and defenceless
governess.

In order to torment her victim most thoroughly, the
lady ordered the lessons to be daily conducted beneath
her own most illustrious eyes.  In presence of the pupil,
the methods of the teacher were perpetually analyzed
and criticised.  It was no wonder that Bella did not improve
under such instructions, and her nerves, too, were sure to
be ruined, for Miss Mertens had the most disagreeable
voice in teaching in the world,—how, too, could the child
be expected to be graceful while she had constantly before
her eyes the angular, clumsy manner in which her
governess held her book and turned over the leaves, etc.?
In history, Miss Mertens' reflections were quite too
sentimental, or too plebeian, and, besides, she was so
outrageously impertinent "as to have opinions of her own."  In
some cases the lesson was deliberately interrupted; the
baroness placed herself in the teacher's chair, and the
governess was obliged to listen reverentially to a lecture
full of supercilious scorn and aristocratic arrogance.
If the lady needed support, the chaplain, Herr Möhring,
was sent for.  And then, the nettle-stings of her
discourse vanished into insignificance by the side of the
cruelty with which the unappreciated martyr invoked upon
the head of the wretched governess all the gall of his
suppressed sermons.  The baroness must have known
that the chaplain's French was execrable,—but she
requested him to be present during the French hour that he
might correct Miss Mertens' accent.  Bella's improvement
was forgotten in the overflow of her mother's petty malice.

Sometimes Miss Mertens would declare, with tears,
that only love for her mother, who looked to her for
support, induced her to submit to this martyrdom.  The old
lady was almost entirely dependent upon the exertions
of her daughter, and therefore any change of situation
was very undesirable in view of the pecuniary loss
which must attend it But however depressed her
spirits might be, her gentle face brightened whenever
Elizabeth knocked at the door, and asked, in her sweet,
fresh accents, if she might come in.  At sight of the
young girl all her care and anxiety took flight, and as
they sat together on the little sofa by the window they
had many a happy hour, and the poor governess seemed
to live over again her own youthful days, and Elizabeth
gained not a little from the fund of knowledge and riper
experience of her more mature friend.

These brief afternoon visits had also a secret charm
for Elizabeth, which she would not for the world have
confessed, and which, nevertheless, caused her heart to
throb quickly, and an undefined sensation of mingled joy
and anxiety to possess her as she knocked at the door.

The windows of Miss Mertens' room looked out upon
a large court-yard, which Elizabeth used to call the
convent garden,—it lay so retired and quiet, encircled by its
four high walls.  Some spreading lindens cast their green
shade upon the rich grassy soil, only intersected here and
there by narrow paved paths.  In the centre of the space
was a fountain, which supplied the house with delicious
water, and upon the edge of the large basin several
marble figures were reposing their white limbs, bathed in the
green light that broke through the overhanging trees.
When the sun poured his fierce rays, like melted lead,
upon the open parts of the park and garden, this spot
was always refreshingly cool.  A door upon the ground-floor,
leading from the court-yard directly into Herr von
Walde's library, almost always stood open.  Now and
then he himself would issue from it, and pace to and
fro with folded arms.  What thoughts lay hidden behind
that fine white forehead, when, after walking thus for
awhile, with his head sunk upon his breast, he suddenly
raised it, as if roused from some delightful dream!  Miss
Mertens often remarked that he seemed to have returned
from his travels much altered.

Before his departure, she said, Herr von Walde's face
had seemed to her like that of a statue, so serious and
immovable; and although she had always known him
to be a man of genuine nobility of character, she had
been oppressed when near him by the icy coldness of his
manner.  Now it seemed to her as if some revivifying
hand had passed over his nature; even his step was
lighter and more elastic, and she would maintain that, in
his pacings to and fro in the court yard, a smile frequently
broke over his face, as if he saw, in imagination, some
vision that delighted him.  While she talked thus, Miss
Mertens would smile and declare mysteriously that he
must certainly have brought home some very agreeable
memories with him, and that she could not refrain from
suspecting that matters at Lindhof would soon wear a
different aspect.  She never noticed the involuntary start
of her young friend when she arrived at this conclusion,
and Elizabeth was equally unaware of it, for the pang
that she felt at such an idea, made her utterly incapable
of controlling her external behaviour.

The quiet pacing to and fro beneath the lindens was,
however, often interrupted, not only by Herr von Walde's
workmen and men upon business, but by the needy and
unfortunate, who would come timidly down the steps, ushered
by a servant, and stand with bowed heads before the
commanding figure that confronted them, until they were
encouraged by the gentle tones of his voice to speak, as
he kindly bent down to catch their whispered words.
They always left him greatly cheered, for those who
were not worthy of his assistance did not dare to present
themselves before him.

One day Elizabeth set out for Castle Lindhof a half hour
earlier than usual.  The fact was that her father, in
returning at noon from the Lodge, had met Miss Mertens in
the forest.  She had evidently been weeping, and was
unable to speak at the moment; she had merely bowed
and passed hurriedly on.  This intelligence made
Elizabeth very anxious.  She would not for the world have
postponed her visit to the governess until the end of her
lesson,—the lonely woman was certainly in need of love
and friendly sympathy.

Just across the large meadow which bordered upon the
forest was a charming pavilion.  A dark grove
surrounded the graceful structure upon three sides, so that
its white front stood out in shining contrast with the green
shade.  It had hitherto been kept closed, although the
outside shutters to the windows were thrown back and
Elizabeth had seen that the room within was furnished
most luxuriously.  But to-day, as she issued from the
forest, she saw that the doors of the pavilion were
wide open.  A servant, with a waiter in his hand, stepped
out and requested her to enter.  As she approached she
could see that Fräulein von Walde, the baroness, and
Hollfeld were drinking coffee in the pretty room which
constituted the whole interior of the building.

"You are a little too early to-day, my child," said
Helene, as her young friend appeared upon the threshold.
Elizabeth replied that she wished to pay a visit to Miss
Mertens before the practising.

"Ah! pray let that go to-day," said Helene, quickly,
but evidently confused, while the baroness looked up from
her crotchet-work with a malicious smile.  "Do you know
that a large package of new music has just come from
Leipzig?" continued Fräulein von Walde; "I have looked
over it slightly, the pieces are beautiful.  Perhaps we can
find among them just the thing that we want for our
concert.  Sit down, we will go to the castle together."

She offered Elizabeth a basket of cake, and put a
magnificent pear upon her plate.

At this moment, Herr von Walde's dog came bounding
into the room; instantly both ladies were on the alert and
expectant; Helene looked towards the door with a manifest
effort to seem quiet and unconstrained, but the baroness
threw her work into a basket, examined the coffee-pot to
see whether the coffee was still hot, placed a cup near
the sugar basin, and drew a chair up to the table.  The
malicious smile was replaced by an air of grave reserve,
and she was apparently resolved to make as dignified and
imposing an appearance as possible.  At sight of the dog,
Hollfeld hastened into the garden, and came back in a few
moments with Herr von Walde, who had evidently just
returned from a drive, for he wore a gray dust coat and
a round felt hat.

"We were afraid, dear Rudolph," Helene cried out to
him as soon as he appeared, while she half arose and
held out her hand,—"that we should not see you at all
to day."

"I found more business awaiting me at L—— than I
had anticipated," he replied, seating himself, not upon the
chair which had been placed for him, but upon the sofa
by the side of his sister, so that when Elizabeth raised
her eyes she looked him full in the face, for he sat directly
opposite to her.  "Besides," he continued, "I have been
at home full half an hour, but Reinhard wished to speak
with me upon private business which required immediate
action, and so I nearly lost the pleasure of taking coffee
with you, my dear Helene."

"That miserable Reinhard!" and Fräulein von Walde
pouted a little; "he might have waited awhile,—the
world would still have turned around."

"Ah! dear child," sighed the baroness, "we cannot
alter these things.  We are condemned all our lives long
to be the slaves of our inferiors."

Herr von Walde quietly turned towards her, and his
glance measured her slowly from head to foot.

"Well, why do you look at me so, my dear Rudolph?"
she asked, not without a tinge of uneasiness in her tone.

"I looked to see whether you really seemed fitted to
play one of those sad parts in Uncle Tom's Cabin."

"Always ridicule when I look for sympathy," rejoined
the lady, endeavouring to lend a gentle, melancholy tone
to her harsh voice.  "I might have known it, but——"  She
sighed again.  "We do not all possess your enviable
equanimity, which is never affected by the petty annoyances
and necessary evils of this life.  We poor women have our
miserable nerves, which make us doubly sensitive to
everything that jars upon our minds.  If you had seen me this
morning, in what a wretched condition I was——"

"Indeed!"

"I have been tried inconceivably.  Well, Miss Mertens
must answer for it."

"Has she injured you?"

"What an expression!  My dear Rudolph, how could
a person in her situation injure me?  She has vexed me,—made
me exceedingly angry!"

"I am greatly pleased to see that you do not bend
without a struggle to the yoke of bondage."

"I have lately had to endure more than I can tell with
that stupid creature," the baroness continued, without
heeding her cousin's comment.  "My maternal duties are sacred
in my eyes, and therefore I have been obliged to superintend
my child's instruction.  It is, of course, a matter of
great moment to me that her youthful mind should be
rightly trained.  Unfortunately, I have become more and
more convinced that Miss Mertens' knowledge is very
limited and her views and principles not those which I
should wish adopted by a young girl of Bella's rank in
life.  This morning I heard the silly woman telling the
child that nobility of soul was far superior to nobility of
birth—as though the one could be separated from the
other,—and that she ranked a beggar with a clear conscience
above a crowned head whose conscience was not pure;
and a quantity more of the same stuff.  When I tell you
that Bella, the Lord willing, will live at court,—I have
all but secured the post of maid of honour at the court of
B—— for her,—you will readily conclude that I
interrupted such teaching upon the spot.  You must admit,
my dear Rudolph, that, with such views, Bella would
play a poor part at court—nay, even her stay there would
be quite impossible."

"Certainly, there is no doubt of that."

"Thank Heaven!" cried the baroness, breathing freely.
"I was really in a little doubt as to how you would
receive Miss Mertens' dismissal.  You know you always
valued her far above her deserts.  She was so impertinent
when I interfered with her lessons that there was nothing
for me to do but to send her away."

"I have no right to lay down laws to you with regard
to your people," replied Herr von Walde, coldly.

"But I always try to please you as far as I can,
my good Rudolph.  I cannot tell you how rejoiced I
am that I shall see no more of that repulsive English
face."

"I am sorry that you will not be able entirely to avoid
it, since she will still remain under the same roof,—my
secretary Reinhard was betrothed to her about half an
hour ago."

The work dropped from the baroness' fingers.  This
time not only her cheek but also her brow was suffused
with crimson.

"Has the man lost his senses?" she cried at last,
recovering from her stupefaction.

"I think not, since he has just given such proof of being
in full possession of them," said Herr von Walde, with
composure.

"Well, I must say that he plays his part of antiquary
well.  Such a lovely, blooming, young bride!" cried the
lady contemptuously, endeavouring to laugh heartily.
Hollfeld joined in her laughter, thus giving the first sign
of his having heard the conversation.  Helene cast a
troubled glance at him; but this mirth cut Elizabeth to
the soul,—she felt the greatest indignation stirring within
her.

"I hope," the baroness began again, "that you will not
take it ill of me——"

"What now?"

"That I cannot consent to associate with that person
any longer."

"I cannot force you to anything, Amalie, any more than
I can forbid my secretary to marry."

"But you can dismiss him if he chooses a wife who
makes his residence beneath your roof disagreeable to
your nearest relatives."

"That I cannot do either; he has been engaged by
me for life, and I have just secured to his future wife a
pension in case of his death.  Besides, you make a slight
mistake, my good cousin, if you suppose that anything
in the world could induce me to allow a man to leave
me whom I have always found faithful.  I am much
pleased with Reinhard's choice, and have allotted him
the use of the apartments upon the ground-floor of the
north wing during his life.  His mother-in-law will reside
with him."

"Well, I congratulate him upon that valuable
acquisition," replied the baroness, and her sharp voice
trembled with anger.  "I will, however, make one
remark: as I cannot bring myself to endure the presence
of that person in my apartments for a day longer, she
must provide herself with some place where she can stay
until her marriage.  Probably even you will see, my
dear Rudolph, that there is a manifest impropriety in the
interesting pair's still living, under present circumstances,
beneath the same roof."

"Permit me," said Elizabeth, here turning to Helene,
"I am very sure that my parents would extend a warm
welcome to Miss Mertens,—we have quite room enough."

"Ah, thank you!—matters could not be better arranged,"
answered Fräulein von Walde,—extending her hand to her
young friend.  The baroness shot an angry glance at
Elizabeth.

"The affair will thus be settled very satisfactorily,"
she said, preserving her composure with difficulty.  "I
will contain myself, and hope in all humility that the
future Frau Reinhard will vouchsafe me a spot where I
shall be relieved from the sight of her disagreeable
countenance.  Apropos, Fräulein Ferber," she continued after
awhile, in a careless tone, "I have just remembered
that the money for your lessons has been for several days
in the hands of my maid; just knock at her door as you
go by, and she will give it to you with a receipt, which
you will please sign."

"But, Amalie!" exclaimed Helene.

"I will do as you desire, madame," replied Elizabeth,
quietly.  She had noticed that while the baroness was
speaking a lightning flash of rage shot from Herr von
Walde's eyes, a thunder-cloud seemed to pass over his
countenance, but in a moment these witnesses to his
agitation gave place to a look of withering sarcasm.

"If I might offer a little advice, Fräulein," he said,
turning to Elizabeth,—"I should counsel you not to
venture rashly into the baroness' apartments,—they are
uncanny.  Evil spirits are seen there in broad daylight, and
they have often worked mischief.  Do not give yourself
the slightest trouble in the matter,—my steward shall
attend to it; he is thoroughly trustworthy, and manages
such affairs with so much delicacy that he would really
shame even a lady."

The baroness hastily folded her work together and arose.

"It would be better for me to pass the rest of the day
in my solitary room," and she turned to Helene, and her
lips quivered; "there are times when our most harmless
words and actions are misunderstood and resented.  I
pray you, therefore, to excuse me from appearing at tea."

She made a ceremonious courtesy to the brother and
sister, took the arm of her son, who looked much confused,
and rustled out of the room.

Helene arose with tears in her eyes, and was about to
follow her, but her brother took her hand with kindly
gravity, and drew her down again upon the Sofia beside
him.

"Will you not give me the pleasure of your company
while I drink my coffee?" he said gently, and as quietly
as if nothing had occurred.

"Oh, yes, if you wish it," she replied hesitatingly and
without looking at him; "but I am sorry to tell you that
you must hurry a little, for Fräulein Ferber has come to
practise with me, and she has already been kept waiting
an unconscionable time."

"Well, let us go to the piano immediately,—but upon
one condition, Helene."

"And that is?"

"That you allow me to listen."

"No, no, that I cannot permit,—I am not far enough
advanced,—your ears could not endure my bungling.

"Poor Emil!  He does not dream that he owes the
delight of listening to you to his uncultivated ear!"

Helene blushed.  She had hitherto never mentioned
Hollfeld's visits to her brother for reasons that may
easily be imagined.  Besides, she supposed that they
would have been a matter of entire indifference to him,
and now it appeared that he really attached importance
to them.  She seemed to herself to be a detected deceiver,
and for a few moments she could not speak.  Elizabeth
suspected what her sensations were; she too grew
confused, and felt her face flush painfully.  Just at this
moment Herr von Walde turned towards her, his keen,
searching glance scanned her countenance, and the
gloomy wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows.

"Does Fräulein Ferber improvise during these hours
for practice as they are called?" he asked his sister,
speaking more quickly than was his wont.

"Oh no," she answered, glad to recover her composure,—"had
she done so I should not have spoken of bungling.
I admitted Emil because I think that where there
is a budding taste for music, it should be encouraged."

Herr von Walde smiled slightly, but it was not the smile
which had lately possessed such a peculiar charm for
Elizabeth.  The dark lines in his brow did not disappear,
and his look was gloomy as he still observed Elizabeth
keenly.

"You are right, Helene," he said at last, not without
a tinge of irony.  "But what magnetism there must
be in these musical practisings that they have worked
such miracles!  A very short time ago Emil would much
rather have listened to his Diana's baying, than to
Beethoven's sonatas."

Helene was silent, and cast down her eyes.

"But we have forgotten Miss Mertens," said her
brother suddenly, in a different tone.  "Would it not be
advisable for Fräulein Ferber to settle that matter as
soon as possible?"

"Yes, indeed," replied Helene, quickly, seizing upon
any pretext to divert the conversation from its present
painful direction.  "We had better omit the lesson for
to-day,—while you, dear child," and she turned to Elizabeth,
"take the necessary steps,—pray go now, then, to your
parents, and ask them in my name to offer an asylum to
the poor lady."

Elizabeth arose, and Helene also stood up.  When her
brother saw that she wished to leave the pavilion, he put
his arm about her little form, raised her from the ground
like a feather, and carried her to the wheeled chair that
stood outside the door.  After he had arranged the cushions
at her back, and covered her little feet carefully with
a shawl, he raised his hat to Elizabeth, who saw that the
wrinkle between his eyebrows was not yet gone, and
pushed the chair along the nearest path leading to the
castle.

"She quite fills his heart," thought Elizabeth, as she
ascended the mountain, "and Miss Mertens must be
wrong if she imagines that he will ever give to another a
higher, or even a like place in his affections.  He is
jealous of his cousin, and rightly so.  How can it be—"
and here she stood still for a minute as two masculine
figures arose to her mind's eye,—"that such a man as
Hollfeld can have any charms for Helene by the side of
Herr von Walde?  The one retreats behind an appearance
of wise silence because he has nothing to say, while
the other, through whose noble external repose breaks
such fire, possesses a world of power trained and
restrained by force of character.  Hence his seeming great
reserve, which commonplace people cannot possibly
understand."

She suddenly remembered the look that Herr von
Walde had fixed upon her.  Did he think her an
accomplice,—his sister's confidante,—and was he vexed with
her when, in fact, she had, at this present moment, no
more earnest desire than that Herr von Hollfeld's
passion for music might subside as quickly as it had been
aroused?  Of course, she could not say so to any one,—least
of all to Herr von Walde,—and, therefore, she must
silently pay the penalty for those painful blushes that
had suffused her cheeks just at the wrong moment, and
when there was no earthly reason for them.





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.. _`CHAPTER XII.`:

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   CHAPTER XII.

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Her father and mother instantly acceded to Elizabeth's
request; and she hastened back to the castle to carry to
Miss Mertens their cordial invitation.  The governess,
when Elizabeth entered her room, was leaning with folded
hands against the wall.  At her feet stood a trunk half
packed, closets and wardrobes were wide open, and the
chairs were heaped with books, dresses, and linen.  The
young girl hastened to her friend, threw her arms around
her, and looked into her face, which, while it bore traces
of tears, was beaming with happiness.

"I am so astounded by the sudden change in my lot,"
said Miss Mertens, after Elizabeth had offered her
congratulations, "that I am obliged to close my eyes how and
then and collect my senses.  Only this morning everything
seemed so dark before me,—I actually could not
tell where to go,—the ground seemed slipping from under
my feet.  And just in the midst of my anxiety a home is
suddenly provided for me.  A man whom I esteem
thoroughly, but whose regard for the poor governess I had
never suspected, will be forever faithful to me, and I can
fulfill the warmest desire of my heart and have my dear
good mother to live with me!  What will she say when
she receives the news,—she, who has suffered so much in
thinking that I must battle with the storms of life alone,
and that she could not recall me to her loving heart!"

She told Elizabeth that in a few weeks Reinhard would
go to England for her mother.  His employer had
himself proposed the journey, and insisted upon defraying
all the expenses.  Whenever Miss Mertens mentioned
Herr von Walde the tears filled her eyes,—she declared
that all the wrong done her by the baroness was
more than overbalanced by his kindness and generosity;
he could not endure to have any one beneath his roof
suffer injustice.  Elizabeth completed the measure of her
happiness by the invitation which she brought.  Miss
Mertens had intended to go to the little village inn until
she could find lodgings.

"But now we will go to your house together as soon
as possible," she said, her face beaming with joy.  "The
baroness, a short time ago, sent me my salary, requesting
that I would not again enter her presence, and Bella
passed through my room without even looking at me,—that
grieves me, grieves me very deeply, for I have
cherished her like the apple of my eye.  Her health
used to be very delicate, and while her mother has been
absent, attending the court balls, I have sat by her
bedside and watched her feverish slumbers night after night.
Now it is all forgotten,—but I only meant to let you
know that I need not take leave of either of them."

While Miss Mertens went to bid good-by to Fräulein
von Walde and a few others in the house who were fond
of her, Elizabeth packed up a travelling bag for her.
The new inmate of Gnadeck only took a few necessary
articles with her; the rest of her possessions were sent to
the future apartments of the betrothed pair.

It was an amusement for Elizabeth to arrange Miss
Mertens' books in a bookcase in one of these apartments.  Herr
von Walde had allowed all the furniture in the rooms
to remain for the use of their new inhabitants.  Many of
these books were most interesting; she not only glanced
at their title pages, but, as she stood there, ran over
several pages.  Miss Mertens and her affairs were all
forgotten for the moment as if they had never existed.  While
she was buried in Goethe's appearance in the crowd at
the coronation of Joseph II., a fresh rose fell over her
shoulder upon the pages of the book Elizabeth started,
but instantly smiled, shook off the rose, and went on
reading.  Miss Mertens, who was doubtless standing
behind her, should not exult in any effect of her teasing.
But she suddenly uttered a low cry,—a white,
well-formed man's hand appeared and was gently laid upon
hers.  She turned round,—not Miss Mertens, but Hollfeld,
was standing behind her and spreading out his arms
with a smile, as if to seize the startled girl.

Instantly her alarm was converted into indignation;
but before she could breathe a word, a harsh commanding
voice cried out: "Emil, everybody is looking for
you.  Your superintendent from Odenberg is here to see
you upon business of importance.  Pray go to him instantly!"

Beside Elizabeth was an open window.  Outside of it
stood Herr von Walde, with his arms leaning upon the
broad sill looking in.  It was his voice which banished
Hollfeld on the instant in great embarrassment.  What an
angry expression there was upon the uncovered forehead,
in the compressed lips, and in the eyes that flashed upon
Hollfeld's retreating figure as it vanished through the
opposite door!

At last his glance returned to Elizabeth, who had
hitherto stood still, but who now, recovering from her
two-fold fright, was about to retreat into the recesses of the
apartment.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, brusquely; his
voice had not lost its former harsh tone.  Elizabeth,
deeply wounded by the manner and style of his address,
was about to return a defiant answer, when she suddenly
recollected that she was in his house, and therefore she
simply answered:

"I am arranging Miss Mertens' books."

"There was another answer upon your lips,—I saw it,
and I wish to know what it was."

"Well, then,—I was about to say that I do not reply
to questions asked in such a manner."

"And why did you suppress this reproof?"

"Because it occurred to me that you have the right to
command here."

"I am glad,—it is well that you think thus,—for I
should like just at this moment to exercise this obvious
right of mine: tread upon that rose which lies languishing
there at your feet."

"That I shall not do,—it has done no wrong."  She
picked up the rose, a beautiful half-open centifolia, and
laid it upon the window-sill.  Herr von Walde took the
flower, and without more ado tossed it away over the lawn.

"There let it die a poetic death," he said with a sneer,
"let the grasses bend above it, and the evening dews shed
sympathetic tears over the poor victim."

The rigid expression had passed away from his features,
but there was still the same inquisitorial look
in his eyes, and his voice was not much gentler, as he
asked:

"What were you reading when it was my misfortune
to interrupt you?"

"Goethe's 'Wahrheit und Dichtung.'"

"Do you know the book?"

"Only selections from it."

"Well, how do you like the touching story of Gretchen?"

"I do not know it."

"You have it open in your hands."

"No, I was reading the coronation of Joseph II., at
Frankfort."

"Let me see it."

She handed him the open book.

"It is even so!  But look how ugly that is!  Just
where Goethe describes the emperor ascending the throne,
there is an ugly green spot.  Doubtless you pressed
the green rose leaves too tenderly upon the leaf of the
book; the Emperor, Goethe, and Miss Mertens will hardly
forgive you for it."

"That spot is old—I did not touch the rose."

"But you smiled at sight of it."

"Because I thought it came from Miss Mertens."

"Ah, there is something touching in this friendship!
It must have been a great disappointment when, instead
of your friend, you saw my cousin's handsome face
behind you."

"Yes."

"'Yes.'  How that sounds!  I like laconic brevity,
but it must not be ambiguous.  What does that 'yes'
mean?  It sounds neither sweet nor bitter; and then
your face!—why is that defiant frown there between
your eyebrows?"

"Because I think that there are limits to every right."

"I did not know that I was making use of my right
just at present."

"But you will know it if you will ask yourself whether
you would address me thus harshly in my father's
house."

Herr von Walde grew pale.  He compressed his lips,
and retreated a few paces.  Elizabeth took the book which
he had laid upon the window-sill, and went to the
bookcase to close it.

"Under the same circumstances, I should have spoken
exactly so in your father's house," he said, after awhile,
somewhat more gently, as he again approached the
window.  "You make me impatient.  Why do you answer so
ambiguously?  How could I tell from that simple syllable
whether the disappointment of which you spoke were a
disagreeable or a pleasant one?  Well?"

He leaned far across the window-sill, and looked full into
her face, as though to read the answer upon her lips; but
she turned away with irritation.  Hateful thought!  How
could any one suppose that Hollfeld could ever be
agreeable to her?  Did not her face, her whole bearing
towards the man, show how thoroughly disagreeable she
thought him?

At this moment Miss Mertens entered the room to seek
Elizabeth.  She had completed all her preparations, and
was quite ready to leave the house.  With a sigh of
relief, Elizabeth hastened to her, while Herr von Walde
left the window and paced to and fro several times on
the lawn.  When he again approached, Miss Mertens
went towards him, and courtesied profoundly.  She told
him that she had in vain endeavoured to obtain access to
him several times that day, and that she rejoiced to have
an opportunity to thank him for his kindness and
thoughtfulness.

He made a deprecating gesture, and offered his
congratulations upon her betrothal.  He spoke very calmly.
Again his whole presence breathed an atmosphere of
dignity and reserve, so that Elizabeth could not
understand how she had ever found the courage to remind
this man of the laws of common politeness.  The eyes
that had flashed so passionately now looked serenely
into Miss Mertens' face.  The deep, gentle tones of his
voice obliterated all remembrance of the cutting irony
that had rendered it so sharp a few moments before, when
it had given to his words such an accent of irritation,
and had sounded as if designed only to wound and avenge.

That Herr von Walde was filled with bitterness towards
his cousin, Elizabeth had already noticed once before that
day.  But why should she be made to suffer whenever
he encountered him?  Was not Hollfeld's continual
intrusiveness sufficient annoyance to her?  Why should she
be made the victim of an irritation for which Helene alone
was to blame?  A sharp pang shot through her as she
remembered how tenderly and forgivingly Herr von Walde
had taken his sister in his arms, never casting a single
look of reproach upon her when Hollfeld's visits had
been alluded to.  She, the poor piano-player, who was of
necessity forced to endure Hollfeld's presence, must be
the scapegoat.  Or had he perhaps seen how Hollfeld
had thrown the rose upon her book, and was his
aristocratic pride wounded that his cousin should pay such
homage to an untitled maiden?  This thought flashed
upon Elizabeth as an explanation of everything.  Yes,
thus only could his conduct be explained.  She was to
crush the poor flower, that all proof might be destroyed
that Herr von Hollfeld had for one moment forgotten his
aristocratic descent.  That was the reason why he had
suddenly spoken in such a harsh tone of command,—a
tone which only those heard from him who had
committed some fault, and why she was called upon to
explain the impression which Hollfeld's sudden
appearance had made upon her.  At this moment she would
have liked to confront him, and tell him frankly how
odious his high-born cousin was to her,—that so far
from feeling honoured by his attentions, she looked upon
them as nothing less than insults.  But it was too late.
Herr von Walde was discussing Reinhard's journey to
England with Miss Mertens so calmly and kindly that it
would have been ridiculous, in the midst of such a
discussion, suddenly to resume the thread of the previous
stormy conversation.  Besides, he did not once look at
her again, although she stood tolerably near to Miss
Mertens.

"I am really half persuaded to go with him," he
said in conclusion to the governess.  "Reinhard shall
return with your mother, for I intend to give him the
entire charge of Lindhof here, and I will pass the winter
in London, and go to Scotland in the spring."

"And not return for years?" Miss Mertens interrupted
him, anxiously.  "Has Thuringia, then, no attraction
for you?"

"Oh, yes; but I suffer here, and you know that prompt
and active treatment will often cure where cautious,
cowardly delay might bring danger.  I hope much from the
air of Scotland."

The last words were spoken in a tone meant to be gay,
but the lines between his brows were stronger than ever,
and caused Elizabeth to doubt much whether his
cheerfulness were genuine.

He shook hands with Miss Mertens, and walked slowly
away, soon disappearing behind a clump of trees.

"There it is," said the governess, sadly; "instead of
bringing a lovely young wife home to Lindhof, as I hoped
he would, he is going away again, and perhaps will not
return for years.  He is restless, and no wonder, when
one thinks of the comfortless home that he has.
Baroness Lessen he cannot endure, and yet he is forced
to see her daily at his fireside, for his sister, whom he
loves so tenderly, has declared to him, that in the society
of this woman she is able to forget the bitter trials of her
life.  And his cousin, too, is an unbidden guest.  Herr
von Walde's nature is too frank and open to allow him
to conceal his dislikes; but these people are made of iron
and steel,—the indifference of the master of the house
never affects them in the least; they have neither eyes
nor ears when he hints at their leaving.  And as for
Herr von Hollfeld, he seems to me a very insignificant
creature, and very repulsive.  I cannot conceive how he
could have won Fräulein von Walde's heart."

"Do you know that too?" asked Elizabeth.

"Ah, child, that has been a secret known to everybody
for a long time.  She loves him as truly and deeply as
only a woman can love.  But this unfortunate
attachment, on which she now lives and breathes as in
sunlight, will one of these days cast the darkest shadow that
has yet fallen upon her sorrowful existence.  All this
Herr von Walde comprehends; but he cannot open the
eyes of his sister without inflicting a mortal wound,
and so he sacrifices everything to his fraternal
tenderness, and leaves the home where he is made so unhappy."

During this conversation, Miss Mertens and Elizabeth
had left the castle, and were now ascending the
mountain path.  Reinhard, who had been to the village, soon
joined them.  Miss Mertens told him of her interview
with Herr von Walde, and all that he had said about
going to England.

"He has not yet mentioned it to me," said Reinhard;
"but he often looks as if he longed to leave Lindhof.
Such a household!  The master of the house is considered
by his relatives in the light of a fifth wheel to a
coach,—he maintains them, and they show their gratitude
by estranging his sister's heart from him.  Good
Heavens! if I could only take his place for two days, I
would soon exorcise the evil spirit and not a trace of
it should ever appear again.  However, I hope that Herr
von Hollfeld will at least soon return to Odenberg for
a few days.  His superintendent has just arrived with
the intelligence that the housekeeper has left,—no one
stays there long—my gentleman is too stingy.  And
several other matters are in disorder there."

When they reached Castle Gnadeck, the guest was
most cordially welcomed by the Ferbers.  How
comfortable and homelike did Miss Mertens' room seem to its
new inmate!  It shone with neatness; the counterpane
and table-covers were spotless, a beautiful Schwarzwald
clock was ticking softly just above the prettily arrayed
writing-table, and a vase of roses and mignonette upon
the window-sill filled the air with fragrance.  Through
the open door could be seen the dwelling-room of the
family.  There the table was already laid, and Elizabeth
lighted the spirit-lamp beneath the tea-kettle, while
Miss Mertens was arranging in drawers and wardrobe the
few articles that she had brought with her.

In the mean while the forester, with his long pipe and
Hector, had arrived, and Reinhard also stayed, so that a
merry circle was soon assembled.  The forester was in a
particularly happy humour.  Elizabeth sat beside him, and
did her best to join in his gaiety; but it had never
seemed so difficult to her before, and he, who had an
acute perception of the most delicate modulations of her
voice, soon perceived it.

"Holla, Gold Elsie, what is the matter with you?"
he cried, suddenly.  "All is not right here."  He took
her by the chin and looked into her eyes.  "I see,—there
is a veil over your eyes, and over your heart, too!
Zounds! what a sudden change!  And what does this
sad nun's face mean?"

Elizabeth blushed deeply beneath his scrutinizing gaze.
She did all that she could to parry his questions by
jest and laughter, but she did not succeed very well,
and at last there was nothing for her but to seat
herself at the piano, where he never teased nor laughed
at her.

How much good it did her heavy heart to give it voice
in full rolling chords, as the sound floated sadly out into
the gathering twilight,—telling of the gloom that had
fallen upon her at the thought of Herr von Walde's again
leaving Thuringia!  Where now were all her dreamings
and all her endeavours to read the meaning of that
mysterious warning that had of late breathed through her
melodies?  It rung out clearly now in mighty tones, at the
sound of which all the former gentle breathings of her
inward emotions died away in an inaudible whisper.  A fairy
land, full of golden promise, was revealed before her;
her enchanted eyes gazed rapturously upon the fair
landscape,—but never, never might she tread that magic
ground, for nothing could bridge the abyss at her feet.
The veil beneath which her heart had hitherto lain in
blissful self-ignorance was rent, and with joy and pain
unspeakable she knew—that she loved.

She did not know how long she had been playing.
But she was suddenly aroused from her utter forgetfulness
of the world without by a bright gleam of light
falling directly on the pale bust of Beethoven.  Her
mother had just lighted the large lamp, and Elizabeth
saw her uncle sitting near her on the broad window-seat.
He must have entered noiselessly.  As her hands
dropped from the keys, he gently smoothed her hair with
his hand.

"Do you know, child," he said, after the last faint
sound had died away, and his voice trembled with
emotion, "if I had not already seen that something was the
matter, I should soon have learned it from your playing,—it
was tears, nothing but tears!"





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.. _`CHAPTER XIII.`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIII.

.. vspace:: 2

Miss Mertens' presence lent an additional charm to
the circle at Gnadeck.  For the first time for long, dreary
years the governess found herself an object of interest
and affection, and at home.  Her gentle nature, so
long chilled and repressed, now showed itself, and,
combined with her varied culture, made her a most attractive
addition to the household.  She longed to be of use
whenever she could, and took great pains with little
Ernst, who had a lesson every day in French and
English; while Elizabeth, too, gathered all the advantage
that she could from her visitor, and studied diligently,
knowing that it was the best resource to ward off sad
reveries.

In the mean while, the practisings at Castle Lindhof
went on as before.  Hollfeld, who had only been absent
at Odenberg for one day, was still an enthusiastic auditor,
trying by every means in his power to obtain a private
interview with Elizabeth.  Once or twice he had
cunningly contrived that, in the intervals of rest, Helene
should leave the room to find something that he wanted,
but he gained nothing by these manoeuvres, for Elizabeth
always left the room at the same time to procure a
glass of water.  His attempts to meet her upon her
return to her home she frustrated also, for Miss Mertens
and little Ernst were always awaiting her at the
borders of the park.  This perpetual frustration of his
endeavours at last made him impatient and less
cautious.  He no longer held his hand before his face.  His
looks were entirely unguarded, and it was only owing
to her near-sightedness that Helene was spared a most
painful discovery.  Thus Elizabeth's visits to the castle
grew more and more annoying, and she was thankful
that the fête day was at last close at hand, since with
that celebration the daily practisings would, at all events,
be discontinued.

The day before Herr von Walde's birthday, Reinhard
announced at Gnadeck that a guest had already arrived
at Castle Lindhof.

"That scatter-brain completes our misery," he said,
with vexation.

"Who is she?" said Miss Mertens and Frau Ferber,
laughing at the same moment.

"Oh, she is said to be a friend of Fräulein von Walde,—a
lady from court at L——.  She is to assist in the
ordering of the fête.  Heaven help us all, for she turns
everything upside down."

"Ah, it must be Fräulein von Quittelsdorf," cried
Miss Mertens, still laughing.  "Yes, indeed, there is
quicksilver in her veins.  She is terribly frivolous, but
she is not really bad at heart."

Later in the afternoon Reinhard accompanied
Elizabeth to Lindhof.  As she approached the castle, Herr
von Walde's horse was led up to the great entrance on the
southern front of it.  He himself immediately issued
from the glass door, riding-whip in hand, and
descended the steps.  Elizabeth had not seen him since the
afternoon when he had treated her with such harsh want
of consideration.  She thought he looked very pale and
stern.

Just as he was mounting, a young lady, dressed in white,
came out upon the steps.  She was extremely pretty,
and with much grace she hastened down to pat the horse
upon the neck and give him a lump of sugar.

Fräulein von Walde, who also appeared leaning upon
Hollfeld's arm, stood at the top of the steps, and kissed
her hand in token of farewell to her brother.

"Is not that young lady Fräulein von Quittelsdorf?"
asked Elizabeth.

Reinhard assented, with a wry face.

"She is certainly very pretty," said the young girl.
"Herr von Walde seems much interested," she added,
in a lower tone, as the rider leaned from his saddle, and
appeared to be listening intently to what the young lady
was saying.

"Oh, he does not wish to be rude, and therefore gives
her a moment's attention.  She would talk the moon out
of the sky, and, I verily believe, would seize and hang
upon the horse's bridle if she saw any danger of his
leaving before she had finished what she had to say."

In the mean time they had reached the vestibule.  Here
Elizabeth took leave of Reinhard, and betook herself to
the music-room, where she found Fräulein von Walde and
Hollfeld.  The former retired for a moment to her
dressing-room, to arrange her curls, that were somewhat out of
order, and Hollfeld took advantage of this moment to
approach Elizabeth, who had retired to the recess of a
window, and was turning over the leaves of a music-book.

"We were provokingly disturbed the other day," he
whispered.

"We?" she asked, with emphasis, retreating a step or
two.  "I, indeed, had reason to complain of being
disturbed.  I was much provoked, I assure you, by the
interruption of my reading."

"Oh, every inch a queen!" he cried jestingly, but in a
low tone of voice.  "I certainly did not intend to
offend you,—on the contrary, do you not know what that
rose meant?"

"It would most certainly say that it would a thousand
times rather be left to perish upon its stalk than be
plucked for such idle purposes."

"Cruel girl!  You are hard as marble.  Can you not
guess, then, what lures me hither daily?"

"Admiration, doubtless, for our great composers."

"You are wrong."

"Then the hope of improving your musical taste."

"Oh, no!  That would not bring me a step hither.
For me, music is only a bridge——"

"From which you might easily fall into cold water."

"And would you allow me to drown?"

"Most certainly—yes.  I am not ambitious of a medal
from the Humane Society," replied Elizabeth, dryly.

Fräulein von Walde returned.  She seemed surprised
to find the pair conversing, for until this moment there
had never been a word exchanged between them.  She
looked keenly at Hollfeld, who could not control his
feeling of annoyance, and then seating herself at the
piano, began to prelude, while Elizabeth arranged the
notes.  Hollfeld took his usual place, and leaned his head
upon his hand with a melancholy air.  But never had his
gaze rested upon Elizabeth with such glowing and
passionate intentness.  She repented having entered into
conversation with him.  Her endeavour to repulse him by
coldness and severity appeared to have had quite a
contrary effect.  Repugnance and fear overcame her at sight
of him, and, notwithstanding the thought of her uncle's
probable smile of triumph, the determination rather to
resign the practisings entirely than to subject herself
any longer to these insolent glances, gained ground in
her mind.

The hour was nearly ended, when Fräulein von Quittelsdorf
entered in haste.  In her arms she carried a
little creature in a long, white, infant's cloak, pressing its
head down upon her shoulder with one hand.

"Frau Oberhofmeisterin von Falkenberg sends her compliments,"
she said with formality,—"regrets excessively
that a cold will prevent her presence to-morrow, but she
takes the liberty of sending her lovely, blooming
grandchild——"

Here the creature in her arms made desperate
exertions, and, with a loud howl, jumped down upon the
ground, and ran under a chair, dragging the long robe
after it.

"Ah, Cornelie, you are too childish," cried Fräulein
von Walde, with a laugh of amusement and vexation, as
Ali's distressed face, surrounded by a baby's cap, peeped
out from beneath the chair.  "If our good Falkenberg
could hear of this, you would play no more tricks at the
court of L——."

Bella, who had also just entered, shrieked with laughter,
only endeavouring to control herself when her mother,
amazed at the noise, appeared and represented to her how
unbecoming such loud merriment was.  The baroness,
smiling, shook a threatening forefinger at Fräulein von
Quittelsdorf when Helene told her what had happened,
and then approached Elizabeth.

"Perhaps Fräulein von Walde has not told you," she
said rather graciously, "that all invited to the fête
to-morrow will assemble at four o'clock in the large
saloon.  Pray be punctual.  The concert will not be over
until near six.  I tell you this that your parents may not
expect you at home before that time."

At these words, Helene looked down upon the keys of
the piano in great confusion, while Fräulein von Quittelsdorf
took her stand beside the baroness, and stared Elizabeth
impertinently in the face.  Beautiful as were the
black eyes that were fastened upon her, Elizabeth was
annoyed by their steady stare.  She bowed to the
baroness, assuring her that she would be punctual, and then
looked full and gravely at the fair impertinent.  The
effect was instantaneous.  Fräulein von Quittelsdorf looked
away, and, in some confusion, turned upon her heel like
a spoiled child.  Just then she discovered Herr von
Hollfeld in the recess of the window.

"How, Hollfeld," she cried, "are you here, or is it your
spirit?  What are you doing here?"

"I am listening, as you see."

"You are listening?  Ha, ha, ha!  And of coarse
enjoying such indigestible food as Mozart and Beethoven!
Don't you remember telling me, four weeks ago, at the
last court concert, that you always suffered from dyspepsia
after listening to classical music?"

She laughed boisterously.

"Ah, pray let nonsense go now, dearest Cornelie," said
the baroness, "and aid me in this programme for the
fête with your inventive genius.  And you, dear Emil,
would do me a great favour if you would come too.  You
know that I am obliged now to enforce my authority by
the presence of a masculine supporter."

Hollfeld arose with visible reluctance.

"Oh, take me too, pray!  Would you be so cruel
as to leave me here alone until tea-time?" cried Helene,
reproachfully, as she stood up.  She looked displeased,
and it seemed to Elizabeth that she noticed, for the
first time, an envious expression in the lovely blue eyes
as they looked at the tripping feet of Cornelie, who,
without another word, had taken Hollfeld's arm, and was
leaving the room.  Elizabeth closed the piano, and took
a hasty leave.

In all the passages of the castle through which she
went there was hurry and bustle.  The servants were
carrying baskets of china, glass, and silver to the rooms
adjoining the grand saloon.  From the subterranean regions
of the kitchens there streamed a fragrant odour, and
through the open door of one of the servants' rooms
were seen heaps of green garlands and wreaths.

And he in whose honour all were exerting themselves
to-day was riding alone in the forest, gloomily devising
ways and means for fleeing from the joyless, unquiet life
in his home.

Elizabeth went down to the village to execute a
commission for her father.  A few days before, a violent
storm in the night had so shaken the ruinous jutty in
the corner of the garden that there was danger that the
slightest jar might send it toppling down upon the
garden, burying beneath its fragments the beds and paths
which had just been so laboriously arranged.  Two
Lindhof masons had promised to take down the ruin the
following Monday, but as the forester had declared that he
knew from experience that small reliance was to be placed
upon their promises, Elizabeth was to remind them of
their engagement, and impress upon them the urgent
necessity for keeping it.

The result of her expedition was favourable.  One of
the workmen swore by all that was Holy that he would
be upon the spot, and she was now wandering through
the quiet, lonely path towards her home.  About midway
upon the path leading from the village to the forest Lodge,
a much narrower path branched off, and ascended the
mountain to Castle Gnadeck.  It was seldom used, and
might have escaped stranger eyes, for in some places it
was overgrown with low bushes, and fallen leaves lay so
thick among the gnarled roots of the trees that it seemed
never to have been trodden by the foot of man.  Elizabeth
loved the path, and now chose it for her return home.

She had never encountered a human being here, but
to-day she had not penetrated far into the green twilight
before she observed, about twenty paces in front of her,
towards the right, just by the trunk of an enormous
beech tree, something like an arm slowly projected and
then dropped.  She could distinctly perceive this
movement, as just at that spot the trees separated, and
encircled a light spot of grass which shone like an oasis
in the dark forest.  Elizabeth advanced noiselessly and
slowly, but as she arrived opposite to the beech tree she
suddenly stood still in terror.

A man was leaning against the tree.  His back was
turned towards her; his head was uncovered save by
masses of coarse, uncombed hair.  For one moment he
stood motionless, apparently listening, then advanced a
step, raised his right arm, and pointed the barrel of a
pistol towards the light spot in the forest, after awhile
letting his arm fall again by his side.

"He is practising at a mark," thought Elizabeth, but
she only thought so to compose herself, for an indescribable
terror had at once taken possession of her; she did
not know whether to run backward or forward in order
to escape observation, and so she stood still, rooted to
the spot.

Suddenly the noise of a horse's hoofs struck upon her
ear.  The man started and stood erect as though
electrified.  A few moments afterwards a horseman appeared
where the forest was more open.  The horse walked slowly
over the soft turf; its rider, lost in thought, had dropped
the bridle upon its neck.  The man with the pistol
rapidly advanced a couple of paces; raised his arm in
the direction of the horseman, and at the same moment
turned his head so that Elizabeth instantly recognized the
former superintendent, Linke, his features deadly pale and
distorted with rage and hate, while the horseman, who
was slowly coming within range of the deadly weapon,
was Herr von Walde.  An instantaneous transformation
took place in Elizabeth.  The girlish terror that had
caused her to tremble at sight of the villain, gave place to
a wondrous courage and an incomprehensible calmness
and self-control at the thought that she was destined to
come to the rescue here.  She glided noiselessly through
the trees and stood suddenly, as if she had risen from the
earth, beside Linke, who, his eyes riveted upon his
victim, had no suspicion of her approach.  With all the
strength of which she was mistress she seized his arm
and threw it up.  The pistol was discharged with a loud
report, and the ball whistled through the air and lodged
in the trunk of a tree; as the startled wretch fell upon
the ground, a woman's loud scream for help rang through
the forest.  The assassin tottered to his feet and plunged
into the thicket.  In the mean time the horse had reared
and plunged with fright, but, speedily controlled by its
rider, came galloping across the clearing to the spot
where Elizabeth was leaning against a beech tree, pale
as death.  The danger was past, and her feminine
nature was reasserting itself.  She trembled in every limb,
but a happy smile illuminated her countenance when
she saw Herr von Walde coming towards her safe and
unharmed.

At sight of her he leaped from his horse; but she, who
had just manifested such extraordinary self-possession,
screamed with fright and turned suddenly as she felt two
hands laid upon her shoulders from behind,—Miss
Mertens' agitated face was close to her own.

"Good God!  Elizabeth," cried the governess, breathlessly,
"what have you done! he might have killed you!"

Herr von Walde pushed through the underbrush that
separated them from him.

"Are you wounded?" he asked Elizabeth, hurriedly and
earnestly.

She shook her head.  Without another word he raised
her from the ground and carried her to the fallen trunk of
a tree, where he gently placed her.  Miss Mertens sat
down beside her and leaned the girl's head upon her
shoulder.

"Now pray tell me what has happened," said Herr
von Walde to the governess.

"No, no," cried Elizabeth in terror; "not here, let us
go,—the murderer has escaped,—perhaps he is lurking
among the bushes, and may yet accomplish his design."

"Linke was about to murder you, Herr von Walde,"
said Miss Mertens, in a trembling voice.

"Miserable wretch! that shot then was for me," he
calmly observed.  He turned and went into the thicket
where Linke had disappeared.  Elizabeth almost lost her
self control, and was on the point of following him when
he returned.

"Reassure yourself," he said to her; "there are no
traces of him to be seen; he will not shoot again to-day.
Come, I beg you, Miss Mertens, tell me all about it."

It appeared that knowing that Elizabeth was going to
the village, the governess had gone to meet her in the
narrow forest path.  As she was slowly descending the
mountain she saw all that Elizabeth had seen.  The
villain's intentions were plain, but she had been so paralyzed
by fright that she had not been able to move nor cry out.
She stood fastened to the spot with deadly terror, when
suddenly Elizabeth, whom she had not seen, stood
behind the assassin.  In her horror at her friend's danger,
the cry for help escaped her which had been heard
simultaneously with the report of the pistol.  She related all
this hurriedly, and in conclusion added: "Where did you
get the courage, Elizabeth, to seize the man?  I shudder
at the mere thought of touching him, and should have
screamed loudly instead."

"If I had screamed," replied Elizabeth, simply, "Linke
might have accomplished his purpose, in his involuntary
start of alarm."

Herr von Walde listened quietly but intently to Miss
Mertens' account.  Only when she described how
Elizabeth had seized the murderer's arm, did his face lose
colour for an instant, as he riveted a keen, anxious glance
upon the girl, to assure himself that she had actually
escaped the danger unhurt.  He leaned over her, took
her right hand and pressed it to his lips, and Elizabeth
plainly perceived that his hand trembled.

Miss Mertens, who observed how this expression of
gratitude confused Elizabeth and called up a burning
blush in her cheeks, left her seat, and picking up the
pistol Linke had thrown from him in his flight, handed
it to Herr von Walde.

"Horrible!" he murmured.  "The wretch would have
murdered me with one of my own weapons."

Elizabeth now arose, and assured Miss Mertens that
all traces of her fright had vanished, and that she was
quite able to resume her walk towards Gnadeck.  They
would both have taken leave of Herr von Walde, but he
tied his horse to the terrible beech tree, and said, lightly:

"We know well that Linke's nature is most revengeful;
he may perhaps hate her to whom I owe my life even
more than he hates me.  I cannot permit you to proceed
without a protector."

They ascended the mountain.  Miss Mertens hastened
on, that she might incite Herr von Walde to greater
speed, in order to take steps for the apprehension of the
criminal as quickly as possible; but her exertions were
all in vain.  He walked slowly by the side of Elizabeth,
who, after a few moments of conflict with herself, begged
him, in a gentle, timid tone, not to go back alone to his
horse, but to send for him from Castle Lindhof.

He smiled.  "Belisarius is wild and obstinate; you
know him already," he said.  "He obeys no one but
myself, and would never allow any one but his
master to take him home.  Besides, I assure you, that
cowardly wretch will attempt nothing further to-day.  And
if he should, I bear a charmed life.  Has not my happy
star risen to-day in my heavens?"

He stood still.  "What do you think," he asked, suddenly,
in a low tone, and his eyes flashed as he looked at
her, "shall I listen to the delicious hope that it may shine
upon me for the rest of my life?"

"If it is to tempt you to run repeated risks, it were
certainly better not to place such unconditional faith in
your star."

"And yet I run the greatest risk of all in trusting
such a hope," he murmured, half to himself, as his face
darkened.

"I do not understand you," said Elizabeth, surprised.

"It is quite natural that you should not," he replied,
bitterly.  "Your wishes and hopes lie in quite another
direction.  Notwithstanding all our stern self-discipline,
we are sometimes overmastered by a beautiful dream.
No, no, say nothing more!  I am punished already, for I
am awaking."

He quickened his pace, and walked by Miss Mertens'
side, while Elizabeth followed more slowly, lost in wonder
at the harsh tone which he had suddenly assumed, and
which so wounded her.  He spoke not another word; and
when at last the walls of the old castle appeared through
the trees, he took his leave, coldly and shortly, and
descended the mountain.

Miss Mertens looked after him in surprise.  "Incomprehensible
man!" she said at last, and shook her head.
"Even though he attaches but little value to his life, as
would seem to be the case, surely a word or two of
gratitude at parting from you would not be superfluous,
when he knows that you have risked your life for his sake."

"I see no necessity for anything of the kind," rejoined
Elizabeth.  "You attach altogether too much importance
to what I have done.  I simply fulfilled my duty to my
neighbour; and would," she added, with a strange
defiance in her tone and manner, "have done the same if
the case had been reversed, and Linke's had been the
threatened life.  I hope sincerely that Herr von Walde
understands this, for to his haughty nature the feeling of
obligation to another must be intensely painful, and I
would not for the world be that other."

At this moment anxiety and anger were striving
within her for the mastery.  In thought she followed
Herr von Walde, and shuddered with horror as she
remembered that perhaps he was just passing some spot
where the assassin was lying in wait for him; then she
reminded herself, as she quickened her steps, of what utter
folly it was to waste so much thought and feeling upon a
man who persistently turned the roughest side of his
nature towards her.  Even in intercourse with the
baroness, who was so utterly distasteful to him, he
preserved his repose of manner, never for one moment
forgetting the laws of common courtesy, although he
invariably maintained his convictions with the greatest
decision.  He had never been seen by those about him
except when surrounded by an atmosphere of the serenest
dignity.  It was only when talking with her that he did
not appear to consider it worth his while to control
himself.  How violent and bitter he could be then!  How
his eyes flashed as he waited impatiently for her replies,
when they were not prompt and decided!  And he
required besides that she should understand him almost
before he spoke, and yet was often utterly
incomprehensible even when he did speak.  Perhaps every one
else was cleverer than she, and could more easily
comprehend his manner of speaking, which was such a riddle
to her.  Was it unwise to determine to avoid all
intercourse with him for the future?  Certainly not.  Well,
fortunately, his departure was at hand.  Fortunately?
The structure of self-deception, which her pride and
defiance had erected, crumbled to ruins at this thought;
yes, it so utterly vanished, that, to Miss Mertens'
surprise, she turned and walked quickly down the path that
led to Castle Lindhof.  She must satisfy herself that he
reached his home in safety.  Miss Mertens followed her
to a grove whence they could see the door where he
usually dismounted, and they were greatly relieved when
he shortly emerged from the forest.





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.. _`CHAPTER XIV.`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.

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In the evening the Ferber family were sitting in the
shade of the lindens at the spring.  Frau Ferber and
Miss Mertens were busied in making a rug which was to
lie upon the floor under the piano in winter time.

Frau Ferber had lost for awhile that dignified composure
that so well became her still beautiful face.  She
could not forget the afternoon's occurrence; for, although
she saw her child before her safe and sound, she had been
very much agitated by Miss Mertens' account.  She looked
frequently at Elizabeth, fearing, as she remarked her
slightest change of colour, that some illness would ensue
from the excitement that she had passed through.  The
father's views were different.  "That's my brave
daughter!" he said with sparkling eyes, "determine coolly and
execute quickly,—thus I would have you do."

To Frau Ferber, her husband had always seemed the
ideal of what a man should be.  Even now, after so many
years of married life, she followed blindly where he led;
and in her estimation his opinions admitted of no
question.  But to-day, as she listened to his paternal praises,
a sigh escaped her as she remarked that a mother loved
her children infinitely more than a father possibly could.

"Certainly not more, only differently," was Ferber's
quiet rejoinder.  "It is because I love them that I
educate them to be full-grown, responsible beings, capable of
thinking and acting courageously and independently, that
they may never belong to the miserable class whom want
of all force of character condemns to constant suffering."

Elizabeth had also brought her work-basket into the
garden, but little Ernst looked greatly disappointed as he
saw her take out her sewing.

"Very well, then, Elsie," he said petulantly.  "Herr
von Walde may ask me a dozen times if I love you,—I
shall not say yes again.  You never play with me any
more; and, I suppose, you think you are as big a girl as
Miss Mertens!  But you needn't think that,—you won't
be for a long while yet."

They all laughed at this odd confounding of age with
size.  But Elizabeth rose immediately to amuse the little
boy, tucked up her long dress, and drew lots which should
chase and which run from the other; and then they were
both off like a flash, up and down the rampart, hither and
thither through the garden.

In the mean time there was a ring at the gate in the
wall.  Herr Ferber opened it, and Dr. Fels, Reinhard, and
the forester appeared upon the threshold.  Elizabeth was
just running along the principal walk, and did not
immediately see the visitors.

"Well, I must say," laughed Dr. Fels, standing still,
"this is a wonderful transformation.  In the afternoon
Valkyria, and in the evening a butterfly!"

But the forester advanced, threw his arm around his
niece, and then held her off at arm's length, that he might
scan her delicate figure.  "My fine darling!" he cried
with sparkling eyes, "she looks as fragile and delicate as
though she were made of ivory, and yet she has the force
of a man in her heart and hands; 'tis an immense pity
you are not a boy.  I would clap you into a green
hunting-coat in spite of all that your father could say."

In the mean while Dr. Fels also drew near, and held out
his hand to Elizabeth.  "Herr von Walde rode to town
to-night," he said, "and requested me to come hither.  He
is very anxious to know that your fright and terror have
produced no evil consequences."

"None whatever," she replied, blushing deeply.  "As
you see," she added, laughing, "I am perfectly well able
to perform my sisterly duties, and Ernst has just assured
me that I am very hard to catch."

"Well, I will carry Herr von Walde this message, word
for word," said the doctor with an arch smile.  "Let
him decide whether it is a comforting one, or the contrary."

Ferber now invited the gentlemen to join the circle
beneath the lindens.  The doctor lighted a cigar and
seemed most content.  They discussed Linke's attempt
very fully.  After his dismissal from Lindhof, many
of the underhand dealings by which he had taken
advantage of his master's absence, had come to light.
Although Herr von Walde had taken no steps to bring
the offender to justice, the knowledge of his dishonesty
spread abroad, and was the means of preventing the
superintendent from procuring another situation.  Undoubtedly
this had filled the measure of his desire for revenge, and
had excited him to to-day's deed.  Every means had been
tried for the apprehension of the assassin; the forester
with his men had searched the forest, but their
exertions had been followed by no result.  Reinhard said
that every one at Castle Lindhof had been forbidden to
mention the matter to Fräulein von Walde, lest the fright
should injure her.  And the baroness, Hollfeld, and the
old waiting-maid were to know nothing of it.

"Herr von Walde has also requested," he continued,
"that the matter should be kept as secret as possible in
L——, for he knows that half the town is invited for
to-morrow's fête."

"That is, everything that creeps or flies upon a golden,
silver, or coloured field," interrupted the doctor
sarcastically; "every coat of arms that can be found, and all
the court-councillors, and officials.  Oh, the selection has
been made upon the strictest principles of court etiquette,
I assure you.  So I have enjoined it upon my wife to
conduct herself with becoming humility, like a crow among
soaring falcons.  To our surprise the baroness,—for she
manages the whole affair,—has sent us an invitation."

"Apropos, my dear doctor!" cried Reinhard laughing,
"they told me in L—— to-day that the old Princess
Catharine wished to install you as her physician, but you
declined the honour,—is that true?  All L—— is actually
standing on its head with surprise."

"Ah, that is nothing new; the dear little town passes
half its time in that posture, and the consequence is that
the light of intelligence shines upon the tough soles of its
feet.  But you have heard correctly.  I was sufficiently
bold to decline that honour."

"But why?"

"First, because I have no time to be coddling the
hysterical whims of her aristocratic head every day; and
then my sacred respect for court etiquette is too great."

"Yes, yes," cried the forester, laughing, "that is the
reason why I always cross myself three times when I
leave the royal castle behind me.  The prince and
princess,—our good princess especially troubles no
one,—they shut their eyes when mere matters of ceremony are
not according to stiff, prescribed rules; but that court
mob, that lisps and crawls and wags its tail about
them,—heaven help us! it absolutely shrieks murder if a man
walks boldly and uprightly, and goes into fits at the sound
of a voice that comes clear and full from the chest just
as God meant it should."

It had grown very dark.  The family and Miss
Mertens accompanied the visitors to the gate in the wall; and,
as they all stepped forth upon the open sward, they heard
sweet sounds floating up from the valley through the
forest, which lay steeped in the silence of night, and where
the birds had ceased to flit among the boughs, and even
the breeze had fallen asleep in the tree-tops in the midst
of the strange tales from distant lands that it whispered
to them every evening.  The band from the town was
serenading Herr von Walde.





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.. _`CHAPTER XV.`:

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   CHAPTER XV.

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The next morning at five o'clock the inmates of Gnadeck
were awakened by a discharge of artillery.  "Aha!"
said Ferber to his wife, "the celebration is beginning."  But
Elizabeth was startled from a fearful dream, in which
the misfortune which she had yesterday averted seemed
actually to take place.  She had just seen Herr von Walde
fall dying to the ground, when the cannon in the valley
awoke her.  It was some time before she could collect
herself.  For one moment she suffered fearfully.  It
seemed as if heaven and earth were vanishing from her
as that noble figure fell; and even now, when she saw
the golden light of morning falling upon the familiar
objects in her room and not upon the blood-stained sward,
her agitated nerves still quivered; she had never, not
even the day before, when she had so fearlessly risked her
life for his, felt so deeply that his death would be hers
also.

Again and again the cannon thundered up from the
valley.  The window-panes shook slightly, and the little
canary fluttered in terror from side to side in his cage.
At each report Elizabeth shuddered; and when her
anxious mother, who could not quite allay her fears for the
result of the previous day's occurrence, although her child
had seemed unharmed and well, came to her bedside to
ask how she had slept, the girl threw her arms around
her neck and burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears.

"Good heavens, my child!" cried Frau Ferber, much
frightened, "you are ill.  I knew that you would suffer
from yesterday's shock, and there is that terrible shooting
going on in the valley."

Elizabeth had some trouble in convincing her mother
that she felt perfectly well, and that she could not be
induced to lie in bed, but was resolved to take her breakfast
with the family.  And to put a stop to all further
remonstrance, she immediately arose, bathed and dressed, and
assisted her mother in preparing the simple breakfast.

The sound of the cannon suddenly ceased, and before
long all traces of tears vanished from Elizabeth's eyes.
The world looked brighter to her; for, although a life of
renunciation lay before her, he still lived; this thought
had, in consequence of her fearful dream, a soothing
effect upon her restless heart.  Even if he went away to
distant lands, and she was forced to live years without
seeing him, a time must come when he would return.
And she could still love and think of him, for he belonged
to no one else.

Later in the day she went with her family and Miss
Mertens to the Lodge, where they had been invited to
dine.  There was a dark cloud upon the forester's brow
as he came to meet them.  Elizabeth soon discovered
that he was troubled about Bertha.

"I cannot and will not bear it any longer!" he cried
angrily.  "Must I turn spy in my old age, and constantly
be upon the watch to prevent a wayward, foolish child,
who has no possible claim upon me, from making a
perpetual fool of herself?"

"But remember, uncle, she is unhappy," said Elizabeth,
somewhat alarmed.

"Unhappy?—she is a deceitful fool!—I am no ogre, and
when I thought her really unhappy, that is, when she lost
both her parents, I did all that I could to protect and
guide her.  But that is not what is the matter with her,
for scarcely two months after her loss she went singing
about and chattering like a magpie, so that I was really
grieved to see such heartlessness and frivolity.  What is
she unhappy about, eh?  But I don't want to know her
state secret if she has no confidence in me;—let it alone.
For all I care she may wear that die-away look upon her
face for the next year; but to pretend to be dumb, to run
about in the forest at night like a maniac, and perhaps
one of these fine days burn down my house about my
ears, it is more than I can bear, and I must have a word
or two to say about the matter."

"Did you not heed the warning that I gave you?"
asked Ferber.

"Certainly I did; I put her into another room; she
sleeps now just above me, so that I can hear her lightest
step.  At night both the house doors are not only bolted,
as they have always been at night, but locked too, and I
take the key into my room.  And oh! the cunning of
women,—but that's an old story.  At any rate my
precautions ensured us some rest.  But last night I could
not get to sleep; the affair with Linke was running through
my brain, and I heard steps above me, cautious steps, soft
as a cat's.  Aha! I thought, she is at her nightly
promenades again, and I rose, but when I went up-stairs the
nest was already empty.  On a table at the open window
a light was burning, and as I opened the door the curtain
flew into the flame.  Zounds! if I had not been quick as
a flash we should have had a blaze that would have been
well fed by those old balconies.  And how did she get
out?  Through the kitchen window.  I would rather take
care of a swarm of ants than of such a sly, deceitful
creature."

"I am convinced that some love affair is at the bottom
of the girl's conduct," said Frau Ferber.

"Yes, you told me so once before, sister-in-law,"
replied the forester with irritation, "and if you would be
kind enough to tell me with whom, I should be infinitely
obliged to you.  Look around us and see if there is any
one here to turn a girl's brain.  My assistants,—they are
not half good enough for her; she never would have a
word to say to them; it cannot be the rogue Linke, with
his crooked legs and carroty wig, and there is no one
else here."

"You have forgotten one," said Frau Ferber significantly,
with a glance towards Elizabeth, who had lingered
behind to cut a whip for Ernst.

"Well?" asked the forester.

"Herr von Hollfeld."

The forester remained silent for awhile.  "Hm!" he
muttered at last, "I should never in the world have thought
of him.  No, no," he continued quickly, "I do not believe
it, for in the first place the girl cannot possibly be such a
fool as to believe that he would make her my lady von
Odenberg, and——"

"Perhaps she hoped that he would, and finds herself
mistaken," interrupted Frau Ferber.

"She is vain and arrogant enough for it, but he,—he
cares nothing for women,—he is a cold, heartless egotist,"
said the forester.

"An egotist, I grant you," said Frau Ferber, "and that
explains Bertha's conduct and manner."

"That would be a fine affair," cried the forester angrily,
"to think that I should have been hoodwinked like any
old fool in a comedy!  I will sift the matter now to the
bottom, and woe to the girl if she has really dared to bring
disgrace upon herself and me!"

The dinner was a very quiet one.  The forester was
out of sorts, and would have extorted a confession from
Bertha upon the spot had not Frau Ferber prayed him to
wait for a few days.  After coffee the guests left the
Lodge; the forester threw his rifle across his shoulder, and
plunged into the forest, which, as he said, always soothed
and brought him to reason.

Elizabeth dressed herself for the concert, that is, she
put on a simple, white muslin dress, whose only decoration
was a bouquet of fresh wild flowers.  Her mother tied
around her neck a little locket attached to a very narrow
black velvet ribbon, and this was her toilet, which would
certainly have seemed most embarrassingly simple to most
young girls going for the first time among a large
assemblage of brilliantly-dressed people; but Elizabeth, if she
thought of it at all, congratulated herself upon the
delicate neatness of her muslin, and would rather not have
worn her mother's little ornament on this occasion, as she
considered that she was to appear only as a musician and
not as one of the guests, and that her fingers were all that
she need be anxious about.  She was rather annoyed
that the arms above these same fingers were bare, and
that her dress was low-necked.  She had hitherto never
worn a dress that did not cover her neck to her chin, and
could not see why the fashionable world had decided that
women should be *decolleté* in large assemblies.  She
thought as little of the exquisite form and dazzling
whiteness of her shoulders and arms as of the beauty and grace
of her head, which, with its heavy braids of golden hair,
was set so exquisitely upon her finely-moulded neck.  Her
mother herself had arranged her hair to-day, and it
clustered in short shining curls above her forehead, contrasting
wondrously with the delicately pencilled but decided arch
of the dark eyebrows.  And Frau Ferber could not but
agree with Miss Mertens, who, as she watched Elizabeth
disappear upon the forest path, declared with enthusiasm
that she was supernaturally lovely.  The mother had just
acknowledged to herself that her child's beauty had
unfolded in a most striking degree.

When Elizabeth entered the vestibule of Castle
Lindhof she encountered Dr. Fels, who, with his wife upon
his arm, was just turning down one of the corridors.  She
hastened towards him, and accosted him gaily, for her
heart had been beating anxiously as she approached the
castle, at the thought that she should be obliged to enter
entirely alone the spacious saloon, where the greater part
of the company were doubtless already assembled.  The
doctor received her most cordially, and presented her to
his wife, in an undertone, as "yesterday's heroine."  Both
gladly took her under their protection.  The large
folding-doors were flung open, and Elizabeth was grateful for the
lucky star that had allowed her to take shelter behind the
tall, commanding figure of the doctor's wife, for she was
at first rather overcome at sight of the large, richly-decorated
apartment, over whose highly-polished floor glided
the costly dresses of the ladies and the polished boots of
the gentlemen.  In the centre of the saloon stood the
Baroness Lessen, arrayed in magnificent dark-blue
moire-antique, and receiving the guests.  She returned the
salutations of the doctor and his wife very politely, but very
coolly, and replied to the doctor's question, "Where is
Herr von Walde?" by pointing to a knot of men
standing near a window, whence issued a murmur like the
Babylonish confusion of tongues.

While Fels and his wife walked towards the spot,
Elizabeth gladly and gratefully obeyed a gesture from Helene,
who, sitting at another window, hurriedly and agitatedly
informed her that she had suddenly had an attack of what
is called "stage fright;" that she was in overwhelming
terror at playing before so many people, and would rather
creep into a mouse-hole.  And then she begged Elizabeth,
instead of the four-handed composition with which the
concert was to open, to play a sonata of Beethoven's, a
wish with which Elizabeth immediately complied.  Her
embarrassment vanished.  She stepped up to the table
where the music was lying, and selected the sonata which
she was to play.  Meanwhile, carriage after carriage
rolled into the court-yard.  The folding-doors opened and
closed incessantly upon such quantities of tulle and
velvet and lace, which were crowded into the saloon, that
Elizabeth smiled pityingly at the thought of her simple
white muslin, so soon to loose its unwrinkled smoothness
in such a crush of crinoline.

She could very easily decide, from the manner of the
baroness, upon the social rank of the guests.  One
gracious wave of the feather-crowned head of the great lady
answered every social requirement whenever she received
untitled guests, and these untitled guests did their part
well in acknowledging and respecting this aristocratic
reserve.  All, in obedience to a gesture from the baroness, first
made their way towards the window where stood Herr von
Walde,—who, however, remained entirely invisible to
Elizabeth,—and then scattered into single groups, either
awaiting the opening of the concert, or engaged in
conversation among themselves.

Suddenly the doors flew open again, and a corpulent
old lady hobbled in upon the arm of an equally aged
gentleman, whose coat glittered with orders,—and with them
came Fräulein von Quittelsdorf.  The baroness hastened
toward these guests, and Fräulein von Walde also arose
with difficulty, and, taking Hollfeld's arm, went to meet
the aged pair, while all the ladies standing around her
followed like the tail of a comet.  The crowd of men
at the window divided suddenly as by magic, and Herr
von Walde's lofty figure appeared.

"We must come to you, if we wish to see you, naughty
man!" cried the old lady, shaking her forefinger at him,
as she hobbled towards him.  "You see, in spite of my
poor feet, and although you have neglected me shamefully,
I am here to-day to offer you my congratulations."

He bowed, and said a few words to her, to which she
replied by laughingly tapping him upon the shoulder with
her fan.  Then he conducted her to an arm-chair, where
she seated herself with much majesty.

"The Countess of Falkenberg, chief lady in waiting at
the court of L——," was the reply of the doctor's wife
when Elizabeth asked who the old lady was.  Fräulein
von Quittelsdorf looked exquisitely beautiful to-day in her
white crape dress, with a wreath of scarlet euphorbia in
her dark hair, as she busied herself about the noble lady,
while she did not forget to cast a roguish glance now
and then at Fräulein von Walde.

The arrival of the guests from the court was the signal
for the beginning of the concert.  Elizabeth could almost
hear her own heart beat.  She was standing behind the
doctor's wife, and was hidden from all the eyes which
would in one moment be directed towards her, following
every one of her movements.  Suddenly she was overcome
with timidity, and she repented bitterly having
consented to play first alone.  She trembled when Fräulein
von Walde motioned to her to begin, but there was no
time to withdraw.  She took a long breath, and walked
slowly, with downcast eyes, to the piano, where she
courtesied timidly.

At first there was a breathless silence; then a whisper
ran from mouth to mouth, which was instantly hushed
when the young girl struck the keys.  Elizabeth's fear
and embarrassment all vanished at the sound of the first
chords.  She was no longer alone.  He with whom she
had so often wandered along meadow paths in brilliant
sunshine, and past gloomy abysses in storm and rain, was
with her,—the one who had so often aroused within her
joyous presentiments, and who had expressed in immortal
harmonies all the loftiest and most sacred aspirations
of her nature,—who was as dear and familiar to her
as her mother's face, although her gaze fell dazzled by the
fiery glories which wreathed his majestic head.  The
flower-crowned heads ranged against the walls, the
lorgnettes and spectacles which, glittering in the sunlight,
shot their lightning directly upon the lonely performer in
the midst of the saloon, all vanished.  She was alone
with the great master, following with rapture every
manifestation of his creative spirit.

An actual storm of applause startled her when she had
finished.  She courtesied, and then almost flew to her
protectress, Frau Fels, who, speechless with emotion, held
out both hands to her.  The concert did not last very
long.  Four young gentlemen from L—— sang a delightful
quartette, and then there was a performance by
a famous violin player.  Fräulein von Quittelsdorf sang
two songs in a charming voice, but without any ear, so
that at every high note the guests either moved involuntarily
and nervously upon their chairs, or cast their eyes
down in confusion.  And then came one of the
well-practised duets.  Fräulein von Walde had recovered her
composure, and played excellently well with Elizabeth.

When the concert was over, Elizabeth went towards
the door of an anteroom, where she had left her shawl.
She was closely followed by an elderly gentleman, who
had been sitting opposite her, and had regarded her
attentively.  At his request, Frau Fels presented him to
the young girl as the Military Inspector-general Busch.
He said many flattering things about Elizabeth's
performance, and added that he was much pleased to
become acquainted with the heroic preserver of the life of
the lord of the castle; he had accepted to-day's invitation
with all the greater pleasure, since within the last few
hours he had been deprived of all hope of claiming her
assistance in the investigation of the murderous attempt.

He laughed heartily at Elizabeth's sudden alarm.

"No, no, I pray you not to look so horror-stricken,
Fräulein," he said at last.  "As I have just told you, we
shall have no occasion to subject you to a cross-examination.
Linke has himself put a stop to our proceedings
by a single blow.  His dead body was taken from the
lake in the park this afternoon," he added, in a low
tone.  "They informed me of it at the inn, where I
alighted.  I proceeded, accompanied by the Waldheim
physician, who happened to be at the inn, to the scene of
the suicide, and convinced myself that that hand will
never again be raised against the life of another.  The
condition of the body shows that Linke must have sought
death immediately after the failure of his murderous
purpose."

Elizabeth shuddered.  "Does Herr von Walde know
of his fearful end?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"No; I have had no opportunity to speak with him alone."

"None of the company present appear to have any
suspicion of yesterday's occurrence," said Frau Fels.

"Fortunately they have not, thanks to our foresight
and reserve," replied the inspector-general, ironically.
"As it is, poor Herr von Walde has been quite
overwhelmed with congratulations upon being born into the
world.  What would his friends have done to him had
they known how fortunately his life has been preserved?"

The butler, Lorenz, at this moment approached Elizabeth
and held out to her a little silver waiter, upon which
lay several folded slips of paper.  She looked up in
questioning surprise, and he said respectfully:

"Will you have the kindness to take one of the papers?"

Elizabeth hesitated.

"This is probably part of our entertainment," said
Frau Fels.  "Take it quickly, that the butler may not be
detained."

Almost mechanically she took up one of the slips of
paper, but started in alarm as the Baroness Lessen
suddenly appeared at the door, and looked searchingly around
the room.

"Come, Lorenz," she said hastily, stepping towards
the servant, "what are you doing here?"

"I have just handed Fräulein Ferber the salver,
gracious lady," replied the old man.

The baroness gave him an angry look, and then
measured Elizabeth from head to foot.  "How, Fräulein
Ferber," she said sharply, "are you still here?  I thought
you were at home long ago, resting upon your laurels."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned to leave the
room; but just upon the threshold she looked back at the
old butler with a frown and shrugged her shoulders.

"What can you be thinking of, Lorenz?  You grow
very thoughtless.  This infirmity has grown upon you
of late."

With these words, she bustled out, and the old man
quietly followed.  He replied not one word to her harsh
reproof,—only contracted his bushy, gray eyebrows, so
that his honest eyes almost disappeared.

The others remained looking at each other in astonishment,
when the doctor entered.  He made a profound,
comical obeisance to his wife, and said solemnly:

"In consideration of the fact that Fräulein von
Quittelsdorf has just had the clemency to unite us again as
closely as by the priestly blessing fifteen years ago, I am
content still further to endure the conjugal yoke, and
particularly on this day to enjoy by your side, and, cherished
by your tender care, O true and faithful spouse, all the
delights prepared for us!"

"My dear husband, what do you mean?" cried his
wife, laughing.

"Pardon me,—I mean nothing at all.  Ah, I see you
have not heard Fräulein von Quittelsdorf's directions.
What a pity!  I am then compelled to inform you that
every married couple here present, whether now upon a
war footing or otherwise, must repair, within the next
quarter of an hour, to the convent tower in the forest, where
a rural festival will be held.  There it will be your duty
to provide me with as much to eat and drink as my soul
may desire, and in every way to attend upon my wishes,
after the pattern of the famous Penelope.  But that the
unmarried men who are present in large numbers may
have no reason to complain,—that their mouths also may
be filled,—a sort of lottery has been ingeniously devised.
Every unmarried lady is provided with a slip of paper,
upon which stands written the name of some unmarried
man, and it is left to Cupid and Fate either to unite or to
separate faithful hearts."

At these words Elizabeth was seized with actual
terror.  She had never thought of other entertainments
following upon the concert; but now she clearly
understood why the baroness, on the previous day, had so
distinctly alluded to her return home after the conclusion of
the music.  Her cheeks glowed with shame, for she had
exposed herself to the charge of being very assuming by
taking from the butler's salver the little slip of paper,
which now burned like fire in her hand.  Always quick
to decide, she went into the saloon where the opening
of the mysterious papers was going on amid the laughter
of the ladies and their assigned partners.

"What a senseless idea this, of Fräulein von Quittelsdorf's,"
a young sprig of nobility was just exclaiming peevishly
to his neighbour as Elizabeth passed them.  "Here
I have that stout, pious Fräulein Lehr upon my hands.
*Fi donc!*"

Elizabeth had not long to look for the baroness.  She
was standing apart, near a window, in lively, but, as it
seemed, not entirely agreeable conversation with Fräulein
von Quittelsdorf, the chief lady in waiting, and Helene.
The countess seemed to be remonstrating with Fräulein
von Quittelsdorf, who did nothing but shrug her pretty
shoulders helplessly from time to time.  Intense vexation
was expressed in the baroness' countenance,—there was
no need of the round, red spot on either cheek to show
that she was angry.  Not far from the group Herr von
Walde was leaning with folded arms against a pillar.
He seemed to be only half listening to the words of the
be-ribboned old courtier who was standing beside
him,—his eyes were fixed upon the gesticulating ladies.

Elizabeth hurriedly approached the baroness.  It did
not escape her that, at sight of her, Fräulein von
Quittelsdorf gently nudged the countess, whereupon the latter
turned and regarded her with a malevolent air.  She saw
that she was the subject of their discussion, and she
quickened her pace, that she might avert from herself as soon
as possible any unworthy suspicion.

"Most gracious lady," she said, with a slight
courtesy, "in consequence of a misunderstanding, I have
become possessed of this slip of paper, and have just
learned that it entails upon me duties which I cannot
possibly undertake, for my parents are expecting me at
home."

She handed the little slip to the baroness, who took it
immediately, while a ray of actual sunshine broke over
her features.

"I think you are in error, Fräulein Ferber," Herr von
Walde suddenly interposed, in a clear, melodious voice.
"It is incumbent upon you to excuse yourself to the
gentleman whose name the paper contains; it rests with
him whether he will release you or not."  He scanned, with
a peculiar smile, the company, who were dividing into
couples and making ready for departure; even the old
gentleman beside him approached the countess, and
offered her his arm.  Herr von Walde continued, as he
slowly approached: "As master of the house, I cannot
permit any want of consideration of one of my guests,
wherefore I must beg you, Fräulein Ferber, to open
the paper."

Elizabeth obeyed, and then handed him the open slip,
with a crimson blush.  He glanced at it.

"Ah!" he cried, "I have, as I see, defended my own
rights.  You must admit that I am fully justified in either
accepting or refusing to accept your excuses.  I prefer the
latter course, and must entreat you strictly to comply
with the injunctions laid upon you by that paper."

The baroness approached him, and laid her hand upon
his arm.  It looked as if she were almost struggling to
suppress her tears.

"Forgive me, dear Rudolph," she said, "it is really
not my fault."

"I do not know to what fault you allude, Amalie," he
replied, with icy coldness; "but you certainly choose the
right time in which to ask forgiveness,—-just at this
moment I could easily forgive an injury."

He took his hat which a servant handed to him, and
made the signal for departure.

"But my parents!" stammered Elizabeth.

"Are they ill, or about to leave Gnadeck immediately?"
he asked, standing still.

"Neither."

"Well, pray then let me see to it that they receive
intelligence of the cause of your delay."

He called a servant, and despatched a message to
Gnadeck.

While the saloon was gradually emptied, the group of
ladies which had been joined by the aged cavalier and
Hollfeld, who looked much chagrined, remained standing
near the window.

"It serves you quite right, Cornelie," said the
countess.  "You have set the crown upon your folly to-day.
What a silly idea this lottery is!  How often have I
endeavoured to put a stop to your nonsense, to which,
unfortunately, our gracious princess lends only too willing
an ear?  How should the butler know any better, when
you gave him no instructions?  You consider yourself to
belong naturally to the court, and yet do not know that
that sort of person has not an idea of his own.  I should
not for an instant grudge you this lesson, if only poor von
Walde were not the victim of your frivolity.  There he
goes with that little white goose upon his arm; he who,
with his haughty, aristocratic self-consciousness, has many
a time been regardless of the wishes of some high-born
lady, who would have been charmed to take his arm.
What must he suffer to be tied for several hours to that
little piano-player, the daughter of a—forester's clerk?"

"Why does he sacrifice himself so very readily?" rejoined
Fräulein von Quittelsdorf.  "It was quite unnecessary
for him to meddle at all in the matter.  The girl had
made up her mind to go, when suddenly he steps forth
like a knight without fear or fault, and takes up the
burden voluntarily."

"At all events the burden is dazzlingly beautiful," said
the old cavalier with a conceited smile.

"What are you thinking of, count?" cried the
countess.  "That is just like you, who rave about every
round-faced peasant girl that you meet.  I do not
deny that the girl is pretty; but was not poor Rosa
von Bergen an actual angel of beauty?  Hundreds were
languishing at her feet; but von Walde, whom she
really preferred, was like a glacier to her.  No, he has
not the smallest sensibility to feminine beauty and
loveliness.  I long ago erased his name from my list of
eligibles for my young protegées.  He has just declared, most
distinctly, his reason for sacrificing himself to-day.  He is
evidently much pleased and delighted with the attentions
that we have lavished upon him, and wishes to see
every one happy and contented about him,—even the
little thing who played the piano.  I advise my dearest
Lessen for the future not to trust implicitly to the tact
and ingenuity of our charming Quittelsdorf."

The maid of honour bit her lips, and dragged her lace
shawl over her lovely shoulders.  The carriage now drew
up in which the countess and Helene, accompanied by
the baroness and the count, were to be driven to the place
of rendezvous.

"The old cat!" cried Fräulein von Quittelsdorf, after
she had assisted the countess into the carriage.  "She is
furious because she was not asked to assist in the
arrangements for to-day.  Did not you see, Hollfeld, how very
nearly that false front of hers slipped down upon her nose
when she was waggling her head in such agitation?  I
should have laughed for two weeks without intermission
if her bald head had suddenly made its appearance
underneath that flower garden on top!"

She was convulsed with laughter at the idea.  Her
companion walked, without a word, and with accelerated pace,
by her side, as though he heard nothing of her chatter.
His whole bearing manifested hurry and disquiet.  He
seemed most desirous to overtake the rest of the
assemblage as quickly as possible.  He cast searching glances
through the bushes on either side of the way, and,
whenever he caught a glimpse of a white dress, stopped for a
moment, as though to identify the wearer.

"Indeed, you are too tiresome, Hollfeld; you weary
me to death!" cried the lady peevishly.  "To be sure it
is your privilege to be as mute as a fish and yet enjoy
the reputation of a clever man.  Where your wits are
now I am sure I cannot imagine.  What, in Heaven's
name, are you running so fast for?  Allow me to entreat
you to have some regard for my crape dress, which will
be torn to rags by these bushes through which you are
hurrying me, with such speed."

The convent tower,—the only uninjured remnant of
a former nunnery,—was situated in the depths of a grove
of oaks and beeches in a part of the forest domain
appertaining to the Lindhof estate, which here extended far
towards the east.

A certain lady of Gnadewitz, a sister of the ancestor
of the wheel, had built the nunnery, whither she, with
twelve other young maidens, retired to pray for the soul
of her brother, cut off so ignominiously in the flower of
his days.  Year after year the giant boughs of the oaks
had tapped at the windows of the cells and leaned above
the high wall over the small garden of the convent.  They
had seen many a fresh young creature pass hurriedly
along the dim narrow forest path to ring the bell at the
convent portal with feverish impatience, as though unable
to wait one instant longer for the promised peace abiding
within those walls.  They had seen how, behind those
irrevocable bolts and bars, the mute lips of the nun grew
white,—how convulsively her waxen hands clutched the
crucifix, while her agonized looks would seek the ground;
for the sight of the clear, blue heavens, arching above
the gay children of the outer world, awakened joyous
memories within her, and breathed a keen desire for
pleasure and life into the soul and heart muffled forever
in the folds of the sackcloth of her order.

The Reformation, which overthrew the convents like
card houses, had stridden through this still forest also,
and had passed its mighty hand over the walls of this
gloomy pile, which had, in expiation of the misery and
crime that had cursed its origin, been the perpetual abode
of unhappiness.  And even the hollow mockery of existence
within its walls had vanished to the four winds.  One
stone after another had tumbled to the feet of the lofty oaks,
whose branches had brushed against it while it formed
part of some carved arch or window-frame, and which
now strewed leaves upon it till it sank away far more
softly bedded than the poor bodies of the nuns, which
were, so said the legend, all sleeping together in a
subterranean dungeon.

The tower was square, clumsy, and ugly.  On the flat
roof above, that was surrounded by a stone balustrade,
the stairs were capped by a very small, square apartment,
from which egress upon the roof was obtained through
a massive oaken door.  Here there was a magnificent
prospect and distant view of L——.  For the sake of
this prospect the tower had been rebuilt and kept in
constant repair.  Immense iron clamps bound the walls
together at the corners, and numberless lines of fresh
mortar meandered across its blackened surface, so that
the old building looked at a distance like a gigantic piece
of agate.

But to-day the old pile was decked out like some old
fellow dressed for a wooing.  Fresh flowers,—that is to
say, four gigantic fir trees—were sticking in his hat; and
from their tops gay banners were floating, like large
birds above the green waves beneath.  The old fellow,
who, until to-day, had only whispered nightly and daily
confidences to his comrades the oaks but had never made
an advance towards them from his dignified position, was
now clutching them with green wide-spread arms; huge
garlands were draped from his topmost walls, and were
lost among the boughs of the surrounding forest; while
from one side a white sail-cloth was extended and
attached to the trunks of two tall hemlocks.  Beneath the
shade of this tent were several refreshing-looking casks,
a whole battery of dusty red-sealed flasks and countless
silver-capped bottles in ice-buckets,—all presided over by
a very pretty girl in the dress of a vivandiere.

Elizabeth had silently and passively left the large hall
upon Herr von Walde's arm.  In spite of her determination
to go home, she had not had the courage to gainsay
him, or to tell him of her desire,—he had spoken in a tone
of such authority; and, what had influenced her still more,
had entered the lists, as it were, for her, and sought to
help her out of her embarrassment.  Any opposition on
her part would have seemed like obstinate defiance of
him, and would have served only to increase her painful
apprehension of drawing to herself general attention.

The silken garments of the ladies rustled along the
walls of the corridor behind her.  Laughing and chattering,
the gay crowd followed Herr von Walde in a long
train until it issued from the chief entrance door, and
then it scattered hither and thither, taking the various
forest paths which led to the convent tower.  Those
whose elaborate toilets required special care took the
broad, well-kept path.  Herr von Walde certainly never
dreamed that his companion's simple, snowy muslin
could be as precious in her eyes as were the rich dresses
of the other ladies in theirs, or he certainly would not
have selected the narrow, lonely pathway into which he
suddenly turned.

"It is usually very damp here," Elizabeth broke silence
timidly,—hitherto no words had passed between them.
Her feet trembled as though they would far rather retreat
than advance, and yet it is possible that her thoughts were
not of her dress nor her thin shoes, but rather of the long,
narrow, leafy way before them, through which she must
pass alone by his side, and of the voice that would
suddenly sound in her ears with that harsh, authoritative
tone almost always adopted by him when alone with her.

"It has not rained for a long time,—see how dry the
ground is," he quietly replied, as he walked slowly on and
broke off a twig which threatened to brush Elizabeth's
cheek.  "This path is the shortest, and we can for a
quarter of an hour at least escape from the buzz and
clatter with which my friends and relatives are celebrating
the completion of my thirty-seventh year.  But perhaps
you are afraid of meeting Linke in this sequestered
spot?"

A shudder passed through the young girl's frame.  She
thought upon the criminal's desperate end, but she could
not control herself sufficiently to impart her knowledge
to Herr von Walde.

"I do not fear him any longer," she said gravely.

"He has probably left the country, and if not, he would
hardly be so discourteous as to intrude upon the pleasures
of people who are seeking to indemnify themselves for the
pains they have taken with their formal congratulations.
By-the-way, you cannot have failed to observe that every
member of the company to-day has honoured me with a
few moments of special attention, even the youngest slip
of a girl in white muslin has made me her courtesy and
uttered her studied desire for my health and happiness.
You, perhaps, do not think me old enough yet to need the
wishes of others for a prolongation of my life?"

"I should suppose that such wishes were as
appropriate to youth or the prime of life as to advanced age;
the one possesses as little as the other a monopoly of
existence."

"Well, then, why did you not come to me?  Yesterday
you saved my life, and to-day you care so little about
it that you do not even take the trouble to open your lips
and say 'God protect it for the future.'"

"You have just said yourself 'every one of the
company.'  I did not belong to the company, and therefore
could not intrude myself among those who offered their
congratulations."  She spoke quickly, for there was
discontent in his tone, and the arm upon which her hand
rested moved impatiently.

"But you were invited——"

"To entertain your guests."

"Was that modest view of the case the only reason
why you did not wish to come with me?"

"Yes; most certainly my refusal could not have had
anything to do with the gentleman who had fallen to my
lot, whose name I could not possibly know."

"You can hardly persuade me of that; you must have
seen at the first glance that all the gentlemen present,
with the exception of myself, were already appropriated;
you must have known that my sister, without drawing a
paper, had requested Hollfeld to accompany her, as she
can walk more easily leaning upon his arm than upon any
other.  Confess——"

"I knew and saw nothing.  I was far too much
troubled when I entered the ball-room to return the
paper, for the hour at which I was expected to return
home had been particularly mentioned to me yesterday.
I had no idea that any special festivity was to follow the
concert, and in taking the folded slip of paper I
committed an indiscretion, for which I cannot forgive
myself."

He suddenly stood still.

"I pray you look at me," he said, in a tone of command.

She raised her eyes, and although she felt her cheeks
glow, she sustained unflinchingly the gaze which at first
rested sternly upon her and then became indescribably
gentle.

"No, no," he muttered softly, as if to himself, "it were
a crime to suspect deceit here.  Yes, double-dyed," he
continued in an altered, sarcastic tone; it sounded as though
he wished to sneer away some momentary weakness,—"was
I not the involuntary auditor of your declaration:
'It needs more courage to tell a lie boldly than to confess
a fault?'"

"That is my conviction, I repeat it."

"Ah, what a splendid thing strength of character is!
But I should suppose that if one were too upright to
soil the lips with deceit, a strict watch should be kept
upon the eyes also, lest they lie.  I know one moment in
your life when you appeared what you were not."

Elizabeth, wounded, attempted to withdraw her hand
from his arm.

"Oh, no—you do not escape me so easily!" he cried,
retaining it.  "You must either deny or acknowledge it.
You looked indifferent lately, when I threw away my
cousin's tender token, the rose."

"Should I have flown after it?"

"Certainly, if you had been true."

Elizabeth knew now why he had entered this lonely
path with her,—she was to confess her feelings towards
Hollfeld.  She was confirmed in her former suspicions,—Herr
von Walde was evidently most anxious lest she
should prize his cousin's homage too highly and perhaps
imagine that he could forget her social position.  The
moment had come when she could declare her sentiments.
By a hasty movement she released her hand from his
arm, and stepped a little aside.

"I grant you," she said, "that if my face that day
expressed indifference, it was not in harmony with my
thoughts."

"I thought so!" he cried, but there was no triumph in
the exclamation.

"I was in fact indignant."

"At my interference?"

"At the unauthorized levity of Herr von Hollfeld."

"He startled you greatly; but——"

"No, he insulted me!  How dared he intrude upon
me?  I abhor him!"

She must have been right in her solution of his
manner; but she had never dreamed that her declaration
would be so highly prized by him.  A weight seemed to
fall from his heart.  A ray of purest joy broke from the
eyes which had gazed at her with a mixture of mistrust,
contempt, and sarcasm.  He drew a deep breath, and
half extended his arms.  Elizabeth involuntarily looked
round to discover what it was that caused his eyes to
flash and glow so.  She saw nothing, but she felt his
hand tremble as he laid hers once more upon his arm.
They walked on a few paces without a word.  Suddenly
he stood still again.

"Now we are entirely alone," he said, in the gentlest
possible tone.  "See, only one small eye of heavenly
blue looks down upon us,—no prying faces are near to
come between us,—I cannot,—I will not be deprived of
a birthday greeting from you.  Give it to me now, when
no one can hear it but myself alone."

She was silent and confused.

"Well, do you not know how it is done?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she replied, and an arch smile hovered
upon her lips.  "I am well practised in such things.  My
parents, my uncle, Ernst——"

"All have birthdays," he interrupted her, smiling.
"But you cannot wonder that I want a birthday greeting
all to myself,—that I desire that it may sound quite
different from any that you have hitherto uttered,—for I am
neither your father, nor your bluff forester uncle, and
certainly I cannot lay claim to the rights of the brother with
whom you play.  Come, speak!"

Still she said nothing.  What should she say?  Her
eyes were cast down, for she could no longer endure that
searching glance, that seemed to penetrate her very soul
with its troubled expression of entreaty.

"Then come," he cried abruptly, drawing her forward,
after waiting in vain for some moments for one word
from her lips.  "It was a foolish wish of mine.  I know
that your tongue, which is always ready to say what is
kind and gentle to others, is dumb for me, or only ready
with some rebuke."

At these words she grew pale, and involuntarily stood
still.

"You will, then?" he asked more gently, "and cannot
find the words?" he continued, shaking his head, as
she was silent but looked up at him beseechingly.  "Well,
then, I have a plan.  Let me say what I should like to
hear from your lips, and you will repeat it after me word
for word."

Again the smile played around Elizabeth's mouth, and
she murmured assent.

"In the first place, you give your friend your hand,"
he began, and took her hand in his,—she trembled, but
did not withdraw it,—"and then you say, 'You have
hitherto been a wretched wanderer upon the face of the
earth,—it is high time that the clouds above you should
break, and be penetrated by the pure ray of light which
has transformed your whole existence.  It is my true
and earnest wish that this light may never forsake you.
Here is my hand, as the pledge of a happiness so
inconceivable——"

So far she had repeated this strangely-worded greeting
after him, but at the last words she hesitated.  He
seized her other hand also, and urged passionately, "Go
on, go on!"

"Here is my——" she began at last.

"Oh, Herr von Walde," suddenly cried Cornelie's voice
from the thicket, "what a delightful meeting!  Now I
shall enjoy in company with you the triumph of being
received with a flourish of trumpets!"

Never in her life had Elizabeth seen such a sudden
change take place in a human countenance as now
transformed Herr von Walde's features.  One strong blue vein
stood out upon his pale forehead, his eyes flashed, and
he involuntarily stamped his foot.  It really seemed
as if he would have liked to hurl back into the thicket
the unwelcome intruder, who, holding up her crape skirt,
came hurrying through the bushes towards them.  He
could not command his emotion as quickly as usual;
perhaps he did not wish to do so, for he frowned angrily as
Hollfeld made his appearance behind the lady.  As he
came in sight, Herr von Walde drew Elizabeth's hand
through his arm with gentle violence, as if he feared lest
she should be snatched from him.

"Why, how you look, Herr von Walde," cried Fräulein
von Quittelsdorf, stepping into the middle of the path;
"actually as if we were bandits, with designs upon your
life; or, at all events, upon your property!"

Without replying a word to this attack, he turned to
his cousin and asked, "Where is my sister?"

"She was afraid of the long rough path," the latter
replied, "and preferred to drive."

"Well, I suppose you will hardly leave Helene to be
lifted out of the carriage by the old Count Wildenau;
I cannot understand how, as her faithful knight, you
could leave the principal path.  A few, quick steps will
enable you to rejoin her.  I will not prevent you from
doing so," said Herr von Walde sharply, while a
sarcastic smile quivered around the corners of his mouth.
He stepped aside with Elizabeth to allow the pair to pass.

"And pray, if one may ask, why did you leave the
principal path yourself?" asked Fräulein von Quittelsdorf
flippantly, much more like a pert chamber-maid than
a maid of honour.

"That you can easily learn; simply because I hoped,
by coming along this lonely path, to escape the eloquent
tongues of certain ladies," replied Herr von Walde drily.

"Ah, how cross you are!  Heaven shield us from such
an irritable birthday hero!" cried the lady, shuddering,
and retreating a few paces with a comical assumption of
terror.  "It was a mistake that we did not come to you
to-day with funereal faces, and muffled to the eyes in black
crape!"

She pouted, and, taking Hollfeld's arm, would have
dragged him forward; but he, strangely enough, seemed
inclined, for the first time in his life, to set his cousin's
wishes at defiance.  He walked on slowly, and as if
weary of existence, peering right and left into the bushes,
apparently intensely interested in every stone in the
pathway, every squirrel that ran swiftly past.  Then he began
a conversation with his companion, whose answers
absorbed his attention so entirely that he paused and stood
still to listen to them.

Herr von Walde muttered something between his teeth;
Elizabeth could not understand it; but the hostile glance
that he cast after his cousin showed how the behaviour
of the latter incensed him.  He said not another word to
her.  He turned slowly towards her, and she felt that he
continued to regard her steadfastly, but she was unable
to lift her eyes to his.  Had she done so he must have
discovered on the spot how greatly she was moved by
the strange words that he had just whispered to her
with so much emotion in his voice.  One look would
have betrayed the conflict within her, and then,—she
could not pursue the thought,—he would doubtless have
repented the simple wish that he had expressed.  Thus
deeply agitated, it was natural enough that the young
girl's eyelids fell low over her eyes, and that she failed
to observe the inaudible sigh that escaped her companion,
or mark how all signs of irritation vanished from his
features to give place to the shade of melancholy that was
so wont to rest upon his brow.

A faint and dying trumpet note, which was doubtless
the result of the impatience of the musicians who were
waiting upon the roof of the tower, betrayed the close
vicinity of the scene of festivity.  And soon a buzz and
noise, as of some neighbouring gypsy encampment, broke
upon their ears; the path grew broader, gay throngs were
seen fluttering through the bushes, and suddenly a loud
flourish of bugles and trumpets sounded over their heads.
Elizabeth availed herself of the opportunity to slip her
hand from the arm of her conductor and to lose herself
in the crowd that gathered around the lord of the feast;
while a young girl, habited as a Dryad, and accompanied
by four other wood-nymphs, approached, and, in limping
hexameters, welcomed him to the forest.

"Well, von Walde has gotten rid of his Dulcinea at the
right moment.  I don't see the girl at all, now," the
Countess Falkenberg whispered smilingly to Count
Wildenau, who was sitting beside her upon a kind of raised
dais, beneath the shade of a group of oaks.  "He will never
forgive the baroness and our flippant Cornelia for so
stupidly forcing him into playing the knight, even for
a few moments, to such a creature.  My child," and
she turned to Helene; seated at her right, who was
anxiously searching the crowd with troubled eyes, "when
those people release him we must take him in here among
us, and do everything in our power to make him forget
the provoking beginning of the festival."

Helene nodded mechanically.  Apparently she had only
heard half of what the lady had whispered in her ear.
Her poor little figure, enveloped in a heavy, light-blue
silk, leaned helplessly and wearily back in her huge
armchair, and her cheeks were whiter than the lily-wreath
that crowned her brow.'

Meanwhile Elizabeth had encountered in the throng
Dr. Fels and his wife.  The latter immediately took the
young girl under her care, that they might not be
separated again.

"Only stay until the dancing begins," she replied to
Elizabeth's remark that the moment seemed to have
arrived when she could slip away unnoticed, and go home.
"I do not wonder that you wish to leave as soon as
possible," she added, with a smile.  "We, too, shall not stay
long.  I am anxious about my children at home.  I made
a great sacrifice to my husband's position in coming at
all.  Herr von Walde, to whom you are assigned for the
day by lot, does not dance.  So never fear, you will be
released."

Suddenly the crowd separated.  From the top of the
tower sounded a grand march, and while the gentlemen
sought the shade of the trees, the ladies, according to
the rules of the feast, hastened to provide them with
refreshments from the tent.

Herr von Walde walked slowly across the sward, his
hands clasped behind him, talking with the
military-inspector Busch, by his side.

"My dear Herr von Walde, now pray come to us!"
the Countess Falkenberg cried out to him, extending
her hand with an air almost caressing.  "I have kept
such a charming place here for you.  Come, rest upon
your well-earned laurels.  'Tis true, all the young ladies
present are disposed of by lot, but here are our fair
and lovely wood-nymphs all ready to wreathe your
goblet, and furnish you from the tent with all that your
heart can desire."

"I am deeply touched by your kindness and care for
me, gracious lady," the gentleman replied, "but I cannot
think that Fräulein Ferber will leave me to appeal to the
general sympathy."

He spoke loudly, and turned to Elizabeth, who was
standing quite near.  She had heard every word, and
instantly walked quietly towards him, placing herself at his
side, as though she were by no means inclined to delegate
to others one jot of her duty.  As he saw her approach
him thus, something of a joyful surprise lit up his
countenance.  He cast an answering glance at the face that,
unembarrassed now by those around, looked smilingly
up at him.  Strangely enough, he seemed entirely to forget
the charming place that the countess had reserved for
him, for, after a slight obeisance to her stately ladyship
and her court of young ladies, he offered his arm to
Elizabeth, and conducted her to the shade of a giant oak,
where Doctor Fels had just provided comfortable places
for his wife and himself.

"Now, that is carrying his revenge a little too far,"
said the great lady, with irritation, turning for sympathy
to Count Wildenau and the five disconcerted Dryads.
"He really throws scorn upon the entire fête by taking
so much notice of that young person.  I begin to be
really vexed with him.  No one is more ready than I to
grant that he is entirely right to be angry, but I really
think that he should not allow himself to be so carried
away by his indignation as to forget those of his guests
who have had no share in the absurdities of the baroness
or of von Quittelsdorf.  I'll wager that that little fool
there attributes his attentions to the influence of her
beautiful eyes."

The small band of amiable Dryads shot annihilating
looks at Elizabeth, who was quietly proceeding to the
refreshment tent, whence she presently issued with a flask
of champagne and four glasses, which she placed upon
the table beneath the oak, where Herr von Walde was
sitting with the doctor and his wife.

"Our young ladies to-day are wearing perfect flower
gardens upon their heads," said Frau Fels, as the young
girl approached the table.  "Fräulein Ferber alone is
as destitute of ornament as Cinderella.  I cannot have
it so."

She took two roses from the large bouquet which she
held in her hand, and stood up to place them in
Elizabeth's hair.

"Stop, I pray you," cried Herr von Walde, detaining
her hand, "nothing should adorn that hair but orange
blossoms."

"But they are only worn by brides," said the doctor's
wife naively.

"I know that well," he replied quietly; and as if he
had said the most natural thing in the world, he filled
the glasses, and turned to Dr. Fels.  "Clink glasses with
me, doctor," he said; "I drink to the welfare of the
saviour of my life—of Gold Elsie of Castle Gnadeck!"

The doctor smiled, and the glasses clinked with a loud
ring.  At this signal, a group of gentlemen approached,
glasses in hand.

"You come at the right moment, gentlemen," the lord
of the feast cried out to them.  "Drink with me to the
fulfilment of my dearest wish!"

A loud "vivat" resounded through the air, and the
glasses clinked merrily.

"Scandalous!" cried the old court lady, and dropped
her fork, with its choice morsel, upon her plate; "really,
they are conducting themselves over there like students
at a carouse!  I am positively shocked!  What an
unseemly noise!  Actually the mob in the street is better
behaved when they shout 'vivats' to our gracious Prince.
Apropos, my love," she continued, turning to Helene, "I
observe that your brother seems quite intimate with
Doctor Fels."

"He esteems him highly as a thoroughly upright man
of great scientific attainments," replied Helene.

"That is all very well,—but he certainly cannot be
aware that the man just now is in very bad odour at
court.  Only imagine, he has had the inconceivable
insolence to refuse our beloved Princess Catharine——"

"Yes; I know that story," said Fräulein von Walde,
interrupting the irritated lady; "my brother related the
circumstance to me himself a few days ago."

"How!—is it possible that the facts are known to him,
and that he has so little regard for the sentiments of the
court,—which has always distinguished him so highly!
Incredible!  I assure you, dear child, my conscience
pricks me sorely; I shall scarcely be able to lift my eyes
in the presence of their Serene Highnesses, when they
arrive in L——, at the thought of having been in the
society here of that impertinent creature."

Helene shrugged her shoulders, and left the lady to her
qualms of conscience and a brimming glass of champagne,
with which she probably intended to fortify herself in
anticipation of the dreaded arrival.

In the society of this lady Fräulein von Walde suffered
all the galling annoyance that conventionalities
inflict;—she was obliged to listen, with an amiable and interested
smile, to a thousand wretched trifles, while her heart
was tortured with pain; indeed, only just such a person
as the Countess Falkenberg, who sought and found her
highest earthly happiness in a gracious glance from a
Princely eye, a person whose whole intellectual capacity
was exercised in standing sentinel before the domain of
etiquette and in guarding religiously the hardly-won
prestige of her social position,—only such a one could have
been blind to the signs of the deepest suffering in the
countenance of the younger lady.

Hollfeld had not only been so inattentive as to leave
Helene, upon her arrival at this spot, to the care of Count
Wildenau, he had even, upon his tardy appearance,
omitted all explanation or apology for his delay, and had finally
seated himself beside her in a sullen and abstracted mood.
She thought him strangely altered, and she racked her
restless heart and brain with vain surmises.  At first her
suspicions rested upon Cornelie, who, true to her
mercurial temperament, fluttered hither and thither like a
will-o'-the-wisp, talking and laughing incessantly.  But she
was soon reassured upon this point, for she could not
catch a single glance of Hollfeld's directed towards the
coquettish and graceful court beauty.  The anxious
inquiries that she made of him were answered in
monosyllables.  She beckoned to one of the servants who was
bearing past a tray of delicacies, and herself placed them
before Hollfeld,—but he did not eat a morsel, and only
swallowed in quick succession several glasses of fiery wine
which he procured for himself at the refreshment tent.
This careless conduct, which she now observed for the
first time, caused her unspeakable pain.  At last she was
silent, and closed her eyes as though fatigued; no one
noticed the crystal drops trembling on their lashes.

Suddenly a shadow was cast upon the universal merriment,
which had been all the more unrestrained from the
fact that the lord of the feast, usually so grave and serious,
had joined in it so cordially,—at least Elizabeth felt
convinced that the face of the butler, Lorenz, who now
appeared in the distance, boded no good.  The old man took
the greatest pains to attract his master's attention without
being seen by the other guests.  At last he succeeded.
Herr von Walde arose, and stepped aside with him into
the thicket, while the group of gentlemen around him
dispersed.  He soon returned, with marks of dismay in
his countenance.

"I have just received sad news, which will compel me
to leave you immediately," he said, in a low voice, to
the doctor.  "Herr von Hartwig, in Thalleben, one of
my oldest friends, has met with a terrible accident; the
injury is fatal; they write me that he cannot live a day
longer.  He summons me to him that he may entrust his
young children to my care.  I pray you inform the
Baroness Lessen of my departure, and its cause; she will
see that the festivities are not interrupted.  Let my sister
and my guests suppose that I am called away for a few
minutes by some trifling matter of business, and will
return hither shortly.  I shall not be missed after the
dancing begins."

The doctor went instantly to find the baroness.  His
wife had strayed away from the spot a few moments
before, so Elizabeth was left alone with Herr von Walde.
He turned to her quickly:

"I thought we should not part from each other to-day
without the conclusion of my birthday greeting," he said,
while striving to meet her eyes, which shyly avoided his,
"but I seem to be one of those unfortunate ones whose
unlucky stars snatch from them the prize when it seems
almost within their grasp."  He endeavoured to give an
air of humour to his words, but they only sounded the
more bitter.  "However, I submit," he continued, in a
determined tone; "I must go.  It cannot be helped, but
my duty may be made easier and sweeter for me by a
promise from you.  Do you remember the words which
you lately repeated after me?"

"I do not forget so quickly."

"Ah, that encourages me greatly!  There is a fairy
tale which tells of a realm of inexhaustible riches and
endless delights, revealed by a single word.  Such a word
the conclusion of your greeting can be to me.  Will you
aid me in having it uttered?"

"How can I help you to the attainment of riches and
delights?"

"That is my affair.  I do most earnestly entreat you
at this moment to make no further attempt at evasion,
for time presses.  Let me ask you,—will you endeavour to
retain in your memory, during my absence, the beginning
of that birthday greeting?"

"Yes."

"And will you be ready, when I return, to hear the
conclusion?"

"Yes."

"Good; in the midst of the sorrow and gloom to
which I am summoned there will be a glimpse of clear
blue sky above me, and for you——may my good angel
whisper in your ear the word that will unlock that fairy
realm for me.  Farewell!"

He gave her his hand, and disappeared upon the path
leading directly to the castle.

Elizabeth stood still for a few moments in a state of
delicious stupefaction, from which she was roused by the
surprise of the doctor's wife at finding the gentlemen
gone.  Elizabeth told her what had happened, and the
doctor shortly returned and related that the baroness had
been greatly piqued that her cousin had not considered
it worth his while to inform her in person of the cause
of his departure.  The unlucky doctor had been obliged
to bear the brunt of the lady's ill humour, which had
vented itself in several biting remarks, but he had been
so discourteous as to allow them to pass him by
without in the least disturbing his serenity.  He seated
himself at the table and began to eat with an excellent
appetite.

Meanwhile Elizabeth went to take leave of Fräulein
von Walde.  There was nothing now to detain her any
longer.  She longed to be alone with her thoughts, to
recall undisturbed every word that he had spoken, and
to ponder upon its meaning.

"Are you going?" asked Helene, as Elizabeth stood
behind her chair and bade her farewell.  "What does my
brother say to that?"

"Rudolph has been summoned to the castle upon some
business matter," the baroness, who just now appeared,
answered in Elizabeth's stead.  "Fräulein Ferber is
released from all necessity of remaining any longer."

Helene cast a glance of displeasure at the speaker.
"I cannot see why," she said.  "His business cannot
detain him long, he will certainly return."

"Probably," rejoined the baroness; "but he may be
delayed quite late.  Fräulein Ferber, meanwhile, will be
very much fatigued in a circle where she is such an utter
stranger."

"Has my brother released you?"  Helene turned to
Elizabeth, hardly allowing the baroness to complete her
sentence.

"Yes," answered she, "and I pray you to allow me to
take my departure."

During this short dialogue the Countess Falkenberg
leaned back and measured Elizabeth from head to foot
with her cold, piercing eyes; but Hollfeld arose and
departed without saying a word.  Fräulein von Walde
looked after him with an air of anxious discontent, and
at first did not reply to Elizabeth's request; but at last,
with evident absence of mind, she held out her hand and
said, "Well, then, go, dear child, and a thousand thanks
for your kind assistance to-day."

Elizabeth took a hasty leave of Doctor Fels and his
wife, and then entered the forest with a light heart.

She breathed more freely as the throng was left behind
her, and as a few sounding chords concluded the waltz
whose bewildering notes had for a short distance
accompanied her.  She could now yield herself up undisturbed
to the magic that had laid so sweet a spell upon her
entire mind and being, and forced her to listen still to the
tones of that voice which had died upon her ear, ensnaring
her heart with its thrilling melody, and at the sound of
which all the suggestions of maidenly reserve, all the
arguments of her understanding, vanished.  She called to
mind how passively she had followed him, although her
deeply offended pride had prompted her instantly to
leave the circle where she seemed to be so unwelcome a
guest; she still experienced the delight with which she
had hastened to his side when he had so emphatically
declared, before all present, that he belonged to her for
the day, and would accept of no substitute in her place.
He might have conducted her to the end of the world,—she
would have followed him blindly with unhesitating
reliance and the most entire abandonment of herself to
his guidance.  And her parents?  She understood now
how a daughter could forsake father and mother to follow
a man whose path in life had been widely separated from
her own, leading, perhaps, in directly an opposite
direction,—a man who had known nothing of the inclinations,
influences, occurrences great and small, by which every
fibre of her life had been previously intertwined with the
life of her family.  Two months before, all this would
have been an inexplicable riddle to her.

She turned into a path which she had often trodden
with Miss Mertens.  It led, by many a narrow winding,
through the thicket, out upon the broad path which
traversed the forest, and for some distance formed the
boundary line between the Prince's domain and the estate
of Herr von Walde.  On the other side of this broad path
opened the wide road which led through the forest to her
uncle's Lodge.

Lost in her day-dreams, Elizabeth did not hear the sound
of hasty footsteps approaching; she therefore started in
alarm when she heard her name pronounced, close to her,
by a man's voice.  Hollfeld stood just behind her.  She
suspected why he had followed her, and she felt her heart
beat quickly, but she collected herself, and, standing aside,
made room for him to pass her in the narrow pathway.

"No, that was not what I wished, Fräulein Ferber,"
he said smiling, and in a tone of such familiarity as deeply
offended her.  "I wished to have the pleasure of
accompanying you."

"I thank you," she coldly replied, "it would be giving
you needless trouble; I always greatly prefer walking
alone in the forest."

"And have you no fear?" he asked, stepping so close
to her that she felt his hot breath upon her cheek.

"Only of unwelcome companionship," she replied,
retaining her self-possession by an effort.

"Ah! here is the same dignified reserve again in which
you always entrench yourself with me; and wherefore?
I shall soon put an end to it, however.  To-day, at least,
I shall not respect it as I have hitherto been forced to
do,—I must speak to you."

"Is what you have to say of such consequence as to
require you to absent yourself from your friends and the
fête?"

"Yes; it is a wish upon which my life depends; it
pursues me day and night; I have been ill and wretched at
the idea that it may never be gratified—I——"

In the mean time Elizabeth had accelerated her pace.
It was hateful to her,—the presence of this man, in whose
eyes glowed all the passion which he had hitherto partly
repressed and which had already inspired her with such
deep aversion and disgust; but she was perfectly
conscious that absolute self-possession was her only weapon,
and therefore she interrupted him, while her lips quivered
with the sickly semblance of a smile.

"Ah!" she said, "our practisings, then, have had most
desirable results; you wish my assistance in music, if I
understand you rightly?"

"You misunderstand me intentionally," he exclaimed.

"Accept the misunderstanding as an act of forbearance
on my part," said Elizabeth seriously; "I should else be
obliged to say much to you which it might please you
still less to hear."

"Go on, I pray.  I know your sex sufficiently well to
be quite aware that they delight in wearing the mask of
coldness and reserve for awhile,—their favours are all
the more welcome.  I do not grudge you the pleasure of
this innocent coquetry, but then——"

Elizabeth stood for one moment dumb and stupefied at
his insolence; such hateful words had never before
shocked her ears.  Shame and indignation drove the
blood to her face, and she sought in vain for terms in
which to punish such unexampled temerity.  He
interpreted her silence otherwise.

"I knew it," he cried triumphantly.  "I see through
you; the blush of detection becomes you incomparably!
You are beautiful as an angel!  Never have I seen so
perfect a form as yours!  Ah! you know well enough that
you made me your slave the first time I saw you; since
then, I have languished at your feet.  What shoulders
and what arms!  Why have you hitherto veiled them so
enviously?"

An indignant exclamation broke from Elizabeth's lips:

"How dare you," she cried loudly and violently,
"offer me these insults!  If you have not understood me
hitherto, let me tell you now, clearly and distinctly, that
your society, which you force upon me thus, is hateful to
me, and that I wish to be alone."

"Bravo! that authoritative tone becomes you
excellently well," he said, with a sneer; "the noble blood
that you inherit from your mother shows itself now.
What have I done to make you suddenly play this
indignant part?  I have told you that you are beautiful,
but your mirror must tell you the same thing fifty times
a day, and I do not believe that you break it for the
telling."

Elizabeth turned her back upon him contemptuously,
and walked quickly onward.  He kept pace with her,
and seemed quite sure of a final victory.  She had just
reached the broad forest-road when a carriage dashed
past.  A man's head appeared at the window, but at
sight of her was drawn back quickly, as though surprised.
He looked out once more, as if to convince himself that
he had seen correctly, and then the carriage vanished
around a sharp turn in the road.

Elizabeth involuntarily extended her arms after the
retreating carriage.  Its inmate well knew how she
detested Hollfeld; after the declaration that she had made
to him a few hours before, how could he doubt that she
was most unwillingly in the society of this man?  Could
he not delay his journey for one moment, to free her from
such odious importunity?

Hollfeld observed her action.

"Aha!" he cried, with a malicious laugh, "that looked
almost tender.  If it were not for my cousin's seven and
thirty years, I might actually be jealous!  Perhaps you
supposed that he would immediately descend from his
vehicle and gallantly offer you his arm to escort you to
your home!  You see he is too conscientious; he denies
himself that indulgence, and prefers to fulfil a sacred
duty.  He is an iceberg, for whom no woman possesses
a single charm.  You owe his behaviour to you to-day,
which was so very courteous, not to your enchanting eyes,
O bewitching Gold Elsie, but to his desire to provoke my
honoured mamma."

"And does nothing deter you from ascribing such
mean motives to the man whose hospitality you enjoy so
freely?" cried Elizabeth, provoked.  She had determined
not to reply to him again by a single syllable, in hopes
that she might thus weary out his pertinacity; but the
manner in which he spoke of Herr von Walde overcame
her self-control.

"Mean?" he repeated.  "You express yourself strongly.
I only call it a little revenge which he was fully justified
in taking.  And as for his hospitality,—I am only using
now what will be all my own at some future period; I
cannot see that it should alter my opinion of my cousin.
Besides, I am the one to sacrifice myself, I deserve all the
gratitude.  Is my devotion and attention to Fräulein von
Walde to go for nothing?"

"It must be a hard task to pluck a few flowers and
carry them to a poor invalid!" said Elizabeth ironically.

"Aha! you are, as I am happy to observe, jealous
of these little attentions of mine," he cried triumphantly.
"Did you seriously suppose for one moment that
I could really be in love with her, while my sense of
beauty was so perpetually outraged?  I esteem my cousin,
but I never forget for one instant that she is a year older
than I, that she limps, is crooked, and——"

"Detestable!"  Elizabeth interrupted him, beside herself
with the abhorrence he inspired; she hastily crossed
the broad forest-road.  He followed her.

"Detestable, say I, too," he continued, endeavouring to
keep pace with her; "especially when I see your
Hebeform by her side.  And now I beg you, do not run so
fast; let there be the peace between us of which I dream
day and night."

He suddenly passed his arm around her waist and
forced her to stand still, while his glowing face, with eyes
sparkling with unholy fire, approached her own.  At first
she gazed at him speechless and stupefied, then a
shudder convulsed her frame, and with a gesture of utter
aversion she pushed him from her.

"Don't dare to touch me again!" she cried in a clear
ringing voice,—and at the same moment she heard the
loud barking of a dog near her.  She turned her head in
joyful surprise towards the spot whence the noise proceeded.

"Hector!  Hector! here, good dog!" she called; and
the forester's huge hound burst through the thicket and
fawned upon her.

"My uncle is not far off," she turned coldly and quietly
to her discomfited companion; "he will be here in a
moment.  As you can hardly desire that I should request
him to rid me of your society, I advise you to return
immediately to the castle."

And, in fact, he stood still like a coward, while she,
accompanied by the dog, proceeded towards her home.
Hollfeld stamped his feet in his rage, and cursed the
blind passion that had robbed him of all prudence.  He
did not for one instant imagine that he could really be
disagreeable to Elizabeth,—he, the pet of society, whose
slightest word, were it only an invitation to dance, made
such a sensation in the little world of L——, and was
so often an occasion of envy and discord among the ladies!
The idea was absurd.  It was far more likely that the
daughter of the forester's clerk was a coquette, who
intended to make conquest as difficult as possible for him.
He had no faith in the existence of that virgin purity
of soul which made Elizabeth thus insensible, and the
magic of which affected even him most powerfully,
although he did not understand its influence.  He had no
faith in the sacred reserve of a young girl's inner life, and
therefore could not possibly conceive of the instinctive
aversion which his selfish, unprincipled nature inspired.
He reproached himself angrily for having been too
sudden and violent, thus defeating his own ends, and
deferring indefinitely the accomplishment of his hopes.  He
wandered about in the forest for an hour before he could
master his emotions; for the guests, who were still dancing
on the green before the convent tower whence the gay
music reached his ears, must not suspect the volcano
seething beneath that cold and interesting exterior.

Elizabeth had apparently walked away with a firm,
decided step, but she took care to look neither to the
right nor the left, lest she should suddenly see his hated
face beside her.  At last she ventured to stand still and
look around her.  He had disappeared.  With a sigh of
relief, she leaned against the trunk of a tree to collect
her thoughts, while Hector stood beside her sagely
wagging his tail, seeming thoroughly to understand that he
was playing the part of her protector.  Doubtless he had
been taking a forest walk for his own amusement, for
there were no signs of his master.  Elizabeth felt her
knees tremble beneath her.  Her terror, when Hollfeld
had clasped her waist, had been extreme.  In her
innocence she had never imagined such rudeness, and hence
his sudden touch had made her for one moment rigid with
horror.  She shed bitter tears of shame as she recalled
Herr von Walde's image, not clothed in the gentleness of
the last few hours, but stern and reserved.  She thought
she should scarcely dare ever to look up at him again
since that wretch had touched her.  All her happy
visions lay shattered at her feet.  This unhappy
encounter with Hollfeld had ruthlessly brought her back
to reality.  What he had said of Herr von Walde, coarse
and slanderous as it was, had revived much in her mind
which she had once believed, and considered as a bar
to her growing interest in him.  She thought of his
invincible pride of descent, of his self-renouncing love for
his sister, and of the universal opinion that his heart was
cold as ice where women were concerned.  All the gay
brilliant dreams which had hovered around her path
through the forest now folded their wings and vanished
beneath the searching gaze of her awakened consciousness.
She could hardly tell what it was that formerly
made her so happy.  Was it not most likely that only a
strong sense of justice had induced him to show her such
gentle kindness and consideration to-day,—to protect her
from the insolent annoyance of his relatives?  Had he not
in like manner protected Miss Mertens, and endeavoured to
indemnify her for the injustice that she had encountered
beneath his roof?  And the birthday greeting!  Ah, she
must not think of that, or its unfinished conclusion, for
then all her dead visions would instantly celebrate a
blissful resurrection!

As she entered the Lodge Sabina came towards her, pale
as ashes, in great distress.  She pointed mutely to the
door of the dwelling-room.  Within the apartment her
uncle was speaking loudly, while he was pacing heavily to
and fro.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" whispered Sabina, "everything is
going wrong in there.  Bertha has kept out of your
uncle's way most carefully for the last few weeks, but a
little while ago she was standing at the great door and
did not see that he was coming into the yard.  He gave
her no time to run off, but took her by the hand and led her
instantly into the room there.  She was as white as the
wall, in her fear of him,—but that didn't help her,—go she
must.  Ah, Lord have mercy upon me!  I should not like
to have the Herr Forester for a father confessor——"

A loud burst of sobbing, that sounded almost like a
stifled shriek, interrupted Sabina's whispering.

"Better so!" they now heard the forester say in a far
gentler tone of voice; "at least that is a sign that you are not
quite hardened.  And now speak out!  Remember that I
stand here in place of your good parents.  If you have a
sorrow confide it to me; be sure that if it has befallen you
without fault on your part, I will faithfully assist you to
bear it."

Only stifled sobs ensued.

"You cannot speak?" asked the forester after a short
pause.  "I know of a certainty that there is no physical
obstacle in the way of your speaking, for you talk to
yourself continually when you believe yourself
unobserved; you must be putting some force upon
yourself,—have you made a vow against the use of your
tongue?"

Probably an assenting nod must have confirmed him in
this supposition, for he continued, with great irritation,
"What an insane idea!  Do you suppose that you can
do your Heavenly Father good service by renouncing one
of his best gifts, the power of speech?  And are you
going to be silent all your life long?  No!  You will
speak, then, if that which you hope to effect by means of
your vow fails to come to pass?  Very well, I cannot
force you to speak,—then endure alone what depresses
you and makes you so unhappy, for that you are unhappy
any one can read in your face.  But let me tell you that
you will find an inexorable judge in me, if it should ever
appear that you have done anything that shuns the light
and should not be told to honest men; for in your
boundless arrogance you have hitherto rejected every
well-meant piece of advice, every attempt to guide and direct
you, making it impossible for me to care for you as it is
my duty and desire, standing as I do in the place of your
parents.  I will bear with you a little longer; but should
I find you once leaving the house after nightfall, this is
your home no longer,—you must go.  And let me tell you
also, to-morrow I shall send for the doctor to tell me
whether you are really ailing; you have looked wretchedly
for the last few weeks.  Now go!"

The door opened, and Bertha staggered out.  She did
not notice Sabina and Elizabeth, and when she heard the
door close behind her, she suddenly wrung her hands
above her head in the speechless agony of despair, and
rushed up the stairs as though hunted by the furies.

"That girl has something on her conscience, whatever
it may be," said Sabina, shaking her head.  Elizabeth
went in to her uncle.  He was leaning against the
window, and drumming upon one of the panes with his
fingers, a common habit with him when irritated.  He
looked very gloomy, but his features lighted up as
Elizabeth entered.

"I'm glad you are come, Gold Elsie!" he exclaimed;
"I need to see some true, pure face beside me; I
shudder at the black eyes of that girl who has just gone out.
Never mind, I have taken up my domestic cross again,
and shall bear it on for awhile; I cannot see the child
cry, even though I were sure that the effect of every tear
was exactly calculated."

Elizabeth was heartily glad that the dreaded encounter
between Bertha and her uncle was well over.  She hastened
to divert his thoughts entirely from the unfortunate
girl by describing to him the festivities she had just
witnessed, telling him cursorily of Herr von Walde's sudden
departure.  She informed him also of Linke's dreadful
end, at which, however, he was not greatly surprised, as
he had expected some such termination to the affair.

He accompanied Elizabeth to the garden gate.

"Be very careful not to ring too loudly at the gate in
the wall," he warned her as she left him.  "Your mother
had an attack of headache to-day, and has gone to bed.
I was up there a little while ago."

Elizabeth ran up the mountain in some anxiety, but
Miss Mertens, leading little Ernst by the hand, came to meet
her on the sward before the castle, and soothed her fears.
The attack was over, and her mother was enjoying a
refreshing sleep when Elizabeth softly went to her bedside.

It was already twilight; the most profound quiet
reigned throughout the house,—the striking clocks had
been stopped,—the window shutters were closed that the
rustling of the leaves without might not be heard,—not
even a fly buzzed,—for Ferber had tenderly taken care
that nothing should disturb the stillness that surrounded
the sleeper.

If her mother had been sitting in her arm-chair in the
window recess of the dwelling-room behind the protecting
curtains, looking upon the green domain without,
above which stretched the calm evening skies,—the dear
familiar corner would have become a confessional, where
Elizabeth, kneeling upon the cushion at her mother's
feet, would have poured out her overcharged mind and
heart.  But now she thrust back her precious secret
into the inmost recesses of her soul: and who knows
whether she will ever find courage to reveal what must
fill her mother's heart with the keenest anxiety?





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.. _`CHAPTER XVI.`:

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   CHAPTER XVI.

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The ruins of Gnadeck might well listen in amazement
to the strange noise which had resounded through their
crumbling walls from the first peep of dawn.  It was
not the familiar sound of destruction caused by furious
storms, or the melting of the snow when spring appeared.
Then the water softly excavated little gutters between
the stones, and lifted from its niche, without any other
warning, one block of granite after another, that, the
instant before its final downfall, looked proudly and
threateningly down upon the world; for its overthrow had been
planned more secretly than that of a royal favourite or
an unpopular ministry.  And then a violent storm would
arise some midnight,—a mighty crash would come, and
the rays of the rising sun would wander for the first
time over walls and floors that they had never touched
before.  There would be a huge pile of masonry heaped
upon the pavement, and all through the day, with every
gentle breeze, broken bits of mortar and little rills of sand
would trickle down from the wound; but before long,
tender grass would sprout from the jagged edges, and
years, long years, would again ensue before the
mischievous water beneath the green garment would prepare a
new victim for the tempest.  It was a slow, scarcely
perceptible decline.  The ruins might be as easy as the invalid
whose disease, though incurable, may permit him to rival
the Old Testament patriarchs in length of days.

It was human hands to-day that were effecting the work
of destruction.  With incredible speed and activity they
dislodged stone after stone.  The old jutty, which had
advanced so boldly for years, like a valiant sentinel
keeping watch before this wing of the castle, presented a
most deplorable appearance.  It had already been shorn
of much of its height; its ivy mantle was torn, and dark
window niches and mossy masonry came to light, which,
perhaps, once were rich in stone carving.  The
workmen were very diligent.  It interested them greatly,
hazardous as was their task, to obtain a glimpse down
into the dark nooks and corners of the old pile, that
popular superstition had peopled with countless ghastly
apparitions.

In the afternoon, Frau Ferber was sitting upon the
shady rampart with Miss Mertens and Elizabeth, when
Reinhard, who, always made his appearance at a
certain hour of the day, interrupted their reading.  He
announced that Linke's body had been committed to the
earth as privately as possible that morning, and that
Fräulein von Walde had learned, through the carelessness of
a servant, of the attempt upon her brother's life.  But
he remarked, with some bitterness, that Herr von Walde's
anxiety, lest his sister's fright upon hearing of the assault
should have disastrous consequences, had been wholly
unnecessary, since the lady had heard of it with entire
composure, and even the terrible accident that had befallen
Herr von Hartwig, whose wife was one of her friends,
had apparently produced very little impression upon her.
"But if the life of her fair-haired favourite had been in
danger," he declared angrily, "she would most certainly
have torn her chestnut curls.  That Herr von Hollfeld is
utterly odious to me!  He has been walking about the
house to-day, looking as if he would like to poison us
all.  I'll wager that this charming mood of his is the
cause of Fräulein von Walde's red and swollen eyes,
which she tried to conceal from me when I met her in
the garden just now."

At the mention of the hated name, Elizabeth bent low
over her work.  The blood rushed to her face at the
thought of Hollfeld's insolence the day before, of which
she had not yet told her mother, for fear that it might
cause a return of her headache; and perhaps there were
other reasons for her silence; but she would not
acknowledge to herself how much she dreaded lest her parents,
upon learning of Hollfeld's rudeness, should prohibit her
from going to Lindhof again, in which case all chance of
seeing Herr von Walde would be at an end.

In the mean time, the destruction of the jutty was
going on uninterruptedly.  After awhile Ferber entered
the garden.  He had been to the Lodge, and had brought
the forester home with him to take coffee.  Ernst came
running to them in a great state of excitement.  The
child had obediently forborne to transgress the bounds
which his father had set for him, that he might not be
exposed to danger; but he had been looking on from
his post of observation, following the progress of the
workmen with the greatest interest.

"Papa! papa!" he cried, "the mason wants to speak
to you,—come right away; he says he has found something!"

And in fact one of the workmen made signs to the
brothers to come nearer.

"We have come to what seems to be a small chamber,"
the man called down to them, "and, as well as I can see,
there is a coffin in it.  Will you not examine into the
matter, Herr Ferber, before we proceed?  You can come
up here with entire safety; we have firm foothold."

Reinhard had heard the call and came hastily down
the terrace steps.  A concealed apartment, containing a
coffin!—the words were music to his antiquarian ears.

The three men cautiously ascended the ladder.

The workmen were standing just where the huge
jutty sprang forth from the main building, and they
pointed down to a tolerably large opening at their feet.
Until now they had come upon no room that had been
closed; the roof of the main building was partly gone,
and standing upon this spot, you could look in all
directions through a labyrinth of open rooms, half ruinous
passages, and through great gaps in the floors down into
the castle chapel.  The old ruins did not seem half so
desolate from within as from without; the blue heavens
peeped in everywhere, and the fresh breeze swept through
as often as it would.  But now a space suddenly appeared
at their feet surrounded by firm walls, and covered by a
tolerably well-preserved ceiling.  As well as they could
judge from where they stood, the room lay like a wedge
between the chapel and the space behind.  At all events,
there must be a window somewhere at the extreme
corner formed by the wall of the jutty and that of the
main building, for from that direction a weak reflection
streamed in through coloured glass, and flickered upon
the object which was dimly visible, and which the masons
took for a coffin.

Immediately a ladder of greater length was procured,
as the room was quite a high one, and one by one all
went down in a state of highly-wrought expectation.
In descending, there was within reach a wainscoted wall
almost black with age.  The profusion of strange, rich
carving that adorned it startled the eye.  Close to the
ceiling a plain strip of wood, of much more modern date,
had been nailed, upon which were still hanging some rags
of black cloth; while the rest of what had once been the
mourning drapery of the apartment lay in mouldering,
shapeless heaps upon the floor.

Doubtless concealment had been the purpose of the
room from the beginning, for there had been no heed
paid to symmetry of form in its construction.  It
represented an irregular triangle, and in one somewhat
rounded corner was the very small window whose
existence they had suspected.  It lay so close to the
chapel that Reinhard's supposition that in old Catholic
times the church treasures had been secreted here
seemed most probable; all the more so as on one side
five or six worn stone steps led down to a door in the
chapel wall, which had been walled up from within.
The window was just behind the evergreen oak, which
pressed its thick branches against it, and the ivy had
twined a tender lattice-work across the panes; but
nevertheless the sun stole through the coloured glass in the
graceful, delicate stone rosette, which was in a state of
perfect preservation.

It was in fact a coffin,—a small, narrow, leaden
coffin,—standing out in strong contrast with the black velvet
covering of its pedestal, which was thus found lonely and
forgotten within these three walls.  At its head was a
huge candelabrum, in the branches of which were still to
be seen the remains of wax candles; but at its foot was
a footstool, upon which lay a mandolin, its strings all
broken.  It had been an old instrument in the hands of
its last possessor, for the black colour of its neck was
worn away in spots, and the sounding-board was slightly
hollowed where the player had pressed her little fingers.
At the approach of the intruders the last fragments of the
withered heap of flowers fluttered down from the coffin,
upon whose lid in gilt letters was inscribed the name "Lila."

Set in the thick wall of the most extensive side of the
apartment was a kind of press, of dark oak, which
Reinhard at first supposed had been appropriated to the
safe-keeping of the priestly robes and ornaments.  He opened
the doors, which stood ajar; as they shook in opening
there was a rustle within, and little clouds of dust flew
forth from a quantity of female garments hanging
inside.  They formed a strange, fantastic wardrobe,—gay,
and most coquettish in fashion, they contrasted
oddly enough with the grave solemnity of their surroundings.

She who had worn these garments must have been a
wonderfully small and delicate creature, for the silk
skirts,—most of them bordered with embroidery in gold
thread,—were as short as though made for a child; and
the shape of the black and violet velvet bodices, with
their silken ribbons and tinsel trimmings, must have
fitted an exquisite, pliant, maiden waist.  Many, many
years must have elapsed since a human being had breathed
within these walls,—since any hand warm with life had
touched these hidden objects.  The hooks in the press
had, in some cases, pierced the mouldering stuffs; and
the threads, which had once confined the pearls and
spangles of the trimming, hung loose and broken.

Against one wall was placed a little table with a stone
top.  Its legs, grown weak with age, appeared scarcely
able to sustain it, and it leaned forward, endangering
the safety of a casket that stood upon it.  This casket
was a master-piece of workmanship in ivory and gold.
The cover did not seem to be locked; it looked rather
as if it had been lightly closed, in order to preserve a
broad parchment which projected from the box and had
obviously been arranged with the view of attracting
attention.  It was yellow with age and covered deep,—as was
all else,—with dust; but the large, stiff, black characters
upon it were distinctly visible, and the name, "Jost von
Gnadewitz," was perfectly legible.

"Good Heavens! what have we here?" cried the
forester, whose speech almost failed him with
amazement "Jost von Gnadewitz!—the hero of Sabina's
tale of her great-grandmother!"

Ferber approached the table, and carefully raised the
cover of the casket.  Within, upon a dark velvet
cushion, lay ornaments of antique workmanship, bracelets,
brooches, a necklace of gold coins, and several strings
of costly pearls.

The parchment had fallen to the ground.  Reinhard
picked it up, and offered to read the contents aloud.  It
was, even for the time when it had been composed,—about
two hundred years before,—very clumsily written, and
very badly spelled.  The writer had evidently understood
how to wield the hunting-spear better than the
pen,—nevertheless an air of poesy breathed through the lines.
They ran thus:

"Whoever you may be who are the first to enter this
room, by all that is sacred to you, by everything that
you love or that has a home in your heart, do not
disturb her repose.  She lies there sleeping like a child.
The sweet face beneath the dark curls smiles again now
that death has touched it.  Once more, whoever you are,
whether noble or beggar, descendant of hers or not, let
my eyes be the last to rest upon her!

"I could not lay her in the dark, cold ground.  Here
the golden light will play around her, and birds will
alight upon the branches of the tree outside with the
breath of the forest ruffling their feathers, while the songs
that hushed her in her cradle gush from their throats.

"The golden sunlight was quivering in the forest, and
the birds were singing in the trees, when the graceful
roe parted the bushes, and gazed with shy, startled eyes
at the young huntsman who was lying in the shade.
His heart beat quickly and wildly at sight of her; he
threw his weapons from him, and pursued the maiden-form
that fled before him.  She, the child of the forest,
a daughter of that people which the curse of God
pursues making them wanderers upon the face of the earth,
with no home for their weary feet, not a foot of land that
they can call their own whereon to lay their dying
heads,—she had vanquished the heart of the proud,
fierce huntsman.  Suing for her love, he haunted the
camp of her tribe, day and night; he followed her
footsteps like a dog, and entreated her passionately until she
was touched, to leave her people and fly with him in
secret.  In the silence of night he bore her away to his
castle, and, alas! became her murderer.  He did not heed
her prayers, when she was suddenly seized by the uncontrollable
longing for her forest liberty.  As the prisoned
bird flutters wildly about its cage, beating its delicate wings
against the confining wires, so she wandered in despair
through the halls which had once resounded to her
intoxicating song and the delicious music of her lute, but
which now only echoed to her sighs and complaints.  He
saw her cheeks grow pale, saw her eyes averted from him
in hate; his heart died a thousand deaths when she thrust
him from her, and shuddered at his touch; despair
possessed him, but he doubly bolted every door, and guarded
them in deadly terror, for he knew that she was lost to him
forever if once again her foot should press the woodland
turf.  And then there came a time when she grew less
restless,—'tis true she glided past him as though he were
a shadow, a nothing,—she never lifted her eyes when he
approached her and addressed her in the tenderest tones
of entreaty,—it was long since she had spoken to him,
and still no words passed her lips; but she no longer
beat her tiny hands against the window-bars, tearing her
hair, and calling with shrill shrieks upon those who passed
through the forest without, enjoying all the sweets of
liberty.  She no longer fled madly, like some hunted
thing, through halls and corridors, nor mounted the castle
wall to throw her fair body into the gloomy waters of
the moat.  She sat beneath the evergreen oak with a sad,
patient look upon her lily-white face; she knew of the
life within her own,—she was about to become a mother.
And when night came, and the huntsman bore her up the
broad stairway in his arms,—she did not resist, but she
turned her face from him, that his breath might not touch
her cheek, that no glance of his loving eyes might fall
upon her.

"And one day the pastor of Lindhof came to the
castle.  The people declared that Jost, a lamb of his flock,
had dealings with the devil, and he came to rescue the
lost soul.  He was admitted, and saw the creature for
whose sake the wild huntsman had renounced his merry
life in the forest, and heaven itself.  Her beauty and
purity touched him.  He spoke to her in gentle tones, and
her heart, paralyzed with suffering, melted at his addresses.
For the sake of the child that was to come, she was
baptized, and the unholy tie that had bound her to her lover
was hallowed by the sanction of the church.  And when
her dark hour of pain had passed, she pressed her cold lips
upon the brow of her child, and, with that kiss, her spirit
burst its bonds,—she was free, free!  The triumph of that
moment transfigured the earthly tenement from which the
soul had departed.  The wretched man saw those
glorious eyes darken in death; he writhed at her feet in an
agony of remorse and despair, and implored her in vain
for only one last glance of love.

"The boy was christened, and received his father's
name,—my baptismal name.  I gazed with a shudder into his
eyes,—they are my eyes.  Together we have murdered her.
My old servant, Simon, has taken the boy away.  I cannot
live for him.  Simon says, and the pastor also, that no
woman can be found willing to nourish my child at her
breast, for, in the eyes of the people I am lost,—doomed
eternally to hell-torments.  The wife of my forester,
Ferber, has adopted the child without knowing whence it
comes——"

Here the reader paused, and looked up over the parchment
at the brothers.  The forester, who, until now, had
been leaning against the opposite wall listening with
the greatest attention, suddenly stood by his side, and
clutched his arm convulsively.  The colour left his
sun-burnt cheeks for one moment.  It seemed as if his heart
ceased to beat, so great was his agitation.  And Ferber
also drew near, testifying in his face and gestures
extreme surprise.

"Go on, go on!" cried the forester at last, in stifled accents.

"Simon laid him upon the threshold of the forest
lodge," Reinhard read further, "and to-day he saw
Ferber's wife kissing and tending him like her own little
girl.  By the laws of my family, he has no claim upon
the Gnadewitz estate, but my maternal inheritance will
preserve him from want.  My directions I have confided,
in a sealed packet, deposited in the town-house at L——,
to the public authorities.  They will substantiate his claim
to be my son and heir.  May he, as Hans Jost von Gnadewitz,
found a new race.  The Almighty will provide kind
hearts to protect his youth,—I cannot.

"Everything which adorned that lovely form in happier
days shall surround it in death, and yield to the same
decay.  Her child has a claim upon her jewels, but my
heart revolts at the thought that what has rested upon
her dazzling brow, her pure neck, may perhaps be torn
asunder and desecrated by faithless hands.  Better to
leave all here to fade and fall to ruin.

"Once more I implore you, whom chance may lead to
this sanctuary, after the lapse of centuries
perhaps,—honour the dead, and pray for me,

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"JOST VON GNADEWITZ."

.. vspace:: 2

The two brothers clasped each other's hands, and,
without a word, approached the coffin.  In their veins
flowed the blood of that strange being who had once
kindled to a flame the heart of the fierce, proud lord of
the castle,—of that woman whose ardent soul, thirsting
for freedom, exultingly fled from the idolized body which
had crumbled to a little heap of ashes here in its narrow
leaden tomb.  Two tall figures stood there, descendants
of him who, with his dying mother's consecrating kiss
upon his brow, was borne out into the forest, and laid
upon the low threshold of a servant, while his nobly-born
father, despair in his heart, rushed madly to death.

"She was the mother of our race," Ferber said at last,
with much emotion, to Reinhard.  "We are the descendants
of the foundling whose parentage has been a mystery
until this hour, for the papers which would have
established him in his rights were destroyed when the
townhouse at L—— was burned down.  We must suspend
work here for a few days," he said, turning to one of the
masons, who, prompted by a pardonable curiosity, had
descended the ladder half way, and, from this post of
observation, had listened in speechless amazement to the
unfolding of a tale which would afford a subject for
winter evenings in the large, peasant spinning-rooms, for a
long time to come.

"Instead, you must prepare a grave to-morrow in the
church-yard at Lindhof," the forester called up to him;
"I will speak to the pastor about it afterwards."

He went again to the press, and looked at the
garments that had once enveloped the delicate limbs of the
gypsy maiden, and had evidently been adjusted with
great care, that they might recall the times when they
had been seen upon the beautiful Lila by the enraptured
eyes of her lover.  Upon the floor of the press were
ranged shoes.  The forester took up a pair of them;
they were scarcely longer than the width of his broad
hand,—only Cinderella's feet could ever have worn them.

"I will take these to Elsie," he said, smiling, holding
them carefully between his forefinger and thumb, "she will
be surprised to find what a Liliputian her ancestress was."

Meanwhile Ferber, after brushing the dust from the
mandolin, took it carefully under his arm, while Reinhard
closed the jewel-box and lifted it from the table by the
exquisitely wrought handle on the lid.  Thus the three
men ascended the ladder again.  Arrived at the top, all
the boards that they could procure were placed over the
opening, so as to afford a temporary protection from
wind and rain, and then they descended from their
perilous position upon the summit of the ruin.

Below, the ladies had been awaiting them for some
time, in a state of great expectation, and were not a
little surprised at the strange procession that descended
the ladder.  But not one word did they learn of what
had been seen or heard, until the whole party were once
more seated beneath the linden.  Then Reinhard placed
the casket upon the table, described minutely the hidden
apartment and its contents, and, at last producing the
parchment, read again what we have already learned;
of course with far greater fluency than before.

In breathless silence the ladies listened to these
outpourings of a passionate, burning heart.  Elizabeth sat
pale and still; but when Reinhard came to the words
that suddenly threw such a glare of light upon the dim
past of her family, she started up, and her eyes rested in
speechless surprise upon the smiling face of her uncle,
who was observing her narrowly.  Even Frau Ferber sat
for awhile after the reader had finished, fairly dumb with
amazement.  To her clear, calm mind, accustomed to
reason carefully, this romantic solution of family
questions, which had been unanswered for centuries, was
almost incomprehensible.  But Miss Mertens, to whom
the whole bearing of the discovery was explained by
Ferber, as she did not even know the story of the
foundling, clapped her hands above her head at such a
revelation.

"And does not this parchment give you a claim to your
inheritance?" she asked quickly and eagerly.

"Undoubtedly," replied Ferber, "but how can we tell
in what that maternal inheritance consisted?  The family
has died out, the very name of Gnadewitz is extinct.
Everything has passed into strange hands; who can tell
to what we may lay claim?"

"No, let all that rest," said the forester with decision;
"such matters cost money, and in the end we might come
into possession of only a few thalers.  Oh no! let it go!
We have not starved yet."

Elizabeth musingly took up the shoes which her uncle
had placed before her.  The faded silk of which they were
made was torn here and there, and showed perfectly the
shape of the foot.  They had been much worn, but not
apparently upon the soil of the forest; the soles showed
no traces of such contact; probably they had covered the
restless feet at the time of her imprisonment, "when she
fled madly through halls and corridors like some hunted
thing."

"Aha!  Elsie, now we know where you got your slender
waist and those feet that trip over the sward, scarcely
bending the blades of grass," said her uncle.  "You are
just such a forest-butterfly as your ancestress, and would
flutter just so against the bars of your cage if you were
shut up within locked doors; there is gypsy blood in your
veins were you ten times Gold Elsie and though your
skin is like a snowdrift.  There, put on those things, you
will find that you can dance in them easily."

"Oh no, uncle," cried Elizabeth deprecatingly, "they
seem to me like sacred relics; I could not put them on
without fearing that Jost's fiery black eyes might
suddenly glare out at me."

Frau Ferber and Miss Mertens agreed with her, and the
former declared that in her opinion the press, with all that
it contained, ought to be carefully removed to some quiet,
dry place, where it might be preserved untouched as a
family relic until it fulfilled its destiny, which was to
decay with all else that is mortal.

"Well, with regard to the press, let it be as you say,"
Reinhard here interposed; "but it seems to me that a
different fate should await these articles."

He opened the casket.  The sunlight penetrating, its
interior came flashing back in a thousand sparkling
rays, dazzling the eyes that looked on.  Reinhard took
out a necklace,—it was very broad, and of admirable
design.

"These are brilliants of the purest water," he explained
to the rest,—the necklace was set thick with precious
stones,—"and these rubies here must have gleamed
magnificently from the dark curls of the beautiful gypsy
girl," he continued, as he took two pins from their velvet
cushion with heads formed like lily-cups of red stones,
from which chains, set thick with rubies, fell like a
glittering little shower.

Elizabeth, smiling, held a costly agraffe above her forehead.

"And so you think, Herr Reinhard," she said, "that
we should let all reverence for the past go, and
recklessly adorn ourselves with these jewels?  What would
my white muslin dress say if I should some day introduce
it into such distinguished society?"

"The brilliants are exquisitely becoming to you,"
replied Reinhard, smiling; "but to my mind a nosegay of
fresh flowers would be far more suitable with the white
muslin; and therefore I should advise that these precious
stones be transformed at the jeweller's into shining coin."

Ferber nodded assentingly.

"What!  Reinhard," cried Miss Mertens, "do you think
these family jewels should be sold?"

"Certainly," he replied; "it would be both foolish and
sinful to let such capital lie idle.  The stones alone must
be worth full seven thousand thalers, and then there are
these very fine pearls, and this wrought gold, which will
bring a very clever little sum besides."

"Zounds!" exclaimed the forester; "let them go then
on the spot,——See, Adolph," he continued more gently,
and rested his arm upon his brother's shoulder, "Heaven
has been kind to you here.  Did I not tell you that
all would go smoothly with you in Thuringia, although
I never dreamed that eight thousand thalers were
waiting for you?"

"For me?" cried Ferber with surprise.  "Does it not
all belong to you as the elder?"

"None of that!  What, in Heaven's name, should I do
with the trash?  Am I to begin to invest capital in my
old days?  I think I see myself at such work!  I have
neither chick nor child in the world, hold an excellent
office,—and when my old bones fail me, there is a pension
for me, which, try as I may, I shall never be able to
spend.  Therefore I resign my birthright in favour of the
girl with the golden hair and Ernst, the rogue, who shall
perpetuate our stock; I will not even have a mess of
lentil pottage in exchange, for Sabina says it is not good
with venison.  Don't touch me!" he cried, with a comic
gesture of refusal, clasping his hands behind him, as Frau
Ferber, with tears in her eyes, came to him with
outstretched arms, and his brother would have remonstrated
with him.  "It would be much better for you, sister-in-law,
to go and see about our coffee.  It is really past
hearing! four o'clock and not a drop of the usual
refreshments, for the sake of which I dragged myself up here."

He accomplished his aim in diverting from himself all
grateful acknowledgments.  Frau Ferber hastened into
the house, accompanied by Elizabeth, and the others
laughed.  The whole party were soon seated upon the
terrace, busy with the brown, fragrant beverage.

"Yes, yes," said the forester, leaning comfortably back
in his chair; "I never thought, when I awoke this
morning, that I should lie down at night a Herr von
Gnadewitz.  I shall gain a step in my profession, of
course, instantly; that yellow parchment, with its crooked
letters, has done for me in an instant what thirty years
of hard service have failed to accomplish.  As soon as
his Highness arrives in L—— I shall make my best
bow, and introduce myself by my new name.  Zounds! how
those people will stare!"

A peculiar side glance was directed, as these words
were spoken, towards Elizabeth, and at the same moment
the speaker puffed away at his pipe so vigorously that
his face was quite concealed by a thick cloud of smoke.

"Uncle," cried his niece, "say what you will, I know
that you can never intend to patch up again the shattered
crest of the Gnadewitzes."

"I can't see why not, 'tis a beautiful coat of arms, with
chevrons, stars——"

"And a wheel covered with blood," interrupted
Elizabeth.  "God forbid that we should swell the number
of those who revive the sins of their ancestors to prove
the antiquity of their race, and thus make nobility
ignoble,—nothing in the world seems to me more detestable.  I
should think that all those who have been tortured and
hunted down in life by that pitiless, haughty race, would
arise, like accusing ghosts, from their graves, if the
name should ever be revived, beneath whose shelter such
oppression and tyranny existed for centuries.  When I
compare the two fathers,—one seeking death like a coward,
never considering for an instant that his poor child had
the most sacred claims upon him; the other, a poor
servant, taking the outcast compassionately to his heart,
and bestowing upon it his own honest name,—then I know
well which was the noble, which name deserves to be
perpetuated.  And think what sorrow that haughty race
has caused my poor, dear mother."

"True enough, true enough," Frau Ferber declared
with a sigh—"in the first place, I owe to it a stormy,
unhappy childhood, for my mother was a beautiful,
amiable girl, whom my father married against the will of
his relatives, who could not forgive her ignoble
extraction.  This misalliance was a source of endless
suffering and annoyance to my poor mother, for my father had
not sufficient strength of character to break with the chief
of the Gnadewitz family, and live only for his wife.  This
weakness on his part was the cause of constant strife
between my parents, which I could not but be cognizant
of.  And we"—here she held out her hand across the table
to her husband—"we can never forget all we had to
contend with before we could belong to each other.  I would
not for the world return to the class who so often
ruthlessly stifle every warm, humane sentiment, that outward
rank and show may be preserved."

"And you never shall return, Marie," said her husband,
with a smile, as he pressed her hand.  He glanced
mischievously at his brother, who was still puffing forth
immense clouds of smoke, while he was doing his best,
most unsuccessfully, to keep up the frown upon his
brow.

"Ah! my fine plans," he sighed at last, with a comical
look of disappointment.  "Elsie, you are a cruel, foolish
creature.  You forget what a fine life we should lead, if I
had a position at court, and you were a fine lady.  There,
does not that tempt you?"

Elizabeth shook her head, smilingly, but most decidedly

"And who knows," added Miss Mertens, "but that,
before we could turn round, some noble knight, of
stainless lineage, would bear away from old Gnadeck our
high-born Elsie as his wife!"

"Do you think I would go with him?" cried Elizabeth,
indignantly, her cheeks aglow.

"And why not?—if you loved him."

"No, never," replied the girl in a suppressed voice,
"not even if I loved him,—for I should then be all the more
wretched in the consciousness that the prestige of my
name had weighed heavier in the balance than my heart,
that in the eyes of that man all aspiration after spiritual
elevation and moral excellence was worthless in
comparison with a phantom, which the miserable prejudices
of men had tricked out with tinsel."

Frau Ferber gazed with surprise at her daughter,
whose face showed evident signs of deep emotion.  The
forester, on the other hand, held his pipe firmly between
his teeth, and clapped his hands loudly.

"Elsie, child of gold!" he cried at last, "give me your
hand! that's my brave girl! true metal, through and
through!  Yes, I say, too, God keep me from swelling
the number of those who give up an honest name for the
sake of their own personal advantage.  No, Adolph, we
will not cast scorn upon the parish register of the little
Silesian village where we were christened; we will go
on writing our names as they are written there."

"And as they have faithfully clung to us in joy and
sorrow for half a century," added Ferber with his quiet
smile, "I will keep this document for this fellow," and
he laid his hand upon little Ernst's curly head, "until
his judgment is clear and ripe.  I cannot and must not
decide for him, but I trust I shall train him so that he will
prefer to carve out a path for himself by his own energy,
rather than to lie idly in the hot-bed of old traditions
and wrongs enjoying privileges which should be the
reward only of lofty endeavour.  The Gnadewitzes in
their long career added nothing to the world, but took
much from it; let them moulder in their graves, and their
high-sounding, undeserved titles with them!"

"Selah!" cried the forester, knocking the ashes from his
pipe.  "And now let us go," he said to his brother, "and
advise with the Lindhof pastor.  A spot beneath the
beautiful lindens in our village church-yard seems to me
infinitely preferable to those three gloomy walls, within
which the mother of our line has lain for so long; and that
the 'dark, cold ground' may not touch her coffin, let us
have a grave built in the earth and closed with a tombstone."

He departed, accompanied by Ferber and Reinhard,
and, whilst her mother and Miss Mertens were putting
the jewel-box away in a place of security, Elizabeth
climbed the ladder placed against the ruined jutty,
pushed aside the boards, and descended into the secret
chamber.  A slender ray of the setting sun touched a ruby
pane in the little window and threw a bloody stain upon
the name "Lila," on the lid of the coffin.  Elizabeth, with
head bowed and hands clasped, stood for a long while
beside the lonely bier, whereon that burning heart had
slept undisturbed since the moment when death had
stilled its wild beating and ended its sorrow.
Centuries had flown by, effacing, as if they had never
existed, all the transporting charm of that short life,—all
the stormy emotion which had worked its ruin,—and yet
the young heart that was throbbing restlessly in that
chamber of death beside that bier, fancied that the
emotions causing it to throb so wildly could never die.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVII.`:

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   CHAPTER XVII.

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The news of the occurrence at Gnadeck had reached
Lindhof Castle even before Reinhard returned thither.
The masons on their way home to the village had related
the wonderful story to a servant whom they met in the
park, and the tale had flashed like lightning from mouth
to mouth until it reached the boudoir of the ladies of the
castle, where it produced the effect almost of a bombshell.

One of the favourite themes of the baroness had always
been her own infallibility with regard to blue blood.  She
maintained that by means of a very delicate and sensitive
organization she could recognize the existence of this
life-giving stream even in people whose names she did not
know.  It was thus only natural that she should be
able to detect immediately every noble drop happening
to flow in plebeian veins.  She always had admitted
that "the little Ferber" had something distinguished in
her appearance in right of the noble descent of her mother.
But with regard to the forester, that delicate perception of
hers had been so much at fault that she had never dreamed
of acknowledging his bow except by an almost imperceptible
inclination of the head, which was all she deigned
to bestow upon people of so low a rank in life.  Why, in
her noble rage at the rude blasphemer, who could forbid
his ward, Bertha, to attend the Bible-class at the castle,
she had often gone so far as to declare that she could
detect his low origin a hundred paces off.  And this
was the man to bring to nought her reputation for
this keen perception of aristocracy!  He was the
descendant of a lofty line,—the possessor of a name which,
centuries back, had glowed in all the light of feudal splendour!

To be sure, there was great consolation for her in the
thought that two centuries of ignoble marriages had
rendered the noble blood very difficult to recognize.  She
declared as much very earnestly to Fräulein von Walde,
who, reclining upon her lounge, was observing the
baroness' agitation with a slight, rather contemptuous,
smile.  Personal interest in Fräulein Ferber, or the more
unprejudiced mind of the younger lady, may have prompted
some little reproof to her cousin; at all events she lifted her
head and said quickly, not without a slight appearance of
irritation: "Pardon me, Amalie, but that is a mistake.
I know for a certainty that the wife of the forester's clerk
is not the only nobly-born person who has married into
the Ferber family.  They have always been a fine,
remarkably intellectual race, whose personal advantages
have often conquered the prejudices of birth.  I really do
not believe that there have been more plebeian marriages
in their family than can be found in the pedigree of the
Lessens, and you would hardly maintain that there is not
a drop of genuine noble blood in Bella's veins."

A delicate colour flickered over the elder lady's faded
cheek, and the glance which she directed towards her
companion from beneath her half-closed eyelids, was
anything but gentle or amiable.  A sickly smile still hovered
upon her lips.  Since the previous day she had, to her
horror, frequently felt the ground tremble beneath her
feet.  It was actually terrifying suddenly to meet with
contradiction in a quarter where for years she had found
only complete adherence and blind submission.

She was, however, quite right in attributing the change
in Helene's demeanour not only to the "unhappy"
influence exercised upon her by her brother, but far more to
her own son, who had conducted himself so strangely
during the last few days.  Helene's was, in reality, a
noble nature, capable of appreciating all that was lofty and
honourable, and animated by the purest desire for the good
and true; but she had been accustomed from childhood to
consider herself as the centre of the loving care and
attention of all around her.  Notwithstanding her physical
infirmity, she had never known the bitterness of being
slighted.  That she might forget her weakness, every
one around her made her the object of marked attention.
While she knew that she could never occupy a wife's
position, her heart, overflowing with tenderness, had
joyously welcomed a first love; and although, when
alone, she might bewail with tears the neglect of nature,
which had denied her the crowning joys of life, still she
possessed the blissful conviction that her love was
returned.  Hollfeld's constant attentions, his frequent
sojourn at Lindhof, his continual expressions of tenderness,
were well calculated to plant this conviction ineradicably
in her mind.

Suddenly he had appeared altered and constrained in
her presence, and neglected her in the most unaccountable
manner.  She suffered greatly; her inner self revolted;
insulted feminine dignity, an irritation hitherto unknown,
and devoted affection, were all at war within her; she
was yet far from that height to which, early or late, every
noble nature attains: resignation and forgiveness.  She
grew bitter and violent, and she manifested this change
less towards him who had caused her suffering than, by
way of indemnifying herself, towards those whose tyranny
she had endured for the sake of her love.

Hollfeld had been reading aloud to the ladies, when
the old waiting-maid of the baroness entered the room
upon some errand, and, before leaving, glibly narrated
the remarkable discovery at Gnadeck.  If Helene's
eyes had not been riveted upon the lips of the speaker,
the change in her cousin's features could not have
escaped her.  He listened breathlessly, with an expression
of the intensest delight.  In passing from mouth to
mouth, the discovered jewels had come to be of "priceless
value," and the beautiful Lila's coffin was now pure
silver.

The baroness also had not observed the striking change
in her son's sullen aspect; and in consequence of Helene's
reproof, very naturally darted at him an angry glance,
which was not seen by Fräulein von Walde.  She was
greatly amazed to see him suddenly approach his
cousin.  He smoothed the embroidered cushion beneath
her head, and pushed the bouquet of flowers in the vase
nearer to her, that she might more easily inhale their
fragrance.

"Helene is quite right, mother," he said with a kindly
glance at his cousin, who replied by a happy smile.  "You
should be the last to bring in question the nobility of that
family."

Although the baroness was tortured by the thought
that those who had been so far beneath her, might now
be her equals,—nay, even rank considerably above her in
wealth; still she wisely suppressed the bitter retort that
rose to her lips, and contented herself with observing
that the whole story at present had altogether too much
the air of a legend or fable to be implicitly believed.  For
her part, she should require the testimony of more
competent eye-witnesses than the two masons, before she
could consider it worthy of credit.

A competent eye-witness was just passing beneath
the windows.  It was Reinhard, who was returning from
the mountain.  He smiled as his attendance upon
Fräulein von Walde was immediately required; for, from the
curious looks of the servant, he guessed that the story of
the discovery at Gnadeck had reached the castle, and
that information from him upon the subject was what the
ladies desired.

At his entrance he was immediately assailed by Helene
with questions.  He answered them in his usual calm
manner, and took a malicious pleasure in detecting the
keenest curiosity and the greatest irritation behind the
apparently careless and indifferent remarks and questions
of the baroness.

"And will the Ferbers venture to lay claim to the old
name on the strength of that scrap of parchment?" she
asked; taking a large dahlia from the vase of flowers,
and smelling it.

"I should like to know who could dispute their claim,"
replied Reinhard.  "It only remains to be proved that
they are the descendants of Jost von Gnadewitz, and
that can be done at any moment."

The lady leaned back in her large arm-chair, and
dropped her eyelids, as if she were weary or bored.

"Indeed! and those treasures of Golconda, are they
really as priceless as Dame Rumour reports them to
be?"  The tone of voice was meant to be contemptuous, but
Reinhard's practised ear detected with great satisfaction
that it betrayed great eagerness, and something like
secret anxiety.

He smiled.

"Priceless?" he repeated.  "Well, in such cases so much
depends upon the estimation in which such things are
held by their possessors, that I can hardly judge."

He might, we know, have told their value, but he
thought, rather ungallantly, that a little uncertainty would
prove a healthy excitement for the lady.

The examination would probably not have concluded
here, if Bella had not suddenly burst into the room with
her usual violence.

"Mamma, the new governess has come," she cried, out
of breath, shaking back, with a toss of her head, the sandy
locks that had fallen over her forehead; "why, she is
uglier than Miss Mertens!" she went on, without taking
the least notice of Reinhard's presence.  "She has a
bright red ribbon on her bonnet, and her mantilla is even
more old-fashioned than Frau von Lehr's.  I won't go to
walk with her, you need not tell me to, mamma!"

The baroness put both hands to her ears.

"My child, I pray you, for Heaven's sake, do not speak
so loud," she gasped; "your voice goes through and
through me; and what nonsense you talk! you will have
to walk out with Mademoiselle Jamin whenever I bid you."

This reproof, uttered with considerable emphasis, causing
Bella to pout angrily while she secretly tore a piece
of the fringe from one of her mother's cushions, was
the result of what might have been called the period of
martyrdom that had followed Miss Mertens' departure.
The baroness had been forced to take upon herself the care
of Bella, and it was, as she declared, death to her nerves.
To Fräulein von Walde she always maintained that all
her trouble was in consequence of the defects of Miss
Mertens' educational system; but in the depths of her
soul she acknowledged, that her daughter strikingly
resembled in disposition the deceased Lessen,—among
whose characteristics an indomitable obstinacy and a
determined proclivity to a perpetual *dolce far niente*,
were the most prominent.  She was, however, far from
admitting that any injustice had been done to Miss
Mertens; that person had been paid to educate her daughter,
and consequently should have known, without ever
acting in opposition to the mother's views, or reproving the
child, how to correct all her faults.  Therefore, the glimpse
that she had just had perforce of Bella's character, was of
no advantage for the new governess; the unfortunate
French woman, with the gay ribbons on her bonnet, had
no presentiment of the joyless days that awaited her.
Just now, her arrival removed a weight from the mind
of the baroness, to whom nothing could have been less
desirable than a dispute at present between teacher
and pupil, and hence her rebuke of Bella's impertinent
remarks.

The baroness arose and went to her apartments, accompanied
by her sullen daughter, to receive the stranger.
At the same time, Reinhard departed.

"Do you wish me to go on reading, Helene?" asked
Hollfeld, after the three had left the room.  As he took
up the newspaper his manner was almost caressing.

"By and by," she replied with hesitation, looking at
him searchingly, with a kind of timid anxiety in her eyes.
"I should like to ask you, now that we are once more
alone together, to tell me what has changed you so during
these last few days.  You know, Emil, that it pains me
deeply when you refuse to let me share in what delights
or troubles you.  You know that it is not idle curiosity
which leads me to pry into your affairs, but a sincere and
heartfelt interest in your weal or woe.  You see how I
suffer from your reserve.  Tell me frankly if I have done
anything to make you think me unworthy of your confidence."

She stretched out her hands towards him as if in
entreaty.  The gentle melancholy in the tones of her voice
would have melted a stone.

Hollfeld crushed and twisted the rustling newspaper
uneasily in his hands.  He held down his head, and
avoided meeting the pure, frank gaze of the poor girl.
Any one with any knowledge of the world could not
have failed to perceive in his attitude, and in the restless
eyes that sought the ground, the crafty plotter endeavouring
to hit upon some device by which to deceive.  To
Helene's innocent, loving eyes, the lofty figure, slightly
leaning forward, the face beneath the thick, light curls,
rather suggested a thoughtful Apollo.

"You will always have my confidence, Helene," he
broke silence at last.  "You are indeed the only being
in the world in whom I can confide,"—Helene's eyes
sparkled at these words, the poor child was so proud of
the distinction,—"but there are obligations in life whose
existence we can hardly acknowledge to ourselves, far less
have the courage to confess to others."

Fräulein von Walde sat upright, in eager expectation.

"I am forced," Hollfeld continued, with a stammer,
"to adopt a certain resolution, and it has been weighing
heavily upon me for days."

He looked up to see what impression his words had made.

Helene seemed to have no suspicion of what he was
about to say, for she never changed her attitude, and
looked as if she would have read the words upon his lips.
He was therefore compelled to proceed without any
assistance from her.

"You know, Helene," he slowly continued, "that for
the last year I have had constant trouble with my
housekeepers.  They are continually leaving me, often without
warning even, and I have no way of ordering my domestic
affairs.  The day before yesterday, the last one, who
only entered my house two weeks ago, declared she would
not stay.  I cannot tell what to do about it; my house
is nothing but an annoyance to me under these
circumstances—"

"Ah, you want to sell Odenberg?" Helene interrupted
him eagerly.

"No, that would be folly, for it is one of the finest
estates in Thuringia; but I am forced to find some other
way out of my troubles, and nothing is left for me
but—to marry."

If some unseen and mysterious agency had suddenly
opened a yawning abyss at Helene's feet, her face
certainly could not have expressed more horror and
amazement than at this moment.  She opened her white,
quivering lips, but no sound issued from them, and, entirely
incapable of concealing her pain, she covered her face
with her hands, and sank back among the cushions with
a low cry.

Hollfeld hastened to her side, and took both her hands
in his.

"Helene," he whispered, in a low, tender tone,—his
manner was perfect,—"will you let me speak and show
you how sore my heart is?  You know only too well that
I love, and that this love will be my first and only one as
long as I live."

His tongue did not stammer over this odious lie; on
the contrary, it aided his plans with such insinuating
tones that the poor girl's heart was torn by a wild conflict
of emotions.  If some good angel would only have
whispered to her to lift her eyes for one moment, she could
not but have been undeceived, for the look that
accompanied his protestations was utterly contemptuous as it
glanced at her crippled figure; and perhaps, in the first
moments of her indignation, she might have found strength
enough to have extricated herself from the snares of the
wily egotist.  But her eyes were closed as if she would
shut out all the world, and revel only in the sound of
the voice which for the first time spoke of love to her.

"Would to Heaven," he continued, "that I might follow
the dictates of my heart, and live for this love only,
for I desire nothing beyond the pleasure of constant
intercourse with you, Helene.  But you know I am the last of
the Hollfelds and must marry.  My sacrifice can be
lessened only in one way,—I must choose a wife who knows
you, and——"

"O tell me quickly!" cried Helene, giving way to her
grief, while the tears burst from her eyes.  "Your choice
is already made!  I know it,—it is Cornelie!"

"The Quittelsdorf?" he cried, with a laugh.  "That
will-o'-the-wisp?  No, I would far rather leave the
administration of my domestic affairs to the most repulsive
of housekeepers!  What should I do without an enormous
income with such an extravagant, frivolous wife!  Besides,
let me tell you most emphatically, my sweet Helene, my
choice is not yet made,—hear me, and do not weep so
violently, you break my heart; I must have a wife who
knows and loves you; a simple-hearted woman, of
genuine understanding, to whom I can say: my heart belongs
to another who never can be mine, be my friend and here."

"And do you imagine that any one could understand you?"

"Most certainly, if she loved me."

"No, I could not,—never, never!"  She buried her face
in the cushions, sobbing convulsively.

And now an ugly frown appeared on Hollfeld's smooth
forehead.  His lips were compressed, and for an instant
the colour left his cheeks.  He was evidently very angry.
An expression of hatred lighted up the eyes that rested
upon the young creature who was unexpectedly rendering
his part so difficult to play.  But he controlled himself,
and lifted her face with a light, caressing touch.  The
poor thing trembled beneath his hypocritical contact, and
let her delicate head rest passively upon his hand.

"And would you then forsake me, Helene," he asked
sadly, "if I were compelled to fulfil so hard a duty?
Would you turn away and leave me lonely, with a wife
whom I did not love?"

She raised her swollen eyelids, and from beneath them
broke a ray of inexpressible love.  He had played his
part admirably, and that glance told him that the game
was in his own hands.

"You are now fighting the same battle," he continued,
"which I have struggled through during the last few days,
before I could arrive at any fixed determination.  At first
the thought that any third person may interfere with our
relations to each other may well appall you, but I give
you my word that shall not be.  Think, Helene, how
much more I can do for you; how much more truly I
can live for you then than now.  You can come to me
at Odenberg.  I will guard your every footstep, and
cherish you as the apple of my eye."

Hollfeld possessed very little intellect, but he had a
vast amount of cunning, which, as we see, served his turn
better than intellect could have done.  His poor victim
flew into the net, her heart torn and bleeding, her force
of will utterly annihilated.

"I will try to endure the thought," Helene at last
whispered almost inaudibly.  "But what a being that woman
must be who could bear with me, and whom I might at
last learn to love like a sister!  Do you know any such
lofty-minded, self-sacrificing creature?"

"I have an idea,—it occurred to me just now quite
suddenly,—at present it is vague and unformed.  After due
consideration I shall certainly unfold it to you.  But you
must first be more composed, dear Helene.  Think for a
moment.  I place the choice of my future wife solely and
entirely in your hands.  It depends upon you to approve
or condemn what I propose."

"And are you strong enough to pass your life with a
woman to whom you cannot give your love?"

He suppressed a contemptuous smile, for Helene's eyes
were riveted upon his lips.

"I can do all that I resolve to do," he answered; "and
to have you near me will give me strength.—But let
me entreat one favour of you,—say nothing as yet to my
mother of this important matter, as you know she wishes
to control everything and everybody, and I could not
now endure her interference.  She will learn all soon
enough when I present my future wife to her."

At any other time, this heartless, unfilial speech would
have disgusted Helene; but, at this moment, she scarcely
heard it, for every thought and feeling had been thrown
into the wildest uproar by the words, "future wife,"
which suggested, in spite of the multitude of unhappy
wives, the idea of supreme contentment and bliss.

"Oh, my God!" she cried, wringing in an agony of grief
the little hands that lay in her lap.  "I always hoped
to die before this; I was not, indeed I was not so selfish
as to think you could lead a lonely life for my sake; but
I hoped that the necessarily short period of my life might
induce you to let this cup pass from me,—to wait until
my eyes should be closed upon my misery."

"But, Helene, what do you mean?" cried Hollfeld, still
controlling his temper with difficulty.  "At your age,
who would think of dying?  We will live—live, and in
time be, as I confidently hope, happy indeed.  Think of
the matter, and you will see it all as I do."

He pressed her hand affectionately to his lips, imprinted
a kiss upon her brow, for the first time,—took his hat, and
left the room.

Outside, as the door closed upon the suffering girl,
he gave full play to the expression of contempt that he
had so long suppressed, and which gave place only to a
look of self-satisfaction still more detestable.  One hour
before, his heart had been filled with rage.  His passion
for Elizabeth, fanned into a flame by her rejection of
his advances, had been a consuming fire, and had robbed
him of all his boasted self-control.  But the idea of
marriage with the daughter of the forester's clerk had never
occurred to him,—such a thought would have seemed to
him insane.  He had exhausted his ingenuity in
contriving plans to procure a return of affection from the
object of his passion.  The late occurrence at Gnadeck
had given his thoughts another direction.  Elizabeth was
now a most desirable match, noble and wealthy.  No
wonder, then, that he exulted at the news, and
immediately formed the magnanimous resolution of honouring
the fair flower of Castle Gnadeck with an offer of
marriage.  There was, of course, no doubt that she would
accept the offer, for although coquetry had led her to
reject his advances hitherto, she could not possibly pursue
such a line of conduct, in view of the brilliant prospect of
becoming the envied wife of Herr von Hollfeld.  He was
so secure upon this point that not a cloud of distrust
darkened the horizon of his future.  It was not only his
intense desire to possess Elizabeth that urged him on to
act as quickly as possible,—the thought, that as soon as
the discovery in the ruins became known, other suitors
would present themselves for the hand of Gold Elsie,
already so famous for her beauty,—this thought made his
blood boil in his veins.

Only one obstacle stood between him and the fulfilment
of his determination, and that was Helene.  It was
not that he hesitated, through sympathy, at the thought
of how the fondly-loving girl would suffer,—he knew no
pity with regard to her,—but he was in dread lest too
hasty a marriage might cost him the inheritance which
he looked for from her.  It was a case for prudence and
forethought.  We have seen how, in cold blood, he made
use of the unhappy girl's deep and blind affection, and,
while pretending to submit to her decision the weightiest
questions concerning his future life, riveted the chain that
bound her to him.

As soon as he had left the room Helene tottered to the
door, and bolted it after him.  And then she resigned
herself to utter despair.

They who have never known the hours of torture that
ensue upon the sudden hearing of some unexpected
misfortune,—hours when we would fain shriek out our
misery into the ears of the universe, and when, needing the
sympathy and support of others as never before, we are
driven, as by some evil spirit, to darkness and loneliness,
as though light and sound were deadly poison to our
wound,—they, we say, who have never known the
pangs that threaten to efface all the landmarks of a
previously harmonious inner life, will scarcely be able
to conceive that Helene sank down upon the floor, with
her little hands plucking wildly at her fair curls, and her
frail, diminutive form shivering as from a fever fit.  She
had lived and breathed only in her absorbing affection for
this man.  If a few gloomy looks, some slight neglect of
his, had sufficed to plunge her into the deepest melancholy,
and make her utterly careless of an event that would
once have wrung her sisterly affection to the very soul,
how much greater must her agony now be in the conviction
that she was about to lose him forever!

In the wild chaos of thought filling her brain, she
was entirely incapable of one clear, decided conclusion.
The humiliating consciousness of her physical infirmities,
which caused her to be thrust out of an earthly
paradise; Hollfeld's confession of love to which she had
just listened, and which brought such infinite joy and
woe; a frantic jealousy of the woman, whoever she might
be, who was to stand beside him as a wife,—all these
emotions were seething in her mind, threatening to sever
the frail thread that bound together soul and body.

It was late, and night had already fallen, when she
admitted her anxious maid, and yielded to her entreaties
to retire to rest.  She emphatically refused to see the
physician, sent word to the baroness, who asked to come
in to say good-night, that she could not be disturbed,
her need of rest was so great,—and then passed the
most wretched night of her life.

She grew a little more quiet, that is, the fearful tension
of her nerves relaxed somewhat, when the first beam of
morning light pierced the curtains of her room.  The
thin golden ray seemed to glide into her darkened soul,
and illumine thoughts which had hitherto been hidden in
the wild tumult of her mind.  She began to believe that
Hollfeld's course was one of the purest self-sacrifice.
She had never been able to disguise or thrust from her
the haunting conviction that his marriage might one day
become an imperative necessity, and she could not fail to
be conscious that her idea of his waiting until she should
be no more had never occurred to him.  Was not his
sacrifice great?  Loving her, and her only, he must belong
to another; ought she to make the performance of a
sacred duty difficult for him by her grief?  He had asked
her to tread a thorny path with him.  Should she draw
back like a coward when he set her such an example of
strength and endurance?  And if another woman could
be found content with friendship instead of love, should
she allow herself to be outdone in self-renunciation?

In feverish haste she rang the bell by her bedside, and
summoned her maid.  Yes, she would be strong; but
she was conscious that only entire certainty could give
her courage and the power of endurance; she must
know, as soon as possible, the name of the woman whom
Hollfeld thought capable of undertaking so hard a part
in life.  She had passed before her, in review, every
unmarried woman of her acquaintance, but had rejected
on the instant each and all.

The hour had not yet arrived at which she was accustomed
to take breakfast with the baroness and Hollfeld;
her brother always avoided this early meeting of his
household, but she could not remain in her lonely room,
and, as she was greatly exhausted, was pushed in her
wheeled chair into the dining-room.  To her surprise,
she heard from one of the servants that the baroness had
gone to walk half an hour previously,—a very strange
piece of news, but one that she was most glad to learn,
for just as she was wheeled into a recess of one of the
windows she discovered Hollfeld pacing to and fro upon
the lawn without.  He seemed to have no suspicion that
he was observed.  His fine, manly figure moved with
elastic grace.  Now and then he put a cigar to his lips
with evident enjoyment, and the delicate aroma floating
through the air reached Helene at her window.  At first
the little lady was painfully impressed by his unusually
gay and cheerful expression; she could not but confess to
herself that youthful exuberance of spirits, love of life,
and an unwonted exhilaration of mind were manifest in
his every look and motion, even in the half-unconscious
smile that now and then parted his lips, discovering his
wonderfully white teeth.  There was no trace there of
those struggles which she had passed through during the
night; he certainly did not look much like the victim of
an inexorable combination of circumstances.  But was
not his self-possession the result of great mental force
and a strong manly will?  He must have reached a
height almost too lofty for human nature to attain.

The little lady's brow contracted in a frown.

"Emil!" she cried loudly, almost harshly.

Hollfeld was evidently startled, but in a second he
stood beneath her window, and waved a "good-morning"
to her.

"What!" he cried, "are you there already?  May I
come up?"

"Yes," she replied more gently.

And in a few moments he entered the room.  Helene
had reason to be better pleased with his present air and
manner; there was an expression of great gravity upon
his countenance as he threw his hat upon the table and
pushed a chair close to her side.  Taking both her hands
tenderly within his own, he gazed into her face, and really
seemed struck by her ashy cheeks and the lustreless eyes
that met his.

"You look ill, Helene," he said pityingly.

"Do you wonder at it?" she asked, with a bitterness
that she was unable to conceal.  "Unfortunately I am
denied the gift of such perfect self control as could enable
me in a few hours after a crushing experience to look
forward with content and gaiety to the future.  I envy you."

"You are unjust, Helene," he replied quickly, "if you
judge me from my exterior.  Is it the part of a man to
whine and cry when he submits to the inevitable?"

"You certainly do not seem inclined to any such course."

He was provoked beyond measure.  The puny, little
creature at his side, who, with her crippled figure, ought
to be thankful to God if a man could so far control
himself as not to treat her with absolute rudeness and
aversion, and who had previously been so grateful for the
smallest attention, had suddenly taken upon herself to
reprove him!  Although he had done all he could to inspire
her with faith in his ardent love for her, in his soul he
thought it showed a measureless vanity in the child to
imagine herself capable of inspiring any man with such
a passion, and with great irritation he acknowledged to
himself that in her case he had to contend with most
determined obstinacy and disgusting sentimentality.  It cost
him great pains to control himself, but he even
accomplished a melancholy smile, which became him infinitely.

"When I tell you of the cause of my cheerful looks
you will repent your reproaches," he said.  "I was just
picturing to myself the moment when I could go to your
brother and say, 'Helene has decided to live in my family
for the future,' and I cannot deny that the thought gave
me satisfaction, for he has always regarded my love for
you with an eye of disfavour."

They say Love is blind, but in most cases he closes his
eyes voluntarily; knowing that perfect vision would kill
him, he fights desperately against annihilation.

Helene did her best to reconcile what he said with his
previous appearance, and succeeded excellently.  With a
deep sigh she held out her hand to him.

"I believe and have faith in you," she said fervently.
"The loss of this faith would be my death-blow.  Ah,
Emil, you must never, never deceive me, not even
although you think it would be for my good.  I would
rather learn the harshest truth than harbour the faintest
suspicion that you were not perfectly true to me.  I
have had a terrible night, but now I am composed, and
I beg you to tell me more of what you spoke of yesterday.
I am but too sure that I shall not regain entire self-command
until I know with certainty who it is that is to
stand between us.  At present she is a phantom, and in
her unreality lies the cause of the tormenting anxiety that
is consuming me.  Tell me the name, Emil, I entreat you."

Hollfeld's eyes sought the ground.  Affairs just then
did not look very promising.

"Do you know, Helene," he began at last, "that I
hesitate to discuss this subject with you to-day?  You are
greatly agitated.  I am afraid that such a conversation
will make you ill.  And, as I must say that the project
which I spoke of yesterday seems more and more feasible
to me the more I ponder it, I fear much lest in your
agitation you should overlook its great advantages."

"Indeed I will not!" cried Helene, as, sitting upright
she riveted her unnaturally bright eyes full upon him.
"I have overcome myself, and am ready to submit to the
inevitable.  I promise you I will be thoroughly impartial;
as impartial as if I—did not love."  She blushed as the
confession escaped her for the first time.

"Well, then," said Hollfeld, with hesitation,—he could
not quite master his emotion,—"what do you think of the
young girl of Castle Gnadeck?"

"Elizabeth Ferber?" cried Helene, in the greatest
astonishment.

"Elizabeth von Gnadewitz," he hastily corrected her.
"The sudden change in her social position first suggested
the girl to me.  Hitherto I have scarcely noticed her,
except that her modest demeanour and the repose of her
countenance impressed me favourably."

"What! did you see nothing to admire in that lovely,
wondrously-gifted creature, except repose and a modest
demeanour?"

"Well, yes," he replied, with an air of indifference, "I
remember that several times, when you were provoked
at some mistake that you had made, she never altered a
muscle, but patiently went over the passage with you
again and again, until you were perfect in it.  That
pleased me.  I believe her to possess great equanimity
of mind, and that is the characteristic that my wife will
need above all others.  I know, too, that she fairly adores
you, and that is the chief consideration.  Besides, she has
been educated in the strictest economy, her requirements
will be few, and she will readily assume her right
position with regard to you and me.  I believe that she has
a certain amount of tact, and she has been notably
brought up,—a great advantage to——"

Helene had sunk back upon her pillows, and covered
her eyes with her hand.

"No, no," she cried, sitting up once more, and
interrupting his eager flow of panegyric,—"not that poor,
darling child!  Elizabeth deserves to be truly loved."

A loud and sudden howl here caused her to give a
little cry of fright.  Hollfeld had just stepped upon the
paw of his pointer, Diana, who had accompanied him
into the room, and was lying stretched out at her
master's feet.  The interruption was most welcome to
him,—for Helene's last words sounded to him so comical, in
connection with his own vehement desires, that he could
hardly restrain his laughter.  He opened the door and
sent the limping brute from the room.  When he
returned to the young girl he was all grave composure
again.

"Well, we will both love the girl, Helene," he said
with apparent indifference, as he resumed his seat.  Helene
was in a state of too great excitement to notice the
flippancy of his tone and manner.  "Let her only leave you
the first place in my affections.  She must do that.  She
certainly has enough coolness and presence of mind; she
testified those qualities abundantly the day she saved
Rudolph's life."

"Oh, how?" cried Helene, opening wide her eyes in
amazement.

The servant, who had on the previous day involuntarily
let slip some mention of the occurrence in the forest, had,
in terror at his oversight, instantly refrained from all
further particulars relating to it, simply asserting that
the bullet intended for Herr von Walde had fortunately
fallen wide of its mark.  Hollfeld had heard the exact
account of the murderous attempt only an hour before
from the gardener.  Elizabeth's fearless conduct
naturally lent her a new charm in his eyes, and goaded afresh
his desire to win her as soon as possible.  He related
the story, which he had just heard, to Helene, concluding
his account by saying: "You now have one more reason
to love the girl, and her conduct strengthens my
conviction that she is the only one whom I should select."

This was his last round of ammunition.  He stroked
back the hair from his brow with his delicate white hand,
and from beneath it narrowly and eagerly watched the
little lady, whose head was so sunk amid the pillows that
only her profile was visible.  The tears were gushing
from her closed eyelids; she said not a word; perhaps
she was struggling with herself for the last time.

But why did it never occur to her that Elizabeth might
fail to accede to Hollfeld's wishes?  Any loving woman
can answer this question for herself, if she will only
reflect that the loving heart believes the object of its
passion irresistible, and learns with difficulty that all the
world does not share its conviction.

The silence, which began to be painful, was interrupted
by the return of the baroness from her walk.  Helene
started, and quickly dried her tears.  With evident
impatience she submitted to the caresses with which the lady
overwhelmed her, replying in monosyllables to the tender
inquiries with regard to her health.

"Ah!" cried the baroness, as she shook the scarf from
her shoulders and left it in her son's hands, while she
sank clumsily into an arm-chair.  "How very warm I
am!  That path up the mountain is terrible!  No power
upon earth shall take me over it again!"

"Did you go up the mountain, mother?" asked
Hollfeld incredulously.

"Why, yes; you know the physician prescribed an
early morning walk for me."

"Oh yes; but that was so many years ago, and I
thought you always maintained that the trouble with
your heart made any such exercise impossible."

"Still, everything ought to have a fair trial," replied
his mother, a little embarrassed, "and as I could not
sleep last night, I determined to try once more; but it
will do no good,—I have just had fresh cause for
vexation.  Only think, Helene, just outside in the gravel walk
I met Bella with her new governess,—would you believe
it, the woman had the impertinence to let the child walk
by her left side!  And she looks, too, like a perfect
simpleton.  I was really angry, and defined her position to
her as clearly as I could.  But tell me yourself, is it not
hard that I cannot even attempt to refresh myself with
a walk without encountering what makes me miserable
and ill?"

Just as she leaned her forehead in a melancholy
manner upon her hand, she discovered that the false curls
upon her temples had been pushed considerably awry
by her bonnet.  She arose hastily, and begged for a
little time before breakfast that she might arrange her
dress.

"By the way," she said carelessly, turning round to
her son and cousin as she reached the door, while she set
her bonnet firmly upon the rebellious front, "that fellow,
Reinhard, imposed upon us finely yesterday.  I accidentally
encountered the forester's clerk, Ferber, up there
near the ruins,—I congratulated him——"

"Ah! now I understand the ascent of the mountain!"  Hollfeld
interrupted his mother ironically.  "And you
actually spoke to the man, mother?"

"Oh! now there is no reason why I should not.  The
jewels principally interested me."

"Did you wish to buy them?" asked her son contemptuously,
remembering the constant ebb in her finances.

"Hardly," she replied with an angry glance; "but I
have always had a perfect passion for precious stones;
and if your father had not died so suddenly, I should
now have had a charming set of diamonds, which he had
promised me, and you would have been six thousand
thalers the poorer.  But to return to the discovered jewels.
Ferber told me just what they were, and, when I asked
him, frankly replied that they would bring about eight
thousand thalers,—that is what that fellow, Reinhard,
calls inestimable wealth.  Once more adieu for a few
minutes."

The contemptuous smile disappeared from Hollfeld's
face, as he listened to his mother's words, and gave
place to a decided expression of disappointment; he had
suddenly experienced a sensation like the shock of a
shower-bath.

Scarcely was the door closed behind the baroness, when
Helene aroused herself from her apparent apathy, and
stretched out both hands to Hollfeld.

"Emil," she said quickly, in a low voice, with trembling
lips, "if you succeed in gaining Elizabeth's love, and
I cannot doubt that you will, I agree to your plan, but I
must always live with you at Odenberg."

"Of course," he replied, although with some hesitation;
his voice had lost its former decision of tone, "but let me
warn you that you will have to resign many luxuries.
My income is not large, and as you have just heard,
Elizabeth has nothing."

"She shall not come to you poor, Emil,—rely upon
that," the little lady rejoined in a tender voice, and with
eyes unnaturally bright.  "From the moment she promises
to be yours I regard her in the light of a sister; I
will share faithfully with her, and will instantly make
over to her the rents of my estate of Neuborn, in Saxony;
I will talk to Rudolph about it as soon as he returns,
and when death closes my eyes, all that I possess will
be hers and yours.  Are you content with me?"

"You are an angel, Helene," he cried; "you shall never
repent your magnanimity,—your generous devotion."

And this time there was no dissimulation in his
delight, for the rents of Neuborn made Elizabeth a very
wealthy bride.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVIII.`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVIII.

.. vspace:: 2

Two days had passed since the morning upon which
Helene had, as she thought, won such a victory over
herself, and had been convinced that the conflict within her
would be quieted by absolute certainty.  But she had
been far from fathoming the depths of her sentiments;
she had snatched at a straw in the whirling flood, and it
had afforded her not one instant's support.  Only two
days!—but they outweighed in suffering her whole
previous life.  She constantly repeated to herself that the
long desired repose that she had dreamed of was close at
hand, and yet she shuddered at the thought of the time
that must intervene before death should bring her release,
with the same horror with which the sceptic looks
forward to the moment of dissolution.  She became distinctly
aware that her promise to pass her days at Odenberg
converted her remaining years into a period of
superhuman self-sacrifice, and yet, for worlds, she would not
have retracted one iota of all that she had vowed to
Hollfeld.  She would be worthy of his love.  No
sacrifice was too great that was rewarded by his esteem.
Poor dupe!

Her nerves suffered intensely during this protracted
mental conflict.  She had constant fever, and could
scarcely sleep at all.  The subject that occupied her
whole mind was constantly hovering upon her lips, but
she refrained from all mention of it in accordance with
Hollfeld's request.  He had also entreated her to forego
Elizabeth's society for a few days; he feared that, in her
agitation, she might stand in the way of his wishes.  He
himself had already taken the first steps towards a
continuation of his pursuit of Elizabeth.  He had twice
presented himself at Gnadeck at the gate in the wall, to
make inquiries after the health of the "von Gnadewitzes,"
but although he had nearly pulled off the bell-handle the
door had not been opened.  The first time no one had
been in the house, and upon the last occasion Elizabeth
had observed him coming.  Her parents had gone with
little Ernst to the Lodge, and Miss Mertens had agreed
to Elizabeth's idea of not admitting the unwelcome
visitor.  They sat together in the dwelling-room, laughing,
while the little bell rang till it was quite hoarse.  Of
the conspiracy against his admission the visitor of course
had no suspicion.

It was seven o'clock in the morning; Helene was
already lying dressed upon her lounge, she had passed
a restless, sleepless night.  The baroness was still in bed,
and Hollfeld had not yet made his appearance; but
the little lady could not be alone, and therefore her maid
was sitting sewing in the room.  Her replies to Helena's
remarks were unheard by the poor sufferer, but there was
something soothing in the mere sound of a human voice
after her wretched, lonely night.

The noise of an approaching carriage was heard.
Helene opened the window and leaned out.  Her brother's
travelling carriage was just driving up the sweep, its
wheels sinking deep in the smooth gravel; but it was
empty.

"Where is your master?" Helene cried out to the
coachman, as the vehicle passed beneath her window.

"My master got out at the entrance of the park road,"
the old man replied, taking off his hat, "and is coming
home on foot over the mountain, past Castle Gnadeck."

The little lady shut the window, and shivered as though
she were cold; the single word "Gnadeck" had acted upon
her nerves like an electric shock.  Every word that
brought Elizabeth to her mind produced the same effect
upon her that one's imagination would experience from
some sudden apparition.

She arose, and leaning upon the arm of her maid, went
down to her brother's apartments.  She ordered
breakfast to be served in the room opening with glass doors
upon the grand staircase, and seated herself in an
armchair to await the traveller's return.  She took up one of
the gorgeously bound books that were lying about, and
mechanically turned over the leaves; but, although her
eyes rested upon the engravings that filled its pages,
she could not have told whether it were portrait or
landscape that lay open before her.

After she had waited half an hour, her brother's tall
form appeared behind the glass door.  The book slipped
from her lap as she held out her hands to welcome him.
He seemed surprised at this reception; but he was
evidently much pleased at finding his sister alone and glad
to see him.  He hurried towards her, but started in alarm
at a nearer view of her face.

"Do you feel worse, Helene?" he asked with anxious
tenderness, as he seated himself beside her.  He put
his arm around her and raised her head a little, that he
might see her face more closely.  There was so much
kindness and caressing sympathy in his accent and
manner that suddenly it was as if the warm air of spring
breathed over her heart, that had been as it were
congealed with pain.  Two large tears rolled down her
cheeks as she leaned her head upon her brother's
shoulder.

"Has not Fels been to see you while I have been
away?" he asked anxiously.  The little lady's aspect
evidently caused him great alarm.

"No.  I gave express orders that he should not be
sent for.  I am taking the drops that he prescribed for
my nervous attacks, and he can do nothing more for me.
Don't be concerned, Rudolph, I shall be better soon.  You
have had a sad time at Thalleben?"

"Yes," he answered, but his eyes still rested anxiously
upon his sister's altered features.  "Poor Hartwig died
before I arrived; he suffered fearfully.  He was buried
yesterday afternoon.  You would scarcely know his unfortunate
wife, Helene; this blow has added twenty years to her life!"

He imparted to her some further particulars
concerning the sad event, and then passed his hand across
his eyes, as though desirous of banishing from his mind
all the trouble and sorrow that he had witnessed during
the last few days.

"Well, and is all going on here as usual?" he asked
after a short pause.

"Not quite," Helene replied with some hesitation.
"Möhring left us yesterday."

"Ah, Heaven speed him!  I am glad that I escaped
a final interview with him.  Well, I have one more
enemy in the world, but I cannot help it; he belongs to
a class of men whom I despise."

"And at Gnadeck a piece of good fortune has befallen
the Ferbers," Helene continued in an unnaturally quiet
voice, averting her face.

The arm-chair in which she was sitting was suddenly
pushed aside by the arm upon which her brother had been
leaning.  She did not look up, and therefore could not
see the livid pallor that overspread his face for a moment,
while his quivering lips essayed twice to frame the simple
monosyllable "Well?"

Helene related the story of the ruins, to which her
brother listened breathlessly.  Every word that she spoke
seemed to lift a weight from his heart, but he never
dreamed how it cut into the very soul of the narrator
like a two-edged sword, and that all this was only the
prelude to her announcement of the terrible sacrifice that
she was about to make.

"This is, indeed, a most wonderful solution of an old
riddle," he said, when Helene had finished.  "But I
question whether the family will think it great good
fortune to belong to the von Gnadewitz race."

"Ah! you think so," Helene interrupted him quickly,
"because Elizabeth has always spoken so slightingly of
the name.  I cannot help, however, in such cases, thinking
of the fable of the fox and the grapes."  She spoke these
last words with cutting severity.  Her passionate
excitement and agitation had brought her to the point of
denying her nobler nature and of attributing mean motives to
one who had never injured her, and whom, in cooler
moments, she knew to be all purity and honour.

An expression of intense amazement appeared upon
Herr von Walde's countenance.  He stooped and looked
keenly into his sister's averted face, as if to convince
himself that her lips had actually spoken such harsh words.

Just at this moment Hollfeld's large hound rushed up
the staircase and into the room, where he made two or
three playful bounds, and then vanished again at the
sound of a shrill whistle from the lawn without.  His
master was passing by, who apparently did not know
of Herr von Walde's return, or he would certainly have
appeared to welcome him.  He walked on quickly,
and turned into the path that led up the mountain to
Gnadeck.  Helene's gaze followed the retreating form
until it was lost to sight, and then, clasping her hands
convulsively, she sank back in her chair.  It seemed as if
for a moment all strength failed her.

Herr von Waldo poured a little wine into a glass, and
held it to her lips.  She looked up gratefully, and tried to
smile.

"I am not yet at the end of all I have to tell," she
began again, rising from her half-reclining position.  "I
am like all novelists,—I reserve my most interesting
facts until the last."  She could not hide her struggle for
firmness and composure beneath the mask of playfulness
which she attempted to assume in these words.  Her gaze
was riveted upon the trees outside the window, as she
said: "A happy event is about to take place among
us,—Emil's betrothal."

She had certainly expected some instant expression of
astonishment from her auditor, for, after a moment's
silence, she turned around to him in surprise.  His brow
and eyes were covered by his hand, and the uncovered
portion of his face was deadly pale.  At Helene's touch
he dropped his hand, arose hastily, and went to the open
window, as if for a breath of fresh air.

"Are you ill, Rudolph?" she cried, with anxiety.

"A passing faintness, nothing more," he replied, again
approaching her.  His face looked strangely altered as he
walked several times up and down the room, and then
resumed his seat.

"I told you of Emil's approaching betrothal, Rudolph,"
Helene began again, emphasizing each word.

"I heard you," he replied mechanically.

"Do you approve this step on his part?"

"It is no affair of mine.  Hollfeld is his own master,
and can do as he pleases."

"I believe his choice is made.  If I dared, I would
tell you the young girl's name."

"There is no need to do so.  It will be time enough to
hear it when the banns are published in church."

His expression was icy; the tone of his voice sounded
rough and harsh; the blood seemed to have forsaken his
cheeks.

"Rudolph, I implore you not to be so rough," Helene
begged, in a tone of entreaty; "I know that you are no
friend to much speaking, and I am accustomed to your
laconic replies; but now you are too cold and silent, just,
too, when I have a request to make of you."

"Tell me what it is; am I to have the honour of
playing the part of groomsman to Herr von Hollfeld?"

Helene recoiled at the bitter contempt expressed in
these words.

"You do not like poor Emil, it is more evident to-day
than ever before," she said reproachfully, after a little
pause, during which Herr von Walde had arisen and
traversed the room with hasty steps; "I entreat you
earnestly, dear Rudolph, listen to me patiently; I must
talk over this matter with you to-day."

He folded his arms and stood still, leaning against a
window-frame, whilst he said briefly: "You see I am
ready to listen."

"The young girl," she began, with a hesitation which
was the result less of her own internal agitation than of
her brother's icy demeanour, "the young girl whom Emil
has selected is poor."

"Very disinterested on his part; proceed."

"Emil's income is not large."

"The poor man has only ten thousand a year; starvation
in his case seems unavoidable."

She paused, evidently surprised.  Her brother never
exaggerated; the sum, then, which he had mentioned, must
be correct to a farthing.

"Well, he may be wealthier than I thought," she went
on after a short pause; "that is not the question at
present; his choice is a girl who is very dear to me, very
dear."  What effort this cost her!  "She has done what
must forever fill my sisterly heart with gratitude."  Herr
von Walde unfolded his arms, and drummed with
such force upon the window-pane with the fingers of
his left hand, that Helene thought the glass would be
broken.

"She will be as a sister to me," she continued, "and I
do not wish that she should come into Hollfeld's house
without a dowry.  I desire to make over to her the rents
of Neuborn.  May I?"

"The estate belongs to you,—you are of age.  I have
no right either to consent or refuse."

"Oh yes, Rudolph, you are my next of kin, and
should inherit all that I have.  Then I may be sure of
your consent?"

"Perfectly so, if you really think it necessary——"

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" she interrupted him,
extending to him her hand.  But he did not seem to notice
it, although he was looking fixedly at her.  "You are not
angry with me for this?" she asked, anxiously, after a
few moments.

"I am never angry when you are striving to make
others happy.  You must remember how I have always
encouraged and assisted you in such efforts.  But here I
do think you are in too great haste.  You seem to me
very ready to plunge that young creature into misery."

She started up as though a viper had stung her.  "That
is a cruel accusation!" she cried.  "Your prejudice against
poor Emil, which is founded, Heaven only knows upon
what, leads you beyond all bounds.  You know the man
far too slightly."

"I know him far too well to wish to know him any
better.  He is a dishonourable villain, a miserable fellow
of no character, by whose side a woman, let her claims
for honour and uprightness in a man be ever so small,
must be wretched.  Woe to the poor creature when she
finds him out!"  His voice trembled with suppressed
pain; but Helene heard in it only anger and violence.

"Oh Heavens! how unjust!" she cried, raising her
tearful eyes to the ceiling.  "Rudolph, you are committing
a great sin.  What has poor Emil done to you, that
you should persecute him so unrelentingly?"

"Must a man be personally aggrieved in order to
estimate correctly another's character?" he asked, angrily.
"My child, you have been grossly deceived; but your eyes
are blinded.  The time will come when you will acknowledge
it with shame.  If I should try to remove this cup
of suffering from your lips, it would avail nothing; you
would repulse me, seeing in me only a barbarian treading
under foot all your holiest affections.  You force me
to leave you to pursue your path alone, until the
moment when you will fly to me for consolation and succour.
My heart will always be open to you; but what will
become of that other, bound irrevocably to her dreadful
fate?"

He went into the next room, and locked the door after
him.  For awhile Helene sat as if paralyzed,—then she
arose with difficulty, and supporting herself by the walls
and the furniture, left the apartment.

Her soul was filled with bitterness, almost with hatred,
towards her brother, who had to-day roughly and
ruthlessly handled all that she had tenderly encircled with
the most delicate fibres of her heart.  That heart was
well nigh broken as she called vividly to mind the
self-sacrifice which her lover proposed.  She seemed to herself to
have already wronged him deeply in allowing such terrible
abuse of him to fall upon her ears.  He should never,
never learn how her brother's prejudices had carried him
away.  No sacrifice, not the greatest, would now be
sufficient to atone for the injustice which he was forced
unconsciously to endure.  And since her brother had so
openly declared his opinion of Hollfeld, she would not
allow that he should longer share the hospitality of
Lindhof.  She would herself request him to return to
Odenberg, of course suppressing her reason for such a
request.  But first his engagement to Elizabeth should
be concluded.

Occupied with these thoughts, she entered the dining-room,
and when Hollfeld appeared shortly afterward, she
received him with a quiet smile, and announced to him
that her brother, without even hearing the name of the
future bride, had approved of her resolution with regard
to her dowry.  She desired to see Elizabeth now as
soon as possible, and Hollfeld, greatly rejoiced to observe
her repose of manner, assented.  It was agreed that the
interview should take place at four o'clock that afternoon,
in the pavilion.  Hollfeld left the room to despatch a
servant to Gnadeck with a request, in Helene's name,
to that effect.  How surprised the little lady would have
been, could she have heard it expressly enjoined upon the
servant to name three, as the appointed hour, while the
butler was ordered to have everything arranged in the
pavilion at that time!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIX.`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIX.

.. vspace:: 2

When the servant from Lindhof rang the bell at the
gate in the wall, Elizabeth was sitting in the hall.  She
was weaving a long garland of evergreens and ivy, and
Miss Mertens, sitting beside her, had in her hand a
half-finished wreath of asters.  The grave had been made
ready in the Lindhof church-yard, and in the afternoon,
between five and six o'clock, the leaden coffin containing
the mortal remains of the beautiful Lila was to be
consigned to the earth.  If Jost's dreaded eyes could have
gazed upon his lovely descendant, they would certainly
have beamed with a mild and tender light to see her
engaged in preparing an offering of fresh flowers and green
vines with which to adorn the bier of his idolized love.

After consulting her mother, Elizabeth accepted the
invitation, all the more willingly as it referred only to "an
hour's talk."  Soon after the servant's departure,
Reinhard appeared.  He looked very grave, and told Miss
Mertens that his master had returned from Thalleben in
the strangest state of mind.

"He must have been greatly shocked by the misery
that he witnessed in the desolate home," he remarked,
"for I really do not recognize my kind master.  I had
several unavoidable communications to make to him, but
I saw that I spoke in vain; he did not listen, but sat
opposite me, looking utterly crushed, evidently lost in the
most painful reflections.  He started up hastily when I
began at last to tell him of our discovery up here in the
ruins, and interrupted me angrily with 'I have heard
all about that matter already; I pray you leave me
alone.'"

Miss Mertens plainly perceived that Reinhard was
really wounded by Herr von Walde's manner towards him.

"Dear friend," she said soothingly, "in moments of
great mental suffering we either are not aware of the
external world, or the consciousness of it increases our pain;
we cannot endure that all around us should pursue its
customary course while all within has received such a
shock, a shock that we cannot recover from.  Herr von
Walde was doubtless warmly attached to his unfortunate
friend, and—but, good Heavens!  Elizabeth, what are you
doing?" she interrupted herself, "do you really think that
looks well?"

She pointed to the garland.  In fact, whilst Reinhard
had been speaking Elizabeth had, with trembling hands,
picked up two or three large dahlias and woven them
into her graceful green wreath.  She now looked down,
and was aware for the first time of what she had been
doing.  The poor flowers were instantly torn from the
soft green pillow where they had laid their heavy heads
so comfortably, and treated with as much severity as if
they had insisted on going where they were not wanted.

Three o'clock had long since struck in the Lindhof
church-tower when Elizabeth hurried down the mountain.
Her uncle had detained her in conversation; he was
provoked that she had accepted the invitation.  "For," he
said, and with some justice, "surely the poor creature
whom we consign to her resting-place to-day deserves
that we should consecrate at least one day to her
memory."  He had no idea of what was passing in the heart
of his niece.  He did not dream that for the last few days
his darling had counted the hours which must pass before
she could think, "He is at home again;" and, to his
vexation, his usually obedient child slipped from him and
vanished through the garden gate.

Her feet scarcely touched the ground.  She hoped by
walking quickly to overtake the time which she had lost,
and could have cried, when her thin dress caught upon a
bramble, and could only be extricated by patience and
skill.  At last, almost out of breath, she reached the
pavilion.  Both of the folding-doors were open; the room
was still empty.  Upon the table stood a salver of
refreshments, and Helene's corner of the sofa was arranged
for her.

Much relieved, Elizabeth entered, and was leaning
against one of the opposite windows which looked out
upon some tall shrubbery, when she heard, a slight noise
behind her.  Hollfeld had hitherto been concealed by one
of the open folding-doors, and he now approached her.
She turned to leave the apartment without even honouring
the object of her aversion by a look; but he placed
himself in her path, although his manner was no longer
insolent,—on the contrary, it was respectful and even
submissive, as he assured her that the ladies would appear
directly.  Elizabeth looked up surprised; there was not
in his voice the faintest trace of that impertinent tone
that had so irritated and outraged her.

"I give you my word that Fräulein von Walde will be
here in one moment!" he repeated, as she again attempted
to reach the door.  "Is my presence, then, so disagreeable
to you?" he added more gently, with a tinge of sadness.

"Most assuredly it is," Elizabeth replied coldly and
decidedly; "if you will remember your late conduct
towards me, you will know that to be left one moment
alone with you must be odious to me."

"How stern and implacable that sounds!  Must, then,
my punishment for my thoughtless jest be so severe?"

"I advise you, in future, to be more prudent in your
choice of those with whom you wish to jest."

"Good Heavens!  I see now that it was a mistake; I
regret my impetuosity, but how could I dream——"

"That any respect was due to me?" Elizabeth
interrupted him, with flashing eyes.

"No, no!——, I never doubted that!—Heavens! how
angry you can be!  But I could not possibly know that
you possessed the right to claim more, far more, than
mere respect."

Elizabeth looked at him inquiringly; she evidently did
not understand him.

"Can I do more than sue on my knees for pardon?"
he continued.

"It shall be granted upon condition that you leave me
instantly."

"What cruel obstinacy!  I should be a fool indeed to
lose this precious moment.  Elizabeth, I have told you
already that I love you ardently,—that I am dying of
love for you!"

"And I am quite aware of having distinctly told you
that it is a matter of utter indifference to me."  She began
to tremble, but her glance was, nevertheless, firm and
composed.

"Elizabeth, do not drive me to extremities!" he cried
in great agitation.

"I would especially request you to remember the common
rules of politeness, which require us not to address
strangers by their Christian names."

"You are a very imp of coldness and malice!" he cried,
now trembling with rage.  "Well, I grant that there is some
show of reason for your irritation with me," he added,
controlling himself by an effort; "my conduct towards
you has not been what it should be, but I will atone for
it abundantly.  Listen to me quietly for one moment, and
you will relax your severity.  I offer you my hand.  You
must know that I can give a brilliant position, as far as
rank and wealth are concerned, to my future wife."

He looked down at her with a smile of triumph.  It
was so natural that his lovely opponent should be
paralyzed with joyful surprise at this unexpected disclosure
of his intentions; yet, strange to say, the result that he
anticipated did not ensue.  Elizabeth stood proudly erect,
and retreated a pace or two.

"I regret this, Herr von Hollfeld," she said with quiet
dignity.  "You might have spared yourself this humiliating
moment.  After all that I have hitherto said to you,
I scarcely comprehend what you have just declared.  Since
you force me to it, I must tell you most emphatically
that our paths in life lie in opposite directions; and——"

"What!"

"And that nothing could induce me to connect my lot
with yours."

He stared at her for a moment vaguely, as though
perfectly incapable of understanding her words.  His face
grew livid, and his white teeth were buried in his underlip.

"And would you really carry the farce so far as to give
me such an answer?" he asked at last in a hoarse voice.

Elizabeth smiled contemptuously, and turned away.
Her behaviour transported him with rage.

"Your reasons?  I will know your reasons!" he
ejaculated, stepping between Elizabeth and the door which
she was trying to reach.  He caught at her dress to
detain her.  She shrunk from him, and retired a few steps
farther into the room.

"Leave me!" she cried, gasping for breath.  Terror
almost choked her utterance; hut, nevertheless, she once
more took courage, and raised her head proudly, with an
air of command.  "If there is no spark of honour in you
to which I can appeal, you force me to use the only
weapons at my command, by declaring to you that I
thoroughly despise you; I detest the sight of you; the
hiss of a poisonous viper could not inspire me with the
aversion and disgust with which I listen to the words by
which you would awaken my affection.  I have never
harboured one sentiment of regard for you; but, if I
had, it must have been instantly annihilated by your
despicable conduct towards me.  Let me go now in peace,
and——"

He did not allow her to finish her sentence.  "That I
shall certainly not do," he hissed between his teeth; his
face that had hitherto been so pale, flushed crimson, and
his eyes flashed as he darted towards her, like some
raging wild beast.  She fled to the window, as she
saw it was impossible to reach the door, and tried to lift
the sash, hoping to be able to leap from the low sill
to the ground without.  But she stood still, transfixed
with horror.  A terrible face was looking into the room
from the shrubbery outside.  The features were deadly
pale, and distorted by a fiendish grin, while the fire of
madness gleamed in the eyes that were riveted upon
Elizabeth's face.  She hardly recognized in the dreadful
apparition dumb Bertha; shivering with terror, she
recoiled; Hollfeld's extended arms encircled her
form,—blinded by passion, he did not perceive the ghastly face
at the window.  Elizabeth pressed her ice-cold fingers
upon her closed eyes to shut out the horrible sight; she
felt her persecutor's hot breath upon her hands; his hair
brushed her cheek; she shuddered, but her physical force
failed her; she succumbed beneath the twofold horror,—no
sound escaped her lips.  At sight of Hollfeld, Bertha
raised her clenched fists as though to dash them through
the window panes,—then, suddenly she paused as if listening
to some noise near, dropped her hands, and with a
shrill laugh, vanished among the shrubbery.

All this was the work of a few seconds.  The sound of
the shrill laughter startled Hollfeld, and he looked up.
For one moment, his gaze sought to penetrate the bushes,
behind which Bertha had disappeared, and then it returned
to the form which lay in his arms, and which he clasped
to his heart.  His cunning foresight, his prudent hypocrisy,
that had always enabled him to conceal his baseness
from the eyes of the world, were all forgotten.  He did
not remember that the time that Helene had appointed
had arrived,—that through the wide open door the
gardener, or any of the servants, might enter the room; his
passion had mastered him, and he never observed that, in
fact, Fräulein von Walde was standing upon the threshold
of the door, leaning on her brother's arm, while,
behind them, the baroness was stretching out her long
neck, with an unmistakable air of great displeasure.

"Emil!" she cried, her voice vibrating with anger.  He
started, and looked wildly around; involuntarily he
opened his arms; Elizabeth's hands dropped from her
eyes, and she staggered towards the nearest couch.  The
harsh, rude voice of the baroness sounded like sweet
music in her ears, for it brought her succour.  There too
stood the tall, manly form, at sight of which her failing
pulses throbbed wildly again.  She could have thrown
herself at his feet, and prayed him,—"Save me from that
man, whom I detest and flee from, as I would from sin
itself."  But what a look met hers!  Did that annihilating
glance really come from the same eyes that a few days
previously had so tenderly sought her own?  Was this
man, with the stern, erect head, and the pale, cold brow,
the same who had bent over her, saying with such
unutterable gentleness,—"may my good angel whisper in
your ear the word that will unlock that fairy realm for
me?"  He stood there now like an evil angel, whose
mission is to avenge and to crush to the dust some poor,
quivering, human heart.

Helene, who had stood as though lifeless or rooted to
the ground during the scene in the interior of the
apartment, now withdrew her arm from her brother's and
approached Elizabeth; she did not for one instant doubt
that Hollfeld had prospered in his wooing, and that the
matter had been happily concluded.

"A thousand welcomes to you, dearest Elizabeth!"
she cried in great agitation, and, while tears broke from
her eyes, she took the young girl's trembling hands
between her own.  "Emil brings me a dear sister,—love
me as a sister, and I shall be grateful to you as long as I
live.  Do not look so stern, Amalie," she turned beseechingly
to the baroness, who was standing like a pillar of
stone just outside the pavilion; "Emil's future happiness
is at stake.  Look at Elizabeth!  Does she not satisfy
every desire that you can have with regard to the one
who will occupy such a close relation to you?  Young,
richly endowed by nature, of an ancient family and
distinguished name."

She stopped, startled.  At last the life seemed to
return to Elizabeth's stiffened limbs, and she was capable
of understanding what was said.  By a hasty movement
she released her hands from Helene's, and stood erect
before her.

"You are mistaken, gracious lady," she said in a clear
ringing voice; "I have no claim to such distinction."

"What! have you not an undeniable claim to the name
of von Gnadewitz?"

"Doubtless; but that claim will never be asserted."

"Would you really reject such happiness?"

"I cannot see that true happiness has anything to do
with an empty sound."  Her endeavour to lend firmness
to her faithless voice was distinctly perceptible.

Meanwhile the baroness had drawn near.  She was
inwardly furious that her son had made his choice without
in the faintest degree consulting her, or asking her maternal
consent; besides, the object of his choice was detestable to
her.  But she knew well that her interference would
accomplish nothing,—her son would shrug his shoulders,
perhaps smile contemptuously, and be confirmed in his
resolve.  It was most fortunate, too, for her and her
interests, that Helene had taken up the matter as she had,
determined, as it seemed, to carry it through with an
enthusiastic degree of self-sacrifice.  Although she was
thoroughly in the dark as to the little lady's motives for
such a line of conduct, she could not fail to perceive that
she was in earnest, and therefore, however discontented
at heart, she resolved to put a good face upon the matter,
and to play the part of a forgiving and blessing parent.
Elizabeth's replies suddenly closed her lips.  She
conceived a hope that Elizabeth might put a stop to the
matter by her own obstinacy; if so, she would pour oil
on the flames.

"We have to contend here with a plebeian prejudice,
my love," she said to Helene, who had listened in
amazement to Elizabeth's answers.  "You may, however, have
most excellent reasons for shunning the light of loftier
realms," the lady continued, in a cutting tone, turning to
Elizabeth.

"I have no reason to shun that light," the young girl
replied, "even should it suddenly reveal faults hitherto
unsuspected, as it sheds a brilliant glare on the stains
upon the crest of the Gnadewitzes.  But we love our
name because it is true and honest, and we would not
exchange this stainless inheritance for a title made famous
by the tears and toil of others!"

"Heavens, what exalted sentiments!" cried the baroness
with a sneer.

"You cannot be serious, Elizabeth," said Helene.  "Do
not forget that the earthly happiness of two human beings
hangs upon your decision."  She cast a meaning glance
at Elizabeth, which of course was utterly incomprehensible
to her.  "You must bring a noble name with you
into the sphere to which you will now belong, and you
certainly would not destroy your own hopes and those of
others?"

"I am utterly at a loss to understand you,"' said
Elizabeth with some irritation.  "It never occurred to
me to connect the name of von Gnadewitz with any
hopes whatever; least of all can I conceive how the
wishes or happiness of others can depend upon the
resolution of such a poor, insignificant girl as I."

"You are not poor, dear child," rejoined Helene.
"Come," she continued, with emotion, "let us from
to-day be sisters indeed!  You too, dear Rudolph," and
she turned with some embarrassment to her brother;
"you will welcome Emil's bride into our family, and
permit me to share everything with her like a sister?"

"Yes," was the reply, spoken sternly, but firmly.

Elizabeth put her hand to her forehead; what she had
heard sounded so incredible.  "Emil's bride" was what
Fräulein von Walde had said; was she speaking of
her?—impossible!  Had these people conspired to terrify her
thus?  And he,—he who knew how she detested Hollfeld,
had sided with them; he was standing there with folded
arms, the perfect image of implacable sternness and
reserve.  He had been, hitherto, quite silent, and had opened
his lips only to utter the "yes," which had so crushed
her.  Had he not, previously, endeavoured almost rudely
to prevent his cousin's advances?  At thought of that, it
suddenly flashed upon her that she was now of noble rank,—that
explained everything.  Hollfeld's nobility could not
be dishonoured now by an alliance with her; his relatives
were, therefore, all quite willing to accede to his suit, and
Helene's surprise at her announcement that she despised
the name which they thought noble, was perfectly
natural; still, how they could possibly imagine an
understanding, upon her part, with the man whom she
detested, was utterly beyond her comprehension, for her
brain reeled with the wild uproar of her thoughts.  One
thing only was quite clear, she must immediately
convince them of their error.

"I find myself the object of a misunderstanding, the
origin of which I cannot possibly comprehend," she said
hastily.  "It is Herr von Hollfeld's duty to make an
explanation here; but as he prefers to be silent, I am
forced to declare that he has had no encouragement
whatever from me."

"But, dear child," said Helene, in great confusion,
"did we not see with our own eyes as we entered that——"
she did not proceed.

These words sounded like a thunder clap in Elizabeth's
ears.  The idea that that moment of helpless terror could
be misunderstood by any one, had never entered her pure
and innocent mind.  And now she found, to her unutterable
pain, that it had placed her in a hatefully false light.
She turned, for an instant, toward Hollfeld, but one
glance convinced her that she had no satisfaction,—no
concern for her honour, to look for from him.  With his
back turned to the rest, he was standing at the window
like a detected school-boy.  If the ladies only had been
present, he would doubtless have extricated himself by
some bold and cunning lie; but Herr von Walde was
there, and he was utterly at a loss.  He contented
himself by preserving an ambiguous silence, which gave
unlimited scope for conjecture.

"God in heaven, how terrible!" cried the young girl,
wringing her hands.  "As you entered you saw," she
continued, averting her face, and drawing a deep breath,
"a defenceless girl striving vainly to repel the insolence
of a man lost to all sense of honour.  The reiterated
declaration on my part that I thoroughly despise and
utterly detest him was of no avail in freeing me from his
presence.  I have never concealed these sentiments from
Herr von Hollfeld,—on the contrary——"

Here she was interrupted by a loud noise.  Helene
had sunk back upon the couch, and her right hand
clutched the table near her, shaking it so that the china
and glass upon it rattled.  The little lady's face was
ashy-pale,—her despairing glance sought Hollfeld.  In
vain she endeavoured to conquer her agitation.  The
light that suddenly revealed such a hateful web of
intrigue was too lurid,—its glare had the annihilating
effect upon her hitherto unsuspicious mind of a flash
of lightning.

Elizabeth, although she was herself much agitated, and
prepared to give further expression to her indignation,
felt her heart melt with sympathy at sight of the little
lady.  In vindicating her own honour she had torn
the bandage from Helene's eyes, and she was filled
with sorrow for her, although she knew that she must
have been undeceived sooner or later.  She hastily
approached her, and took the icy little hands, which had
dropped from the table, between her own.

"Forgive me if I have terrified you by my hasty
words," she said beseechingly, but firmly.  "You can
readily understand my position.  A few explanatory
words from Herr von Hollfeld would have sufficed to
clear me from every degrading suspicion.  I should not
then have been forced to declare so emphatically what
I thought of his character and conduct.  I regret what
has happened, but I cannot retract one word that I have
said."

She kissed Helene's hand, and silently left the
pavilion.  She fancied that Herr von Walde extended his
hand to her as she passed him, but she did not look up.

Outside, she followed the narrow, winding way that
led through a grove to the pond.  She passed by the
castle, along the broad gravel-walk, and entered the little
forest-path leading to the convent tower, without knowing
whither she was going, or remembering that every step
took her farther from her home.

She was in a state of fearful excitement.  A wild
chaos was seething in her brain.  Hollfeld's offer of
marriage,—his insolent passion,—Bertha's sudden
appearance at the window of the pavilion,—the inconceivable
fact that Helene had received her with joy as the bride
of the man whom she herself loved,—all these things
passed through her mind, and in the midst of the
confusion she distinctly heard Herr von Walde's
"yes."  He too, then, would have welcomed her as Herr von
Hollfeld's bride!  It would have cost him nothing to see
her his cousin's wife.  This marriage had doubtless
been decided upon in family conclave.  Herr von Walde
had weighed the for and against with his usual cool
judgment, and had finally agreed with Helene that
Emil's choice would not prove a blot upon the von
Hollfeld escutcheon.  She could be graciously received, and
they would themselves provide the dowry which the
bride was deficient in.

At these thoughts Elizabeth set her teeth, as if she
were enduring physical agony.  She was filled with
unutterable bitterness; her sincere and ardent
sentiments had been misunderstood and crushed under foot
by that cold-blooded, calculating aristocrat.  How could
she ever have imagined that he could sympathize in
the least with a young, earnest heart, enamoured of
freedom, and giving no heed to the belittling, often
ridiculous institutions of the world,—he who found the
pride and glory of woman only in the ruins and ashes
of a long ancestral line?

Several times she paused, lost in thought, and then she
walked on quickly, heedless that she was traversing the
same path along which she had gone in such confusion
by his side a few days before.  The overhanging boughs
and branches brushed her forehead; she forgot how he
had bent them aside, lest they should annoy her.  The
underbrush was still trodden down, and the stripped
leaves were not quite withered upon the spot where
Fräulein von Quittelsdorf and Hollfeld had broken through the
bushes to reach the two lonely wanderers.  Here was the
place where the unfinished birthday greeting had been
whispered; Elizabeth passed unheeding by, and it was
well that she did so, for there were no tears in her burning
eyes; here where she could have wept her very heart out.

At last she looked around her with surprise.  She
stood before the convent tower.  Hers was perhaps the
first human foot that had pressed this turf since the
place had been deserted by the latest guests or the weary
servants on the night of the fête.

It looked sadly out of order; the grass had been
trodden down by the dancers, whose tread had not been
fairy-like.  The two hemlocks, which had sustained the
refreshment tent, lay prostrate upon the ground in the midst of
fragments of broken bottles and the remains of the
fireworks.  Above, the shrivelled garlands were still
hanging between the tower and the oaks, while a gentle breeze
swept whispering among the poor flowers, which hung
crushed together in the air, their short season of triumph
long since ended.

It was already twilight beneath the oaks, although a
golden light illumined their topmost boughs, and played
upon the gray roof of the tower.

It was with a slight shudder that Elizabeth became
aware of her loneliness in the heart of the dim, silent
forest; nevertheless she was irresistibly drawn towards
the spot where Herr von Walde had taken leave of her.
She stepped across the trampled sward,—then stood for
an instant as if rooted to the earth,—for the evening
breeze brought to her ear single broken tones of a
human voice.  At first she seemed to hear something like
a distant ejaculatory cry for help; then gradually the
sounds grew more connected, and rapidly drew near.  It
was a shrill, piercing, female voice, shouting, rather than
singing, a hymn.  Elizabeth could hear that the singer,
whoever she might be, was running quickly as she sang.

All at once the melody ceased, or rather it was
interrupted by a burst of horrid laughter, and then by a
shriek, which ran through a perfect scale of scorn,
triumph, and bitter agony.

A foreboding of evil filled Elizabeth's mind.  She looked
anxiously in the direction, in the dark wood, whence the
noise was approaching.  It was hushed for a moment,
and then the hymn began again, while the singer came
rushing on like the wind.

Elizabeth stepped within the open door of the tower,
for she did not wish to encounter the strange singer;
scarcely had she crossed the threshold, when the laughter
was repeated close at hand.

On the opposite side of the open sward Bertha rushed
out of the thicket, and by her side ran Wolf, the forester's
savage watch-dog.

"Wolf, seize her!" she shrieked, pointing with both
hands to Elizabeth.  The animal came tearing, barking,
across the open space.

Elizabeth shut the door behind her, and ran up the
tower stairs.  She thus gained a moment's advantage;
but before she had reached the roof of the tower the door
below was opened.  The growling dog rushed up the
stairs followed by the maniac cheering him on.

The terrified and hunted girl reached the topmost stair,—she
heard the growl of the savage brute behind her,—he
was just at her heels,—with one last effort she stepped
out upon the roof, closed the oaken door, and leaned her
whole weight against it.

For a few moments Bertha rattled at the latch upon
the other side,—it did not yield.  She raved, and threw
herself against the oaken panels, while Wolf, barking and
growling, scratched at the threshold.

"Amber witch out there!" she shrieked.  "I'll throttle
you!  I'll drag you through the thicket by your long,
yellow hair!  You have stolen his heart from me, with
your moonshine face,—vile hypocrite that you are!
Seize her, Wolf, seize her!"

The dog whined, and tore at the door with his paws.

"Tear her in pieces, Wolf; bury your teeth in her
white fingers that have bewitched him with their devilish
music! curse her! cursed be the tones that come from
her fingers! may they turn to poisonous arrows, and
bury themselves in her own heart and destroy it!"

Again she threw herself against the door; the old
oaken planks creaked and groaned, but it did not yield to
the little powerless feet.

Elizabeth meanwhile leaned against the door on the
other side, with lips tightly closed and a face pale as
death.  She had seized a piece of wood that lay at her
feet that she might defend herself, if need should be,
against the dog.  Her whole frame shuddered at the
curses which Bertha shrieked out, but she nerved herself
with new resolution.

Had she only glanced at the latch of the door, she
would have seen that any effort upon her part to keep it
closed was wholly needless,—a huge bolt had slipped
forward, against which the maniac's utmost strength could
avail nothing.

"Open the door!" Bertha shouted again.  "Transparent,
brittle creature!  Ha! ha!  Old Bruin, whom I hate,
calls her Gold Elsie.  The old fellow despises heaven,
and may go to hell for all I care, for I shall be blessed,
eternally blessed.  He calls her Gold Elsie because she
has hair of amber.  Fie! how ugly you are! my hair is
black as the raven's wing.  I am a thousand times the
fairer.  Do you hear me, moonlight face?"

She paused exhausted, and Wolf, too, ceased his
whining and scratching at the threshold.

At the same moment the tolling of a distant bell broke
the evening silence of the forest.  Elizabeth well knew
what it signified,—a funeral train was descending the
mountain from the ruins of old Castle Gnadeck.  Lila's
mortal remains were leaving the walls which had once
echoed the sighs and groans of the lovely gypsy girl.
She was borne through the forest, in longing for which
her heart had broken two centuries before.

Bertha, too, seemed to listen to the sound of the bell;
for a moment she did not stir.

"They are ringing," she cried suddenly; "come, Wolf,
let us go to church; let her stay up here with the clouds
that will fall upon her in the night,—the tempest will tear
her hair, and the ravens will come and pick out her eyes,
for she is accursed, accursed!"

And then she began the hymn again.  Her terrible
voice echoed eerily against the narrow walls of the
tower.  She ran down and out of the door below, then
rushed singing across the open space, and disappeared
in the thicket whence she had issued at first,—the dog
following her.  She never once turned round towards
the tower.  As soon as she turned her back upon it she
seemed to forget entirely that the object of her hatred was
standing up there upon the gray stone platform.  Elizabeth
caught a last glimpse of her scarlet jacket among the
dark bushes, and then, with her savage companion, she
was seen no more.  Gradually her song died away, and
soon the gentle breeze wafted only the tolling of the bell
to the ears of the lonely girl upon the roof of the tower.

With a deep-drawn breath of relief she relinquished
her constrained position, which she had until now retained
mechanically, and tried to lift the latch of the door.  It
was rusty and resisted her efforts as it had Bertha's.
She now discovered with alarm that the bolt had sprung,—it
had, indeed, defended and protected her, but it was
also her jailer,—for she could not possibly stir it; worn
out at last with her fruitless attempts to withdraw it, she
dropped her hands at her sides.

What was to be done?  She thought with distress of
her parents who had probably been made anxious by her
prolonged absence,—for they knew that she fully intended
to be present at the interment of her ancestress.

Around her were grouped the mighty monarchs of the
forest, their topmost boughs still tipped here and there by
the fading western light.  Far in the distance gleamed a
strip of light,—there lay L—— with its lofty castle, whose
long rows of windows glittered for a few moments, and
then disappeared in gloom.  And there towered the
mountain crowned by the ruin of Gnadeck; but the forest hid
from her her dear home, she could not even see the lofty
flagstaff.

Elizabeth soon relinquished all hope of being seen by
passers-by,—and she knew that her feeble cry for help
must die away unheard, for the tower lay hidden in the
depths of the forest; no frequented road passed near it;
and who would be likely to be walking at nightfall in
the quiet path which led nowhere except to the convent
tower?

Nevertheless she made one attempt, and uttered a loud
cry.  But how weak it sounded!  It seemed to her that
the boughs of the nearest tree absorbed it entirely; it
only startled some ravens in the vicinity, and they flew
croaking away overhead; then all was still again,—fearfully
still.  The Lindhof church bells were silent.
A faint red yet glimmered in the west, tinging a few
little floating clouds,—the forest lay in deep shadow.

Utterly at a loss, Elizabeth walked to and fro upon
the flat roof.  Sometimes she stood still at the corner
looking toward Castle Lindhof, which was the
nearest inhabited mansion, and raised her voice in a vain
cry for help.  At last she ceased all such efforts, and
seated herself upon the bench which was set into the
outer wall of the small landing, at the top of the stairs,
and which was tolerably protected by the projecting roof
from wind and weather.

She was not afraid of passing the night here, for she
did not doubt that search would be made for her in the
forest; but how many anxious hours her friends must
pass before she could be found!

This thought troubled her greatly and increased her
nervous agitation.  She had passed through so much
during the day, and had had no assistance, nothing but
her own force of character to sustain her.  She was still
trembling from the terror of the last shock.  What could
have caused poor Bertha's outbreak of insanity?  She
had spoken of a heart which Elizabeth had stolen from
her,—was it possible that Hollfeld had played some part
in this sad story, as Frau Ferber had lately so often
insisted?

Such a suspicion revived all the painful sensations that
had before possessed her.  But now, sitting motionless
against the old wall, while the darkening heavens seemed
to draw near her, and nothing spoke of life around save
the damp night air that swept soothingly across her hot
cheek,—now her moistened eyes bore witness that the
stern stoicism with which her crushed heart had armed
itself, had vanished.  All, all was over; she had broken
with the inmates of Lindhof forever.  She had shattered
Helene's ideal, and she had thrown back to Herr von
Walde the gift of his consent to her marriage which he
had offered her; doubtless his pride had been mortally
wounded.  Most probably she should never see him
again.  He would soon set out upon his travels, glad to
efface the impression made upon him by the ingratitude
of the poor music-teacher.

She covered her face with her hands, and the tears
trickled through the slender white fingers.

In the mean time the night had fallen, still it was
not quite dark.  The crescent moon was reigning in the
skies, where all the other shining wanderers appeared and
went their way, never heeding that their sister planet,
the earth, careering in space with them, contained millions
of little worlds, each inclosing in its sphere heights
and depths, tossing waves with their ebb and flow, mighty
storms, and only too rarely a sacred repose.

And now life began to stir in the old tower.  There
was a low murmur and moaning upon the stairs; slight
blows were struck from within upon the oaken door, and
wings brushed the inner wall; the owls and bats were
longing to be abroad, and could not find their accustomed
place of egress.  And in the forest below there arose a
rustling and crackling,—the deer broke through the thicket
and roamed about in entire security.  From the distant
east, where the forest almost in its primeval luxuriance
descended into the valley and then again climbed an
opposing range of mountains, a faint shot was occasionally
heard.  Every time Elizabeth heard the sound she
nestled closer against the wall beneath the protecting
roof, as if in fear lest she should be discerned by some
unfriendly eye gazing thence;—those hunting there were
outlaws.

Still no succour came.  Her fear, then, lest her parents
should be anxious, had been unfounded.  Of course, they
supposed her to be yet at the castle,—perhaps they were
displeased at her long absence from home; but they
would possibly wait until ten o'clock for her return.  It
might be midnight before she was released.

It grew quite cold.  With a shiver, she drew her thin
shawl close about her, and tied a handkerchief around
her throat.  She was obliged to leave her seat, and walk
to and fro on the roof, to prevent herself from becoming
chilled.  Occasionally she leaned over the balustrade and
looked down.

White cloud-like phantoms were hovering hither and
thither over the open space beneath,—the mists rising
from the damp ground.  Elizabeth no longer thought
of the motley spectacle,—the ostentation and vanity
that had filled this place a few days before.  She forgot
the countless idle words that had filled the air, causing
such a confusion of tongues that the old tower, instead
of standing upon honest Thuringian soil, might have
challenged the skies upon the banks of the Euphrates.
Forth from the billows of mist floated the shadowy forms
of the nuns buried under these walls, their features
pale and passionless, their desolate hearts stilled within
their long-flowing robes, and their waxen brows, beneath
their white bands, haunted no longer by restless doubts
and longings.  They would fain have trodden the path
leading from the world to heaven, had they not been so
often dragged down to earth again.

Elizabeth thought of those dark times, when these
gloomy walls were erected in expiation of the crime of a
knightly assassin,—cold stone walls to appease Him from
whom has come the Word made life,—who is the source
of Eternal Love.  Could all the prayers, breathed by
the inmates of that living tomb,—all the masses,—the
organs rolling thunder, blot out the stain of blood which
the criminal carried to the foot of the eternal throne?
No, a thousand times no!  He heeds no incense wafted
before the shrine of Baal.  His eternal edicts are not
reversed by the creatures whom He has made.

What a terrible episode in the family history of the
Gnadewitzes those crumbling ruins commemorated!
And could it be possible that a being, conscious of a
fervent desire for moral elevation and spiritual growth,
should be duly respected only when permitted to bear
that name?  Must she learn that a spotless life was
nought, laid in the balance with a human device, which
was, in fact, a phantom of the brain,—an absolute nothing?

Was the superstition that committed witches to the
flames darker than this delusion of the privileges of birth,
by which many a true and richly-gifted human life is as
ruthlessly destroyed as by the faggot of the executioner,—the
delusion, that flatly contradicts the Almighty decree,
which declares all God's children to come alike from His
creating hand,—alike in outward form, in physical
structure, in the possession of senses, whereby both king and
beggar enjoy and suffer, alike in the possession of that
vital spark that animates these outward shapes?  Where
is there a soul, even although it has attained the
summit of human perfection, that is not conscious of some
weakness, or a human being so depraved, that one good
quality at least does not glimmer forth from the slough
of vice into which he has sunk?—And can he be
influenced by such narrow prejudice,—he, whose brow
bears the impress of high intelligence, whose glance and
voice can melt with a tenderness that reveals a soul
alive to the best and deepest emotions of our nature?
Could he rank the hollow form above the immortal
rights of humanity, which accord freedom of thought
and action to all?  Did not that false system
continually crush out the highest and holiest sentiment of
the human heart, love?  If Elizabeth had loved Hollfeld,
what would her lot have been without the discovery in
the ruins?  And if,—here a sarcastic smile hovered
upon her quivering lips,—if one thought of affection for
her had ever stirred Herr von Walde's heart, and he
should come now and offer his hand?——Never, never
would she consent to give herself to him, with the
consciousness that her unutterable love had only been
returned when such return was no longer forbidden by the
old worn-out laws of society.  The pain of renunciation
lost much of its torture, contrasted with the torment
that would be the result of such a life.

With looks full of gloom, Elizabeth once more walked
to the corner of the balustrade looking towards Castle
Lindhof, and stood gazing in that direction.  One and
the same star rose above that graceful pile and the poorest
hut in the neighbouring village, casting its mild light
impartially upon each,—or was there really a stronger gleam
upon the spot where the park opened into the forest?  No;
that light came from below, and penetrating quickly
farther and farther into the forest, faintly tinged the boughs
above with its rays.  It was most certainly a torch borne
along the narrow path by which Elizabeth had reached
the convent tower.

Once the light was, for an instant, immovable, and a
faint shout reached her ears.  She felt convinced now
that help was at hand,—that search was made for her,—and
she raised her voice in reply, although she knew that
the faint sound could not reach the bearer of the torch.
The light hesitated but for a moment, and then quickly
came nearer and nearer.  She could soon plainly distinguish
the flame of the torch, and see the shower of sparks
that fell from it to the ground.

"Elizabeth!" suddenly resounded through the forest.

The voice thrilled through her every nerve,—for it was
his voice.  Herr von Walde was calling her in tones of
unutterable anxiety.

"Here," she called down to him; "I am here, upon the
convent tower."

The torch-bearer plunged through the thickets and
hurried across the open sward.  In a few moments he stood
upon the landing without, shaking the door with a
powerful hand.  Several stout blows followed, and the old
planks were burst open.

Herr von Walde stepped out upon the roof.  In his
left hand he held the torch, while with his right he drew
Elizabeth within the circle of its light.  His head was
uncovered, his dark hair lay in dishevelled locks upon his
forehead, and his face was very pale.  He hastily scanned
her figure, as if to convince himself that she was unhurt.
He was evidently in a state of great agitation, the hand
which grasped her arm trembled violently, and for a
moment he could not speak.

"Elizabeth, poor child!" he ejaculated at last, with a
gasping sigh, "did the insult that you received in my
house to-day drive you hither to this dreary ruin, and the
gloomy night?"

Elizabeth explained to him that her stay here had not
been voluntary on her part, as the bolted door testified,
and related in a few words, as she descended the stairs,
all that had occurred.  He went before and offered her his
hand to support her, but she took hold of the rope which
served for a hand-rail, and turned away her eyes that she
might ignore his proffered aid.

At this moment a strong draught of air extinguished
the torch, which had burnt only dimly, and all was
enveloped in darkness.

"Now give me your hand!" he said, in the tone of
command which she knew so well.

"I can take hold of the rope, I need no other support,"
she replied.

The last word had scarcely left her lips when she felt
herself lifted from the ground like a feather by two strong
arms and carried down the steps.

"Foolish child!" he said, as he set her down upon the
grass outside.  "I will not have you dashed to pieces
upon the stone pavement of that dreary tower."

She entered the path which led directly to Castle
Lindhof,—it was the shortest.  Herr von Walde walked silently
by her side.

"Do you intend to leave me to-night without saying
one kind word to me?" he suddenly asked, standing
still.  Pain and suppressed auger strove in his voice
for the mastery.  "Have I had the misfortune to offend you?"

"Yes, you have wounded me grievously."

"Because I did not instantly chastise my cousin?"

"You could not,—his suit had your entire approbation.
You, as well as the others, would have forced me to
accept Herr von Hollfeld."

"I force you?  Oh, child, how little you understand a
man's heart?  I was the victim of a terrible error when
I uttered that 'yes.'  I longed to try if it were a delusion,
and to free myself from it.  Now you shall learn that I
will banish everything that can remind you of to-day's
terror.  You like Lindhof?"

"Yes."

"The Baroness Lessen is about to leave the castle.
Let me entreat you to be my sister's stay and support
when I leave her again, when I begin my wanderings
anew.  Will you consent?"

"I cannot promise to do so."

"And why not?"

"Fräulein von Walde will not desire my society, and
even if——.  I have already declared once to-day that I
shall not bear the new name."

"What a strange reply!  What has that to do with
the matter?  Ah, now I understand.  At last I begin to
see clearly.  Then you think that I agreed to Hollfeld's
suit because you suddenly had a right to an ancient name?
Speak, is not this the fact?"

"Yes, I believe this to be the fact."

"And you suppose further, that the same reason leads
me to desire your companionship for my sister.  You are
convinced that aristocratic pride prompts all my thoughts
and actions?"

"Yes, yes."

"Pray let me inquire of you what name you bore when
I asked you for a birthday greeting, when we last walked
together here in this path?"

"Then we did not know of the secret hidden in the
ruins," said Elizabeth, in an almost inaudible tone.

"Have you forgotten the words which I dictated to
you that afternoon?"

"No,—I remember every syllable of them with the
greatest distinctness," she replied quickly.

"And do you think it possible that such words can end
with, 'I hope the coming year will prove a happy one,'
or the like?"

The girl did not speak, but looked up at him with a
crimson blush.

"Listen to me quietly for one moment, Elizabeth," he
continued, but he himself was so far from quiet that his
voice sounded faint and faltering, as though half stifled
by the throbbing of his heart, "a man who might have
been regarded as fortune's favourite, so richly did she
endow him in his cradle with rank and wealth, mistrusted
these advantages when he arrived at years of discretion.
He feared that they would stand in the way of what he
considered the true happiness of his life.  He had created
for himself an ideal of her by whose side alone he could
find real peace,—not that he required extraordinary
physical beauty or intellectual power,—he sought a pure,
true heart, that should be influenced by no consideration
of worldly advantages, but should give herself to him
for his own sake alone.  He gradually arrived at the
conviction that his ideal must remain an ideal, for in his
search for its realization, he came to be thirty-seven
years old.  When hope has folded her wings, and night
is falling around us, there is something overpowering
in the sudden flushing of a morning light, at the
eleventh hour.  The mind is unhinged, the long, weary
waiting has rendered it almost incapable of believing
in great, unexpected happiness.  At last, Elizabeth, he
found the heart he had sought,—a heart accompanied
by a clear, well-balanced intellect that was infinitely
superior to all narrow, sordid considerations,—but this
heart throbbed in a youthful form adorned with every
imaginable grace.  Was it to be wondered at that the
man of riper years, possessing, as he knew, no personal
advantages, regarded with mistrust another who could
lay in the balance youth and a fine person?  Was it to be
wondered at that he allowed himself to be carried away
one moment, inspired by the boldest hopes, by some word,
some act on the young girl's part, only to be cast down
utterly the next, when he saw that other in her society?
Was it not natural that he should fear that youth only
could attract youth?  Never did heart of man long
more wildly than his for the accomplishment of his
desire,—never was there a man more possessed, in
moments of despair, by a cowardly doubt as to its
fulfilment.  And when they told him that his little idolized
darling belonged to that other, he emptied the bitter cup
to the dregs, and said 'yes' because he imagined that she
had already said it.  Elizabeth, I stood on the threshold
of the pavilion to-day in a state of utter despair.  You
do not know what it is, when a merchant heaps all his
treasure, every jewel that he possesses, in a single ship,
and sees it sink before his eyes.  Shall I try to tell you
what I felt when you so decidedly rejected the rank which
you might have claimed, and so made an alliance with
Hollfeld impossible?  Shall I tell you that my sister's
condition, and consideration for you yourself, alone
prevented me from chastising that scoundrel upon the spot?
He has already left Lindhof, and will never cross your
path again.  Will you forget the insult that you received
in my house to-day?"

He had taken her hands in his, and held them pressed
close to his breast.  Without withdrawing them she
assented to his question with trembling lips.

"And shall we not forget everything, my darling little
Gold Elsie, that has occurred between the beginning and
the conclusion of the birthday wish?  My golden darling,
the delight of my eyes, my own Elizabeth Ferber stands
again before me, and will repeat after me what I say,
will she not?  The last sentence which was so cruelly
interrupted—tell me what it was."

"Here is my hand as the pledge of an unutterable bliss,"
faltered Elizabeth.

"In life, in death, and for all eternity, I will be your own."

But she opened her lips in vain to repeat after him the
words which he uttered so solemnly, with the most
profound emotion.  She burst into tears and threw her
arms around the neck of her lover, who clasped her to
his heart.

"This divine dream must not fade," he said with a
sigh, as Elizabeth gently extricated herself from his
embrace.  "Leave me your hand at least, Elizabeth, I must
learn to believe in my bliss.  If you leave me now, I
shall be crushed by doubt again to-night.  You are
thoroughly conscious that you are irrevocably mine?  Do
you know that you must leave father and mother, and the
dear home upon the mountain, for my sake?"

"I know it, and will do so gladly, Rudolph," she said
smiling, but firm.

"God bless you, my darling, for those words!  But you
must know the depths of my doubt.  Is it not pity for
my boundless love that induces you to yield your consent
to my suit?"

"No, Rudolph, it is love,—a love which first awoke
in my heart,—does not this sound strangely,—when I saw
in your angry eyes, and heard in the tones of your voice,
how you detested cruelty and injustice!  And since that
moment it has never left me; on the contrary, it has
increased and grown stronger, in spite of all my efforts to
destroy it, notwithstanding all the harsh words that have
so often wounded it sorely."

"Who spoke such words?"

"You, yourself; you were harsh and unkind to me."

"Oh, child, those were the outbreaks of insane
jealousy!  I have struggled for and exercised self-control
all my life long, but I could not conceal how I was
tortured then.  And would you, on that account, have
closed upon me the heaven that is opening before me?"

"Not on that account,—for one kind look from you made
me happy again; but another obstinate opponent entered
the lists,—my reason.  It had grown well aware of
everything that report declared concerning your incredible
aristocratic arrogance, and, at every wild throb of my
heart, dinned into my ears your reasons for refusing the
alliance which the prince proposed to you."

"Ah! those sixteen quarterings!" cried Herr von
Walde, smiling, "But see, my little Gold Elsie, what a
Nemesis that was!" he continued more gravely.  "To
avoid annoyance, I seized upon the first means at hand,
and, as I now know, it almost cost me the happiness of my
life.  I like the Prince of L——, but any residence at his
court was rendered, for a time, utterly odious to me, by the
matrimonial alliances proposed for me, principally by the
Princess Catharine.  She had taken it into her head that
I must marry one of the ladies of her court.  No one
could believe that the girl was entirely indifferent to me,
for she passed for a brilliant beauty, and had broken many
a heart.  All that I could say was of no avail; they
continued to plot and intrigue, and so one day I cut the
whole matter short by declaring to her Highness that
her plan for me would cost me one of my estates, since,
as is true, by my uncle's will it was devised to the State
if I should marry a wife who could not show sixteen
quarterings in her escutcheon.  This declaration put an
end to my torment; no such person was to be found in
the length and breadth of the little kingdom, and all
thought it natural that I should wish to retain my estate."

"And will you suffer this loss for my sake?" cried
Elizabeth, in surprise.

"It is no loss, Elizabeth; it is an exchange,—an
exchange by which I gain a priceless treasure,—the
happiness of an entire existence."

A torch glimmered through the thicket.

"Halt! this way!" cried Herr von Walde.

In a few moments one of the servants appeared,
and was ordered to hasten as quickly as possible to
Gnadeck and announce Fräulein Ferber's safety.

The servant hurried away.

"I have been very selfish, Elizabeth," said Herr von
Walde, putting her hand within his arm, and no longer
loitering.  "I knew that your family was most anxious
about you; that your father and uncle were ranging the
forest in search of you, while my people, and many of the
Lindhof peasants, were traversing the country in all
directions upon the same errand, and yet I forgot
everything when I found you."

"My poor father and mother!" sighed Elizabeth, not
without a slight twinge of conscience; the whole world
had ceased to exist for her when he appeared.

"Friedrich runs quickly," von Walde said, soothingly;
"he will reach the summit of the mountain long before
us, and tell them you are safe."

They entered the park and passed by the castle.  It
lay in darkness and silence.  Only from Helena's
chamber window gleamed a faint light.

"There is a life-and-death struggle going on there,"
murmured Herr von Walde, looking up.  "She loved
that wretch devotedly; how fearful her awakening must be!"

"Go and comfort her," begged Elizabeth.

"Comfort her?  At such a moment?  My child, who
could have come to me with comfort when I thought I
had lost you?  Helene shut herself in her room when I
ordered Herr von Hollfeld's horse to be brought to the
door; her maid is near her.  A long time must elapse
before she wishes to see me; when we have been grossly
deceived we do not immediately turn to those who warned
us of the deceit.  Besides, I will not enter my house
again until I am sure that your parents will not snatch
you from me."

The path branched aside to the well-known bank in
the forest.

"Do you remember?" asked Elizabeth, smiling, as she
pointed to it.

"Yes, yes.  There you told me so bravely of your
determination to go out into the world as a governess, and
I took the liberty of declaring to myself that I never
would permit it.  I had to exert all my self-control to
prevent myself from then and there clasping my little bird
in my arms and pressing its golden head, filled with such
bold resolve, to my breast.  And there I drew from you
the unconscious naive confession that your parents still
held the first place in your heart.  But you adopted a
cold, repellant demeanour, as soon as I attempted to be
confidential."

"It was shyness,—and I am not yet quite sure that
to-morrow, when I see your stern face by daylight, I
shall not fall into the same embarrassment."

"It will never be stern again, my child; joy has
touched it with its gentle finger."

Soon afterwards, the old beeches which look in at the
windows of the Ferber's dwelling-room saw a strange
sight.  A man of fine presence, his face pale with
profound emotion, conducted the daughter to her parents,
and then asked them to give her back to him as his
future wife,—his other self.  The old beeches saw him
take his young love in his arms, and receive the blessing
of her agitated parents.  They saw the mother's face,
smiling through tears, raised gratefully to Heaven, and
little Ernst shaking the canary's cage, that he might
awaken that sleepy songster and announce to him, with
great solemnity, that Elsie was betrothed.





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.. _`CHAPTER XX.`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XX.

.. vspace:: 2

While happiness was reigning in the home upon old
Gnadeck, a sad event occurred in the valley.

Two peasants from Lindhof, who, provided with
torches, had been looking for Elizabeth, heard, as they
were proceeding from their village to the forest, a loud
growling at a little distance,—it sounded like an angry
dog.  Not far from them lay stretched across the road
a human form, while a large dog lying beside it, as
if to defend it, had placed both his forepaws upon its
breast.  The animal became infuriated at the approach of
the men, and, gnashing its teeth, threatened to fly at
them.  They were afraid, and ran back to the village,
where they met a party bearing torches, and among them
the forester, who had just heard from Herr von Walde's
servant of Elizabeth's safety.

Instantly all hastened to the spot which the frightened
peasants described.  This time the dog did not growl.
He whined, and crept to the forester's feet; it was Wolf,
his watch-dog, and there lay Bertha, apparently lifeless.
She was bleeding profusely from a wound in her head,
and her face was as pale as death.

The forester did not speak, he shunned the sympathetic
glances of the by-standers; anger and pain strove for the
mastery in his features.  He raised Bertha from the
ground, and carried her into the first house in the village;
it was the poor weaver's.  Then he sent a messenger for
Sabina.  Fortunately, the Waldheim physician was with
one of his patients in the village.  He was sent for, and
soon brought the poor girl to herself.  She recognized
him, and asked for water.  Her wound was not
dangerous, but the physician shook his head and looked
meaningly at the forester, who was anxiously watching him.

The doctor was a blunt man, with rather rude manners.
He suddenly approached the forester, and said a few
words to him in a slight undertone.  The old man
staggered back as though from a mortal blow, stared
absently at the doctor without replying a word,—and then
left the house without looking at the sick girl.

"Uncle, uncle, forgive me!" she cried after him in
heart-breaking tones, but he had already vanished into
the dark night.

And now Sabina made her appearance in the doorway.
A maid followed her, bearing a huge bundle of linen upon
her head, and a basket upon her arm, containing bandages,
provisions, and all manner of necessary articles.

"Gracious Powers! what have you been doing with
yourself, Bertha?" cried the old woman with tears in her
eyes, as she saw the pale face, and the bandaged head
lying upon the pillow.  "And to-day, too, when I thought
you went out looking so much better,—you had such
beautiful red cheeks!"

The girl buried her face in the bedclothes, and began
to sob convulsively.

The physician told Sabina what was to be done, and
strictly forbade the invalid to converse or even to speak.

"Must I be silent?" cried Bertha, raising herself in
bed.  "Ah! silence may be easy for such an old man,
whose blood runs cool and calm in his veins.  But I must
speak, Sabina, and if it kills me,—so much the better!"

She drew the old housekeeper towards her upon the
bed, and, weeping bitterly, confessed all to her.

She had had a love affair with Hollfeld, who had
promised to marry her, and had induced her to swear
solemnly that she would keep silent concerning their
relations to each other, and not claim her rights until he
should authorize her to do so; for, as he told her, he
must first influence his mother and his relatives at
Lindhof to accede to his wishes.  The unthinking girl
promised all that he asked,—and in addition vowed solemnly
that no human being should hear one word from her lips
until she could proclaim her proud secret to the world.
The meetings of the pair usually took place in the
convent-tower or in the pavilion in the park.  No one
discovered them.  The baroness' suspicions were aroused
by some slight circumstance,—she fell into a violent rage,
and forbade Bertha ever to show her face at Lindhof
Castle.

Still Bertha's lofty hopes were unshaken, for Hollfeld
consoled her, and referred to the future.  But then came
Elizabeth Ferber, and he was an altered man from that
moment.  He avoided Bertha, and when she compelled
him by threats to an interview, he treated her with a
coldness and contempt that excited the girl's passionate
nature to frenzy.

When at last she became convinced that she had to do
with a man utterly devoid of honour, the whole horror
of her situation was laid bare before her.  She fell into
a state of the wildest despair, and then began her nightly
escapades.  Sleep scarcely visited her eyes, and she grew
more composed only when she could shriek out her agony
and woe in the lonely forest.

At last came the end to the tragedy,—the same end that
has befallen such tragedies hundreds of times before, and
that will continue to befall them,—for the warning example
convinces the understanding but never touches an
unsuspecting, loving heart.  Hollfeld offered the poor girl
a sum of money if she would relinquish her claims and
leave that part of the country.  He pretended that his
mother and his Lindhof relatives forced him to marry the
newly-made Fräulein von Gnadewitz.  Bertha denounced
him as an unprincipled liar, and rushed from his presence.
In a frenzy of rage she presented herself before
his mother and told her all.

Thus far Bertha continued her sad tale connectedly,
only interrupted by her violent gestures, sobs, and tears.
She paused for a moment, and an expression of
inextinguishable hatred distorted her countenance.

"That horrible woman," she cried at last, gasping
for breath, "has the Bible always upon her lips.  She
knits and sews night and day for missionaries, who are
to carry the word of God to the heathen, that they may
be converted; but they cannot in their ignorance be
more inhuman and cruel than this Christian in her pride.
She wishes to root out idol-worship, and sets up herself
for an idol, surrounding herself by a crowd of fawning,
flattering hypocrites, who declare that she is one of the
elect,—not as other people are.  Woe to the upright,
honest man who refuses to consider her as such,—his
crime is blasphemy!  She thrust me from her doors, and
threatened to have the dogs hunt me from the park, if I
ever showed my face there again.  From that time I
do not know what became of me," she said, sinking back
exhausted among the pillows, and pressing her hands
upon her aching forehead.  "I only know that I awaked
and saw the doctor's face bending over me.  He told my
uncle of my disgrace,—I heard him.  What will become
of me!"

Sabina had listened to this confession with horror and
grief.  She had always advocated the strictest purity
and decorum, and had been, as Bertha well knew, a
stern and inflexible judge in such unhappy cases as that
of the wretched girl.  But her heart was full of love and
pity.  She looked down upon the crushed sinner before
her with tears of compassion, and soothed the weary
head upon her kind old breast.  She was rewarded by
seeing the poor girl fall asleep in her arms, like a child
worn out with weeping.

Soon nothing was heard in the little room but the quiet
breathing of the sick girl and the ticking of the clock.
Sabina put on her spectacles, drew an old worn copy of
the New Testament from her basket, and watched faithfully
by the bedside until the bright dawn looked in at
the windows.

Bertha did not die, as she had hoped to do in
consequence of her agitating confession.  On the contrary,
she recovered very quickly, nursed and tended by
Sabina and Frau Ferber.  There was no return of her
insanity.  The wound in her head, which had been caused
by a fall upon a sharp stone, had produced a most beneficial
result in the copious loss of blood which had ensued.

The forester was beside himself at the disgrace which
Bertha had brought beneath his honest roof.  For some
days he would not even listen to his brother's calm, soothing
words.  After Sabina had communicated to him Bertha's
confession, he rode to Odenberg to call "the worthless
scoundrel to account;" but the servants there informed
him, shrugging their shoulders, that their master had
started upon a journey; they could not tell whither, or
when he would return.  Herr von Walde's search for
him was also without result.

Bertha herself declared that she would never again
hear of her betrayer, whom she now regarded with a hate
as fervent as had been her love.  A few weeks after her
recovery she left the weaver's hut,—she never again
entered the Lodge,—to go to America.  But she did not go
alone.  One of her uncle's assistants, a fine young fellow,
begged for his dismissal, because he had always loved
Bertha in silence, and could not find it in his heart to let
her go alone into the wide world.  She had promised
to be his.  They were to be married in Bremen, and
sail thence for the New World, where he would lead a
farmer's life.  Herr von Walde provided the pair with a
considerable sum of money; and, at Frau Ferber's and
Elizabeth's request, the forester silently consented that
Sabina should rob the overflowing store of linen that his
deceased wife had accumulated, to furnish the household
of the emigrants.

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Upon a gloomy autumn day a well-packed travelling
carriage left Castle Lindhof and slowly rolled towards
L——.  Her haughty arrogance all vanished, the
baroness sat huddled together in one corner of it.  Her
brilliant part at Lindhof was played; she was
reluctantly returning to her small rooms and reduced
circumstances.

"Mamma," said Bella, in her shrill, childish accents,
as she opened and shut the carriage window and drummed
against the seat with her feet, "does the castle belong
now to Elizabeth Ferber?  Will she drive in our beautiful
carriage with the white damask cushions?  Can she go
into your room whenever she pleases and sit in the
embroidered arm-chairs?  Old Lorenz says that she will be
the mistress there now, and that all her orders must be
obeyed."

"Child, do not torment me so with your chatter,"
groaned the baroness, burying her face in her
pocket-handkerchief.

"It is very unkind of Uncle Rudolph to send us away,"
the child continued, without heeding what her mother
said.  "You know we have no silver dishes to eat from
in B——, have we, mamma?  Shall we dine at a
restaurant, mamma? and will you dress your own hair while
Caroline washes and irons?  Why——"

"Silence!" her mother interrupted the flood of speech
that so tormented her.

Bella cowered terrified in a corner, and did not look up
until the carriage was rolling over the stone pavement of
L——.  The baroness cast a hasty glance at the Princely
castle, then drew her veil over her face and burst into
tears.

In consequence of Bertha's confession there had been
a stormy interview between Herr von Walde and the
baroness, which had ended in the departure of the latter.
Helene repulsed her with aversion when she appealed to
her, and she was forced to enter the travelling carriage,
which appeared punctually before the castle at the hour
appointed by its master.  There was one consoling drop
in her cup of misfortune,—Herr von Walde had provided
the means for Bella's education, upon condition that it
should be more sensibly conducted than heretofore.

Almost at the same hour in which the Baroness Lessen
was leaving Lindhof forever, the Countess von Falkenberg
presented herself in the boudoir of the princess, who
had returned with her husband a few days before from
the baths.

The countess made as profound an obeisance as her
uncertain limbs would permit, but showed a degree of
haste that she would have stigmatized in another as
contrary to all rules of etiquette.  She held an open letter
in her hand, which had been somewhat crushed by her
trembling fingers.

"I am most unhappy," she began in an unnatural tone
of voice, "to be obliged to impart to your highnesses a
most scandalous piece of news.  Oh, mon Dieu, who would
have thought it!  Well, if even in our own sphere all
sense of shame, all dignified self-consciousness, is at an
end,—if every one is to heed the dictates of low and
vulgar impulses,—no wonder that the halo surrounding
us is dimmed, and the mob ventures to attack the throne
itself!"

"Calm yourself, my dear Falkenberg," said the prince,
who was present, with evident amusement.  "Your preface
is somewhat after the magnificent style of a Cassandra.
But as yet I see no signs of earthquake; and to my great
satisfaction I observe,"—and he glanced out of the
window at the quiet market-square with a smile,—"that my
faithful subjects are quite composed.  What have you to
tell us?"

She looked up surprised,—his sarcastic tone made her
falter.

"Oh, if your highness only knew!" she cried at last.
"That man, upon whose pride of birth I so relied, Herr
von Walde, informs me that he is betrothed.  And to
whom? to whom?"

"To Fräulein Ferber, the niece of my brave, old forester,"
the prince, smiling, replied.  "Yes, yes, I have heard
something of this; Walde knows what he is about, I see.
The little girl is a miracle of beauty and loveliness they
say.  Well, I hope he will not keep us waiting long to
make her acquaintance, but will present her to us soon."

"Your highness," cried the paralyzed countess, "she is
the daughter of your highness' forester's clerk!"

"Yes, yes, my good Falkenberg," chimed in the
princess, "we know that.  But be calm; she is I assure you
of noble rank."

"Will your highness graciously permit me," rejoined
the old lady, her face crimson, as she pointed to the
crumpled letter, "here it stands in black and white,—his
betrothal with a person of low birth,—here is the name,
Ferber, and no other, and just so it will be written upon
von Walde's genealogical tree forever.  It actually seems
as if the man paraded it with a sort of ostentation.  The
inconceivable indifference of these people in refusing to
assume the name of von Gnadewitz shows plainly enough
that they have nothing in common with that aristocratic
family.  Their noble blood has utterly degenerated in the
course of years, and, according to my notions of nobility,
the girl is and always will be of low birth.  I sincerely pity
poor Hollfeld, who is, as your highness knows, of stainless
descent; by this misalliance he will lose at least half a
million,—and the poor Lessen, too, from whom I have just
had a few sad lines,—she leaves Lindhof to-day, of course
to escape from such scandalous proceedings."

"Those are matters affecting your own personal
feeling, and of course I say nothing with regard to them,"
rejoined the prince, not without severity.  "But I herewith
request you to announce to the princess and myself the
fact, as soon as Herr von Walde wishes to present his
bride to us."

In the next room, the door of which was open, Cornelie
was merrily turning upon her heels and snapping her
fingers.

"Aha! and that was why Sir Bruin wished to escape
the tongues of certain eloquent ladies!" she cried, with a
stifled laugh.  "Cornelie, where was your usual penetration
with regard to the masculine heart?  Oh, the thing
delights me for old Falkenberg's sake," she said, in a
whisper, to another young lady who sat at the window
embroidering.  "Now for at least two weeks we shall have
the pleasure of seeing how the loyal creature will look
daggers at their highnesses whenever their backs are
turned, while all the honey of the promised land will
overflow her withered lips as soon as the sun of their
royal smile shines upon her.  I could wish that every
man whom we know would follow Herr von Walde's silly
example!"

"Good Heavens!  Cornelie, are you insane?" cried her
companion at the window, dropping her needle from her
fingers.

At the same time that every drop of blood in the
Falkenberg's aristocratic veins was so outraged, Doctor
Fels returned to his home, and went to the nursery, where
his wife was bathing her baby and superintending the
knitting fingers of her two little daughters.

"Rejoice with me, dear love!" he cried, with sparkling
eyes, as he stood upon the threshold of the door.
"Lindhof will have a mistress, and such a mistress!  Gold
Elsie, our beautiful Gold Elsie!  Do you hear, my
darling?  Now the sun will shine brightly there.  The
healthy atmosphere has conquered, and the evil spirit
that actually dropped mildew upon poor human souls has
fled.  I have just seen it drive past in Herr von Walde's
travelling carriage.  The announcement of the betrothal
has fallen upon our worthy town like a bomb-shell.  I
tell you it is wonderful to see the long, incredulous faces!
But the news has not surprised me at all.  I have known
what must happen ever since Linke's murderous
attempt.  Since I drove that evening to Lindhof by Herr
von Walde's side, to see whether the excitement had
produced no ill effects upon the brave child, I have known
well that his hour had struck, that he had a heart indeed,
a heart full of fervent, passionate love."

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Let us pass over a space of two years, and once more
enter the old Gnadeck ruins.  We shall ascend the mountain
by a broad well-kept road, leading to the castle gate,
which has exchanged its rusty bolts and bars for more
convenient fastenings.

We remember with a shiver the cold, damp court-yard
behind this gate, shut in by gloomy colonnades on three
sides, while the crumbling buildings threatened to bury
us beneath their ruins.  We remember the lonely basin in
the centre, that, surrounded by the lions of stone, has
waited in vain during so many years for the silver stream
that should fill it.

Remembering all this, we ring the bell.  At its clear
sound, a fresh, trim maiden opens the massive gate, and
invites us to enter.  But we start back almost dazzled,
for from the open gate what a flood of light and colour
greets us!  The ruins have vanished, the high wall that
surrounded them alone remains, and we are for the first
time aware how extensive is the space which it encloses.

We do not tread upon the echoing pavement of a
courtyard, a smooth gravel-walk is beneath our feet; before
us stretches a level, well-kept lawn.  In its centre stands
the granite basin, and from the threatening jaws of the
lions are pouring four powerful streams of water.  The
chestnuts still remain the faithful guardians of the
fountain, but since their boughs have been bathed in heaven's
air and light they have grown strong and young again,
and are now covered with a wealth of fan-like blossoms.
We wind among the gravel paths that intersect the lawn,
delight our eyes with the groups of shrubbery, still
very young, that are so tastefully scattered here and
there, and with the gay beds of carefully tended flowers.

Before us lies the home.  Its four walls are free now
to the air and light, and have put on a fresh bright
garment; but its front is far more stately than it used to be.
New windows are seen on every side.  Ferber has had
four rooms added to it; for when the forester retires to
private life, he and Sabina are to live there also.  In the
family dwelling-room,—from whose two high windows
can now be seen the same view formerly seen only from
Elizabeth's room above,—Herr von Walde has had the
trees thinned so that her parents might always have the
home of their darling before their eyes,—stands the young
Frau von Walde.  She has been kept in the house for
several weeks, and her first expedition has been to carry
her first-born to her parents' home.  There he lies in her
arms.  Miss Mertens, or rather the happily married Frau
Reinhard, has just removed the veil from the little thing.
The minute, plump, red face shows, in the eyes of the
mother, an unmistakable resemblance to Herr von Walde.
Ernst is laughing loudly at the vague movements of the
fat little fists, which are stretching out in all directions.
But the forester stands with his own powerful hands
behind him, and an expression of great anxiety, as if he
feared that if he moved he might do the frail atom
an injury.  He is no less delighted with his
grand-nephew than are Elizabeth's parents with their
grandchild.  He has outlived his distress concerning Bertha,
and basks in Elizabeth's happiness, which was a great
surprise to him at first, and which he maintained he was
obliged to become accustomed to anew every morning.
Not, indeed, that he thought such good fortune one whit
too great for his darling,—he would have thought the
richest of earthly crowns well placed upon Elizabeth's
head; but it was so strange to him to see his sunny Gold
Elsie by the side of her grave, thoughtful husband.

Elizabeth is happy in the fullest sense of the word.
Her husband adores her, and his words have proved
true,—the expression of stern melancholy has faded forever
from his brow.

Just now the young wife is looking tenderly at the
little creature in her arms, and then down into the valley,
whence Herr von Walde will soon appear to conduct her
to her home.  Her glance grows sad for a moment, and
tears fill her eyes, as they rest upon a lofty gilded cross,
glimmering among the trees upon the shore of the
lake,—beneath those rustling boughs Helene has slept for a
year.  She died in Elizabeth's arms, praying God to bless
the dear sister who had so helped her to bear her burden
of woe until her spirit could soar away from its frail
mortal tenement.

Hollfeld has sold Odenberg, and no one knows in what
corner of the earth he hides his discontent at the
overthrow of all his plots.

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   THE END.

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   LAST DAYS OF A KING,

An Historical Romance.  Translated from the German of Moritz
Hartmann by MARY E. NILES.  12mo.  Cloth.  Price $1.50.


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   ROBERT SEVERNE: His Friends and his Enemies,

A Novel.  By WILLIAM A. HAMMOND.  12mo.  Extra Cloth.
Price $1.75.


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   WORKS BY "OUIDA."

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   GRANVILLE DE VIGNE, or Held in Bondage.

By "OUIDA," author of "Strathmore, or Wrought by his own
Hand," "Chandos," etc.  One vol.  12mo.  Cloth, $2.00.


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   STRATHMORE, or Wrought by his own Hand.

By "OUIDA," author of "Chandos," "Granville de Vigne, or
Held in Bondage," etc.  One vol.  12mo.  Cloth, $2.00.


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   CHANDOS.

A Novel.  By "OUIDA," author of "Strathmore," "Granville de
Vigne," etc.  One vol.  12mo.  Cloth, $2 00.


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   IDALIA,

A Novel.  By "OUIDA," author of "Chandos," "Strathmore,"
"Granville de Vigne," etc.  12mo.  Cloth, $2.00.


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   CECIL CASTLEMAINE'S GAGE, and other Stories.

First Series of Novelettes.  By "OUIDA," author of "Idalia,"
"Strathmore," "Chandos," "Granville de Vigne," etc.
Revised for publication by the author.  12mo.  Cloth, $1.75.


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   RANDOLPH GORDON, and other Stories.

Second Series of Novelettes.  By "OUIDA," author of "Idalia,"
"Strathmore," "Cecil Castlemaine's Gage," etc.  12mo.  Cloth,
$1.75.


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   UNDER TWO FLAGS.

A Novel.  By "OUIDA," author of "Idalia," "Chandos,"
"Granville de Vigne," etc.  12mo.  Cloth.  $2.00.


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   BEATRICE BOVILLE, and other Stories.

Third Series of Novelettes.  By "OUIDA," author of "Cecil
Castlemaine's Gage," "Idalia," "Strathmore," etc.  12mo.
Cloth.  $1.75.

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