Author: Friedrich Spielhagen
Date: 2026-01-20T04:40:48+00:00
Keywords: Fiction
Description: Two families in north Germany deal with love across rigid class boundaries in turbulent times.
Publisher: Standard Ebooks

The Breaking of the Storm

By Friedrich Spielhagen.

Translated by S. E. A. H. Stephenson.

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Book
I

I

The weather had grown worse towards evening. The groups of navvies on their way to the new railroad at Sundin cowered closer together between the piled-up barrels, casks, and chests on the foredeck, while the passengers had almost disappeared from the poop. Two elderly gentlemen who had been talking a good deal together during the journey now stood on the starboard side, looking at the island round which the steamer had to pass to the southwest, and whose level shores, sweeping in broad curves towards the promontory, appeared every moment more distinctly.

“So that is Warnow?”

“No. I beg your pardon, President—that is Ahlbeck, a fishing village, which is, however, on the Warnow estates. Warnow itself lies farther inland. You can just see the church tower over the edge of the dunes.”

The President dropped the eyeglass with which he had vainly searched for the tower.

“You have sharp eyes, General, and are quick at finding out your bearings!”

“I have only been there once, it is true,” answered the General; “but since then I have had only too much cause for studying this line of coast on the map.”

The President smiled.

“Yes, yes; it is classical ground,” said he; “it has been long fought over—long and vainly.”

“And I am convinced that it was right that the struggle should be in vain: at least, that it should have only a negative result,” said the General.

“I am not sure that it will not be taken up again,” answered the President. “Count Golm and Co. have been making immense efforts lately.”

“After you have so clearly proved that it is impossible that the railway should pay?”

“And you that the harbour would be useless!”

“Pardon me, President, the decision was not left to me: or, to speak more correctly, I declined to make it. The only place in the least suitable for the harbour would be just there, in the southernmost corner of the bay, protected by Wissow Head—that is to say, on the Warnow property. It is true that I am only a trustee for my sister’s estates—”

“I know, I know,” interrupted the President; “old-fashioned Prussian honesty, which becomes over-scrupulous sometimes. Count Golm and Co. are less scrupulous.”

“So much the worse for them,” said the General.

The two gentlemen turned and went up to a young girl, who was sitting in a sheltered place under the lee of the deck cabin, and passing the time as best she could, partly in reading, partly in drawing in a little album.

“You would like to remain on deck, I suppose, Elsa?” said the General.

“Are you both going into the cabin?” answered the girl, looking up from her book. “I think it is horrible down below; but it certainly is too chilly here for you, President.”

“It really is excessively chilly,” answered the President, turning up the collar of his overcoat, and casting a glance at the sky; “I think we shall have rain before sunset even now. You really should come with us, do not you think so, General?”

“Elsa is weatherproof,” answered the General, smiling. “But you might put a shawl or something round you. Shall I fetch you anything?”

“Thank you, papa! I have everything I can possibly want here,” said Elsa, pointing to her bundle of plaids and rugs; “I will cover myself up if it is necessary. Au revoir!”

She bowed gracefully to the President, gave her father a loving look and took up her book again, while the two gentlemen turned into the narrow passage between the cabin and the bulwarks.

She read for a few minutes, then looked up again and followed with her eyes the cloud of smoke which was still issuing from the funnel in thick, dark, eddying masses and rolling down upon the vessel. The man at the wheel, too, still stood on the same spot, still turning the wheel sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, and again holding it immovable in his rough hands. And, yes, there was still the man who had been, walking up and down with such indefatigable perseverance from end to end of the vessel, and had showed in so doing a steadiness in his movements which Elsa, in the course of the day, had repeatedly tried to imitate, but with very doubtful results.

Otherwise, Elsa thought, he had not much to distinguish him; and she said to herself that she should hardly have noticed him amongst a greater number of people, certainly not have observed him attentively, perhaps not even have seen him; and that if in the course of the day she had looked at him constantly and really studied him, it was only because there had not been much to see, to observe, or to study.

Her sketchbook which she was now turning over proved this. This was meant for a view of the harbour of Stettin. It would require a good deal of imagination to make anything out of that, thought Elsa. This one has come out better—the flat meadows, the cows, the floating beacon, smooth water beyond with a few sails, another strip of meadow, and the sea in the distance. The man at the wheel is not bad either: he stood still. But the “Indefatigable” is a terrible failure, a positive caricature! That is the results of being always in motion! At last! Only five minutes, Mr. What’s-your-name! this really might be good, the attitude is capital!

The attitude was certainly simple enough. He was leaning against a bench with his hands in his pockets, and as he looked straight out into the sea towards the west, his face was in full light, notwithstanding that the sun was hidden behind clouds, and it was also—what Elsa always particularly liked to draw—in profile.

“A fine profile,” thought Elsa, “although the finest features—the large, good-humoured blue eyes—are not seen at their best so. But, on the other hand, the dark beard will come out all the better, I can always succeed with beards; the hands in the pockets is very convenient, the left leg entirely hidden by the right, not particularly artistic but most convenient for the artist; now the bench—a little bit of the bulwarks and the ‘Indefatigable’ is finished.” Elsa held the book at a little distance from her to look at the sketch as a picture; she was highly pleased. “That shows that I really can finish off a thing when I do it with all my heart,” she said to herself, and wrote under the picture: “The ‘Indefatigable.’ With all my heart, 26th August, ’72, E. v. W.”

While Elsa had been so busily trying to put upon paper the young man’s figure and features, her image also had been present to his mind; and to him it was all the same, whether he shut his eyes or kept them open, he always saw her with equal clearness, and always equally graceful and charming, whether at the moment of their departure from Stettin, when her father introduced her to the President, and she bowed so prettily; or as she breakfasted with the two gentlemen, and laughed so merrily as she put her glass to her lips; or as she stood on the bridge with the Captain, and the wind blew her dress so close to the slender figure, and the grey veil fluttered like a flag over her shoulder; or as she spoke to the navvy’s wife on the deck who was sitting in front of her on the coiled-up ropes and hushing her baby wrapped up in a shawl; as she stooped down, lifted the shawl for one moment, and looked with a smile at the hidden treasure; and as, a minute later, she passed by, and a severe look of the brown eyes asked him how he had dared to watch her? or as she now sat against the cabin and read and drew, and read again, and looked up to the clouds of smoke or to the sailor at the wheel. It was extraordinary how firmly her image had impressed itself on his mind in the short time; but then for more than a year he had seen nothing but the sky above and the water below. It was no wonder after all if the first pretty and nice-looking girl he saw after such long abstinence made so great an impression upon his feelings.

“And besides,” said the young man to himself, “in three hours we shall be at Sundin, and then farewell, farewell forever more. But what are they doing? You are surely not going over the Oster sands with this tide?”

With these latter words he turned to the man at the wheel.

“Well, sir, it’s a fact,” answered the man, rolling his quid from one cheek to the other; “seems to me, too, we ought to starboard a bit, but the Captain thinks—”

The young man did not wait for the end of the speech. In former years he had often made this voyage; but he had passed the spot towards which their course was now directed only a few days ago, and had been alarmed to see that where there had formerly been fifteen feet of water, there were now only twelve. Today, after the strong west wind had kept the tide back to such an extent, there could hardly be ten feet, and the steamer drew eight. And yet there was no lessening of speed, no soundings were taken, not one of the proper precautions thought of! Was the Captain mad?

The young man ran so hastily past Elsa, and his eyes, as they fell upon her, had in them so singular an expression, that she rose involuntarily and looked after him. In another moment he was on the bridge beside the stout, elderly Captain, to whom he spoke long and earnestly, and at last even as it seemed warmly, while he repeatedly pointed with his hand to a particular spot in the direction in which the ship was going.

A strange feeling of anxiety came upon Elsa, such as she had not experienced in the whole journey. It could not be a small matter which roused such excitement in this quiet, good-humoured-looking man! And now she was certain of what she had already more than once guessed—that he was a sailor, and in that case no doubt a first-rate one, who was of course in the right, though the fat old Captain did shrug his shoulders so coolly, and point in the same direction, and then look through his telescope and shrug his shoulders again, while the other now hastily descended the steps from the bridge to the poop, and came straight towards her as if intending to address her.

But he did not do so at once, although, as he hastened by her, his look met hers, and he no doubt read the silent inquiry in her eyes and on her lips. He hesitated a moment, and—yes, really—he turned back, and was now close behind her.

“Madam—”

Her heart beat as if it would burst. She turned round.

“Madam,” he repeated, “it is wrong, I know, to alarm you, and perhaps without cause. But it is not impossible—in fact, I think it is probable—that within five minutes we shall be ashore. I mean we shall run aground.”

“Good heavens!” cried Elsa.

“I do not think any harm will come of it,” continued the young man, “if the Captain—Ha! we have only got half-steam on now—half-speed; but he ought to have reversed the engines, and probably even that would be too late now.”

“Can he not be made to do it?”

“On board his own ship the Captain is supreme,” answered the young man, smiling, in spite of his vexation. “I am a sailor myself, and in similar circumstances would yield just as little to any persuasions.”

He lifted his cap, bowed, and moved a step away, then stopped again. A deeper light shone in the blue eyes, and a slight tremor came into the clear, strong voice as he continued:

“There is no question of real danger. We are near the shore, and the sea is tolerably smooth. I only wished that you might not be taken by surprise. Forgive my boldness.”

He bowed again, and then quickly retired, as if he wished to avoid further questions.

“There is no question of danger,” murmured Elsa. “It is a pity; I should like to have been saved by him. But my father must know this. The President ought to be prepared; he needs it more than I do.”

She turned to the cabin; but already the diminished speed of the vessel, which in the last half-minute had still further lessened, had attracted the attention of the passengers assembled there. Her father and the President were already ascending the steps.

“What is the matter?” called the General.

“We cannot possibly be in Prora already?” said the President.

At that moment they all felt what seemed like an electric shock, while an odd, dull, grinding sound fell unpleasantly upon their ears. The keel had touched the sandbank, but had not stuck fast. A shrill whistle, a couple of seconds’ breathless silence, then the whole ship shook and quivered with the force of the reversed motion of the screw.

But what only a few minutes before would have averted the danger was too late now. The vessel had to pass backwards over the same sandbank which it had only just managed to get over. A larger wave in its retreat had forced the stern a few inches further down. The screw laboured vigorously; the ship heeled over a little, but remained fixed.

“What the devil is the meaning of this?” cried the General.

“There is no question of real danger,” said Elsa quickly.

“Bless my soul! my dear young lady!” cried the President, who had turned very pale.

“We are very near in shore, and the sea is tolerably quiet,” said Elsa.

“What do you know about it?” cried the General. “The sea is not a thing to be trifled with.”

“I am not trifling, papa,” said Elsa.

The hasty movements and shouts and cries that suddenly surrounded them on all sides, and the singular and uncomfortable position of the ship, all sufficiently proved that the prediction of the “Indefatigable” had come true, and that the steamer was aground.

II

Every effort to get the ship off had proved unavailing; indeed, it might even be considered fortunate that the screw had not been broken by the tremendous effort required of it. The ship had not heeled over any more, however; and if the night were not stormy, they might lie here peaceably till the next morning, when a passing vessel could take off the passengers and carry them farther on their journey, if they had not got afloat before then, which, indeed, might happen at any moment.

So spoke the Captain, whose coolness was undisturbed by the misfortune which his own obstinacy had caused.

There was the fact that on the charts, by which he and every other captain had to steer, fifteen feet were marked at this place; and the gentlemen at the head of affairs might take the blame to themselves and provide better charts, or, at any rate, proper buoys. And if, as he very well knew, other captains had for years past avoided this shoal, and had preferred to go some miles out of their way, he had constantly since then, and even the day before yesterday, crossed this very spot. However, he had no objection to launching the large boat and landing the passengers, for them to get on their way afterwards as best they could.

“The man is drunk or mad!” said the President, when the Captain had turned his broad back and retired to his post. “It is a sin and a shame that such a man should command a ship, even a mere tub; but I will have a strict inquiry held, and he shall receive exemplary punishment.”

The President’s long thin person quivered with anger, fear, and cold; the General shrugged his shoulders.

“That is all very fine and very well, my dear President,” said he; “but it will come a little too late, and will not help us out of our awkward position. On principle, I never interfere in matters which I do not understand; but I wish we had someone on board who could advise us what to do. We must not ask the sailors—that would be encouraging insubordination. What do you want, Elsa?”

Elsa had looked at him meaningly. He went up to her and repeated his question.

“Ask that gentleman,” said Elsa.

“What gentleman?”

“That one there; he is a sailor, he can certainly advise you best.”

The General fixed his sharp eyes upon the person designated.

“Ah, that man,” said he. “He really does look as if he might—”

“Does not he?” said Elsa. “And he told me before that we should run aground.”

“Of course he does not belong to the ship?”

“Oh no—at least, I think—but speak to him yourself.”

The General went up to the “Indefatigable.”

“I am told, sir, that you are a sailor.”

“I am.”

“Navigating officer?”

“Merchant captain: Reinhold Schmidt.”

“My name is General von Werben. I should be much obliged to you, sir, if you would give me your opinion, as a sailor, upon our situation; of course in strict confidence. I should be sorry to ask you to give evidence against a comrade, or in any way to shake his authority, which we may still possibly stand much in need of. Is the captain, in your opinion, to blame for our mishap?”

“Yes and no, General. No, because the charts by which, according to rule, we must be guided, show a channel in this place. The charts were right, too, till within the last few years. Since then there has been a great deal of silting up, and also, in consequence of the west wind which has prevailed for some weeks, the water has been constantly falling. More prudent men avoid this spot on that account. I, for my part, should have avoided it.”

“Good! And what do you think of our situation? Are we in danger? or are we likely to be in danger?”

“I think not. The ship lies almost straight, and on smooth sand. If nothing new happens, it may lie so a long time.”

“The Captain is right, then, in keeping us on board?”

“I think so; all the more that the wind, for the first time for days past, seems inclined to veer round to the east, and if that happens, we have good grounds for supposing that we shall be afloat again in a few hours. However—”

“However?”

“Man is liable to error, General. If the wind—it is southeast now; the thing is not likely, but it is possible—if the wind should get round to the west again, and blow harder, perhaps very hard, then there might be serious danger.”

“We ought, then, to take advantage of the Captain’s permission to leave the ship?”

“As the passage would be easy, and perfectly safe, I cannot at any rate advise against it; but then it should be done while there is still sufficient daylight: it would be best immediately.”

“And you? You would remain—of course?”

“Of course, General.”

“Thank you.”

The General touched his cap with a slight bend of the head. Reinhold lifted his for a moment, returning the movement with a stiff bow.

“Well?” asked Elsa, as her father came back to her.

“The man must have been a soldier,” answered the General.

“Why so?” asked the President.

“I wish I could always get such clear, explicit reports from my officers. The case stands thus.”

He repeated what he had just heard from Reinhold, and wound up by saying that he would speak to the Captain about the immediate disembarkation of such passengers as wished it.

“For my part, I do not intend to put myself to such inconvenience, which may be unnecessary too, unless Elsa—”

“I, papa!” cried Elsa, “I should not think of such a thing.”

The President was in much embarrassment. It was true that he had only that morning, on leaving Stettin, renewed a very slight former acquaintance with General von Werben; but now, after he had been in conversation with him all day, and had taken every opportunity of showing attentions to his daughter, he could not well do otherwise than declare, with a quiver of the lips, which was meant for a smile, that he would share with them as formerly the pleasures, so now the disagreeables of the journey. Should the worst come to the worst, the Prussian Government would be able to console itself for the loss of a president, who besides, as the father of six hopeful children, would have his name handed down to posterity, and could therefore make no claim upon the sympathy of his contemporaries.

Notwithstanding his resigned words, the worthy official was very uncomfortable at heart. In secret he cursed his own inconceivable thoughtlessness in having trusted himself to a “tub,” merely to be at home a day sooner, instead of waiting for the next day’s mail-boat; he cursed the General’s “stupid security,” and the young lady’s “coquettish affectation of courage,” and when a few minutes later the large boat was really launched, and in an incredibly short time, as it seemed to him, filled with the happily small number of deck passengers, and a few ladies and gentlemen from the after-cabin, and at first with a few powerful strokes of the oars, and soon after with sails hoisted, made all speed to the shore, he sighed deeply, and firmly resolved, at whatever cost, even at that of a scornful smile from the young lady’s lips, that he also would leave the ship before night.

And night was approaching only too rapidly for his fears. The evening glow in the western sky was fading with every minute, and from the east, from the open sea, it grew darker and darker. How long would it be before the land, which to his shortsighted eyes already appeared only as an indistinct outline through the evening mists, would disappear altogether from his sight?

And there could be no doubt, too, that the waves were rising higher every minute, here and there even for the first time that day showing crests of white foam, and breaking with ever-increasing force against the unlucky ship! Added to this the horrible creaking of the yards, the dismal howling of the wind in the rigging, the intolerable roaring and hissing of the steam, which was being almost incessantly let off from the overheated boiler! The boiler would blow up perhaps finally, and the shattered limbs of the man who but now was buttoning up his overcoat, would be sent flying hither and thither through the air.

The President grew so hot at this idea that he unbuttoned his coat and then buttoned it up again as he was struck by the ice-cold wind.

“It is unendurable!” muttered he.

Elsa had long since observed how very little the President liked remaining on board ship, and that he had only made up his mind to it with evident unwillingness, out of consideration for his travelling companions.

She had been maliciously amused at first with the embarrassment which he tried to conceal, but now her good-nature conquered. He was after all an elderly gentleman, and apparently not very strong, and a civilian! he could not of course be expected to have either the intrepid courage or the indifference to hardships of her father, who had not even put on his greatcoat yet, and was now taking his usual evening walk up and down the deck. But papa had made up his mind, once for all, to remain; it would be quite useless to try to persuade him to go. “He must devise some means!” said she to herself.

Reinhold had disappeared after his last words with her father, and was not now on the afterdeck; she went forward, therefore, and found him sitting on a great chest, looking through a pocket telescope towards the shore so intently that she had come close to him before he remarked her. He sprang hastily to his feet and turned towards her.

“How far have they got?” asked Elsa.

“They will land directly,” he answered. “Will you look through this?”

He handed her the glass. At the moment when she touched it the metal still retained some warmth from the hand which had held it. In general this was not at all a pleasant sensation to her, but on this occasion she did not perceive it. She thought of it for a moment as she tried to bring the spot which he pointed out to her within the focus of the glass.

The attempt was unsuccessful; she could see nothing but undefined mist.

“I would rather trust to my eyes!” cried she, putting down the telescope. “I can see it so, quite plainly, there close in shore—in the white streak. What is that?”

“The surf.”

“What has become of the sail?”

“It has been taken in so as not to have too much way on as they run in. But really you have a sailor’s eye!”

Elsa smiled at the compliment, and Reinhold smiled too. Their looks met, and remained turned upon each other.

“I have a request to make to you,” said Elsa, without dropping her eyes.

“And I was about to make one to you,” answered he, looking steadily into the brown stars which shone up towards him, “I wanted to ask you also to go on shore. We shall be afloat in an hour, but the night will be stormy, and we shall be obliged to anchor as soon as we have passed Wissow Head.” He pointed to the promontory. “Under the best of circumstances the situation would not be pleasant, at the worst it might be very unpleasant. I should like to know that you were safe from either alternative.”

“Thank you,” said Elsa, “and now my request need not be made;” and she told Reinhold why she had come.

“That happens most fortunately,” cried he, “but there is not a moment to lose. I will speak to your father immediately. We must go at once.”

“We?”

“With your permission I will take you on shore myself.”

“Thank you,” said Elsa again, with a deep breath. She held out her hand to him; he took the small delicate hand in his, and again their looks met.

“That hand may be trusted,” thought Elsa, “and the eyes too!” And aloud she said: “You must not think, however, that I am afraid of remaining here! it is really only on the poor President’s account.”

She withdrew her hand, and hastened away towards her father, who was already surprised at her long absence, and now came in search of her.

In the act of following her, Reinhold saw lying at his feet a little pale grey glove. She must have dropped it just now, as she took the telescope.

He stooped quickly, picked it up, and put it in his pocket.

“She will not have that back again,” said he to himself.

III

Reinhold was right; there was not a moment to be lost. As the little boat which he steered cut through the foaming waters, the sky was gradually obscured by black clouds which threatened soon to extinguish the last gleam of light in the west. In addition to this the wind, which was blowing violently, veered suddenly round from south to north, and it became necessary, in order to enable the boat to return more quickly to the ship, to land at a different place from that where the large boat, which they already saw on its way back, had discharged its passengers. This had been at the fishing village of Ahlbeck, in the centre of the bay, immediately under Wissow Head. They were obliged to keep close to the wind, and more to the north, where there was hardly space for a single hut, far less for a fishing village, on the narrow beach under the bare dunes; and Reinhold might think himself fortunate in being just able to bring the boat round by a bold manoeuvre so near to the shore, that the landing of the travellers with the few articles of luggage which they had brought from the ship could be effected without much difficulty.

“I am afraid we have only fallen from the frying-pan into the fire,” said the President in a melancholy tone.

“It is a comfort to me that it is not our fault,” answered the General, not without some sharpness in his deep voice.

“Oh! certainly not, most surely not!” admitted the President; “mea maxima culpa! my own fault entirely, Fräulein von Werben. But you must confess that our situation is deplorable, really miserably deplorable!”

“I don’t know,” answered Elsa; “I think it is quite beautiful here.”

“I congratulate you with all my heart,” said the President; “but for my part I should prefer a fire, a wing of chicken, and half a bottle of St. Julien; but if it is a consolation only to have companions in misfortune, it is a double one to know that what to the sober experience of the one is a very real misfortune, appears to the youthful fancy of the other as a romantic adventure.”

The President had hit the mark, though he spoke in jest. The whole thing appeared to Elsa as a romantic adventure, in which she found most real and sincere pleasure. When Reinhold brought her the first news of the threatening danger, she was certainly startled, but not for a moment had she felt afraid, not even when angry men, shrieking women, and crying children had hurried from the ship, which seemed doomed to destruction, into the large boat, which tossed up and down on the dark waves, while from the open sea the evening drew in darkly and gloomily. The tall sailor with the bright blue eyes had said that there was no danger; he must know; then why should she be afraid? And if danger should arise, he was a man who would be sure to do the right thing at the right moment, and would know how to meet the danger. This feeling of security had not deserted her even when they came through the surf, the little boat tossing about like a nutshell in the foaming waves, the President as pale as death perpetually exclaiming, “Bless my soul!” and even her father’s grave face showing a shade of anxiety. She had only looked towards the man at the helm, and the blue eyes had shone as brightly as before, even more brightly as he smiled in answer to her inquiring glance. Then as the boat ran ashore, and the sailors carried the President, her father, and the two servants to land, and she stood at the end meditating a bold spring, she had found herself suddenly encircled by two strong arms, and so half carried, half springing, she hardly knew how, landed on dry ground without wetting the sole of her foot.

And so she now stood here, a few paces apart from the men, who were consulting together, wrapped in her cloak, and with a feeling of such happiness as she believed she had never yet experienced. How wonderfully beautiful it was, too! Before her the dark, raging, thundering, endless sea, over which the black and threatening night drew on; right and left as far as the eye could see the line of white foaming surf, the glorious moist wind blustering round her, howling in her ears, blowing her dress about, even driving some flecks of foam in her face; behind her the barren ghostly-looking dunes, on which, still visible against the lighter western sky, the long bent-grass was nodding and beckoning—whither? further into this delightful, charming adventure, that was not ended yet, that could not end, that ought not to end! it would be too hard.

The gentlemen came towards her.

“Elsa,” said the General, “we have decided to make an expedition over the dunes inland. The fishing hamlet at which the larger boat landed is nearly a mile off, and the walk there in the deep sand would be too fatiguing for our good friend the President. Besides, we should hardly find any accommodation there.”

“If only we do not lose our way on the dunes!” sighed the President.

“Captain Schmidt’s knowledge of the ground will guarantee us against that,” said the General.

“I can hardly call it knowledge of the ground, General,” replied Reinhold. “I have only once, and that was six years ago, looked over the country inland from the top of these dunes; but I distinctly remember having seen a farmhouse, or something of the sort, in that direction. I will answer for finding the place; but what sort of accommodation there will be there I cannot venture to say.”

“At any rate we cannot spend the night here,” said the General; “so forwards! Will you take my arm, Elsa?”

“No, thank you, papa. I can get up without it.”

And Elsa sprang up the side of the dune after Reinhold, who, hastening forward, had already reached the top; while her father and the President followed more slowly, and the two servants with the baggage brought up the rear.

“Well,” cried Elsa gaily, as somewhat breathless she came up to Reinhold, “are we at the end of our resources, like the President?”

“You may laugh,” answered Reinhold, “but I begin to feel a little anxious already about the responsibility I have taken on myself. There—” and he pointed over some lower dunes inland where the advancing evening mist obscured all individual objects—“it must be there.”

“Must be there if you are right! but must you be right?”

As if in answer to her mocking question, a light suddenly appeared in the precise direction in which Reinhold’s outstretched arm pointed. A strange thrill of terror struck Elsa.

“Forgive me!” said she.

Reinhold did not know what her exclamation meant. At this moment the others also surmounted the steep hill.

“Per aspera ad astra!” panted the President.

“I congratulate you, sir!” said the General.

“There was a good deal of luck in it,” answered Reinhold modestly.

“And people must have luck, I suppose!” cried Elsa, who had quickly conquered that curious feeling, and now relapsed into her gay spirits.

The little company proceeded farther over the dunes. Reinhold again in front, while Elsa now kept with the other gentlemen.

“It is curious enough,” said the General, “that our mishap should occur just at this part of the coast. It really seems as if we were to be punished for our opposition; and certainly if my opinion that a harbour for men-of-war would be of no good here does remain unshaken, it seems to me now that we ourselves have nearly suffered shipwreck here, that a harbour of some sort—”

“Is an object devoutly to be wished!” cried the President; “heaven knows it is. And when I think of the fearful cold I shall catch from this nocturnal walk in the horrible wet sand, and that I might instead be sitting in a comfortable railway carriage, and could sleep in my own bed tonight, I repent of every word that I have spoken against the railroad, and on account of which I have quarrelled with all our great people here, and not least with Count Golm, whose friendship now would be very convenient to us.”

“How so?” asked the General.

“Castle Golm, according to my reckoning, is only four or five miles inland from here; the little shooting-box on the Golmberg—”

“I remember,” interrupted the General; “the second headland to the north—on our right. We cannot be much more than a couple of miles from it.”

“You see,” said the President, “how convenient that would be! and the Count is probably there. To speak the truth, I have been secretly counting on his hospitality, in case, as I greatly fear, we cannot find decent accommodation at the farmhouse, and you will not overcome your objection to going to Warnow, which certainly would be the simplest and most comfortable arrangement.”

The President, who had spoken with many pauses and pantings for breath, here stood still; the General answered in a morose tone:

“You know that I am not on terms with my sister.”

“But you said that the Baroness was in Italy.”

“She was to return about this time; has perhaps already returned, and if she were not I would not go to Warnow, if it were but ten paces from here. But we must hasten to get under shelter, or to all that we have already gone through we shall add a thorough ducking.”

For some time past, in fact, single drops had been falling from the thickening masses of cloud, and they had just with quickened steps reached the farmyard, and groped their way between two barns or outhouses, over very uneven ground, to the house from whose window the light gleamed, when the storm, which had long been threatening, broke in full fury.

IV

It was a small, low house, strangely disproportioned to the tall, broad-shouldered man, whose attention had been called by the furious barking of the yard-dog, and who now, thrusting back a yelping cur with his foot, received the belated guests in the doorway which he nearly filled. Small and low also was the room on the left hand into which he led them, and very scanty its furniture.

There was another room opposite, said Herr Pölitz; but he was not quite sure whether it was in order. He hoped, too, that they would excuse his wife; she could not come to them at once, but would soon have the honour of waiting upon them.

As the man spoke he arranged chairs with awkward politeness at the large round table which stood before the hard little sofa, and invited them to sit down. His hospitable efforts were evidently well meant, but there was a depressed tone in his voice which did not escape Elsa. She begged to be allowed to go in search of the mistress of the house, and without waiting for permission left the room, but came back in a few minutes, and after sending away the farmer under the pretence that his wife wanted to speak to him, said:

“We cannot remain here; these good people, with whom affairs do not seem to be very prosperous, have two sick children; the poor woman does not know which way to turn; it would be cruel to add to her anxiety by asking her to entertain so many guests.”

“Then there really remains nothing to be done but to claim hospitality from the Count,” said the President, turning to the General; “the Count and I are the best friends in the world; our little differences are quite beside the question in such a case as this. Besides, he is very likely not at his shooting-lodge, and we shall only have to do with his steward. It is altogether my opinion that we should migrate to Golmberg. The only question is how to get there?”

The farmer, who had meanwhile returned to the room, would not hear of the proposal. The weather was frightful, and even should the rain soon stop, the roads were bad; his wife would manage; the gentlefolk would make allowances.

The gentlemen looked irresolutely at each other, but Elsa stood firm.

“Men know nothing about such things,” said she; “this is woman’s business, and I have settled it all with your wife, Herr Pölitz. She is making me a cup of coffee now, and the gentlemen shall have some brandy and water. And while we refresh ourselves Herr Pölitz shall send a man on horseback to announce us at Golmberg, so that we may not arrive quite unexpectedly. If the Count is at home we owe him so much consideration; if he is not, so much the better—we shall only have to do with the steward. Then when the rain has stopped, Herr Pölitz will have the horses put to—”

“I have only a cart to offer you,” said the farmer.

“And that will be quite sufficient,” cried Elsa; “a carriage would not be at all suitable for shipwrecked people. And now, Herr Pölitz, do you be as good and wise as your good, wise little wife!”

She gave her two hands to the farmer. There was a strange quiver in the man’s sunburnt face.

“You are a good young lady,” he murmured, as he tightly pressed the little hands that lay in his.

The President had already taken a leaf from his pocketbook, and sat down at the farmer’s little desk to write his announcement.

“What did you say was your name, Captain?” he asked over his shoulder.

Reinhold was no longer in the room; he must just have left it. The maid who came in with the coffee told them that the gentleman had put on his macintosh in the outer-room, and said that he must see what had become of the steamer.

“A true sailor!” said the General. “He cannot rest in peace; it would be just the same with me.”

“I suppose we must include him? what do you think?” asked the President in a low voice of Elsa.

“Certainly!” said Elsa, with decision.

“Perhaps he does not wish it?”

“Possibly; but we must not leave the decision to him. His name is Schmidt.”

“Classical name,” murmured the President, bending over his paper.

The messenger was sent off; the farmer came in to keep the gentlemen company, while Elsa went back to the wife in the smoky little kitchen to tell her what had been arranged.

“I must thank you,” said the woman; “but it is hard, very hard—” She pressed the corner of her apron to her eyes, and turned away to the fire. “I do not mean about thanking you,” she continued; “but I am sorry for my husband; it is the first time I am sure that he ever allowed guests to leave his house in this way.”

“It is only on account of the children,” said Elsa.

“Yes, yes,” said the woman; “but we have had the children ill before, without being obliged to trouble other people about it. That was when we lived at Swantow, three miles from here; that is the Count’s property too. We married there six years ago, but times were too hard, and the rent too high.”

“Could not the Count have helped you?”

“The Count?”

The woman looked up with a sad smile on her worn face. She seemed about to say something, but left it unsaid, and busied herself silently over her pots.

“Is not the Count a kind man?” asked Elsa.

“He is not married,” answered the woman; “he does not know what a father and mother feel when they must leave the house and farm where their first children were born, and where they had hoped to see them all grow up; and we should have got on here, though the rent is too high here also, if it had not been for the war. My husband had to go out with the Landwehr, and our two best men as well. I worked hard, even beyond my strength, but what can a poor woman do? Ah! my dear young lady, you know nothing of such trouble, and God grant that you never may!”

Elsa had seated herself on a stool, and was gazing into the flames. If she had known this before! She had thought that the Count was married. Strange, strange, that she had not asked about it; that the others had not mentioned it! If he should be at the castle, she was with her father and the good President certainly; but when Aunt Sidonie heard of it she would think it very improper; and if only he were a nice man, so that she could say on meeting him that she had already heard so much good of him from his tenants—it was most vexatious. Was it too late to change?

One of the children in the room next to the kitchen began to cry loudly; the farmer’s wife hastened away.

“It is most vexatious,” repeated Elsa.

A pot on the fire threatened to boil over; she moved it on one side, not without blackening her hands with soot. The wind, which roared down the chimney, drove the smoke in her face. The ill-fitting window rattled; the child in the next room cried more pitifully.

“Poor woman,” sighed Elsa; “there is something terrible in being poor. I wonder whether he is poor? he does not seem rich. How does a merchant captain like that live when he is not at sea? Perhaps after all he is married, as the Count is unmarried; or does he love someone in a distant country, of whom he thinks while he paces the deck so restlessly? I must find that out before we part; I shall find an opportunity. And then I shall ask him to congratulate her from me, and to tell her that she will have a husband of whom she may be proud, of whom any girl might be proud. I mean a girl in his own station. For instance I—absurd! one does not marry for a pair of honest eyes, particularly when disinheritance would be the result of such a mésalliance! It is a curious arrangement, but Schmidt is not a pretty name: Frau Schmidt!”

She laughed, and then suddenly her heart softened strangely, and tears came into her eyes. She felt for her handkerchief, and found something hard in her pocket. It was the little compass which he had given to her in the boat, when she was sitting by him and wanted to know the direction in which he was steering. She opened the case and looked inside. On the cover was prettily inlaid in gold letters the name, Reinhold Schmidt; and the needle trembled and pointed away from her, and always quivered in the same direction towards the name, however often she turned and twisted the case in her hands.

“As if it were seeking Reinhold Schmidt!” said Elsa; “how faithful it is! And I would be faithful if I once loved, and would stand by my husband, and cherish and tend the children—and in six years’ time look as faded and pale and worn, as the poor woman here, who must certainly have been a very pretty girl. Thank heaven that I am not in love!”

She shut the case, slipped it back into her pocket, and looking into the little room where all was now still, said: “The water boils, but remain there, dear Frau Pölitz. I will take it in to the gentlemen;” and to herself she said: “He must be back now.”

Reinhold had left the room and the house, to look after the steamer, about which he was still anxious.

The storm had broken sooner and more violently than he had expected. If the ship had not got afloat beforehand, much harm, perhaps the worst might be feared. He reproached himself for not having remained on board, where his presence at this moment might be so urgently needed. It was true that it was only by agreeing to go himself that they had overcome the obstinacy of the General, who would certainly otherwise have remained, and his daughter with him. But what did he owe them? For the matter of that he did not owe anything to the ship—certainly not: and the obstinate old Captain had bluntly and flatly rejected his advice. But yet—it is the soldier’s duty to go to the front when the cannon are thundering; he knew that from the war; he had himself often done it with his breathless panting comrades, all inspired with but one idea: Shall we arrive in time? And now before him the thunder rolled nearer and nearer, as he hastily climbed the hill; but what good could he do now?

Thank God! the ship was out of danger! There—a couple of miles farther to the south—easily visible to the quick eyes in spite of night, and rain, and distance—glimmered a spark of light. And now the spark vanished; it could only be behind Wissow Head, where, on the best anchorage-ground, the steamer might peacefully weather out the storm. Thank God.

He had foreseen and foretold it; and yet it seemed to him as a special favour from heaven. And after that he could humbly submit to the pain of having seen that beautiful girl for the last time. Yes, for the last time. At the moment when they reached the safe shelter to which he had promised to guide them, his services ended. Whatever happened now was nothing to him; that was the General’s affair. If they chose to move to the castle, for him there would be always a place at the farmhouse. He had only now to return once more, and say, “Farewell!—farewell!”

He said it twice—three times! He said it again and again as if it were the word that sounded in every wave that broke in thunder on the shore below him; the word that was whispered in the rough grass under his feet; the word that the wind moaned and wailed in long melancholy tones through the barren dunes; the word that sounded at every beat of his heart on which her glove lay, and on which he now kept his hand pressed close, as if the storm might tear his treasure from him, the only token that in future could say to him it was something more after all than a wild, delicious dream!

How long he thus stood dreaming in the dark blustering night he knew not, when he at last roused himself to return. The storm and the rain were less violent; here and there a star shone through the driving clouds. An hour at least must have gone by; he should certainly not find her now. And yet he walked quicker and quicker through the narrow sandy path which led through the fields to the farm. In the shortest possible time he had reached it, and stood now in the entrance between the two outhouses. Lighted lanterns were flickering about in the little farmyard, and before the house shone brighter lights, in whose glow he distinguished the outline of a carriage and horses and some dark figures busied about the carriage. They were not gone then!

A sudden fear thrilled through him. Should he plunge back into the darkness? Should he go forward? Perhaps they had only waited for him, were still waiting? Well, then, so be it; an obligation of courtesy! It would cost nothing to anyone but himself.

V

The President had not been waiting for his return, nor even for that of the mounted messenger, but rather to give the storm time to abate a little.

“Only a very little,” said he; “it cannot signify whether we arrive half an hour earlier or later; and as for our nocturnal drive in an open cart on our roads, my dear young lady, we shall always experience that soon enough and painfully enough.”

The President smiled, and so did Elsa, from politeness; but her smile had little heart in it. She felt uneasy and restless, she herself hardly knew why. Was it because their stay in the low, cramped, stuffy little house was being prolonged? Was it because their departure could not be many minutes delayed, and the Captain had not yet returned? The gentlemen could not understand his long absence either; could he have lost his way on the dunes in the darkness? It seemed hardly possible for a man like him. Could he have hastened to the fishing village to procure help for the endangered steamer? But a farm-servant, who had just come in from the shore, and—like all the people about here—was thoroughly at home in all seafaring matters, had seen the steamer steering southwards, and disappearing behind Wissow Head. That supposition therefore fell through. But what could it be?

“Have I affronted him in any way?” Elsa asked herself. “He has seen me today for the first time; he does not, cannot know that it is my way to joke and laugh at things; that I do it with everybody. Aunt Sidonie scolds me enough about it. But after all, she is right. One may do it to one’s equals, even to superiors—towards inferiors, never. Inferior? He is a gentleman, whatever else he is. I have nothing to reproach myself with, but that I have treated him as if he were our equal, as I would have treated any of our young officers.”

She went back to the sickroom to ask the woman whether it were really impossible to procure a doctor. The farmer, to whom she had addressed the same inquiry, had shaken his head.

“The young lady thinks it would be so easy,” said he to the gentlemen, when Elsa had left the room; “but the nearest doctor is at Prora, and that is a three hours’ drive, and three back, besides his time here. Who can blame the doctor if he thinks twice before he makes up his mind to the journey? In summertime, and fine weather, he might come by boat, that is easier and simpler; but now, with our roads—”

“Yes, yes,” said the President; “the roads, the roads! The Government cannot do as much there as it would like. The communes moan and groan as soon as we touch the tender place. Your Count, Herr Pölitz, is one of the worst grumblers at the Communal Assemblies!”

“Notwithstanding that he throws all the burden upon us,” answered the farmer; “and he has made our lives hard enough already. Yes, sir, I say it openly; and I have said it to the Count’s own face.”

“And what do you think about the railroad?” asked the President, with a glance at the General.

A bitter smile came upon the farmer’s face.

“What I think of it?” he returned. “Well, sir, we all had to sign the petition. It looked very well upon paper, but unfortunately we do not believe a word of it. What do we want with a railway? We have no money to spend upon travelling, and the little wool and corn that we sell when things go well, we could carry to the market at Prora in an hour and a half, if we only had a high-road, or even a good road of any sort, as we easily might have if the Count and the rest of the gentry would put their shoulders to the wheel. And then, as you know, sir, the sea is our real high-road, and will always be so; it is shorter, and certainly cheaper than the railway.”

“But as to the harbour!” asked the President, again looking at the General.

“I do not understand anything about that, sir,” answered the farmer; “the General will know more about it. For my part I only know that it would be very difficult to build a harbour in our sand, which is blown by the wind here today and there tomorrow, and that we country people and the sailors and fishermen need no harbour, whether for war or peace; and that the best and only thing for us would be just a breakwater, and a certain amount of regular dredging. Railroad, harbour, ah! yes, they will swallow up many a tree that will be cut down for them and turned into money, and many an acre of sand which is not worth sixpence now, and many an acre of good land too, on which now some poor man drags on his life in the sweat of his brow, who will then have to take his staff in his hand, and set out for America, if there is still room there for the like of us.”

The man’s rough voice trembled as he spoke the last words, and he passed the back of his sunburnt hand across his forehead. The President looked at the General again, but this time not inquiringly as before. The General rose from his seat, walked a few paces about the room, and went to the window which he opened.

“The messenger is a long time,” said he.

“I will go and look after him,” said the farmer, leaving the room.

The General shut the window, and turned quickly to the President:

“Do you know, I wish we had not sent to Golmberg. Our visit there, however involuntary it may be, puts us under an obligation to the Count, and—”

The General rubbed his high forehead that was already getting bald at the temples, and angrily pulled his thick grey moustache; the President shrugged his shoulders.

“I am in a much more ticklish position,” said he.

“It is different with you,” answered the General; “you are acquainted with him, on friendly terms: you have been so, at any rate. And you cannot altogether avoid intercourse with him; business must bring you constantly together; this is only one instance amongst many. I, on the other hand—”

The President smiled.

“My dear General,” said he, “you speak as if intercourse with the Count were a serious matter in itself! Confess now, it is not the stupid business of the railway and harbour that have set you against the Count, but the conversation of the worthy farmer.”

“Are the man’s complaints unfounded?” asked the General, turning on his heel.

The President again shrugged his shoulders.

“That is as you choose to consider it. The Count might perhaps do more for his tenants, but we must not be too hard upon him. The property was heavily embarrassed when he came into it as a very young man. To retain it at all it was necessary to raise the rents as high as possible. He was not in the happy position of your late brother-in-law, who allowed himself to be guided rather by the impulses of his kind heart than by economic considerations in his leases. The Warnow property falls in next Easter, does it not? You will be obliged then, as one of the trustees, to concern yourself more particularly about the condition of affairs here. Who knows whether this day year you will lend so willing an ear to the complaints of people whose discontent with everything has become a second nature?”

“I shall then, as I have hitherto invariably done, abstain as far as possible from all direct interference in the matter,” answered the General hastily. “You know that I have only once inspected the property, as was my duty when, six and twenty years ago, Herr von Wallbach, Councillor Schieler, and I had to undertake the care of the estate after my brother-in-law’s death, and since then I have left everything in Schieler’s hands. I have never since been here, and now—”

“You are here,” cried the President, “by the strangest accident, undoubtedly; but a wise man, and a soldier too, must allow for strange accidents in his calculations. I think the rain has stopped, and if we cannot remain here, it is high time to mount our cart. I had almost said the scaffold.”

The President put aside the rug which he had carefully spread over his knees, rose from the corner of the little sofa, and came up to the General at the window. At this moment the yard-dog began to bark furiously, the farmer’s little terrier rushed yelping out at the housedoor; two bright lights appeared between the outhouses, followed soon by others, and the trampling of horses and rolling of wheels sounded on the uneven pavement.

“It is the Count himself, I will wager!” cried the President, forgetting all the General’s scruples and considerations at the joyful sight of the carriage. “Thank heaven! we shall not at any rate be tortured! My dear Count, how very kind of you!”

And he cordially stretched out both hands to the gentleman who quickly came in at the door which the farmer opened for him.

VI

The Count responded no less cordially to the President’s greeting.

“Kind!” he exclaimed, holding fast the other’s hands; “and kind of me? Why it is kind indeed, wonderfully kind; but of you, of all of you, to be cast here on the heights of Golmberg, to be thrown upon this most inhospitable shore—inhospitable because no creature ever comes to us, or can come from that side. And now may I ask you to be so kind as to introduce me to General von Werben?”

He turned towards the General, who answered his extremely courteous bow with some reserve.

“It is not the first time that I have had the pleasure,” said he; “I had the honour formerly at Versailles—”

“I could not have believed that General von Werben would have remembered so insignificant a matter,” cried the Count, “a poor knight of St. John!”

“Our meeting occurred on a very remarkable day,” said the General; “on the 18th of January.”

“The day of the proclamation of the German Empire!” interrupted the President, to whom the General’s last remark, and the tone in which he made it, seemed of doubtful courtesy; “and here comes our heroine! Fräulein Elsa von Werben, here is our deliverer in the time of need: Count von Golm.”

“I am highly honoured,” said the Count.

Elsa, who had just entered the room, answered only by a bow.

“Now we are all assembled,” cried the President, rubbing his hands.

“Captain Schmidt is still missing,” said Elsa, looking beyond the Count to her father.

“I am only afraid that we shall put the Count’s patience to too great a trial,” answered the General in a tone of annoyance.

“I put myself absolutely at your disposal,” said the Count; “but may I ask what the question is?”

“There is another gentleman with us, a captain in the merchant service,” said the General.

“Whom I mentioned to you,” interrupted the President. “He went out again after our arrival here to look after the steamer. I almost think that he must have lost his way among the sandhills, or that some accident has happened to him.”

“Some men with lanterns should be sent after him,” exclaimed the Count. “I will give the order at once.”

And he moved towards the door.

“You need not trouble yourself,” cried Elsa; “it has already been done at my request.”

“Oh!” said the Count, with a smile; “indeed!”

The blood rose to Elsa’s cheek. As she came into the room, and the Count turned quickly towards her—with his regular features and clear bright colouring, set off by a fair moustache—she had thought him good-looking, even handsome; the smile made him positively ugly. Why should he smile? She drew herself up to her full height.

“Captain Schmidt rendered us the most essential service during our passage; we have to thank him that we are here in safety. It seems to me only our duty not to leave him in the lurch now.”

“But, my dear madam, I am quite of your opinion!” said the Count, and smiled again.

The veins in Elsa’s temples were throbbing. She cast a reproachful glance at her father. Why did he leave her to defend a cause which after all was his? She did not know that her father was extremely vexed at the turn the conversation had taken, and was only doubting whether he could not use the Captain’s absence as a pretext to avoid for himself and his daughter at least the Count’s hospitality. She did not hear either with what marked emphasis he agreed to the necessity for waiting still some time longer, as she had left the room after her last words.

In the little entrance, in which through the wide open door the light from the carriage lamps now brightly shone, she stood still and pressed her slender hands against her brow. What had come over her so suddenly? Why had she been so eager? To provoke a stranger’s smile by her over-eagerness, to draw upon herself the suspicion of taking a too lively interest in the person, when it was only the cause she cared about, only that a debt of courtesy, to say nothing of gratitude, might be paid? Supposing the people who seemed to be just leaving the yard with their lanterns should not find him? How long might she still wait? When ought she to say, We must start? Or, supposing he returned only to say that he was not thinking of going with them, and that childish scene had been acted for nothing? For the third time, and now with right and reason, the Count might smile.

“That I could not bear!” said Elsa, and stamped her foot.

A figure stood in the outer doorway; his wet macintosh shining in the light of the lanterns, the waterproof cap shining, and the eyes in the brown-bearded face shining too—and it all looked so odd and so funny, that Elsa laughed aloud, and laughing exclaimed:

“Have you come straight out of the water, Captain Schmidt? They are getting frightened about you in here. Make haste and come in. We must be off at once.”

“I had thought of remaining here,” said Reinhold.

Elsa’s laugh was checked. She made a step towards Reinhold:

“I wish you would come with us. You must.”

She disappeared into the passage which led on the right to the kitchen and the children’s room. Had it been jest or earnest? Her voice had trembled so oddly at the words, and her large eyes had shone so strangely!

The door opened; the General appeared on the threshold, with the two other gentlemen behind him.

“Ah, Captain Schmidt!” said the General.

“At last!” exclaimed the President. “You must tell us by-and-by where you have been hiding. This is Captain Schmidt, Count Golm. You are ready, I suppose, Fräulein von Werben?”

“I am ready,” said Elsa, who, in hat and cloak, accompanied by the farmer’s wife, appeared again in the entrance. “I think we are all ready, are we not, Captain Schmidt?”

“At your orders,” answered Reinhold.

“Well, then, goodbye, dear Frau Pölitz! a thousand, thousand thanks for your kindness! and as to the children, you must really send for the doctor, or you will wear yourself to death.”

Elsa had spoken the last words so loud, that the Count could not but hear them.

“Are your children ill, Frau Pölitz?” he asked.

“Very ill,” answered Elsa. “And Frau Pölitz declares that she cannot expect the doctor to come so far.

“I will myself send from Golmberg to Prora,” said the Count hastily: “of course; depend upon it Frau Pölitz! the doctor shall be here tonight—tonight!”

“Then we will not lose another moment,” cried Elsa, hastening to lead the way to the carriage.

VII

The Count had made his arrangements very comfortably. A groom with a lantern rode in front; next came the close carriage, in which the General, Elsa, and the President took their seats; then a dogcart with himself and Reinhold; finally a small luggage-cart for the servants, who were joined by his own man.

In the luggage-cart they were very cheerful.

“Do you always carry so much baggage with you?” asked the Count’s servant, giving the carpetbag a contemptuous kick.

“The rest is on board ship still,” answered Johann; “but the President never takes much with him; little and good is what he says.”

“Just like my General,” said August; “it is always the case with us military men. In France we had only one trunk from first to last.”

“We had six,” said the Count’s servant.

“Were you there too, then?”

“Of course, as knights of St. John.”

“That is a fine thing!”

“It was very fine for me!” cried the man. “I would go again tomorrow: wine and women to one’s heart’s content. My master knows what is what, I can tell you. I should not stay six weeks with a man like your General.”

“It is not so bad, after all,” said August; “if one only does one’s confounded duty one can get on with him; it is not so easy, I allow, with the Fräulein.”

“Oh! but she looked a very good sort.”

“Yes, she! but the old lady, the General’s sister; we have no wife, you know.”

“I never serve in a house where there is a wife,” said the Count’s servant, “and above all children.”

“Then you would not do with us,” said Johann; “we have got a wife and a houseful of young gentlemen and ladies; one of them is married already even. How is it with you?”

“Oh! we are a widower,” said August, “not long since, after I came into his service, that may be about five years ago. Since then Fräulein Sidonie is by way of managing the household—I should think so! That is to say, she would like to manage it; but as far as our young lady can, she won’t let it be taken out of her hands. Thank goodness! The old lady was a maid of honour once, at a court where the very mice don’t get enough to eat. That is always the worst sort. We have got a young gentleman, too, the lieutenant. Ah! he’s a thoughtless one. Good Lord! whatever comes into his hands doesn’t stay long! But I have no harm to say of him; live and let live is a good motto. He throws a hard word at your head, and a thaler after it. If he only had more of them!”

“With my old gentleman there are no hard words, but no thalers either,” said Johann.

“And with my Count hard words enough, but no thalers,” grumbled the other.

“Well, but you said—”

“Oh, one must understand how to manage it, you know. In perquisites one can make it up.”

“Ah; in that way!” said Johann.

“That is another matter,” said August.

“For instance this bottle of cognac here,” cried the Count’s servant, pulling out a flask; “how do you like that?”

“Not so bad,” said August.

“Particularly in this cold!” said Johann, “it is like December!”

While the servants passed the bottle merrily round, amid talk and laughter, in the first carriage, the President, who now that he foresaw a comfortable end to his uncomfortable adventure, had quite recovered his good-humour, had almost alone sustained the burden of conversation. As a suitable introduction to their visit to the Castle, he gave a succinct sketch of the Count’s genealogy. The family was one of the oldest in the island, probably even older than the Princes of Prora, whom they had formerly rivalled in wealth, influence, and power. Latterly they had certainly been going down hill, especially from the extravagance of the great grandfather of the present man, the builder of the castles of Golm and Golmberg, who had spent also fabulous sums upon the celebrated picture gallery at Golm, and the collection of armour at the shooting-lodge.

The grandfather, a careful man, had settled the fragments of the property in an entail—fortunately!—for the father of the present Count, his late dear old friend, had followed in the steps of his grandfather.

In the character of the present man, as so often happened in old families, might be seen blended in the most curious manner both his ancestral qualities, frugality and extravagance. At one moment you would take him for a mere fine gentleman, the next he would surprise you by the display of qualities which you would only expect to find in a speculative man of business.

“Such talents do not make the descendant of an ancient family more respectable in my eyes, Herr von Sanden,” said the General.

In the darkness of the carriage the President allowed himself an ironical smile; the General called him for the first time today by his own name, evidently to remind him that he too was of an ancient family.

“Neither do they in mine,” replied he; “but I am not now criticising, only characterising.”

“There are some characteristics which criticise—and judge themselves.”

“You are sharp, General; sharp and severe, as a soldier should be; I, as a Government official, having more to do with worldly business than I very often like, am glad to keep to the good old saying ‘Judge not, that you be not judged.’ ”

“And I gladly hold to another, which, if not so sacred, is at least as old, perhaps older; as old, that is, as nobility itself—Noblesse oblige!”

The President smiled again in the darkness.

“A two-edged saying,” said he, “at all times; but more so now than ever.”

“Why so?”

“Because our situation was never so precarious as it is now. In the dusty arena in which, in this levelling century of ours, the battle for existence must be fought out, we have long stood on the same ground with the classes which have been pressing upon us from behind, or rather indeed are already against us; but sun and wind are not evenly distributed. Many weapons, of which the middle classes avail themselves with immense success, are forbidden to us, for noblesse oblige. Very fine! We have no longer any special privileges—Heaven forbid!—but special duties enough. We are to keep our position in the state, and in society, and always to preserve our superior moral qualities! And often enough that is a very difficult matter, sometimes impossible; it is expecting a man to square the circle! Take such a position as the Count’s here. He did not choose it for himself; he was born to it. He came into a mass of debts, which he might no doubt have lessened by mere humdrum frugality; but it would have been a long process, for a high-spirited young man inconveniently long. He thinks now that he has discovered a way by which he may attain the eagerly-desired end in the shortest possible time, and make good all the sins of his forefathers at one blow. And if our ancestors do not, as in this case, make our lives a burden to us, then our descendants do it. Nine-tenths of our nobility could tell you a tale about that, and I among others. The proletariate of officials is no chimera, but sober reality; and I wish to Heaven I could drive my six-in-hand through life over a smoother road than we are condemned to travel upon here; for what sins of our ancestors or descendants I know not. Mon dieu! I think the Count must mean to show us the necessity of the railroad, which he is so certain—Oh! it really is abominable. It is impossible to talk comfortably when one’s words are so shaken and jolted out of one’s mouth.”

The President was not sorry to break off a conversation which was taken up in such a very different spirit on the other side. He did not know how disagreeable the turn it had lately taken must be to the General, to whose circumstances every word fitted so cruelly, who was so painfully reminded of these circumstances by the situation in which they now were! How he had hated this part of the country for many a long year! He had avoided setting foot in it as far as was possible, notwithstanding the pressing occasion for doing so caused by his trusteeship for his deceased brother-in-law’s estates. He had even, for the first and last time in his life, almost neglected his official duty when the project of the harbour had first arisen, and instead of informing himself on the spot of the state of matters, he had sent Captain von Schönau here in his place, and had even transferred to Colonel Sattelstädt the duty which properly fell to himself of making a report upon the business. And now after all he found himself here shaken and jolted over these horrible roads, and with all his gloomiest thoughts reawakened in him. It was a miserable irony of fate, but he had played into its hands by his foolish weakness. They might so perfectly have remained on board ship, and would have been spared all these delays and discomforts, all the considerations that must be attended to, and the obligations that must be undertaken.

And then Elsa’s extraordinary behaviour to the Count! To make a request of him at her first meeting with a man whom he would so gladly have avoided, and whose civilities were already oppressive to him! As if they had not enough to do to think of themselves! What in the world did it signify to her how or whether these farmers got the doctor? No, no! it was a part of Elsa’s character to give help wherever she could; and here as ever she had shown herself his good noble-hearted daughter; but it was unlucky for all that, very unlucky!

While her father thus worked himself into worse and worse spirits, a shade of melancholy had fallen even upon Elsa’s cheerful temper. She had hardly heard anything of the conversation between the two men. She was meditating uneasily upon the nature of the request that she had made, at least indirectly, to the Count; but there had been such a despairing look on the pale face of the poor farmer’s wife at the last moment, as she came out of the sick children’s room to take leave of her guests, that she had followed the impulse which crossed her mind without considering whether she thus put herself into a false position. He might take it as he pleased; so much the worse for him, if he did not take it as he ought.

Could she with a good conscience say the same as regarded Captain Schmidt? She was now nearly certain that he had only remained absent so long to allow them to drive away—to separate himself from them for good or for evil.

Why should he leave them? Perhaps he was not at his ease with them; perhaps it was unpleasant and awkward for him to join in the society that he would find at the castle? to be drawn into the conversation which would arise at table, and in which he could not take a part? which he would probably not even understand! And then to see him sitting there, confused, awkward! the lips compelled to silence which had given the brief words of command with such strong, clear tones, amidst the howling of the wind and the thundering of the waves! and the blue eyes troubled and confused which had shone so brightly in the hour of danger. What a pity to lose the beautiful, delightful recollection, as if a successful sketch were to be spoiled by adding careless inappropriate touches!

And what would he think of her insisting upon his joining their party again? For she really had insisted upon it! What in the world had she been thinking of? Had she really only wanted to look for a few hours longer at the handsome sunburnt face and the blue eyes, in sheer defiance of the Count, in whose face the question, “Am I not a handsome man?” was so clearly written. What were the two talking about? or were they sitting as silently together as she in her narrow prison here, to the close atmosphere of which it was, of course, owing that her heart was beating so nervously!—Oh!

The front wheels stuck fast in one of the deep ruts made by heavy wagons in the soft sandy soil, the spirited horses started forward, and Elsa fell into the arms of the President, who was sitting opposite to her.

“I must apologise for the length of my unfortunate nose,” said the President in a melancholy voice, wiping away the tears which ran down his thin cheeks.

Elsa laughed, and laughed the more heartily from the absurd contrast of this ridiculous scene to the gloomy and sentimental thoughts from which she had been so suddenly startled.

The gentlemen in the other carriage had had no reason to complain of want of fresh air. After the heavy rain it had really grown cold; and though their almost constantly uphill road lay mostly through thick woods, where the great beeches gave them some shelter, the east wind struck them all the more sharply at the open parts which they had to pass. The Count was freezing, notwithstanding his cloak; and he took for mere perversity or bravado Reinhold’s assurance that he was too much inured to wind and weather to feel cold now, and that he really did not require the rug offered to him. The fellow was a most unnecessary and burdensome addition to the party. On his account he had given up the fourth seat in the close carriage, and therewith the neighbourhood of that charming girl, very likely quite unnecessarily. In the haste with which, on his return from shooting, he had read the President’s note, he had taken the captain spoken of for some aide-de-camp or other member of the General’s staff, to whom he must of course pay proper attention. He had now discovered, to his astonishment, that he was only a merchant captain, whose acquaintance with the rest of the party was but a few hours old, who appeared to have been of some small service during the passage from the steamer to the shore; and who, if it was necessary to take him with them at all, might have found a place in the luggage-cart. What was he to say to the fellow? Was there any occasion indeed for speaking to him at all? The Count came to the conclusion that there was no occasion, and that he did more than could be required of him in letting fall from time to time a few words about the roads, the weather, or such matters.

Reinhold, who did not feel quite sure if these brief utterances were fragments of a soliloquy, or awkward attempts to begin a conversation, answered when it seemed required of him, and at other times pursued his own thoughts.

There, on the dusky background of the wind-stirred trees, he saw her again as he had seen her today for the first time against the blue of the morning sky. Again he saw the slight graceful figure, and the fair face with its delicate yet expressive features; again the brown eyes shone upon him which had looked at him so mockingly and fearlessly, and then so gravely and severely.

Was it an enchantment? He had seen more beautiful women without being so struck with their appearance: he had thought himself in love, perhaps had loved, but never at first sight; bit by bit the feeling had grown—but here it had come upon him like a storm, like a whirlwind, which threw all his sailing-gear into confusion, and gave no time for reefing and tacking, tore down masts and rigging, made all steering of the ship impossible, and tossed the helpless wreck from wave to wave. What business had he, a stranger to the sphere in which she moved, to be thinking of such things? Were not these foolish aimless fancies childish even in his own eyes? Was he now to make himself ridiculous to other eyes, perhaps to hers? Had he not already done so when he unresistingly obeyed her command? Would she not say to him scornfully: “I only wanted to see if you really were such a helpless, poor-spirited fool”?

Strange! that now, just now, the most terrible moment of his life should recur to his memory, when, riding alone through the Cordilleras from Santiago to Mexico, he was taken prisoner by Indians between Mazatlan and Inpic, forced to ride at full speed through mountain gulleys, away from the track into the desert, with the fear that the end of the ride might be a couple of shots, and a bleeding corpse falling from the saddle, and writhing in the last death-agony on the dried-up grass.

The only apparent chance of escaping with his life lay in the absolute obedience with which he complied with every order of the Indians, and yet he found it easier to resolve to extinguish that last ray of hope, and begin the mad struggle for freedom, than any longer to endure the shame of being in the power of these wretches. But a man can snatch from his holsters a pistol, overlooked by the robbers, and, setting spurs to his horse, plunge from the steep path down the sides of the ravine, so as at least to die in his own fashion; while he cannot jump from the seat of a smart dogcart, into which he has climbed at the command of a pretty girl, and take refuge in the forest, even if the fine gentleman sitting beside him had no objection to such a flight, and would merely laugh at it.

“Here we are!” said the Count.

They had come to an opening in the forest, in the centre of which stood a stately building, flanked as it seemed with towers, and whose windows were brightly illuminated. The carriages rolled quickly over the smooth approach, and stopped at the entrance, from which several servants now came forward, to assist the visitors to alight.

VIII

The President had remarked in his note that the want of a mistress of the house might be felt by the young lady of their party, but as the want was one that could not be at once made good, he promised the Count absolution beforehand. The Count had immediately sent off a mounted messenger to his neighbour, Herr von Strummin, with the pressing request to come with his wife and daughter to Golmberg and make arrangements for passing the night there. The family were quite ready to do him this neighbourly service, and Frau and Fräulein von Strummin received Elsa in the hall and conducted her to her apartment, which adjoined their own.

The President rubbed his thin white hands together before the fire in his own comfortable room, while Johann arranged his things: “Very nice! very nice indeed! This ought quite to reconcile our self-willed young lady to her mishap, and restore her grumbling old father to a more sociable frame of mind.”

Elsa was thoroughly reconciled. Set free from her moving prison, to find a brightly-illuminated castle in the depths of the forest—servants with torches at the entrance—and in the ancient hall, with its curiously-twisted columns, the unexpected appearance of two ladies, who, stepping forward from among the weapons and armour with which the walls and pillars were hung, welcomed her warmly, and led her into the cosiest of rooms, a flaming fire on the hearth, wax candles burning brightly before a tall looking-glass in a rich antique frame, silk hangings of the most wonderful pattern repeated in every possible variety on the heavy curtains over the deep-set windows, the portières to the lofty gilt doors, and the hangings of the old-fashioned bed—all was so strange, so charming, so exactly what an adventure ought to be. Elsa shook the motherly-looking Frau von Strummin by the hand and thanked her for her trouble, and kissing the pretty, mischievous-looking, grey-eyed little girl, asked permission to call her “Meta,” as her mother did, who had just left the room. Meta responded with the greatest warmth to her embrace, and declared that nothing in the world could have pleased her more than this evening’s invitation. She and mamma had been so dull at Strummin—it was so horribly dull in the country—and then the Count’s letter came! She always liked coming to Golmberg, the forest was so beautiful, and the view from the summit of the tower or from the top of the Golmberg over the woods and sea was too enchanting. She did not often come here though; her mother did not much like the trouble of moving, and the gentlemen thought only of their shooting, their horses, and especially of themselves. So that she really had been not a little surprised at the Count being in such a hurry to provide company for the strange young lady, just as if he had known beforehand how sweet and charming the stranger would be, and how pleasant it would be to keep her company, and to chatter all this nonsense to her; and might she call her du? because then they could talk twice as comfortably. The permission, readily given and sealed with a kiss, enchanted the excitable little girl.

“You must never go away again,” she cried, “or, at any rate, it must be only to return in the autumn! He will never marry me; I have got nothing, and he has nothing, in spite of his great estates, and if we cannot manage to get the railroad and the harbour made here, my papa says we shall all be bankrupts. And your papa and the President have got it all in their own hands, my papa said as we came here, and so if you marry him, of course your papa will agree to the concession—that is what they call it, is not it? And you are already concerned in it in a sort of way, for my papa says that the harbour can only be made on land which belongs to your aunt, and you and your brother will be her heirs, or are already co-heirs with her. My papa says it is the most wonderful will, and he should very much like to know how the matter really stands. Do you not know all about it? Do, do tell me! I will not tell anyone.”

“I really do not know,” answered Elsa, “I only know that we are very poor, and that as far as I am concerned you may still marry your Count.”

“I would do it very readily,” said the little lady seriously, “but I am not pretty enough for him with my insignificant little face and my snub nose. I shall marry some day a rich city man, who will be impressed with our old nobility—for the Strummins are as old as the island, you know—some Herr Schulze or Müller or Schmidt. By the by, what is the name of the officer who came with you?”

“Schmidt—Reinhold Schmidt.”

“No; you are joking!”

“No, really; but he is not an officer.”

“Not an officer? But how is he a captain then?”

“He is captain of a ship.”

“In the navy?”

“Only a merchant-captain.”

“No! you don’t say so!”

It came out so comically, and Meta clasped her little hands in such naive amazement, that Elsa could not help laughing, and laughed all the more to hide the blush of confusion which rose to her cheek.

“But then he will not have supper with us?” said Meta.

“Why not?” asked Elsa, suddenly becoming quite grave again.

“Only a merchant-captain!” repeated Meta. “What a pity! such a good-looking man! I had quite counted upon him for myself! But a merchant-captain!”

Frau von Strummin here came in to accompany the two girls to supper. Meta flew to her mother to communicate her great discovery.

“It has all been arranged,” answered her mother. “The Count asked your father and the President if they wished Captain Schmidt to be invited to join the party. Both gentlemen expressed themselves in favour of it, and so he will appear at table. He really seems a very well-mannered sort of person,” concluded Frau von Strummin.

“I am really curious to see him,” said Meta.

Elsa said nothing; but as, coming into the corridor, she met her father just leaving his room, she whispered to him, “Thank you!”

“One must make the best of a bad job,” answered the General in the same tone.

Elsa was a little surprised; she had not thought that he would have taken so seriously the question of etiquette which he had decided according to her view. She did not consider that her father could not understand her words without some explanation, and did not know that he had given them quite another meaning.

He had been put out, and had allowed his annoyance to be seen—even when they were received in the hall. He thought that this had not escaped Elsa, and that she was pleased now to see that he had meanwhile made up his mind to submit quietly and calmly to the inevitable, and therefore met him with a smile. The young sailor had only been recalled to his mind by the Count’s question. He had attached no importance to the question or to his own answer, that he did not know why the Count should not invite Captain Schmidt to his table.

Happily for Reinhold himself he had not even a suspicion of the possibility that his appearance or nonappearance at table could be a question to be seriously discussed by the other members of the party.

“What is begun may as well be continued,” said he to himself, as with the help of the things he had brought with him in a handbag from the ship in case of accidents, he arranged his dress as well as he could; “and now away with melancholy. If I have got aground by my own stupidity, I shall get off again in time. To go about hanging my head, or losing it, would not make up for my folly, but only make matters worse, and they are quite bad enough already. But where are my shoes?”

At the last moment on board he had changed the shoes he was wearing for a pair of high seaboots. They had been most useful to him since through rain and puddles, in the wet sands on the shore, and on the way to the farm; but now! Where were the shoes? Not in the bag, at any rate, into which he thought he had thrown them, and out of which they would not appear, although at last in his despair he tumbled all the things out and strewed them around him. And this garment which he had taken up a dozen times and let fall again, half the skirt was missing. It was not his blue frockcoat, it was his black tailcoat, the most precious article in his wardrobe, which he had only been in the habit of wearing for a dinner with his owners, or the consul, and on other most solemn occasions.

Reinhold rushed at the bell—the broken rope came away in his hand. He tore open the door and looked into the passage—not a servant to be seen. He called softly at first, then louder, not a servant would hear. What was to be done? The rough pilot-coat which he had worn under his waterproof, and which yet had got wet through in some places, had already been taken away by the servant to be dried. In a quarter of an hour the man had said the Count begged him to come to supper, twenty minutes had already passed; he had distinctly heard the President, whose room was some doors off from his, walk along the passage on his way downstairs. He must either remain here in the most absurd captivity, or appear before the company below in the extraordinary attire of seaboots and a dress-coat! Before the eyes of the President, whose long, thin figure, from the crown of his small aristocratic head to the soles of the polished boots which he had worn even on board, was a model of the most painfully precise neatness; before the stiff, tightly buttoned-up General; before the Count, who already showed some disposition to consider him of small account in society; before the ladies; before her—before her laughter-loving brown eyes! “Well, if I was fool enough to follow a sign from those eyes, this shall be my punishment; thus will I do penance in tailcoat and seaboots.”

And with one effort he pulled on the garment which he had still held in his extended left hand, looking at it from time to time with dismay, and again opened the door, this time to pass with steady step along the corridor, down the broad stairs, and into the dining-room below, whose whereabouts he had already ascertained from the servant.

IX

The rest of the party were already assembled. The two girls had appeared arm-in-arm, and kept together, although the Count, who had come forward hastily to meet them, directed his conversation to Elsa alone. He hastened to inform Fräulein von Werben that the carriage that was to fetch the doctor from Prora had been gone a quarter of an hour. Did Fräulein von Werben take any interest in painting, and would she allow him to direct her attention to some of the more important objects that he had brought from the gallery of Castle Golm for the decoration of the dining-room here, which really had appeared to him too bare. This was a Watteau bought by his great-grandfather himself in Paris; that was a fruit-piece by the Italian painter Gobbo, surnamed Da Frutti, a pupil of Annibale Caracci; this large still-life scene was by the Dutchman Jacob van Es. This flower-piece would be peculiarly interesting to her, as it was by a lady, Rachel Ruysch, a Dutchwoman, of course, whose pictures were in great request. Here, on the étagère, was a service of Dresden china, formerly belonging to Augustus the Strong, from whom his great-grandfather, who for many years had been Swedish ambassador at the court of Dresden, had received it in exchange for a team of Swedish horses, the first which had been seen on the Continent; here was an equally beautiful service of Sèvres, which he himself the preceding year had admired at the château of a French nobleman, and had received as a gift from him, out of gratitude for his successful efforts to preserve the château, which he (the Count) had converted into a hospital.

“You do not care for old china, however?” said he, observing that the lady’s dark eyes only very briefly inspected his treasures.

“I have seen so little of it,” said Elsa; “I do not know how to appreciate its beauty.”

“And then we are all rather hungry,” said Meta, “I am at least. At home we have supper at eight, and now it is eleven.”

“Has not Captain Schmidt been told?” asked the Count of the butler.

“Yes, sir, a quarter of an hour ago.”

“Then we will not wait any longer. The courtesy of kings does not seem to be shared by merchant captains. Allow me.”

He offered his arm to Elsa; hesitatingly she laid the tips of her fingers upon it, she would gladly have spared the Captain the awkwardness of finding the whole party at table. But her father had already offered his arm to Meta’s mother, the gallant President had given his to Meta herself; the three couples were moving towards the table which stood between them and the door, when the door opened, and the wonderful figure of a bearded man in a tailcoat and high seaboots appeared, in whom Elsa, to her horror, recognised the Captain. But the next moment she was forced to smile like the others. Meta dropped the President’s arm and fled into a corner of the room, where she tried to conceal behind her handkerchief the convulsive laughter which had seized her at the unexpected appearance.

“I must apologise,” said Reinhold, “but I have unfortunately only just discovered that the haste with which we left the ship was not favourable to a careful choice in my wardrobe.”

“And as that haste was for our benefit, we have the less occasion to lay unnecessary stress upon the small mishap,” said the President very courteously.

“Why did you not apply to my valet?” asked the Count, with mild reproach.

“I think the costume is very becoming,” said Elsa, with a desperate effort to recover her gravity, and a severe look at Meta, who had indeed come out of her corner, but without venturing yet to remove her handkerchief from her face.

“That is much more than I could have possibly hoped,” said Reinhold.

They took their seats at the table; Reinhold exactly opposite the Count and nearly opposite Elsa, while on his left hand sat Meta and on his right Herr von Strummin, a broad-shouldered man with a broad, red face, the lower part of which was covered with a big red beard, and whose big loud voice was the more disagreeable to Reinhold that it was perpetually breaking in upon the gay, good-humoured chatter of the young lady upon his left.

The good-natured girl had determined to make Reinhold forget her previous rudeness, and the keeping of this resolution was so much the easier to her, that now, when the tablecloth kindly covered those absurd boots, she found her first idea of him quite justified; the Captain with his large, bright blue eyes, his sunburnt complexion, and curly brown beard, was a handsome—a very handsome man. After she had attempted to convey this important discovery to Elsa by various significant glances and explanatory gestures, and to her great joy had perceived from Elsa’s smiles and nods, that she agreed with her, she gave herself up to the pleasure of conversing with this good-looking stranger all the more eagerly that she was certain her eagerness would not remain unnoticed by the Count. Did she not know by experience that he was never pleased, that he even took it as a sort of personal affront, when ladies to whom he did not himself pay any particular attention, were especially civil to other men in his presence! And that this man was only a merchant-captain, whose fitness for society had been just now called in question, made the matter the more amusing and piquant to her mischievous imagination. Besides she really was very much amused. The Captain had so many stories to tell—and he told them so well and simply!

“You cannot think, Elsa, how interesting it is,” she exclaimed across the table; “I could listen to him all night long!”

“That good little girl is not too particular in her tastes,” said the Count to Elsa.

“I am sorry for that,” said Elsa; “she has just chosen me, as you hear, for a friend.”

“That is quite another thing,” said the Count.

The conversation between these two would not flow properly, and the Count frequently found himself left to Frau von Strummin, to whom he had to talk so as not to be left in silence, whilst Elsa turned to her other neighbour—the President. And more than once, when that lady’s attention was claimed by the General, he really was obliged to sit dumb, and silently to observe how well his friends entertained themselves at his own table without him. To fill up these enforced pauses he drank one glass of wine after another, and did not thereby improve his temper, which he then exercised upon the servants for want of anyone else. He certainly would have preferred the merchant-captain for that purpose. He thought the fellow altogether odious, everything about him—appearance, manners, look, voice; it was all the more provoking that he should himself have brought the fellow to his house in his own carriage! If he had only not asked anyone’s opinion and left him in his room!

He told himself that it was ridiculous to vex himself about the matter, but he did vex himself about it nevertheless, and that all the more because he could not conquer the feeling. At any cost he must make the conversation general to free himself from a mood which was becoming intolerable.

Opposite to him Herr von Strummin was shouting his views upon the railroad and the harbour into the ear of the General, who appeared to listen unwillingly. He had made up his mind, for his part, not to touch upon this ticklish topic at table, but any topic was agreeable to him now.

“Excuse me, my good friend,” said he, raising his voice, “I have been hearing something of what you have been saying to General von Werben about our favourite plan. You always say ‘we’ and ‘us,’ but you know that in many essential points our views differ; so I must beg you, if you do speak about the matter, to do so only in your own name.”

“What! what!” cried Herr von Strummin; “what great difference is there? Is it that I want to have a station at Strummin, just as much as you want one at Golm?”

“But we cannot all have stations,” said the Count, with a pitying shrug of the shoulders.

“Of course we can’t, but I must! or I should not care a brass farthing for the whole project!” cried the other. “Am I to send my corn two or three miles, as I did before, and have the train steaming away under my nose an hour later! I would rather give my vote at the Assembly in that case for the road which the Government offers us; that would run just behind my new barn; I could send the wagons straight from the thrashing-floor out into the high-road. Could not I, President?”

“I really do not know, Herr von Strummin,” said the President, “whether the road runs just behind your barn; it certainly crosses the boundary of your fields. But my views have long been known to you both;” and he turned again to Elsa, to continue his interrupted conversation with her.

The Count was furious at the rebuff which the last words seemed to imply, the more furious that he knew he had not deserved them. He had not begun upon the matter, but now it should be further discussed.

“You see,” said he, turning to Herr von Strummin, “what disservice you do us—I must say ‘us’ now—by this perpetual overzealous putting forward of private interests. Of course we look to our own advantage in this; what reasonable man would not? But it must come second—first the State, then ourselves. At least, so I consider, and so does the General here, I am sure.”

“Certainly I think so,” said the General. “But why should I have the honour of being referred to?”

“Because nobody would gain more if this project were carried out than your sister, or whoever shall some day possess Warnow, Gristow, and Damerow.”

“I shall never possess a foot of the property,” said the General, knitting his brows. “Besides, as you know, Count, I have as yet had absolutely nothing to do with the question—not even so far as to express an opinion—and am, therefore, by no means in a position to accept the compliment you offer me.” And he turned again to Frau von Strummin.

The Count felt the blood rising to his forehead.

“The opinions of a man of your standing, General,” said he, with well-affected calmness, “even when he gives them no official shape, could as little remain hidden as the most official report of our excellent President.”

The General’s bushy eyebrows frowned still more sternly.

“Well, then, Count Golm,” he cried, “I avow myself openly as the most determined opponent of your project! I consider it as strategically useless, and I hold it to be scientifically impracticable.”

“Two reasons, either of which, if well founded, would be absolutely crushing,” answered the Count, smiling ironically. “As to the first, I bow, of course, to such an authority, although we need not always have a war with a non-naval power like France, but might possibly have one with a naval power like Russia for instance, and should then find a harbour facing the enemy very necessary. But as to the practicability, General; there, with all submission, I think I may put in a word in my amphibious capacity of a country gentleman living by the sea. Our sand, however heavy it makes the roads, to the great inconvenience of ourselves and the President, is a capital material for a railway embankment, and will prove good ground for the foundation of our harbour walls.”

“Until you come to the places where we should have to build on piles,” said the President, who, on the General’s account, felt himself bound to speak.

“Such places may occur, I allow,” cried the Count, who, in spite of the other men’s exasperating opposition, at any rate had now the satisfaction of seeing all other conversation at the table silenced, and he alone for the moment speaking. “But what do you prove by that, excepting that the making of the harbour may take some months or years longer, and cost some few hundred thousands, or, for aught I know, millions more? And what would that signify in a work which, once completed, would be an invincible bulwark against every enemy that threatens us from the East?”

“Excepting one!” said Reinhold.

The Count had never supposed that this fellow would interfere in the conversation. An angry flush rose to his brow; he cast a dark look at the new opponent, and asked, in a short, contemptuous tone:

“And what might that be?”

“The tide coming in with a storm!” answered Reinhold.

“We are too much used in this country to storms and high tides to fear the one or the other,” said the Count, with forced calmness.

“I know that,” answered Reinhold; “but I am not speaking of ordinary atmospheric changes and disturbances, but of a catastrophe which I am convinced has been preparing for years, and only awaits the final impulse, which will not long be wanting, to burst upon us with a violence of which the wildest fancy can form no conception.”

“Are we still in the domain of reality, or already in the realm of fancy?” asked the Count.

“We are in the region of possibilities,” answered Reinhold; “that possibility which, as a glance at the map will show us, has already at least once proved a reality, and, according to human calculations, will before very long become such again.”

“You are making us extremely curious,” said the Count.

He said it ironically; but he had truly expressed the feelings of the party. All eyes were turned upon Reinhold.

“I am afraid I may weary the ladies with these matters,” said Reinhold.

“Not in the least,” said Elsa.

“I am wild about everything connected with the sea,” cried Meta, with a mischievous glance at Elsa.

“You would really oblige me,” said the President.

“Pray continue,” said the General.

“I will be as brief as possible,” said Reinhold, directing his looks towards the President and the General, as if he only spoke for them. “The Baltic appears to have been formed by some most extraordinary convulsions, which have given it a character of its own. It has no ebb and flow, its saltness is far less than that of the North Sea, and decreases gradually towards the east; so that the fauna and flora—”

“What are they?” asked Meta.

“The animal and vegetable kingdoms,” said he, courteously turning to her—“of the Gulf of Finland have almost a freshwater character. But none the less do we find, besides the visible connection, a constant mutual influence between the ocean and the inner sea—a perpetual influx and reflux, resulting from a most complicated connection and combination of the most varied causes, one of which I must more particularly mention, as it is precisely that to which I am now referring. This is the regularity of the winds blowing from west to east, and from east to west, which, moving on the surface of the water, accompany and cause the ebb and flow of the undercurrents. Seamen reckoned upon these winds almost with the certainty with which they might count upon a constantly recurring natural phenomenon; and rightly so, for within the memory of man no essential change had occurred, until a few years ago the east wind, which used always to appear in the latter half of August and continue till the middle of October, suddenly failed, and has not since returned.”

“Well? and the consequence?” asked the President, who was listening with the most rapt attention.

“The consequence is, sir, that enormous masses of water have accumulated in the Baltic in the course of these years, which have been the less remarked that they have of course attempted to spread themselves equally on all sides, but the greatest pressure has always been in ever-increasing proportion towards the east, so that in the spring of last year at Nystad, in South Finland, four feet above the usual watermark were registered; at Wasa, two degrees farther north, six feet; and at Tomeo, in the northernmost arm of the Gulf of Bothnia, there were even eight. The gradual nature of the rise and the almost universally high shores have to a great degree protected the inhabitants of those parts from any serious calamity. But for us, whose shores are almost without exception flat, a sudden reversal of this stream, which for years has tended uninterruptedly to the east, would be fearful. This reversal must however happen in case of a gale from the northeast or east, especially if it lasted for many days. The water driven westward by the power of the wind will vainly seek an outlet to the ocean through the narrow straits of the Belt and the Sound in the Cattegat and Skagerrack, and like some furious wild beast in the toils, will throw itself upon our shores, pouring for miles inland, tearing down everything that opposes its blind fury, covering fields and meadows with sand and rubbish, and causing a devastation of which our grandchildren and great-grandchildren shall speak with awe.”

While Reinhold thus spoke, it had not escaped the Count that the President and the General had repeatedly exchanged looks of understanding and approval, that Herr von Strummin’s broad face had grown long with amazement and terror, and—what above all angered him—that the ladies listened as attentively as if a ball were in question. At any rate he would not let him have the last word.

“But this wonderful storm is at best—I mean in the most favourable case for you—a mere hypothesis!” cried he.

“Only for those who are not convinced of its inevitableness as I am,” answered Reinhold.

“Well, well,” said the Count, “I will suppose that you do not stand alone in your opinion, even more, that you are right in it, that the storm will come today or tomorrow, or sometime; still it cannot happen every day—perhaps can only happen once in a century. Well, gentlemen, I have the deepest respect for the farsighted previsions of our authorities; but such distant perspectives must seem inappreciable to the most farseeing, and ought not to decide them to leave undone what is required at once.”

As the Count’s last words were evidently addressed to the General and the President, and not to him, Reinhold did not think himself called upon to answer. But neither did they answer; the rest kept silence too, and an awkward pause ensued. At last the President coughed behind his slender white hand, and said:

“It is strange that while Captain Schmidt, here, in that decided tone which only conviction gives, is prophesying to us a storm, which our kind host, to whom certainly it would come nearest, would prefer to remove into the land of fancy—it is strange that I have been reminded at every word of another storm—”

“Another!” cried Meta.

“Another storm, my dear young lady, and of quite another sort; I need not tell these gentlemen of what sort. In this case also the usual course of affairs has been in the most unexpected manner interrupted, and there has been an accumulation of waters, flowing in immense streams of gold, ladies, from west to east. In this case also the wise men prophesy that such an unnatural state of affairs cannot be of long continuance; that it has already lasted its time, that an ebb must soon come, a reaction, a storm, which—to preserve the image which so strikingly applies to the matter—will, like the other, come upon us, destroying, overwhelming everything, and with its troubled and barren waters cover the ground, on which men believed their riches and power to be forever established.”

In his eagerness to give another turn to the conversation, and in the pleasure of his happy comparison, the President had not considered that the topic was still the same, and that it must be more unpleasant to the Count in this new phase than in the former one. He became aware of his thoughtlessness when the Count, in a tone that trembled with agitation, exclaimed:

“I hope, President, that you do not confound our plan, dictated, I may say, by the purest patriotism, with the enterprises so much in favour nowaday, which mostly have no other source than the vulgarest greed of gain.”

“My dear Count! how can you suppose that I could even dream of such a thing!” exclaimed the President.

The Count bowed. “Thank you,” said he, “for I confess that nothing would hurt my feelings more. I have always considered it as a political necessity, and a proof of his eminently statesmanlike capacity, that Prince Bismarck has made use of certain means for carrying out his great ideas, which he certainly would have preferred not using, if only to avoid too close contact with persons, all intercourse with whom must have been formerly thoroughly distasteful to him. I consider it also as a necessary consequence of this misfortune, that in order to reward these persons he has inaugurated, has been obliged to inaugurate, the new era of speculators, and of immoderate greed of gain, with those fatal milliards. Meanwhile—”

“Excuse my interrupting you,” said the General; “I consider these compacts of the Prince’s with those persons, parties, strata of population, classes of society—call them what you will—as you do, Count Golm, most certainly a misfortune, but by no means a necessary one. On the contrary; the rocher de bronze, upon which the Prussian kingdom is established, formed as it was of a loyal aristocracy, a zealous body of officials, a faithful army—all these were strong enough to support the German Empire, if it must needs be German rather than Prussian, or indeed an empire at all.”

“Yes, General, it had need to be, and to be German,” said Reinhold.

The General shot a dark look at the young man from under his bushy eyebrows; but he had listened before with satisfaction to his explanations, and felt that he must let him speak now, when he disagreed with him.

“Why do you think so?” asked he.

“I judge by my own feelings,” answered Reinhold; “but I am certain that they are the feelings of everyone who has lived, as I have, often and long together far from home in a foreign land; who has experienced, as I have, what it means to belong to a people that is no nation, and because it is not one is little regarded, or even despised by the other nations with which we deal; what it means, in the difficult position in which a sailor so easily may find himself, to have only himself to look to, or, what is still worse, to have to request the assistance and protection needed from others, who give it grudgingly and would prefer not helping at all. I have experienced and gone through all this, as thousands of others have done, and have had to swallow as best I could all this injustice and unfairness. And I went abroad again last year after the war, returning only a few weeks ago, and found that I had no longer to stand on one side and sue for protection. I might step forward as boldly as others, and, gentlemen, I thanked God then with my whole heart that we had an Emperor—a German Emperor; for nothing less than a German Emperor was needed to demonstrate ocularly to English and Americans, Chinese and Japanese, that they no longer had to deal with Hamburgers and Bremeners, with Oldenburgers and Mechlenburgers, or even with Prussians, but with Germans, who sailed under one and the same flag—a flag which had the will and the power to shelter and protect the least and poorest of those who have the honour and happiness of being Germans.”

The General, to whom the last words were addressed, looked straight before him, evidently some chord in his heart was sympathetically touched; the President had put on his glasses, which he had not used the whole evening; the ladies hardly turned their eyes from the man who was speaking so honestly and straightforwardly; the Count saw and noted all, and his dislike to the man increased with every word that came from his mouth; he must silence this odious chatterer.

“I confess,” said he, “if there was nothing further involved than that the gentlemen who speculate in sugar and cotton, or who carry away our labourers, should put their gains more comfortably into their pockets, I should regret the noble blood that has been shed upon so many battlefields.”

“I did not say that there was nothing else involved,” answered Reinhold.

“No doubt,” continued the Count, appearing not to notice this interruption, “it is a good thing to be out of range of the firing; and one can sun oneself comfortably in the honour and glory which others have won for us.”

The General frowned, the President dropped his glasses, the young ladies exchanged terrified glances.

“I do not doubt,” said Reinhold, “that Count Golm earned his full share of German fame; for my part I am well content with the honour of having been not out of range of the firing.”

“Where were you on the day of Gravelotte, Captain Schmidt?”

“At Gravelotte, Count Golm.”

The General raised his eyebrows, the President replaced his glasses, the young ladies again exchanged glances—Elsa this time in joyful surprise, while Meta very nearly laughed outright at the Count’s confused look.

“That is to say,” said Reinhold, the blood rising in his cheek at the attention which his rash speech had roused, and turning to the General, “to speak precisely, on the morning of that day I was on the march from Rezonville to St. Marie. Then, when it appeared, as you know, General, that the enemy was not in retreat upon the northern road, and the second army corps had completed the great flank movement to the right upon Verneville and Amanvilliers, we—the eighteenth division—came under fire near Verneville, about half an hour before midday. As you will remember, General, our division had the honour of commencing the battle.” Reinhold passed his hand across his forehead. The frightful visions of that fateful day rose again to his mind. He had forgotten the contempt which had lain in the Count’s question, and which he had wished to repel by the account of his share in the battle.

“You went through the whole campaign?” asked the General; and there was a peculiar, almost a tender, tone in his deep voice.

“Yes, sir, if you reckon the fortnight, from the 18th July to the 1st August, while I was being drilled at Coblenz. As a native of Hamburg and a sailor, I had not had the good fortune of learning my drill properly when young.”

“How came you to be in the campaign?”

“It is a short story, which I will briefly relate. On the 15th July I was with my ship in the Southampton Roads, bound for Bombay—captain of my own ship for the first time. On the evening of the 16th we were to weigh anchor. But on the morning of the 16th came the news of the declaration of war; by midday an efficient substitute had been found, and I had said goodbye to my owners and my ship; in the evening I was in London; on the night of the 16th–17th on my way, by Ostend, Brussels and the Rhine, to Coblenz, where I offered myself as a volunteer, was accepted, went through a small amount of drill, sent forward, and, why, I know not, attached to the ——— regiment, eighteenth division, ninth corps, with which I went through the campaign.”

“Were you promoted?”

“I was made a noncommissioned officer at Gravelotte, acting sublieutenant on the 1st September, the day after Bazaine’s great sortie, and on the 4th December—”

“That was the day of Orleans?”

“Yes, sir; on the day of Orleans I got my commission.”

“I congratulate you on your rapid promotion,” said the General, smiling, but his face darkened again immediately. “Why did you not introduce yourself to me as a fellow-soldier?”

“The merchant-captain must apologise for the lieutenant of the reserve, General.”

“Were you decorated?”

“Yes, sir; I received the Cross with my commission.”

“And you do not wear it?”

“I have dressed so hastily today,” answered Reinhold.

Meta broke into a laugh, in which Reinhold joined heartily; the others smiled too; a civil, approving, flattering smile, as it seemed to the Count.

“I fear that we are putting the patience of the ladies to too long a trial,” he said, with a significant movement.

X

The ladies retired as soon as the table was cleared. Frau von Strummin, who was accustomed to go to bed at nine o’clock, was really tired, and Meta professed to be so too. But her sparkling eyes belied her; and the two girls were no sooner alone, for their rooms communicated, and Meta insisted on acting as Elsa’s lady’s-maid, than she fell upon the latter’s neck and declared that she loved to distraction the Captain, who, after all, was really a lieutenant.

“He is the very man I have always dreamt of,” cried she; “young, but not too young, so that one can feel respect for him; wise, but not too wise, so that one is not afraid of him; brave, but no boaster; and then such beautiful white teeth when he laughs, and he laughs so readily and pleasantly. I should like him to be always laughing.”

“How could you laugh as you did?”

“What was I to do? I had been serious for so long, I must laugh at something. And his dress! But do you know, as we said good night to him just now, I was not at all inclined to laugh, I was quite agitated, and felt more like crying. I felt as if I should never see him again, and ought to apologise to him for all my rudeness. Now you are getting serious too; confess that you, too, are in love with him.”

“I agree to everything that you have said of him, but as to being in love, that is going rather far.”

“Not for me, not for my heart; only feel how it beats! Five minutes is enough to set my heart at work. I do not know how it is, but to see and to love are all one with me. One often makes mistakes, however; very often.”

Meta seated herself on a stool, began to unplait her red gold hair, and said in a tragical tone:

“The first time—it is an immense while ago, I was about twelve years old—I fell in love with my brother’s tutor. I have got a brother, you must know. He lives now in Lower Pomerania, where for the least possible amount of money the largest possible amount of sand can be bought. Of course the tutor has been married a long time now, and is a clergyman, and of course lives also in Lower Pomerania, close to my brother, and I saw him there this winter at a christening. Oh, how ashamed of myself I was!”

And Meta covered her face with her hands, and shook out her hair in front of her, till it fell like a thick veil to the ground.

“How ashamed of myself I was! It was dreadful! And if it had been only once! But the same story has been repeated at least twenty times—the last time in February, in Berlin, at the opera, in the first row of boxes. Papa said he was a pickpocket; but papa sees pickpockets everywhere when he is in Berlin, and spoils every enjoyment and destroys every illusion, and yet it is so pleasant to have illusions, when one is seventeen and inclined that way! Are you asleep already?”

“No, but I am very tired; give me a kiss, and then go to bed too.”

Meta threw back her hair, sprang up, embraced Elsa with the warmest kisses, and whispered in her ear: “Do you know, I am as certain as I stand here that I shall be an old maid—a very old maid with a bent back, and great spectacles over my sunken eyes, and knitting an everlasting stocking with trembling hands! It is hard, you know, when one has a warm heart, and would take a husband on the spot, if he were only good and nice, and would be faithful to him till death, and beyond death, too, if he died first and really made a point of it. For you see our ‘von’ and our pretensions to nobility are all nonsense. They cannot make anyone happy, particularly when there is nothing to support them, as is the case with us, and when one has a snub nose and red hair, and eyes of which one cannot tell oneself whether they are grey or green, or blue or brown. You have such wonderful soft chestnut-brown hair, and such a deliciously straight nose, and such beautiful, heavenly, hazel eyes, which are positively shining now in the half-light; and when you are the Countess you must be kind to poor little ugly Meta, and let me come here very often, that I may talk and laugh as much as I please—it does one so much good! oh, so much!”

And the strange little creature hid her burning face on her new friend’s shoulder, and sobbed bitterly. Then she drew herself up suddenly, put back the hair from her face, and said: “I think I am tired too; I really do not know what I am saying. Good night, you dear, beautiful thing!”

She raised herself, but dropped down again on the edge of the bed, bent over Elsa and asked in a whisper: “Have you never been in love? Do tell me, as you love me!”

“As I love you, no!”

“I thought so. Sleep well, and pleasant dreams to you!”

She kissed Elsa again, gathered her dressing-gown round her and glided away.

XI

The gentlemen, too, had remained but a short time together. Herr von Strummin’s proposal of a rubber of whist before going to bed fell through, as it appeared that with the exception of himself and the Count no one played. Even the cigars offered by the Count found no favour excepting with Herr von Strummin, as the General and the President did not smoke, and Reinhold professed to be the less willing to encroach further on the Count’s kindness, because he must take his departure early the next morning, and would therefore ask permission to take leave of the Count now with many thanks for the hospitality he had experienced. He was anxious to know how the Neptune had stood the gale, and he was certain of finding the ship either still at anchor at Wissow or already at Ahlbeck, where she must return to take up the passengers landed there yesterday.

The Count hoped that Captain Schmidt, if he really was determined to go, would at any rate make use of one of his carriages; but Reinhold declined the civil offer with equal civility; he was a good walker, and if he took a boat from Ahlbeck would reach Wissow sooner than the carriage could convey him there. He earnestly begged the Count not to disturb himself, and asked the General and Herr von Strummin kindly to make his excuses to the ladies. Herr von Strummin exclaimed that the ladies would be inconsolable, and would have further dilated on the subject in his own fashion when a look from the Count showed him that he was on the wrong tack. The General said shortly, as he gave Reinhold his hand, “Au revoir in Berlin, Lieutenant Schmidt!” The President, who had until now kept silence, came up to him at the last moment and whispered, “I wish to speak to you again.”

Reinhold had got to his room, and was thrusting his unfortunate dress-coat back into his travelling-bag and considering what the President’s mysterious words might mean, when there came a knock at his door. It was Johann, who came to inquire if Captain Schmidt would receive the President for a few minutes? Reinhold sent the servant back to say that he would come at once to receive the President’s commands, and followed him immediately.

The President received his midnight guest with a cordiality which struck Reinhold the more that till now he had thought that the reserved and rather haughty-looking old gentleman had hardly noticed him. The President must have read Reinhold’s thoughts in his face, for as he invited him to sit by him on the sofa, he said, “I must begin with a confession. It is my habit, nourished and perhaps justified by a long official career, to observe a certain, often I dare say too great, reserve towards all who for the first time come under my notice. But whenever I have good reason for interesting myself in anyone my interest is full and entire. You, Captain—or must I, like my worthy friend, call you Lieutenant Schmidt?”

“Supposing you omit any title, President?”

“Very well—you, Herr Schmidt, interest me. You are frank and bold by nature, and have fortunately remained so although you have thought and studied and learned more than most members of your profession. However, I am not keeping you from your night’s rest only to make you this very sincere compliment. I have two requests to make of you, of which the first is easy to grant, provided that your expedition after the Neptune is not merely an excuse.”

“An excuse, President?”

“You took my side on the harbour question too warmly not to come into collision with the Count, whose sensitiveness on this point is unfortunately only too easy to understand. You would perhaps avoid, for the sake of the rest of the party, a possible continuation of the discussion which puts our host into such an inhospitable temper, and—” The President’s keen eyes shot a rapid glance at Reinhold’s face, as he coughed behind his white hand.

“That is exactly the state of the case, President,” said Reinhold.

“I thought so. You will then in a few hours be on board the Neptune. I left lying about in my berth a document which I was studying on the way—a memorial to the Minister upon that very harbour question, and upon the condition of our water-highways, pilotage, coast-beacons—reforms in all these directions—and other matters. I should not like the papers to fall into strange hands even for a time; and you would greatly oblige me—”

“Thank you heartily for the confidence you put in me, President,” said Reinhold; “the papers shall reach you in safety—”

“But not before you have looked into them,” interrupted the President quickly. “And this is the prelude to my second request. You look surprised. The matter is simply this. The worthy old Superintendent of pilots at Wissow must, and will, soon retire. The post will be vacant next spring, perhaps even in the course of the winter. In the present state of affairs, with the many questions which are sure to crop up and require attention, the position is one of importance, far exceeding that usually attached to similar posts. I can only propose to the Minister for this post a thoroughly trustworthy and intelligent man, and one of whom I know that he will heartily support my plans from conviction of their propriety. Now if you can find such conviction for yourself in those papers, and would willingly continue the work with me, I would, with your permission, send in your name to the Minister.”

“Really, President,” said Reinhold, “you offer me such great and flattering confidence, a man of whom you really know nothing—”

“That is my affair,” interrupted the President, smiling. “The question is now, are you inclined—supposing, of course, that the other circumstances of the position, which are not brilliant, but still sufficient, should suit you—to agree to my proposal? I do not expect, I do not even wish, for any answer at present; I only ask for it when you return the papers to me at Sundin, and we can discuss the matter further over a cutlet and a glass of Burgundy.”

The President rose. Reinhold felt that he must accede to the wishes of this strange man, and not further pursue the question here or now, and took his leave, expressing his thanks in a few words which came from his heart, and were received by the President with a kindly smile. He had already reached the door when the President called after him:

“If you like to hand over to my servant anything which might be in your way for your expedition, it shall be carefully looked after among my luggage, and kept as a pledge for my papers.”

A bow from the aristocratic grey head, a wave of the slender white hand, and Reinhold was dismissed.

“Very graciously, but very much as if I were already in the Government service and his,” said Reinhold, laughing, as he walked up and down his room, considering the proposal which had come to him so unexpectedly, and yet like the natural sequel to all that had happened in the day. The grounding of the steamer in an uncertain channel; the want of proper signals from the shore; the absence of all precautions in case of need, and principally of a lifeboat; the difficulty, even impossibility, of putting a boat to sea in stormy weather, from that low, unprotected shore—all this had passed through his head. There was so much to be done here! And then that insane project of a harbour, that had been, as it seemed, within a hair’s breadth of being carried out, perhaps might still be carried out, if experienced men did not raise their voices loudly against it, and expose this delusion of the Count’s. The President was right. The position of a Superintendent of pilots in these waters was far more important than might appear at first sight, and was well worthy that a man should give his best strength to it, and sacrifice to it all that he had still hoped and promised to himself from life.

For a sacrifice it was. His almost completed negotiations with the great Hamburg firm, who had offered him their finest ship for some years to come, for the South American and China trade; his plan of a North Pole expedition, which he had worked out from a completely new point of view, and for which he had already planned and spoken so much, and with such success—such far-reaching views, such important designs to be given up, that he might confine himself to this narrow horizon! to help to prevent this intricate channel from being quite silted up! to organise some useful improvements on this coast; to—

“Be honest!” said Reinhold, suddenly standing still. “Confess to yourself that it is to avoid putting a few thousand miles between her and you, to remain in her neighbourhood, to have the possibility of seeing her again, to make a fool of yourself as you have done today. For it is folly! What good can come of it? This daughter of a general officer, of noble family, would raise her brown eyes with a good deal of astonishment if the very unaristocratic Superintendent of pilots were to venture seriously to lift his eyes to her; and to the General himself I am, and remain, the Lieutenant of the Reserve—something that is neither fish nor flesh, and which one only puts up with in case of necessity, and then very much against the grain. I think I might have known that. And supposing that the most improbable thing in the world did happen, that I could gain the love of this beautiful girl and the friendship of her father, what sort of society should I find myself in in future! How would it please me to be perpetually meeting Count Golm, Herr von Strummin, and Co.? to be always reading in their looks and manners: ‘What does the fellow want amongst us? Can he not remain with his equals? or does he really think that he, or his democratic uncle—’ ” Reinhold could not help laughing. “Uncle Ernst! He had not seen him for ten years; but if he found him again in Berlin—grumbling, bitter, dissatisfied, and apparently impossible to satisfy, as he was formerly—the stubborn old radical and the stern old soldier would make a fine piece of work together! And good Aunt Rikchen, with her anxious little face under her great white cap, and her little mincing steps, how would she get on with the beautiful aristocratic young lady? And his little cousin Ferdinanda—she must by this time be his grown-up cousin, and, if she had kept the promise of her childhood, a very pretty girl. But she might, perhaps, fit in better, although—Have I really gone out of my mind? What is the good of all this? What is it all, but the wildest imagination, of which I ought to be ashamed, of which I shall be ashamed tomorrow! Tomorrow? Why it is morning already!”

He went to the window. It was still dark; the great trees, which seemed to surround the whole house, rustled monotonously, like the rippling of the waves upon a level shore. The sky was completely overcast with black clouds. Reinhold gazed out into the darkness.

“It would be difficult to steer a straight course here,” he said to himself, “and I have given away my compass. I cannot even find out how I stand. And yet, if but one star appeared, the star of her love, I should know what to do, and would find my way past all rocks and all obstacles!”

He started with a thrill of joy. As if called by enchantment from the black clouds, directly before him there shone a bright steady light—a star—Venus herself! By the hour and the inclination towards the horizon it could be none other than Venus!

It was a chance—of course a chance; but he had never been able to laugh at sailors’ superstitions even if he did not share them, and he would not laugh now. No; he would take it as a sign from heaven, as a confirmation of the principle to which he had held as long as he could remember—not with childish self-will to strive after the unattainable, but on a really worthy purpose, attainable by courage and strength and perseverance, to set all his courage, all his strength, and all his perseverance.

Venus had disappeared in dark clouds, but other stars peeped out; there was a louder rustle in the trees, whose heavy masses began to stand out from the sky—the morning was breaking.

Reinhold closed the window. He wanted an hour’s repose, and felt that now he could take it. A gentle peace like the lull after a storm had come upon his spirit—he felt that he was himself again, that he had no need to blame or quarrel with himself further, and with fate he had never quarrelled.

He put out the candles, which had nearly burnt down to their sockets; sank into the great armchair which stood before the fire, stared for a few moments at the embers which here and there shone amongst the ashes with a feeble and ever feebler glow, and then fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

XII

It was long, very long, before Elsa could sleep. As soon as she closed her eyes the bed changed to a ship that rocked up and down in the waves, and when she raised her weary eyelids more and more wonderful shadows flitted between the heavy folds of the curtains in the dim light of her night-lamp. The events of the day passed through her mind in the most varied form and in the utmost confusion. She was sitting by the sickbed of the children in the close farmhouse room; but near her sat, not the farmer’s wife, but Meta, who had let her loosened hair fall over her face, and told her with sobs how ashamed she was of being in love with a merchant captain whom she had never seen before. And then, again, it was the farmer’s wife who sat upon the side of her bed and begged her to forget what she had said about the Count, who had sent for the doctor the moment she asked him, and who was certainly a kind gentleman in his own way, although he did not care about children and poor people, and looked sometimes so proud, and would be very angry if he knew that she always kept the little compass concealed in her pocket, which she must return to its owner tomorrow, for she had promised it by her friendship.

That must have been the last flickering thread of the half-waking thoughts with which her dreams now played the most grotesquely painful tricks. Through narrow passages on board ship, and magnificent saloons, through dark forests, over foaming waves, now in a rocking boat, now in a shaking carriage, then again running hastily across the sandhills, where the ground at every step gave way under her eager feet, as she vainly endeavoured to hold by the waving grasses—always and everywhere she hastened after the Captain, to whom she must speak, she knew not why, to whom she must give something, she knew not what; she only knew that her happiness depended upon her speaking to him, upon her giving this thing to him. But she could not find him, and when she was certain that he was only hidden behind a curtain, behind which she could even see his figure, and called to him to come forward—she knew very well that he was there, and at last wanted, laughingly, to lift the curtain—someone always held her back, sometimes her father shaking his head with displeasure, then the President, who put up his eyeglass and assured her that he could see through the thickest curtains, but there was nobody there. It was not a red silk curtain either, but thick dark smoke, which only shone so red from the blood which had been shed behind it; but that blood was the lifeblood of the Captain, who had just fallen in the battle of Gravelotte, half an hour before midday. She could do nothing to help him now.

“But I must see him again. He gave me his heart; I have it in my pocket, and it is always quivering and wanting to get back to him. I cannot give it back to him, but I will give him my own instead, and then his will be at rest again.”

“If that is the case,” said the President, “just put your heart here upon his tombstone.”

And he drew back the red smoke as if it had been a curtain. There she saw a great iron cross, flooded with bright morning light; and at the foot of the cross, on the green turf, sat he whom she sought, in dress-coat and fisherman’s boots, and by his side Meta von Strummin; and they had a casket in their hands, in which lay a heart. She could not see it, but she knew that it was a heart.

“You must not give that away,” said she.

“Why not?” cried Meta. “I can give away my heart as often as I please, you know; I have given it away twenty times already.”

“But that is my heart—my heart!”

Meta would not give her the heart, and then she grew so anxious and fearful. She caught Meta’s hands, and struggled with her.

“Do wake up!” said Meta. “You are sighing and groaning so that you quite woke me.”

“I thought the cross was red!” said Elsa.

“You are dreaming still. That is the shadow of the window frame; I have drawn back the curtains to let in the light. The sun must rise soon, the sky is quite red now. It looks beautiful! Do just sit up, and that will rouse you altogether.”

Elsa sat up. The whole room was filled with a red glow.

“What have you been dreaming about?” asked Meta.

“I do not know,” said Elsa.

“How pretty you are,” said Meta; “much prettier even than you were yesterday evening. Did your dream give you such rosy cheeks, or is it the morning glow!”

“The morning glow,” said Elsa. “How I should like to see the sun rise! I have never yet seen it.”

“No!” cried Meta, clasping her hands together; “never yet seen the sun rise! Is it possible! Oh, you town people! Come! it never rises more beautifully than here at Golmberg, but we must make haste. I am half-dressed already. I will come and help you directly.”

Meta came back in a few minutes and began to help Elsa to dress.

“I was born to be a lady’s-maid,” said she. “Will you have me? I will dress and undress you all day long, and be as faithful as a lapdog to you; for one’s heart must cling to something, you know, and my heart has nothing now to cling to, you know. There now, just a veil over your beautiful hair, and this lovely shawl round you—you will want them; it will be quite cold enough.”

But a soft warm air met them as they stepped from the glass door on to the little balcony, from which a small iron staircase led down into a strip of garden which had been laid out between the two wings of the building.

“The gate is never locked,” said Meta; “we can get straight into the forest, you know, and be there in five minutes; but we must make haste if we want to see anything.”

She dragged her faintly-resisting companion quickly on. “Don’t be afraid,” she cried, “I know every step of the way; we shall not meet a soul, at the utmost only a roedeer—look!”

She held Elsa back by the arm and pointed to the broad path.

There stood a deer not a hundred yards from them. It seemed to see nothing alarming in their two figures, but bent its delicate head, which it had raised for a moment, and quietly went on grazing.

“That is what I delight in,” said Meta, as they quickly pursued the narrow path.

“So do I,” said Elsa.

“Then you must marry the Count.”

“You must not say that again if we are to remain friends,” said Elsa, standing still.

“Your eyes look as solemn as the deer’s,” said Meta. “Now you are laughing again, and that is much more becoming. But now shut your beautiful eyes tight, give me your hand, and don’t be afraid to walk on; but do not open your eyes. Mind you do not open them till I say, Now!”

Elsa did as she was bid. A low rustling sound which she had perceived for some time past became louder and louder, the wind blew more and more strongly against her, a rosy light shone through her closed eyelids.

“Now!”

Elsa uttered a cry.

“Do not be afraid; the railing is strong, and I am holding you,” said Meta.

Elsa was startled, but only with delight at the wonderful picture which was spread before her. Below her, far below, a sea of rustling, rosy, glowing boughs, and beyond the forest billows, the real sea, as far as the eye could reach, tossing in waves whose foaming crests shone here and there in a crimson glow, answering to that which overspread the heavens. And a crimson glow was on the shore, which swept in graceful curves out to the right hand as far as the rugged promontory, against whose steep cliffs, plainly seen notwithstanding the great distance, the surf leapt high up in foam and froth.

“Well, what do you say?” cried Meta.

Elsa could not answer; her soul was too full of the wonderful sight, and yet, as she repeated to herself, “How beautiful! oh, how beautiful!” her heart, which had been so light, grew sadder and more sad. With the impetuous music of the wind through the rustling branches at her feet, in the sullen thunder of the waves as, unseen by her eyes they broke upon the level shore, there mingled a melancholy tone—the reverberation of the dream from which she had awoke in such terror. Was not that crimson cloud, paling momentarily before the trembling light in the horizon, like the crimson curtain which had been drawn aside to show her that wonderful picture at the foot of the cross as it shone in the morning light; that picture of the two who were playing with her heart and laughing, while she was breaking it in grief and pain?

Lighter and lighter grew the horizon, their eyes could hardly bear the glory. At last the sun leapt up—a mass of light, a sheaf of rays, a ball of flame, before which the glow on sky and sea and earth as if in terror fled and vanished. Elsa was forced to close her eyes; she turned away, and when she opened them again—good heavens! what did she see?

They were standing a few paces from her, holding each other’s hands and smiling, with the golden light of the sun shining full upon them. Was she dreaming again? or was it a delusion of her bewildered senses!

“This is too delightful!” cried Meta.

“Good morning, Fräulein von Werben!” said Reinhold, as he withdrew his hand from Meta, who in her surprise had kept it a most indecorously long time, and came up to Elsa. “I must apologise again for disturbing you here. But how could I suppose that I should meet you in the forest at sunrise?”

“And may I ask what you are doing in the forest at sunrise. Captain Schmidt?” asked Meta.

Reinhold pointed with his hand over the sea, to a ship which had just rounded the promontory, and now seemed to be steering straight across the bay, leaving behind it a long straight streak of dark smoke:

“That is our steamer,” said Reinhold, turning to Elsa. “She has been lying all night at anchor, behind Wissow Head, and is coming now, I suppose, to pick up our fellow-passengers. There, in the centre of the bay, you can just see the roofs over the edge of the dunes, lies Ahlbeck, the village where they were landed. The farmhouse, where we were yesterday evening, lies much nearer, and more to our right; but the spurs of the hill on which we now stand come between us and conceal it. I must make haste now to be able at least to signal to her from the shore. They will be surprised to see me come on board alone.”

“Why should not we also go on board, if it would be so easy?” asked Elsa.

“You will get to Neuenfähr almost as quickly, and much more comfortably, by road,” answered Reinhold. “That was settled yesterday by the gentlemen, after the ladies had retired, and I could only agree with them.”

“And you?” asked Meta.

“I belong to the ship. There, she has just turned, and is coming in shore now. Besides, I have a commission from the President to execute. But it is high time for me to be off.”

“Goodbye, Captain Schmidt,” said Meta; “we shall meet again, I hope.”

“You are very kind,” said Reinhold. “Goodbye.”

He had turned to Elsa. Something like a shadow dimmed his blue eyes, and they did not look at her, but beyond her, perhaps towards the ship.

“Goodbye, Captain Schmidt.”

At the sound of her voice the shadow vanished; the blue eyes that now turned towards her shone brightly, brightly and joyfully as the sun, only that she had no need or desire now to close her eyes, but answered the deep earnest look frankly and earnestly, as her heart prompted her.

And then he disappeared.

The two girls retraced their steps, but without talking as they had done on their way out. They walked silently side by side, till, at the spot where the two paths crossed, and where they had before seen the deer, Meta suddenly threw her arms round Elsa’s neck, and kissed her passionately and repeatedly.

“What is the matter, Meta?”

“Nothing—nothing at all! Only you have such beautiful eyes!”

Reinhold, meanwhile, hastened down the narrow woodland path, which led from the place where he had found them, by a sharp descent over the side of the hill, between tall beeches and thick underwood, down to the seashore. He had not felt so gay and lighthearted since the days of his childhood. He could have sung and shouted for joy; and yet he was silent—quite silent, that he might not disturb the echo of her voice.

Only, as at a turn of the path the forest suddenly opened out, and the sea, his beloved sea, appeared in the bright morning sunshine between the trees that sloped down to the shore, he spread out his arms and cried:

“I will be always true to you—always!”

Then he laughed at the double meaning of his words, laughed like a schoolboy, and ran down the steep path as if he had wings to his feet.

Book
II

I

“Tickets, please! This is the last station, gentlemen.”

Reinhold handed his ticket to the guard, and cast a glance upon his sleeping fellow-traveller. He, however, did not stir.

“Ticket, sir, please!” said the guard, in a louder voice.

The sleeper roused himself. “Ah, yes!” He felt in the side pocket of his grey shooting-coat, gave up the required ticket, leaned back in his corner again, and seemed to be already asleep when the train started.

When first he got into the train, some two or three stations back, two other men in shooting-dress having accompanied him to the carriage, and taken a somewhat noisy farewell, it had struck Reinhold that this was not the first time that he had seen the slight active figure, and heard the clear, imperious voice.

That the traveller was a military man, was evident from his conversation with his friends, but in vain did he ransack his recollections of the campaign to get on the right tack; it was all too confused, incidents crowded too quickly on each other, there was nothing to link these memories together. But as the sleeper changed his position, and the light from the lamp fell more clearly upon him, Reinhold looked with increasing interest upon the face which seemed so strangely familiar. The well-formed forehead, shaded by short, curly, brown hair, the fine straight nose, the delicate lips, with the slight dark moustache, the finely chiselled though rather long chin—now he knew where and when that face, more beautiful, it is true, and more fascinating, had last been seen by him!

He of the grey shooting-coat, who had opened his eyes and was carelessly glancing at his companion, turned his head aside, and then immediately turning back, said:

“I beg your pardon, but it strikes me that we must have met before.”

“So I think,” replied Reinhold courteously; “but my memory has played me false.”

“In the campaign, perhaps?”

“That was my first thought, too.”

“Perhaps my name may be some help. Ottomar von Werben, Lieutenant in the ——— Regiment, No. 19.”

A joyful thought struck Reinhold.

“My name is Lieutenant Reinhold Schmidt, of the Reserve. I had the pleasure, not long ago, of travelling in the steamer from Stettin to Sundin, with a general officer of your name, and his daughter—”

“My father and sister,” said Ottomar. “Strange coincidence that—very!”

He sank back in his corner, from which he had raised himself, with a civil bow.

“The Lieutenant of Reserve affords but slight interest to the Guardsman,” thought Reinhold to himself.

Under other circumstances he certainly would not have continued the conversation which the other had cut so short; but now he could not resist making an exception.

“I hope that the General and his daughter are well?” he began afresh.

“Perfectly,” said Ottomar; “at least, I believe so. I have hardly spoken to them since they came home the day before yesterday. I have been on leave since yesterday morning shooting. You shoot?”

“I can hardly call myself a sportsman, though I have had opportunities of joining in very unusual sport.”

“Unusual?”

“I mean unusual for Europeans. A sailor—”

“Are you a sailor?”

“At your service. What I was going to say was that a sailor comes across strange things sometimes.”

“You interest me; tell me something about it. Shooting is a perfect passion with me.”

Ottomar had seated himself nearer to Reinhold, and looked at him with his inquiring brown eyes. Those eyes found it easy work to charm an answer out of Reinhold.

So he related his adventures in a buffalo hunt in the Arkansas prairies, and in a tapir hunt in Ceylon, to which Ottomar listened attentively, only now and then correcting some unsportsmanlike expression, or begging for a clearer explanation on some point which either he did not quite understand, or which seemed to be of importance.

“That is capital!” he exclaimed at last. “He must be a good shot that—what’s his name?—the Englishman, Mr. Smirkson; and you can’t shoot badly either, but then you are a soldier. By the way, do you still not remember where we came across each other? It must have been in Orleans, as, so far as I can remember, that is the only time that my regiment came in contact with yours.”

“And it was in Orleans!” cried Reinhold—“of course it was in Orleans, when our two regiments combined to furnish a guard; and a jolly guard it was, too, thanks to your being such good company and having such a cheery temper. How could I have failed to remember it, and even your name, in the last few days? Now it is all coming back to me. Several of your brother officers came in afterwards—a Herr von Walbach.”

“Walbach—quite right; he fell afterwards before Paris, poor fellow. I am very intimate with his family. Perhaps he has got the best of it; it is horridly dull work since the campaign was over!”

“One has to get accustomed to everyday life again certainly,” said Reinhold; “but you soldiers remain in the same profession, and I do not think that Count Moltke will let you rest long on your laurels.”

“Heaven knows! It is hateful work; the campaign was child’s play compared to it!”

“But look you, it is a good deal harder upon us civilians, both in time of war—which is certainly not our trade, so that we can hardly meet the claims which are made upon us and which we make upon ourselves—and after the war too, when we are expected to return to our trade as if nothing had happened, and then generally find, to our cost, how hardly men learn, how easily they forget. Luckily, my profession is something like war—at least, in the moral qualities which it requires of a man—and that may be the reason why I, for my part, cannot join in the complaints which I have heard from so many upon this point.”

“Just so—exactly,” said Ottomar; “no doubt. Shall you stop long in Berlin?”

He was looking out of window, from which many lights were now visible.

“A few weeks—perhaps months; it depends upon circumstances—matters which I cannot foresee.”

“I beg your pardon—I do not want to be impertinent—what did you say your name was?”

He rubbed the window with his handkerchief where his breath had dimmed it. Reinhold could not help smiling at the careless manner of keeping up the conversation. “I can bear more from you than from most men,” he thought to himself, and repeated his name.

The face pressed against the window turned sharply towards him with an expression of surprise and curiosity, for which Reinhold could not account.

“I beg your pardon if I ask a very stupid question—have you relations in Berlin?”

“Yes. I have not seen them for years; to visit them was the original object of my journey.”

“I—I know several people of your name. General—”

“We Schmidts are middle class, very middle class. My uncle, I believe, has very considerable marble-works.”

“In the Canal Strasse?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“Only by sight; a very stately old gentleman. We live in the Springbrunnen Strasse, back to back, or rather shoulder to shoulder. The courtyard of your uncle’s place of business runs far into the Park Strasse at the back, and the little garden belonging to our house (the grounds were originally part of the same property) on one side joins the large garden belonging to your uncle. We see each other over hedges and walls without being acquainted—I mean formally, for, as I said, I know your uncle by sight very well, and your cousin.”

He let down the window; the train ran into the station.

“Are you expected?”

“Yes; it would otherwise be a doubtful experiment when one has not met for ten years.”

“Can I be of any use to you?”

Ottomar had risen and taken up his game bag; he had held his gun between his knees all the time.

“Thanks, very much.”

The train stopped. Reinhold took his things out of the net. He could not collect them all at once. When he turned round Herr von Werben had already jumped out, Reinhold saw him once hastily threading the crowd, and then lost sight of him as he let his eyes wander till they caught sight of a man who was standing at some little distance. The stately, broad-shouldered figure, the pose of the head held up so proudly, while turning to right and to left as he looked about him, the thick beard, almost entirely grey—how could he have doubted his recognising that face at the first glance!

It was Uncle Ernst.

“Ah! my dear boy!”

Such a hearty tone was in the deep strong voice, and hearty and strong was the pressure from the large muscular hand which was stretched out to Reinhold.

“The very image of your father!” said Uncle Ernst.

The fine eyes which were fixed on Reinhold’s face grew dim. The hand which held his loosened its grasp, and his uncle caught him to his breast and kissed him.

“My dear uncle!”

His own eyes were wet; he had not expected to be received with so much affection by this strong stern man. It was but a passing emotion, and Uncle Ernst said, “Your things came yesterday. Where is Ferdinanda?”

“Is she here?”

“There she comes.”

A tall handsome girl came hurriedly up to them. “I had quite lost you, father. How do you do, my dear cousin! Welcome to Berlin!”

A pair of melancholy blue eyes glanced at him with what Reinhold thought a rather uncertain look. There was a sort of hasty indifference, too, in the tone of the full deep voice, while the pressure of the hand she gave him was but slight.

“I certainly should not have known you,” said Reinhold.

“Nor I you.”

“You were still a child then, and now—”

“And now we will try and get out of the crowd,” said Uncle Ernst, “and you can say what you have got to say to each other on the way and at home.”

He had already turned and went on a few steps; Reinhold was about to offer his arm to his cousin when suddenly Herr von Werben stood before him.

“I must say goodbye.”

“I beg your pardon, Herr von Werben, but you disappeared so suddenly—”

“I had hoped to be of some use, but I see I am too late. Will you introduce me?”

“Lieutenant von Werben—my cousin, Fräulein Ferdinanda Schmidt.”

Ottomar bowed, hat in hand. Ferdinanda returned the bow, very formally it seemed to Reinhold.

“I have often had the pleasure of seeing Fräulein Schmidt at the window when I have been riding by. I will not presume to think that I have been honoured by any such notice in return.”

Ferdinanda did not answer. There was a gloomy, almost severe, expression upon her face, which made her look like her father.

“I will not detain you,” said Ottomar; “I hope to have the pleasure of meeting my fellow-traveller again. Goodbye, Fräulein Schmidt.”

He bowed again and walked quickly away. Some knots of people collected at the entrance came between them.

“Oh, do come!” said Ferdinanda.

She had taken Reinhold’s arm and suddenly pressed forward impatiently.

“I beg your pardon, but I could not help introducing that man to you. You did not seem to like him?”

“I? Why should I mind it? My father cannot bear waiting.”

“Who was that?” asked Uncle Ernst.

“A Herr von Werben—a soldier. I knew him during the war, and fell in by accident with some of his people on my way here.”

“A son of the General’s?”

“Yes.”

Reinhold felt a touch from the hand which lay on his arm, and a low voice said in his ear, “My father hates the Werbens—at least the General—since ’48—”

“Yes, by the way,” said Reinhold.

Ferdinanda’s shrinking from the introduction, her haste to put an end to it—all was clear to him; and then he felt that sensation which is common to everyone who has suddenly seen a vista of pleasure opening out before him, and as suddenly seen it withdrawn.

“There is my carriage,” said Uncle Ernst. “Friedrich!”

A large carriage with two strong brown horses drove up. Uncle Ernst stepped in; Reinhold helped in Ferdinanda. As he was following, casually glancing on one side, he saw Ottomar von Werben standing at some distance, with a soldier servant near him holding a dog in a chain. Ottomar waved his hand. Reinhold answered the friendly greeting with equal cordiality.

“I do not hate the Werbens,” thought he to himself as he sank back in the carriage.

II

From the short letters which he had received from his relations during the last ten years, Reinhold had gathered that at all events his uncle’s business prospered fairly. Ferdinanda’s handsome dress, and the smart carriage in which they dashed at a tremendous pace through the long, crowded, twilight streets, led him to expect that his uncle must have become a well-to-do, if not a rich man, and the entrance to the house quite fulfilled these expectations. The broad marble steps before which the carriage stopped, at the entrance; the square marble staircase, decorated with flowers, divided from the entrance by a glass door, and which led, in three flights, to the gallery that ran along two sides of it, whence various doors opened to the living rooms; the spare room on the upper floor, to which his uncle himself led him, with the request that he would make himself comfortable and then come down to supper—everything was of the best; rich, without show, showing taste even; but still it struck Reinhold as not comfortable. There was a chilliness about it, he thought, and then felt that this was but imagination, the result of that state of mind so common to anyone suddenly coming without much preparation to a new place, where he is expected to be at home at once, amongst people who, without being absolute strangers, are yet strange enough to lead one to anticipate at any moment something odd and chilling, because unexpected, unhoped-for, or even undesired.

“But in fact that is how it always is in this life,” said Reinhold to himself, as he put the finishing touches to his dress. “And if I did not know it before, the last few days might have taught it to me. How much that was unexpected and unhoped for have they not brought! And just now again, a good-looking young fellow, tired out with a long day’s shooting and a little too much wine, after sleeping for an hour, at the last moment discloses himself as a fellow-soldier and her brother! It is like a romance, and yet it all comes so naturally! And to think that she is living close by, that the boughs of the trees which rise above the gables of the house are perhaps in her garden, that she whom I never hoped to see again—Reinhold, tell the truth!—you know that you have always cherished a hope that you would see her again! You certainly did the day before yesterday, the last time that you gazed into her eyes. Those loved and lovely eyes showed you a faint glimmering of hope which must not, cannot be extinguished, even if there should be but slight sympathy in this house with your aristocratic tastes, unless it come from Aunt Rikchen.”

Uncle Ernst’s sister had hastened to him with open arms, and embraced him over and over again, with an exuberance of emotion which could hardly find sufficient vent in tears and exclamations, a wonderful contrast to the suppressed emotion with which her brother had received him. Even this scene Uncle Ernst speedily put an end to with a short gruff, “If you have cried enough, Rike, I might perhaps take Reinhold to his room.” Whereupon his aunt, taking advantage of a final embrace, whispered to Reinhold: “He still calls me Rike! but I shall be Aunt Rikchen to you, shall I not?”

“Poor old aunt! For indeed she has grown quite old, though, by the way, I suspect she really is younger than her stately brother! And passing years do not seem to have improved the terms on which they are together. He still calls her Rike! But no doubt they unite in spoiling my pretty cousin.”

Reinhold carefully combed out his beard, and then punished himself for his vanity and for the grievous wrong thus done to the love and truth which he had sworn to Elsa von Werben, by disarranging it again with his hand, but only moderately, “half-measures,” thought he, smiling to himself, as he ran downstairs to the dining-room, where Uncle Ernst and Ferdinanda were already awaiting him.

“Of course Rike cannot be in time,” said Uncle Ernst.

“Aunt is in the kitchen,” said Ferdinanda.

“Of course she is somewhere, only she never is where she should be.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Aunt Rikchen, who just at that moment entered, and hastily went towards her place, stopping at the sideboard on her way, to busy herself over something else.

“Are we to sit down to supper tonight?” demanded Uncle Ernst.

“Directly—directly!” said Aunt Rikchen.

The large round table was only laid for four. Reinhold had hoped now to meet his cousin Philip, after whom he had not been able to make any inquiries during the first interchange of question and answer; so he asked now.

His question was addressed to Ferdinanda.

“Philip does not come often,” she replied.

“Say, rather, that he never comes.”

Reinhold gazed in astonishment at his uncle, who had said this with a displeased look, and in a harsh, stern voice; and he thought that he observed on the two women’s faces an anxious, confused expression. He had unwittingly touched upon a string which sent a sharp discord through the whole family.

“This is a good beginning,” thought Reinhold, as he seated himself between his uncle and aunt, with Ferdinanda opposite.

III

Luckily, however, it seemed that his fears were groundless. It is true that Aunt Rikchen could hardly open her mouth without Uncle Ernst cutting short the thread of the story. Nor did Ferdinanda join much in the conversation; but that at first was not so remarkable, and was easily explained by the fact that Uncle Ernst was most anxious to obtain from Reinhold a comprehensive account of his life and adventures during the many years in which they had not met, and listened to him with attention that would admit of no interruption.

During their conversation, Reinhold had many opportunities of observing the unusual extent and depth of his uncle’s knowledge. He could not mention any town, however distant, of which the situation, history, and mercantile relations were not thoroughly well known to him. He expressed to his uncle his surprise and admiration at this.

“Why, what would you have?” was the answer. “When a man is born a poor devil, and not, like you, lucky enough to be able to follow his own inclinations in his profession, but, as boy, youth, and man, ground down with hard work for his daily bread, till he has reached old age, and it is too late for him to set out on his wanderings, what is there left for him but, with map in hand, to read and study, that he may find out how vast and how beautiful the Almighty has made this world?”

When Uncle Ernst spoke thus, all harshness and severity vanished from his voice, and all gloom from his stern features; but it was only for a moment, then the dark cloud settled once more upon eyes and brow, like the grey mist upon the snowy mountaintop, which but a moment ago glistened in the sunshine.

Reinhold could not look enough at the fine old face, with its ever-changing expression, though there was never the least trace of weakness or littleness—it was always strong and resolute; and at the noble head, which, with its thick curly hair and bushy beard, now turning grey, seemed more dignified, more commanding even than in former years. And he could not help being constantly reminded of another face, opposite which he had sat but a few evenings ago—General von Werben’s—also the face of a handsome, stern old man, more concentrated and self-controlled, indeed, and lacking that mighty fire which in the other burst forth in brilliant flashes, to be, as it were, forcibly restrained, and left to smoulder and perhaps flame afresh.

From the very first, Reinhold had thought that this inward fire, so hardly restrained, was threatening to burst forth in all its thunder and storm, and was only awaiting its opportunity; and it was soon proved to him that he had not been mistaken.

He had arrived in his account of his wanderings at the day when he received in Southampton the news of the Declaration of War, when, throwing up all engagements and forsaking his usual occupation, he hurried back to Germany to fulfil his duties to his threatened Fatherland.

“This resolution,” he cried, “was called forth by enthusiasm; it was carried out with absolute devotion, and with all my mental and physical powers, from first to last, without once, I may truly say, getting weary, once faltering, once doubting that the cause to which I had devoted myself was a holy one, however unholy and sanguinary the garb in which it might, indeed must, be decked. Then when the great goal was reached at last—greater, better, more complete than I—ay, than any who were with me in the battle—had thought or expected, hoped or wished—then I returned to my old employment, and once more launched my ship upon the seas, with the calm and joyful feeling of having fulfilled my duty; safe, wherever the uncertain career of a sailor may lead me, to find a spot of home under the German flag; and in the full assurance that you, in our beautiful Fatherland, will never lose what has been so hardly won, and that in good time the great work so nobly planned, so powerfully begun, will be finished and completed, and that when I returned home it would be to a country full of joy and peace, and sunshine in every heart and on every face. I must own, however, that during the short time that I have been at home, I have noticed many things which would seem to mock my hopes, but I cannot believe that I have seen rightly. On the contrary, I am convinced that it has so chanced that I have only come in contact with men who, upon some entirely personal ground, are dissatisfied with the state of affairs, or, at least, not perfectly satisfied with their present condition, as was the case with several men whom I met at Count Golm’s. Even in that exclusive circle I did not conceal my opinion, not even from the sceptical President of Sundin, whom I met only yesterday; rather I expressed myself openly and strongly. And now here, amongst my own family, at your table, Uncle Ernst—you who have struggled and suffered so much for the happiness and honour of your country—there can be no question of reserve, and I may feel secure of the warmest sympathy and most entire approval.”

Uncle Ernst had been listening, with his head supported on his hand, in silence; suddenly he looked up, and in a voice which boded no good, said:

“Forgive my interrupting you, to point out to you that I agree with the minority to whom you refer. I always think it right that when a man is speaking he should know if his audience does not agree with him.”

There was an unusually stern look in the commanding eyes, which Reinhold did not fail to observe. One moment he hesitated whether to be silent or to continue. But supposing he only stayed a few days in the house, this topic must constantly form a subject of conversation; and if, as unfortunately there was now no doubt, his uncle differed from him in opinions, it would be worth his while to arrive at the ideas of such a man upon the point. So he said:

“I am very sorry, my dear uncle, for the sake of the cause, and—forgive me for saying so—for your sake.”

“I do not understand.”

“I mean that the cause is so important and so weighty that it needs every pair of strong shoulders to help it on, and it is so great and so sacred that I pity those who either will not or cannot help and advise with all their hearts.”

“Or cannot!” exclaimed Uncle Ernst. “Just so! Have I not helped and advised as long as I could! At the barricades in the days of March, on the benches of the National Assembly and everywhere and at any time where it was possible for a man—at least a man of honour—to put his shoulder to the wheel as you call it. I will not dwell upon the fact of that shoulder having been wounded, more than once, of my having been cavilled at, interfered with, summoned before the authorities, and shut up in prison; that was natural, other and better men than I have fared no better, but worse—much worse. Well! it was a struggle then—a struggle carried on with very unequal weapons, perhaps, a desperate one, but still a struggle. What have we got now but a market and a huckster’s shop, where you may bargain, backwards and forwards, over the counter for piece after piece of our old proud flag of freedom, with the man who has them all in his pockets and who they know has them there?”

The cloud upon his brow grew darker, his eyes flashed, his voice took a deeper tone, a storm was at hand; Reinhold thought it advisable to draw in a little.

“I am no politician, uncle,” said he, “I think my talents do not lie in that direction, and I have had but little time to cultivate them. At all events I cannot contradict you when you say that unhappily everything is not as it should be in this country; but then you too must admit, as those gentlemen of whom I spoke admitted to me, that the cause viewed from another point, I mean from without, from the deck of a ship, from some distant port across the waters, takes another and far better aspect; and I think you cannot take it amiss if I say that I think more highly of this man—and, in fact, have a great respect for him, feeling that it is owing to him that the name of Germany has gained the respect of the whole world.”

“I know the burden of that song,” said Uncle Ernst, “he has sung it often enough, crafty old bird-catcher! he is always singing it to snare the birds into his net. Who brought about the events of 1864, of 1866, of 1870? I did! I! I!”

“And is he not right?”

“No, a thousand times no!” cried Uncle Ernst. “Because a man removes the last spadeful of earth, has he an exclusive right to the treasure which other men, with untold labour and fatigue, have toiled and digged for in the depth of the earth? Schleswig Holstein would still be Danish if our young nobility had had to conquer it; Germany would still be in a thousand pieces had it been left to them to join it together; still would the raven be hovering over our ruined hovels were it not for the thousands and thousands of patriotic hearts and heads that have been filled with enthusiasm for the unity of Germany, the hearts and heads of men who have thought day and night of her greatness, but have never been gifted and honoured with pensions and titles!”

“Do you know, uncle,” said Reinhold, “I think that it is with German unity as with many another great matter. In imagination many started to go round the world, in reality one man did at last go, and he discovered—America.”

“It strikes me,” said Uncle Ernst angrily, “that he who discovered it was called Columbus, and was imprisoned in lieu of thanks, and died in misery. He who came after him and reaped his glory, and after whom the new world was named, was a miserable thief unfit to tie the other’s shoes.”

“Now really!” exclaimed Reinhold, unable to resist a smile, “I do not believe that there is another man in the world who would speak like that of Bismarck.”

“Very possibly,” replied Uncle Ernst; “I believe that there is not another man in the whole world who hates him as I do.”

Uncle Ernst drank off the glass, which he had just filled, at a draught. Reinhold noticed that he had already made rather free with the bottle, and he thought he observed that the hand which guided the glass to his lips again trembled a little, and that the formerly steady glance of the great eyes was troubled and uneasy.

“That comes of arguing,” said Reinhold to himself. “What did I excite his anger for? Let every man think as he likes. I ought to have changed the subject.”

While they were driving through the town he had already mentioned the wreck of the steamer and the subsequent events, so that he was able without any difficulty to refer back to it and continue his account of how very kindly he was received by the President in Sundin, and what prospects had been opened before him. He pictured the man to the life, now veiling himself in diplomatic obscurity, now giving his opinion upon men and things with the greatest freedom, but through every apparent change keeping his aim in view.

“You do not describe the man badly at all,” said Uncle Ernst. “I knew him very well, as far back as 1847, when he sat on the extreme right in the United Parliament. Now he belongs to the opposition, I mean to the concealed opposition of the old-fashioned officials who quarrel with the all-powerful Majordomo and would be glad to see his clever rule cut short today rather than tomorrow. There are worse men than he, but I wish you had not gone to such lengths with him.”

“I have not yet committed myself to anything,” answered Reinhold; “nor will I do so till I have quite convinced myself that the situation which I am offered will be a sphere of action to which my talents and capacities are suited. If that is so—then I must take it.”

“Must? Why?”

“Because I have vowed to serve my country by land and sea,” replied Reinhold, smiling. “My duty by land I have performed, now I must seek it by sea.”

“It seems to me that service has become necessary to you,” said Uncle Ernst, with a grim smile.

Reinhold could see that he was trying to joke, but he was determined, as far as it concerned himself and his own ideas and convictions, not to give in to his inexorable opponent in the smallest degree.

“Why should I deny,” said he, “that the strictness of Prussian military discipline has deeply impressed me. At home in our little republican community everything is pretty slack; no one thoroughly understands the art of commanding, and no one will allow himself to be commanded. Now in a ship there is but one who ought to command, the rest must obey. But none have learnt what they have now got to put in practice; the officers are too often found wanting; they begin with abuse and bluster, where mild firmness would be proper, and then again let off the men very easily, and drop the reins where they ought to pull them tight. The men bear such capricious management the less well that they are mostly an unruly set, who are only waiting for an opportunity to throw off the yoke which oppresses them. So there come rubs on all sides, and one must be thankful if matters do not go from bad to worse, as happens unfortunately often enough, and has happened to me more than once. And if during a long sea-voyage a man is lucky enough to get his authority established and to introduce some order and discipline amongst the crew, he is in port again by that time, and at the next voyage the whole thing has to be begun over again. There is no question of all this in the army. Every man knows beforehand that unquestioning obedience is his first and last duty; yes, and what is more, each one, even the most unruly, feels that disobedience would be not only a crime, but that it would be madness, for if one man commit the slightest mistake the whole body is put out, he feels that this wonderful, fearfully complicated machine called the Army, can only work when every little wheel and every screw is in its place, and doing what is ordained for it to do at the precise moment.”

“For example they must shoot down in the ditch at Rastadt those who do not agree with them as to what is good for their country—and so on,” said Uncle Ernst.

Reinhold did not answer. What could he answer? How could he hope to come to any understanding with a man whose views were so diametrically opposed to his own in all things, and who always pushed these views to their furthest limit without offering any concession to him even as a guest, when only an hour ago he had received him with such hearty affection almost as a father would welcome his son after a long separation?

“Perhaps I have made a lasting breach between us,” thought Reinhold. “I am sorry, but I cannot give myself up bound hand and foot to the mercy of this old tyrant. If I am not able to find a topic which will please this rugged nature, I must get the ladies to help me; it is their place.”

Aunt Rikchen had plainly read his thoughts in his face. She answered his silent request by a quick furtive glance and an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, as if to say, “He is always like that now! There is no help for it.” Ferdinanda did not seem to notice the interruption. She sat as she had sat almost throughout the whole meal, with a fixed, absent look on her face, gazing straight before her, and took no notice even now, when her aunt turned towards her to say a few words. Uncle Ernst, who was just about to refill his empty glass, set the bottle down heavily upon the table.

“I have begged you fifty times to stop that dreadful whispering, Rike! What is the matter now?”

A slight flush of anger rose in Aunt Rikchen’s withered cheeks as the hated name sounded in her ear; but she answered in the voice expressive of resigned indifference, with which she was accustomed to reply to her brother’s reproofs:

“Oh, nothing! I only asked Ferdinanda whether Justus was not coming this evening.”

“Who is Justus?” asked Reinhold, delighted that a fresh subject had been started.

“Rike likes to call everybody by their Christian names,” said Uncle Ernst.

“And why not, when they almost belong to the family?” replied Aunt Rikchen, who seemed determined this time not to be put down. “Justus, or, if your uncle prefers it, Herr Anders, is a young sculptor.”

“Aged one and thirty,” said Uncle Ernst.

“Aged one and thirty,” pursued Aunt Rikchen, “or, to be more precise, three and thirty. He has lived here—who knows how long he has lived here?”

“Don’t you know, Ferdinanda?” asked Uncle Ernst.

“Ferdinanda is in fact his pupil,” continued Aunt Rikchen.

“Oh!” said Reinhold. “I congratulate him.”

“It is not worth while,” said Ferdinanda.

“His favourite pupil!” exclaimed Aunt Rikchen. “He told me so only yesterday, and that the committee are very much pleased with her Shepherd Boy. I must tell you that Ferdinanda has sent to the exhibition a shepherd boy, executed from the description in Schiller’s poem—”

“ ‘Uhland,’ aunt.”

“I beg your pardon, I have not had such advantages in education as some people—now I don’t remember what I was saying.”

“It won’t make much odds,” grumbled Uncle Ernst.

“You were speaking of Ferdinanda’s Shepherd Boy,” said Reinhold, coming to her assistance.

His aunt shot a grateful look at him, but before he could answer the bell rang, and a clear voice was heard asking whether they were still at supper.

“It is Justus!” cried Aunt Rikchen. “I thought so. Have you had any supper?”

IV

“Not yet, Aunt Rikchen,” said the newcomer. “How are you all? I must apologise, Herr Schmidt, for coming so late. Captain Schmidt? Should have known you from the family likeness, even if I had not heard you were expected to day. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Now no ceremony, Aunt Rikchen; I only want a bit of bread and butter and a cup of tea, if there is one, nothing more. How goes the world with you, Fräulein Ferdinanda? The Shepherd Boy has got a capital place in the first room by the window. My bust’s in the second—not so bad except for that abominable reflected light; but my group in the third! Night and darkness surrounds them; nor will silence be wanting—the silence of the public—broken by the shrill cackle of the critics. We poor artists! Might I ask you for a piece of sugar, Herr Schmidt?”

Reinhold could hardly help laughing. The appearance, manners, and speech of this bearded, partially bald-headed little sculptor, his cheerfulness, friendliness, and ease, all formed such a marvellous contrast to the rather stiff and irritable tone of the former occupants of the table. And now he was asking Uncle Ernst for a bit of sugar! It seemed rather like asking a lion to dance! But the lion did what he was asked, and did it amiably, with a kindly smile such as was seldom seen on that stern face.

“He succeeds better than I do,” thought Reinhold. “More shame to me.”

At sight of this man, who with the innocence of a child seemed able to go about the world either not seeing, or at least not caring for its dangers, Reinhold quite recovered his usual temper, and hailed with joy the appearance of this more cheerful addition to the party. The sculptor on his side was attracted by the powerful-looking man, the frank open countenance, clear blue eyes, and curly brown beard; his own small, restless, rather red eyes constantly turned in that direction, and he addressed his conversation mostly to him.

“Don’t let your uncle put you out of conceit with Berlin,” said he. “Let me tell you it is a charming place, and is getting more so every day. We have now got the only thing that was wanting—money, and when our pockets are full of money, you don’t know all that we can do here in Berlin. Berlin is to be the capital of the world. Don’t look so indignantly at me, Fräulein Ferdinanda. It is an old story for us, but Captain Schmidt is probably not in the secret yet, and we must warn him lest he should be utterly overpowered with astonishment when the sublime image of the monster is unveiled before him tomorrow, with its hundreds and thousands of heads, legs, and arms. What trouble we take over it. We feed the monster with our heart’s blood. I am nothing but skin and bone as it is, and that reminds me that I have got another commission, Aunt Rikchen.”

“Another monument in memory of our victories?” asked Aunt Rikchen eagerly.

“Of course! You must know, Captain Schmidt, that no small town exists, however insignificant, but must have its monument. And why not? The good people in Posemuckel are quite as proud of the six brave fellows whom they sent into the field, as we are of our six hundred or our six thousand, and are anxious to let posterity know how Tom, Dick, and Harry fought and conquered in so many battles and skirmishes, and that Fritz Haberstroh, widow Haberstroh’s only son, was shot dead as a doornail at Sedan for the honour and glory of the German Empire. And quite right and proper too, I think, and the fact that they always collect a few pounds less than will pay any living man to make anything for them, is not their fault.”

“And how do you get over that difficulty?” asked Reinhold.

“He just puts a new head on an old statue, and the Victory of Germany is ready,” said Uncle Ernst.

“I protest utterly against such atrocious calumny,” cried the sculptor. “I tried the experiment only once, by taking away the venerable head of a Homer, who had stood for a long time in my studio, and changing him into a Germany; but it was only on account of those splendid folds, those really perfect folds, of which Hähmel in Dresden had spoken so very highly!”

“And the experiment failed?” asked Reinhold.

“Yes and no,” answered Justus, rubbing his bald forehead. “No, because my Germany stands firmly fixed upon her sandstone pedestal in Posemuckel, and with the uplifted left hand holding a laurel wreath, blesses the German Fatherland and her faithful Posemucklers, while the right hand, heavily armed, sinks wearily by her side; but when the veil was drawn away, and the schoolboys sang ‘Nun danket alle Gott,’ then I still saw my venerable, dusty old Homer of blessed Dresden memory; the laurel wreath in the left hand became again a lyre, the sword in the right hand a Plektron. And I thanked heaven too, but it was because my fine classic folds were in Posemuckel, and not on the Dönhofsplatz here.”

And the sharp red eyes of the sculptor twinkled, and every feature of his happy face that was not hidden by the rough beard sparkled with fun. Reinhold joined heartily in the laugh, as the last trace of discord vanished, and even Uncle Ernst looked from under his bushy eyebrows at the cheerful little man much after the fashion of a good-natured lion permitting a little dog to jump and bark round him.

“I wish, though, that your Germany was in the Dönhofsplatz,” said he.

“Why?”

“An old and venerable trunk upon which some clever conjuror has placed a new head, which does not fit it—that seems to me a perfect picture of the new German unity, and it would be a very good thing if our compliant representatives could see it whichever way they turned.”

Justus laughed heartily, as if Uncle Ernst had perpetrated the mildest of jokes.

“Listen to that,” said he, turning to Reinhold.

“That is so like your uncle. His ruling passion is jealousy! He is jealous of the Almighty having made the beautiful world.”

“For shame, Justus!” said Aunt Rikchen.

“And of a poor little earthworm like myself, for every noble statue that leaves my studio. He feels that of course he could have done it so much better, and so far he is right. He is a born artist, a Michelangelo—at least in imagination—a Michelangelo without arms. And every stroke of the saw which cuts the marble into steps or suchlike contemptible articles goes through his heart, for each time he thinks, what might have been made or shaped out of this!”

“Do not talk such nonsense,” said Uncle Ernst.

“It is the simple truth,” cried Justus, still addressing Reinhold. “He has ideas in abundance, great ideas, sometimes not quite practical—somewhat Titanic, after the manner of Michelangelo—but no matter. One can cut them down to one’s own dwarf-like proportions and secretly laugh when he is brought face to face with the completed work, and shaking the Titanic head, murmurs, ‘I had imagined something quite different. They have spoilt my idea again!’ ”

Uncle Ernst at this point did indeed shake his head, though not at all angrily, but with a somewhat grim enjoyment, such as Reinhold had not seen him express during the whole evening. “Can he be as susceptible to flattery as other tyrants?” thought Reinhold.

“And what is the new commission?” he asked.

“A most noble commission,” answered Justus, swallowing his third cup of tea. “This time they really have got money—no end of money; that is to say, of course there will not be any over for me; it will all be spent in the actual cost of materials, unless your uncle will provide the marble, which, considering how he hates the whole business, there is very little chance of; but, at all events, the matter can be properly set going. I have been thinking it over on my way here from the committee, where it has all been pretty nearly settled.”

“Well, tell us about it,” said Uncle Ernst.

He had thrown himself back in his chair, and was puffing great clouds of smoke up to the ceiling from a cigar which he had just lighted. Reinhold had wished to abstain from smoking, out of respect to the ladies, but his uncle would not allow it, and said his womankind were accustomed to it. Justus, who did not smoke, was rolling little pellets of bread into a ball; he was evidently already at work.

“It is the old story, to begin with,” said he; “three or four steps—we will say three—of sandstone, supporting a quadrangular pedestal of granite, upon which is a square box, upon which box finally stands Germany—Germany this time without any classic folds. The box is for the inscription—there are a lot of brave Fritzes and Johanns to be mentioned—laurel wreaths, badges, etc.; that is all easy enough. But the bas-reliefs on the pedestal—there is the difficulty. Siemering has done everything in that line that is to be done so well, and, besides, has so much more space than I have, that everyone will say: ‘Siemering, of course—this is all copied from him.’ But it is no use thinking of that; if one has got to make a horse, he must have four legs; and if one has got to portray a campaign, there must be the march out at one end, and the return home at the other, and a fight in the middle, and patriotic ambulances; and not a line of that can be omitted. If you can’t be original in your conception of the whole, you must be in detail; and as my originality entirely depends upon the merits of my models, this time I shall be wonderfully original, because my models will be wonderfully good. Departure of one of the Landwehr—for the whole thing must be popular—one of the Landwehr—Captain Schmidt.”

“I?” exclaimed Reinhold, astonished.

“You and none other; I made up my mind to that an hour ago. Heaven has sent you to me, and the fact of your having been promoted from the ranks during the campaign will be very useful to me; you will know why presently. To continue. Aged father straining his son to his heart at the moment of departure.” Justus lowered his voice, and glanced at the servant who had waited upon them and now left the room. “Of course old Grollman, with his queer old face, with its hundreds of wonderful wrinkles, will always be my model for the aged fathers. More of the Landwehr in the background, three or four of our workmen—fine handsome heads. Number two: Office of the District Relief Committee. Women bringing offsprings; Aunt Rikchen, as a member of the committee, examining, with a critical glance, the heaped-up offerings—that will be perfect! In one corner Cilli making lint—superb!”

“That is a very fine idea,” said Uncle Ernst.

“Who is Cilli?” asked Reinhold.

“An angel,” answered Justus, applying himself still more eagerly to his occupation of shaping his bread pedestal. “She is the blind daughter of good old Kreisel, your uncle’s head clerk, who of course officiates as superintendent, bending over his desk and making a list of the offerings. He alone will make my work immortal. Thirdly: Battle Scene. A mounted officer waving his sword; the Landwehr, with fixed bayonets, rushing to the attack; ‘Forwards! march! hurrah!’ commanded by our Captain here, already promoted to be a noncommissioned officer—you see now?—and so on. Fourthly: the Return Home. The loveliest girl in the town presenting laurel wreaths—of course Fräulein Ferdinanda, now the daughter of the burgomaster; the burgomaster, a stately personage, Herr Ernst Schmidt.”

“I beg you will leave me out of the question!” said Uncle Ernst.

“I beg you will not interrupt me,” cried Justus. “Where in the whole world should I find so perfect a representative of the good old genuine German burgher?”

“The old genuine German burgher was a Republican,” grumbled Uncle Ernst.

“So much the better,” cried the sculptor. “A monument of victory is also a monument of peace. What would victory have done for us if it had not brought us peace? Peace without and peace within, irrespective of party feeling! The stronger the party feeling expressed on the faces of my figures, so much the more apparent will be the deep patriotic symbolicism that my work will show forth. So my burgomaster must let people see his Republican principles and hatred of the nobility a hundred yards off, as my general must be a concentration of feudalism and aristocraticism. And there, again, I have got quite as classic a model in its way—General von Werben.”

Reinhold looked up startled; the name came so unexpectedly, and Ferdinanda had said to him before, “My father hates the Werbens!”

And, indeed, Uncle Ernst’s face had suddenly become black as night, and the ladies were in evident fear that the storm might burst upon them at any moment. Ferdinanda’s beautiful features were suddenly covered with a rosy flush, and as suddenly turned deadly pale. Aunt Rikchen glanced at the sculptor with a quick, anxious look, and furtively shook her head as if in warning; but he did not seem to observe anything of all this.

“It will be the culminating point of the whole thing,” cried he. “On the proud warrior’s face shall be a look of satisfaction, mingled with the suppression of bitter party feeling, as though he were saying, ‘Dissension between us is at an end forever;’ and my general leans down from his horse and stretches out his hand to the burgomaster, who grasps it with manly emotion, which says, as plainly as any words, ‘Amen!’ ”

“Never!” exclaimed Uncle Ernst in a voice of thunder. “Before I grasp his hand, let my right hand wither! And whoever offers me such an insult, even in effigy, between that man and me there shall be war to the knife.” And he drew the knife, which he had seized, across the table, threw it aside, pushed his chair back, and staggered to his feet.

But it was only an explosion of Berserker wrath; for, as Reinhold sprang up to support him, he completely recovered his steady bearing, and said, in a voice whose forced calm contrasted strangely and painfully with the previous wild outbreak:

“We have sat too long after dinner; it stops the circulation, and then all the blood goes to the head. Good night, Reinhold; I shall see you again tomorrow morning. Good night all of you.”

He was gone.

“What, in Heaven’s name, is the meaning of that?” asked Justus.

He still sat there, the rough bread model of his monument in his hand, with wide-open staring eyes, like a child who sees a black devil jump out of a harmless-looking box. “What in the world is the matter?”

“What possessed you to mention that unlucky name?” said Aunt Rikchen. “Goodness me! that was the only thing wanting, and now you have done it!”

Ferdinanda, with a half-sigh, tried to rise from her chair; but, pressing her hand to her heart, fell back again immediately, deadly white, her beautiful head sinking against the cushion.

“What is the matter with you?” cried Aunt Rikchen. “Water—quick!—and ring the bell!”

Reinhold filled a tumbler from the water-jug, Justus flew to the bell; a maidservant hurried in soon, followed by a second, and all the women busied themselves over the fainting girl.

“I think we are in the way here,” said Reinhold, and led Justus, who was still overpowered with astonishment, into the hall.

“Now can you explain this to me?” exclaimed Justus.

“I had hoped to get some explanation from you,” answered Reinhold. “I only know that my uncle hates the General, has done so since ’48, so I suppose something must have happened between them then.”

“By-the-way, yes. Now I recollect,” cried Justus; “Aunt Rikchen did once tell me about it, but I had quite forgotten it; and even if I had not, how could I know that the old madman would get into such a state about it? Shall I come up with you?”

“Thanks, I can find my way. And you?”

“I live at the back here over my studio. You must come and pay me a visit tomorrow, and we will talk further over this wonderful business. Do you stay long?”

“I had meant to, but after this scene—”

“Oh, you must not think too much about that; I know him well. Tomorrow there will not be a trace of it. He is a capital old fellow through it all. Felicissima notte! a rivederci!”

Reinhold easily found his way to his room through the well-lighted stairs and passages. The candles stood on the table, but he did not light them, the crescent moon gave light enough, and a warm breeze came in at the open window, by which he stood in deep thought.

“What a pity,” he murmured; “I should have liked to cast anchor here for some time, and might have got on with the old gentleman. He seemed to me rather queer, and sometimes lets go the rudder, but it is not a very uncommon thing, and perhaps it will all pass over by tomorrow. I could soon learn his ways. He drank at least three bottles, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild before he flew out in that way. I am afraid it is rather a family failing; our old sailor grandfather—but it is not the worst of faults, and we Schmidts cannot be expected to have the aristocratic manners of the Werbens. Ferdinanda is unquestionably very handsome; the sculptor was right: ‘the prettiest girl in the town!’ And yet, the noble carriage, the inexpressible grace of movement, the beautiful look of the eyes, the ever-changing and always sweet expression of the features—she cannot be compared with Elsa, and indeed who could? Then she has not spoken three words. Is there nothing behind that beautiful forehead? Is that gloomy silence only a cloak whose ‘classic folds’ she has borrowed perhaps of her master to conceal her insignificance? I had pictured to myself something quite different when first I saw her. There was some life about her when she cut short that introduction at the railway station, and hurried me away. Certainly since then I have discovered why it was painful for her. Capulets and Montagues, only divided by a garden wall. What was that?”

The moon had risen higher; the shrubbery walk at the bottom of the garden, down which Reinhold could see some distance from the window where he stood, was in parts quite light between the bushes. Across one of the light spots a female form had just glided, only to disappear, and did not pass into the light again. But she must do so if she belonged to the house; the path went round a grass-plot in its immediate vicinity, and lay in the full light of the moon, and by leaning out a very little he could easily see over it. But why should she belong to the house? On one side of the garden was a small outhouse in which there was a lighted window. The figure might have come from thence. “And at any rate,” thought Reinhold, “it is no business of yours, and you can go to bed.”

He was just about to shut the window when he observed the figure again, this time in the path which ran along the wall, or wooden paling (he could not distinguish which), that on the left hand separated the garden for a little way from the neighbouring one. The wall, or paling, was overshadowed by high trees on that side. The moon shone on the right hand, but the distance was too great to distinguish with certainty more than the outline of the dark figure, as it slowly walked up and down the path, and finally stood still close to the wall, so that Reinhold could no longer see the shadow which before had been perceptible on the light background. It seemed, however, as if she leaned her head against the wall for a long time, staying in this attitude for at least two or three minutes, then she stooped and took up something, which for a moment shimmered white in the moonlight, and which she pressed to, or perhaps concealed, in her bosom. And then she came away from the wall and farther into the garden, slowly walking up and down between the bushes as she had done before on the path, but each time coming nearer till she reached the grass-plot. Then she stood still, and seemed to take a sweeping glance over the house; then she came over the grass-plot. It was Ferdinanda!

Involuntarily he withdrew from the window. “Why of course! Why should it not be Ferdinanda trying to calm her shaken nerves by taking a walk in the cool night air? Her slow gait, her repeated halting—of course the leaning against the wall was a return of the fainting! He ought to have run to her assistance and picked up her handkerchief which she had let drop, instead of stopping here playing the spy! It was too bad!”

He shut his window quietly, without venturing to light any candles in the present uneasy state of his conscience, but helped himself as well as he could by the light of the moon, which certainly was bright enough, so bright indeed that long after he was in bed he lay and watched the silver rays, through an opening in the curtains, shining further and further in upon the wall, till at last the usual deep and profound sleep closed his eyelids.

V

The next morning was lovely. The bright sun shone into his room from a blue and cloudless sky as Reinhold pushed the curtains aside and opened the window. Beneath him the dewdrops glistened upon the blades of grass in the round plat; in the bushes and amongst the branches of the tall trees, through which a soft breeze was playing, the golden light shone and twittering birds were flitting about. Reinhold cast a shy glance towards the left, upon the division between the two gardens, which he now perceived to be a high paling. If that garden were the same of which young Werben spoke yesterday, then those overhanging trees hid a secret amidst their green shadows, a secret which his rapidly-beating heart again whispered to him eagerly, passionately, as though there were nothing else in the world worth the trouble of beating for.

A knock at the door sounded. Reinhold hastily put on his coat. It was not his uncle, only Justus Anders’ favourite model for aged fathers, the grey-haired, grey-bearded servant with the wonderfully expressive wrinkles in the withered face.

His master had inquired several times for the Captain; just now again when he came in for his second breakfast (he drank his coffee always at five o’clock, sometimes earlier), and he got quite angry at the Captain not having made his appearance. Fräulein Ferdinanda had been working in her studio since nine o’clock; but Fräulein Rikchen was downstairs in the dining-room waiting to make the Captain’s coffee.

Reinhold had in honour of the day dressed himself in his best, or, in sailor language, put on his shore clothes, so he was able to follow the old man immediately, and to go in search of Aunt Rikchen. He was glad to be able to have a little gossip alone with his aunt, and notwithstanding the silence of last night, he did not fear that she had forgotten the art of gossip.

Aunt Rikchen sat at one end of the breakfast table behind the coffeepot, and knitted (her spectacles quite on the tip of her nose) with extreme rapidity, so lost in occupation and thought that she did not observe Reinhold’s entrance, and now jumped up with a little, nervous shriek. But she stretched out her hand to him with a smile which was meant to be very friendly, though her eyes were full of tears, which disappeared as suddenly as they came and left no trace.

“I have made fresh coffee for you,” said she; “I thought that you were probably terribly spoilt in such matters.”

“I am not spoilt in that way nor in any other!” answered Reinhold brightly.

“Ah! the good old Schmidt blood!” said Aunt Rikchen. “Just like your poor dear grandfather, whom you are as like as two peas.” At these words her eyes refilled with tears and were as hastily dried.

“I think Uncle Ernst must be the image of him,” said Reinhold, “and I am not very like him.”

“Not like him!” cried Aunt Rikchen, “then I do not know what likeness is! Though for that matter I know nothing—so he says.”

She had taken up her knitting and was again working with nervous haste: there was considerable bitterness, too, in the tone of the last words, which came sharply and pointedly from between her compressed lips.

“He” evidently meant her brother; but Reinhold thought it better to tack about a little before he steered for that course.

“How do you mean, dear aunt?” said he.

“You won’t understand,” answered Aunt Rikchen, with a sharp look over her spectacles; “you won’t see how he behaves to his only sister, and that he tyrannises over me and tyrannises over us all—there is no doubt about that.”

“But, my dear aunt, that is my uncle’s way, and you cannot expect anything else from him.”

“But I can,” exclaimed Aunt Rikchen, “for he always behaves worse to a poor thing like me. And why? Because he thinks I might take too much upon myself, and might end by contradicting him when he talks about his politics, and geography, and history, and all the stuff he crams his head with. We women understand nothing of all that! it is not our province; he alone understands it, and it is all to be kept for him. Of course it is all for him alone when he takes the books from under our noses and the newspapers out of our hands. He himself learnt nothing when he was a boy, and he ought to know how disagreeable it is to sit by without speaking, and having no idea whether Timbuktu, or whatever it is called, is a town, or a fish, or an animal, and not daring to ask—he ought to know that!”

The knitting-needles clicked more nervously, the spectacles had slipped so far down her nose that they could not slip any farther without coming off; and it would have been impossible for the sharp words to find an outlet if the thin lips were to be more closely pressed together.

“Certainly it is not right of my uncle,” said Reinhold, “to be so thoughtless of other people’s feelings and to be so contemptuous of other people’s desire for information; but it is often so with autodidactic persons.”

“With whom?” asked Aunt Rikchen.

“With people who have no one but themselves to thank for their education. I once knew an old negro who without any assistance, but entirely by his own intense industry, attained the rank of ship’s-captain, and really was unusually well-informed in nautical science and astronomy—that means knowledge of ships and stars, aunt—the result being that he looks upon everyone else as helpless ignoramuses.”

“And what does that mean?”

“People who know nothing.”

“But your uncle is not a negro,” said Aunt Rikchen; “and even a negro, if he has a daughter who is celebrated for her beauty all over Berlin, and might make a grand and rich match every day if she would, only she won’t, and in matters of will she is quite his daughter, and no man could persuade her even if he stood on his head. And Anders assures me that she has very great talent, and everybody says so; I don’t understand anything about it, indeed I don’t understand anything, but of course he thinks it all stuff and nonsense.”

“And yet I could imagine that my uncle is secretly very proud of Ferdinanda.”

“Why?” Aunt Rikchen glanced inquiringly at Reinhold over her spectacles.

“Once or twice last night I saw him look at her with an expression in his eyes which I could not otherwise account for.”

“Do you think so?” Aunt Rikchen had let her knitting fall into her lap, and her eyes once more filled with tears, which this time did not disappear. “Do you know,” said she, “that is what I have often thought, I often think that it is impossible that he should love no one, for he cannot bear to see an animal suffer, and he delights in lending a hand in moving the great blocks of marble so that the strong horses may not be overworked. But in that way he overworks himself, and cares and works for everyone whoever it may be, and they often do not deserve it, and repay him with the basest ingratitude. And then he must needs drink wine, for no Christian man could get through what he undertakes, and I have no objection to a glass or so; I often drink one myself when I am quite overdone, and it does me a great deal of good and comforts my old bones; but two bottles—or three—I am convinced that he will have a fit of apoplexy.”

The tears broke through their former restraint and fell in torrents down her sunken cheeks. Reinhold too was touched; there was so much true love in this acknowledgment of her brother’s good qualities, in this anxiety for him—an anxiety which he secretly felt was not without grounds.

“My dear aunt,” said he, “you need not be so anxious. We Schmidts are a hardy race, and my uncle may do more than most people. Besides anyone coming as I do fresh and unaccustomed amongst you, can see I think better and clearer what he really is; and I don’t mind saying, my dear aunt, that I should not be surprised if my uncle purposely showed the rough side of his nature so that all the world should not know how soft and sympathising his heart really is. I have known more than one man like that.”

“Have you?” said Aunt Rikchen eagerly, as her tears once more dried up. “Well, you have been a great deal about the world and have seen a great many people: heathens, and negroes, and Turks, and amongst them you may often see things that are not proper for a Christian; and even my stupid mind can understand things of that sort, but can you explain to me how it is possible that a father with a heart such as you speak of, could be on the terms with his son that he is on with Philip? explain that to me!”

“But I don’t know on what sort of terms he is with his son, my dear aunt! There seems to be a complete break between them.”

“Yes! is not it dreadful?” said Aunt Rikchen. “And the scenes that take place! Goodness me! when I think of it! But that is all over now; they have not met for two years, and Philip does not need our help now! he is getting so fearfully rich, he has made millions, Justus says, and is now building a house in the Wilhelmstrasse, where every square yard costs five thalers, or five hundred, or five thousand—I never can remember figures; and Anders has got to make four—or four and twenty statues for the hall and staircase, and the steps are to be of canary marble—that is what they call it, is it not? And I do not see the disgrace of that when a man has raised himself from being an ordinary builder as he was. Do you?”

“Till I know how he has raised himself, my dear aunt—”

“What! what!” cried Aunt Rikchen, “are you beginning to ask that already? What can he have done so very bad? Has he stolen it? Has he committed a burglary somewhere? or turned incendiary? or footpad? Wait till he does—wait till he does!”

“But indeed I have said nothing against Philip; I am utterly unprejudiced!” cried Reinhold.

“Yes, quite unprejudiced!” answered Aunt Rikchen, “when you take every earthly opportunity of flattering him and buttering him up till he is as proud as the grand Turk! And though Philip may sometimes be a little reckless and selfish, he has always been kind to me; and only yesterday when I met him in the Potsdamerstrasse he said: ‘If ever you are in want of money, aunt, come to me; you can have as much as ever you want.’ I do not want any, thank heaven! for he supplies me with all that is needful; but a nephew, who, meeting his poor old aunt in the Potsdamerstrasse in broad daylight, offers her any amount of money, is no robber, and no murderer, say I. And now you must manage to meet him; he does not generally inquire after or interest himself in anyone, but he has always taken the greatest interest in you, and always marks your journeys on the map with a red pencil. And that is just as it should be. I don’t mean about the pencil, but that clinging to one’s family. I could go through fire and water for him! for him! for all of them, it is all the same to me; either a man is a Schmidt or he is not a Schmidt—he has either got the Schmidt blood in his veins or he has not. Perhaps that is rather a narrow view to take—borné, don’t you call it? but it is my view, and I shall live and die in it. And when I am dead and buried you will then begin to see what a good old aunt I was to you all. But what I wanted to say was that Ferdinanda and Justus were talking of going to the exhibition today and wanted to know whether you would go with them? Of course I shall stop at home. I don’t understand these sort of things; in fact, I don’t understand anything.”

The spectacles had fallen to their lowest possible point; the needles worked with inconceivable rapidity. Reinhold fancied he still heard them clicking even when he found himself in the garden, into which a glass-door led from the dining-room.

VI

He drew a deep breath. Here in the open air the sun shone so brilliantly, while the house seemed so full of dismal ghosts.

“Good heavens!” said he to himself; “can there be a more terrible lot than to go creeping and groping through life with unenlightened mind, like my poor aunt here!—always dreading treachery and deceit, sin and sorrow; seeing no more of the sunshine, of all the might and beauty of the world, than if she were blind, like that poor girl!”

A young girl was groping her way along the iron railing that divided the courtyard from the garden, which was on rather a higher level. She moved with slow and careful steps, holding in her uplifted left hand a plate, on which appeared to be slices of bread-and-butter, and with her right hand outstretched lightly touched every third rail. It was by these careful movements that Reinhold recognised the blind girl, even before she stood still, and, slightly raising her head, turned her face towards the sun. The sun was very powerful, but her eyelids never even quivered. She had opened her eyes wide, as a flower turns its open petals to the sun, and lovely as a flower was the expression of the sweet, pure, childlike features.

“Poor poor Cilli!” murmured Reinhold.

He had remembered the name from last night’s conversation, and that the blind girl was the daughter of Kreisel, Uncle Ernst’s head clerk. And the man who had been standing in the doorway of the low building a little way off, which from the desks in the windows seemed to be the countinghouse, and now came towards the girl across the intervening part of the courtyard, must be her father—a little old man with a perfectly bald head, that shone in the sun like a ball of white marble.

The blind girl instantly recognised his footsteps. She turned her head, and Reinhold saw the two thick blonde plaits, as they fell so far over her shoulders that the ends were concealed by the stonework supporting the railing. She nodded repeatedly to the newcomer, and when he was by her, bent her head that he might kiss her forehead, and held up the plate with both hands, from which he took a slice of bread-and-butter and began to eat at once, at intervals saying a few words, which Reinhold in the distance could not catch, any more than he could the girl’s answers. But he could have sworn that they were words of love that were thus exchanged, as from time to time the old man stroked the blonde hair with his left hand (the right was occupied with the bread-and-butter), while a happy smile played upon the girl’s sweet face, which he now saw in profile. And now the old gentleman had finished his second slice of bread-and-butter, and taking a white handkerchief out of his pocket, he shook it out of its folds and wiped his mouth with it, then refolded it in its original creases and put it back in his pocket, while the girl, as before, presented her forehead for a kiss. The old man hobbled away, and stood in the door waving his hand; the blind girl waved her hand and nodded in return till he disappeared, exactly as if she could see what she really only heard with her acute ear, or calculated by the time it took, it being evidently a daily habit. Then again she raised her eyes to the sun with the selfsame expression of childlike innocence on the pure face; and taking in her right hand the plate, which before she had held in her left hand, retraced her steps as she had come, lightly touching every third rail with the tips of her fingers.

Reinhold had observed the whole scene without moving. The poor blind girl could not see him, and the old man had not once looked that way.

Now for the first time he recollected himself. The touching scene had riveted his attention as though by a charm, and the charm had not left him, as he followed the blind girl’s movements with breathless attention; mentally he touched each third rail as she did, as though he himself were groping along by the railing, following her light and graceful movements step by step. He waited for her reappearance from behind a whitethorn bush which grew against the railing, and now hid her from his sight, as a sailor waits for the reappearance of a star which he is observing, and which, as he gazes, is for some moments obscured by overshadowing clouds. But she did not reappear as the moments passed, and the bush seemed to be moving. Perhaps she was trying to gather a branch and could not manage it. In a moment he was through the garden gate and at her side.

A thorn from the bush protruding through the railing had caught hold of the end of her little white apron as it was blown about by the wind, and would not let go, though she patiently exerted all her efforts to extricate it.

“Allow me,” said Reinhold.

Before he came up to her she had raised herself from her stooping attitude, and turned her face towards him, which as he spoke was suffused with the loveliest blush. But there was not the slightest trace of embarrassment or terror in the pure features.

“Thank you, Captain Schmidt,” said she.

The sweet, melodious tone of her voice harmonised wonderfully with the bright childlike smile that accompanied the words.

“How do you know, Fräulein Cilli, who it is that is speaking to you?” said Reinhold, as he stooped down and freed the light material from the thorn.

“From the same person who told you that my name is Cilli, and that I am blind—from Justus.”

“Will you take my arm, Fräulein Cilli, and allow me to see you home? I suppose you live in the house that is just in front of us?”

“I walk safer alone; but give me your hand. May I feel it for a moment?”

She put out a small, soft white hand to him, which Reinhold touched with a feeling of awe.

“Just what he said,” she murmured as though speaking to herself. “Strong and manly—a good, a true hand.”

She let go his hand, and they walked on side by side, she by the railing again, feeling the rails, he close to her side, never turning his eyes from her.

“Did Anders tell you that too?” he asked.

“Yes; but your hand would have told me without that. I know people by their hands. Justus’s hand is not so strong, though he works so much; but it is as good.”

“And as true,” said Reinhold.

Cilli shook her head with a laugh, that was as sweet and soft as the twittering of the swallows.

“No, no,” said she, “not as true! He cannot be, for he is an artist; so he can have but one guiding star—his Ideal—that he must look up to and follow, as the kings followed the star in the East, which going before them stopped at Bethlehem over the house in which the Saviour was laid in a manger; but beyond that he must be free, free as the birds in the branches overhead, free to come and go, free to flit and flutter and sing to his heart’s content.”

They had reached the end of the railing. Before them stood the house in which Cilli lived. She rested the tips of her fingers upon the iron pillars which ended the railing, and raised her face with a strange dreamy expression on it.

“I often wish I were an artist,” said she; “but I should like better still to be a sailor. Sometimes I have wonderful dreams, and then I fly over the earth on widespread wings. Below me I see green meadows and dark forests, and cornfields waving their golden grain; silver streamlets wander down the hillsides and mingle their waters in the broad rivers which glitter in the light of the sun as it sinks to the horizon. And as it sinks, and the waters, with the church spires reflected in them, take a rosy hue, a terrible anguish overwhelms me, as I feel that it will sink before I can see it—this sun which I have never seen, of which all I know is that it is above all things beautiful and great and glorious. And when the sun is so low that in another moment it must disappear, there lies before me, boundless, illimitable, the great ocean! It is impossible to describe what I feel then, but I fancy it must be what the dead feel when they rise to everlasting joy, or what great and good men feel when they have done the deed which renders them immortal.”

A couple of swallows flitted chirping through the air. The blind girl raised her sightless eyes.

“They come over the sea, but I cannot, I never can get beyond the shore, never beyond the shore!”

For the first time a shadow came over the charming face that was uplifted to Reinhold, but the next moment it was once more lighted up by the bright, childlike smile.

“I am very ungrateful,” said she, “am I not? How many people never see the sea even in their dreams as I do, and did only last night! Justus passed our window—we always have lights very late—and he called out that you had arrived, and were so nice and pleasant, and had told so many wonderful things about your long voyages. You must tell me about them. Will you?”

She stretched out her hand to him again.

“Indeed I will,” cried Reinhold. “I am only afraid that your dreams are more, immeasurably more, beautiful than anything I can tell you about.”

The blind girl shook her head.

“How strange! that is what papa always says, and even Justus, though he is an artist, and the whole world lies before him as beautiful as on the first day of creation, and now you say it, who have seen the whole world. I can look at the sun without flinching; you must hide your eyes from its glory. I—I cannot see the loving smile upon my dear father’s face, cannot see the faces of those I love. How can my world be as glorious and lovely as yours? But of course you only say that not to make me sad. You need not be afraid; I envy no one. From my heart I can say that I grudge no man his happiness, especially those who are so good, so intensely good as my father and Justus!”

The face that was turned to him beamed once more with the brightest sunshine.

“When once I begin to chatter there is no stopping me, is there? And I have kept you all this time, when you have so much to do of far greater importance. I shall see you again.”

She gave his hand a slight pressure, and then withdrew her own, which she had left in his till now, and stepped towards the door, which was only separated from her by the width of the path which on this side lay between the garden and the house. Then, however, she stood still again, and said, half turning over her shoulder:

“Was not Justus right when he said you were kind? You did not smile when I said I should see you again!”

She went into the house, feeling the doorposts with her fingertips, turned once more as she stood on the threshold, nodded, and stepped into the hall.

VII

Reinhold had not smiled, but as the fair vision disappeared in the shadow of the entrance he passed the hand which she had held so long over his eyes.

“And you thought you knew how to love!” said he to himself. “What are our purest, holiest aspirations when compared with the heavenly purity and goodness of such a mind as this poor blind girl’s, who is as unconscious of her beauty and her charm as are the lilies of the field? How could so lovely a flower have blossomed here?”

He looked around. The bell which had summoned the workpeople to their breakfast as Cilli came out of the house rang again. The men returned to their work. Looking round the corner of the house, he had a peep through the wide-open doors of the workshops, which seemed to occupy the whole of the ground-floor. Crosses and tombstones were being chiselled and carved by busy hands.

A chill came over Reinhold, to see this sad, gloomy sight just now, when the world lay so bright before him, lighted up by the fancies of the blind girl who lived over these melancholy workshops, and in whose dreams the tapping and knocking of these dreadful hammers and chisels must mingle!

He asked for his uncle. No one had seen him that morning; he might be in the engine-room or in some of the back yards. Where was Herr Anders’ studio? Here in this very building, the first door round the corner; the second was the young lady’s studio.

Reinhold walked round the house and knocked at the first door, near which was a high window half shaded from within. No one answered, and he was going on when the door opened a little way. But it was not the friendly countenance of the sculptor, with its bright eyes and cheery smile, that met him, but a strange, dark face, from which a pair of black, sparkling eyes glared at him.

“Beg pardon! I expected to see Herr Anders.”

“Herr Anders is not here; he is in his own house, the third door upstairs.”

He of the dark complexion said this in a forbidding tone and in German, which, though fluent enough, betrayed the foreigner in every syllable.

“Then I will go and look for him there.”

“Herr Anders is going to the Exhibition; he is dressing.”

Reinhold now observed that the young man himself was in the act of dressing and still in his shirtsleeves, whose extreme whiteness made the darkness of his complexion even more remarkable. The interruption of his toilette quite explained the unfriendly tone of his answers, and the want of hospitality that made him hold the door only just enough open for him to speak to the stranger.

“Perhaps you know whether Fräulein Schmidt is in her studio?”

The pertinacity of the question seemed to irritate the young man. The black brows frowned heavily, the delicate upper lip with its slight moustache curled sufficiently to show the white teeth for a moment. “Non lo so,” he blurted out.

He shut the door, muttering between his teeth something else in Italian which did not sound like a blessing.

Reinhold felt convinced that Ferdinanda was in her studio, and that the ungracious youth knew it; but at the same time it would not make her very unhappy if he paid his visit later, or did not pay it at all. At all events he must look for his uncle first.

He returned to the yard, passing a place where huge blocks of marble were being cut through by the aid of large suspended saws, each of which was regulated by a man. It must have been fatiguing work, requiring great strength, and indeed was only undertaken when the machinery could not turn out enough work, as was now the case; there was no doubt that the machine certainly could do much more. So said the workman, taking the opportunity to get a little breathing-time. The steam saws were in that building; they had just seen the master go there. But Uncle Ernst was not near the steam saws, he had just been there; perhaps he was in the lathe-room close by.

Reinhold had some difficulty in taking in the words which a workman shouted in his ear, so loud was the screeching, overpowering noise of the immense saws as the steam power drove them backwards and forwards with inconceivable rapidity through great blocks of marble as high as a man; eight, ten, and twelve saws working at once through the same block and cutting it into as many inch-thick slabs. And between each two blocks was a man upon a small platform incessantly busied in throwing water, mixed with sand from a pail, upon the sparks caused by the saws; and the one who had got down to answer Reinhold sprang hurriedly back to his place to extinguish the sparks which now came from his block in trails almost a yard in length.

In the next room which Reinhold entered a less awful noise was going on. Though here, too, was heard the rattle of the driving bands as they stretched like interminable snakes from a wheel in one corner of the ceiling to another at the other end, and so descended to a second at a medium height, and once more went up and down in bewildering quivering lines; and here again wheels rattled and clattered, and the iron strained and screeched and creaked as it cut through the marble, boring holes, cutting with chisels, filing, shaving, scraping, and in every possible way converting it into skilful and sometimes even artistic forms. Entablatures with sharp plinths, slender fluted columns, elegant pedestals for candelabra or vases, even vases themselves which, rapidly revolving, were polished by busy hands with pumice stone.

Herr Schmidt had been here a few minutes ago—was perhaps now upstairs in the workshops where the fine work was done before it came here to be polished.

Those workshops lay on the opposite side of the yard, so that Reinhold now first obtained a true idea of the dimensions of the establishment as well as of the enormous extent of the business. He had already been into three workshops, and had glanced into as many more in passing. What an amount of capital must be sunk in these massive buildings, and in the ground alone which was taken up by them and the yard, and in these complicated ingenious machines, and in the already completed goods, and again in these masses of rough marble which lay about all over the yard, and between which ran the paved road for the strongly-built wagons, upon which the powerful horses dragged these enormous weights backwards and forwards.

And all this was done by the man of whom Aunt Rikchen had rightly said that he ought to understand the feelings of a person who has learnt nothing in his youth! This man who as a boy and youth had with his father gone up and down the Havel and the Spree in the great boat which was the only property of the family, till after the old man’s death he had started a business in bricks and sandstone in the lonely spot above the town, in the modest little house where Reinhold had visited him ten years ago.

What industry, what energy and what intelligence had been brought to bear, to attain such a result, to create a world out of nothing! Was it to be wondered at if he who had created it carried his head higher than other men; or if this head, which had so much and so many to think of, to consider and to care for, were often shadowed by heavy clouds?

Loud voices, which sounded close to Reinhold, startled him out of these meditations, a high one and a deep one, in which he thought he recognised his uncle’s. A dispute must be going on. The high voice got gradually louder, till a thundering “Silence!” stopped the flow. It could only be Uncle Ernst thus thundering.

He stood still, uncertain whether to go nearer or to avoid the disputants. They however came round the great blocks of marble which he had just been looking at, his uncle and a red-haired man, whose ugly face was distorted and inflamed with anger. On his uncle’s forehead, too, from which the broad-brimmed hat was pushed back, lay a red angry cloud, but his large powerful eyes had a calm and steady look, and his voice, too, was calm and steady as now seeing his nephew, he said:

“Good morning, Reinhold, though it is not a good morning for me.”

“Do you require my presence any longer, Herr Schmidt?” asked the man.

“Certainly. You will dismiss the people in my presence.”

“That I shall not do, Herr Schmidt.”

“In my presence, and in that of all the others. Sound the bell!”

And Uncle Ernst pointed to a small platform over which hung a great bell.

“That is not my office,” said the overseer hotly.

“True,” answered Uncle Ernst, “for from this moment you no longer hold any office.”

“I claim a quarter’s notice.”

“That we shall soon see.”

Uncle Ernst went up to the bell; Reinhold stepped before him.

“Let me,” said he.

He did not wait for his uncle’s answer, and pulled the rope that hung down; immediately the mighty clang of the great clapper sounded through the yard, overpowering and drowning the screeching and shrieking of the saws, the tapping and knocking of hammers and chisels, and startling the workmen at their work. Presently they emerged from all sides with anxious faces.

While they assembled and stood in groups as they came from the workshops to the number of about two hundred, so Reinhold thought. Uncle Ernst stood leaning against a block of marble with folded arms, staring straight in front of him; a few steps from him stood the overseer, now very pale, and in whose alarmed and anxious looks it was easy to see that fear alone kept him in his place.

Reinhold had come up to the side of the block upon which his uncle was leaning so as to be near him in any case. Whatever was the matter it was certainly nothing pleasant, and as his glance fell upon the people, he noticed several desperate and even wild faces.

And now Uncle Ernst stood erect; the great eyes flashed over the assembled crowd, the arms fell from his broad breast, and from that broad breast came the mighty voice like thunder:

“Men, you know the rules of this establishment; they are all put before you, before each of you that enters my service; they are hung up in every workshop; no one can say that anything is not clear or is difficult to understand, and they shall be kept, as by me the employer, so by you the employed. If there is one amongst you who can come forward here and say that I have diverged one hair’s breadth from what I promised you, or that I have in the smallest degree not fulfilled my duty and obligation, let him come forward and say so.”

He paused, crossed his arms again, and looked down, as though he would not intimidate anyone by his glance, but left them free to express an opinion. Reinhold saw that here and there a few heads collected together, and several quick secret glances were exchanged from one group which he had noticed before. A man stepped forward, but the others held him by the arm, and he went back. Uncle Ernst looked up again.

“No one has come forward; I must assume that you have nothing to say against me, that you have no grounds of complaint. I, however—I have grounds of complaint against some of you, and that you may all hear what it is, and who it is, and may behave accordingly in the future, and that any man who is secretly following in the same way may know how to behave if he is otherwise an honest man, is why I call you together now. Jacob Schwarz, Johann Brand, Anton Baier, stand forward!”

A considerable agitation arose amongst the people; all eyes were directed towards the group which Reinhold had already noticed. The same man came forward again decidedly, and looked behind him, whereupon two others followed hesitatingly.

“What is it?” said the first.

“You will soon know,” said Uncle Ernst. “You know all of you that our rules forbid you to belong to any union; that I might have sent away these three on the spot when I found out what they were about a week ago, and that I allowed mercy to take the place of justice in not sending them away, but giving them time for consideration. Yesterday evening the time of grace expired; they did not give Herr Roller the required assurance yesterday evening that they had left the union. Herr Roller ought not to have allowed them to return to their work; he did do so and is consequently henceforth no longer your overseer, and is dismissed absolutely from my service.”

There was a movement amongst the crowd; consternation was depicted on most faces, malicious satisfaction on many; the overseer attempted a scornful smile, but got no further than a sickly grin.

“You,” continued Uncle Ernst, for the first time turning to the culprits, “take your things and leave the yard at once! And you others, let this serve as a warning to you and a reminder of what, indeed, you must all have known long ago, that I am not to be trifled with, and that when I say a thing I mean it—and now go back to your work!”

A good many of the men turned at once and began to disperse; but others—a few from almost every group—remained, and as the ranks thinned drew closer together, as if to afford each other protection. Those too who had moved away at first now stopped again, turned back, and also drew together, so that in a few minutes the throng was divided into two parts; the last mentioned, who for the present were more amenable and conciliatory, were by far the larger number; but the others—of whom there might be about thirty, were evidently the bolder and more determined. Reinhold moved to his uncle’s side.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Uncle Ernst, “what do you want?”

From the group of malcontents who had now clustered thickly together, a man stepped forward, not one of the three; a young man who would have been handsome if his youthful countenance had not been marred and distorted already by evil passions. His pale, bold eyes had a watery look, as if he were already too much addicted to the bottle. He waved his hand as if he were standing on a platform to speak, and with great fluency began:

“We wish to know, Herr Schmidt, why we should not be socialists and communists too, if we choose; who is to forbid us to enter the ranks of the army of workers who are marching against the hardhearted middle classes to win back the rights which are so shamefully withheld from us? We wish to know—”

“Silence!” thundered Uncle Ernst; “silence, wretched boy! and blush for shame if you have any shame left in you!” Uncle Ernst advanced a few steps, and the lad retreated before him like a jackal before the lion, and slunk back into the knot of men which had drawn still closer together. “What are you standing there for, laying your heads together and muttering and threatening? Do you think that I fear you any more than I fear this wretched boy, whom I took from the streets, and clothed, and fed, and sent to school, and who wants to know now why I withhold his rights from him! His rights? Your rights? To keep honestly to what you have promised, what you have pledged yourselves to by your own signatures, that is your right—neither more nor less! Who forced you to sign your names?”

“Hunger!” cried a rough voice.

“You lie, Carl Peters!” cried Uncle Ernst; “and if you did suffer hunger it was because you are a sot and carry the money which belongs to your wife and children to the gin palace.”

“We are all socialists, every man of us!” called another voice from the crowd.

“Then you are all liars and cheats, every man of you!” cried Uncle Ernst. “You lied when you signed your names to what you knew you would not and could not keep! You have cheated me every day and every hour that you worked for me, when you knew that I would not tolerate in my house or my yards anyone who is pledged to your insane principles; but that I would drive them out of my house or my yard as I do now all of you that stand there!”

A sullen murmur sounded through the crowd, and some single loud threatening shouts were heard. Uncle Ernst sprang with one bound straight in front of the knot of men.

“Be off with you!” he thundered; “be off with you at once!”

The foremost fell back upon those who stood behind them. Evidently no one had courage to proceed to action. They gave way gradually; the knot began to separate.

“Be at the office in half an hour to be paid off!”

The men were gone and the overseer with them. Uncle Ernst turned to Reinhold.

“There is a specimen for you of your fine Prussian discipline, which impressed you so greatly during the war; there is an instance of the last new German truth and honesty as it is learned in Bismarck’s school.”

“But uncle, excuse me, what has Bismarck to do with all this?”

“What has he to do with it?” Uncle Ernst stood still. “What has he to do with it? Who was it who gave the rule that might came before right? Or, if he did not say it, who gave such effect to it in his actions that the accursed maxim has become the leading principle with men nowadays, on which they regulate their conduct—both active and passive? Who has taught our good simple folk how a man may live in perpetual conflict with those whom it has chosen as its representatives, and grasp at his objects over the heads of these representatives?—how an army of followers may be created, and a docile party say ‘Amen’ to everything, or say anything else that is needed to attain these objects? Did you not hear what was said about the army of workers? That is no longer the mad dream of some crackbrained enthusiast. It is a reality, which is increasing threateningly as an avalanche, and which will sooner or later precipitate itself in wild destruction upon us all. Who can blame them? Might is stronger than right! And so the revolution is declared en permanence, and war between every man and his neighbour. For the present he has conquered—he thinks he has conquered—and glories in his victory and in the imperial crown which he has won for his master, and which he has taken from the shelf, where another laid it who would not take it from the hands of the people!—from the hands of the people of those days—a good, true, faithful people, whose most sacred dream was this crown! Ask them if they still believe! Ask them what they think of the crown by the grace of God! Ask them what they dream of now!”

Uncle Ernst pointed to the dismissed workmen, who were crossing the court, in larger and smaller parties, towards the lower building, from the door of which Cilli’s father had issued before, and were gesticulating wildly and talking together.

“Will they be paid off without any disturbance?” asked Reinhold.

“The police-station is too near,” answered Uncle Ernst, with a bitter smile. “They are still afraid of the police; you need be under no anxiety. And, before I forget it, thank you, my boy.”

“What for, uncle?”

“There was no necessity for it, but I saw that you were ready to stand up for me at need.”

“Had you doubted it?”

“No, in spite of your enthusiasm for Bismarck. And now go to Ferdinanda. You are going to the Exhibition?”

“I heard something of it; but, to tell you the truth, I have lost all inclination for it.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Uncle Ernst. “Ferdinanda would be inconsolable, and—I do not like to have my business arrangements interfering with the family affairs.”

Uncle Ernst pressed Reinhold’s hand heartily, and walked into the house, passing through the workmen, who drew back timidly on either side. Reinhold left the place with a hesitating step. He would have liked to remain with his uncle, at any rate; and he was more than doubtful that Ferdinanda would be inconsolable if he did not come.

VIII

The youth in the shirtsleeves who had answered Reinhold with such scant courtesy, slammed to the door, and shaking his fist muttered a big oath in his native language between his sharp white teeth. Then he went back into the room and walked with light steps up to a door which divided his studio from the next one. He put his ear against the door and listened for a minute or two. A smile of satisfaction lighted up his dark face, he drew a deep breath as he stood erect, then stealthily as a cat he ran up the winding iron staircase which led to his own room, whence he had come on hearing Reinhold’s knock.

In a few minutes he came downstairs again, this time without attempting not to make a noise; indeed, rather stepping more heavily than was necessary and whistling a tune. He had coat and waistcoat on now, and instead of the slippers which he had worn before, had varnished boots on his small feet, at which he glanced with much satisfaction as he walked downstairs. Arrived at the bottom, he went immediately up to a large and handsome Venetian looking-glass and examined his whole figure with the greatest care, arranged his blue tie, fastened one of the gold studs more securely into his shirtfront, and passed a comb through his shining raven-black hair. He whistled more and more softly, and finally left off altogether. Then coming away from the looking-glass, he moved rather noisily first one and then another obstacle as they came in his way, till there was nothing between him and the door against which he had just now listened.

Seizing a stool, which for this very purpose he had placed within reach against the wall, he stood upon it, and applied his eye, as just now his ear, to the door, close to it; for with great trouble he had bored a hole with a very fine gimlet, and with great trouble, too, had he learnt how to look through it so as to see into the next room, or at least to see her in the place where she worked.

The blood rushed into his dark cheeks as he thus looked. “O Bellissima!” he murmured between his lips, pressing a passionate kiss upon the wood.

Suddenly he sprang down noiselessly like a cat: the stool again leaned against the wall, and he stood before the unfinished marble of a colossal female figure as someone knocked at the other side of the door.

“Signor Antonio!”

“Signora!” exclaimed the young man from where he stood. He had grasped chisel and hammer, so as the better to play the part of one surprised.

“Can you come in here for a moment, Signor Antonio? Fatemi il piacere!”

“Si, signora.”

He threw his tools aside and ran to the door, which was now unbolted. Notwithstanding this and his having received an invitation, he knocked before he opened it.

“Ma—entrate! How smart you are, Signor Antonio!”

Antonio dropped his dark eyelashes and glanced at his slender figure down to the very tips of his varnished boots—but only for a moment. The next the passionate sullen eyes were fixed upon the beautiful girl, who, wearing her ordinary dark morning dress with a long apron, stood before him with her modelling tool in her hand.

“You have no need to think of dress; you are always beautiful!”

He said it in German. He was proud of his German since she had praised his accent during the Italian lessons he gave her and told him that every word in his mouth sounded new, new and delightful like meeting a friend in a foreign land.

“I feel anything but beautiful this morning,” answered Ferdinanda, “but I want your help. My model has failed me; I wanted to work at the eyes today. You have finer eyes than your countrywoman, Antonio; do stand there just for a few minutes!”

A smile of gratified pride stole over the youth’s handsome face. He stood before Ferdinanda in the precise attitude which she had given to her statue.

“Bravo!” said she: “it is difficult to say whether you are a better actor or sculptor.”

“Un povero abbozzatore!” he murmured.

“You are no workman,” said Ferdinanda; “but as you well know, an artist.”

“I am an artist as you are a princess.”

“What does that mean?”

“I was born to be an artist, but am not one, as you were born to be a princess and yet are not one.”

“What a mad notion!”

She did not say it angrily, but rather in a tone as if she agreed with him, which did not escape the sharp ear of the Italian.

“You know it yourself,” he said.

She made no answer, but went on working, though without much spirit.

“She has called me to say something to me,” said Antonio to himself.

“Where were you last night, Antonio?” she asked after a pause.

“At my club, signora.”

“When did you come home?”

“Late.”

“But when?”

“At one o’clock. Ma perché?”

She was leaning over the small table which held her tools and feeling about amongst them.

“I only wanted to know. We went to bed very late last night. We had a visitor, a cousin of mine, and there was a great deal of smoking and talking; it gave me a dreadful headache, and I went into the garden for an hour. Will you sit any longer, or shall we give it up? I dare say it is difficult, and you seem tired.”

“No, no,” he murmured.

He placed himself again in the attitude, but not so well as before. His brain was full of bewildering thoughts, which made his heart beat.

“When did you come home?”

“I was in the garden for an hour.”

Was it possible! No, no, it was impossible—it was only an accident. But if he had met her alone in the garden in the dead of night, what would he have said, what would he have done?

Everything swam before him. He passed his hand, which he ought to have held up to his brow, across his eyes.

“What is the matter?” cried Ferdinanda.

The hand dropped, the eyes, which were fixed upon her, shone like flames of fire.

“What is the matter,” he murmured—“what is the matter! Ho, non lo so neppur io: una febbre che mi divora; ho, che il sangue mi abbrucia, che il cervello mi si spezza; ho, in fine che non ne posso piu, che sono stanco di questa vita!”

Ferdinanda had tried to stop this outburst, but without success. She trembled from head to foot; the flaming eyes emitted a spark which penetrated to her own heart, and her voice trembled as she said, as quietly as she could:

“You know I cannot understand you when you speak so fast—so wildly.”

“You did understand me,” murmured the youth.

“I did not understand anything more than I can see for myself—that you are devoured with fever, that your blood boils to suffocation, that your brain is bursting, that you are tired of life; which means, in German, that you stayed too long yesterday at your club, raved too much about your beloved Italy, and consequently drank too much strong Italian wine.”

The veins on his white forehead started out in blue lines, and he uttered a hoarse cry like that of a wild beast. He clutched at his breast, where he usually carried his stiletto, but the pocket was empty, and he looked around as if seeking for some weapon.

“Would you murder me?”

The right hand, which was still clutched in his breast, loosened its grasp and fell by his side; the left hand followed, and the fingers linked themselves together; a rush of tears broke from his eyes: the fire was extinguished, and, sinking on his knees, he faltered:

“Mi perdona! Ferdinanda, l’ho amata dal primo giorno che l’ho veduta, ed adesso—ah, adesso!”

“I know it, my poor Antonio,” said Ferdinanda, “and for that reason I forgive you once more, for the last time. If you repeat this scene I will tell my father, and then you must leave the house. And now, Signor Antonio, rise!”

She gave him her hand, which, still kneeling, he pressed to his lips and forehead.

“Antonio, Antonio!” called Justus’ voice from without, and then a knock was heard at the door, which opened into the yard. Antonio sprang to his feet.

“Is Antonio here, Fräulein Ferdinanda?”

Ferdinanda went herself to open the door.

“Still at work?” said Justus as he entered. “But I thought you were going to the Exhibition with your cousin?”

“I am waiting for him; he has not made his appearance yet. You go on with Antonio; we will meet in the sculpture-room.”

“As you like. What you have done to the eyes today is no good at all—it is all wrong. You have worked without a model again. When will you learn that without models we are helpless! Andiamo, Antonio! if you are not ashamed to walk through the streets with me.”

He had laughingly placed himself by the Italian, as if to amuse Ferdinanda by the comparison which he himself observed between his short little figure in the old velvet coat and light trousers of doubtful newness, and the slim, handsome, smart youth, his assistant. But Ferdinanda had already turned away, and again repeated, “We shall meet in the sculpture-room.”

“Dunque andiamo!” cried Justus; “a rivederci!”

IX

The door was shut, the footsteps of the two men died away—Ferdinanda had not moved.

“Una principessa!” she murmured. “He is the only one who understands me. What use is it to be understood by him? If he were a prince, indeed! And yet it is delicious to know that one is loved like that—delicious and dangerous! He watches every step I take, nothing that I do escapes him; but really yesterday he does not seem to have been at home. He does not know yet that I dare not do anything when he is near.”

She sank down upon a stool, and took the letter from her bosom which he had given her yesterday over the garden wall. She already knew it by heart, but she liked to see the trace of the loved hand.

“Why did you not try to let me know that you would be at the station? You could have written quite safely to Schönau; it was mere chance that I came by that train—mere chance that I made acquaintance with your cousin in the carriage. How can we ever get on, how can we even prolong our present miserable existence, if we leave everything to chance? If we do not struggle for our happiness by boldly meeting our cruel fate? As it was, I had to find some excuse for tumbling head over heels out of the carriage; and how easily I might have missed you, or found you with your father, and then there would have been another opportunity lost! I hope now things may be a little better. Your cousin is, so he told me, acquainted with my sister, and she herself explained how they had made acquaintance on the road, and he made himself extremely useful to the party. My sister speaks of him very highly, and assures me that my father is delighted with him. He will, of course, call upon my father; at all events I shall come and thank my ‘comrade’ for the service he has done my belongings, either commissioned by Elsa and my father, or without any commission at all—leave that to me. At all events it will give us an opening that will be very useful, as your cousin seems a pleasant fellow, with whom little ceremony will be necessary. Get on good terms with him, and make use of ‘my cousin’ to take you out walking and to concerts, theatres, and exhibitions. By the way, go tomorrow—splendid opportunity—to the Exhibition. I shall only be on duty till twelve o’clock, so perhaps at half-past twelve I may persuade Elsa to go, as she has already expressed a wish to do so. I can take the opportunity of introducing you to her all the more easily that we were formally introduced yesterday; so be prepared for it. I write these lines, as usual, in flying haste, during the few minutes that I dare steal away from the family circle; forgive such a scrawl. I kiss your lovely hand now in my thoughts as I did erewhile when you gave it me over the garden wall for the first time—not for the last, I swear!” …

She let the letter fall into her lap. And no word of his father! not a word that could show that he was in earnest, in real earnest; that he would at least make an attempt to free them from their present humiliating situation! And he knew nothing yet of last night’s scene! She crumpled up the paper which lay under one hand, and seizing it the next moment with both hands covered it with kisses, smoothed it carefully out, and replacing it in her bosom, laid her hot forehead upon the marble slab of the little table.

“Una febbre che mi divora,” she murmured; “il sangue mi abbrucia, il cervello mi si spezza—sono stanca di questa vita! Yes, yes!” she cried, starting up, “I am tired of this life, which is no life at all, but a hideous mockery of life, a death before death—worse—a living grave! I will force my way out of this ghastly tomb, or die by my own hand!”

She walked up and down the room, wringing her hands and sobbing, now throwing herself upon a chair and gazing wildly before her, now starting up and again wandering about with gestures of despair. The loud clang of the great bell caught her attention for a moment. She knew that it was something quite unusual—perhaps some great accident had happened: a boiler burst, the saws of one of the machines bent, and the wall to which it was fastened pulled down and in ruins, as had happened a few months ago; perhaps a fire—what did it signify to her whether people were crushed and killed, or all burnt together? Was not she broken and wounded in soul and body, wandering amongst the ruins of the happiness which had never existed except in her dreams! A despairing woman, to whom a hair shirt would be suitable and ashes on her head, that head that she had once carried so proudly—like her father! It was all his fault. He it was, who had declared war between them! And he did not know yet; but the hour was coming soon, even today if she were followed—and then?

She had lain awake the whole night thinking over that question; she had racked her mind over it the whole morning. And then? and then?

How could she alone find an answer without him? And he—he! When last night she described in a few hasty words the scene that had taken place at table, had he given the one only answer that she had expected—“Then we must try to settle it without our fathers’ consent!” He had answered nothing, not a word! and his silence confirmed what she had most feared—the only thing that she had feared and dreaded—that he was not prepared to carry the matter out to the last, to its extreme end—that he did not love her as she loved him!

Of what use were her courage and determination? She was helpless! She—helpless!

She stood still before a looking-glass which she was just passing. She examined her face, her figure as though she were the model whom she had ordered for the next day, and wished to see whether the form thus reflected were really what it laid claim to be. Was she really as beautiful as they all said? Was the great French sculptor right who came to see Justus last year, and at sight of her stood thunderstruck, and then exclaimed that till he saw her he had never believed that nature could have produced so perfect a form.

But Antonio, too, was beautiful—beautiful as a dream, and yet she did not love him. And was he, who was not even an artist—was he to let beauty alone so fascinate him that he should give up family prejudice, rank, social position, all—for what? A woman never asks such questions if she loves; she makes no calculations, no bargains—she loves, and gives freely, joyfully, everything that she has to give—she gives herself.

She leaned back in her chair, buried her face in the cushions, and shut her eyes.

“He does not know how passionately I love him, how I would cover him with kisses,” she murmured; and yet, how did it go? “The only charm which a man cannot withstand, and which he follows unresistingly … and his gratitude for which is, in fact, only recollection and longing—”

It was from a French novel that she had gathered this melancholy piece of knowledge—not a good book—and she had not read to the end. But this sentence, which she did not dare repeat entirely to herself, had fallen into her heart like a spark of fire, and smouldered and burnt there—in her heart, in her cheeks, in her closed eyes, in the beating pulses of her temples—air! air!

She started up and clutched at the empty air like a drowning man. “I am lost,” she cried, “I am lost, lost!”

A knock at the door, which she had already heard once or twice, now sounded louder. She let her arms fall, glanced round the room, grasped the letter hidden in her bosom, and passed her hands over her hair and brow and eyes and cheeks. “Come in!”

“I was afraid of disturbing you,” said Reinhold, standing in the open doorway.

“Oh, come in and shut the door.”

It was the Ferdinanda of last night, with the half-careless, half-sullen, impenetrable manner, and the deep, monotonous, tired voice.

Reinhold did as he was desired. She replaced the modelling tool, which she had caught up at random, on the little table, and gave him her hand.

“I have been waiting a long time for you.”

“I should have been here sooner,” answered Reinhold, “but a handsome young fellow next door, whom I seemed to disturb in the act of dressing—”

“Antonio, an Italian—Herr Anders’ assistant.”

“He either could not or would not give me any information. So I have been through the yards and the machinery department in search of your father, and—did you not hear the noise?”

“No.”

Reinhold stared with astonishment, his heart was still beating and his mind still full of what he had seen and heard. The clang of the bell had frightened Aunt Rikchen out of the house, where he had just led her back only half quieted; the servants had run and stood in the distance, staring anxiously; blind Cilli had come into the doorway and had said a few kind words to him as he passed by; and here, fifty yards off, his own daughter had heard nothing!

“Do you artists live in a world of your own?” he asked in astonishment, and then he explained what had happened. “I am afraid,” he added, “that half the manufactory will have to be closed. My uncle will suffer immense loss, for he has heavy contracts to fulfil, so the men told me before. Heaven only knows how it will all end!”

“What will it signify to my father?” answered Ferdinanda, as a bitter smile played about her lips. “The world may come to an end if only he can have his own way! You do not know my father quite yet,” she continued more quietly. “We, unhappily, are accustomed to this sort of thing; all we know is that we live over a volcano. If we left off work every time there was a storm we should have no peace, and should never finish anything.”

She had taken off her great apron. Reinhold was standing looking at her work.

“How do you like it?” asked Ferdinanda.

“It is beautiful,” answered Reinhold, with sincere admiration; “but I could wish it were less beautiful if it might be less sad. The expression of the mouth, the look of the eyes as they are shaded by the head—the whole effect of the otherwise lovely face seems to me not quite in keeping with the peaceful and rural occupation suggested by the sickle and wheatsheaf. As I came in I fancied a maiden looking out for her lover. She is looking out for him, but woe to him when he comes! He had better be careful of the sickle! Am I right?”

“Perfectly,” answered Ferdinanda. “And now I am more glad than ever that I am going with you to the Exhibition. It must be a pleasure to look at the work of real artists with anyone who can so closely criticise the work of an amateur.”

She was standing at the end of the room, and let the water from a tap in the wall run over her hands into a washhand-basin. “Excuse me,” said she, “but that is what we are obliged to do here. Now tell me how you slept.”

“Perfectly as soon as I got to sleep. I was a little excited at first.”

“So was I. I had to walk for a long time in the garden before I could calm myself. May I confess? I was so ashamed of my father’s losing his temper before you, as you could not know what he was like in such matters, and that he can work himself up into a perfect fury over a mere nothing. Luckily, he only fights these battles in imagination; and, for example, if the son of the man whose very name—heaven only knows why—puts him into such a state, if Herr von Werben were to pay you a visit, and my father met him, he would be courtesy itself. I tell you that because I presume you will not be able to avoid some intercourse with the Werbens, and might think the situation more serious than it really is. Indeed, I am convinced that if I had not, in my extreme nervousness, cut short the introduction yesterday at the station, and my father could have seen that Herr von Werben is a man very much like other men, that scene never would have occurred. But one can’t think of everything.”

So said Ferdinanda as she slowly walked through the garden, which led, by a back door, from the studio to the house. The sun threw a shadow from the trees upon the garden wall, as the moon had done last night.

“It really was only a shadow on the wall,” said Reinhold to himself.

X

“I am afraid you will spoil me so dreadfully that I shall find it very difficult to return to my simple way of life,” said Reinhold, as he drove through the Brandenburg gate of the Thiergartenstrasse sitting by Ferdinanda’s side in his uncle’s carriage.

“What is the good of having carriages and horses if they are not to be used?” answered Ferdinanda.

She had thrown herself back upon the cushions with the tip of her foot upon the opposite seat. Reinhold could hardly take his eyes off the exquisite figure, which was shown off to the greatest advantage by a pretty autumn toilette. He seemed to realise for the first time how beautiful his cousin was, and he could quite understand why she so plainly attracted the notice of the gaily-dressed crowds that thronged the walks, and why several riders as they trotted past turned in their saddles. Ferdinanda did not seem to observe it; the large eyes looked straight before her, or were raised with a tired dreamy look to the branches of the trees, which seemed tired and dreamy, too, as they drank in unmoved the mild warmth of the autumn sunshine. Perhaps it was this connection of ideas which made Reinhold ask himself about what age the beautiful girl might be? and he was rather astonished when he calculated that she could not be far from four and twenty. She had always lived in his memory as a tall thin girl, not yet blossomed into flower, but then certainly that was ten years ago. His cousin Philip, who was then a long lanky youth, must now be very nearly thirty.

A light two-wheeled carriage that had been following them now overtook them.

On the high driving-seat sat a tall, fine, broad-shouldered man, well, and it struck Reinhold rather over dressed, driving a pair of remarkably fine high-stepping black horses with his hands encased in light kid gloves, and a little groom on the back seat with folded arms. The driver had to get out of the way of a carriage that was coming towards him. His attention was turned to the other side of the road, but when he was some carriage-lengths off he leaned over his seat and eagerly waved his hand and whip, to which Ferdinanda replied in her usual careless way with a nod.

“Who was that?” asked Reinhold.

“My brother Philip.”

“How strange!”

“What?”

“I was just thinking of him.”

“That often happens, particularly in a big town and at the hour when everyone is out. I shall not be surprised if we see him again at the Exhibition. Philip is a great lover of pictures, and draws and paints by no means badly. There, he has stopped! I thought so. Philip has good manners.”

The next moment they were side by side with the phaeton.

“Good morning, Ferdinanda! good morning, Reinhold! I bless the light which showed me how to light on you the very first day! Bad pun that, Ferdinanda—eh? You look uncommonly well, my dear cousin, with your brown face and beard; and you need not be ashamed of the lady by your side either—eh? Where are you off to? The Exhibition? That is capital; we shall meet. That horse is like a mad thing today. Au revoir!”

He touched with his whip the black horses, who were already beginning to fidget, and drove quickly off, again nodding over his broad shoulders.

“I should not have known Philip again,” said Reinhold; “he is not like you—I mean not like you or my uncle.”

In fact, a greater contrast could hardly be imagined than between the big red beardless smooth face of the young man with his short hair, and the deeply-lined face of Uncle Ernst, surrounded and surmounted with its grey beard and hair, or the refined and unusual beauty of Ferdinanda.

“Lucky for him,” said Ferdinanda.

“Why lucky?”

“He is what he looks, a man of the day; we are ghosts of the middle ages. Consequently it is he who is looked upon as the ghost amongst us; but it is not his fault.”

“Then in this terrible rupture between him and my uncle you take his side?”

“We are not asked our opinion at home; you will see that by-and-by.”

“I can do that now,” thought Reinhold, as Ferdinanda again sank back amongst the cushions. “Ghosts, however, are not my favourite companions, particularly on such a bright sunny day. There are so many lovable people in the world—sweet Cilli, for instance. Whatever a man expects he finds.”

As though he wished in all haste to make up this morning for any previous neglect, he now tried to fix his thoughts upon the image which he imagined was always present to his mind, but which now he could not call up before his eyes.

“That is all the fault of these crowds,” said he angrily.

And certainly they were in a very disagreeable crowd. A regiment with its noisy band was marching down the Friedrichstrasse, cutting across under the trees. The stream of passersby stood back on both sides, especially near the carriage. Police, mounted and on foot, tried to keep order amongst them with right goodwill, and to keep back the crowds which occasionally expressed their impatience loudly.

Even Ferdinanda seemed to be impatient at the long stoppage. She looked at her watch. “Half-past twelve already,” she murmured; “we are losing precious time.” At last came the tail of the battalion, just as the head of another left the Friedrichstrasse, with its band playing, and the crowds let free pushed and struggled vehemently against each other in the small space left between.

“Go on! go on, Johann!” cried Ferdinanda, with an eagerness which Reinhold could only attribute to the nervousness she might have felt.

They only came out of one crowd into another.

In the first great square room at the Exhibition, the so-called clock-room, the sightseeing crowds were so thickly packed that Reinhold, who had Ferdinanda on his arm, saw no possibility of getting any further.

“It is not so full in the next room,” said Ferdinanda; “but we must wait a little. They always take care to hang good pictures here. We will go separately, it is always easier to get on. How do you like this beautiful Andreas Achenbach? Is not that perfect? Wonderful! in his best and grandest style! Sky and sea—all in shades of grey, and yet how sharply the different bits stand out. And how well he knows how to bring life into what might seem monotonous by introducing that red flag in the background on the mast of a schooner, and here in the foreground by the flickering light upon the planks of the bridge as the water streams over it. Masterly! quite masterly!”

Reinhold had listened to Ferdinanda’s spirited description with the greatest enjoyment. “She can talk about that,” thought he. “Well, she certainly is an artist. I can see it all, but could not express it, and should not be able to say why it is so beautiful.”

He stood there lost in contemplation of the picture. “What would be the captain’s next manoeuvre? He certainly must tack to get before the wind, but he was about a ship’s-length too near the bridge for that: a puzzling situation!” thought Reinhold.

He turned to express his opinion to Ferdinanda, and very nearly spoke to a little fat old lady who had taken Ferdinanda’s place, and with her glass to her eyes was examining the picture together with about a dozen other people, who stood round in a half circle. Reinhold made a fruitless effort to get through them and to join Ferdinanda, whom he saw at some little distance talking to one or two ladies so busily that she never once turned round, and for the moment had evidently forgotten him. “Another advantage of being separate which I will also make use of,” thought Reinhold. A picture close by caught his attention—another sea-piece by Hans Gude, so said the catalogue—which pleased him almost better than the first had done. To the left was the open sea, where a large steamer lay at anchor; on the shore, which curved round in a great bay, were to be seen in the distance amongst the sandhills a few fishermen’s huts, out of whose chimneys smoke was rising; between the little village and the ship was a rowing-boat, while another quite in the foreground was sailing towards the shore. The evening sky was overcast with heavy clouds above the sandhills, so that the smoke could hardly rise; only to the extreme west of the horizon over the open sea was a small streak of dull red. The night would be stormy, and a sharp breeze was already springing up and blowing the flag of the steamer straight out, and on the bare sands in the foreground the breakers were coming in heavily. Reinhold could not tear himself away from the picture. It was so exactly like that evening when he had steered the boat from the steamer to the shore. There in front the two servants had packed themselves, here sat the President, one hand on the side, the other clutching at the seat, not daring to pick up the covering which had fallen from his knees; here sat the General, with the collar of his coat turned up and his cap pulled far over his face, staring gloomily before him; and here, close to the man who was steering, she sat, gazing out so bravely upon the grey waste of waters and the foaming breakers in front of her, and then looking up so frankly, so happily at him with the dear brown eyes! Reinhold had forgotten the crowd around him, had forgotten Ferdinanda, and did not even see the picture; he only saw those dear brown eyes!

“Will they manage to get to land without a compass, Captain Schmidt?” asked a voice close to him.

The brown eyes were looking at him as he had just seen them in imagination, frank and happy; and the smile, too, was happy which played over cheek and lip as, without the slightest embarrassment, she gave him her hand as to an old friend.

“When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday evening.”

“Then certainly you have had no time to inquire for us and to claim your compass. Am I not honesty itself?”

“What use would it be to you?”

“Who can tell? You told me I had a great talent for navigation. But let us get out of this crowd and look for my brother, whom I have just lost. Are you alone?”

“I am with my cousin.”

“Then you must introduce me to her. I saw her Shepherd Boy downstairs; it is charming! I have only just heard from my brother that it is your cousin who is the sculptor, and that we are neighbours, and all about it. Where is she?”

“I have been looking for her in vain.”

“Now, that is delightful! Two lost children in a forest of people—I am dreadfully frightened!”

She was not a bit frightened, Reinhold could see that. She was in her own world, and was as much at home in it as he was at sea. How cleverly and gracefully she slipped past two ladies who would not make way for her! How carelessly she nodded to the enormously tall officer who made his bow to her from the farthest corner of the room over the heads of several hundred people! How will she manage to talk to Reinhold over her shoulder when he was near, as he followed her with difficulty into the small, narrow passage where the prints and watercolours were hung.

“I saw my brother go in here,” said she. “There—no, that is Herr von Saldern. Never mind, we shall find him presently—and your cousin?”

“She is not here either.”

“Nor does that signify. She is as little likely to be in want of friends as I am. As we are here, let us have a little chat? Or would you rather look at the pictures? There are some very fine Passinis here.”

“I would rather talk.”

“There is no better place for talking than the Exhibition during the first few days. People only come to talk and to see their friends after the long summer, when everyone is away, and to examine the latest fashions which the bankers’ wives and daughters (we army people are not thought much of) have brought from Paris. They have an immense deal to do, and they know the pictures will not run away. My brother tells me you are going to spend the winter here?”

“A few weeks at all events.”

“Then of course you will stay longer. You cannot think how amusing Berlin is in the winter—particularly for you, to whom so many circles are open. Your uncle keeps open house—so says my brother, from whom all my information comes. Artists come and go of course when the daughter of the house is an artist, and so beautiful besides! Is she really so beautiful? I am so curious. At home we are very much quieter and rather monotonous, always the same people—officers; but there are some charming men amongst them whom you would like to talk to; and amongst the ladies are several who are very nice and pretty, both married women and girls. Then Fräulein von Strummin is coming—Meta! She swore it a thousand times at least at Golmberg, and has already written half a dozen letters on the subject. She generally writes every day, sometimes twice a day. The last was all about you.”

“Now I am getting curious.”

“I dare say; but I shall refrain from telling you—you men are quite conceited enough. Papa, too, thinks very highly of you; did you know that?”

“I did not know it; but I do not know anything that would make me prouder.”

“Well, only yesterday evening, when Ottomar was telling us of his meeting with you, and that he had known you before in Orleans, he said what a pity it was you had not stayed in the army. You might have done it so easily, and could reenter it even now.”

“Very kind of him, Fräulein von Werben; and during the war I thought so too, and if it had gone on longer—there is no saying; but in time of peace a sublieutenant thirty years old! That would never do.”

“True! true! But how would it be in the navy? You could rise there, and still keep to your own profession.”

“I do certainly wish to remain in it,” answered Reinhold, “and therefore I am thinking of accepting the proposal which President von Sanden made to me a few days ago, and which would immediately give me a command.”

“A command!” exclaimed Elsa, with astonished eyes.

“As superintendent of pilots.”

“Oh!”

There was a tone of disappointment in the exclamation which did not escape Reinhold. He continued, smiling:

“That is to say, the superintendence of some dozen or so rough weather beaten seafaring men, and of some dozen tough weatherproof fast-sailing vessels, among which it is to be hoped there will be one or two lifeboats; a humble post, Fräulein von Werben, but not without its merits, and certainly plenty of danger; and taken for all in all, worth while for a man with no great pretensions in life, but who would willingly serve the world with his strength and talents, to give those strength and talents and anything else he may have got to it cheerfully. And I—well, I shall at all events stay in my own profession.”

They were standing in a window, rather away from the stream of people who were passing rapidly to and fro in the corridor. Elsa was leaning lightly against the windowsill, and gazing out into the street. Reinhold doubted whether she heard what he said, till rapidly turning her head she answered with her former lively manner:

“You are right, it is your especial profession. Accept the proposal which our old friend has made you! You see you have friends in all directions. And is any special place named yet, if I may ask?”

“Yes, I should be stationed at Wissow.”

“At Wissow?”

She clapped her hands together and laughed.

“In our Wissow? Now that is delightful! Then we shall be almost neighbours from Warnow and also from Strummin, if I pay my promised visit to Meta. Then we shall come and you must take us out sailing—quite far out, will you?”

“As far as you like!”

“An honest man is as good as his word! And now we really must set out on our voyage of discovery. Oh, dear! there is Princess Heinrich August with the Princesses! Those unlucky Passinis! She has seen me already, she sees everything at a glance. I dare not go now; but—”

“I will go,” said Reinhold.

“Yes, do; that will be better. What, will you not shake hands with me? We shall meet again!”

She gave him her hand, which Reinhold held fast for a moment; she was already looking towards the Princess. He went down the corridor. As he looked back for a moment from the entrance, he saw Elsa making a deep courtesy to the Princess, who stood still and spoke to her.

“How will she explain it,” thought Reinhold. “She cannot say that she was talking in the window to a Superintendent of pilots that is to be!”

XI

Ferdinanda only stood talking to her friends in the clock-room till she thought that Reinhold, who had repeatedly turned round to look for her, had forgotten her for the moment, and had given himself up to the study of the picture. Then she bowed to the two ladies, and allowed herself to be carried along by a stream of people who were going into the next room, waited a moment to be certain that Reinhold was not following her, and then walked quickly away with the air of a person looking for her lost companion, and who has therefore only a slight nod for any acquaintance she may meet, through this room and the skylight room into the fourth room, and out of these into the long suite of small rooms which from here led back to the chief room, and into which even during the first few days visitors rarely came.

Even today it was comparatively empty, only here and there isolated individuals, who with fleeting curiosity examined the pictures, never stopping long, and casting a look of astonishment at an officer who did not seem to be able to tear himself away from a very indifferent landscape. At last his interest seemed appeased; he walked rapidly away, when again his attention was attracted to a picture close to the entrance. It was the same picture before which Ferdinanda had stopped. The light was so unfavourable that there was only one spot from which the picture could be properly seen. So the officer was obliged to stand quite close to the lady, and in so doing he trod on her dress.

“I beg your pardon,” he said aloud, and then in a low voice, which only reached her ear, “Do not turn round till I tell you; speak into the corner; no one will observe it. First of all let me thank you!”

“Why?”

“For coming here.”

“I only came to tell you that I will bear it no longer.”

“Have I nothing to bear?”

“No, not in comparison with me.”

“I love you as you love me.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“By deeds, and not words.”

“With my hands tied?”

“Break the bonds that hold you!”

“I cannot.”

“Goodbye.”

She turned to the door through which she had come; he forgot all caution, and stood in her way. They confronted each other, their eyes meeting.

“Ferdinanda!”

“Let me go!”

“You must hear me! for God’s sake, Ferdinanda! Such an opportunity as this may not occur again for weeks!”

She laughed scornfully. “We have plenty of time.”

Again she tried to pass him; he still stood in her way.

“Ferdinanda!”

“Once again let me go! You wish for an opportunity? You will perhaps never have so good a one of getting rid of me.”

He stood back with a bow; she could have gone if she pleased, but she did not go; the hot tears had started into her eyes, she did not dare to meet people so, and turned back to the picture, where he immediately took his original position.

“Be kind, Ferdinanda! I have so looked forward to this hour. Why do you embitter the moments so precious to both of us? You know, you must know that I am prepared to go all lengths if it must be. But we cannot take the final step without considering everything.”

“We have been considering for the last six months.”

“With the garden wall between us, and in words which were only half understood, in letters where one cannot express what one wants. That is no use. You must meet me somewhere, as I have so often entreated. Am I never to take your hand in mine, never to press my lips against yours? and you ask for a proof of my love!”

She went up to his side and gazed into the beautiful, restless hazel eyes. Still more beautiful and darker eyes had gazed at her like that a few hours ago, and with more passionate warmth. She had been able to withstand them, these she could not withstand. The eyelashes fell upon her burning cheeks.

“I can not,” she stammered.

“Say I will not, I have made innumerable suggestions to you. Only the other day I got introduced to your brother at the Club. He was delighted to make my acquaintance, pressed me to visit him, to come and see his pictures. How easily we could meet there.”

“I dare not go and see my brother. I have not dared to go for a long time, and now after last night!”

“Then your cousin! Of course he will come and see us? I shall return the visit. Your father cannot turn me away from the door!”

“I have already thought of that and prepared him. But in that case it could only be for a very few minutes.”

“Then I will think of something else, if only I knew what you would like; I will find something and write to you, or I should prefer telling you whenever you give me the signal.”

“I dare not do it again.”

“Why?”

“There is someone who watches every step I take. I am not safe from him for one moment—Antonio—I have told you about him; I am afraid.”

“You are afraid of everything.”

He turned quickly and impatiently towards the window near which he stood. At the same moment a handsome, remarkably smartly-dressed young man disappeared from the door at the other end of the gallery, where he had stood for the last few minutes, so placed that by bending a little to the left he could easily see the couple in the window with his dark, eagle eyes, without much danger of being seen himself. If necessary he had only to withdraw into the crowd which filled the large neighbouring room. He had seen enough now, and mingled again with the throng.

When Ottomar, after looking out of window for a few seconds, turned to speak to Ferdinanda the words of reconciliation which were on his lips and in his heart, her place was empty.

Ferdinanda could not help it. The acquaintances with whom she had before spoken had passed the door of the next room, close to which she stood, and luckily without seeing her. But they were standing quite close to the door, the dress of one of them was still in sight. At any moment they might turn into the gallery if she did not go forward to meet them and keep them till Ottomar, who would of course understand it all, should himself leave the gallery by the other side. And if he did not understand—so much the worse for him. Then it would all be over—better today than tomorrow if it must be!

But Ottomar had observed nothing, had not seen the two ladies, had not even seen Ferdinanda, who, to get out of the way of the people in the door, had been obliged to go a step or two into the room, and was now speaking to her friends. She had left him without a word of farewell or explanation.

“By heaven, that is rather strong!” said he, biting his lips and pulling his small dark moustache. “Well, as she pleases!” And he rapidly left the gallery and went through the same door where the handsome young man had stood into the large room.

XII

Here, meanwhile, the crowd had, if possible increased. Besides the Princess Heinrich August, various other princely personages had appeared with their suites, for whom at all events room had to be made. The result was that in some places the curious sightseers were so crowded together that any movement was hardly possible.

It was the same in the last of the set of rooms. Two ladies had placed themselves upon one of the few sofas of which the Exhibition could boast. Near them stood a gentleman whose absent and fatigued expression plainly showed how glad he would be to sit down also. He stood first on one leg, then on the other, and cast from time to time an irritable glance at the two ladies, one of whom, who seemed a few years older than the other, but, notwithstanding her being rather too large, was the handsomest, leaned languidly back in her corner, while the younger and slighter one incessantly turned her eyeglasses from side to side, never moving them from her eyes.

“When you are enough rested, I think we will go,” said the gentleman.

“I see no possibility of getting out,” replied the stout lady, without changing her comfortable attitude.

“It really is intensely interesting,” said the other, “quite too interesting. Who is that man, Edward?”

The glasses had turned in another direction.

“What man?”

“There—by the Emperor’s portrait, with the fair moustache and bright colour—a country gentleman, I am sure. I fancy I have seen him before.”

“By Jove, that is Golm!” exclaimed the gentleman, rousing from his indifference.

“Count Golm! quite true!” said the lady. “This really is quite too interesting! Bring him here at once, Edward!”

But the Count had already observed the party and came up to them eagerly, holding out both hands to the other gentleman, who went forward a few steps to meet him.

“My dear Wallbach, I am delighted to see you!”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since yesterday evening; will you introduce me to the ladies?”

“My wife—my sister Carla—”

“I had the pleasure two winters ago; but—”

“Oh, we have better memories in Berlin than you seem to give us credit for, Count Golm,” cried Carla, “especially for gentlemen who make themselves so scarce. Why did we not see you last winter?”

“I was in Italy, Fräulein von Wallbach, and in Paris.”

“Oh, that dear dear Paris! We have not been there for an eternity; the last time was the year before the war. They say it has not altered at all, but I cannot believe it. Then there was such a brilliant court—and now—c’est désolant! But sit down by us; there is room if we sit closer together.” Carla drew aside her voluminous skirts.

“I am afraid of being in your way,” said the Count, but sat down in the place so readily made for him, while Herr von Wallbach glanced despairingly at his varnished boots.

“We have been talking immensely about you this last few days,” said Carla. “Dear Elsa! she is so enchanted with Golmberg, it must really be a perfect paradise. Is not Elsa enchanting? We all spoil her here, Ottomar says, and he spoils her more than anyone.”

“Who is Ottomar, if I may ask?”

“Herr von Werben!” said Wallbach, casting a glance of displeasure upon Carla, “the Lieutenant.”

“Oh, his name is Ottomar!” said the Count.

“Our families are so very intimate,” said Herr von Wallbach. “My poor brother, you know, fell at the siege of Paris by Von Werben’s side.”

“True! true! I remember,” said the Count, who knew nothing about it.

“And naturally that increased our intimacy,” said Carla. “Sorrow always brings people closer together,” and she compressed still further the ample folds of her dress.

“True! true!” said the Count. “Sorrow—and happiness too.”

“Ah, you are a philosopher! I love philosophy! Schopenhauer gave me the most intense pleasure. Are you not enchanted with Hartmann?”

“Who may that be?” thought the Count; and aloud he said, “Certainly—at least—”

“Then you do not know him, at least thoroughly; I know him by heart. There are only three men now to be studied, and studied again and again—Bismarck, Hartmann, and Wagner. The politics of the present, the music of the future, opened out to us by the philosophy of the unknown; in them you see the stamp of this century.”

“I am quite anxious to make Herr von Werben’s acquaintance,” said the Count, by way of taking part in the conversation.

“Quand on parle du loup—mon Dieu! he really does look like a wolf,” cried Carla, whose ever busy eyeglasses had perceived Ottomar the moment he appeared in the room, with the anger and displeasure at Ferdinanda’s supposed flight still apparent in his troubled looks and gloomy eyes.

“He has been looking for you, Carla,” said Frau von Wallbach, opening her lips for the first time.

“Pray do not call attention so openly to what is by no means settled yet,” whispered Herr von Wallbach in her ear.

“What, not yet?” said Frau von Wallbach in an indifferent tone.

Herr von Wallbach shrugged his shoulders, then turned with a smile towards Ottomar, who was working his way in and out till he finally arrived at the party in the window.

“That is right, my dear Werben; we have been expecting you a long time.”

“I must apologise,” said Ottomar; “I have lost Elsa—been looking for her this half hour. Pray do not be angry with me, Frau von Wallbach, nor you, Fräulein Carla.”

“Good morning,” said Carla, without moving her glasses from her eyes. “Who is that, Louise? Frau von Elmar? on her husband’s arm? impossible!”

Ottomar had not written during the three days he had been away shooting—not a line—and he must be punished for it. Besides, since her approaching engagement with the smart Guardsman had become known, she had not found it so easy to fascinate other young men as before. The Count was fresh from the country, and could very easily play the part required of him for a day or two. “Count Golm!”

“Yes.” The Count, whom Herr von Werben had just introduced to Ottomar, turned round.

“Look, Count Golm! That young lady in the lovely blue dress—that is Frau von Elmar, who had that affair with Count Wolkonski, the attaché at the Russian Embassy, two winters ago. Don’t you know the story? You must hear it. Sit down again by me!”

“I thought we were just going!” said Herr von Wallbach.

“One moment,” said Carla.

Herr von Wallbach shrugged his shoulders. He considered the game Carla was playing, and which he quite saw through, utterly misplaced. Ottomar’s face was dark enough already, so dark indeed that he considered a word of excuse necessary. “She is still such a child,” he whispered, with a side-glance at Carla. “You must not be angry with her.”

“I am not angry with her.”

“Then something else has vexed you,” continued Wallbach, drawing Ottomar aside. “You really ought to leave Berlin for a time, this idle time of peace does not suit you. And I have already spoken to the Minister; he does not include you in his differences with your father. In fact he wishes that you should accept this post, only he also wishes for particular reasons not to have any more unmarried attachés there. You see, my dear Werben, I am open with you, and you will not mind that. Be so yourself, and show that you are in earnest! Believe me we shall all be better and happier—you and I and Carla. You cannot be surprised if at last we are getting a little impatient.”

“No; I am impatient enough myself.”

“Then we shall be quite d’accord, and if you agree—hush! Princess Heinrich August!”

The Princess had come into the room, and had got to the opposite corner without being observed by the group in the window, and now moved on, the crowd respectfully making way, rapidly examining the pictures and sometimes talking to Elsa over her shoulder. The group on the sofa got up hastily and bowed low.

“Now we are all together,” said the great lady with kindly friendliness. “Here, you most unfaithful of brothers, is your sister! The company in which we find you must be your excuse. How are you, my dear Carla? You have not shown yourself out riding for three days. I always feel there is something wanting when you do not once canter past my carriage on your black horse. But he has been faithless to you too. Shooting—gentlemen are always shooting! I advise you to beware! You ought to ride too, my dear Wallbach! it would certainly do you good; my daughters begin next year. I should ride myself if—ah! Count Golm! What brings you from your lonely island to our dusty town? Certainly roses bloom here also. Fräulein von Werben has told me the adventure she had at Golmberg—quite romantic! I always say truth is stranger than fiction. Shall you stop here long, my dear Count? You must tell me the whole story. I take a great interest in your island, where I spent a delightful week last autumn. How is Prince Prora? Your little castle of Golmberg is said to stand in a still better position than his celebrated hunting-place. Perhaps you will all accompany me for a short time? Stay by me, dear Elsa! Then how long do you stay, my dear Count?”

The Princess moved away. The crowd which had formed a semicircle at a respectful distance, watching the great lady’s interview with the group in the window, as hearing was not possible, opened out and then spread over the room in chattering groups.

“What a pretty woman!”

“Who were the people with whom she talked so long and so graciously?”

XIII

After happily saving Fräulein von Werben from the danger of being caught by the Princess talking confidentially with a merchant-captain, Reinhold had returned through the gallery and second room to the clock-room, in the assured hope of finding his cousin still there. But in vain did he turn his sharp eyes in all directions, plunging boldly over the long trains of the ladies, if he saw a brown velvet dress in the far distance.

After all she could not be far off, and in fact it was more that she had left him in the lurch than that he had left her. But still his uneasiness did not decrease when he got to the skylight-room without finding her. He stood still, doubting whether he should go on or return, when a hand, encased in a yellow kid glove, touched his shoulder.

“At last I have found you!”

“Philip!” exclaimed Reinhold, turning round and giving his hand to his cousin.

“Where is Ferdinanda?”

Reinhold explained his mishap.

“Then we will look for her together,” said Philip. “I have just come out of the middle room, and she was not there; perhaps she is in one of the last rooms.”

He linked his arm in Reinhold’s with the familiarity of a cousin and intimate friend. Reinhold was agreeably touched, and a little ashamed that in the quarrel between father and son he was conscious of having already taken the side of the former.

“I really am pleased to see you,” said he.

“I don’t doubt the reality,” answered Philip, laughing, “and only hope the pleasure will last; at any rate, at least fifty percent of the happiness falls to my share. It is always a good thing to know that the old man has got a sensible fellow to talk to; and he has always thought very highly of you—probably only to irritate me; but I don’t mind that.”

“I am so new to this state of affairs, my dear Philip—”

“Diplomatic? you need not try that with me. I am a straightforward, honest fellow, always speaking out what I have in my heart—a foolish habit; it is just what the old man has never forgiven me. He will not listen to the truth; the whole world must dance to his pipe—and a pretty world it would be, heaven knows!”

“But he has already created a little world of his own. I must confess that his manufactory—”

“Is very fine. He has just been pretty lucky—that is all, I assure you! Think what any other man might have done who held his cards! But he never knows what are trumps for the moment, and cannot forgive another man understanding it better. What has he told you about me?”

“Nothing—on my honour.”

“It will come. But I warn you not to believe a word. He looks upon me as an egotist, a gambler, a speculator, a cutthroat—I don’t know what not! And why? Because I am ten times richer than he is; because I could put his whole marble trade into my pocket without feeling it; because I—in a word, because I have been successful. I believe in Bismarck, whom he hates like sin. Bismarck is my man; I swear by Bismarck; I would go through thick and thin for Bismarck. He knows what he is about, and how to do it.”

Philip sometimes raised his already loud voice till all the bystanders could hear him as well as Reinhold himself; and even when he spoke lower, his lively eyes penetrated the crowd, in which every moment he greeted some acquaintance with a wave of the gloved hand, or a familiar nod of the head, or sometimes with “How are you?” “All right?” “Morning—morning,” and such broken sentences.

“Shall you never come back to your father’s house?” asked Reinhold.

“No. Why should I?”

“Now, Philip! As if it were the most natural thing in the world for a son never to enter his father’s house!”

“Natural! What do you mean by natural? I call it natural for a man of my years not to allow himself to be treated like a foolish boy. At the same time, I have no principles concerned in the matter, just now less than ever. Only get me an invitation!”

“I will try, on one condition.”

“Well?”

“That you do not abuse your father in my presence.”

Philip laughed.

“You are too particular, my dear Reinhold; in these times, neither men nor things must be handled with silk gloves, or you are apt to get a fall before you are aware. Bismarck does not do that; he grips fast.”

“Many things are allowed in politics which are unbecoming in common life.”

“Oh, we have got beyond all that! On the contrary, we have, thank heaven! arrived at the conviction that, in any circumstances, every advantage may be taken. Just look at that little dark man with the great fat wife. Two years ago he was a wretched little stockjobber, who did not know from day to day what he had to live on. Now he has got two millions, and if the ‘New’ Kaiser-König Iron Company—which is started tomorrow—pays, he will have three millions this year. The ‘Old’ stand at 135. I myself am deeply interested, and reckon upon a dividend of at least 25. I can get you some shares if you like.”

“I do not know what I should buy them with.”

“You must have made a good lot of money.”

“I have laid by a small sum, which I should like to keep.”

“Prudence is the mother of wisdom—and the grandmother of poverty.”

“Then I am her legitimate grandson.”

Philip suddenly drew his arm out of Reinhold’s, who thought he had annoyed him by his last remark; but it was only to stand erect and take off his hat to the Princess, who, with her suite, was passing by. Reinhold, who was pushed aside by people getting in front of him, could see the whole party perfectly without being seen himself—the Princess chatting sometimes with Elsa, who was walking on her left side, and sometimes with Count Golm, who was a little behind her on the right; then various ladies and gentlemen, and amongst the latter Ottomar, talking busily to a lady. The subject of their talk seemed to be amusing, as she laughed incessantly behind her eyeglasses, which never left her eyes.

A curious sensation came over Reinhold. His former flight had something absurd about it from the haste with which it had to be made, and he had himself laughed heartily about it afterwards. Now he could not laugh. In the midst of this respectful, bowing crowd, as it made room for the Princess, he felt the difference of the social position between himself and the young lady who moved at her side to be quite another thing to what he had thought before. He belonged to the crowd, not, as she did, to that select circle—she and Count Golm! Had he made the journey back with them? Did he follow her? What did it matter?—a Count Golm had but to come!

He turned with a secret sigh, and close behind him saw Ferdinanda. She did not see him; her eyes, like everyone else’s, were turned on the Princess’s party, with a fixedness which curiosity alone could not explain. Was it displeasure at being so long alone that he saw in the beautiful gloomy face?

“Ferdinanda!”

She started as if awaking from a dream. A deep glow spread over her cheeks. Reinhold excused himself as well as he could. Philip joined them.

“Did you see her? Beautiful woman! I am quite in love with her. The little Werben girl seems marvellously intimate with her. The man on the other side, I hear, was Count Golm, grand seigneur, but over head and ears in debt. Now is the time to save himself if he is clever. I hope soon we shall do some business together in grand style; don’t know him personally—know his signature very well. And did you see young Werben, Ferdinanda, with Fräulein von Wallbach? It must be all right there—not a bad match; she is worth about a hundred thousand; and her brother, who manages her property, was there too—there, Reinhold—with rather a bald head, he is not half a bad fellow; and young Werben himself—well, just now he is rather shaky, but no doubt he will pick up again.”

“Shall we go?” said Ferdinanda.

She stepped forward without waiting for any answer, and rather to Reinhold’s horror, right in front of the Princess and her party. The Princess had, however, again stopped to accost some other important people who had just arrived. Her attendants had stepped back a little, and were conversing together in low tones, and so it was to be hoped that they might slip through unperceived, but just as he was crossing he caught Elsa’s eye, and she nodded to him so cordially, and indeed heartily, that Count Golm, whose attention was attracted, half turned, and certainly recognised him, although his light eyes instead of greeting him, slightly fell, and immediately looked in another direction; but Reinhold had not observed that Ottomar, who had also turned, bowed to Ferdinanda, whose dress touched him, with polite indifference, and immediately continued his interrupted conversation with Fräulein von Wallbach with increased earnestness, while Ferdinanda returned his bow with a blank, fixed look.

But the scene had not escaped someone else’s eyes, the dark, gleaming, fiery eyes of the handsome young man, who had already observed from afar the rendezvous in the gallery. He had been standing now in the very centre of the dark wall of the room leaning against one of the columns, and suddenly came forward and stood before the two as they were going.

“Thank heaven I have found you at last, signora,” said he in his soft voice, which seemed to tremble a little from breathless haste. “I have looked for you everywhere, to tell you that Signor Anders has not been able to wait downstairs any longer. He was obliged to keep an appointment which was settled for two o’clock.”

“So much the better,” answered Ferdinanda; “I was just starting to go home.”

“It is a pity!” said Philip. “I wanted to hear your opinion of a wonderful young Bacchus by Müller; Herr Anders has not yet sold his Satyr; I am doubting between the two, perhaps I shall buy both, and your Shepherd Boy too, Ferdinanda, if you will only put a decent price on it.”

“Are you coming with us, Antonio?” asked Ferdinanda impatiently.

“I think I will stay a little longer,” answered the Italian, hesitating.

“Very well. Come. Addio, Signor Antonio!”

“Addio, signora!”

The Italian remained in the door between the second room and the clock-room, his black eyes following the receding figures till they disappeared through the entrance; then they turned back upon the second room, and remained fixed upon Ottomar with a look of deadly hate.

“Now I know from whom the letters are which she so often reads! You shall pay for it, per Bacco!” he murmured between his white teeth.

XIV

That same evening in the elegant salon of the Royal Hotel, Unter den Linden, sat Count Golm and Councillor Schieler at a table covered with maps and plans. The two gentlemen had conversed long and eagerly over a bottle of wine; the bright colour in the Count’s cheeks was deeper, and a certain look of displeasure appeared in his face as he now leaned back in his rocking-chair, and began silently to rock himself backwards and forwards; the Councillor still continued to turn over the plans for a little while, sipped his wine, and then also leaned back, and said:

“I find you, take it all in all, Count Golm, less inclined to concur in our project than our correspondence had led me to believe.”

“But is it our project?” cried the Count, rousing himself. “What does it signify to me if you want a harbour in the north instead of in the east? The railway will cut one of my properties in half, and come in contact with another. Voilà tout! I don’t see why I should excite myself about that.”

“We only want the northern harbour because we cannot get the eastern one,” answered the Councillor coolly. “A harbour to the north might be conceded by the Government. As to one to the east—well, Count Golm, I think that after such very interesting explanations as you heard at your own table from the lips of the General and the President, we must give up any hope of it. Get the concession for the harbour to the east for us, and the Sundin-Wissow Railway Company will be formed tomorrow.”

“How can I do so if you cannot, who are at the very fountainhead?”

The Councillor shrugged his shoulders.

“You know, Count Golm, that I no longer hold any office, and have only now and then to give an opinion; that I have not failed to do so on this side you will believe without my trying to convince you.”

“And you have not been able to get the concession?”

“It is not so easily to be had, and especially now when he is busy getting that bill through. People do not dare go to him with many questions which would seem to touch upon the great principle of self-government, which is the order of the day. However—I say it in the strictest confidence—as soon as this bill, which you know goes very much against the grain with him, has been brought through the House of Lords by means of a new creation of peers, and at the same time as I and all patriots feel the grave of Prussia has been dug, he will retire in displeasure from his uncomfortably prominent position in the ministry, and we shall have a better chance next year.”

“But I do not want to wait so long,” said the Count. He had sprung up and paced up and down the room with hasty steps; now he returned to the table where the Councillor, certain that the interview would not be terminated thus, remained quietly sitting. “And supposing that I wished to wait so long—the very important question arises of whether I could. This is a confidential interview, Councillor Schieler. Well, I am in a bad way. The interest on my debts almost swallows up my income, and by the first of October there will be an additional sum of fifty thousand thalers.”

“Have you spoken to Hugo Lübbener? I should have thought such a rich man, and your banker for so many years—”

“He has only been so for three years, since you recommended him to me so strongly, and besides now my account is very low; my banker’s book has not been made up since last July. I cannot ask any more from Lübbener; I have not even once been to see him.”

“Humph!” said the Councillor, with the air of a man who, thinking he knows something, now sees it in a new light. “I thought your affairs were—apart from temporary embarrassments—quite in order. What you now tell me, with I hope some of the exaggeration of despondency, surprises me very much indeed—very much.”

“I do not exaggerate,” replied the Count; “indeed I have said rather too little than too much.”

“But then still less do I understand why our project does not suit you. The value of both your properties would be doubled, and a directorship is also certain. That is always something.”

“It is nothing—nothing at all!” cried the Count vehemently. “A straw to a drowning man. What should I do with the paltry hundreds, which I can win in one evening at écarté? No! if once I go in for speculating it shall not be for nothing; if I make a haul it shall be a good one which shall compensate for the prick of conscience at going in direct opposition to all the traditions of my family and doing what Prince Prora would never condescend to, and which will make me secure in the future.”

The Councillor scratched his long nose with a pencil to hide a smile, and suppressed the answer which was on the tip of his tongue.

“How can a gambler be safe in the future?” He said instead: “You should marry, Count Golm!”

“The three negro heads in my coat-of-arms would seem to indicate a dowry of a round million. Tell me of some fascinating young Jewess!”

“I could name several, but I had no lovely daughter of Israel in my mind; on the contrary, the daughter of a house which, even if the blood of the Wends flows in their veins, is nearly as old as yours: Fräulein Elsa von Werben.”

“Are you joking?”

“I never was more in earnest; I have been turning the matter over in my mind for the last three days, that is to say since the luckiest of all accidents brought about a personal interview between you and the Werbens under circumstances which render further social intercourse a mere matter of duty on both sides. Think now, Count Golm; the chief opponent of the eastern line of railway is the General—upon strategical grounds perhaps, but I know the man well enough, certainly for personal motives also. The harbour can only be upon Warnow ground, so that the Warnow property must be bought by our company; but it cannot be bought, at least not at present, without his consent as co-trustee of the Warnow estates. Very well; marry the daughter, who must some day inherit half the property, and we shall soon see whether he will withhold from the son-in-law what he refuses to the Director of the Sundin-Wissow Railway and Harbour Company. It is not written in vain: ‘Lead us not into temptation.’ ”

“I think I have learnt to know the General also,” cried the Count, “and I bet a hundred to one he will resist the temptation.”

“I never bet,” answered the Councillor; “I always calculate, and I find that the calculation that drops will wear away a stone, though uncertain, is on the whole correct. But listen! Herr von Wallbach, as my colleague in the management of the Berlin-Sundin Railway, is as deeply concerned as I am that the Sundin-Wissow Railway, which would set us afloat again (you see, Count Golm, I am candour itself), should be carried out. But Herr von Wallbach, since the death of his father the minister, has taken his place as one of the trustees of the Warnow estate; and Ottomar von Werben, who is co-heir, is engaged—or as good as engaged—to Wallbach’s clever sister. Wallbach is too good a man of business not to know that if half the property is sold, and sold to us, it will be worth double—double, did I say? it will be worth three or four times what the whole thing is now; but he is afraid—from some remnants of aristocratic prejudices (excuse the word) to push the General too hard. Make common cause with him! I mean marry the daughter, as his sister marries the son, and—why, I very nearly made a bet then!”

The Count, who, while the Councillor had been speaking, walked up and down softly over the carpet, and often stopped so as not to lose a word, now turned round sharply.

“Good!” said he, “charming! but in any case I am to be the vendor!”

“How do you mean, Count Golm?” said the Councillor.

“Why it is plain enough,” answered the Count. “I as neighbour and son-in-law get the property considerably cheaper than the company, who, besides, cannot possibly want the whole thing. So I prefer selling what they want to the company, then buying back from the company what is necessary for the completion of my estate. I think that is clear.”

It was very clear to the Councillor, had been quite clear from the first moment, and he had only wanted time to recover from his surprise. The Count’s move was a masterly one, which he had never expected from the reckless young man. He was in the strange position of being obliged to curb the ardour which he had so artfully roused.

“Bravo!” said he. “We shall have a skilful director in you. I congratulate ourselves and you in the prospect. At the same time, we will not divide the skin till we have killed the bear. Till now we have been reckoning without one person, who is, however, very powerful—without the Baroness Warnow herself.”

“But if she is in the hands of her trustee, and you and Wallbach could get the better of the General—”

“Only till the first of October! From that day, which happens to be her fiftieth birthday, the Baroness, by her husband’s will, has a voice amongst the trustees, who then, if you like, become only a committee of management under her.”

“And you think that the Baroness will be against our plan?”

“I think that the opinion of the Baroness upon this and every other matter is of infinitely less importance to us than that of Signor Giraldi.”

“Her steward?”

“Steward—secretary—companion, I do not know what.”

“They say that she is married to him?”

“She will take care not to do that!”

“Why?”

“Because by taking such a step she would lose all right to the estate, which would then fall immediately to Fräulein von Werben and her brother, provided they had not imitated the folly of their aunt in marrying below their rank. Then no one would have any of it except various benevolent institutions.”

“I have, as you may imagine, heard all possible and impossible things of that wonderful will. Can you and will you satisfy my curiosity, which now hardly deserves that name?”

“Willingly,” said the Councillor. “The slight indiscretion which I shall commit in so doing I will put down to my credit in our accounts; but where shall I begin?”

“At the beginning,” said the Count. “I know a great deal—I know very little—I know nothing. You see I am already practising the jargon with some facility. Shall I send for another bottle?”

“Thanks, thanks. I have still another visit before me; but you are right, you must know all now, and I will endeavour to be as brief as possible.”

He put his watch which he had just taken out back into his pocket; the Count leaned back in his chair, and began to rock himself, while the Councillor scribbled on a bit of paper, and was silent for a few moments, as if to collect his thoughts.

“You must not expect a private history from me; I could not tell it to you even if I wished, as in regard to the intimate relations and feelings of those concerned, I am no better informed than other people, and I never venture upon the dangerous path of guesses except in general meetings, when the shareholders are very unruly. So I must limit myself to relating the facts in chronological order. Well, you know that the Duchess of ——— is a distant relation of our royal family. Fräulein Valerie von Werben, as well as her elder sister, Sidonie, grew up here in Berlin with the Princess. When the Princess married she first took Valerie to her new court, and when the latter also married, she allowed the far less interesting and amusing Sidonie—I think out of charity—to take her place. But that is only by the way.

“Baron Warnow made Fräulein Valerie’s acquaintance in ———, where—for in those days we were still courteous enough to send ambassadors even to small courts—he held that office. To see, love, and marry the handsome and clever girl, and to give up his office to be able to devote his whole life to her, was the result of a single impulse. That was in the year 1840.

“From ’40 to ’43 the young couple lived in Warnow—how? I should be sorry to say positively; but to judge from my knowledge of mankind, at first happily, then less happily, and at last—I infer from the disclosure made me by the Baron in ’43—decidedly unhappily. The Baron and I were friends as students; from that time he honoured me with his confidence. I had repeatedly acted as his legal adviser, and so was to a certain extent entitled to receive his confidences, which however never entered into details.

“The Baron wished to try a different matrimonial regime, to travel with his young wife, to see the world. I urgently advised it. They went to London, Paris, and finally to Italy, where however they only stayed a very short time. When they returned the Baron again came to see me; he looked wretched; the perpetual change of place had upset his nerves; he had not been able to stand the climate, and so forth. The truth of the matter was that he was really ill, only that the seat of his illness was less in the stomach and nerves than in the heart; in fact he was jealous, and we may be quite sure not without grounds. At first he seems to have had various suspicions, but they finally concentrated in one person, who alone was named—a certain Gregorio Giraldi, whose acquaintance the Baroness had already made when she was a girl, while he held some subordinate position as secretary or something of the sort to the papal ambassador at the Court of ———. However that may be, they made or renewed acquaintance with Signor Giraldi in Rome. An old impression was revived, or a new intimacy formed, which certainly belonged to the category of ‘dangerous,’ though at least appearances were kept up, and a ray of hope was left for the miserable husband, or it would have been impossible that he could have given his consent to a second journey to Italy a year later. From this he did not return quite so quickly as from the first, but when he did, it was—alone! The climate had been even worse for his nerves, so that he could not recover from the shock, and in fact never did, but failed for six or seven months, and died in 1845, from a broken heart, as the novels say, or after long suffering from a heart complaint, as it appeared in the obituary announcement.

“Luckily death had left him time to make his will, which it took us an immense time to draw up through the obstinacy of the General, then a major lately married, and the father of two children since dead. Of those now living Ottomar was, if I am not mistaken, born in 1847, and the daughter some years later. From the first moment that the Baron made the acquaintance of his brother-in-law, which as far as I can recollect was about the time of his own betrothal with the sister, he formed the deepest friendship with him—a friendship which matrimonial disturbances the less interfered with that Werben, who from the beginning had sided with his brother-in-law, with his usual determination, held fast to this line of conduct, and in consequence had many a stormy scene with his giddy but tenderly-loved sister. By the first draft of the will he was to inherit everything in trust for his children, while the Baroness only received her legal portion. Werben positively refused the inheritance for himself, but accepted it for his children after long consideration, though with the strangest restrictions. From the very first he had advised and at last obtained that the possibility of marrying again should not be taken from his sister, as this step would help her to return to a proper life, provided that the marriage should be with an equal, and in every way fitting. Upon the equality and other proprieties of this hypothetic second marriage the trustees—Herr von Werben himself, Herr von Wallbach (the father of the present man), and I—had to decide, as well as upon every other detail of the will. If the Baroness made an unequal second marriage against the will of the trustees, she was then reduced at once to her legal portion. If she remained unmarried, then the use of half of the revenues of the estate would be left to her entirely. The other half was to accumulate as capital, deducting a very moderate sum for the education of the General’s children, who on their side would receive equal parts of the revenues of the second half on attaining majority, only that the daughter would attain majority upon her marriage, whose propriety and equality were to be decided by the trustees as in the first case. If they, the children, whether son or daughter, contracted an unsuitable marriage, they lost thereby all claim to the succession, and their portion lapsed as if the delinquent were no longer alive.

“To put it shortly: the Baroness and the General’s children succeed one another in turns, so that, for instance, if the General’s children die or lose their rights in the way I have mentioned, the Baroness becomes sole heiress of the estates and has free disposal of everything, as, on the contrary, either of the other heirs would have free disposal if the Baroness died or forfeited her rights.”

“A strange will,” said the Count, who had listened with such breathless attention that he had even forgotten to rock himself.

“I am only answerable for the drawing up,” answered the Councillor; “the actual provisions are entirely the General’s work, who is, by the way, the most conscientious or rather pedantic of men, and with his speeches about uprightness and justice on all sides makes life intolerable to everyone. I assure you he might have had the whole thing without any trouble, and now all these restrictions and obstacles! I have mentioned one already which especially for us just now is very important.”

“The Baroness taking part in the management?”

“Exactly, which takes place in a few weeks. If we are then in a position to get the Baroness—or her factotum, which comes to the same thing—on our side, we shall certainly have the upper hand, and the General’s opposition will be broken down, so far at all events. In any other case—and we must be prepared for such—our beautiful plan of getting the Warnow estates into our own hands is as like a soap-bubble as one egg is like another.”

“And you have not once tried to sound the Baroness?” exclaimed the Count in a tone of reproach.

“I thought there would be time enough when the Baroness arrived here for the approaching arrangements for which her actual presence is indispensable. She is already on her way according to the last letter from Munich, where she proposes to spend this month. But now I will certainly do all I can to persuade her either to come sooner herself, or at least to send her factotum.”

“You know this gentleman?”

“Not personally, only through letters. Signor Giraldi is unquestionably a remarkable individual; scholar, diplomatist, artist, and man of business—the latter of the very first rank; a contest with him—à la bonne heure! I would rather have the devil himself as an adversary. But I am wasting time in chatter, though in a very pleasant way.”

The Councillor rose; the Count rocked himself again, looking put out.

“You are very kind,” said he, “but excuse my observing that I am no wiser than I was before.”

“Then excuse my remarking, Count Golm, that I think you are rather ungrateful,” replied the Councillor, drawing on his gloves. “I have done more for you than I would for our own shareholders, even if they went down on their knees to me in a body. I have laid before you the actual position of the Berlin-Sundin Railway Company; I have confessed that our only hope is a continuation of the Sundin railway through your island to some harbour which will be, as it were, the head of the serpent; in other words that we can only save our first project by a second, which will be supported by the first. On this point our interests are common, however much apart they may be elsewhere. It is our interest to obtain this continuation, even if that head of the serpent, the harbour, were in the moon, let alone anywhere upon the island, even in the north. Your interests demand that an Eastern terminus should be chosen, to which the railway would run through your whole property. Good. I come to you—offer you, so to say, my outstretched hand, show you the means and the way, how, by some quite possible cleverness, you may set aside all present obstacles which are in your way—remember that, Count Golm—not in ours—for this object put you in possession of a family secret as I did before of a business secret, and finally offer you, if I may so express myself, the hand of a young, handsome, and charming woman, and you tell me that I have come in vain!”

The Councillor took up his hat, but the Count still did not move from his seat.

“It certainly is most ungrateful of me,” said he, “but you know no one is pleased with the most agreeable of prospects when he is in such a disagreeable position as I am.”

The Councillor slowly brushed the top of his hat round and round with his elbow.

“I am going to make a proposal, Count Golm. We have both spoken warmly; a walk in the cool of the evening will do you good also; take your hat and let me have the honour of taking you with me on my visit.”

“Who are you going to see?”

“The contractor of our railway, Herr Philip Schmidt.”

The Count raised himself in his chair, and then let himself immediately fall back.

“I hate the name,” he said moodily.

“What in all the world has the name to do with the matter?” answered the Councillor; “and really Herr Philip Schmidt will take it as a matter of course that it should be a great honour to him to make the personal acquaintance of Count Golm; and, furthermore, Herr Schmidt is not only a rich but a rising man, and, as our contractor, is very intimate with our banker, Herr Hugo Lübbener, who is also Count Golm’s banker—enfin, the most appropriate individual to arrange a temporary difficulty for the Count, or if as I can fancy this way would not suit him, to enable him to settle the various accounts with Lübbener in the most speedy manner.”

“But one cannot storm a man’s very door,” cried the Count; “you must at least make some excuse for me.”

“That is easily done,” said the Councillor; “Herr Schmidt is the happy possessor of one of our finest private picture-galleries. Count Golm’s passion for art is well known; what more natural than that Count Golm should call upon Herr Schmidt, as Herr Schmidt, with the best will in the world, cannot bring his gallery to the Count’s hotel?”

“Only that nine o’clock in the evening is perhaps not the best hour for such a purpose,” said the Count, looking at the clock.

“For what purpose were reflectors invented?” answered the Councillor, smiling.

“I will go with you!” exclaimed the Count, springing up.

The Councillor coughed behind his hat, and thus happily hid the smile that played about his broad, beardless lip.

“After all it will not do,” said the Count. “I promised Herr von Werben—”

“The Lieutenant?”

“Of course, to be at home; he wished to fetch me at ten o’clock, to take me I do not know where.”

“Herr von Werben would not think much of such an obstacle,” said the Councillor, with well-acted repressed impatience; “write on a card that you are at So-and-so’s, and beg him to come and fetch you.”

“But he does not know this man!”

“Yes, he does; I happen to know it from Herr Schmidt himself.”

The Count had rung for his servant to give him his hat and gloves. The two gentlemen went towards the door.

“If only his name were not Schmidt,” said the Count, standing still.

“What a strange mania! all great men are afflicted with something of the sort!—After you, Count Golm.”

“Not at all! I am at home here!”

And the gentlemen left the room.

XV

Philip walked impatiently up and down his study, then seated himself at his writing-table, touched the spring of a secret drawer, and took out the Councillor’s note, really only to assure himself that he had not mistaken the hour, but then as he had the letter in his hand, besides having nothing to do, he read it through as carefully as if it were for the first time:

“My Dear Friend,

“The Count is of the greatest importance to us, though you seem always to have underrated him. The fact of his being over head and ears in debt is in my eyes only one more chance for us—we shall get him all the cheaper; and have him we must. The loss caused by Prince Prora’s positive refusal to be one of the promoters, and taking part only as an ordinary shareholder, can only be met by the Count’s siding with us. We must positively have a noble name to support us. You do not understand the insular feelings. The bellwether must first jump over, and then, of course, the whole flock follow. You must provide a bait for the bellwether; that is to say, in figures: you or Lübbener must advance fifty thousand thalers, which I know he is in great need of; then a promise of a tolerably big lump in case the Eastern Railway comes to anything—a case which is almost impossible; thirdly, to balance the fifty thousand and the big lump—a promise on his side to become a director of a Northern Railway. I will fire all these mines this evening, and bring him, with some excuse which I will notify on entering. Lübbener must be there too; or, still better, come later—quite by accident, of course! Should I still find the Count, contrary to my expectations, obstinate and quite disinclined to take the first step, I will break up the interview at nine o’clock, and come alone.

“P.S.—Get hold of young Werben. It is an expensive friendship, I know; but we must not shrink from cost now, and must encourage the relations between the Count and the Werbens in every way. It would be capital if you could serve him up this evening to us as dessert. But you must not openly invite him; and I beg you, above all things, to keep in mind that the whole thing throughout must have an appearance of accident and impromptu—you will understand that!”

Philip laughed to himself as he shut up the letter.

“I think I do understand it,” said he; “but”—and he cast a glance at the clock—“if they do not come soon, all my beautiful arrangements may go to the devil.”

He was about to rise impatiently, when the doorbell rang. He immediately seized some papers which he had laid ready on purpose, took up his pen, and was deeply engrossed in writing when the servant announced Count Golm and Councillor Schieler.

“Beg the gentlemen to come in,” said Philip over his shoulder, bending again over the paper and scribbling away.

The servant had already opened the door for the two gentlemen. Philip threw down his pen, rose hastily, and passing his hand over his forehead, said:

“I beg you a thousand pardons! I had hoped to finish the thing—the report, you know, Herr Schieler. Count Golm, I consider myself happy.”

“We disturb you, my dear fellow,” said the Councillor; “but I have been saying so much about your beautiful gallery to Count Golm, and he is here for such a short time—”

“But quite long enough to be able to return at a more convenient hour,” said the Count.

“I would not let you go on any account,” exclaimed Philip; “there is no such hurry about this business.”

“But we are keeping you from something else.”

“From nothing more interesting or agreeable, Count Golm. I give you my word, I happened to have nothing for tonight—positively nothing. I think, anyway, I should have stayed at home.”

The Councillor shook his finger at him.

“Upon my honour, Herr Schieler.” Philip rang the bell. “Light the lamps in the drawing-room and in the dining-room. And Count Golm, Councillor Schieler, will you do me the honour to join me in my bachelor supper? Now, that is most kind of you; so put three places, Johann.”

“No ceremony, I beg!” said the Count.

“None, I assure you. May I show you the way?”

The servants had opened the folding-doors into the drawing-room.

“You seem to have some beautiful things here,” said the Count, standing and looking round the exquisite little study.

“A few trifles, Count Golm, such as a man likes to have round him.”

“But that is a Vautier,” said the Count, stopping before a picture. “Do you call that a trifle?”

“Only from its size. I have a larger picture of his in the next room. And this little Scheurenberg ought to please you; at least, it is very much praised by connoisseurs.”

“Charming—quite charming!” said the Count. “And this exquisite watercolour—Passini, of course?”

“The office of showman is easy with Count Golm,” said Philip to the Councillor.

“It runs a little in my family,” said the Count. “My great-grandfather was a celebrated collector, also my father. You must some day come and see my small gallery at Golm.”

“I only wish that you would give me an opportunity!”

“Is an invitation opportunity enough?”

Philip bowed. “I shall not fail, Count Golm.”

“This autumn, I hope? Do you shoot?”

“Oh yes!”

“Then you will not lack amusement when you come to Golm.”

“That I am certain of, in the company of the possessor of Golm.”

The Count bowed. Philip turned to the servants who at that moment entered the room.

“How provoking! They have just let in a man who wants to see me for a few minutes on important business.”

“I can only repeat my request,” said the Count.

“And I protest again against your kind consideration, which is really quite unnecessary. I shall only be a minute.”

Philip led the two gentlemen to the drawing-room, and shut the doors after him.

“Pleasant sort of fellow, this Herr Schmidt,” said the Count.

“Is not he?” answered the Councillor. “This time your prejudices were at fault.”

“It is not a prejudice. I made the acquaintance of a man of that name a few days ago—even had to entertain him at my own table—who was most objectionable to me.”

The Councillor had heard from his friend the General an account of the circumstance, which had taken place at Golmberg, before he met the Count, and knew well enough whom the Count honoured with his dislike, and also in what relationship Reinhold stood to Philip. But why tell the Count that, and spoil his good humour? The Count cast a glance of astonishment through the splendid room, whose almost overcrowded pictures and magnificent furniture glittered in the light of chandelier and candelabra.

“But this is princely,” said he.

“And still it is only a faint shadow of the splendour that the man has decked his new house in the Wilhelmstrasse with. It is all ready, except a few details; but will not, I think, be open before next spring. He must show it to you; you would delight in it.”

“I don’t know,” answered the Count; “this luxury has something overpowering in the eyes of one of us.”

“On the contrary, I should say something encouraging,” said the Councillor. “When people with no name, or rather with such a name! without connections, without help from home—Herr Schmidt is by trade only a builder—bring matters to such a result, what is there in the world unattainable to such men as you who have such enormous advantages of birth, connections, and influence, provided that you free yourselves from certain very respectable prejudices and set to work heart and soul as these people do.”

“And what has this man got to show that is so remarkable?”

“In the first place his intelligence, inventive genius and energy; in the second, certain lucky speculations in houses and lands, of which the crowning point is certainly the starting of our railway.”

“Now it is quite clear to me why your shareholders are always lamenting so loudly that you build so extravagantly,” said the Count, with a sarcastic smile.

“What do the poor devils understand about it?” answered the Councillor; “if they settled matters we should have to take the roasted chestnuts out of the fire without getting anything for it.”

“Then there is fire?”

“Before which a man in his old age may warm his knees with much pleasure!”

And the Councillor waved his hand towards all the magnificence around them. The Count laughed, the Councillor himself thought that a smile was allowable. Philip came out of his study and shut the door behind him.

“I hope you will not mind,” said he in a low voice, turning to the Count, “but I thoughtlessly mentioned your name, and my business friend begged so earnestly—”

“Who is it?” said the Count.

“Herr Hugo Lübbener.”

The Count changed colour slightly and cast a quick furtive glance at the Councillor, who however met it unmoved.

“My banker,” said the Count.

“He did not tell me that!” cried Philip; “then certainly I may venture.”

“I shall be very happy,” said the Count rather crossly.

“This all fits in wonderfully,” whispered the Councillor to him, while Philip called through the door which he had left open into the study.

“Come in, you most discreet of men! I should have thought that the firm stood so well with the Count—”

“As well as the Count stands with the firm!” said Herr Hugo Lübbener as he came in. “Excuse my freedom, Count Golm, seeing you have not honoured me.”

“Why, I assure you, I have not had time yet,” exclaimed the Count, taking in the tips of his fingers the hand which Herr Lübbener offered somewhat timidly. “A world of business—”

“We can understand that, living in the business world as we do, can we not, Councillor?” said Herr Lübbener. “But now that I have had the honour and pleasure I will not stay a moment longer.”

And he moved to the door; the Count glanced at the Councillor, who lifted his eyebrows.

“You are not going on my—our account, Herr Lübbener,” said the Count; “we are here to admire the splendid collection of our kind host.”

“Whose greatest admirer and appreciater is Herr Lübbener himself,” put in the Councillor.

“Because I possess a few good things?” said Herr Lübbener. “Why, by Jove! a man must patronise art or at least the artists nowadays. Our friend Schmidt always fishes the best things away under our noses. Yesterday this Riefstahl was in Lepke’s window, now of course it hangs here. What did you give for it?”

“What do you think?”

“Not more than half, I am sure.”

Philip laughed as if he heard the old stockbroker joke for the first time; the Councillor cackled hoarsely like an old hen in rainy weather; the Count appeared highly amused.

“What would you have?” said he; “such a picture is really invaluable.”

Philip turned the light of the reflector upon the picture, which now showed all its beauty for the first time.

“Really magnificent!” said the Count.

He had stepped a little nearer so that he himself was in the light of the lamp. The appearance of the Count standing there in the full light seemed to have something peculiarly comic for the three other men who were standing a little back. They glanced quickly at each other, and each face wore a malicious smile. The Councillor laid his finger on his long nose; Philip bit his lip.

“I have a Hildebrandt here,” said he, “which I consider may be called the gem of my collection.”

“At all events it is in his best style,” said the Count.

They went from picture to picture, criticising and naming great artists, and not less great sums, till Philip, foreseeing danger to his plans, grew impatient.

“I do not know why,” said he, “but nothing seems so good as usual today.”

“It was just the same with me when I was a boy, I always thought my exercises were faultless till they came into the master’s hands,” said the Councillor.

“You really make too much of my small powers of criticising,” said the Count in his best humour. “Why! are we not at the end yet?”

They were at the door of the dining-room, which the servants at that moment opened.

“You will find a few more pictures here,” said Philip, “but before you look at them I must beg you to take some supper.”

“Or the oysters will be cold,” said Herr Lübbener.

“I begged there might be no ceremony,” said the Count reproachfully as he took his place at table with the others.

“Not at all, Count Golm; the servants got the oysters from the nearest restaurant—and there is always a chicken to be found in a bachelor’s kitchen.”

“Long live the bachelors!” said the Councillor, lifting his glass.

“But how are they to do it?” cried Philip, swallowing an oyster.

“From hand to mouth!” said Herr Lübbener, who was busy in the same way.

“For heaven’s sake, Lübbener!” cried Philip, “if you have no pity for us, at least spare Count Golm!”

“I think I can appreciate a good joke as well as the rest of you,” said the Count.

“Listen to that!” exclaimed Herr Lübbener. “Come, Schmidt, forget your vexation! The fact is I came to tell him that with the best will in the world, I cannot allot him shares in the New Kaiserin-Königin for more than about a hundred thousand.”

“If you say another word about business you shall not have a drop more of my Chablis,” cried Philip.

“I was just going to ask for a glass of Bordeaux,” answered Herr Lübbener.

The Councillor laughed aside to the Count, and shrugged his shoulders as though to say, “Boys will be boys! they go on like that all day.” The Count returned the smile most courteously.

“At Rome one must do as the Romans do,” said he. “I confess it would interest me very much to learn something authentic about the Kaiserin-Königin Iron Company which is so much talked about now.”

The Count had given the signal; he could not be surprised that for the next half hour nothing was talked but business, in fact he was so interested and excited, that he drank glass after glass, while the blood mounted to his forehead. They went from the Kaiserin-Königin Company to the Lower Saxony Engine Manufactories; from that to the North Berlin Railway, and so arrived at the Berlin Sundin Railway. The other men were able to give him the most interesting details of the history of this railway, which after so glorious a beginning now stood on the verge of bankruptcy in the eyes of people who did not know that the stock had been artificially kept down in order to buy back the shares, shares which as soon as the concession for the construction of the railway was obtained, would rise like a phoenix from the ashes.

Would Count Golm take any shares? Now was just the right moment! He had no spare money? Nonsense! Money had nothing to do with the matter. How much did the Count want—fifty thousand, a hundred thousand, a hundred and fifty? The Count had only to name the sum. It would be no gift to him. The statement that he would eventually be one of the directors of the Island Railway would be worth fifty thousand amongst friends!

“Take care that I do not take you at your word!” exclaimed the Count.

“Take care that we do not take you at your word!” answered Philip.

“By Jove! let us take each other at our word!” exclaimed Herr Lübbener.

“Had we not better put it in writing?” asked the Councillor.

“Are we not carrying the joke a little too far?” said the Count, with an uncertain, inquiring glance at the last speaker, who answered it with an encouraging smile.

But the right moment it seemed was past. For the first time there was a pause, which Philip assumed to think was caused by a servant bringing him a waiter, on which lay two visiting cards, and whispering something as he stood near him.

“Can’t I have a moment to myself? Well, what is it?”

He took the cards from the waiter and broke into a laugh.

“This is a good joke!”

“May I ask what?”

“I hardly dare say, Count Golm, for fear of damaging my reputation as a serious man in the eyes of my friends here. I can show the cards to a man of the world.”

“Then let us see the cards,” said Herr Lübbener.

The Councillor looked astonished.

“Herr von Werben could not send in two cards!”

“But, good heavens!” exclaimed the Count, “don’t let the ladies wait in the anteroom.”

“Oh no. Ladies!” exclaimed Herr Lübbener.

“Two friends who are sometimes good enough to look in after the opera, or rather the ballet, to have a little supper,” explained Philip. “I assure you, Lübbener, not what you are thinking of, so leave off grimacing, and imitate the deportment of our worthy friend the Councillor.”

“Splendid fellow!” whispered the Councillor in Herr Lübbener’s ear, as the gentlemen rose.

“He outdoes himself today,” whispered Herr Lübbener in return.

Philip went to meet the two ladies, who stood in the doorway with well-acted dismay.

“Prisoners!” said he; “there is no use in resisting. Be reasonable!”

He seized them by the hands and drew them into the room.

“Permit me, Count Golm, to present you to Fräulein Victorine, the most beautiful mezzo-soprano that female throat can produce—Fräulein Bertalda, called ‘The Incomprehensible,’ because no one can comprehend how she can jump so high off such little feet.”

“You are intolerable!” said Victorine.

“For shame!” said Bertalda. “And give us something to eat instead, if you really won’t let us go away again at once!”

“I will have another table laid,” cried Philip. “Johann!”

“We will sit closer,” said the Count, himself bringing a chair for Victorine, whose luxuriant beauty had delighted him from the very first moment. Bertalda seated herself opposite, between Philip and Herr Lübbener; two fresh places were laid in a moment; the Count had now nothing to say against champagne, which at first he had declined. He was already a little the worse for drink, and was the less likely to notice that the fumes were getting into his head; that since the entrance of these lively young ladies the tone of the party had become freer, and very soon got rather wild. It no longer surprised him that the young men called each other by their Christian names, to say nothing of familiar nicknames, such as “old fellow!” and “old boy!” and even the Councillor himself became a “dear old Councillor,” and he thought it capital fun when Victorine drank off a full glass to Bertalda, saying, “Here’s a bumper to you, Bertie!” and Bertalda replied, “Right you are, Vicky!” Presently they all moved from their places, and the Count seized the opportunity to seat himself by Bertalda, whose beautiful and, as he thought, inviting eyes deserved this response. Victorine pretended to be very jealous, and, to the intense delight of the other gentlemen, exclaimed, “Ungrateful man! he has forsaken me! Ungrateful!” while Bertalda, by her fascinating airs and graces, and other gestures, showed that she meant to keep the captive knight fast in her net. The Count, thinking it necessary to support the beauty in her part, put his arm round her—a spirited idea—which was loudly applauded by the company, when Bertalda suddenly sprang up from her chair with a slight shriek, and hastened forward to meet a gentleman, who had entered unperceived by the rest.

“Is it possible? No! is it possible? Herr von Werben—Ot—”

“Are you mad!”

The girl dropped her uplifted arms; the others had risen to greet Ottomar, whose apologies for coming so late were hardly heard amidst the din of voices which arose on all sides. A lecture at a military society which he had to assist at, endless discussions afterwards—his throat was dry with learned dust, pray let him have a glass of wine!

He tossed down the wine, certainly not the first glass he had drunk that evening; a gloomy fire shone in his beautiful eyes; he tried to drown memory in drink, and even if he could not accomplish that, in a few minutes he was the wildest of the wild. The Count, for his part, felt easier in the society of another man of his own rank, who, in passing him, whispered sarcastically in his ear, “Le roi s’amuse!” and proceeded to set him so good an example. They laughed, they sang, they romped; the young ladies’ overflow of fun had hardly any limits. Being in the society of promoters, they would just like to know what promoters were? How did people promote? They would play at being promoters!

“Let the ladies form themselves into a provisional board!” cried Philip.

“But as an unlimited liability company, if I may venture to advise,” said Herr Lübbener.

“Under the title of Love and Wine,” said the Councillor.

“I propose as solicitor Councillor Schieler,” cried the Count, who was not going to be behindhand.

The motion was carried with applause.

The Councillor accepted the honour with thanks, and began to draw up the prospectus of the company, in which the others helped, and each tried to outdo the rest in suggestions. The plan was of a railroad to the moon, with a proviso for a continuation of the line to the Great Bear as soon as the man in the moon should have converted his last silver crescent into cash. Philip proposed that the capital should be seven thousand million fixed stars; at which the company’s lawyer thought it necessary to observe that this word might arouse an unpleasant connection of ideas on the Stock Exchange; would not “comets” inspire more confidence? But then it must be ten thousand million, as too many false ones were in circulation, which even in the weights could not be distinguished from falling stars. The ten millions were immediately subscribed. Ottomar and Bertalda, who subscribed for the smallest sums, were not permitted the honour of being amongst the directors, who were grouped at one end of the table, but had to take their places as mere shareholders at the other end. The Count was to be chairman, with Victorine as deputy. The Count protested that Victorine ought to be president; they argued, they fought, they quarrelled in due form. Bertalda seized the opportunity to draw Ottomar away from the table to a sofa close by.

“Why have you not been to see me for a year, Ottomar?”

“I am going to be married, my dear child.”

“Have you got another love?”

“I have not got another love.”

“Why are there clouds then on your beautiful brow? why do you look so sad, darling Ottomar?”

“Dear Bertalda!”

“Am I that indeed? Do you still love me a very little?”

“Yes! yes!”

“Then”—she throve her arm round his neck and, putting her mouth close to his ear, whispered a few words just as a roar of laughter came from the table. Ottomar sprang up. “They are calling us.” The girl sank in the corner, and with closed eyes waited for his return and his answer, with her full lips pouting for a kiss.

She looked up and passed her hand over her heated eyes; what had happened? Ottomar was no longer in the room; perhaps he was in the anteroom? She stole in on tiptoe. Herr von Werben had taken his hat and coat and left the house. “Bah!” said the girl, “I must not make a fuss about it, I must laugh!” And she laughed madly as she sat down again at the table where Ottomar’s disappearance was scarcely observed, and the others laughed wildly at a speech in which the Councillor, with wonderful dry humour, gave the health of the members of the committee, the first subscribers, the legal adviser and directors of the Earth, Moon, and Great Bear Railway, with double and treble honours, in case any of them should act in a double or treble capacity.

“The next step of respectable promoters will be made, according to all experience, behind the scenes,” said Philip with a cynical smile, holding his glass out to the Count.

“In the greenroom, in fact,” replied the Count, casting a side-glance at Victorine.

“Long live the greenroom!” cried Hugo Lübbener.

“Behind the scenes for me,” said the Councillor.

The glasses rang together, the riot of mirth rose higher and higher, and finally overwhelmed the last remnants of propriety and good manners.

Book
III

I

The General was working in his study; Aunt Sidonie was probably writing her “Court Etiquette;” Ottomar had not yet returned from parade; Elsa had fulfilled her household duties, had dressed herself, and had now time, before breakfast, to read Meta’s letters.

This morning two had again arrived together. Elsa had put them unread into her pocket when they were given to her, knowing that Meta’s letters were not of pressing importance. She had now gone into the garden, and was strolling under the tall trees near the wall of the Schmidts’ garden, her favourite walk, and with a smile on her face was deciphering one of the letters, the first she had put her hand upon; it did not generally signify in what order they were read. It was no easy task; Meta wrote a characteristic but not a particularly legible hand. Each letter stood by itself without reference to its neighbours on the right or left, and all had a decided objection to the horizontal, and either ran gaily up to the height above or drooped sadly towards the lower regions which belonged properly to the next line. Interspersed amongst them were strange hieroglyphics resembling swords or lances, which were probably meant for stops, but as they were never to be found where they were expected, and, indeed, in their superabundant zeal frequently appeared in the middle of a word, they rather increased than lessened the confusion.

Elsa at length made out the following:

“Cruel one! I understand all now, I may say for the first time in my life; and you—you yourself, your last letter—oh! that last letter! When men are silent stones will talk; if after five long anxious days the unhoped-for, unexpected meeting with the man she appeared to love, only gives the proud Elsa matter for a humorous description of that very meeting, poor Meta may dare to hope, does hope, and—loves! Yes, she loves—loves him whom you scorn, whom you coldly turn your back upon because the skirts of a princess have touched yours! You will say that this is pity—not love! But are not pity and love twin sisters! Yes, I have suffered with him, I still suffer with him; I see his honest blue eyes swimming with tears, I see those tears falling persistently and slowly down the sunburnt cheeks into the curly beard; but the last tear—the very last—before it vanishes in the clouds of tender melancholy, I will myself wipe away—yes, I! I have made up my mind. Tomorrow morning papa shall have the horses put to—tomorrow evening you will see the face of one who pities you but is determined not to spare you the indignant countenance of his avenger and of your too happy

“Meta.”

The second letter was as follows:

“You will not see it! Beloved, adored Elsa, forgive me! now in the depth of night, when all is still, so still that I can hear the blood coursing through my temples, and I start if our Castor barks in the courtyard; if an apple, which I had forgotten, or which I could not reach, rustles through the dry leaves of the tree in front of my window and falls to the ground—they still look wonderful, but are all rotten—now, only when I read your letter for the second time, do I understand it, and perceive the earnest, sorrowful tone that pierces through the hollow ring of your mirth. One word has made all clear to me; one single, deep, heartfelt word, so deep and so heartfelt as can come only from the heart and the pen of my Elsa. You write: ‘He walked up the gallery, the Princess spoke to me very graciously, as was apparent from her smiles and the kind tone of her soft voice; but I confess, to my shame, that her first words were Hebrew to me.’ To your shame?—Elsa—Elsa! to mine, to my deepest, most heartrending shame! Oh, heavens! what does not lie under that one word ‘Hebrew!’ Your grief, your sorrow, your penitence, your love! Well, then, love him! I resign him; I must do so! and my visit to you also. Papa cannot, as it happens, let me have the horses tomorrow, because he must send his fat sheep to Prora, and mamma wants to make plum-jam. Let me weep and sob out my sorrow in solitude and plum-jam, and keep a little love for your too unhappy

“Meta.”

“What absurd nonsense!” said Elsa.

But she did not laugh, but said it, on the contrary, very gravely; read the scrawl again very carefully, and only dropped the letters into her pocket when Aunt Sidonie appeared through the door of the room which opened into the garden and came down the steps towards her.

“I must rest a little,” said Sidonie.

“How far have you got?” asked Elsa.

“To an extremely difficult chapter—to the marriage festivities. Malortie leaves me altogether in the dark upon this point. The examples which he gives on page 181 of the second volume, give an immense amount of information, but only of use for the chamberlains at great courts: ‘Marriage of their late Majesties’—à la bonne heure! ‘Programme of the marriage by proxy of his Majesty the King Don Pedro of Portugal and Algarve’—”

“Who did he marry?” asked Elsa.

Sidonie, who was walking by her side with her hands behind her back, stood still in astonishment.

“Child! child! is it possible? You read me that chapter yourself only yesterday evening. I have been lying awake and racking my brains over it all night, and you have forgotten that his Highness’s illustrious bride was the Princess Stephanie of Hohenzollem-Sigmaringen? But the fact is, that you take no interest in my work; you do not, or will not, understand what an immense benefit a really comprehensive complete book on ceremonial, suited to small courts, would be! Well, well, child, I am not angry with you. You have never had much to do with such matters; how should you be expected to understand their importance, though you do now and then suggest very useful ideas on some of the most difficult points! Now imagine this: at the wedding of his late Majesty two Lieutenant-Generals, Herr von Brauchitsch and Herr von Kessel, who stood at the two ends of the table, carved the dishes, gave them to the footmen standing behind them, these to the pages, and from the latter they were received by the lords and gentlemen in waiting. That is all very well, but how are two Lieutenant-Generals to be found at a small court such as ours was?”

“Then take two Lieutenants,” said Elsa.

“Capital!” said Sidonie. “That—no, that will not not do! What would become of precedence if I began with Lieutenants? But you are not listening.”

“Indeed I am, aunt. I was only thinking that this very evening we shall have two Lieutenant-Generals here, and that I should much prefer a few Lieutenants. We really have too few dancing men.”

“Ottomar can bring some of his brother officers; besides, there are not so very few. There is Count Golm, who told me he was passionately fond of dancing; there is Tettritz, there is Schönau—he says he has given up dancing, but that cannot be allowed in a Second Captain. There is—”

Her aunt named half a dozen names, but not the only one which Elsa wished to hear.

Elsa was stooping over the trellis which ran along the wall between the two great elm-trees.

“And Captain Schmidt, has he refused?”

“I did not send him the invitation, my dear child.”

“You did not send it!”

Elsa started up quickly; her expressive face showed surprise and annoyance.

“How can you excite yourself so over such a trifle, my dear child? It occurred to me, just as I was giving the letters to August, that we are going to give another party in a few weeks, to which we must invite Major Müller and some of that set; the Captain can be asked with them.”

“But why should he be!” exclaimed Elsa; “I remember that evening at Golmberg, when, without intending it, he was almost the only speaker at the table, and gave Count Golm besides a lesson which it is to be hoped he has not forgotten.”

“That is exactly what decided me,” said Sidonie; “just that warm discussion which you and your papa told me of between the two gentlemen—the two gentlemen, you hear, Elsa, I make no distinction of rank. We are giving a party in honour of the Count, and as a return for the civilities he showed you. Would it be courteous, would it be becoming, to invite at the same time a gentleman—mark that, Elsa—a gentleman with whom he has had at his own table—tranchons le mot!—an altercation!”

“But he deserved the lesson.”

“And I suppose is to have a repetition of it here.”

“That he certainly will not. Captain Schmidt is courtesy itself.”

Sidonie stopped in her walk, her good-natured eyes looked almost sharply into Elsa’s face, which was flushed with the warmth of the dispute.

“If I could not see into your heart, Elsa, as clearly as in a looking-glass, I really should not know how to explain the perverseness which leads you to praise the courtesy of a simple merchant-captain at the expense of your aunt’s. Child, child, do not you bring sorrow on your dear papa, who already takes such a gloomy view of life; and on your aunt, who lives only for her ‘Court Etiquette’ and for you.”

“I do not understand what you mean, aunt,” answered Elsa, blushing up to the roots of her hair.

“Nor I either, thank God,” answered Sidonie, wiping her eyes; “only I get so anxious when I see your papa so out of spirits, as he was this morning when he gave me Aunt Valerie’s letter; he never answers her letters himself, although this last one is really so touchingly humble, that I shall find it very difficult to be severe with her again.”

“How can one be severe with a person who is so unhappy as you say Aunt Valerie is?”

“Child, you cannot understand,” answered Sidonie; “you must trust to your papa and me. There are things which can never be forgiven.”

“Not even if one is sorry for them, as Aunt Valerie evidently is? Is it only a brother who is to be forgiven until seventy times seven, and not a sister also?”

This was another of Elsa’s terrible ideas which Sidonie did not know how to meet. Her kind eyes looked around as if seeking for help, and rested at last on the trellis, where they wandered up and down.

“At last I have got it into order,” she exclaimed: “see, Elsa, for the last three days the bed has not been trodden down nor the leaves torn off the trellis. It is only a wild vine, but it was beginning to look so pretty; August swore he did not do it; but how can one believe people? Well, I have gained my object.”

“It is wonderfully quiet over there today,” said Elsa.

“I wish to heaven it were always so,” answered the aunt.

“Even the manufactory chimney is not smoking,” continued Elsa. “Good heavens! I have only just remarked it. I hope no misfortune has happened! Have you heard anything, August!”

August, who came to call the ladies to breakfast, was astonished that the ladies had not heard of it. “Herr Schmidt had dismissed twenty or thirty men last Thursday, because they—with respect be it said—were Socialists and Communists; and the rest, who are not much better, seized the opportunity and demanded from Herr Schmidt enormous wages. Well, Herr Schmidt of course turned off the ringleaders, and they came back with the others in great crowds to murder Herr Schmidt, when the Captain, who was at Golmberg with the General and Fräulein Elsa, stood in the doorway and—did you not see?—pulled out a pair of pistols; and they all took to their heels and went on strike, as they call it, when they do not work, and drink schnaps. Since yesterday evening there has not been so much as a cat in the entire building, and the workmen at the other marble-works have also struck, to keep them company. And they say it will cost Herr Schmidt several thousand thalers a day, and that he will soon have to give in; but I don’t believe that, for Herr Schmidt, as the ladies know, is A 1.”

“Shocking!” said Sidonie, shaking her head; “such near neighbours! I warned your papa when he bought the house. It really is not safe. And people like that are to be invited!”

Elsa did not answer. When the servant mentioned Reinhold, her telltale heart beat rapidly, and she had involuntarily felt for the compass which, since their last meeting at the Exhibition, she had always carried in her pocket, that she might return it to him at the first opportunity. Her aunt’s observation had filled her with speechless indignation. But when, a few minutes later, she sat opposite to her father at the breakfast-table, she asked him, to Sidonie’s great dismay, without further preparation, if he had heard what had happened to the Schmidts; and that Herr Schmidt and the Captain had been apparently in danger of their lives; and should not Ottomar go today and return the Captain’s visit, the rather that her aunt had postponed to the following week the invitation she had already written him?

“Certainly!” answered the General; “Ottomar shall take the invitation himself. I want to speak to the Captain, and quite reckoned upon seeing him this evening.”

Elsa cast down her eyes to avoid seeing the flush of embarrassment which she felt sure must cover her aunt’s cheeks at that moment.

“Has my son returned?” asked the General of the servant.

“The Lieutenant has just returned from parade, and has gone to his room to dress.” The General commissioned the ladies to inform Ottomar of his wishes with regard to the visit and the invitation, and to tell him that there was a letter for him on his writing-table; he had to attend a board, and was already a few minutes late: he begged them not to disturb themselves on his account.

The General rose, made a stately bow to the ladies, and left the room. He had, contrary to his custom, eaten scarcely anything, and appeared absent and gloomy. This had not escaped Elsa; but she did not venture to ask any questions, any more than she ventured now to ask her aunt what she was thinking of, as she silently and with unwonted energy picked the last remnant of meat from an unlucky wing of chicken. She knew too well that it was not “the difficult chapter” in the “Court Etiquette.” Fortunately Ottomar soon appeared; but neither did he bring cheerfulness: the Major had again been unbearable—the same evolution over and over again; he had blown up the officers after the parade as if they had been schoolboys; it was unbearable, he was sick of the whole business; he had rather throw it all up at once.

Elsa thought the opportunity a bad one for troubling her brother, while he was so put out, with the commission which lay so near her heart, and was glad that her aunt did not start the subject, as she had feared. But the letter which was awaiting him on his father’s table could not be delayed.

“Why was not the letter brought to my room?” said Ottomar to the servant, raising his eyebrows.

“I know nothing about it, sir,” answered August.

Ottomar had already laid aside his napkin, and was rising, but now said: “I dare say it is not very important; will you hand me that dish, Elsa? I am as hungry as a wolf.”

All the same he hardly touched the food, but poured out successively several glasses of wine, which he drank down quickly.

“I am too thirsty to eat,” he said; “perhaps I shall have a better appetite an hour hence. Shall we leave the table?”

He pushed back his chair, and went to the door leading to his father’s study, but stopped a moment on the way and passed his hand over his forehead and eyes. “That confounded parade,” he said; “it would make the strongest man nervous.”

He was gone; his behaviour had struck Elsa painfully. She could not believe that the parade was the sole cause of his bad spirits: he had borne the same wearisome duties easily enough before. But for some time past he had seemed changed: his cheerful spirits and good humour had vanished; in the last few days especially she had been struck by his gloomy, disturbed manner. She thought she knew what was the cause, and had determined more than once to speak to him about it. It was wrong not to have done so, and now it was perhaps too late.

Elsa thought over all this while again walking in her favourite haunt in the garden; she was too much excited to undertake any of her usual occupations. Perhaps Ottomar would come into the garden too; or she might call him when he left his father’s room, the door of which she could see through the open door of the dining-room.

He stayed long, as it seemed to her impatience. Perhaps he was answering the letter at his father’s table; but at last he emerged, buttoning his uniform, and came into the garden; he had no doubt seen her in the walk under the trees.

He had not observed her. With head bare and eyes cast down, still fingering the buttons of his coat, he came slowly towards her. His handsome face was dark as night, in spite of the bright sunlight which shone upon it; Elsa saw how his lips trembled and quivered.

“In heaven’s name! what is the matter, Ottomar?”

“How you startled me!”

“And you me still more! What has happened, Ottomar? I implore you to tell me! Is it the letter?—a challenge?”

“Or a sentence of death, perhaps? Nothing of importance—a registered letter which my father received for me.”

“An unimportant letter—registered! But if it is not the letter, it is what has for so long worried and absorbed you. How do matters stand between you and Carla, Ottomar!”

“Between me and Carla? What an extraordinary question! How should matters stand between oneself and a lady to whom one will shortly be betrothed?”

“Ottomar, look me in the face. You do not love Carla!”

Ottomar tried to meet her glance, but was not quite successful. “You are silly,” he said, with an embarrassed smile; “those are girlish fancies.”

“And is not Carla a girl? And do you not think that she has fancies too?—that she has pictured to herself the happiness that she hopes for at your side?—that for her, as for every other girl, this happiness can only exist with love, and that she, that you both will be unhappy if this love is absent on one side or the other, or on both? Do you not believe this?”

“I do not believe a word of it,” said Ottomar.

He looked at his sister now and smiled; but his eyes were fixed and hard, and his sad yet ironical smile cut Elsa to the heart.

“And yet?” she said sadly.

“And yet! Look here, my dear child; the matter is very simple. I require for my own expenses, and to pay off the debts that I was obliged to incur before I came into the enjoyment of my fortune this spring, ten thousand thalers a year. My income is, as you know, in consequence of the absurdly small rents on the property, five thousand. Carla has five thousand a year; the two together make ten thousand. Therefore I mean to marry her, and the sooner the better.”

“In order to pay your debts?”

“Simply in order to live; for this—this everlasting dependence, this everlasting concealment about nothing at all—because everything is known, after all—this—this—”

The words would not come; he trembled all over. Elsa had never seen him so. Her limbs trembled also; but she was determined to do what she thought her duty—what she had never so clearly recognised as her duty till that moment.

“Dear Ottomar,” said she, “I do not ask if you really require such a frightful amount of money. Papa has often told us—”

“That when he was a lieutenant, he managed upon eighteen thalers a month. For heaven’s sake, no more of that! Times were different then. My father was in the Line; I am in the Guards; and he and I—are like the Antipodes.”

“Very well. I take it for granted that you require as much as you say. In three years I shall also be of age, and shall then have five thousand thalers; I will gladly give them to you, if—”

“ ‘I am not married by that time.’ Is that what you meant to say?”

“I will not marry then. I—I will never marry.”

She could not any longer keep back her tears, which now streamed from her eyes. Ottomar put his arm round her.

“You dear, good Elsa,” said he. “I really do believe that you are capable of it; but do you not see that it would be a thousand times more hateful to save oneself at the cost of a sister whom one dearly loves, than at the cost of a woman whom one does not love certainly, but who very probably does not wish to be loved?”

“But, Ottomar, that—that is just it,” exclaimed Elsa, drying her tears. “Why marry Carla, of whom I cannot say that she is incapable of loving; who, indeed, I am persuaded, does love you at this moment, in her way? But her way is not your way; and that you would soon find out, even if you yourself loved her, which you avowedly do not. You are not suited to one another. With the one exception that, in spite of her short sight, she rides well and is passionately fond of it, I do not know a single interest that you have in common. Her music—that is to say, her Wagner music—about which she is so enthusiastic, is hateful to you; her books, which I am convinced she very often does not understand herself, you will never look at; and it is the same on every subject. And the worst of all is, that what she understands by love is not what you understand by it. You have—say what you will, and brilliant man of society as you are, and I hope always will be—a tender, kind heart, which longs to beat against a heart of the same nature. Carla’s love is, I fear, too much mixed with vanity, lies too much on the glittering, sparkling surface of life; and if you longed some day to hear a deeper note, and struck that note yourself, you would find no echo in her heart.”

“Why, Elsa, you are wonderfully learned in matters of the heart!” said Ottomar. “Whom did you learn it all from—from Count Golm?”

Elsa blushed up to the roots of her hair; she drew her arm out of her brother’s. “I have not deserved that,” she said.

Ottomar seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Forgive me,” he said. “I feel myself that my jokes are always unlucky now. I don’t know why. But Golm himself is the cause of this one. He is mad about you, as you probably know already, and he talked of nothing but you when we met in the park just now as we were riding home. He was riding one of his own horses, which he has had sent after him; so it looks as if he meant to stay here. However, I may tell you for your comfort that I am not so very fond of Golm. I do not think we should ever be very great friends, unless he happened to present himself in the capacity of—but I will not make my little Elsa angry again. How many have accepted for tonight? Does Clemda come? He was not on parade today.”

It was evident that Ottomar wished to change the subject, and Elsa knew that she had spoken in vain. Her heart was heavy; misfortune was approaching her, invisible but unavoidable, just as it did when he had told her that the vessel would run aground in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. And then he had been at her side, had remained by her; she had looked in the brave blue eyes and felt no fear, for she had known that this man was inured to dangers. And as she walked silently at her brother’s side—who, silent and gloomy also, had evidently fallen back into his melancholy musings—her faithful sister’s heart told her that the amiable, careless, lighthearted young man would and must succumb to a serious danger, unless some stronger hand than hers interfered to save him. Perhaps—no, certainly—his hand could do it; only that there was scarcely a possibility of bringing the two young men into such close relations. But, after all, what was not possible if one only had true courage?

“Before I forget it, Ottomar, papa wishes you to go over and invite Captain Schmidt for this evening. Aunt—”

And she told him what had passed.

“August or my servant can do that quite as well,” said Ottomar.

“Not quite so well,” said Elsa. “The Captain paid us a visit—or, at least, left his card, as nobody was at home, which comes to the same thing. It is only civil, therefore, that you should return his visit, and take the opportunity to give him the invitation.”

“I am so tired and knocked up; I must go and have a nap.”

“Then go later; there will be plenty of time.”

“It seems to me, Elsa, that you have rather a weakness for the Captain,” said Ottomar, standing still and looking his sister in the face.

“Yes, I have; and he deserves it,” said Elsa, bravely meeting his glance. “He is a good, noble man; I know few like him, and should be very glad if you knew him better. I am sure you would like him; and perhaps—there are so few people, Ottomar, that one can trust, that one can count upon in every difficulty and danger.”

“As I can on you!” said Ottomar.

His eyes rested thoughtfully on his sister’s brave honest face, and then turned as if accidentally from her towards two windows of Herr Schmidt’s house, which could be seen from the place where they were standing. The blue silk curtains of one of the two windows were drawn; they had been for the last three days; it meant, “I do not expect you this evening.” Should he confide to the prudent, brave, faithful girl, the secret that weighed on his heart? Should he unburden his heavy heart by an open honest confession, here where he was sure to find, if not approval, at least comprehension, interest, and pity?

Pity? and if only scorn awaited him from behind those curtains, if he were finally dismissed, and must say tomorrow, “Do not trouble yourself further, Elsa; it is all over and at an end: she has dismissed me—me!” he should have humbled himself to no purpose, exposed himself uselessly. No, no! there would be time enough for that. He would hear first from her own lips.

“I will go over, Elsa,” he said, “and I will go at once; I can sleep later.”

“You dear, good Ottomar!” exclaimed Elsa, throwing her arms round her brother and kissing him; “I knew you would.”

“Elsa, come here a minute, please!” called Sidonie from the dining-room door.

“I am coming, aunt.”

Elsa hurried away; Ottomar looked gloomily after her, as the two ladies disappeared into the house.

He walked a few paces farther till he was quite shut in by the thick shrubs and concealed from all eyes. He still looked cautiously round him, tore open his coat, and pulled out the letter which he had found on his father’s table.

In the envelope were several papers, he took out a small sheet in his father’s handwriting. On the sheet was written:

“Received this morning the two enclosed bills, which I have settled and receipted for you—1,200 thalers; the last debts that I pay for you, for the reason that my own property, as you will see by the accompanying accounts, has been spent, with the exception of a small portion, in the same manner, and I cannot pay another penny without depriving my family of the means of living as our position demands, or running into debt myself, and must beg you to act accordingly.

“V. Werben.”

A beautiful gay butterfly fluttered across the blue sky. A sparrow darted down from a tree, seized the butterfly, flew with it to the top of the garden wall, and there devoured his prize.

A bitter smile played on Ottomar’s lips.

“You have soon frittered your life away, poor butterfly! Everything must have an end, one way or another!”

II

Reinhold had vainly attempted the day before to persuade his uncle to agree, for this once at least, to the increase of pay demanded by the workpeople; he would so evidently be the greater sufferer if he were prevented, by the threatened strike of the workpeople, from completing his contracts within the stipulated time. Uncle Ernst was not to be moved. The workpeople, on the other hand, who were quite alive to their favourable position and perhaps overrated it, had adhered no less obstinately to their demands, so that after hours of discussion backwards and forwards, during which everybody got more and more excited, matters had come to extremities, and Reinhold, who had expected this result and had silently prepared for it, had been obliged, pistol in hand, to drive the furious and drunken mob back from his uncle’s threshold. At the same moment the police had appeared, had with some difficulty seized the ringleaders and put down the riot. But the agitation had spread like lightning through the other marble-works; everywhere there had been more or less disturbance; the men in the brick and stone yards joined the rising; since this morning all these works were at a standstill, and the yards were empty. The masters had speedily arranged a meeting, which was to take place in an hour. Uncle Ernst was just ready to start, Reinhold was with him in his room, attempting once more to persuade the obstinate man to greater mildness, or at least to take a calmer view of the state of affairs.

“It seems to me, uncle,” he said, “that this is just like a mutiny at sea. If a man is not strong enough to overpower the scoundrels and does not care to lose his ship and its cargo, to say nothing of his own life, he must try to come to terms with them. It is not easy for a proud man, as I know from experience, but in the end it is the wisest course. The men know that the masters have undertaken large contracts, that you will lose thousands upon thousands if you stop the works and are thereby prevented from fulfilling your engagements; they know all that, and they know also that you must give in at last. I should have done so yesterday in your place, before matters had gone so far that you were forced to uphold your authority by force on your own ground. Today matters have changed; today the question is not of one solitary case, but of a general calamity, which must be decided upon general principles. And if you do not agree with this view of affairs, well, give way for once; let yourself be ruled if it must be so; do not throw the weight of your name and credit into the balance of the disputants.”

Uncle Ernst laughed bitterly.

“The weight of my name, of my credit! My dear Reinhold, you forget who you are talking to! Am I Bismarck? Am I the Chancellor and President of the Council? Do all sit in breathless silence when I rise to speak? Do all tremble when I frown? Do all shrink when I raise my voice? Do all give way when I threaten to desert them? Is there an army at my back if I stamp my foot? Bah! my name is Schmidt, and there is an end of it.”

“No, no, uncle!” exclaimed Reinhold, “there is not an end of it; you have only shown that we must do in small matters what he does in great ones. Even the great Bismarck knows how to trim his sails and tack when it is necessary, and does it very skilfully so far as I can understand. We must take example even from our enemies. It sounds hard, I know, and is a bitter pill; but when you come home, as you probably will do, angry and wrathful, we will sit down to dinner, and I will help you manfully to wash down your anger and wrath in an extra bottle or two.”

Uncle Ernst did not answer at once; he walked up and down the room with his head down, sunk in deep thought, his hands behind his back, occasionally stroking his grey beard, or passing a hand through his bushy hair. At length he shook his head several times, stood still and said:

“I cannot do it; I cannot give in without giving myself up, without ceasing to be what I am. But why not? I no longer suit this world any more than it suits me. Neither of us loses anything in the other—on the contrary, he who succeeds to my place will know better what should be done or left undone, in order to live in peace with the world. Will you be that other, Reinhold?”

“I?” exclaimed Reinhold, astonished,

“You! You are a true Schmidt, and have been so shaken and tossed about by the waves, that it must be a hard blow that you cannot stand up against. You learnt something in your youth, and since then have been out in the world, and you probably see things from a clearer point of view than we who have always remained at home and have by degrees lost our clearsightedness. You are tied to no past, to no scheme of life by which you must stand or fall, but may, on the contrary, start on an entirely fresh one, according to your own judgment and the light in which matters appear to you; and then the reason why I would choose you before all others for my successor is—”

Uncle Ernst broke off, like a man who has still got the most difficult thing to say, and can only gather strength for it by a deep breath.

“Is that you are dear to me, Reinhold, and—and—I believe that you have a little love for me, and that is more than I can say of anyone else in the world.”

He had walked to the window and stood there. Reinhold followed him and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Dear uncle—”

Uncle Ernst did not move.

“Dear uncle! I thank you from my heart for your love, which you give me so freely, for how could I have deserved it? What I did yesterday I would have done for any captain under whom I had served for four and twenty hours. If indeed love deserves love, then I deserve yours, for I love and honour you as I would love and honour a father. But that I am the only one who loves you, you only say because you are out of spirits, and I hope you do not think it; and if you do think it, I know better than you.”

“Indeed!” said Uncle Ernst. “You know better? You know nothing about the matter. Have you ever waited in helpless anguish and despair, tearing your hair because nature seemed to do her work too slowly? Have you ever sunk on your knees in gratitude when your child’s first cry smote on your ear? Have you ever nursed children on your knees, and secretly found all your happiness in their laughing eyes, and then seen how those eyes ceased to laugh at you, how they looked shyly past you and turned away, eyes and hearts both? To know such things a man must have experienced them.”

“At the worst you can only be speaking of Philip,” said Reinhold, “and even there you take too gloomy a view; but Ferdinanda! And even if all is not as it should be, is it not partly your own fault, my dear uncle? A girl’s heart needs sunshine, constant sunshine! During these last few days I have never once heard you speak so kindly to her as you have just done to me.”

“Because you understand me,” exclaimed Uncle Ernst. “Ferdinanda does not understand me. I do not expect that she or any other woman should. They are not sent into the world for that; they are here to cook and to knit, like Rike, or if they cannot all cook and knit, to spend their time in playing the piano, playing at sculpture, and so on. I consider it one of the principal causes of the feebleness and worthlessness of the present day that women are allowed so much liberty, and can interfere in so many things that are quite beyond their province. Besides, if you think so much of the girl—and I allow she is worth rather more than most of the chatterboxes—marry her! You would then at once have a right to take the business off my hands.”

Was this one of his uncle’s grim jokes, or was it earnest? Reinhold could not tell. Happily he was spared the necessity of answering by a knock at the door.

It was Cilli’s father, old Kreisel, who at Herr Schmidt’s “Come in!” stepped into the room.

“What is it, Kreisel?” asked Uncle Ernst “But, my good man, what an extraordinary get up! Are you going to a funeral?”

The old man’s attire seemed to justify Uncle Ernst’s question. His little bald head only just appeared above the stiff collar of his old-fashioned, long-tailed coat, while his boots, on the contrary, at the end of the short shabby black trousers, had full liberty. He carried in his hands a tall chimney-pot hat, with a very narrow brim, of the most antiquated fashion, and a pair of gloves whose past lustre had faded with time as the colour had faded out of his shrunken face, the careworn, wasted look of which was only too well suited to his attire.

“In truth I am going to a funeral,” he answered with his low, tremulous voice.

“Well then, be off!” said Uncle Ernst.

“Whose is it?”

“My own.”

Uncle Ernst stared. “Are you mad, old friend?”

“I think not,” answered Kreisel; “but I will speak to you at a more convenient time.”

“To your own funeral?” repeated Uncle Ernst. “I am not in the humour for jokes. Wait a bit, Reinhold! And now out with it, Kreisel! What is the matter? What do you want?”

“My discharge!” said the old man, taking a white handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wiping his bald head, on which great drops of perspiration were standing. “And I may well call that my funeral.”

“Well, go and be buried then!” thundered Uncle Ernst.

The old man shrank together, as if he had really received his deathblow. Reinhold stood embarrassed and troubled. Uncle Ernst paced the room with hasty steps, then stopped and turned sharply towards the little man and growled down upon him from his superior height:

“And this is the way you treat me! Fourteen years have we worked together in joy and in sorrow; you have never heard a hasty word from my lips that I have not afterwards asked your pardon for, because you with your weak nerves cannot stand anything of the kind, and I would as soon do anything to hurt you as to your poor Cilli. And if I have not done enough for you, it is not my fault—I have of my own accord doubled your salary, and would have tripled it if you had asked me: but you never said a word, and I have always had to press it on you; and now, when—the devil may understand it! I cannot!”

“And you are not likely to understand, Herr Schmidt, if you will not allow me to tell you my reasons,” answered the clerk, turning his hat round and round despairingly.

“Well then, tell me in—in my nephew’s presence; I have no secrets from him.”

“It is not exactly a business secret,” said the clerk; “it is my secret, which has long been burning into my soul, and it will be comparatively easy to tell it in the presence of the Captain, who has always been so kind to me and my daughter. I must leave you, Herr Schmidt, before you send me away, as you sent away those thirty men on Thursday; I also—”

He held his hat steady now, and his voice no longer trembled; and he fixed his small, twinkling eyes firmly on Uncle Ernst.

“I also am a Socialist!”

The determination was doubtless an heroic one for the old man, and the situation in which he found himself was tragical; and yet Reinhold almost laughed out loud, when Uncle Ernst, instead of storming and thundering, as was his wont, only opened his eyes wide and said in an unusually quiet, almost gentle voice: “Are you not also a Communist?”

“I consider Communism to be, under certain circumstances, allowable,” answered the old gentleman, dropping his eyes again, and in a scarcely audible voice.

“Then go home,” said Uncle Ernst, “and take an hour’s sleep to calm your excitement, and when you awake again, think that it is all a dream; and now not a word more, or I shall be really angry.”

The old man did not venture to answer; he bowed himself out of the door, with a glance at Reinhold that seemed to say: “You are witness: I have done my duty.”

Reinhold seized his uncle’s hand. “Thank you!”

“What for? for not taking the poor old fool at his word? Pooh! he understands as much about such matters as a newborn baby, and has picked it all up out of his books, over which he spends half the night because he cannot sleep, and his Cilli, good little thing, keeps him company. That sort of Socialism will not do much harm.—Well!”

Grollmann, the old servant, had entered with an embarrassed look and a visiting card, which he passed from one hand to the other as if it were a bit of red-hot iron. And Uncle Ernst, as soon as he had glanced at the card, threw it on to the table as if it had burnt him. “Are you mad?”

“The young gentleman was so urgent,” said Grollmann.

“I am not at home to him—once for all.”

“It would only be for a few minutes; the Captain had spoken about him already.”

“What does this mean, Reinhold?”

Reinhold had read the name on the card: “Philip did beg me,” he answered, “the first time I met him, and yesterday again when I called upon him—”

“You called upon him?”

“I thought it my duty—and he begged me to ask your consent to an interview; I—”

He did not like to continue before the servant, well as the old factotum must know all the family affairs; Uncle Ernst also seemed embarrassed:

“I must go to the meeting,” he said.

“You have still a quarter of an hour, uncle,” said Reinhold.

“It will only be for a few minutes,” repeated Grollmann.

Uncle Ernst turned an angry glance from one to the other, as if he wished to make them responsible beforehand for the consequences. “He may come in!”

“Do you wish me to stay, uncle?”

“You had better leave us alone.”

Reinhold was not of the same opinion; he knew too well Uncle Ernst’s expression not to feel sure that a storm was brewing. But his wish must be obeyed.

He met Philip in the doorway. Philip was quite distressed to disturb Reinhold; doubtless he and his father had important business together; he could come another time.

“I do not know that I shall be at home to you another time,” growled Uncle Ernst.

Reinhold pretended not to hear these unkind words, and excusing himself, hurried away.

The door had closed behind him; father and son were face to face.

“What do you want of me here!” asked Uncle Ernst, as if he were speaking to a third person crouching on the floor a few paces to the right of Philip.

“I come on business,” answered Philip, as if the person he addressed were floating in the air a few feet to the right of his father.

“I decline to transact any business with you.”

“But perhaps not with the directors of the Berlin and Sundin Railway Company?”

“I decline all business with the Berlin and Sundin Railway Company.”

“You are standing in your own light. The business would be highly advantageous to you. We have got in our pockets a concession for the island railroad which is the continuation of our own railroad. Our station must be added to. When I had the pleasure of working with you, we bought together the land on which the station stands—”

“Upon your share, allow me to remark.”

“Upon my share because you would not part with yours—”

“I had advanced you the money for the purchase of yours; so far as I know you had none then.”

“I am the more indebted to you; you laid thereby the foundation of my present prosperity; for, recognising and profiting by the opportunity, I sold a portion to the company—”

“Which you had no right to sell.”

“I had already repaid you your money, to the last farthing, with the proper interest.”

“And had only forgotten the small circumstance that I gave you the money for the sole purpose of erecting—in partnership with me—cheap dwellings for workmen on that ground. It is true there was no written agreement.”

“Fortunately for me, and I should say for you too! After what happened yesterday, you have probably lost all desire to improve the condition of these heroes of strikes and riots, as you have hitherto done to your own cost. But you can now repay yourself what you have spent. Your colony of workpeople has, one way or another, never thriven, and is now at its last gasp. Put an end to it once for all. Quarter-day is at hand; we do not want the land before the new year; some of the houses will be empty now, particularly if you put some pressure on the people, and we will pay as if your cottages were so many four-storied houses.”

“Where will you get the money from, if I may venture to ask?”

“Where from? Where we have always got it.”

“Where you have always got it?” returned Uncle Ernst. He turned for the first time a stern, fixed look upon his son. “That is to say, out of the pockets of the public, whose credulity you have, in the most shameless manner, deceived and betrayed with false and lying prospectuses; whose anxious hopes you feed with sham dividends, which they must pay themselves; whose loud complaints you boldly stifle in your so-called general meetings, till at length it occurs to the legal authorities that might is not always right. I do not care to have anything to do with the legal authorities—and my carriage is at the door.”

“So is mine,” said Philip, turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Uncle Ernst went to a side-table and poured out a large glass of wine—the bottle knocked against the glass; he had some difficulty in pouring out the wine—and drank it down at one gulp.

He stood there with an angry cloud on his brow, one hand leaning on the table, in a kind of stupor.

“I did not wish it,” he murmured; “I wished to keep calm. When he came in he reminded me of his mother—a vacant face too; she never understood me; but he is only a caricature of her—the vacancy supplemented by vice! And then his voice—her voice also—her thin voice when she inflicted upon me her commonplace wisdom—only it is enlivened by insolence—wretched, insolent boy!”

He drank down a second glass. The cloud on his brow had only grown darker.

III

Philip had whispered to Reinhold that he would look him up presently; Reinhold trembled for the result of a meeting between father and son, which could not have occurred at a more unfortunate moment; but it could not be helped, and he determined to employ the interval in saying a few words of comfort, after the scene that had just taken place, to the old clerk whom he had spoken to several times during the last few days, and had learnt to look upon as certainly a peculiar but an excellent and upright man. He found the old man in the little arbour at the end of the narrow walk, between the garden and the building, in the upper story of which he and Anders lived. He was sitting quite broken down on the bench, while Cilli, who was with him, wiped the drops of perspiration from his brow. She recognised Reinhold’s step at once, and said, as he entered the arbour:

“Thank God that you have come, sir! You were present. How did Herr Schmidt take my father’s confession? From what my father says, I conclude very badly.”

“On the contrary, Fräulein Cilli, my uncle is of opinion that between two such old friends as himself and your father, a merely theoretic difference is of no consequence.”

“But if it should not stop at theory,” exclaimed the old man, “if the practical consequences are carried out by everybody—”

“But not by you, my dear Herr Kreisel! Answer me one question: would you take advantage of any crisis in business to force from your employer an increase of salary?”

“Never!” exclaimed the old man, “never!”

“You see for yourself! Though you may be perfectly right in theory, between it and practice there lies, in the minds of educated people like yourself, a long and rough road, into which you will never enter, or on which, after the first few steps, you will stand still in horror.”

“Ah! yes, my nerves!” murmured the old man; “my nerves are not strong enough for it. I am worn out; I believe he is right after all; an hour’s sleep would do me good.” He was persuaded by Reinhold and Cilli to go into the house; Reinhold went a little way with him; when he returned to the arbour, Cilli was sitting with her hands before her, and such an expression of deep sorrow and trouble on her pure, gentle face, that it went to Reinhold’s heart.

“Dear little Cilli,” said Reinhold, sitting down by her and taking her hands in his “do not be so anxious. I give you my word that my uncle does not dream of parting with your father; matters remain between them exactly as before.”

“Not exactly,” answered Cilli, shaking her head; “since Thursday my father has been quite changed. He has scarcely eaten or slept; and this morning, quite early, he came to my bedside and said that he had no longer any doubts, that he also was a Socialist, and he must tell Herr Schmidt. That was quite right, as we ought always to tell the truth, even in this case, when your uncle will not allow any Socialists on his works. And although, as you tell me, and I believed before, your uncle will make an exception in favour of my father, because he is old and feeble, my father is proud, and will not endure to be merely tolerated, all the more that he is undoubtedly in the right.”

“How, my dear Cilli?” asked Reinhold, astonished. “Your father is in the right?”

“Certainly he is,” answered Cilli warmly; “is it not wrong that even one man should suffer when others can prevent it? Did not Christ tell us to feed the hungry, to give drink to the thirsty, to clothe the naked, to comfort the oppressed and heavy-laden? And if Christ had not commanded it, does not every good man’s heart command it?”

“In that case, my dear Cilli, all good men must be Socialists, and even I myself may lay claim to the title; but between the love of our neighbours, as you describe it, and Socialism as these people desire it, there is a wide difference.”

“I see none,” said Cilli.

Reinhold looked at the sightless eyes upraised with an expression of gentle enthusiasm.

“I can well believe that you do not see it, poor child,” he said to himself.

“And on that point I am quite easy,” continued the blind girl; “men must live up to their convictions, and bear the consequences patiently. And my father and I can do so the more easily, that at the worst we shall not have to bear them long.”

“What do you mean, dear Cilli?”

“I know that my father will not live long; the doctor has always feared that he would sink under one of his nervous attacks; and once, when he was very bad, he told me so, that I might be prepared. I am prepared. And if my father could only believe that I should not outlive him long, he would be more easy in his mind. He thinks so much of you; perhaps he would believe you if you assured him of it.”

“But how can I, dear Cilli?”

“Because it is only the truth. I am ill; dying of a nervous illness. My blindness, which came on when I was three years old, is only the result of this disease, which I doubtless inherited from my father. When I was eight years old, and had a very bad illness, my parents called in two doctors, and one said to the other as they went out—they said it in a whisper, and probably did not intend me to hear, but they did not know how sharp my hearing is—it would be a miracle if the child lived to be sixteen. I shall be sixteen next spring, and—I do not believe in miracles.”

“Doctors often make mistakes; I hope they have made one in your case.”

“I do not hope it—I do not wish it.”

“But you love life.”

“Only because I know that I must die soon, as you all say that I think the world so beautiful only because I am blind. And when my dear father is gone, whom shall I have to live for?”

“For your friends—myself, for example; for Justus, whom you love, and who loves you.”

“Who loves me?”

The blind girl’s sweet mouth quivered. She drew two or three deep breaths, but the tears would not be kept back; they streamed from the poor blind eyes, and trickled through the slender white fingers with which she tried to hide them.

“Cilli! Cilli! what is the matter?” exclaimed Reinhold, seized with a painful foreboding.

“Nothing, nothing,” murmured the blind girl. “You see yourself that I am ill—very ill. Hark! whose is that strange step in the courtyard?”

Reinhold looked up and recognised Philip, who came rapidly along the walk in search of him without looking into the arbour. He could not bear the idea of being found here by Philip at this moment, he must therefore make up his mind to leave Cilli, who herself implored him to go.

“Leave me! leave me! before you I am not ashamed of my tears. You alone may see me weep.”

It was high time. Philip had already turned back and came towards him.

“Where the devil have you been? I have been looking for you in your room, and all over the place.”

“Your interview with your father cannot have lasted long.”

Philip laughed bitterly.

“As if it were possible to talk to him! But I swear this shall be the last time. No man in the world would endure it if he were a hundred times his father.”

Philip was furious; he stormed at his father’s blindness and obstinacy. From what he could gather about the course of the interview, Reinhold could not quite justify his uncle, but he could not let pass the outrageous expressions of which the angry man made use.

“Are you going to begin now?” exclaimed Philip. “It is partly your fault. All that the old man said was only what you said to me yourself yesterday. What in the world induced you to set him against a project of which neither of you understand a word? He, in spite of his knowledge of business; you, in spite of your seamanship. What does it signify to you whether the harbour is east or north? Whether it is choked up in one place or goes to the devil in the other? Do you intend to invest your money in it? If others wish to do so, let them. Everyone can use his own eyes, and if he comes to grief it is his own lookout. The best of it is that none of you who set your faces against it can hinder the matter from coming to a conclusion; in fact, it is as good as concluded now. Count Golm has joined the Provisional Board; and it would be a good joke if a harbour on the east were decided upon, and Golm and the daughter of our principal opponent, General Werben, who is as obstinate as my father—good heavens! there is young Werben! I hope he did not hear!”

This conversation had taken place while they walked up and down between the blocks of marble in the courtyard. Ottomar had learnt at the house from Grollman that Reinhold was in the courtyard, and now came suddenly towards him from behind one of the blocks. He had heard nothing, although Reinhold feared at first that he had from his gloomy and embarrassed air. But his handsome young face cleared the next minute; he held out his hand to him with the greatest cordiality, and then to Philip with less cordiality.

“He had been meaning to come every day, but the worries of military duty! Quite unbearable, my dear fellow! You have no conception what it is; you, especially, my dear Schmidt; you never were in the army, for reasons best known to the doctors. If I had a hand in the matter you should serve your time yet in the Guards. But what brought me here in this hand-over-head fashion was to bring you this invitation from my father and the ladies, with a thousand excuses, but the card had somehow been mislaid yesterday; for this evening—quite a small party—a good many officers, of course, a few ladies, of course also. There will be a little dancing, my sister says, who counts upon you. Of course you dance; and my father, as he told me yesterday, wants very much to talk to you on important matters of which I know nothing; some question about the harbour, I fancy. You see it is absolutely necessary that you should accept. You will accept?”

“With much pleasure.”

“That is capital.”

Ottomar had during the last few words completely turned his back on Philip; he now turned round.

“It will not be quite so lively as it was the other day at your house, my dear Schmidt; it was quite delightful. I heard from Golm that there was no end of a row afterwards, and the ladies were quite off their heads. So sorry I could not come; but I had a fearful headache; and headache, champagne, and pretty girls I have never yet been able to stand in that order, though in the reverse order I have suffered from them only too often.”

“Bertalda was in despair,” said Philip, who was inwardly greatly irritated at the offhand manner of the young guardsman.

“Dear little thing!” said Ottomar, shrugging his shoulders. “She says just what comes into her head. She is a jolly little girl. I hope Golm will behave well to her. But is not Herr Anders’ studio in this courtyard? His Satyr with the young Bacchus—or is it Cupid?—has made a tremendous sensation. I have never been in a sculptor’s studio; would it be too much, my dear fellow, to ask you to get me admitted?”

Reinhold was quite willing. Philip remarked carelessly that if the other gentlemen had no objection he would take the opportunity of inquiring about the four marble statues which he had ordered of Anders for his staircase, and of which two must be finished by this time. He had inwardly hoped that Ottomar would be impressed by “the four marble statues.” Ottomar did not even appear to have heard him. He walked on in front, with his arm in Reinhold’s, to whom he spoke in so low a tone that Philip could not hear what he said, probably was not meant to hear.

“Generous to remind me of it—a petit souper—in honour of Count Golm, who appears to be very susceptible of such ovations—slipped in quite by chance—came away immediately. Don’t say anything about it.”

“Can you suppose—”

“One drops a word sometimes without thinking of it—and it arouses suspicion—the ladies and—ces dames!—a very different matter, thank goodness! My sister—your cousin—had the honour casually a few days ago. Should be in despair if a word—the young lady is an artist, my sister tells me. One can hardly picture to oneself an artist, and a lady artist. After you, I beg!”

Reinhold, who knew by experience that in consequence of the noise of hammers and chisels in Justus’s studio, a knock at the door was seldom heard, had gone before and opened the door at once, and had got some way into the room before he saw, in a corner before a cast at which Justus was working, the latter standing with Ferdinanda. Ottomar and Philip had followed him so quickly, that they had all got into the middle of the large room before the two, who were engaged in earnest conversation and bewildered by the noise around them, heard them come in, till Justus’s Lesto—a shaggy little monster, of whom it was difficult to tell which was his head and which was his tail—flew with a loud bark at Philip, whose polished boots seemed to arouse his wrath. In the tumult caused by this bold attack—while Philip, fearing for his trousers, took refuge on a stool, and Justus, nearly dying of laughter, vainly called “Lesto! Lesto!” and the four or five assistants, with Antonio amongst them, moved a few obstacles out of the way, and brought chairs—Reinhold had not noticed the deep blush that overspread Ferdinanda’s beautiful face when she perceived Ottomar, and the embarrassment with which the latter greeted her. By the time the confusion was somewhat allayed, and Lesto had subsided into quiet, the two had recovered their presence of mind, and the more easily that the first glance that passed between them was one of reconciliation. He had returned to her after three long anxious days, which she had passed in longing and despair. Now all was made up—all was forgiven and forgotten. After the first happy and tremulous glance, she had not again looked at him, and was now chatting with Reinhold and Philip; but to Ottomar, the fact that she remained, that she did not after the first greeting retire into her studio, the door of which stood open, was an infallible proof of her penitence perhaps, certainly of her love. And then the full, somewhat deep tone of her voice—he seemed to hear it for the first time; and he did hear it for the first time. Till today they had only exchanged hasty whispered words. Her laugh—he had never thought that she could laugh—it seemed to him a very miracle; her figure, whose classical form appeared more beautiful in the straight, clinging, grey working dress than it could have done in the most coquettish attire; the rich brown hair, drawn simply back from her brows and loosely knotted together low down in her neck—he had never known how beautiful she was! He stood before finished and unfinished works—they might have been the slides of a magic-lantern; he spoke to one and the other, chatted and joked; he had no idea what he said or what they answered; he was in a dream—a sweet and delicious dream—but for a few minutes only; then he awoke to a sense of the situation in which he found himself—a situation which he could hardly have wished more favourable, and the advantages of which he was determined to profit by with rapid soldier-like courage and rashness.

And Ferdinanda was also dreaming the sweet, delicious dream of happy love, while she chatted and laughed with the others; only she never forgot or mistook the danger of the situation. From Reinhold, Justus, and Philip she feared nothing; a little prudence, a little clever acting, would suffice to protect her from any shadow of suspicion as far as they were concerned. But what prudence, however cunning, what acting, however clever, would protect her from Antonio’s gleaming black eyes? It was true, he had returned to his work in the farthest corner of the room, and hammered and chiselled away, apparently quite unconcerned with anything that passed around him. But this very quietness, which was only apparent, alarmed her a thousand times more than if his glittering eyes had been continually upon her. What he did not see he heard. She knew the incredible sharpness of his senses; if he did not look round before, he would do so at the moment which she saw approaching. And that moment had come. Ottomar, thinking himself safe, approached her and whispered a word that she did not understand, so low was it breathed. But what matter? She read it in his eyes, on his lips: “I must speak to you alone—in your studio!”

But how was it to be managed? The moments were passing; there was so much to be seen in Justus’s studio, and the talk seemed endless. There were the four life-sized allegorical figures for Philip’s staircase.

“Trade, a bearded man of Oriental appearance and dress, calling to mind Nathan on his journey home. Industry, as you will perceive, rather vaguely represented by a female figure of the present day, with some half-dozen emblems, which may mean anything you please—all possible things—exactly as Industry herself makes everything possible out of all possible things. This Greek youth, gentlemen, with his winged sandals and hat, may be recognised at any distance as the genius of railroads, as Hermes, if he had lived long enough, would undoubtedly have been appointed Postmaster-General in Olympus. The tall, beautiful, stately lady, in the dress of a Nuremberg lady of rank of the fifteenth century, will be recognised by the mural crown on her head and the square and level in her hand, as patroness of architecture—a neat allusion to the suburban streets which the worthy possessor has had to pull down, in order to build for himself in the middle of the town the house the vestibule of which these masterpieces are to adorn.”

“You are responsible for at least half a street, Anders!” cried Philip, laughing.

“Ah!” said Justus, “that is the reason then that the lady looks so gloomy and melancholy under her mural crown! I could not imagine what was the meaning of the expression that, without my intending it—and even against my will—would come out clearer and clearer; the good lady has a pang of conscience which I ought to have had! Will anyone say now that we do not bestow our best heart’s blood on our creations?”

“This last figure strikes me as being particularly beautiful, if I may venture to make an observation on a matter on which I am profoundly ignorant,” said Ottomar, with a glance at Ferdinanda, who strikingly resembled the lady with the mural crown, both in figure and in the haughty expression of the features.

Justus, who had caught the glance, laughed. “You are not so ignorant as you pretend, Herr von Werben! You appear to know very well where we get our inspirations. But that you may see that other people can not only inspire forms, but also create very beautiful ones—may we, Fräulein Ferdinanda?” and Justus pointed to the door of her studio.

“Certainly,” said Ferdinanda, while her heart beat fast. Now or never was the time. Antonio had not looked round; perhaps he had not heard. It might be possible to go in with Ottomar while the others lingered behind. And so it happened. Philip and Reinhold were disputing about one of the symbols assigned to Trade; Philip, annoyed and irritated by the contradiction that met him on all sides today, in a loud, excited voice. Justus, however, was following her and Ottomar closely. As she got to the door, she turned and whispered to him, “Philip is unbearable today; do try and make peace between them?”

Justus answered, “Oh! it means nothing,” but turned back.

Ferdinanda entered quickly, followed by Ottomar. She walked a few steps to the left, till she was quite concealed from those in the other studio. Her arms encircled him, while she felt his arms around her. Their lips met, while he tasted the sweetness of her first kiss.

“This evening?”

“As you will.”

“Eight o’clock, in the Bellevue Gardens!”

“As you will.”

“Darling!”

“Darling!”

They did not venture on a second kiss, fortunately, as Justus appeared, bringing with him, for greater security, the disputants.

They stood before the Reaper, while Justus explained that it had been begun in the spring and intended at first for a pendant to the kneeling Roman Shepherd Boy in the Exhibition—a girl, who, in the solitude of her maize field, deep in the Campagna, hears the Ave Maria ring out from the neighbouring convent, and who, laying aside her sickle and her sheaf, folds her hands for a moment in prayer; that the figure was nearly completed, attitude, gesture and expression, all quite admirable, and would have done honour to the greatest sculptors; that the greatest sculptors in Berlin had expressed their admiration; the Milanese Enrico Braga, who had been there on a visit in the summer, was quite overpowered. “And now, gentlemen, I ask you whether it is possible for any woman, even the most gifted, to carry out persistently a clearly defined aim! The statue is almost finished, only a few touches are wanted, but those touches are not given; we are not in the vein, we will wait for a more favourable day. One, two months pass, the day does not come; the clay dries up in the most unfortunate manner, breaks and splits everywhere—we have lost all inclination for the work. I had made up my mind, at the risk of the deepest displeasure, to have the Reaper secretly cast at night before it quite fell to pieces; when about four weeks ago, one fine morning, I entered the studio—the sweet, dreamy face, was changed into a Medusa head, whose terrible eyes, under the hand that had in the meantime been laid on her brow, stared into the distance, apparently expecting someone. I should not like to be that someone. Would you, Captain?”

Reinhold nodded to the sculptor; the statue had made exactly the same curiously mingled impression upon him, and he had almost expressed it in the same words. He said, smiling: “No, indeed!”

“Put it to the vote!” exclaimed Justus eagerly. “Would you, Herr von Werben?”

Ottomar did not answer. The work was begun in the spring; in the spring he had exchanged the first tender love-tokens with Ferdinanda; then had ensued a long, weary interval, during which she had altogether avoided him; and though four weeks ago she had given way to his imploring glances and resumed again their secret understanding, it had acquired in the interval a totally different character; a gloomy, passionate character, from which even he sometimes shrank. Was this the image of her love? Was it he who was here waited for?

All this passed through his brain with the speed of lightning, but his fixed glance had betrayed something of what was in his mind.

“Why say so much about it?” exclaimed Ferdinanda; “a work that must be put to the vote is not worthy to exist.”

She had seized the heavy mallet which lay on the table amongst her other tools and swung it towards the statue. Justus caught hold of her arm.

“Are you mad, Fräulein Ferdinanda? Cannot you understand a joke? I swear to you that it was only a joke! That I admire it even more than the former one! That you have surpassed yourself and me.”

Justus was quite pale with excitement; the others hastened to assure her that they were quite of the master’s opinion, that they thought the statue surpassingly beautiful, that they did not wish to see one feature altered. Ottomar was foremost with his praises, and his beautiful eyes entreated for forgiveness; but Ferdinanda was not to be appeased.

“It is too late,” she said, “the sentence has gone forth, and I am too proud, I confess, to accept praise which comes as an afterthought. Calm yourself, Anders; I will not destroy the statue, but I will never finish it, that I swear!”

“And I am to be calm?” exclaimed Justus; “may I break stones in the road if I do, if I—what is it, Antonio?”

Antonio had entered, whispered a few words to Anders and then retired; as he went out he cast a gloomy look at the statue of the Reaper.

“A gentleman from the committee,” said Anders, “there is always somebody coming; they will drive me wild. I will be back directly.”

He hurried into his studio; Ottomar suggested that they had already troubled the young lady too long: he expected that Ferdinanda would press them to stay, but she did not; he bowed. “I hope, Ferdinanda,” said Reinhold, “that you will not distress us, I mean all of us, by carrying out your threat and leaving the statue unfinished.”

“If you knew me better,” said Ferdinanda, “you would know that I always keep my word to myself and to others.”

These last words she had, as if accidentally, addressed to Ottomar, and accompanied it with a glance which Ottomar understood and returned. Whatever became of the Reaper, she would come that evening.

The door had closed behind the gentlemen; Ferdinanda bolted it and then turned slowly round. Her fixed glance rested first on the spot where she had kissed Ottomar for the first time, and then passed on to the Reaper. Was it an effect of light, or was it that others’ words had first made it plain to her what she had produced? A shudder passed through her.

“I keep my word when I have given it—but I wish I had not given it!”

IV

Ferdinanda had long ago emancipated herself from all control on the part of her aunt. She was accustomed to go and come as she pleased; the only point on which it was necessary to be attentive was punctuality at meals. Her father was very particular about this, only Aunt Rikchen declared, in order that he might worry her out of her five senses if she ever happened to be delayed by her household duties or other matters, as could hardly be avoided by such a poor creature. Ferdinanda was aware also that her father avoided every opportunity of being alone with his sister, and that it was therefore an especial annoyance to him if she herself stayed away from meals on any pretence. Under such circumstances her father always took his meals by himself in his own room. But this had very rarely happened, even in former days, and scarcely ever happened now. Ferdinanda had almost entirely withdrawn herself from all her friends; she said often that she had no friends, only acquaintances, and that she did not care much about them.

Today she must pretend to visit some friend, and leave word at home that she should not probably be back to supper, which was always served at nine o’clock punctually. Her pride revolted at the necessity of the lie, and such an improbable one, but she had given her word; whether good or evil came of it, her fate was decided—the deed must be done.

She went therefore at half-past seven, with her bonnet and cloak on, down to her aunt, who was invariably to be found at that hour in the sitting-room behind the dining-room, where, in her seat near the window, she could count her stitches by the fading light, watch the passersby without trouble, and, as Uncle Ernst said, indulge her fancies quite undisturbed. The latter employment was the most successful today; the stitches were very difficult to count, in consequence of the gloomy weather, and the same cause had diminished the number of passersby, “as if they were all on strike, like those abominable workpeople;” besides the butcher had brought for the next day a miserable leg of veal, which, that silly Trine, the cook, ought never to have taken in, and for her punishment must take back again, although Heaven only knew how she was to get the supper ready all alone, for as for Trine being back in less than an hour, she knew the idle thing better than that. And now Ferdinanda was going out—was going to spend the evening out! Aunt Rikchen in despair snatched her spectacles from her nose, and let her stocking, with the stitches she had only just picked up, fall into her lap.

“Good gracious! has everything combined against poor me today?” she exclaimed. “Reinhold has just been in to say that he will not be at home either.”

“Where is Reinhold?”

“Oh! did not he tell you? Quite a large soirée—that is what you call it? He supposed he must put on his uniform.”

“At whose house?”

“At the Werbens’! Young Herr von Werben came here himself this morning. You saw him in your studio, by the by! I know nothing about it!—of course I know nothing about it. At eight o’clock. It must be half-past seven already.”

Ferdinanda’s countenance fell. “At the Werben’s! At eight o’clock! How could that be!”

“And where are you going, if I may venture to ask?”

Ferdinanda told the lie she had prepared. She had spoken to Fräulein Marfolk the artist at the Exhibition; Fräulein Marfolk had given her such a pressing invitation to go and see her again; she had some curiosities and photographs to show her, which she had brought from Rome; this evening she happened to be disengaged. Professor Seefeld from Karlsruhe would be there also, who was most anxious to make Ferdinanda’s acquaintance. She had accepted, and could not draw back now.

“And poor I must eat my supper alone again!” said Aunt Rikchen; “for he had rather eat a live crocodile with its skin and bones, in company with seven Hottentots, than a comfortable mutton-cutlet with his poor old sister. Well, I must bear it. I must bear everything. If the whole business stands still, my poor intellect can stand still too, and my poor old heart with it.” Her misery was too great; Aunt Rikchen burst into tears.

“What is the good of exciting yourself so unnecessarily?” asked Ferdinanda impatiently.

“Exciting myself so unnecessarily!” exclaimed Aunt Rikchen. “Of course you think everything unnecessary. But I see it coming. I noticed the people as they went away this morning, how they stood there in the street and stared up at the house, and shook their fists threateningly, and abused the police who were dragging away those two wretches, Schwarz and Brandt, and that silly boy Carl Peters; and they abused your father, too. It was shocking to hear them! It makes me shudder when I think of it, and of what may still happen, for we have not seen the end yet—of that you may be sure. But you don’t excite yourself of course—not you!”

“I could not prevent it, and can do nothing against it,” said Ferdinanda.

“You might have prevented it, and you could still do something before matters come to the worst, and they burn the roof over our heads!” exclaimed Aunt Rikchen; “but I cannot see my hand before my eyes; I cannot distinguish a church-tower from a knitting-needle.”

“The old song!” said Ferdinanda.

“Every bird sings as he has learned,” exclaimed Aunt Rikchen; “and if my ways do not please you, it is only because in these days every chicken is wiser than the hen; for if I am not your mother, I have worried myself as much as two mothers about you, and have asked myself a hundred thousand times what is to come of it? But perhaps Providence may have willed it so; it is always, one way or another, kinder to you than to other people. And I am not at all sure that your father has not always intended it so, for I always had my suspicions of that thick red pencil, when no one else was allowed to touch his plans with a finger; and any old woman can see how highly he thinks of him, and he is extremely brave and good, and it would keep the family together, if you were wise and married him before in these bad times everything flies up the chimney.”

“Reinhold?”

“Did you think I meant the Emperor of Fez and Morocco? But you only pretend to be astonished, and jump up off your chair in order to make a poor old thing like me tremble in all her limbs, as if my nerves were not already sufficiently dérangés—that is what you call it, is not it?”

“I got up because it is high time for me to go,” said Ferdinanda. “Goodbye, aunt.”

She had gone a few steps towards the door, when the portière which covered it was slowly drawn aside.

“Mi perdona, Signora! Signora Frederica, your most obedient servant!”

Ferdinanda stood still in horror.

“What did Antonio come for at this moment?”

“Mi perdona!” repeated Antonio. “I fear that the ladies did not hear me knock at the door, so I ventured to walk in.”

And he pointed carelessly in his easy Italian fashion to some books which he held in his hand.

“This is not the day for our lesson,” said Ferdinanda.

“I cannot come tomorrow, signora, so I ventured—”

“I have no time today. You see I am just going out.”

She said it in a hasty tone, for which there was apparently not the smallest occasion, and which was a wonderful contrast to the Italian’s courteous, “Mi ritiro, e le domando perdona—buona sera, signora,” and the low bow with which he passed again through the portière.

“Why were you so sharp with the young man?” asked Aunt Rikchen.

Ferdinanda did not answer; she was listening for the soft footstep as it retired, and for the sound of the closing door. Would it be the glass door leading to the garden, or the other one which led to the entrance hall? It was the glass door; he had not gone out then. And yet. Why had she said that she was going out? Should she give it up?

But there was no time to think. With a half-murmured: “Goodbye, aunt, I will make haste back,” she had left the room and was standing in the street, almost without knowing how she had got there.

She had intended to take a cab at the corner of the street, but the stand was empty; she must make up her mind to walk along the Springbrunnenstrasse as far as the Parkstrasse, where she hoped to find one. Perhaps it would be better; she could more easily make sure of not being followed than in a close carriage. As she walked hastily along she looked back two or three times; a few people met her; no one was behind her; she breathed more freely; he had not followed her. She feared no one but him.

But he whom she feared to see behind her was at that moment far in front.

Since this morning Antonio had felt certain that the relations between the handsome young officer and Ferdinanda had entered on a new stage, and probably something was going to take place, something that he must know at any price, that he would know, however secretly they might go about it. He had, therefore, made the lesson which he gave her once a week in his own language, an excuse for approaching her, in order to find fresh food for his jealous curiosity, which imagined all possible things. He had found her, who so seldom left the house in the evening, ready to go out, without having ordered the carriage as she usually did. She had sharply rebuffed him, as if she suspected his motive; and what at another time would have irritated him, now delighted him; his suspicions had taken a definite form; a rendezvous was in question! His determination to follow on her track was made even before the portière had closed behind him.

He had purposely shut the garden door loudly in order that Ferdinanda might believe that he had not left the grounds. But when he got into the garden he had turned to the right and passed through an iron gate into the courtyard, and in a few steps was in the entrance hall, through which he passed into the street. The cabstand at the corner was his first aim also; he was obliged to pass the window at which Aunt Rikchen sat; but if he stooped his head would be hidden by the elder bush in the front garden. It was a disappointment to find the cabstand empty, but she would experience the same disappointment, but not before she got to the corner of the street. At this corner there was a small public-house which the workmen belonging to the studio were in the habit of frequenting. He sprang down the steps, and stationed himself at the window opposite the cabstand. It was a mere chance—she might go towards the town, or might already have done so; but no! there she was! She paused a few moments exactly as he had done himself, and came then past the window behind which he was concealed; his eyes were on a level with the pavement; he could see her slender feet as she walked quickly along, with her dress slightly raised. He let her get a little in advance, then emerged again, assured himself that she was walking down the street, dashed across the street and ran up the Kanalstrasse towards a private path that ran between villas and gardens parallel with the Springbrunnenstrasse and led also to the Parkstrasse. This narrow lane was now, as almost always, quite deserted; he could run along it without exciting any attention—not that he would have cared about that; he should reach the Parkstrasse some minutes before she did. Arrived there, he flew across the street, and stationed himself between the shrubs in the Thiergarten, in such a manner that he could command the opposite side of the Parkstrasse and the opening of the three side streets. The opening of the private path immediately before him was no longer of any consequence to him, but she must come along the Springbrunnenstrasse on the left, and at the corner of the last side street to the right there was a cabstand. She might, it was true, turn to the left, towards the town, but he would still see her, and he was convinced that she would turn to the right. And she did turn to the right. She emerged from the Springbrunnenstrasse and walked quickly along the opposite side by the houses, past the cross street to where the cabs stood. There were two cabs, she took the first; the driver of the second politely shut the door after her, and then as the first driver drove off, seized the reins and drew his horse forward. The next moment Antonio was by his side.

“Where to?” asked the driver,

“Where that cab goes.”

“To the Grosse Stern, then.”

Antonio drew back his foot which was already on the step. The Grosse Stern, at the opposite side of the Thiergarten, where the Charlottenburg Avenue is crossed by several other paths, was not a favourable place for a pursuit in a carriage, which in the great Platz, and indeed on the way there, must excite remark and suspicion. There was a surer way. What signified to him the energetic curse which the disappointed cabdriver sent after him, as Antonio hastened past him along the road into the Thiergarten! The Grosse Stern Avenue, a broad ride, shadowed by old trees, by the side of which were footpaths, led, as he knew, right across the Thiergarten to the Grosse Stern; Ferdinanda’s cab must go round by the Corso Avenue. It was not much out of the way, and her cab went unusually quickly; but he was in the direct path, and could depend upon his muscles and sinews. He ran the several thousand yards that he had to go with wonderful rapidity, heeding as little the beating of his heart as the bloodhound heeds it when on the track of a stag; in fact, the immense exertion seemed to refresh him by overpowering for the moment his pangs of jealousy. He had reached his destination; the Platz lay before him; an omnibus coming from Charlottenburg rattled by without stopping; a few carts were coming from the town; between them, and then in front of them, a cab came rapidly along. It must be he! Antonio had hidden himself amongst the bushes—he would be quite safe here: behind him was the entire park, where he could, at the worst, at any moment retreat into the darkness; and the bushes were so thick that the danger of being detected from the Platz was very slight, while he could see everything that passed there. The cab from the town had stopped; a gentleman sprang out. The cab immediately turned round and drove back to the town; the gentleman walked slowly along the Platz without stopping, looking around him on all sides. Antonio was startled at the first glance; the gentleman was not in uniform. Then with a scornful “Bestia!” he struck his forehead; and now that the gentleman passed his hiding-place at a short distance, he recognised his detested enemy by his slight figure and easy movements. It was too dark to see his features distinctly. But what matter? He knew quite well who was before him, and his hand grasped more firmly the handle of his stiletto, which he had drawn out, as a huntsman takes aim even when he knows that he is not within shot; and he gnashed his white teeth as at this moment the cab which he had passed came round the corner of the Corso Avenue, turned on to the Platz, and there stopped, but only for a moment, only that the man he hated might say a few words through the open door, then jump in and close the door behind him. The cab went on across the Platz, along the road to the Bellevue Schloss, and then disappeared amongst the trees.

Antonio murmured through his teeth the bitterest curse that he knew. The pursuit was at an end. He could not take a shortcut, because he did not know what direction they would take; he could not follow them, that was impossible along the public road. It mattered little, either, where the pursuit ended—for today!

But he could not make up his mind to go back or quit the Platz. It was a splendid place for brooding over his revenge, while the darkness sank deeper and deeper, and the leaves around him hissed like serpents’ tongues, and above him in the tops of the mighty trees there were sighings and groanings as of a victim lying mortally wounded on the ground.

V

In the meantime the cab had only proceeded a short distance, to the entrance of the Bellevue Garden.

“We are quite secure here, I swear to you,” Ottomar had whispered, as he helped Ferdinanda to alight. The driver contentedly pocketed his thaler and immediately drove off. Ottomar gave Ferdinanda his arm and led her, bewildered, frightened, and half stunned, into the garden. He could hear her gasping for breath. “I swear it!” he repeated.

“Swear that you love me! I only ask that!”

Instead of answering he put his arm round her. She encircled him with both hers. Their lips met in a long, burning kiss. They then hastened, hand in hand, deeper into the park, till they were concealed by trees and shrubs and then sank again into one another’s arms, exchanging burning kisses and words of love, intoxicated with the bliss of which they had so long been dreaming, and which was now more precious than they had ever imagined in their wildest dreams.

So at least thought Ferdinanda, and so she said, while her lips again sought his, and so said Ottomar; and yet, at the very moment that he returned her burning kisses, there was a feeling in his heart that he had never known before, a dread of the flames that surrounded him, a sensation as of powerlessness in the presence of a passion which raged around and overpowered him with the irresistible might of a tempest. He had until now played at love, had looked upon his easy conquests as triumphs, had accepted the mute homage of beautiful eyes, the flattering words of gentle lips, as a tribute due to him, and not demanding any gratitude. Here, for the first time, he was the weaker. He would not acknowledge it to himself, and yet he knew it, as an experienced wrestler knows at the first touch that he has found his master, and that he must succumb, unless some accident gives him the advantage. Ottomar was already looking out for this accident, for some event to occur, some circumstance that should give him the advantage; then he blushed at his own cowardice, at his mean ingratitude towards this beautiful, gifted being, who so confidingly, so devotedly, and with such self-forgetfulness threw herself into his arms, and he redoubled the tenderness of his caresses and the sweet flattery of his loving words.

And then, that uneasy feeling might be a delusion; but she who had done what he had so often, so pressingly implored of her, who had at length granted him an interview, in which he could put before her his plans for the future, she would and must expect that he would at length trace out that sketch of the future over which he had so long delayed, and which at this moment seemed to him as uncertain as ever. He did not believe what she assured him, that she wanted nothing more than to love him, to be beloved by him, that everything of which he spoke—his father, her father, circumstances which must be taken into consideration, difficulties which must be overcome—all, all was only a mist, which would disperse before the rays of the sun; trifles not worthy that they should expend upon them one moment of precious time, one breath! He did not believe her; but he only too willingly took her at her word, even now silently absolving himself from the responsibility of the consequences which might, which must follow such a neglect of the simplest rules of prudence and wisdom.

And then he, too, forgot everything but the present moment, and she had to remind him that time was flying, that he was expected at home, and must not arrive too late for the party.

“But will you take me with you?” she asked. “Will you enter the room with me on your arm, and present me to all present as your bride? You have no need to be ashamed of me; there are not likely to be many women there whom I cannot look down upon, and I have always considered that to be able to look down upon others is halfway at least towards being a fine lady. To you I shall always look up. Tall as I am, I must stretch myself higher to reach your dear lips.”

There lay a wonderful proud charm in these jesting words, and deep love in the kiss which her smiling lips breathed upon his. He was intoxicated and bewitched by this loving gentleness, this proud love; he said to himself that she was right, and he told her so, that she could bear comparison with any queen in the world, that she deserved to be a queen; and yet—and yet—if it had been no jest, if she had demanded in earnest what one day she would demand.

“That was the last kiss,” said Ferdinanda. “As usual, I must be the most reasonable always. And now give me your arm, and come with me to the nearest cab, and then go straight home, and be very charming and amiable this evening, and break a few more hearts in addition to those you have already broken, and which you will hereafter lay at my feet in return for my heart, which is worth more than all of them put together.”

It was nearly dark when they quitted the silent, deserted park; the sky had clouded over, and heavy drops were beginning to fall. Fortunately an empty cab came by, in which Ferdinanda could go as far as the Brandenburg Gate, where she would take another, and thus destroy every trace of her road. She only allowed Ottomar to kiss her hand once more, as he helped her into the cab. Then she leaned back in the corner, closed her eyes, and dreamed over again the happy hour. Ottomar looked after the carriage. It was a miserable vehicle, drawn by a wretched screw, and as it swayed backwards and forwards in the feeble light of a few lamps, and disappeared in the darkness, a strange sensation of horror and loathing came over him. “It looks like a hearse,” he said to himself. “I could hardly bear to touch the wet handle. I could not have brought myself to get into it. The whole affair gets one into very uncomfortable situations. The walk home is no joke, either; it is nearly nine, and beginning to rain pretty hard.”

He turned into the Grosse Stern Avenue, which was his shortest way home. Under the great trees it was already so dark that he could only just distinguish the footpath along which he hastily walked; on the other side of the broad road, along which ran a narrower footpath, the trunks of the trees were hardly perceptible in the darkness. How many and many times had he ridden along this grand avenue—alone—with brother officers—in a brilliant company of ladies and gentlemen—how often with Carla! Elsa was right, Carla was a splendid rider, the best probably of all the ladies, certainly the most graceful. They had been so often seen and spoken of together—after all it was quite impossible to draw back now; it would make such a frightful scandal.

Ottomar stood still. He had walked too fast. The perspiration was streaming from his brow; he felt stifled, and tore open his coat and waistcoat. He had never before experienced the sensation of physical fear, but now he started and his eyes peered anxiously into the darkness, as he heard behind him a slight rustle—probably a twig that had broken in its fall.

“I feel as if I had committed a murder, or as if in another moment I should be murdered,” he said to himself, as almost running he continued on his way.

He did not suspect that to the breaking of that twig he owed his life.

Antonio had lingered, as if under the influence of a spell, at the entrance of the avenue, now sitting on the iron railing which separated the ride from the footpath, now pacing up and down, now leaning against the trunk of a tree, always revolving the same dark thoughts, concocting plans of revenge, delighting himself with the idea of the torments he would inflict on her and on him, as soon as he had them in his power, from time to time directing his glance across the Platz towards the entrance of the other avenue, along which the carriage had disappeared with them, as if they must reappear in that direction, as if his revengeful soul had the power of compelling them. He could have spent the whole night there, as a beast of prey, furious at the loss of his victim, remains obstinately in his lair, in spite of the pangs of hunger.

But what was that? There he came across the Platz directly towards him. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, recognised him as if it had been bright day. Would the bestia be such a fool as to venture into the avenue, to give himself into his hands? Per Bacco! he would—there. After a short pause he turned into the avenue; on the other side of the road, true, but so much the better, he could the more easily follow him on this side; he had only to dash across the ride when the moment came; in the deep sand his first steps would not be heard, and then in a few bounds he would reach him and bury the stiletto in his back, or if he should turn round, drive it up to the hilt under the seventh rib!

And his hand closed on the hilt as if hand and hilt were one, and with the finger of the other hand he repeatedly tried the sharp point, while he glided with long steps from tree to tree—softly, softly—the tiger’s velvet paw could not have fallen and been raised more softly.

They had reached the centre of the avenue. The darkness could not get more intense; it was just light enough to see the blade of the stiletto. One moment more, to assure himself that they were alone in the dark wood—that other and himself—and now, crouching low, he crossed the soft sand, behind the thick trunk which he had already selected.

But, quickly as he had crossed, the other had gained some twenty paces in advance. This was too much; they must be diminished by half. And it would not be difficult. He was in the soft sand of the road, to the right of the trees, while the other was on the hard footpath to the left, where the sound of his steps would overpower any accidental noise. But, maledetto di Dio—his foot touched a dry twig, which broke with a snap. He stepped behind a tree—he could not be seen; but the other must have heard; he was standing still—listening, perhaps awaiting his assailant—at all events no longer unprepared. Who knew—he was a brave man and a soldier—perhaps he was turning to defy his assailant. So much the better! only one spring from behind the tree, and—he was coming!

The Italian’s heart throbbed as if it would choke him, as he now with his left foot advanced prepared for the spring; but his murderous thoughts had affected his usually sharp hearing. The steps were not coming towards him, but going away from him! By the time he became aware of his mistake, the distance between them was quite doubled; and trebled before, in his consternation, he could decide what was to be done.

Give up the chase? There was nothing else to do. His prey was now almost running, and a late cab rolled along the drive which crossed the avenue, and on the other side of the drive were cross paths right and left—he had no certainty of being able to carry out his intention or of escaping afterwards; the moment was past—for this time, but the next time!

Antonio murmured a fearful curse as he replaced his dagger in its sheath and concealed it in his coat pocket.

The other man had vanished; Antonio followed slowly along the same path, out of the park, along the Thiergartenstrasse, into the Springbrunnenstrasse, and to the house in which the man he hated lived, the windows of which were brightly lighted. A carriage drove up, an officer and some ladies in evening dress, wrapped in their shawls, got out; a second carriage followed. He, above, was now laughing and feasting, and whispering at that moment to one of the pretty girls who had just arrived what ten minutes before he might have whispered to Ferdinanda. If he could only pour into her heart the poison of jealousy which burnt in his own! If he could put some impossible barrier between her and him! If the whole affair could be betrayed to the stern signor, her father, or to the haughty capitano, his father, or to both—

“Hallo!”

A man coming along the pavement had run up against him, as he leaned with folded arms against the iron railing of the front garden, and had called out rudely.

“Scusi!” said the Italian, lifting his hat. “I beg your pardon!”

“Hallo!” repeated the man, “is it you, Antonio?”

“Ah! Signor Roller, the overseer!”

“Signor Roller! overseer! No more signors and overseers for me,” said the man, with a loud laugh, “for the present at least—till we have served out the old man; he and his nephew and the whole lot of them! If I only had them by the throat! If I could only do them some injury! I would not mind what it cost me, so it were not money! That is all gone.”

The man laughed again; he was evidently half drunk.

“I have money,” said Antonio quickly—“and—”

“We’ll have a drink then, Signor Italiano!” exclaimed the other, clapping him on the shoulder; “una bottiglia—capisci!—ha, ha! I have not quite forgotten my Italian!—Carrara marble—capisci, capisci?”

“Eccomi tutto a voi,” said the Italian, taking the man’s arm. “Where to?”

“To drink, to the devil, to the public-house!” exclaimed Roller, laughing and pointing to the red lamp over the public-house at the corner of the Springbrunnenstrasse.

VI

The three moderate-sized rooms in the upper floor of the small villa inhabited by the General, in the Springbrunnenstrasse, were got ready for the reception of the company; the larger room at the back was for the present closed. The supper was to be served there, and later it would be used as the dancing-room. Elsa went once more through the rooms to see that everything was in order. She did not usually do this, as she could quite depend upon the care and attention of the perfectly trained August; today, for the first time, he seemed to have taken his duties more easily. Or was it only her fancy? She asked herself this while she moved a few candlesticks and put them back again, and altered the arrangement of some knickknacks without being any better pleased with their appearance. “I do not know what is the matter with me today,” said Elsa.

She stepped before the looking-glass and contemplated her reflection with the greatest attention: she did not think herself looking the least pretty today. She was disappointed in her new blue dress; her hair was done much too loosely, the rosebuds were decidedly too dark, and were put in too far back; her eyes were not the least bright, and her nose was perceptibly red on the left side. “I really do not know what is the matter with me today,” said Elsa.

She sank into an armchair, laid her fan and gloves in her lap, and rested her head on her hand.

“I was looking forward so to this evening; but it is all Ottomar’s fault. How can anyone marry without love?—it happens often enough though. Wallbach certainly does not love Louise, any more than she loves him; but Ottomar, who is so tenderhearted and can be so good and dear! That detestable money! how can one man spend such a sinful amount? I can’t think how they manage it. Horses!—they always say they have sold them for so many guineas more than they gave for them; I don’t believe it; I am sure they always lose; but even that would not come to so much. I do not know; they say Wartenberg cannot manage with twenty thousand, and, that Clemda, with fifty thousand, incurs debts to that amount every year—it is incredible! What good would my poor five thousand do him, and he would have to wait, one way and another, nearly five years for it. And if I fell in love with somebody who was not noble, and lost my portion—I should not care, of course not, but I could not give him anything if I had not got it myself—to say nothing of papa, who would certainly not allow it, though he is always talking about him; but it is all about the harbour, which is never out of his head—but I am so glad that he always talks so kindly of him—so glad—”

“Good heavens, child, what are you doing?”

“What is it?” exclaimed Elsa, starting up from her dreams, and looking with a startled expression at her aunt, who, no less startled, stood before her.

“Your new tarlatane dress! You are completely crushing it.”

“Is that all?” exclaimed Elsa, drawing a deep breath.

“Oh, it is nothing to you!” exclaimed Sidonie. “You do not care about things that I care about very much, but I am getting accustomed to that by degrees!”

“Dear aunt!”

Elsa had thrown her arms round her aunt and kissed her; the kind creature wanted nothing more. “Well, well,” she said, “you careless child! You will quite spoil your pretty dress.”

She had freed herself from Elsa’s embrace, and was smoothing and arranging her darling’s dress. “There, step back a little; you look charming this evening, Elsa.”

“I don’t think so at all.”

“Like my Princess! The evening that the Duke, her present illustrious husband, was to be presented to her for the first time, ‘I don’t think I look at all pretty to day,’ said she.”

“But I am not going to be presented to a Duke,” said Elsa.

“How you do mix things up, child! As if you could marry a reigning prince, except by the left hand! Besides, we shall only have a member of a former reigning house here. Prince Clemda, and he is already betrothed. So I could not be thinking of him.”

“And of no one else, I hope, aunt.”

“I must be very much mistaken, Elsa, or your blushes—yes, you are blushing, my dear child, and you blush more and more, though it is quite unnecessary before your aunt. I can assure you, on the contrary, that I consider the match in every respect a most proper and desirable one, and the chance—if it is not a crime against Providence to speak of chance in such important matters—”

“For heaven’s sake, aunt, if you love me, say no more,” exclaimed Elsa. The terror that seized her at the idea of hearing her aunt speak of Count Golm, after Ottomar had already alarmed her in the morning on the same subject, was too evident in the tone of her voice to escape even Sidonie.

“Good gracious!” she said, “can I really have been mistaken! I had been thinking over the extraordinary dispute which we had this morning, and could only account for it by the explanation that you wished to conceal the inclination you have for the Count by an affectation of indifference, and even of want of consideration towards him.”

“I did not intend anything of the kind,” said Elsa.

“I am really sorry for it,” said Sidonie, who now, under the pressure of her disappointment, seated herself—though with due regard to her brown silk gown—while Elsa walked up and down the room in some agitation; “really very sorry; I know nothing that would have given me greater pleasure, next to Ottomar’s betrothal to Carla, which, in my opinion, has been too long delayed. The Count is thirty—a very good age for a man of his position to marry—he must and will marry one of these days, and he might seek long before he would find a young lady who would so entirely satisfy all the pretensions he has a right to make, and no doubt does make. His circumstances are somewhat embarrassed, but that is almost always the case nowadays with large properties; men always settle down when they are married. Besides, he will gain enormously by the new railroad, so Schieler says, who told me all these particulars. The Councillor was with me yesterday, and I almost fancied he must have come on purpose to tell me, and to hear what I said about it, as he has always had a great regard for my opinion. He is a charming man, and discretion itself; so I did not hesitate to tell him exactly what I thought; in these cases openness is always the best diplomacy, and when advances are made there is no harm in meeting them halfway.”

“It is too bad, aunt!” exclaimed Elsa, turning round and standing with her lace handkerchief crushed between her hands, while burning tears of shame and anger started to her eyes.

Sidonie was so startled by this outburst, for which she was not in the least prepared, that she sat motionless and speechless with wide open eyes, while Elsa, instead of immediately begging her pardon, or calming herself, continued with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes: “To talk me over like that with a stranger! and with Schieler, of all people, whom I detest as much as I do the other whom you have chosen for me, and whom I would never marry, not if he had a crown to lay at my feet, never—never!”

“What is the matter, Elsa?” asked the General, who entered the room at that moment and had heard the last words.

“A slight difference of opinion between me and my aunt,” answered Elsa, hastily wiping her eyes.

“Well, well,” said the General, “I thought you ladies left that sort of thing to us men. Is Ottomar not here?”

He left the room again to inquire after Ottomar.

“Forgive me, aunt,” said Elsa, holding out her hand; “it was very wrong of me. You do not know, but—I do not know myself, what is the matter with me this evening.”

It was with some hesitation that Sidonie took her hand; the General came in again.

“It is too bad,” he said; “Ottomar went out again quite an hour ago and has not yet returned.”

“He must be delayed by some important matter,” said Sidonie.

“No doubt!” said the General, frowning, and pulling his grey moustaches.

“Councillor Schieler!” announced August, opening the folding-doors.

The Councillor kissed Sidonie’s hand and bowed low to Elsa, then turned to the General:

“I have heaps of news for you, my dear friend.”

“Few things happen now to interest me, and still fewer that give me any pleasure,” answered the General, with a courteous yet melancholy smile.

“I fear I cannot promise that my news will give you any pleasure,” said the Councillor; “but at least it is interesting even to you, ladies, that the Baroness, instead of arriving on the 1st as she originally intended, will arrive on the 10th, and will therefore be here in three days.”

“I had a letter this morning which said nothing about it,” said the General.

“My letter arrived this afternoon, and is, therefore, doubtless the latest; it is not from herself, however, but—”

The Councillor was interrupted by a slight cough.

“You may say the name out, my dear friend,” said the General; “it cannot be avoided when once our meetings begin.”

“You are right!” exclaimed the Councillor; “and I am happy—” The widowed Countess von Fischbach arrived at this moment with her two daughters; the ladies were engaged with their guests, and the Councillor was able to draw the General aside. “I was about to say that I am happy to find you so well prepared for what awaits you from Munich. I know how painful everything connected with the subject is to you, and yet I must ask your patience for a few minutes before you are called away by your other guests. My second piece of news is that the concession is granted.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the General.

“As good as granted.”

“We had a meeting only this morning; it is true we were engaged upon other matters, but his Excellency would at least—”

“He knows your dislike to the project; I repeat, as good as granted, and that ‘as good’ is at the present moment better than good. I implore you, my honoured friend, to listen to me patiently; the matter is of the greatest importance, not only to me, who have only an indirect interest in it, but more especially and directly to you. The concession will of course only have been granted for a harbour on the north, against which you have no immediate objection; is not that true? Good. Now I know for certain that, behind your back, there was to the very last moment a hesitation between the North and the East Harbour, and that the pressure used has only just failed in turning the scale to the East. I need not tell you by whom pressure was put; you know better than anyone the interest that Golm, who by the way will join the management, has in the existence of the railroad; and his connections in a certain region are better, very much better than I could have dreamt of. I tell you it only wanted the merest trifle. And just imagine, Signor Giraldi—I must mention his name now—has written to me today that the sale of part of the property appears to him advisable for the better regulation and easier administration of the rest; and that the Baroness—that is to say he—for here as everywhere he is the mouthpiece of the Baroness—will propose the sale at our meeting. Wallbach is in favour of it as he always has been; as a man of business I cannot oppose it; in short, the property will, as far as I can see, be sold. It is almost impossible, or at least most improbable, that Giraldi should know the state of affairs here, and that an eager purchaser is ready to hand in Golm. But if Golm sees a possibility of concluding the bargain, he will move heaven and hell to carry through the East Harbour at the last minute. And now, my honoured, my excellent friend, allow an old friend, of whose devotion you are aware, one word in confidence—a bold one if you will: you are not rich; Ottomar is extravagant; it is no small matter for Ottomar to see his portion with one stroke doubled if not quadrupled in value with the rest, and Fräulein Elsa will be richer in the same proportion; and if at the death of the Baroness they inherit the remaining half, and Fräulein Elsa makes a suitable marriage—with Count Golm for instance, to name the first that occurs to me—you may close your eyes—God in His providence grant not for many a long day—with the comforting reflection that the external well-being of your family is secured for all futurity, so far as man’s foresight can determine. Be wise then, my honoured friend. You need do nothing. You have only to refrain from opposition and give in to what you cannot prevent. Lastly, you must remember the good old saying: ‘Well to endure what cannot well be cured;’ which you will doubtless remember in your youth.”

The General had listened without a sign of the impatience that was usual with him when an adverse opinion was put before him; his brow had not clouded; there was even an unusually gentle, almost sad, tone in his deep voice, as he now, without raising his eyes, said, as if to himself: “I remember the saying well. It dates from the time of the wars, of liberation, and many an oppressed heart derived comfort from it in those troubled times, and many a broken courage has been supported by it. It hung framed and glazed on the wall of my father’s best room; I can still see my dear mother standing before it and reading what she had read a thousand times before:

“ ‘To triumph not in joy nor dread the storm,
Well to endure what cannot well be cured,
To do good actions and rejoice in beauty,
To love our lives and not to fear death,
Firmly to trust in God and a better future,
This is to live, yet rob death of his sting.’ ”

The General looked thoughtfully before him.

What an inconveniently retentive memory the man has! thought the Councillor.

“And look, my dear friend,” continued the General—and his eyes now rested so steadily on the Councillor that the latter, in spite of all his efforts, was forced to turn away his own—“according to the true meaning of the proverb and my own feelings it would not be doing a good action. Indeed, according to my own feelings I could no longer live, and should with justice shrink with terror from death, like a dishonoured coward, if, for the sake of outward advantage, were it a thousand times as great as it here appears to be, I neglected my positive duty and obligation, and did not resist, by every means in my power, a project the accomplishment of which I am firmly persuaded would be a manifest injury to our military strength, and an unprincipled squandering of our means, which we have the strongest reasons to be careful of. I have already nearly neglected my duty when I threw the burden of the report of this odious affair on Sattelstädt’s shoulders; although I knew that his opinions were the same as my own. After what I have just heard from you, I cannot do otherwise than bring forward the subject on my own responsibility at the board, and in any case acquaint the Minister with my disapproval. And now, my dear friend, excuse me! I must help the ladies to do the honours.”

He turned towards the large drawing-room; the Councillor looked angrily after him.

“He is incorrigible. I almost wonder he did not turn me out of the house. That will be the next thing. Do not fatigue yourself so much, Count. It is of no use.”

VII

The Count had entered a few minutes before, in his deputy’s uniform, with the Cross of St. John. The room was by this time nearly full, and he had had some difficulty in making his way to the ladies of the house. Elsa had not helped him in his efforts; at the moment that he appeared in the doorway she continued so eagerly the conversation already begun with Captain von Schönau, that the Count, after bowing to Sidonie, had stood for half a minute behind her without attracting her attention, till Schönau at last felt bound with “I think” and a movement of the hand to draw her notice to the newly-arrived guest.

“I am happy—” said the Count.

“Ah! Count Golm!” exclaimed Elsa, with well-acted astonishment. “I beg your pardon for not having seen you sooner, I was so absorbed. May I introduce you? Captain von Schönau, on the staff—a great friend of ours—Count von Golm. Have you seen papa, Count Golm? I think he is in the other room. You were saying, Captain von Schönau—”

The Count stepped back with a bow.

“That was rather strong, Fräulein Elsa,” said Schönau.

“What?”

Schönau laughed.

“Do you know that if I were not the most modest of men I might imagine all possible and impossible follies?”

“How so?”

“Why, did not you see that the Count held out his hand, and drew back with a face as red as my collar? A young lady with such sharp eyes as Fräulein Elsa von Werben could only overlook such a thing if she did not wish to see it; which can hardly be the case here, or if she—I am afraid to go on.—Who is that?”

“Who?”

“That officer—to the left, near Baroness Kniebreche—you are looking to the right! He is speaking to your father now—a fine-looking man—he has got the cross, too. Where did you meet with him?”

Elsa was forced to make up her mind to see Reinhold, though her heart beat fast, to her great annoyance. She was vexed already at having laid herself open to Schönau’s sharp-sighted eyes, and almost betrayed herself to him by her behaviour to the Count. It should not happen again.

“A Herr Schmidt,” she said, arranging the rosebuds in her hair—“a merchant-captain. We made his acquaintance when we were travelling. Papa likes him very much.”

“A very fine-looking man,” repeated Schönau; “just the sort of handsome, manly face that I admire; and a very good manner, too, though one recognises the officer of the reserve at the first glance.”

“In what way?” asked Elsa, whose heart began to beat again.

“You ought to know that as well or better than I do, as you see more of the Guards. Compare him with Ottomar, who is late as usual, and is trying to repair his faults by making himself doubly agreeable! Look at the finished courtesy with which he kisses old Countess Kniebreche’s bony hand, and now turns and makes a bow to Countess Fischbach, for which the great Vestris might have envied him—Allons, mon fils, montrez votre talent; and how he speaks now to Sattelstädt, not a shade too much or too little. It is really unfair to compare one of the reserve with the model of all knightly graces! Do not you agree with me?”

Elsa only looked straight before her. Schönau was right; there was a difference. She had liked him better as he walked up and down the deck in his rough pilot jacket. She had envied him the firmness and freedom of his movements. And when later he sat in the boat and steered it as calmly as a rider governs his fiery steed, then he had appeared to her as the model of a brave man conscious of his strength. If only he had not come now, just now!

At that moment Reinhold, who had all this time been talking to her father, and was now dismissed with a friendly nod, turned, and seeing Elsa, came straight towards her. Elsa trembled so violently that she was obliged to support herself by laying her hand on the back of a chair; she wished to act a little comedy before the quick-witted Schönau, and to appear perfectly cool and unconcerned; but as he now stepped towards her, his bright, honest eyes still beaming at the recollection of her father’s kind reception of him, in the open, manly features a certain embarrassment, which seemed to ask, “Shall I be welcome to you also?” her heart leaped up warmly and generously; and though one hand still rested on the chair, she held out the other towards him. Her dark eyes glowed, her red lips smiled, and she said: “Welcome to our house, my dear Herr Schmidt!” as cheerfully and frankly as if there were no finer name in the world.

He seized her hand and said a few words which she only half heard. She turned towards Schönau, the Captain had vanished; the colour mounted into her cheeks.

“It does not matter,” she murmured.

“What does not matter?”

“I will tell you by-and-by if—We are going to dance a little after supper. I do not know—”

“Whether I dance! I am very fond of it.”

“Even the Rheinländer?”

“Even the Rheinländer. And notwithstanding your incredulous smile, not so badly that Fräulein von Werben need be afraid to give me the honour.”

“The Rheinländer then! I have already promised all the others. Now I must go and entertain the company.” She nodded kindly to him and turned away, but came back immediately. “Do you like my brother?”

“Very much.”

“I wish so much that you should be friends. Do try to see more of him. Will you?”

“With all my heart.”

She was now obliged to go; and Reinhold also mixed with the rest of the company, without any of the embarrassment that he had felt on first entering a circle so brilliant and so strange to him. His hosts had received him as a dear friend of the house. Even the eyes of the dignified aunt had glanced at him not without a certain good-natured curiosity, stately as her curtsey had been; but the General had shaken him warmly by the hand, and after the first words of greeting, drawing him confidentially aside, had said: “I must introduce you to Colonel von Sattelstädt and Captain von Schönau, both on the staff. They are anxious to hear your opinion on the Harbour question. Pray speak your mind quite freely. You will be doing me a favour. I shall also have a special favour to ask of you with regard to this affair, which I will tell you later. Au revoir, then.”

That was flattering to the lieutenant of the reserve, said Reinhold to himself as he turned towards Elsa; and now she, too, had been so kind and friendly. He felt like one of Homer’s heroes, who in silence hopes that the goddess to whom he prays will be gracious to him, and to whom the divinity appears in the tumult of battle and looks at him with her immortal eyes, and in words which only he can hear, promises him her assistance. What mattered to him now that old Baroness Kniebreche’s gold eyeglass was so long fixed upon him with such a disagreeable stare, and then let fall with a movement that plainly said: It was hardly worth the trouble! What mattered to him that Count Golm avoided seeing him as long as he could possibly do so, and, when it was no longer possible, walked past him with a snappish “Ah, Captain! delighted to see you!” That young Prince Clemda’s bow when they were introduced might have been somewhat less careless. What did it all signify? And those were the only marks of coldness which had been shown him during the hour that he had already passed in the somewhat numerous assembly. He had met with scarcely anything but good-natured, open friendliness on the part of the ladies, and almost all the men, who were mostly officers, cordially received him as one of themselves. Even Prince Clemda seemed inclined to make up for his previous carelessness by suddenly coming up to him and murmuring a few sentences, amongst which Reinhold only distinguished clearly the words: Werben—Orleans—Vierzon—confounded ride—sorry.

But what pleased him most was his acquaintance with Herr von Sattelstädt and Herr von Schönau. They came up to him almost at the same moment, and begged him, if it was not troubling him too much, to give them his views on the practicability and utility of a harbour to the north of Wissow Head. “We are both well acquainted with the locality,” said the Colonel, “and are both—the Captain even more than myself—opposed to the project; we have of course discussed the matter often at the Admiralty, but none the less, or rather all the more, it would be of the greatest interest and importance to us to hear the opinion of an intelligent sailor, who, while thoroughly well acquainted with the circumstances of the case, is at the same time quite unprejudiced, more especially when he possesses at the same time the soldierly eye of a campaigner. Let us sit down in the study here—there is another chair, Schönau! And now I think it would be best if you would allow us to ask you a few questions. It is the easiest and surest way of arriving at our object. We will not trouble you long.”

“I am quite at your orders,” said Reinhold.

The gentlemen intended only to take a discreet advantage of the permission; but as Reinhold, against his will, was obliged frequently to enter into details, in order to answer the questions put to him, the conversation prolonged itself further than either of them had intended, though no one seemed aware of it but himself. Flattering though the respectful attention might be with which the two officers listened to his explanations, and sincerely as he admired the sagacity and knowledge displayed by every question, by every word they said—he could not refrain from casting from time to time a longing glance through the door of the study into the larger drawing-room, where the company were still circulating as before, and through the drawing-room into the second small room on the other side of the drawing-room, in which apparently a group of young people had assembled, amongst whom he perceived Ottomar and the lady who had been pointed out to him at the Exhibition as Fräulein von Wallbach, Count Golm, and finally Elsa.

A lively dispute was going on, as could be heard right across the intervening drawing-room, though naturally the actual words could not be distinguished. Even Schönau’s attention was at length caught by it. “I would bet anything,” he said, “that they are quarrelling over Wagner; where Fräulein von Wallbach presides, Wagner is sure to be the subject of discussion. I would give anything to hear what she says about him this evening.”

“That is to say, my dear Schönau, if I am not mistaken, I would give anything if Sattelstädt would hold his tongue,” said the Colonel, smiling. “Well, we have already taken an unconscionable advantage of Captain Schmidt’s patience.” He rose and held out his hand to Reinhold. Schönau protested that he meant nothing of the kind; the Colonel shook his finger threateningly at him. “For shame, Schönau, to deny your liege lady! She, you must know, Captain Schmidt, is Divine Harmony. For her he would go through fire and water, and let the harbour matters take care of themselves. Be off, Schönau!”

Schönau laughed, but went, taking with him Reinhold, who followed not unwillingly, as he was thus enabled to return to Elsa and to Ottomar, to whom he had only spoken in passing.

VIII

Ottomar had been fully occupied in making up for lost time. He went from one to the other, here whispering a compliment, there accompanying a shake of the hand with a jest, this evening more than ever overflowing with life and spirits and good-humour, the accomplished favourite of the Graces, and king of society. So said Baroness Kniebreche to Carla, who had just appeared in the drawing-room, with her brother and sister-in-law, and was immediately taken possession of by the old lady, one of whose “mignons” she was. “Look, my dear Carla! he is just speaking to Helene Leisewitz—how happy the poor thing is! It is not often that she is so singled out. Mon Dieu! he is positively paying attentions to her. Do look!”

Carla was in despair. She could see nothing without her eyeglass, but did not like to make use of it while with the Baroness whose pince-nez, with glasses as big as thalers, were fixed to her almost sightless eyes. Besides the old lady screamed so loud that she might be heard half across the room, and she expected to be answered equally loudly, being quite deaf of the right ear and almost deaf of the left.

“Ah! at last he has fluttered off to Emilie Fischbach—à la bonne heure! She has been making eyes at him for ever so long, charming little creature! She really grows more charming every day. And how she chatters and wriggles. A little too much simplicity, but she will improve. You will have another rival next season, my dear Carla. What, going already! No, no, my dear, not so fast; I have not spoken to you for ages. You owe me a world of confidences. Do you think that an old woman like me is to go about in society as ignorant as a newborn baby, while the whole world is au courant? Out with it! When is the betrothal to be? Not speak so loud? Why I am hardly speaking above a whisper—this ear, please! It is not yet settled! Don’t be angry with me, my dear Carla; but what in the world are you thinking about? Do you imagine an Ottomar von Werben is always to be had?”

“Do you want me, Baroness?” said Ottomar, who had heard his name.

“I want you to sit down by me here, on my left side, you faithless butterfly!”

“Is there such a thing as a faithful butterfly, Baroness?”

“Now none of your jokes; I am a serious, practical old woman, and want you both—why what has become of Carla?”

Carla had seized the opportunity, and, rising with an expression of delighted astonishment on her animated countenance, had hastened towards Count Golm, whom, by a hasty glance through her eyeglass, she had perceived at the other side of the room engaged in conversation with Countess Fischbach, and who now turned towards her. She was determined to punish Ottomar for the neglect with which he had in the most open manner treated her. Ottomar looked after her with gloomy eyes, and his glance did not clear while the old Baroness took him to task, as she expressed it. “Yes, yes, my dear Ottomar, it is only the truth; and from whom should you hear it if not from an old woman, who knows the world thoroughly and has known you ever since you were born? I have seen other affairs come to nothing that looked quite as promising as yours. Everything has its limits, even the patience of society. If this patience is tried too long, society says nothing will come of it; and when society has said so for a certain length of time nothing does come of it, simply because it has said so. People do everything as society decides; are betrothed, marry, separate, fall in love, fall out of it again, fall in love a second and a third time, fight duels, shoot their friends, shoot themselves—society is always right.”

“And supposing society should be right in our case?”

The old lady let her pince-nez fall in horror: “Mais vous êtes fou, monsieur, positivement fou!”

She seized her large black fan, and fanned herself violently and noisily; replaced her pince-nez, cast a sharp glance at Ottomar, who stared moodily before him, and said, while she motioned to him to put his ear near her mouth—

“Now listen patiently, like a good child, for you are children, both of you; you who sit here looking like an ensign who has had twenty marks too few at his examination for lieutenant; and Carla who is flirting over there with Count Golm, on purpose to provoke you. Don’t play with fire. You might burn your fingers badly. If the affair comes to nothing it will be the greatest scandal of the season. And now go and make your peace with Carla, and tell her from me that I have known the Counts Golm for three generations, and that the present one—well, I had rather tell her myself.”

She rapped Ottomar on the knuckles with her fan. Ottomar rose quickly and moved a few paces towards Carla, in the full conviction that his approach was all that was necessary to appease her, as she had watched the whole progress of his conversation with the old lady, and now turned her eyeglass on him. But Carla let him come a few steps nearer and then turned completely round towards the Count, with the defiant movement of an actress who wishes to give the audience an opportunity of admiring the back of her dress. Ottomar started back and turned on his heel, murmuring between his teeth: “A formal provocation! Thank heaven!”

But when he now again mixed with the company, laughing and jesting even more gaily than before, in his heart was dark night. What the Baroness had murmured in his ear he had said to himself over and over again as he hastened home through the Thiergarten, and the mighty trees over his head could as little overpower with their sighings and groanings the warning voice within him, as the hum and rustle of the company could now overpower the harsh voice of the toothless old lady. Was she only the mouthpiece of society? So, exactly so, would and must society speak, perhaps did speak already, though he could not hear. Let it! What did society know of the tall, slender figure which he had but now held in his arms, of the throbbing heart that had rested on his breast, of the wealth of kisses that still burned on his lips? If the four charming girls with whom he was talking could combine all their charms into one, they would still not make a Ferdinanda. And as for Carla, he had never admired her as much as the rest of the world did, and now he thought her positively ugly, with her coquettish airs, her eternal laugh and her everlasting eyeglass. Let her marry the Count; let them say and do what they would! And what could they do? A duel with Wallbach? Well, it would be the fourth within four years, and if he were killed, so much the better! There would be an end to the whole affair; he need no longer trouble his head with his debts, or his heart about the women! Debts, women—he would have done with them all!

“Oh, Herr von Werben! how intensely amusing you are this evening!”

“I feel intensely amusing, I assure you.”

“I don’t wonder, under the circumstances.”

“Of course not!”

“Then do us a favour.”

“A thousand.”

“Do bring us your brother officer from the reserve; what is his name?”

“Schmidt!”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“How funny!”

“Why?”

“How cross you look! It is not our fault. Emilie Fischbach says he is quite delightful! We want to know the delightful Herr Schmidt. Do please bring Herr Schmidt here!”

“Oh, do!” exclaimed the other young ladies, “bring Herr Schmidt here!”

“I fly.”

The titter of the girls, which was not ill-meant, sounded after him like an intentional scoff. His cheeks burnt with anger and shame; that name—it was hers also.

“One word, Werben.”

Clemda touched him on the shoulder.

“What do you want?”

“I have had a letter from Brussels, from the Duke, and also one from Antonia. The Duke is now free. Our wedding is to be in four weeks. Antonia is very anxious that your betrothed should be one of her bridesmaids. You must of course take me under your wing; I dare not write and tell her that you are not yet betrothed. You are not angry with me for the hint?”

“Why should I be?”

“Because you look so serious over it. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“The ladies want me to take Lieutenant Schmidt to them.”

“Ah! not a bad fellow—in his way!”

Clemda had let the last words slip out carelessly after the others—as one might open a chink of a door one had just shut, in order to let the dog in, thought Ottomar.

“And what I wanted to say besides, Ottomar—of course, as host, one has certain duties, but then certain duties are owed to the host also; and entre nous, I consider Golm’s flirtation as rather a want of consideration towards you, as he must know your situation with regard to Fräulein Wallbach as well as anybody.”

“He is quite a stranger in our circle.”

“Then you should explain matters to him; and Golm—”

“My dear Werben! can you spare me a moment?”

“At your orders, Colonel!”

“Ah!” said Clemda, retiring with a bow before his commanding officer.

“Only a moment,” repeated Colonel von Bohl, drawing Ottomar a little on one side; “I have just been speaking to Wallbach; he was very pressing, but, with the best will in the world, I cannot give you leave before the spring. Clemda will want a long leave; Rossow must be away at least three months, as his wound threatens to break out again. I cannot spare all my best officers at once. His Excellency must understand that.”

“But there is no hurry, Colonel.”

“You want to marry, and I am not devoted to newly-married young officers; I grant you willingly, therefore, a year’s leave for diplomatic service in St. Petersburg. And then, my dear Werben—”

The Colonel cast a glance behind him and said in a lower voice:

“I should not be sorry if you could find some excuse for a short absence,”—the Colonel made a significant gesture; “those matters might be better and easier arranged from St. Petersburg than here—believe me, my dear Werben!”

“But everything is arranged, Colonel; since this morning.”

“Everything?”

The Colonel looked Ottomar full in the face.

“All but a trifling matter—”

“I should like even that trifling matter to be got over. His Majesty is very particularly sensitive on those matters just now, and with reason. Now, my dear Werben, we have all been young once, and you know my feelings towards you. I speak for your own sake, and may tell you in confidence that Wallbach, if not exactly prepared for any sacrifice—that would be saying too much—is ready to help you as far as he can in making any arrangement. You understand!”

The Colonel held out his hand, and turned quickly away to put an end to the interview. He had in the kindest and friendliest manner said his last word, his ultimatum. Ottomar had quite understood. The blood ran hot and cold through his veins; his temples throbbed violently.

He stopped a servant who was passing with a tray, tossed down several glasses of wine and then laughed, as one of his brother officers called out to him: “Leave a little for me!”

“Do you find it so hot too?”

“Tolerably! But I believe we are going to dance.”

“After supper; I don’t know why it is so late. I will ask my sister.”

“She is in that room.”

Ottomar plunged into the room, into the midst of a circle which had grouped itself round Carla. An extraordinary feeling of perversity came over him. In this little room almost all his most decisive meetings with Carla had taken place; here it was the custom, when the company was smaller, to withdraw in order to talk more at ease; and here were now gathered together all his most intimate friends: a few of his favourite brother officers—Wartenberg, Tettritz—only Schönau was absent—a few of Elsa’s particular friends, Elsa herself, even old Baroness Kniebreche had made her appearance, as she always did wherever she expected an interesting conversation, and, preventing Carla from rising off the small, blue silk sofa, had sunk into an armchair, in which, leaning forward, with her hand to her left ear, she listened eagerly to Carla’s words. The only one of the party who was a stranger, as Ottomar himself had said a few minutes before to Clemda, was Count Golm; and this stranger stood, with one hand on the back of the small sofa, close to Carla, where he himself ought to have been standing, instead of remaining in the doorway, without the possibility of advancing a step farther into the crowded room, and not daring either to withdraw, after Baroness Kniebreche, turning her pince-nez angrily on him, had exclaimed: “There you are at last, when our dear Carla has been enchanting us with her clever talk—yes, yes, my dear Carla, positively enchanting us. Let your brother stand, Elsa; he has richly deserved it. For heaven’s sake go on, my dear Carla!”

Carla had hastily glanced towards the door through her eyeglass. “I cannot say any more without repeating what I have said already.”

“Then repeat it!” exclaimed the Baroness. “One cannot hear often enough that Wagner is the master of all masters who have ever lived or ever will live.”

“I did not say that, Baroness,” said Carla, laying her hand on the old lady’s; “only of those who have lived! It is not for nothing that the master calls his music that of the future; and the future is so called because it is yet to come. But who can venture to predict what will come?”

“Is it not magnificent?” exclaimed the old lady—“positively magnificent?”

“For,” continued Carla, “deep as is my admiration for the master, I cannot conceal from myself, though with some trembling—only too natural in face of such incomparable greatness—that the mystical connection between word and sound—the Eleusinian mystery—proclaimed by the master, though only to the initiated, produces a deeper, more heartfelt satisfaction, in which the last remains of that barbarous separation which has hitherto existed between poetry and music entirely and forever disappear.”

“Positively stupendous!” exclaimed the Baroness.

“Magnificent!” growled Lieutenant von Tettritz.

“But Wagner himself allows that,” said Von Wartenberg.

“And that speaks in my favour,” answered Carla. “When we see how this splendid genius goes further and deeper with every work, how he advances with giant strides from Rienzi and the Fliegende Holländer to Tannhäuser and Lohengrin; from these to the Meistersinger; from the Meistersinger to Tristan and Isolde, which I have only glanced at as yet, and now to what the Ring des Nibelungen is to bring us—can we, dare we say, in opposition to the most modest of men, who looks upon every height that he has reached as only the stepping stone to a greater one, that with the Ring the ring is closed? Impossible! ‘Art,’ says Goethe, who, if he understood nothing of music, always deserves to be listened to on the universal principles of aesthetics—‘Art has never been possessed by one man alone;’ and, godlike though he is, we must still look upon the master as a man.”

“I must kiss you—I positively must kiss you!” exclaimed the Baroness. “What do you say to it, Count Golm—what do you say to it?”

“I bow my head in admiration and—silence,” answered the Count, laying his hand on his heart.

“And you, Ottomar?” exclaimed the Baroness, turning in her chair with almost girlish activity, and fixing her pince-nez like a double-barrelled pistol on him.

“I consider Wagnerism, from beginning to end, to be an abominable humbug!” answered Ottomar defiantly.

The company were horror-struck. “Good heavens!” “Unheard of!” “Abominable!” “Positive blasphemy!” was heard on all sides.

“What did he say?” asked the old lady, her hand to her ear, bending towards Carla.

Carla shrugged her shoulders. “You really cannot expect me to repeat Herr von Werben’s words. Baroness?”

“Which Ottomar did not mean seriously,” said Elsa, with an imploring look at her brother, which Ottomar answered by a shrug of the shoulders.

“I thought myself bound,” he said, “as the Baroness did me the honour to appeal directly to me, to give my opinion, though it can be of no importance in this ‘noble circle.’ ” He emphasised scornfully the last words.

“Humbug!” exclaimed the old lady, who, while the others were all talking at once, had made Herr von Tettritz repeat the fearful word in her ear. “It is too bad! You must withdraw it!—you must positively withdraw it! Do you hear, Ottomar?”

“Perfectly, Baroness,” answered Ottomar; “but I am unfortunately unable to comply with your command.”

“It is an insult—a positive insult!” exclaimed the Baroness, waving her enormous fan violently up and down—“to us all, to Carla in particular—on my honour, my dear Carla!”

Carla appeared not to hear; she was leaning back on the sofa, and laughing with Count Golm, who, leaning on his elbow, bent low over her.

Elsa was greatly disturbed. She knew that her brother did not in the least care about music, and that under any other circumstances he would have put an end to the disagreeable scene with one of the light jests that came so easily to him; and that if he did not do so now—if, as was evident from his gloomy countenance, he was determined to continue it, he could only have one reason for doing so—the wish to bring about a crisis, to break with Carla irrevocably and forever, in the presence of their friends! She did not wish for the marriage; she had spoken eagerly against it that very day; had opened her anxious heart to her brother. But Carla had not deserved this; she was only behaving today as she always did, and her laughter at this moment was doubtless forced. What could she say or do?

“Will you at least honour me with an answer?” exclaimed the angry old lady, half rising from her chair.

“Let me answer for him, Baroness?” said a voice.

Elsa almost exclaimed in joyful astonishment. It was Schönau, who, laying his hand on Ottomar’s shoulder, stepped into the doorway. Behind them she saw another bearded countenance, whose large, honest eyes rapidly surveyed the group, and finally rested on her. He could do no good here; but his very presence was a comfort, while Schönau’s wits would bring help.

Half a dozen voices at once made him acquainted with the crime Ottomar had committed.

“Now, Werben, Werben!” said Schönau, shaking his head at him. “How could you let your rash daring lead you into such danger, even if you were as much at home in logic as you are on horseback? But to confuse cause with effect—to call Bark giddiness because it produces giddiness, singing in the ears, and headache, is really unheard of!”

“You hear him!” exclaimed the old lady triumphantly, having only caught the last words. “Unheard of—positively unheard of! Get up, Tettritz; let Schönau sit down here. Go on, Schönau. Wagner is the greatest musician—eh?”

“And the greatest dramatist also,” said Schönau, taking the place willingly left free for him by the Baroness.

“Go on, go on!” exclaimed the Barones, tapping Schönau on the hand with her fan.

“Undoubtedly,” continued Schönau, with a smile, “it is the mission of every poet to hold a looking-glass to nature; but with a difference. ‘J’ai vu les mœurs de mon temps, et j’ai publié ces lettres,’ wrote Rousseau in the preface to his Nouvelle Héloise; that may suffice for the novelist, the poet’s half-brother, as Schiller calls him. We must be content if he presents to us good photographs of reality—instantaneous pictures; and more than content if these photographs come out stereoscopically, and appear almost like life—almost. For only the dramatist fulfils, and can fulfil, his mission in earnest, his aim having been from the first, and being still, to leave the impress of his style on the age and on the material world. The first thing necessary for this, however, is Shakespeare’s golden rule—‘Be not too tame.’ And it is just because Wagner is not too tame—because he has the courage, which his enemies call audacity, to allow the salient points in the character of his age to appear, to allow the excrescences to grow out of the material world—it is this which raises him so far above his rivals in the estimation of all who have ears to hear and eyes to see.”

“I should like to kiss you!” exclaimed the Baroness. “Go on, my dear Schönau—go on!” Schönau bowed.

“What are, however, the salient points of our age? Ask our philosophers—Schopenhauer, Hartmann—”

“This will please you, Carla!” exclaimed the Baroness.

“They will answer, the deep conviction of the insufficiency, wretchedness, misery—let me say the word—worthlessness of this our earthly life; and combined with this, the conscious-unconscious longing after the Nirvana, the sweet Nothing—the beginning and foundation of things, which appears to our troubled nature as the only deliverance and last haven of refuge from the desolation and error of this life, and to which we should undoubtedly fly were it not for our will—our gigantic, invincible, indestructible will—that cares for nothing more than to live, to enjoy, to drink down the foaming cup of life, of love, to its last bitter drops. Renunciation there, enjoyment here, both to overflowing; because each is aware of the other, each hates the other, like the hostile brothers. And in this constantly renewed contest between irreconcilable contradictions; in this sensation of being torn backwards and forwards in the wildest confusion, the maddest tumult, the most entangled whirl; in this witches’ Sabbath, this will-o’-the-wisp dance, and this halo of falling stars of modern humanity, hurrying from hell to heaven, from heaven to hell, raging and vanishing into mist; in this everything, and something more, turned into endless singsong and eternal clang—the most horrible Past painted into a rosy-red caricature of the Present, while the eyes of a spectral Future stare from the empty sockets—the flute-notes of soft enjoyment, the violin-tones of fading bliss, drowned by the crashing cymbals and the shrill sound of the trumpets—here you have the ‘Venusberg’ and the ‘Penitent,’ the ‘Wedding-Night’ and ‘Monsalvat,’ the chronic sorrows of love and the magic drink from a prescription; here you have, taking it all in all, him whose like has never been seen, and never will be seen—here you have Richard Wagner! And now, Baroness and ladies, allow me to withdraw before the enchanted silence into which I have lulled you breaks into words, which might hurt my modesty, though not that of nature.”

Schönau kissed Baroness Kniebreche’s hand and disappeared, taking Ottomar with him. A few laughed, others cried “Treachery.” The Baroness exclaimed:

“I don’t know what you mean; he is quite right!”

Lieutenant von Tettritz, who, as an enthusiastic Wagnerite, felt himself seriously offended, and was considering whether he ought not to call out Schönau for this insult, tried to explain to her that the Captain had mystified and laughed at her in the most outrageous manner.

“Without my finding it out!” exclaimed the old lady. “You must not say that, my dear child; old Kniebreche knows better than that when she is laughed at, I can assure you.”

IX

Fortunately at this moment supper was announced; it was served from a buffet which had been prepared in the hitherto closed room, on two small tables which had in the meantime been laid.

“Are you not yet engaged?” asked Elsa of Reinhold as she passed him; “make haste, then; Fräulein Emilie von Fischbach is waiting for you; she is indeed, though you look so astonished! It is all settled; she is standing near the looking-glass with Fräulein von Rossow whom Schönau has engaged. I do not intend to engage myself—I shall follow you in—we are going to sit at the small round table in the window! Now make haste, for fear anybody should get there before us.” Reinhold hastened to fulfil so agreeable a command; Elsa stopped Ottomar, who was passing her. “Do, dear Ottomar, take Carla in to supper; I am sure she is waiting for you. You really have got a fault to make up for.”

“Which I shall not do by committing another.”

“I do not understand you; but you owe something to her and to us all.”

“I shall never be able to pay all my debts. Well, to please you—there!” and he glanced at Carla, who just then passed on Golm’s arm to the nearest table; “you see how she has waited for me!”

“Paula!” exclaimed Elsa to a young lady, “my brother is anxious to take you in to supper, but does not dare ask you because you refused him the other day. At that table!—Prince Clemda, at that table, please, near Count Golm and Ottomar—there are just four places empty—every seat must be occupied.”

“At your orders,” said Clemda; “allons, Werben!”

Ottomar, with the lady on his arm, still stood undecided.

“Will a Werben allow a Golm to say that he left the field clear for him?” whispered Elsa in his ear.

She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken: how could any cause prosper that was fed from the spring of injured vanity? But Ottomar had already led away her friend, and it was high time for her also to take her place. She was too late already. She had hoped that Reinhold would sit by her; but room must be made for another couple who had been wandering from table to table, and the whole arrangement was thus disturbed. Still he was opposite to her, and she had the satisfaction of seeing him—of noticing his eyes so often, it could hardly be unintentionally, turned towards her—if only for a moment; of hearing his hearty laugh, which had so enchanted Meta, and which she herself, as she secretly acknowledged, found so enchanting; the calm clearness of his words when he joined in the conversation, the modest silence with which he readily allowed the witty Schönau to take the lead in the conversation. The latter, now that he thought it worth his while, spoke his real opinion of Wagner and Wagnerism, and explained how he saw in Wagner, not the prophet of the future, but, on the contrary, the last exponent of a great past; how the mixing and mingling of arts, which Wagner held up as their highest development, had everywhere and at all times prepared and accompanied their downfall; how the blind fanaticism of his supporters, and the tyrannical intolerance with which they cried down every opposite opinion, was for him not a proof of their strength, but, on the contrary, of their weakness, the overpowering consciousness of which they sought to drown in this manner; and how, to his eyes, the only comfort to be derived from the whole affair was that the despotism usurped by the Wagnerites hung on one life only, namely, that of the master himself, and that his empire must fall into ruins as soon as he abandoned the scene, because his so-called theory did not rest on true principles of art, did not result necessarily from the essence of art, but was nothing more than the abstraction of his own highly-gifted, energetic but capricious and exceptional nature, of which it might truly be said that its like would hardly be seen again.

“Believe me, my friends, to his helpless disciples Mephistopheles’ saying will be carried out; they will have the parts in their hands, but the spiritual bond that united them will be gone forever.”

Schönau had addressed his words chiefly to Elsa, but Elsa’s thoughts were wandering, and yet she generally listened to him with so much pleasure; and he was talking today even better than usual, with a certain passion which was very striking in the usually quiet, reserved man. Her friends had often teased her about Captain Schönau, and she had never denied that she liked him; and now, while he was speaking, and her eyes wandered from him to Reinhold and back again, and she compared, almost against her will, these two men who were so unlike one another, she asked herself how it could be that one should like one man so much and yet like another a great deal better, even though the former had undoubtedly far more brilliant ideas beneath his broad, sharply-chiselled brow, than the other who listened to him with such respectful attention; besides, how curious it was, that while the one had for years frequented their house as an intimate friend, she had never troubled herself to think whether he enjoyed himself there, while her head was now constantly troubling itself with the question whether the other, who was their guest for the first time today, had come willingly and would wish to come again, and she rejoiced to see how contentedly he was chatting with pretty Emilie Fischbach, and how he now, in his openhearted way, lifted his glass to her and drained it, while his eyes looked so kindly and so steadily into hers. Yes, she was happy, and would have been entirely so if the talk at the long table near them had been somewhat less loud and excited, and if Ottomar’s voice had not several times rung out so loudly that she started in terror, and was relieved when the sounds of laughter and the clinking of glasses drowned his clear tones. She knew that it was always particularly noisy and jolly at the table at which Ottomar sat.

Today more than ever. “A Werben will not leave the field clear for a Golm!” The words sounded in Ottomar’s ear as he sat at table by his partner, opposite to Golm and Carla, and they reechoed in his passion-filled heart; and, if no one else remarked it, to Carla there was a tone in his voice as he now plunged into the conversation already started, in which he took and maintained the lead, as if it were a race, thought Carla, in which he was determined to be the victor in spite of all the efforts of his rivals. And Count Golm strove in every imaginable way—but in vain. Ottomar was inexhaustible in his amusing fancies, absurd jokes, and witty answers; Carla had never seen him so brilliant.

Carla was enchanted; she knew what prize was being ridden for in this race, and why the foremost rider took the highest hedges and the widest ditches with such temerity, and that it was from her hands the winner would receive the prize. Poor Golm, he did all he could, and more than all; it was not his fault if he remained farther and farther behind, and at length seemed inclined to turn out of the course. But that could not be allowed; he must be cheered and encouraged, he must be allowed to receive at least the second prize, and be persuaded that it was only an unlucky accident that vanquished him this time, and that it was not impossible that another time he might win the first.

But this must be done very carefully, by an encouraging smile, by a kind, rapid glance; before the company Ottomar must be crowned; to Ottomar she addressed herself as they rose from table, and holding out her hand, said, loud enough to be heard by the bystanders:

“You really surpassed yourself, Herr von Werben.”

“You are too kind,” answered Ottomar, with so low a bow that it was almost mocking.

The mockery was not heartfelt. He was intoxicated by his success, and not by his success only. He had desired to forget his cares and troubles by drowning them in wine, and he had succeeded. The dark wood, and the beautiful girl whom a few hours back he had folded in his arms in that dark wood, it was all a dream—a wild, confused dream which he had dreamt, heaven only knew when; here were pleasure and mirth, and light and brightness, whichever way he looked; and whichever way he looked bright eyes sparkled, rosy lips laughed, white shoulders glistened, and all sparkled, laughed, and glistened for him! Here was his empire; here he was king; he had only to hold out his hand and the hand of the lady most courted here would be laid in his! Was there a tomorrow? Let it come; the present belonged to him; pleasure and mirth forever! Bright eyes, and rosy lips, and white shoulders forever!

And as if all the spirits of pleasure and mirth were surrounding him, Ottomar flew through the rooms to apologise to the elder guests, if in the interests of the young people who wanted to dance a little they were somewhat crowded till the supper-room could be cleared, begging his brother officers not to waste precious time, but to engage their partners if they had not been wise enough to do so already, giving the young ladies the delightful information that the evening would wind up with a cotillon, with orders to be given by the ladies, and that there was room on his breast for more than one. And now the doors were reopened, from the empty room resounded the notes of a merry polka, and—

“You will dance this with me, Carla?” exclaimed Ottomar, and without awaiting her answer—putting his arm round her—he flew with her into the dancing-room, followed by the other couples who had anxiously awaited this moment.

“Are you not dancing?” asked a deep voice behind Reinhold.

Reinhold turned. “No, General.”

“Do you not dance?”

“Oh yes; but you did me the honour to say you wished to speak to me. I was just about to—”

“That is very good of you. I was coming to fetch you.”

“I am at your orders, General.”

“Come, then.”

The General, however, did not move. The aspect of the room, which was almost filled with dancers, appeared to interest and absorb him. Reinhold, who had unconsciously turned in the direction in which the General was looking, saw that the eyes of the latter were fastened on Ottomar, who with Carla was engaged in the centre of the room in performing the skilful evolutions demanded by the polka. A smile passed over his grave, stern face; then, as if rousing himself from a dream, he passed his hand over his forehead, and said again, “Come, then.”

He put his arm through Reinhold’s, and crossed with him the large drawing-room in front of a group that had assembled round Baroness Kniebreche. The Baroness suddenly stopped speaking; the round glasses of her pince-nez seemed to flash forth angry flames at the sight of the confidential manner of the General towards the young officer of the reserve.

“Look away!” thought Reinhold, while his heart beat proudly, “and heaven grant that I may prove worthy of the honour!”

They entered the small room in which a little while before Wagner had been so warmly discussed. The room was empty.

“Sit down,” said the General, taking possession of an armchair and motioning to Reinhold to sit by him; “I will not keep you long.”

“I am really in no hurry. General; I am only engaged once for a later dance with your daughter.”

“That is right,” said the General. “Elsa is in your debt, and here am I going to take advantage of your good-nature again. In one word, you have spoken to Colonel Sattelstädt and to Schönau, and have given them your decided opinion upon the matter you know of. They both say that your explanations have put the matter in quite a new light, which they consider most important, and which ought to decide the question in the eyes of all who can see in our favour; that is to say, in mine and these two gentlemen’s, who unfortunately stand pretty nearly alone in our views, and have every reason to look about us for allies. I ask you now, in our joint names, if you will be that ally, and if you will draw up for us a written statement of the circumstances of which we can make unrestricted use? Schönau will willingly provide you with maps and any other assistance you may want, if you will put yourself in communication with him. The first question now is, will you do us this kindness?”

“Most certainly, General, and will do it to the best of my ability.”

“I felt sure you would; but I must draw your attention to one important point. President von Sanden has told me that he has you in his mind, and Elsa confided to me that you were not disinclined to agree to the President’s wish, and accept the situation in question. The post is not in the gift of the Minister of War, but your report will cause ill feeling in more than one department, and we might find ourselves compelled to give up the name of our informant. Have you thought of that?”

“No, General; but I have never been ashamed of my name, and, thank God, have never had reason to be. From the moment that it is named in such company and in this affair, I shall be proud of it.”

The General nodded.

“One thing more: the matter is pressing, very pressing. When do you think you can have the report ready?”

“If I can communicate with Herr von Schönau tomorrow morning, it shall be ready the morning after.”

“But you would have to work all night.”

“I am a good sleeper, General, and I can keep awake too when necessary.”

The General smiled.

“Thank you, my dear Schmidt.”

It was the first time that he had spoken to Reinhold in the unceremonious manner usual from superior officers to their younger comrades. He had risen, and his usually stern glance rested with almost fatherly kindness on the young man who stood before him, colouring with pleasure and pride.

“And now go and amuse yourself for a little while with the young people; you are still young enough yourself, thank God. There comes my son, probably to fetch you.”

“Just so,” said Ottomar, who appeared hurriedly and excitedly in the doorway. “I apologise; but Elsa—”

“Off with you!” said the General.

Ottomar drew Reinhold away.

The General looked thoughtfully after the two young men.

“It is a pity,” he said, “but one cannot have everything at once, and if Ottomar—what do you want!”

“This letter has just been left.”

“A letter, now? How can that be?”

“The hall door is open, sir. The man who brought it said it was lucky, as otherwise he would have had to ring. It was very important.”

“Very odd!” said the General, contemplating the letter which he had taken from the servant.

It was a large, businesslike looking letter, and the direction was in a clerk’s hand.

“Very odd!” said the General again.

He had opened the letter mechanically and began to read it. What was this? He passed his hand over his eyes and looked again; but there it stood quite plain, in clear, bold words. His face became purple.

“Have you any orders, sir?” asked August, who was anxiously waiting.

“No, no! nothing, nothing! You can go,” murmured the General, as he put the letter down and pretended to fold it. But the servant had hardly left the room before he took it up again to read to the end. And then the strong man trembled from head to foot, while with a cautious glance around he quickly folded the letter, and tearing open his uniform, put it in his pocket.

“Unhappy boy!” he murmured.

X

The last carriage had driven away; the servants were arranging the rooms under Sidonie’s directions. Elsa, who generally spared her aunt all household cares, had withdrawn under pretext of feeling a little tired, that, in her quiet room, she might let the soft echoes of this happy evening die out of her heart, undisturbed by the clatter of chairs and tables. It had not needed that he should dance the Rheinländer so admirably; she would still have brought him in the cotillon the large blazing order which she had placed at the bottom of the basket, and which, when her turn came, she boldly and successfully drew out, and then with trembling hands fastened it beside the iron cross on his breast. Yes; her hands had trembled and her heart had fluttered as she had done the great deed, and then looked up in his sparkling eyes; but it was from happiness, from pure happiness and joy. And it was happiness and joy which now kept her awake, after she had laid her greatest treasures—the album with his portrait and the little compass—on the table by her bedside, and had extinguished the candle, which she lighted again in order to cast a glance at the box containing the compass, and to assure herself that “it was still faithful,” and “turned towards its master,” and then opened the album at the place at which it always opened, and looked at his portrait once more; no, not at the portrait—that was detestable—but at the inscription, “With all my heart,” and softly breathed a kiss upon it, and then quickly put the light out again, laid her head on the pillow, and sought in her dreams him to whom she was faithful waking and sleeping, and of whom she knew that he was faithful to her sleeping or waking.

Ottomar had also, as soon as the last guests were gone, retired, with a “Good night; I am tired to death; what has become of my father?” and had gone downstairs without waiting for the answer. In the passage leading to his room, he must pass his father’s door. He stood still for a moment. His father, who had gone downstairs a few minutes before, was doubtless still up, and Ottomar was accustomed under similar circumstances to knock and, at least, wish him good night through the open door. This evening he did not do so. “I am tired to death,” he repeated, as if he wished to apologise to himself for this breach of his usual habit.

But arrived in his room, he did not think of going to bed. It would have been useless so long as the blood coursed through his temples, “like mad,” said Ottomar, while he tore off and threw down his uniform with the cotillon orders, and tore open his waistcoat and cravat, and put on the first garment that he laid his hand upon—his shooting-coat—and stationed himself at the open window with a cigar.

The night was very fresh, but the cold did him good; a drizzling rain was falling from the black clouds, but he did not heed it; he stood there looking out into the dark autumn night, and smoking his cigar, confused thoughts whirling through his troubled brain, and the beating of the veins of his temples and the sighing of the wind in the trees prevented his hearing a twice-repeated knock at the door. He started like a criminal when he heard a voice at his ear. It was August.

“I beg pardon, sir. I knocked more than once.”

“What do you want?”

“The General begs you will go to him at once.”

“Is my father ill?”

August shook his head. “The General has not yet undressed, and does not look exactly ill, only a little—”

“Only a little what?”

The man scratched his head. “A little odd, sir. I think, sir, the General—”

“Confound you, will you speak out?”

August came a step nearer, and said in a whisper, “I think the General had a disagreeable letter a little while ago; it may have been about half-past eleven. I did not see the man who brought it, and Friedrich did not recognise him, and I believe he went away again immediately. But I was obliged to take the letter to the General myself, and the General made a curious face when he read the letter.”

“From a lady?”

August could not help smiling, in spite of his sincere anxiety for his young master.

“Oh no!” said he. “They look different, one finds that out by experience; an important looking letter.”

“Those infernal Jews!” muttered Ottomar. He could not understand what it meant; the next bill was only due in a week’s time; but what else in the world could it be? His father would be in an awful rage again. Well, he would only have to propose a few days earlier, if he must propose, were it only to put an end to these everlasting worries, which left a man no peace even to smoke his cigar quietly in his own room at night.

He tossed the cigar out of window. August had picked up his uniform coat, and was taking off the cotillon orders.

“What is that for?”

“Won’t you put on your uniform, sir?” asked August.

“Nonsense!” said Ottomar. “It would only—” He broke off; he could not say to August, “It would only make this tiresome business longer and more solemn.” “I shall simply tell my father that I do not mean to trouble him with these matters in future, but prefer to allow Wallbach finally to settle my affairs,” said he to himself, while August went before him along the passage with the lamp, the gaslights having been extinguished, and stopped at his father’s door.

“You may put the light down on the table and go to bed, and tell Friedrich to wake me at six o’clock.”

He had spoken louder than was necessary, and it struck him that his voice sounded strange, as if it were not his own voice. Of course it was only because the house was quite quiet, so quiet that he again heard the blood coursing through his temples, and the beating of his heart.

“Those infernal Jews!” he muttered again through his teeth as he knocked at the door.

“Come in!”

His father stood at his writing-table, above which a hanging lamp was burning. On the console before the looking-glass also the lamps were still burning. The room seemed disagreeably light and formal-looking, although it was exactly as Ottomar had always seen it, as long as he could remember. He had better have put on his uniform after all.

“I must apologise for my dress, father; I was just going to bed, and August seemed to think you were in such a hurry.”

His father remained standing at the table, leaning on one hand, with his back towards him, without answering. The silence lay like a mountain on Ottomar’s soul. With a great effort he shook off his vague dread.

“What do you want, father?”

“First that you should read this letter,” said the General, turning round slowly, and pointing to a paper that was spread out before him on the table.

“A letter to me?”

“In that case I should not have read it; and I have read it.”

He had stepped back from the table, and paced slowly up and down the room with his hands behind his back, while Ottomar, standing where his father had stood just before, without taking the letter in his hand—the handwriting was legible enough—read as follows:

“Honoured Sir—I trust your honour will forgive your humble servant, the undersigned, for venturing to call your honour’s attention to a circumstance which threatens seriously to endanger the welfare of your honoured family. It concerns the relations which have for some time subsisted between your son, Lieutenant von Werben, and the daughter of your neighbour, Herr Schmidt, the owner of the great marble-works. Your honour will excuse the undersigned from entering into details, with which he is thoroughly conversant, but which are better consigned to the obscurity in which the parties in question seek in vain to remain, and if the undersigned begs you to ask your son where, and in whose company he was this evening between eight and nine, it is only to prove to your honour how far the said relations have been carried.

“It would be both foolish and unpardonable to suppose that your honour is acquainted with all this, and has connived at it till your son is on the point of being betrothed to the daughter of an ultra-radical democrat. On the contrary, the undersigned can imagine beforehand the painful astonishment which your honour will experience on reading these lines; but, your honour, the undersigned has also been a soldier, and knows what military honour is, as indeed all his life long he has cherished it, and he cannot endure any longer to see the honour of such a brave officer so criminally trifled with behind his back, by him who more than any other appears called to protect that honour.

“The undersigned feels he need say no more in assertion of the great veneration with which he is of his honour and his honour’s whole family

“The obedient, humble servant.”

The General did not interrupt his son for some minutes, but as Ottomar still remained motionless, staring in front of him, his teeth pressing hard on his white lip, he stopped in his walk at the far end of the room, and asked:

“Have you any idea who wrote that letter?”

“No.”

“Have you the slightest suspicion that the lady whom it concerns—”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Ottomar impetuously.

“I beg your pardon, but I am under the painful necessity of asking questions, as you do not appear disposed to give me the explanations which I expected.”

“What am I to explain!” asked Ottomar half defiantly; “the thing is true.”

“Short and conclusive,” answered the General, “but not quite clear. At least, some points still require clearing up. Have you anything to reproach this lady with—I may call her so?”

“I must beg you to do so.”

“Well, then, have you anything in the least to reproach this lady with, which, setting aside outward circumstances of which we will speak later, could prevent you from bringing her into Elsa’s company? On your honour!”

“On my honour, nothing!”

“Do you know anything of her family, again setting aside outward circumstances, even the smallest fact, which would and ought to hinder any other officer who was not in your peculiar position from forming a connection with her family! On your honour!”

Ottomar hesitated a moment; he knew absolutely nothing dishonourable of Philip; he only had the inborn instinct of a gentleman against a man who, in his eyes, is not a gentleman; but he would have considered it cowardly to shelter himself behind this vague feeling.

“No!” said he moodily.

“You have acquainted the lady with your circumstances?”

“In a general way, yes.”

“Amongst other things, that you are disinherited if you marry a woman who is not of noble birth?”

“No.”

“That was somewhat imprudent; however, I can understand it. But in a general way you say that she is aware of the difficulties which, under the most favourable circumstances, must stand in the way of a union between you and her?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever let her perceive that you have neither the will nor the power to remove these difficulties?”

“No.”

“Rather have allowed her to believe, have probably assured her that you can and will set aside these obstacles?”

“Yes.”

“Then you will marry her.”

Ottomar started like a horse touched by the spur. He had felt that this must and would be the end; and yet, as the words were spoken, his pride chafed against the pressure put upon his heart even by his own father. And in the background lurked again ghostlike the horrid sensation that he had had in the park; that he was weaker than she who so confidingly nestled in his arms. Was he to be always the weaker, always to follow, whether he would or no, always to have his path traced out for him by others?

“Never!” burst from him.

“How! never!” said the General. “Surely I am not speaking to a headstrong boy who breaks the toy that he no longer cares about, but to an officer and a gentleman who is accustomed to keep his word strictly.”

Ottomar felt that he must give a reason, or at least the shadow of a reason.

“I mean,” he said, “that I cannot make up my mind to take a step in one direction that would compel me to do wrong in another.”

“I think I understand your position,” said the General; “it is not an agreeable one, but a man who pays attention in so many quarters should be prepared for the consequences. I must, however, do you the justice of admitting that I begin now to understand your behaviour to Fräulein von Wallbach, and that I only find wanting in it that consistency to which you have unfortunately never accustomed me on any point. In my opinion it was your duty to draw back once for all, the instant that your heart became seriously engaged in another direction. No doubt, considering our intimate acquaintance with the Wallbachs, this would have been extremely difficult and disagreeable, still a man may be deceived in his feelings, and society accepts such changes of mind and their practical consequences, provided everything is done at the right time and in a proper manner. How you are now to draw back, without bringing upon yourself and us the most serious embarrassment, I do not know; I only know that it must be done. Or have you carried your misconduct to its highest point and bound yourself here as you are bound there?”

“I am bound to Fräulein von Wallbach by nothing that the whole world has not seen; by no word that the whole world has not heard, or might not have heard, and my feelings for her have been from the first as undecided—”

“As your behaviour. Let us say no more about it, then; let us rather face the situation into which you have brought yourself, and deduce the consequences. The first is, that you have destroyed your diplomatic career—you cannot appear at the Court of St. Petersburg or any other court with a wife of low birth; the second, that you must exchange into another regiment, as you would never see the last of the collisions and rubs that must happen to you in your present regiment if you had a Fräulein Schmidt for your wife; the third, that if the lady does not bring you a fortune, or at least a very considerable addition to your means, you will have for the future to live in a very different way from what you have been hitherto accustomed to, and one which I fear will not be in accordance with your tastes; the fourth consequence is, that in forming this connection, were it as honourable in one sense as I wish and hope it may be, you will, according to the literal words of the will, lose all right to your inheritance. I mention this only in order to put the whole matter clearly before you.”

Ottomar knew that his father had not said everything, that he had been generously silent with regard to the five-and-twenty thousand thalers which he had in the course of the last few years paid for his son’s debts, that is to say, all but a small remnant of his own property, and that he could not soon repay his father the money as he had fully intended to do; perhaps would never be able to repay it. His father would then only have his pay, and later his pension, to depend upon, and he had often spoken lately of retiring.

His eyes, which in his confusion had sought the ground, now turned timidly towards his father, who, as before, slowly paced up and down the room. Was it the light, or was it that he looked at him more closely than usual? his father seemed to him aged by ten years, for the first time he looked like an old man. With the feelings of respect and affection that he had always entertained towards him were mixed a sensation almost of pity; he would have liked to throw himself at his feet, and clasping his knees, to cry: “Forgive me the sins I have committed against you!” But he felt rooted to the spot; his limbs would not obey him, or go the way he wished; his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth; he could utter nothing but: “You have still Elsa!”

The General had remained standing before the life-sized pictures of his parents, which adorned one of the walls; an officer of rank in the uniform worn in the war of liberation, and a lady, still young, in the dress of that time, who strikingly resembled Elsa about the forehead and eyes.

“Who knows?” said he.

He passed his hand over his forehead.

“It is late; two o’clock; and tomorrow will have its cares also. Will you be so good as to extinguish the gaslight above you? Have you got a light outside!”

“Yes, father.”

“Good night, then.”

He had himself extinguished the lamp in front of the looking-glass and taken up the other one. “You may go.”

Ottomar longed to ask for his hand, but he dared not, and with a good night that sounded defiant, because he was ready to burst into tears, he moved towards the door. His father stopped at the door of his bedroom: “One thing more! I had forgotten to say that I reserve to myself the right of taking the next step. As you have delayed so long in taking the initiative, you will not refuse to grant me this favour. I shall of course keep you au courant. I beg that you will meantime take no step without my knowledge. We must at least act in concert, now we have come to an understanding.”

He said the last words with a sort of melancholy smile that cut Ottomar to the heart. He could bear it no longer and rushed out of the room.

The General also had his hand on the door; but when Ottomar had disappeared he drew it back, carried the lamp to the writing-table, and took out a casket in which he kept, amongst other ornaments of little value that had belonged to his dead wife and his mother, the iron rings that his parents had worn during the war of liberation.

He took out the rings.

“Times have altered,” he said, “not improved. What, ah! what has become of your piety, your dutifulness, your chaste simplicity, your holy self-sacrifice? I have honestly endeavoured to emulate you, to be the worthy son of a race that knew no fame but the courage of its men and the virtue of its women. How have I sinned that I should be so punished?”

He kissed the rings and laid them in the casket; and took from amongst several miniatures on ivory, one of a beautiful brown-eyed, brown-haired boy about six years old.

He gazed long and immovably at it.

“The male line of the Werbens would die out with him, and—he was my darling. Perhaps I am punished because I was so unspeakably proud of him.”

XI

“Why did my brother ring for his coffee at four o’clock!” asked Aunt Rikchen in the kitchen.

“I do not know,” answered Grollmann.

“You never do know anything,” said Aunt Rikchen. Grollmann shrugged his shoulders, took the tray on which the second breakfast was prepared for his master and left the room, but came back in a few minutes and set down the tray, as he had taken it away, on the dresser.

“Well?” asked Aunt Rikchen irritably, “is it wrong again?”

“My master is asleep,” said Grollmann.

Aunt Rikchen in her astonishment almost dropped the coffeepot from which she had just poured Reinhold’s coffee. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “how can my brother sleep at this hour! He has never in his whole life done such a thing before. Is he ill?”

“I don’t think so,” said Grollmann.

“Has anything happened this morning?”

“This morning, no.”

“Or yesterday evening?” asked Aunt Rikchen, whose sharp ears had detected the short pause which Grollmann had made between “this morning” and “no.”

“I suppose so,” said Grollmann, staring before him, while the wrinkles in his weather-beaten face seemed to deepen every moment.

“Miserable man, tell me at once!” exclaimed Aunt Rikchen, seizing the old man by the arm and shaking him, as if she wished to shake his secret out of him.

“I know nothing,” said Grollmann, freeing himself; “is the coffee ready for the Captain?”

“Why does my nephew want it in his room today?” asked Aunt Rikchen.

“I don’t know,” answered Grollmann, slipping away with the coffee, as he had done before with the breakfast-tray.

“He is a horrid man,” said Aunt Rikchen; “he will be the death of me some day, with his mysteries. He shall tell me when he comes back.”

But Grollmann did not come back, although Aunt Rikchen almost tore down the bell-rope. Aunt Rikchen was very angry, and would have been furious if she had heard Grollmann relating above to Reinhold unasked, with the minutest details, what he would not have told her for any money.

“For you see, sir,” said Grollmann, “she is so good in other respects, Fräulein Frederike; but what she knows she must tell, sooner or later, if it cost her her life; and the master cannot bear that, especially from his sister, and we are the sufferers.”

“What did happen?” asked Reinhold.

“This was it,” said the old man. “About twelve o’clock last night he came back from the second meeting of the manufacturers; I lighted him to his room, as usual, turned up the lamps in his study, and went into his bedroom to shut the windows, which always stay open till he goes to bed, winter and summer; and there, close to the window, on the floor, lay, what I took at first for a piece of paper, till I took it up and found that it was a regular letter, which somebody must have thrown in from the street, and the small stone that had been fastened to it by a bit of packthread lay close by. I hesitated for a minute or two whether I would not hide the letter, without saying anything to the master, till it occurred to me that the letter might possibly be from a friend, and contain information of something which the master ought to know—a fire, an attempt at murder, or God knows what, of which the rabble are quite capable; so I took it in to the master and told him where and how I had just found it. The master just looked at the address and said: ‘That is written in a disguised hand; I will have nothing to do with it; throw it into the fire.’ But I urged him so that he at length gave way and opened the letter. The master was standing at one side of the table and I at the other, and of course I could see his face while he was reading; and I was terribly alarmed, for the blood rushed to his head, and the hand in which he held the letter trembled so, that I thought, begging your pardon, that he was going to have a fit. But it passed off; the master only let fall the letter and said: ‘It is nonsense; I knew it before. They will not burn the house over our heads; you may go to bed in peace.’ I went, but I was not in peace, and was not much surprised when the master rang for me this morning at half-past three—he is always particularly early when he has had any trouble or annoyance in the evening, or if he has anything in particular on his mind. This time it must have been something very bad; the master was in exactly the same dress in which he had come home yesterday evening, and the bed had not been touched. On the other hand, the bottle of wine which I always put in his room at night, and out of which he generally drinks only a glass or two, sometimes nothing at all, was empty to the very last drop; and he looked so wild and strange that I was naturally alarmed, and asked the same question that the Fräulein asked just now, if he was ill. He denied it however, said he had been very much vexed yesterday evening, and added something about the gentlemen who would not hear reason and were going to spoil all by their cowardice, and so on; but it all sounded confused and strange, as if, begging your pardon, he were not quite right in his head. I asked him if he would sleep now for a few hours, and was relieved when he lay down on the sofa and let me cover him up, saying, ‘I wish to be woke at half-past eight, Grollmann.’ And at half-past eight I went back again, but the coverlet lay on the ground near the sofa, and I saw at a glance that the master had not slept a minute. He had however washed and dressed himself, and now looked very ill. He said he had not been able to sleep, and had no time now. He wanted his breakfast in half an hour; at ten he had to be at another meeting, to which the workmen were going to send delegates. ‘I promised to be there,’ he said, ‘though I had rather not go; I might meet someone there whom I had rather not meet today.’ I did not dare to ask who the someone was, but I thought to myself, I am glad it is not me, for he gave a look, Captain, that filled me with terror. If he would only go to sleep now, thought I to myself, for while he was speaking he had sat down on the sofa and stared before him as if he were half asleep already. Well, Captain, and sure enough when I went in just now with the breakfast, quite quietly, he was sitting asleep in the corner of the sofa. For heaven’s sake, let him sleep, thought I, slipping gently out of the room with my breakfast; and now I only ask, Captain, shall I wake him when it is time, or shall I let him sleep? He wants it, God knows.”

“Let him sleep, Grollmann,” said Reinhold, after a short pause; “I will take the blame on myself.”

“He won’t blame you,” said Grollmann, passing his hand through his grey hair; “he thinks too much of you; I will risk it.”

“Do so,” said Reinhold, “on my authority, and do not trouble yourself any more about it. I am convinced that your first idea was correct, and that it was a threatening letter. You know my uncle; he fears nothing.”

“God knows it,” said Grollmann.

“But it has vexed and excited him still more, when he had already come back vexed and excited from the meeting. These are troublesome times for him, which must be gone through. We must be prepared for bad days till the good ones come again.”

“If they ever do come,” said Grollmann.

The old man had left the room; Reinhold tried to return to the work he had begun, but he could not collect his thoughts. He had tried to comfort the old man, yet he himself now felt uneasy and troubled.

If his uncle did not learn to moderate himself, if he continued to look and to treat in this passionately tragical way an affair which, near as it lay to his heart, was in fact a matter of business and must be considered from a sober, businesslike point of view, the bad days might indeed last long, inconveniently long, for all concerned—“to whom I myself belong now,” said Reinhold.

He stood up and went to the window. It was a raw, disagreeable day. From the low-hanging clouds was falling a fine, cold rain; the tall trees rustled in the wind, and withered leaves were driven through the grey mist. How different had it looked when a few days ago—it was only a very few, though it seemed to him an eternity—he had looked down here one morning, for the first time. The sky had been such a lovely blue, and white clouds had stood in that blue sky so still, it seemed as if they could not weary of contemplating the beautiful sun-lighted earth, on which men, surrounded, indeed, by the smoke of chimneys and distracted by the noise of wheels and saws, must earn their bread in the sweat of their brow, though the sun shone brightly and the birds sang cheerily in the thick branches—that earth on which there was so much pleasure, and love, and blessed hope, even in the heart of a poor blind girl, and a thousand times more for him who saw all this beauty spread out before him, doubly glorious in the reflection of the love which shone and glittered through his heart as the sun through the dewdrops on the leaves. And because the sun was now for a time hidden behind a cloud, was all the glory passed away? Because a few hundred idle men had cast their tools from their horny hands, must everyone feel life a burden, and refuse to carry that burden any longer? No; a thousand times no! The sun will shine again; the men will return to their duty; and you, happy man—thrice happy man—for whom the sun shines in spite of all in your innermost heart, return to your work, which for you is no hard duty, but rather a joy and an honour.

Reinhold greeted with eyes and hand the neighbouring house, one window of which he had long ago discovered between the branches of the plane trees, which he watched more eagerly than any star; and then hoped that Ferdinanda, whom he suddenly perceived in the garden, would take his greeting to herself if she had seen him.

She could hardly have seen the greeting, and could not even have seen him at the window as she walked up and down between the shrubs, under the rustling trees, without appearing to notice the rain which was falling on her. At any rate she was without hat, without umbrella, in her working dress, without even a shawl; sometimes standing still and gazing up into the driving clouds, then walking on again, her eyes turned to the ground, evidently sunk in the deepest thought.

“Curious people, those artists,” thought Reinhold, while he seated himself again at his work. “What a fool you were to think that her heart could beat for any creature of flesh or blood, or, indeed, for anything but her Reaping Girl and Boy, if she has a heart at all.”

In the meantime Grollmann was standing undecided at the top of the staircase, before the door leading to his master’s room.

His conscience was not quite satisfied by Reinhold’s assurance that he would take the responsibility on himself, if the master overslept himself. Should he go downstairs? should he go in? He must make up his mind; it was a quarter past nine. “If only something would occur to oblige me to wake him,” said Grollmann.

At that moment he heard the door open on the lower floor, and someone came up the stairs. Grollmann looked over the banisters; an officer—a general—the old General from over the way. “That is curious,” thought Grollmann, and stood at attention, as was fitting in an old servant who had been a soldier.

The General had come up the stairs. “I wish to speak to Herr Schmidt; will you announce me?”

“It is not exactly his hour for receiving,” said Grollmann; “and—”

“Perhaps he will receive me, however, if you tell him that I have come on most important business; here is my card.”

“It is not necessary, General. I have the honour, General—”

“Take the card, all the same.”

Grollmann held the card undecided in his hand; but, if the business was so important—and he could not very well send a general unceremoniously away. “Will you excuse me a minute. General?”

The old man slipped through the door. The General looked gloomily around on the broad carpeted marble steps with their gilt banisters, on the dark, gilded folding-doors which led on three sides out of the gallery in which he stood, while the fourth wall, in which was the window, was decorated with magnificent plants; on the polished stucco walls, on the richly decorated ceiling.

“I wish the man lived in a plainer house,” murmured the General.

“Will you step this way, sir?” Grollmann had his hand on the door. “He has not slept all night,” he whispered, as if he must apologise for his master, who would probably not do so for himself.

“I have not slept either,” answered the General with a melancholy smile, as he walked with a firm, quiet step through the door, which the old man now opened and shut after him.

XII

The two men stood opposite one another, each measuring the other’s strength, like two athletes who are about to fight to the death, and yet cannot resist admiring each other’s noble appearance, and thinking that whichever falls will have succumbed to a worthy adversary. And yet the General had all the time the sensation that, strong and powerful as was the man who stood before him, he himself was in that moment the more composed, the calmer, and therefore the stronger. He saw it in the sullen fire that smouldered in the man’s eyes, in the trembling of the hand with which he pointed to a chair; he heard it in the deep voice which now said: “I did not expect your visit, General; but it does not surprise me.”

“I conjectured as much,” answered the General; “and it is for that reason that you see me here. I thought that every hour which passed unused by us, would diminish the probability of a friendly arrangement of the affair which brings me to you, as it would leave time for the miserable writer of this letter to spread his poison further and further. May I venture to give you the disagreeable task of reading this document?”

“Will you at the same time take the trouble of casting a glance at this production?”

The two men exchanged the letters which they had received. That which the General now read with calm attention, ran thus:

“This then is the man who dismisses his workpeople because they have not kept their word, as he says. Does he then keep his, he whose mouth is always full of the words liberty, equality, and fraternity; and boasts that he alone has held firmly by the old democratic flag of ’48, and who now shuts his eyes while his son buys estates and builds palaces with the money he has stolen from honest people, and while his daughter runs after an officer of the Guards, who has a new mistress every six months, and leads the wildest of lives, but who will ultimately make Fräulein Schmidt into Frau von Werben? Or does Herr Schmidt know this? does he wish this? It is not unlike the great man of progress; for to think one thing and speak another, and to speak one thing and act another, has always been the practice of these gentlemen, which they carry on till at last someone finds them out and stops their dirty work, as in this case is resolved by one who is determined to stop at nothing.”

The General gave back the letter and received his own.

“The man does not seem to have thought it necessary to put on any mask with you,” said the General, “except in the handwriting.”

“Which, however, I recognised at the first glance,” answered Uncle Ernst; “it is that of a certain Roller, who was for several years overseer at my works, till I was obliged a few days ago to dismiss him for disobedience, under the circumstances to which he alludes at the commencement of his letter.”

“I had heard of it,” said the General, “and that explains sufficiently the man’s brutal vindictiveness; and as for the way in which he has discovered what has up to this moment been a secret to both of us, we should not wish to follow him there if we could. Let us therefore set that point aside. Another appears to me more important. This man has not attempted to conceal his handwriting in the letter which he has written to me; he evidently concluded, therefore, that we should not communicate with one another.”

The General, at these words, raised his eyes, as if accidentally; but his glance was sharp and piercing as that of the commander of a battery counting the seconds as he looks out for the spot to which the first shot shall be directed.

“That is the only point on which he and I agree,” said Uncle Ernst.

His voice, which had become calmer, trembled again, and he had cast down his eyes. The General saw that it would probably be easy for him to provoke an explanation which would relieve him from all further explanation on his part, but he had laid his plan, point by point, and he was accustomed to carry his plans out. He said therefore:

“Before I proceed further, will you kindly allow me to give you a slight description of my views, socially and morally, and of the situation in which I and my family are placed? Imagine, I beg of you, that this is necessary for some unimportant purpose, that I must speak and you must listen, although the one had rather be silent and the other had rather not hear.”

The General gave Herr Schmidt no time to deny him the desired permission, but continued, without pausing:

“I am descended from a very old family, and can trace my descent authentically through many generations, though we appear never to have been rich, and for the last two centuries must reckon ourselves as belonging to the poorer, not to say to the poor nobility. It is no doubt a consequence of this poverty that the male descendants of the family, which was never very widespread, and has often depended only on one life, have almost without exception passed their lives at Court, and in attendance on their princes, particularly the military ones, and even the women have often devoted themselves to the service of their princesses. I consider it again as a result of this consequence, that fidelity to their liege lords, or, to express it in modern language, devotion to the royal family, the feeling of duty, and the obligation of showing themselves grateful for favours received, have been handed down and held from generation to generation in my family as their dearest, and often as their only heritage; the almost countless names of the Werbens in the annals of war and in the army lists, the names of the many who have fallen honourably and nobly before the enemy, are a proof of this.

“And as it usually happens in old families that the children who have been brought up by their parents in the same ideas in which the latter were brought up by their parents, and not only in the same ideas, but also in the same habits, morally, socially, and professionally, resemble their parents, both bodily and mentally, more than is the case under other circumstances, and this resemblance is at first looked upon as a curiosity, and then, after the fashion of mankind, as an advantage, so it has been with us. I know that this family pride is in the eyes of others laughable, if not wrong. I have no intention of justifying it; I have, as I told you at first, no other object than to give you an insight into the innermost life and habits of the family from which I descend, and thus to facilitate the explanation of certain peculiarities of character and of the rule by which I regulate and have regulated what I do or leave undone in all cases, as, for example, in the following:

“One of my two sisters—there are three of us—married to a rich landed proprietor, had the misfortune to have been mistaken in her choice, and committed the fault of bearing her unhappiness unworthily, and even of making it an excuse for a passion which she conceived for a man whom she had met abroad, and who was wanting, not only in noble birth, but also in all those virtues and qualities which I require in every man whom I am to respect. Death brought about the separation to which my brother-in-law had refused his consent. His large property was to descend to my children. After long resistance and deep consideration, in order not to embitter the unhappy man’s dying hours, I accepted the half for my children, under the same conditions which were imposed upon my sister for the possession of the other half, namely, that the inheritance should pass from her if she ever made a marriage contrary to the traditions of our family; I mean a marriage with a man not of noble birth. I may mention, by-the-way, that I myself had and have no resources but my pay, with the exception of what, to modern ideas, is a very small sum which I have saved out of that pay in the course of years. Even that small portion I no longer possess. My son has not inherited my economical habits; perhaps the spirit of the times, which is so unfavourable to the moderation which was recommended to us old people as the highest virtue is in fault. Perhaps I myself made a mistake when I allowed him to enter a regiment in which, as matters stand now, all the officers should be rich men; enough that my son has incurred debts which I have paid as long as it was in my power. For the reasons before mentioned, I can do this no longer, and I have unfortunately cause to suspect that my son’s position is a very precarious one if he loses the revenues of the inheritance on which he entered a year and a half ago. There would result for him from a marriage contrary to the habits of his rank and the traditions of his family, other more or less great worldly disadvantages which I will pass over, as my intention is only to point out to you in a general way our moral and financial situation; to suggest the sensations with which I read that letter; and lastly, to denote the course of the conversation which I had last night with my son immediately after the receipt of the letter, and which led to the result which I will now, with your permission, communicate to you.”

“I am sorry to be obliged to interrupt you, General,” said Uncle Ernst. “If you thought it right to justify beforehand the result of your considerations, whatever it may be, I think I may reasonably claim for myself the same favour. I might possibly be suspected of having formed my resolution consequently upon yours. The possibility of this suspicion would be unbearable to me; I shall avoid it if you will allow me to state my circumstances as clearly as you have just done yours; the conclusion will follow naturally.”

“I cannot refuse,” said the General; “though I should have wished that you would allow me to add the few important words which I still have to say. I have a conviction that it would be better for all parties.”

“I must insist, however, on my request,” said Uncle Ernst.

The General had again fixed his clear, steady glance on his opponent. His plans were crossed. “I ought to have proceeded more rapidly,” said he to himself, “now I shall be forced to take the defensive, and the attack will apparently be hot enough.”

“Pray proceed,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Uncle Ernst did not answer immediately; when the General was announced, he had determined to be calm; and while the General was speaking he had constantly repeated this determination. He knew that he should have remained so if he had found the haughty aristocrat whom he expected, if the aristocrat had from the first explained to him with cold scorn, or with brutal warmth, that a union between his son and a girl of low birth was not to be thought of, and that he must request the father in future to keep his daughter under better control, if he wished to avoid scandal, and more to the same effect. But he had been deceived in his expectations. All that the man brought forward were only circumstances, explanations, insulting enough in reality, but the manner was courteous, was meant to be courteous, and he for his part was forced to swallow and choke down these polite insults with no less politeness. He was really half choked. And it was just this that threatened to deprive the passionate man of the last remains of his calm, that forced him to be silent for a few minutes longer, till he had so far subdued his raging heart, that he could at least preserve outward composure, and not betray himself by his first words. And now for it!

“I have no family history to relate, even briefly, General. In the ordinary sense of the word, I have no family to speak of at all; I do not even know who my grandfather was. My father never spoke of him; he appears to have had no reason to be proud of his father. My father was proud, but only of himself, of his herculean strength, of his untiring energy, of his dauntless courage. My father was the owner of a river boat: if an opportunity occurred at the bursting of a dyke to risk his life for that of others, or in the times of the French War to carry a dangerous message, or to undertake anything which no one else would undertake, my father did it, and carried it out. He was as passionate as he was proud. When the superintendent of dykes, a man of high rank, on one occasion had a quarrel with him and ventured to lay his hand upon him, my father knocked him down on the spot, and paid for his violence by a year’s imprisonment.

“It seems that even people of no family have a right to talk of hereditary virtues and vices. My brother, the father of my nephew, who has the honour to be known to General von Werben, appeared to have inherited only the virtues; an intelligent, prudent, brave man, who left his home early, in order to seek his fortunes in the wide world, and died many years ago in the exercise of his calling as captain of a mail steamer at Hamburg. I, on the contrary, had inherited, besides the few advantages of which my father could boast, nearly all his weaknesses; I was proud, arrogant, haughty, and passionate, like him. I have never been able to understand how men could endure any restraint which they were able to throw off, I mean an unjust restraint, which does not necessarily result from the nature of man, such as sickness or death, or from the nature of society, such as law and order, but which one set of men have exercised over another, from arbitrariness, avarice or hard-heartedness, and which the others have borne out of stupidity, denseness or cowardice. I have therefore always instinctively hated the rule of kings and princes as an institution which only suits a people that is yet in its infancy, or a worn-out and aged people, but which must be rejected with horror by a strong nation, conscious of its strength; and I have especially hated the nobility as the refuse and chips of the material from which the idol is made; and I have hated all institutions which in principle tend towards royalty and nobility. To endure as little as possible of these restraints, to place myself in a position in which I could live according to my convictions, has been, as long as I can remember, the most absorbing passion of my mind. That I have not remained as ignorant as I came out of the village school, that I have worked my way up from my position as cabin-boy and steersman to be a man of property, I may thank that passion. It ran a little wild at first, before reason came to its aid and showed it ends to which it could attain, instead of the unattainable ones for which it struggled in its first heat; for instance, a free commonwealth, a republic of equal men, not enslaved or dishonoured by the exemptions or privileges of any one man.”

Uncle Ernst paused; he must once more conquer the stream that rushed roaring and raging from his heart to his brain. He must remain calm, now especially.

Outside the rain was falling, a dull twilight reigned in the room.

The General sat, his head resting on his hand, sunk in thought. There could only be a question now of an honourable retreat; the how would settle itself.

“Proceed, I beg!” said he.

“A day came,” continued Uncle Ernst, “when this ideal appeared no longer to float in the clouds, but to be ready to descend upon the earth. I regret deeply to have to awaken recollections which must be painful and bitter to you, General; but I cannot unfortunately avoid it, as you will see.

“On the 18th of March I had been directing, in the heart of the Königsstadt, the erection of some barricades, against which, because they were in reality made with greater art and upon a settled plan, and also no doubt were better defended, the might of our opponents failed, in spite of the obstinacy and bitterness with which they fought, especially here, under the command of an officer whose fearless courage must have excited the most sluggish to emulation. In fact he constantly exposed himself almost as if he wished to meet death. He would undoubtedly have found it here and in this hour had not our people been miserable marksmen, who could only fire into the mass, but invariably missed any single object. There was only one good marksman behind the barricade; that one was the leader, myself. The wild duck that swift as an arrow bursts through the sedges on the bank, had not been safe from my gun, and the officer sat for a full minute as quietly on his horse, in the midst of the hottest shower of balls, as if man and horse had been carved in stone. More than once was my rifle pointed; I said to myself that I must kill the officer, that this one man was more dangerous to the cause for which I was fighting than whole regiments; in fact that he was the personification of the cause for which he fought. I could not make up my mind. It was doubtless the respect that one brave man has for another—this time to my cost, for I was convinced that this man, if ever I were in his power, would kill me without mercy, like a poisonous snake; and he confirmed my expectations. The battalion that he commanded was ordered to retire; I saw that he exchanged warm words with the officer who brought the order; I fancied I could see that he debated within himself whether he should or should not obey the command, which he considered at once as stupid and disgraceful—and from his point of view rightly; we could not have held out five minutes longer. Military discipline conquered; he rode close in front of the barricade, and said, while he thrust his sword into the scabbard: ‘I have orders to retire; if it depended upon me I would overthrow you all and put every man of you to the sword.’ Then he turned his horse and rode back at a foot’s pace. Even death by a shot from behind had no terrors for him in this moment. A few balls did indeed whistle past him, but the bullets which had spared his brave breast did not touch his back.”

Uncle Ernst was once more silent. The room had become almost dark; the drizzling mist had turned into heavy rain; the large drops beat against the windowpanes, and the clock on the chimneypiece ticked loudly.

The General had leaned his head heavily on his hand, and he did not raise it while he said, as before, in a curiously low, almost broken voice:

“Go on, I beg!”

“The battle was at an end here; but from the centre of the town was still heard the thunder of cannon and rattle of musketry. I hastened to the spot where there seemed to be still something to do. I had to cross the Königsstrasse if I did not wish to go a long way round; I made the attempt, although I was told that it was in the hands of the troops already almost as far as the Alexanderplatz. My attempt failed; a quarter of an hour later I was a prisoner in the cellars of the King’s palace.

“I pass over the horrors of that night; a man must have experienced it, when the close poisonous air, around the hundreds that were huddled together, seemed to transform itself into grinning devils, which whispered and mocked ceaselessly: ‘In vain! in vain! Fool, fool! The cause for which you fought is hopelessly lost—lost! A man must have experienced that!

“About four o’clock we were led away, driven, hunted to Spandau. My strength was not yet broken, but weaker men gave way. Near me was a pale youth, a delicate young student, in spectacles. He had held out bravely as long as he could, but he could bear no more. Though he clenched his teeth, the tears would burst forth when a blow in the back from the butt-end of a musket forced him to exertions of which he was no longer capable. Blood flowed from his eyes and mouth; I could no longer bear the sight of his sufferings, I rushed forward, throwing down all before me, towards an officer who rode alongside, and cried to him: ‘If you are a man do not suffer such unmanly cruelties to be perpetrated close to you!’ I was frantic; I believe I had seized his horse by the bridle. The officer may have thought it was a personal attack; he spurred his horse which reared and threw me down. I started up again immediately: ‘If you are a man!’ I cried again, once more throwing myself before him. ‘Democrat!’ and he gnashed his teeth, ‘then die if you will have it so!’ He raised himself in his stirrups, his sword whistled over me. My broad-brimmed hat and my thick hair lessened the force of the blow, but I sank on my knee, and for a moment lost consciousness. It could only have been a moment. The next I stood there again, determined to sell my life dearly, when another officer hastened up, bringing a message to the first, an order—I do not know what—on which the latter, exclaiming ‘Is it possible?’ turned his horse. At that moment the moon, which had been hidden behind black clouds, shone out; by its light I recognised distinctly in the officer my opponent at the barricade. He galloped away. ‘We shall meet for the third time!’ I cried after him, while I was forced back into the ranks with blows; ‘perhaps it will be my turn then, and’—I swore a deep oath—‘then I will not again spare you.’

“Since that night four and twenty years have passed; I have seen the officer often and often; naturally he did not know me; I should have known him among millions. Since that time our hair and beards have grown grey; I swear to God that I wished and hoped that that third time would be spared me. It was not to be; he and I now stand here for the third time face to face.”

Both men had risen in their excitement. Neither dared to look at the other; each shrank from saying the next word. The heavy drops rattled against the windows; the clock on the chimneypiece prepared to strike. The General knew the word that was to come as well as he knew the hour that was about to strike; still it must be spoken.

“And now,” he said, “for the conclusion; I think it is my turn.”

Uncle Ernst looked up, like a lion whose victim has stirred again; the General answered his dark and threatening glance by a melancholy smile, and his deep voice sounded almost soft as he continued:

“It seems to me that we have exchanged the parts which are usually taken by the man of the people and the aristocrat. The man of the people remembers minutely a wrong that was done him a generation back, and has forgiven nothing; the aristocrat has not indeed forgotten, but he has learnt to forgive. Or do you think that he has nothing to forgive? You said one must have experienced what you did on that night, in order to understand it. Well! can you, on the other hand, place yourself in the position of a man who saw, on that night, all that he held honourable and holy, all for which he had lived and for which his ancestors had shed their blood, fall to pieces in shameful ruin, and chaos take its place? But he has learnt more than merely to forgive; he has learnt to value the good qualities of his opponents wherever he can find them; he has learnt no longer to shut his eyes to the weaknesses of his own party; he has seen that the struggle must be fought out on different ground, on the ground of right and justice, and that the victory will remain with that party which understands how to seize first on this ground and to take the strongest root. For this reason the excesses committed by his party find no more inflexible judge than himself; for this reason he demands that everyone shall be in private life an example and pattern of conduct and morals, and shall act justly, let it cost him what it will. What it has cost me to make this advance to you today, you must leave me to decide with myself and with my God—it is more and less than you can understand. Enough that I am here, and ask you to forgive my son, if on this matter, from a false, culpable, but not unnatural regard to the circumstances in which he is born, he has allowed himself to deviate from the straight road that led him to the father of the woman he loved. I ask you not to let the children suffer because the fathers have stood face to face with weapons in their hands; I ask you, in the name of my son, for your daughter’s hand for my son.”

Uncle Ernst started back like a traveller before whom a piece of rock falls, blocking his path, while the precipice gapes near him, and no return is possible.

Without, the storm raged; the clock struck the hour of ten. Uncle Ernst collected himself; the rock must be removed—it must!

“I have sworn that this hand shall wither sooner than that it shall touch the hand of General von Werben.”

“But hardly by the God of goodness and mercy?”

“I have sworn it.”

“Then remember what is written, ‘That man is like the grass, that today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven.’ We are neither of us any longer young; who knows how soon the morrow will come for us?”

“May it come soon, is my wish!”

“Mine also, perhaps, but till then? Remember that the father’s blessing builds the children’s house; but that we have no power to loose the bonds of two hearts that have found one another without our help—perhaps against our wish and will. Consider that the responsibility of the curse which must ensue from these unhallowed bonds henceforth rests on your head.”

“I have considered it.”

“And I have done my duty.”

The General bowed in his usual stately and dignified manner, and moved, courteously escorted by Uncle Ernst, towards the door. There he stood still:

“One thing more; the failure of consent on the part of the fathers hinders a marriage at least in this case, in which a portionless officer is the suitor. None the less will my son consider himself bound till your daughter herself releases him. I take it for granted that your daughter will not do this, unless her father exercises compulsion over her.”

“I take it for granted also that General von Werben has exercised no compulsion on his son, in obtaining authority from the latter to make the proposal with which he has just honoured me.”

The stern eyes flashed, he had his opponent in his grasp; the crisis must come now. A look of pain passed over the General’s face.

“The supposition would not be quite correct; the sense of duty was stronger in the father than in the son.”

He was gone. The wild fire in the eyes of him who remained behind had changed to a joyful gleam.

“I knew it! The brood are always the same, however they may boast of their virtue. Down! down! down with them!”

He stood there, bending forward, moving his powerful arms, as if his enemy in reality lay at his feet. Then he drew himself up. His arms sank, the gleam disappeared from his eyes. The victory was not his yet; another struggle was before him, the hardest, the struggle with his own flesh and blood.

XIII

For Ferdinanda the night had had no terrors, the morning no darkness. In her soul was brightest day, for the first time for many months; for the first time, indeed, she thought, since she knew what a passionate, proud, ambitious heart beat in her bosom. They had often told her—in former days, her mother; later, her aunt, her friends, all—that it would one day bring her unhappiness, and that pride went before a fall; and she had always answered scornfully, “Then I will be unhappy; I will fall, if happiness is only to be had at the mean price of humility, which always grovels in the dust before fate, and sings hymns of praise if the wheels of envious fate have only grazed and not crushed her. I am not like Justus or Cilli.”

And she had been unhappy, even in the hours when the enthusiastic artists—Justus’s friends—had done homage in unmeasured terms to the blooming beauty of the young girl; when these men praised her talents, told her she was on the right road to become an artist; finally, that she was an artist—a true artist. She did not believe them; and if she really were an artist, there were so many greater ones—even Justus’s hand reached so much higher and further than hers; laughing, and apparently without trouble, he gathered fruits for which she strove with the most intense effort, and which, as she secretly acknowledged to herself, must always be beyond her reach.

She had told her woes to that great French artist, on whom her beauty had made such an overpowering expression. He had for some time only put her off with courteous and smiling words; at last he had said seriously:

“Mademoiselle, there is only one highest happiness for woman, and that is love; and there is only one talent in which no man can equal her—that is again love.”

The words had crushed her; her artistic talent was then only a childish dream, and love! Yes, she knew that she could love—unspeakably, boundlessly! But the man was still to be found who could awaken that love to its heavenward soaring flame; and woe to her when she found him! He would not comprehend her love, he would not realise it, and he would certainly be unable to return it; perhaps would shrink back before its fire, and she would be more unhappy than before.

And was not this gloomy foreboding already sadly fulfilled? Had she not already felt herself unspeakably unhappy in her love for him who had come to her as if sent from heaven—as if he himself were one of the heavenly ones? Had she not already, countless times, with hot tears, with bitter scorn, with writhing despair, complained, exclaimed, cried out, that he did not understand or realise her love, never would understand or realise it? Had she not clearly seen that he trembled and shrank back, not from the danger which threatened him on the dark path of his love—he was as bold and dexterous as man could be—but before her love, before her all-powerful, but also all-exacting, insatiable love?

She had experienced this again yesterday, at the very instant that followed that happy moment when she had received and returned his first kiss! And today; today she smiled at her doubts amidst tears of joy; today she asked pardon of her beloved, amidst a thousand burning kisses that she pressed in thought on his beautiful brow, his tender eyes, and his dear mouth, for every harsh or bitter word or thought she had ever had against him, and which she never, never would say or think again.

She had tried to work, to put the finishing touches to the Reaping Girl, but her hand had been hopeless, powerless, as in her first attempts, and she had recollected, not without a shudder, that she had vowed not to finish the group. The vow had been—contrary to her anticipations—a forerunner of happiness. What was to her this miserable image of jealous revenge? How worthless appeared to her all this extensive apparatus of her work—this lofty room, these pedestals, these mallets, chisels, modelling-tools; these casts of arms, hands, feet; these heads, these busts from the originals of old masters; her own sketches, attempts, completed works—childish strivings with bandaged eyes for a happiness that was not to be found here—that was only to be found in love, the sole, true talent of woman—her talent, of which she felt that it was unique, that it outshone everything that had till then been felt as love and called love! She could not bear her room this morning; even her studio seemed too small. She stepped into the garden, and wandered along the paths, between the shrubs, under the trees, from whose rustling branches drops of the night’s rain fell upon her. How often had she hated the bright sunshine, the blue sky, that had seemed to mock at her anguish! She looked in triumph now up into the grey clouds that passed, dark and heavy, above her head. What need had she of sun and light—she in whose heart was nothing but light and brightness? The drizzling rain that now began to fall would only serve to cool the internal fire that threatened to consume her. Driving clouds, drizzling rain, rustling trees, whispering shrubs, even the damp, black earth—all was wonderfully beautiful in the reflection of her love!

She went in again and seated herself in the place where he had kissed her, and dreamed again that happy dream, while near at hand was hammering and knocking, and, between whiles, chattering and whispering, and the rain rattled against the tall window—dreamed that her dream had the power to draw him to her, who now opened the door softly and—it was only a dream—came towards her with the tender smile on his dear lips and the beautiful light in his dark eyes, till suddenly the smile died on his lips, and only the eyes still gleamed, but no longer with tender light, but with the gloomy, melancholy depths of her father’s eyes. And now they were not only her father’s eyes; it was more and more himself—her father. Good God!

She had started out of her doze; her limbs trembled; she sank back in the chair, and drew herself up again. She had seen at once in the glance of his eyes, in the letter which he held in his hand—seen with the first half-waking glance why he had come. She said so, in half-awake, wild, passionate words.

He had bent his head, but he did not contradict her; he answered nothing but “My poor child!”

“I am your child no longer if you do this to me.”

“I fear you have never been so in your heart.”

“And if I have not been so, whose fault is it but yours? Have you ever shown me the love that a child is entitled to ask from its father? Have you ever done anything to make the life you gave me a happy one? Has my industry ever drawn from you a word of praise, or my success a word of acknowledgment? Have you not rather done everything to humble me in my own eyes, to make me smaller than I was in reality, to insult my art, to make me feel that in your eyes I was no artist and never should be one—that you looked on all this as nothing better than a large doll’s house, which you had bought for me in order that I might trifle and idle away my worthless time here! And now, now you come to tear my love from me, only because your pride wills it so—only because you consider it an insult that such a poor, useless creature should will, or wish anything that you do not wish and will! But you are mistaken, father; I am, in spite of all, your daughter. You may repudiate me, you may drive me to misery, as you might dash me in pieces with that hammer, because you are the stronger; but you cannot tear my love from me!”

“I both can and will.”

“Try!”

“To try and to succeed are one. Would you be the mistress of Lieutenant von Werben?”

“What has that question to do with my love?”

“Then I will put it in another form. Have you the face to make yourself the equal of those wretched, foolish creatures who give themselves to a man, whether without marriage or in marriage—for marriage does not mend matters—for any other price than that of love, for which they give their own in exchange? Herr von Werben has nothing to give you in exchange; Herr von Werben does not love you.”

Ferdinanda laughed scornfully. “And he has come to you, of whom he knew that you pursue him and his kind with blind hatred, to tell you that?”

“He has not come; his father was forced to take the hard step for him, for which he himself had not the courage, for which the father had to force the son’s consent.”

“That is—”

“Not a lie! On my oath. And further, he did not even go to his father of his own free will; he would not have done so today, he would perhaps never have done it, if his father had not sent for him to ask him if it were true what the sparrows said on the housetops, and what insolent wretches wrote in anonymous letters to the unsuspecting fathers, that Lieutenant von Werben had a love affair on the other side of the garden-wall, or—what do I know!”

“Show me the letters!”

“Here is one; the General will doubtless willingly let you have the other. I doubt whether his son will lay claim to it.”

Ferdinanda read the letter.

She had taken it for granted that only Antonio could have been the traitor; but this letter was not from Antonio, could not be from Antonio. So that other eyes than the love-inspired, jealous eyes of Antonio had seen through her secret. Her pale cheek glowed in angry shame. “Who wrote the letter?”

“Roller; in the letter to the General, he has not disguised his hand.”

She gave the letter hastily back to her father and struck her hands together, as if she wished to remove all trace of its touch: “Oh, the shame, the shame!” she murmured; “oh, the disgrace! the horror of it!”

The dismissed overseer had been at first received in the family, till Ferdinanda saw that he had dared to raise his eyes to her; she had taken advantage of a dispute he had had with her father first to loosen and then to put an end altogether to his relations with the family. And the insolent, evil eyes of this man—“Oh, the shame! oh, the disgrace!” she murmured again.

She paced rapidly up and down, then hastened to the writing-table, which stood at the far end of the long room, wrote a few hurried lines, and then came back with the note to her father, who had remained motionless on the same spot: “Read it!”

And he read:

“My father is ready to sacrifice his convictions for my sake and consents to my marriage with Lieutenant von Werben. I, however, for reasons which my pride refuses to write down, reject this marriage now and forever as a moral impossibility, and release Lieutenant von Werben from any obligation which he has, or thinks he has, towards me. This determination, which I have made of my own free will, is irrevocable; any attempt on the part of Lieutenant von Werben to overthrow it, I shall regard as an insult.

“Ferdinanda Schmidt.”

“Is that right?”

He nodded. “Am I to send him this!”

“In my name.”

She turned from him, and, with a modelling-tool in her hand, went up to her work. Her father folded the letter and went towards the door. There he remained standing. She did not look up, but appeared quite absorbed in her work. His eyes rested on her with an expression of deep sorrow. “And yet!” murmured he, “and yet!”

He closed the door behind him and walked slowly across the yard, through whose wide, empty space the storm was raging.

“Deserted and empty!” he murmured, “all deserted and empty. That is the burden of the song for her and me.”

“Uncle!”

He started from his gloomy musings. Reinhold came hurriedly from the house towards him—bareheaded and excited.

“Uncle, for heaven’s sake!—the General has just left me. I know all—what have you decided?”

“What must be.”

“It will be the death of Ferdinanda.”

“Better death than a life of dishonour.”

He stepped past Reinhold into the house. Reinhold did not venture to follow him; he knew that it would be useless.

Book
IV

I

In a magnificent salon of the Hôtel Royal—a few days later—the Baroness Valerie von Warnow was pacing restlessly backwards and forwards. She had, by Giraldi’s advice, sent this morning to the General’s house to announce her arrival the evening before, adding that she was unfortunately too much fatigued to present herself in person, but hoped in the course of a few days, if not the next day, to make up for her delay.

“You must not expose yourself to the affront of being refused admittance,” Giraldi had said: “I have every ground for suspecting that he has laid himself out more than ever for his favourite part of the knight with the helmet of Mambrinus; but virtuous fools are as little to be depended upon as other fools; possibly the unhoped-for happiness of seeing his mauvais sujet of a son at last betrothed may have softened him, and it will please him to act a part of magnanimity and forgiveness. We shall hear how he takes your message, and we can take our measures and make our arrangements accordingly.”

Valerie knew too well that her brother acted no part, that he always was what he seemed; and that if he ever forgave her, it would not be in consequence of a momentary impulse, but from the conviction that she could live no longer without his forgiveness, and that she deserved it if the deepest remorse, the most ardent wish to atone, as far as was possible for the past, entitled her to it. But that day would never come; today, as ever, he would reject with cold politeness her attempt at a reconciliation, would answer her through Sidonie that he regretted to hear of her indisposition and hoped it would soon pass off, so that she might as speedily as possible be able to resume her journey to Warnow, which he trusted might be a prosperous one.

And only five minutes ago the answer had come; not in Sidonie’s stiff, formal hand, but in a small, graceful writing, the very sight of which did Valerie good, even before, with eyes fixed and expectant, which at last filled with tears, she read:

“Dear Aunt—We are so glad that you are here at last! Papa, who sends you his best love, has another meeting to attend this morning—the War Office is like a beehive just now—but we, that is Aunt Sidonie and I, will call upon you at twelve o’clock, if convenient to you, to ask you how you are, and I especially to make acquaintance at last with a dear relation, whom I have never seen, and whom I have often longed to see.

“Elsa.

“P.S. Ottomar had gone out when your note came: I will leave word for him, and will send also to the Wallbachs, in case, as is probable, he has gone there, in which case he will probably call upon you with Carla and the Wallbachs.”

“Dear, good child!” sobbed Valerie; “I have to thank you for his yielding, I am sure! I can see it in your dear, loving words!”

She kissed the letter again and again. “Oh, if you knew how thankful I am to you, if I could tell you so on my knees as before God. Be my good angel. You do not know how much I need a good angel, with his pure, strong hand to save me from this fearful slavery. But you will not be able to save me if you would. What could you do against him? Your innocence, your goodness, your wisdom—even your courage, and you must be both wise and courageous to have braved and coaxed this from that obstinate, unapproachable man—he would throw it all into the dust, and tread it under his cruel feet, as he has thrown and trampled me in the dust.”

She wandered thus through the spacious room, now throwing herself into an armchair because her limbs threatened to fail her, and the next moment springing up and hurrying to the window to look at a carriage which had just stopped before the hotel; then again stepping before one of the large mirrors, and eagerly and anxiously examining her countenance; it must not betray her excitement when he came in—a quiver of the mouth, an unwonted degree of colour or of pallor in her cheeks, a brighter glance, a fainter light in her eyes—he saw and remarked everything, he had the key of her soul. How gladly would she have received the dear writer alone, how gladly would she at least have concealed the letter from him. But she dared not do even that; now less than ever, when her lips must say yes, while her heart cried no; when her lips must smile while hell raged in her bosom; when she must and would practise the lesson that had been taught her.

She rang the bell and desired the servant who waited in the anteroom, which connected her rooms and Giraldi’s, to beg the Signor to come to her for a minute. She gave the order in the most careless tone. The man, a young Frenchman, whom Giraldi had engaged in Rome, had only been a few weeks in her service; but he had no doubt been at least as long in Giraldi’s pay as his predecessors.

Hardly a minute had elapsed when she heard his step in the anteroom; he was today, as ever, ready to fulfil her slightest wish. She passed her hand once more hastily over her brow and eyes, and tried whether her voice sounded natural. “Dear friend, I have—” François opened the door to him at that moment. “Dear friend, I have already received an answer from my niece, so extremely kind that it can only be a trap.”

She had handed him the letter, which he appeared only to glance at, though he would know it by heart a year hence, as Valerie said to herself, and now, returning her the letter, sat down at the table by her.

“The letter could only be a trap if you took it seriously, in which case it would be a very dangerous one.”

“What do you mean?”

“The young lady has written it on her own account; I mean without her father’s knowledge, who had probably left the house before she wrote it.”

“Impossible!”

“Why?”

“She would not have dared to do it.”

“What does a girl not dare when she thinks it becomes her? Do not you see that her hand faltered as she wrote the words, ‘Papa, who sends you his best love,’ and only became steady again when she had got to the truth, ‘he has another meeting this morning?’ It is interesting and promising to see that the girl cannot even lie with the pen in her hand. We shall be able to learn from her everything we want to know.”

“But what do we want to know?”

“What?”

The faintest glimmer of a smile passed over Giraldi’s dark eyes.

“Mi fai ridere, cara mia—we! Why, you do not yet know half.”

“Then it must be your fault, my dear friend, for only telling me half. What could I know without your telling me?”

He bent over her and took her hand which he pressed to his lips.

“Could I know anything, soul of my soul, that I should not immediately impart to you, as the eye and the ear impart their impressions to the mind, whose servants and slaves they are? And as faithful servants, because they are faithful, do everything for the best interests of their master, so I come this morning with the rich spoils of the four and twenty hours that have passed since I was last with you, to lay them at your feet and receive my reward in the smile of your lips.”

“And why only this morning, faithless slave?”

“Yesterday evening, lady, my pockets were still almost empty; since then—”

“A miracle has happened?”

“Scarcely less.”

Giraldi looked at the clock. “Half-past eleven; I have just time; in a quarter of an hour I expect Councillor Schieler. I only want to speak to him for a few minutes—in continuation of a long conversation which I had with him yesterday evening—so I shall be at hand when your relations arrive, and shall be able to lighten for you the unpleasantness of the first meeting.”

“And the Councillor is the miracle-worker?”

“The Councillor is a useful tool—voilà tout! so much the more useful that he is used by many, and in his vanity and stupidity, which are not the same thing, though they produce the same effect, always shows the traces of the hand that has last used him, as a trophy of his supposed importance and wisdom. It is as well that a certain person does not appear quite conscious that such a tool cuts both ways, or he would be more prudent in the use he makes of it. But that is not to the purpose. For the rest, we owe him gratitude so far as one can owe gratitude to a person who does one a great service without being aware of it. It was he who made us aware of the favourable opportunity of selling the property to Count Golm, when it became apparent to him and his company that they could obtain the Count, whom they wanted particularly, for no less a price. The Count snapped as eagerly at the tempting bait as they snapped at the Count; they do not see the angler who looks complacently on at the game, in order, when the right moment comes, to land the silly fish with one jerk of his line on the dry land at his feet, where it may gasp out its life. But this does not interest you.”

“It does—it does!” exclaimed Valerie.

“I see by the absent smile on your lips and the fixed look of your eyes that you have hardly heard me. Luckily I have something else in petto, which may excite your interest.”

“The miracle?”

“Not yet; I have only to tell you of natural events as yet. For what is more natural than that Count Golm wishes to obtain as cheaply as possible the property which he is so anxious to possess in order to round off his estate and arrange his affairs? And how could he get it cheaper than by receiving a third part as the dowery of his future wife, and another third as the probable inheritance of the said wife, that is to say both as good as given? There remains only one third, which unfortunately appears, since yesterday, to be irrevocably lost. Does my lady see now? It is only necessary to bring a little love into the game, the interest of the women is excited at once.”

Valerie’s heart beat. How true had been her foreboding! The dear child, whom she had but now looked up to as to an angel, in the next moment drawn away, dragged down into the sordid game of intrigue by this cruel, inexorable hand!

“Does Count Golm love my niece?”

“I did not say that; in fact, without wishing to detract from the charms of the young lady, I am convinced that it is not the case. He has only known her a very short time—since the General’s journey at the end of last month. Your North German country people are in general not very subject to the dangers of a Romeo-like passion; besides, a too strikingly material advantage is not very favourable for the blossoming of the tender plant, love, and therefore the young lady is either really affronted by the too evidently mercenary intentions of her suitor, or pretends to be so, in order to keep herself disengaged in another direction; I shall come to that presently. At least the Count complains bitterly of her behaviour towards him, and threatens, to the Councillor’s alarm, to withdraw, only he has fortunately committed the imprudence of accepting from the Councillor earnest-money for the projected alliance in the form of a considerable advance, and is consequently bound for the present.”

Valerie’s astonishment was great. Four and twenty hours had not yet passed since Giraldi, on receipt of the letter in which Sidonie informed them of Ottomar’s betrothal to Fräulein von Wallbach, had burst into a furious rage, although they had long foreseen and expected this event; and today he appeared to encourage a second union, which would destroy, if not his fixed plans, at any rate, hopes that he had silently cherished and fostered.

Giraldi read these thoughts on her countenance. He continued with a smile:

“I said, for the present, my dear friend; only till the simpleton—he is a simpleton, I had already spoken to him yesterday evening before you came—only till he has pulled the chestnuts out of the fire for us; then he may go, and the more he burns his fingers the better pleased I shall be. He must, however, for the present be bound to us, for the following reasons: We do not require the consent of General von Werben for the sale of the property, as he is already doubly outvoted by Herr von Wallbach and our friend the Councillor; but what we do positively want, if the bargain is to be struck, is the consent of the Government to the making of the line; and, the Councillor is here again my informant, if this consent is obtained, it will only be because the Count is mixed up in the affair and rejoices in special protection in certain high circles, whose influence in important ministerial regions is particularly powerful just now. I am again unfortunate in not having your attention.”

“I am all attention.”

“To reward you I will strike the chord of love again: it is for our most pressing interest, and it is my most particular wish, that you should casually—I mean at some opportunity which your cleverness will readily seize upon—give your niece to understand that you think this marriage a particularly suitable one; and only wish, in order to avoid the appearance of desiring to derive a personal benefit from it in the sale of the property, that the affair should not be at once made public, or even settled—between ourselves let us say, not binding. This will make the young lady pause. I want no more till we are clear on the other side, and can then, as a reward for her obedience, perhaps do something to help on her particular inclinations. Do you quite understand?”

“Perfectly; to the minutest detail. You hinted before that my niece had a real inclination in another direction that would not interfere with us?”

“Which, in fact, when the time comes, I intend to forward by every lawful means, if it were only in order to pay the General back in the same coin for his past and present conduct towards a certain Signor Gregorio Giraldi, and a certain Signora Valerie—widowed Frau von Warnow, born Fräulein von Werben.”

The man’s lips smiled, but his black eyes glittered like the blade of a dagger when it flashes out of the sheath. Valerie suppressed the shudder that passed over her. She said, with a smile:

“I know your sagacity, your powers of divination; but here you have really surpassed yourself. All that is now wanting is the name of the happy man, where they first met, and when they last met.”

Giraldi bowed.

“The name may wait, signora! But before I tell you more about your charming niece, I must tell you a little anecdote about your excellent nephew, which may serve as a proof of the reward which Providence grants to those who trust in it.”

“The miracle, then?”

“Decide for yourself.”

The expression of his face had changed suddenly, the smile of superiority had vanished and had given place to deep earnestness; in the black eyes brooded melancholy night; even his voice sounded different—softer, more fervent—as he now, in his native tongue (he had hitherto spoken only German), continued in the tone of one who wishes to speak with all possible calm and clearness on a subject that moves him deeply.

“I went yesterday, after I had paid and received a few visits, to the Exhibition, and turned at once into the sculpture gallery. I had promised Guarnerio, Braga, and a few more of our friends in Milan and Rome, who had sent works there, to go at once and look after them, to see how they were placed, what impression they made, and whether the German sculptors bore comparison with them. They are wretchedly placed, and consequently produce little effect, and the German sculptors can quite hold their own with them. Your countrymen have progressed; they may boast of several talents of the very first order, such as Reinhold Begas, Siemering, and a third, whose name I read for the first time on a marvellous group of a Satyr, to whom a mischievous Cupid is holding a looking-glass—Justus Anders. I beg you will remember the name; it will appear again in my little history.

“Close to it, in a window, a life-sized figure first attracted my attention, because it was one of the few that was in a really good light. Doubtless a masterpiece, I thought, of which they are specially proud. But I was mistaken, it was not at least a work of the highest rank; finely conceived, but not so well carried out; a certain want of freedom in the technical part, which betrayed the pupil who has not long left school, and has for the first time attempted a higher flight. The subject also was not one to excite my interest—a young shepherd boy of the Campagna, in the ordinary costume, saying his Ave Maria, with raised eyes and clasped hands; but nevertheless the statue attracted me in a remarkable degree. Dare I acknowledge it? I thought I saw myself five-and-twenty, thirty years ago, as I so often roved through the Campagna and dreamed dreams over which I now smile; and looked up ecstatically into the glowing sky, which in my thought was peopled by bands of angels, and offered up ardent prayers, which I believed would be heard. And more curious still, the next moment I saw, not myself, but you, as I saw you on that memorable day when I was presented to you and your Princess in the park—the two Leonoras as you were then jestingly called—and with the first glance into your eyes I knew that I had lost myself in you, without dreaming that at that moment you were already lost to me.”

He passed his hands over his downcast eyes, which he then, as if accidentally, raised to her. She also had drooped her eyelids; but a pink tinge was on her pale cheeks. Was it the reflection of the sunlight of that evening? Giraldi hoped so; he did not suspect how wonderfully mixed were the feelings that these memories awakened in the heart of the unhappy woman. He hoped also that her eyes would be raised to his with a glance in which might still gleam a ray of the old love: but her eyelids were not raised. He must touch a deeper chord.

“And then again I saw neither you nor myself, or rather I saw us both in a third figure, the peasant figure—in which, in spite of all, by God’s decree, and the will of the Holy Virgin, he perhaps now wanders on the earth.”

“No! no! no!” she cried.

She had started from her chair, but immediately sank back again, her slender hands pressed to her brow and eyes, while repeated shudders shook her tender frame.

“No! no! no!” she murmured again; “the righteous God could not permit that!” Then recollecting how fearfully ambiguous her words were, she added: “In peasant’s dress! my son!”

“And mine!” said Giraldi softly. “Valerie, remember; is not life sweet because it is life; because it is sunshine and the chirping of the cicala, and moonlight, and the sound of the lute! Ah! how often I have wished I had never seen any other light, I had never heard any other music!”

“But he is no longer alive!” she exclaimed; “cannot be alive after all we heard! Who was it then who proved it to me with such terrible clearness at that time when I would have given all I had for a smile from him?”

“At that time? and now no longer?”

A voice within her repeated, “No! no! no! for then the fetters which bind you to him would be unbreakable!” But she did not dare to speak the words, and once more bowed her head silently in her hands.

His dark eyes were fixed firmly on her bowed figure. “And now no longer?” The question had not been answered. “Was it in reality only the pain of the wound which had taken so long to heal, and which she did not wish now to have torn open again? Was it the doubt that is quenched in despair, or did treason lurk in her silence? Was it one of those signs of which he had observed more than one lately; a sign of silently planned desertion, of secret rebellion against his mastery?”

His dark glance sought the clock. “At this very moment I am still working and planning for her. Let her beware lest the time come when I do so for myself, and then necessarily against her! Let her beware of saying ‘Now no longer!’

“May I continue, Valerie?”

She nodded without speaking.

“I am almost afraid to do so. It is so seldom that I allow myself to be carried away by my feelings, when sober reason, which smooths the troubled work of life, should alone reign. I know it does not become me.”

In his voice there was not the slightest trace of the dark thoughts that were passing through his mind: there was rather a tone of pain, which he would have wished to conceal, a tone of reproach which resigns its rights and asks for pardon.

“When after a little while I turned away from the statue, I saw a few paces distant from it, leaning against the window-frame, a youth, evidently the original of the figure; the same height, at that moment even in the same attitude, with the same luxuriant curly hair, the same brow and mouth, and especially the same eyes—magnificent deep black velvet eyes, which were fastened with a curious expression of fixed melancholy on his own likeness. I saw at the first glance that the young man was an Italian, and in the first words he spoke I recognised a native of the Campagna. They were spoken in answer to the question whether the statue were his! It was not; he had only stood several times as a model for it. ‘But you are an artist?’ I asked again. ‘I do not know,’ he answered; ‘I sometimes think so, and sometimes again I think not. I only know one thing for certain, that I am miserable, the most miserable of men.’ He had murmured the last words to himself, as turning suddenly from me he was about to hasten away. I do not believe he meant me to hear them, but I had heard them and held him back by the arm. ‘We are fellow-countrymen,’ I said, ‘fellow-countrymen should always stand by one another; doubly so in a strange land; trebly so when it is a case of bearing misfortune or giving help.’

“He looked at me with his large eyes, which gradually filled with tears. ‘No one can help me,’ he said. ‘Even confession is a help, and often the greatest, most effectual to a heavy-laden heart.’ ‘Are you a priest?’ ‘Did the wounded man ask that who lay bleeding on the ground, when the Samaritan bent charitably over him?’ Two large tears ran down his beautiful face, on which, while I spoke, the colour had come and gone. I had won him over. He promised—as I could not wait then—to meet me that evening in an Italian wine-shop, which he pointed out to me. We could talk better in a wine-shop than in a smart hotel.

“He was awaiting me impatiently, when, having been delayed by your retarded arrival, I at length went in search of him, drawn by that mysterious power which often compels me, against my inclination, even against my will, to do one thing or to leave another undone. So it was in this case. My passing interest in the young man had already vanished; my head was full of quite different things, so that I listened to the history of his life, with which he thought it necessary to preface his confession, with only half an ear. His name is Antonio Michele, and he is the son of miserably poor vinedressers, in, or in the immediate neighbourhood of, Tivoli. A monk—his parents’ confessor—has always behaved with particular kindness towards him. I suspect that the holy man is his father. Scarcely less poor than the parents, he could do little more for his favourite than teach him to read and write, and was forced in other matters to leave him to his fate. It was that of other poor and handsome boys in the immediate neighbourhood of Rome. He tended his goats on the hills of the Campagna. Some wandering artists found him, and enticed him to the city to act as model for their sketches. He idled about in the studios of painters and sculptors, on the Scala di Spagna, and the Piazza Barberini, till the day came when the fame of being the handsomest model in Rome—to which he could justly lay claim—no longer satisfied his ambition, and he wanted to become an artist himself. This was not so easy as he appears to have hoped; still in the course of time he might have become a good stone-carver, at least I conclude so, from the fact that a German artist, who had known him in Rome, invited him two years ago to come and work in his studio here. Antonio, who had no longer anything to bind him to Rome and his native place—his parents had fallen victims to the cholera in 1868—obeyed the call, provided only with the good brother’s blessing and money for his journey, obeyed it as a man must obey his destiny.

“The artist in question was that very Justus Anders whom I mentioned before as one of the most distinguished of your countrymen. Antonio, however, does not consider him so, as he denies him originality, inspiration, and in a word, all the higher qualities of an artist, and describes him, on the other hand, as filled with envy and ill-will towards all real geniuses, amongst which he doubtless considers himself to hold the first place. I am of course unable to decide how far the latter is true, but I suspect that an artist of such undoubted powers as Anders judges the young man quite rightly, and that if he does not allow him any great gifts, but continues to employ him as a mere workman, he has good reason for so doing. At any rate, this supposed neglect has not prevented our young countryman from remaining two years with the envious master, probably, as I gather, in order to be near a lady with whom he fell violently in love from the first moment in which he saw her, and who, if his rapturous description may be trusted, must be a marvel of beauty and grace.

“This lady is the daughter of a Herr Schmidt, who it appears carries on a very flourishing trade in marble and marble goods. She is herself an artist, and no insignificant one. The Shepherd Boy came out of her studio, which is only separated by a door from Signor Anders’s studio. I willingly spare you the details of the romance which was carried on from one studio to the other. It appears that Antonio, in spite of his assurances to the contrary, never had any cause to believe in the fulfilment of his extravagant hopes; it appears however, also, that the beautiful lady permitted the love of the handsome youth, perhaps only because she could not prevent it, without giving importance to a matter which was of no importance in her eyes; perhaps, also, because she dreaded his passionate jealousy. Her fears were not unfounded. She loved another, and was beloved by him. The immediate neighbourhood of their houses was favourable to the secret of their relations, which was only penetrated by Antonio’s eyes, sharpened by jealousy. He followed with the cunning and craftiness of a native of the Campagna their secret traces, till, only a few days ago, he obtained undoubted proofs. With the assistance of a man who, for some reason, was willing to make common cause with him, he gave up these proofs into the hands of the fathers, who, besides being in very different ranks of life and also political opponents, as the accomplice knew, were divided by an old personal enmity. The well-aimed blow took effect unexpectedly deeply, on both sides. The fathers came to an explanation, at which were probably some high words. An hour later the lady was found lying insensible on the floor of her studio; another hour, and she was raging in a violent fever. In the neighbouring house nothing can have been known of this that day or the next, or a more suitable time would have been chosen to send out the announcement of a betrothal which had been long expected in the higher circles of society. The news of this betrothal reached us at Munich, and was that of Fräulein Carla von Wallbach with Lieutenant Ottomar von Werben.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Valerie.

“It must have been God’s will,” answered Giraldi, with a dark smile; “otherwise the affair, which has been so long delayed, would doubtless have remained a little while longer in suspense. I should have made the young man’s acquaintance before the catastrophe, which is as much as to say that the catastrophe would never have occurred. Instead of interfering blindly with the flame of jealousy and the sword of revenge, in a state of affairs that was so wonderfully favourable to us, I should have recommended it to the protection of the Blessed Virgin, and should have done, for my part, all that human wisdom can do to help it on and bring it to a successful termination. I should doubtless have succeeded, but some people would say it was not to be. I do not say so. I know only one opponent before whom I sheath my weapon, and that is Death. So long as I can count upon life I do count upon it, I hope all from it; and for the present the beautiful Ferdinanda still lives. What does my friend say to this second history?”

“That I wish my friend had known nothing of it.”

“For what reason?”

“Because I know it will awaken in his restless mind a thousand hopes that can never be realised; it will give him a world of trouble which will all be useless.”

“Not useless, if it be the will of the Blessed Virgin, and if my friend does not refuse me her assistance.”

“What can I do in this matter?”

“Almost everything; everything at least that can be done at present. I mean, observe the parties in question, first and foremost the betrothed couple; see how they bear their happiness, whether with the modesty which would be appropriate under the circumstances in which it was born, or with that scornful pride which, according to your proverb, goes before a fall. A fugitive glance, a gesture, a turn of the eyes—what will they not say to one who is so well prepared as my talented friend? I recommend to her in particular the clever Carla, who will meet her with open arms; les beaux esprits se rencontrent; but, to return to my first story, and, like a good narrator, to weave it properly into the second, I recommend also to your kind care the more modest Elsa. With regard to this young lady, I have also a special request to make, that you will observe whether she shows particular interest when the name of a certain Herr Reinhold Schmidt is mentioned in her presence.”

“What new idea is this, my friend?”

“The last instalment of my news, for which I have to thank the dear Councillor, who learnt it, in his turn, from Count Golm. A little episode of jealousy, to which I attach particular importance, although I am still rather behindhand as regards the details. Still it is an interesting fact, that the gentleman in question, whose acquaintance your niece only made quite lately on the much-talked-of journey, is a cousin of the beautiful Ferdinanda, whose beauty had nearly made you the richer by half a million. The jealousy of the nobleman, and the angry contempt with which poor Antonio speaks of the Captain, lead me to suppose that the cousins are not unlike one another. You will agree with me that so delightful a family should be cultivated. I am dying to make their acquaintance.”

Giraldi had risen and gone a few steps to meet the servant, who had just come into the room with a visiting card. “Ah!” he exclaimed, taking the card from the waiter, “beg his Excellency to walk into my room. I will follow in a minute.”

He turned once more to Valerie.

“That is a happy yet unhappy coincidence—at the very moment when we were expecting your relations. I could send away the Councillor if necessary, the easier, that he is already behind his time. This gentleman is one of those who must be received at all hours and under all circumstances.”

He held the card to Valerie. “Who is it?” she asked, reading a name which in her bewilderment she could not recognise.

“But, cara mia!” exclaimed Giraldi, “who that is? The man who, half blind as he is, sees clearer than most men do with both their eyes; the man who, divested of all official authority, gives the Chancellor of the German Empire more to do than the plenipotentiary of a large state would do; the man, in a word, on whose feeble form the weight of the struggle which we have to fight in Germany rests almost wholly! But I am quite content that my lady should have no very lively sympathy for the troubles of our Holy Church, if she will bear her own sorrows with patience, if only the unhoped for, miraculous prospect of revenging the injustice of long years, perhaps at one blow, can allure her! There are thousands and thousands of brave men ready to take up the weapons which fall from the hands of the exhausted champions of the Almighty; here in this struggle I stand alone, and the Blessed Virgin will forgive me if even her cause is not dearer to me than that of the mother of my child!”

There was a metallic ring in the man’s soft, melodious voice, a curious fire burnt in his dark eyes, the slender elastic figure appeared to grow taller, as he now stood drawn to his full height, with one arm raised as if for the combat. Then, as if by magic, all the heroism vanished from voice, countenance, attitude and gesture. He bent down to the sitting figure, took her hand, on which he pressed his lips with respectful tenderness: “Addio, carissima! addio, anima mia dolce!”

He was gone, again nodding a greeting to her at the door with a graceful movement, which she returned with an obedient smile, then sank back, as if shattered, into her seat.

“In vain! in vain!” she murmured. “I can never free myself, never. He is a thousand times the stronger, and he knows it only too well! That was the glance of the tiger at the deer that is in his grasp; those were the eyes of the serpent, fixed on the bird in its nest. Lost! lost! his sure prey, his obedient tool; forced to act, to speak, to smile, to breathe as he will! Do I know my lesson? alas for me if I have forgotten one word! He would find it out at once. ‘Did you not see that? Why where were your eyes? Did you not hear that? Why, my dearest, it might have been heard with half an ear!’ He, ah! he, with whom the demons are in league, whom they all obey with all their might, for whom they smooth his path along which he paces with the proud step of a conqueror driving his victim before him! What else is that Antonio but such a slavish demon, a messenger from hell, who is at hand when he is summoned? Here I am, master; what does my master command? To sow dissension between father and son, between father and daughter, between the lover and the beloved? I have done it already, at least tried to do it; pardon, master, your unskilful servant, who struck too soon with the whip; teach me how to chastise with scorpions; I shall soon learn in your service, I shall become worthy of you! And is there more to be done; to draw from a maiden’s heart its tender secret and to give it up to you, that you may taint and defile it, may break and tear it to pieces with your unhallowed, cruel hands? No, that is already cared for; that is best understood by a woman, the well-trained accomplice of your hellish art. It is true she is related to your victim, could, and in the natural course of events ought to, be a second mother to her; so much the better! She will be able the better to creep into her secrets, the finer to spin threads in which the poor bird will flutter. Oh, my God, my God! how boundlessly must I have sinned, that you will not forgive me, that you have so utterly deserted me!”

She pressed her hands to her face, her heart beat violently; but the weight did not become lighter, no tears came to cool her burning cheeks. She sat thus alone, in the spacious, sumptuous room, solitary, deserted, helpless, broken, longing for a word of comfort, of love—a singular, touching, moving picture in the eyes of a young girl, who had stood already for half a minute at the door, which she had gently opened and shut behind her, fearing to approach nearer, to give offence, to startle, and who now, casting timidity and fear from her, following the impulse of her heart, hastened with quick steps to the bowed-down form, and before the other could rise from her seat, or even understand clearly what had happened, or how it happened, was kneeling before her, and, seizing her hands, while she exclaimed: “Aunt, dear aunt! here I am! Don’t be angry, I have so longed to see you; have you no kind word for me!” Valerie could not speak; her eyes were fixed on the young girl’s face, which was glowing with tender shame and heartfelt pity. She suddenly flung her arms round her like a drowning man, who in the whirl of the stream grasps at the slender willow-stem; her head sank on the shoulder of the kneeling girl, and the tears which had been so long shut up in her troubled heart burst forth unrestrainedly.

II

The outburst was so violent, and lasted so long, that Elsa became painfully embarrassed. How likely it was that the man of whom Aunt Sidonie had just said that he was sure to be present at their reception would come into the room—how soon Aunt Sidonie herself must follow her! She had only hastened up the staircase before her aunt, while the latter entered into conversation with the Councillor, who met them in the hall. While they were on their way to the hotel, she had been dreading all the time the solemn ceremoniousness of the good lady’s behaviour on so important an occasion—the long-winded address, the offensive condescension with which she would meet her sister. She had silently regretted that she had persuaded her aunt to an immediate visit, and that she had not rather fulfilled her threat and gone alone. Now, thanks to her prompt decision, everything had happened so favourably; but now, too, poor Aunt Valerie must calm herself—must stop crying, and dry her tears, even if they were tears of joy—if she were really her good angel. So much the more indeed! Her good angel—she would try to be it, most certainly, and, oh, so willingly! She would never leave her again, at least in her thoughts and in her heart—would always be in thought and in heart near her, to comfort her, to help her, where she could, as much as she could; only now—now she must compose herself, and, quick, quick! let the black lace veil be arranged on her beautiful soft hair, and become again the great, dignified, proud lady that Aunt Sidonie had told her off, whom Aunt Sidonie must find there, or lose all belief in the penetration and knowledge of character on which she prided herself so highly.

Thus Elsa comforted and coaxed and jested, till she had the pleasure of bringing a smile to the delicate pale lips and the mild brown eyes—the true Werben eyes, said Elsa; a melancholy smile, thought Elsa, but still a smile. And it came just in time, for the next moment the curly-headed young man in black coat, silk stockings, and knee-breeches, whose assiduity Elsa had with some difficulty escaped in the anteroom, opened the door and announced, in polite respect for the stately appearance of the lady whose card he held in his hand—“Madame Sidonie de Werben!”

Sidonie rustled through the door, and found herself face to face with a slight, pale lady, who, supporting herself on Elsa’s arm, held out her slender white hand, and who must be her sister Valerie, only that she did not in the least resemble the Valerie whom she had known, and whom she had last seen seven and twenty years ago. Not that the lady who stood before her was not still elegant and distinguished looking—she was even more so than formerly, Sidonie thought—she was still handsome too in her way, very handsome indeed; but the brilliant glance of the dark eyes, the rich carnation of the fair cheeks, the fascinating smile of the small red mouth, the luxuriant masses of her splendid chestnut-brown hair, which had formed a rich crown over her brow, and knotted loosely together at the back, had fallen in a few scented locks over her round, white shoulders, where were gone those magical charms over whose worldliness and sinfulness she had so often sighed and lamented?

Sidonie was bewildered, almost dismayed. The little speech which she had prepared on the way was meant for the vain, pretentious, coquettish Valerie of former days, and was evidently quite unsuited to the Valerie of today. But her hurried efforts to think of something else to say were quite unsuccessful. Besides, the longer she gazed on the pale, noble countenance that was turned with a gentle smile towards her, and at every moment discovered an expression that brought back to her the former Valerie, the more she was overcome by a curious mingled sensation of the old love and of a new pity, so that, interrupting herself in the midst of the formal phrases through which she was labouring with a heartfelt “Dear Valerie, dearest sister!” she opened her arms, kissed Valerie on both cheeks, and then, as if terrified at this unjustifiable ebullition, sat down in stiff dignity in an armchair, and looked as severe and unapproachable as her shortsighted, good-humoured eyes would allow her.

But the ice was broken, and Elsa took care that it should not form again, although there were some difficult points to be got over still. When Aunt Sidonie had mentioned casually that her brother had already left the house when Valerie’s letter came, and consequently knew and could know nothing of their visit, “though he would doubtless have given his permission for it,” Elsa blushed for Aunt Sidonie when she saw how painfully Aunt Valerie’s lips quivered at the thoughtless words. She hastened to say that, after the letter received yesterday from her aunt, her father had only expected her on the evening of this day, when it occurred to her that her father’s message would now seem very improbable, and, blushing again at the contradiction in which she had involved herself, she was silent.

“Never mind, dear Elsa,” said Valerie, kindly pressing her hand, “I am grateful enough as it is. Everything cannot come right at once;” and she added, to herself, “Nothing will come right so long as I am in the power of my tyrant, who has once again seen, with one glance of his unerring eyes, what was hidden from my longing heart.”

In the meantime, Aunt Sidonie had entered on a subject which had occupied all her attention since the day before yesterday, and which she talked of now with the greater pleasure that she considered it a perfectly safe one:

“Though I hardly know, my dear Valerie, how far your long absence may have influenced your interest in the joys and sorrows of your family. Here it is only a question, of joys. You need not raise your eyebrows, Elsa—it does not improve your looks; besides that, it shows a want of confidence in my discretion, which, to put it mildly, is not very flattering to me, and is so much the more out of place that you ought by this time to be convinced of the groundlessness of your doubts and fancies. It is certainly not saying too much if I declare that I guessed the truth before anyone, not even excepting Ottomar himself. The worldly advantages of the connection, its suitableness from all points of view—good heavens! no reasonable person could doubt it or ever has doubted it, as Baroness Kniebreche assured me yesterday, and she would certainly know if the contrary were the case, and if any one voice had been raised against it. The Baroness, dear Valerie, born a Countess Drachenstein, of the Drachenstein-Wolfszahn branch, the widow of the Lieutenant-General, a comrade and friend of our late father—eighty-two years old, but still astonishingly fresh, an extremely clever, delightful old lady, whose acquaintance you would be charmed to make—very intimate with the Wallbachs, and whose particular favourite our Carla always was. You have upset my ideas with your unnecessary grimaces, my dear Elsa, and it is your fault if I appear to your Aunt Valerie as absent as I am usually collected. You know me of old, Valerie, and Elsa herself knows best what strong concentration of thought is necessary for the conception and carrying out of my ‘Court Etiquette.’ ”

Elsa here tried to keep her aunt to her usually favourite topic, but in vain.

“There are moments,” said Sidonie, “even in the lives of those who, like myself, most perfectly estimate the whole moral and political necessity of the growth and prosperity of the smaller courts, in which the firmly-rooted love and fidelity to the highest personages must not, indeed, be overpowered by family interests—that would be an improper expression—but allow the latter somewhat more liberty than usual; and in my mind that moment has now arrived.”

Sidonie now went on to describe the happiness that she felt at the aspect of the betrothed pair, who were themselves so happy, if they delicately refrained from giving to their happiness that expression which to less observant eyes might seem necessary or at least desirable, but for those who, during a long life at court, had learnt the requisite knowledge of humanity was neither necessary nor desirable. She, at least, must confess that Ottomar’s modest gratitude and Carla’s timid reticence moved her to the bottom of her heart, and all the more that she was constantly reminded by it of the bewitching idyll of the budding love of her Princess towards the then hereditary Prince, now the reigning sovereign; and if Elsa, as it seemed, intended to make the objection that the marriage in question had to be broken off later on account of higher interests, they were higher interests which had nothing to do with the present question, and never could have.

Elsa had given up the attempt to stem her aunt’s inexhaustible flow of words; she hardly dared, for fear of drawing upon herself fresh reproaches for her unkindness and frivolity, even to raise her eyes to Aunt Valerie, who, leaning back in her chair, listened with an attention which Sidonie pointed out to Elsa as “exemplary.” Neither she nor Elsa suspected what feelings were tearing the heart of the poor woman, while her smiling lips from time to time put in a courteous, kindly word of interest. She must take notice of every turn of the conversation if she would go through the examination which her inexorable tyrant would impose upon her later. Woe to her if she had overlooked or failed to hear anything! Woe to her if she contradicted herself! Thrice woe to her if she had exclaimed what her heart cried within her: “I know it all already, better than you, foolish sister, or you, dear child! Poor things, do you not see that you are in the tiger’s den, to which there are many tracks that lead, but none that come out again?”

And then her anxious glance turned to the door. How did it happen that he left her alone for so long? What was his intention, he who never did anything without intention?

III

It had not been Giraldi’s intention to remain away so long. He had expected the visit to be only one of civility, in return for that which he had paid his Excellency the day before; but the clever, loquacious gentleman had still so much to say, so much to add with regard to the business that they had apparently concluded the day before, even when he stood at the door with his hand on the lock, sometimes putting the hat which he held in the other hand before his half-blind eyes, hidden behind large grey spectacles, to protect them from the light that streamed too dazzlingly through the window opposite.

“It seems foolish to warn the most prudent of men,” he said, with a sarcastic smile which looked like a tearful grimace on his odd face.

“Particularly when the warning comes from the bravest of men,” answered Giraldi.

“And yet,” continued his Excellency, “he is wise too; you undervalue his wisdom. He too is brave, even to rashness; he gives proof of it daily. I do not think men like him can be understood at a distance; at least half the magical power that they exercise over their contemporaries lies in their personality. One must know such people personally, quarrel with them in the Chambers, see them enter at a court reception, to understand why the beasts grovel in the dust before this lion, and even where they mean to oppose him, only get so far as to wag their tails. Believe me, my honoured friend, distance in space is as unfavourable to the estimation of such real historical greatness as distance in time. You in Rome think you can explain by the logic of facts all that depends solely on the overwhelming personality of the man, exactly as all-wise philosophers of history quite calmly construe the wonderful deeds of an Alexander or a Caesar even to the minutest details by the necessity of the circumstances of the time, as if circumstances were a machine which completes its task all the same, whether set in motion by the master or by a workman.”

Giraldi smiled: “I thank your Excellency in the name of his Holiness, for whose ears this witty little lecture was doubtless meant. And it is no doubt as well that his Holiness should occasionally be shown the reverse side of the medal, in order that he may not forget the fear which is the beginning of all wisdom, and may be mindful of the necessity of our counsels and of our support. Only at this moment, when the shadows of the clouds which threaten our horizon on all sides lie dark on his soul, I would not willingly represent to him the situation as more difficult, or the man of the situation as more dangerous, than we ourselves see them to be who have learnt to see. Therefore I purposely took advantage of my farewell audience to raise his failing courage a little. May I give your Excellency a proof of the necessity of this? Well, then, his Holiness spoke in almost identically the same words of the demoniacal power of the arch-enemy of our Holy Church; he called him in turns a robber, a giant with a hundred arms, a murderer, a Colossus whose feet trod the two hemispheres, as that of Rhodes did the two sides of the harbour. Can your Excellency guess what I answered him? ‘I see already the pebble falling from the skies, which will shatter the feet of the Colossus.’ His eyes gleamed, his lips moved; he repeated to himself the words; before long he will proclaim them, urbi et orbi, as he does everything that we whisper to him. Our enemies will laugh, but it will comfort the feeble spirits amongst us, as it evidently sufficed to comfort the poor old man.”

“I wish it were as true as it is comforting,” said his Excellency.

“And is it not true?” exclaimed Giraldi. “Does not the Colossus in reality stand on feet of clay? Of what avail are all the boasting speeches about the power and splendour and civilising historic mission of the German Empire? The end of the song, which he purposely suppresses, or at least only allows to be heard quite faintly, is always and only the powerful kingdom of Prussia. What avails him that he restlessly throws himself from one character into another, and today proclaims universal suffrage, tomorrow thunders against Socialism, the day after again reprimands the puffed-up middle classes like so many ill-behaved schoolboys? He is and will always remain the majordomo of the Hohenzollern, though he may strive against it in moments of impatience at the occasional prudent hesitation of his gracious master, of anger at the intrigues of the courtiers, or whatever else may chafe his proud spirit. Believe me, your Excellency, this man, in spite of his perpetual display of liberalism, is an aristocrat from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, and in spite of his vaunted enlightenment is full of the romantic fancier of the middle ages, and never can and never will from his heart wish for anything but a kingdom by the grace of God. But while he wishes for a kingdom by the grace of God, he works for one by the grace of the people. What else is it, when he uproots from the people all reverence for the priesthood, not the Catholic alone? the interests of all orders of the priesthood have always been identical, and the sympathy which the ill-used Catholic clergy obtain from the Protestant priesthood will soon be seen. Without priests, however, there can be no God, and no kingdom by the grace of God; in other words, he is sawing off the branch on which he sits. Or if he does not take the matter so seriously, if he is, what I do not believe, so narrow-minded and frivolous that he only sees the whole matter in the light of a dispute about etiquette, a quarrel for the precedence which he wishes to claim by the power he has arrogated to himself as head and chief over the priests, the affair will again lead him ad absurdum, as there is no doubt that the priests will never accept this subordination, will at least only endure it if they cannot help themselves. We are what we always were and always shall be. And, your Excellency, his vulnerable point is that he does not grasp this, that he believes that he can frighten us by threatenings and terrors and make us the creatures of his will. As soon as he perceives that he cannot succeed by this means—and I hope he will not perceive it yet—he will try to temporise with us, and step by step will be drawn into the reaction; will be forced ever more and more openly to expose the contradiction between his aim—the kingdom by the grace of God—and his means which he has borrowed from the armoury of the revolution; and this contradiction into which he is being hopelessly driven, and from which must proceed the revolution—for no people will endure the long continuance of so contradicting a rule—is the pebble that is already rolling, and which will loosen the avalanche and shatter the Colossus.”

“Serve him right! and good luck go with him,” said his little Excellency, with his sarcastic laugh; and then, after a short pause, “I only sometimes fear that we shall make the salto mortale with him, and—”

“Shall stand firmer than ever on our feet,” interrupted Giraldi quickly. “What have we to fear from the revolution or from the people?—nothing, absolutely nothing. If today they dance round the golden calf, tomorrow they will prostrate themselves the deeper in the dust before Jehovah; if today they place the Goddess of Reason on the throne, tomorrow like frightened children they will fly back again into the bosom of Mother Church. And if in reality, as you said yesterday, Darwinism is to be for Germany the religion of the future, so be it; we will be the Darwinians par excellence, and with holy zeal will teach the new faith from the chairs of the universities. We know that nature draws her veil the closer, the more impatiently the too-forward scholar tries to lift it. And when he has gazed into the hollow eyes of Nothing, and lies shattered on the ground, we will come, will raise up the poor fool, and comfort him with the words—‘Go, and sin no more.’ And he will go, and will sin no more in the foolish thirst for knowledge, for the burden of ignorance is lighter and her yoke is easier—quod erat demonstrandum.”

The corners of his Excellency’s mouth were drawn as far apart as possible; even Giraldi smiled.

“I wish I had you always here,” said his Excellency.

“To tell your Excellency things which you have long ago proclaimed from the tribune.”

“I generally speak from my place.”

“And always in the right place.”

“It is often nothing but empty sound, and no one knows that better than myself; one counts upon the echo.”

“And not in vain; for us beyond the mountains the little silver bell is the great bell of a cathedral, whose iron clang reminds loiterers of their duty and spurs the brave to fiercer struggles.”

“And that reminds me that at this moment I am a loiterer myself, and that a fiercer struggle awaits me in the Chamber today.”

His Excellency, who had some time before seated himself on a chair near the door—Giraldi remained standing—rose again.

“Your Excellency will not forget my little request,” said Giraldi.

“How could I?” answered his Excellency; “in fact, I hope soon to have an opportunity of setting the affair in motion. Of course, it cannot be done without a small douceur. Nobody does anything there for nothing. Happily we have the means always ready. The promise to give one turn less to the screw in Alsace-Lorraine, not to disturb the childish pleasure of the old Catholics in Cologne too rudely, not to sound the alarm too loud in the impending debate on the courageous Bishop of Ermeland, any one of these small favours is worth a General, particularly when the latter has such unpractical antediluvian ideas of State, society and family.”

“And it can be done without scandal?”

“Quite without scandal. Ah! my worthy friend, you must not consider us any longer as the honest barbarians described by Tacitus; we have really learnt something since then. Goodbye!”

“Will your Excellency allow me to escort you to your carriage?”

“On no account. My servant waits in the anteroom. Will you let him come in?”

“Will your Excellency permit me to be for the moment, as ever, your devoted servant?”

Giraldi was in the act of offering his arm to the half-blind man, when a fresh visitor was announced.

“Who is it?” asked his Excellency, with some anxiety; “you know I must not be seen here by everybody.”

“It is Councillor Schieler, your Excellency.”

“Oh! only him. However, do not trust the sneaking fellow more than you can help! He has got some very useful qualities, but must be handled with care. Above all, do not trust him in the matter in question; it would be quite useless. His great protector can do nothing in the matter.”

“And therefore it was that I took the liberty of applying to your Excellency.”

“Advice to you always comes too late. One thing more. For the little family war which you have to wage here with these North German barbarians you require three times as much of the needful as for the great war. Are you fully provided?”

“I have always considered that war should maintain itself. However, I can draw on Brussels to any extent if it should be necessary.”

“Perhaps it may be necessary. At any rate, keep the game in your own hands. In spite of your sanguine hopes for the future, in which I fully concur, there are a series of lean years impending; we shall have to live like marmots, and the prudence of the marmot is more than ever necessary to us. You will keep me au courant?”

“It will be for my own interest, your Excellency.”

The Councillor had entered. His Excellency held out his hand: “You come just as I am going—that is unfair. You know there is nobody I like better to talk with than you. How blows the wind today in the Wilhelmstrasse? Have they slept well? Did they get out of bed on the right side? Nerves down, or steady? Country air asked for, or no demand? For heaven’s sake do not let me die of unsatisfied curiosity.”

His Excellency did not wait for the answer of the smiling Councillor, but again pressed the hands of both gentlemen, and, leaning on the arm of the servant who had entered meanwhile, left the room.

“Is it not wonderful!” said the Councillor; “such incredible elasticity, such marvellous promptitude, such quickness of attack, such sureness in retreat! The Moltke of guerilla warfare! What an enviable treasure does your party possess in that man!”

“Our party, Councillor? Pardon me, I always have to remind myself that you do not belong to us. Will you not sit down?”

“Many thanks, but I have not a minute to spare. I can only hastily tell you what is most important. In the first place, they are furious at the Ministry of Commerce at a vote just passed by the General Staff on the harbour question, which, as I am told by a colleague—I have not yet seen it myself—is as good as a veto. The report is by a certain Captain von Schönau, but the actual author—did you ever hear of such a thing?—is himself a member of the War Office, and is of course no other than our friend the General. This throws us back I do not know how far or for how long. I am furious, and the more so that I can see no way of getting over this difficulty. To be sure, a man has influence, and could, if necessary, bring this influence to bear even against an old friend; but one would not like to do it except in the direst necessity. What do you advise?”

“That we should not tarnish the purity of our cause by mixing in it such odious personalities,” answered Giraldi. “If you think yourself bound to spare an old friend, you know that there exists between the General and me an enmity of long standing; and everything that I should do or allow to be done against him would appear justly in the eyes of all as an act of common revenge, which God forbid! If it is His will He will surely bring about an event which will make our opponent harmless, and that need not be an accident because men call it so.”

“You mean if he were to die?” asked the Councillor, with a hesitating glance.

“I mean nothing positive, and certainly not his death. As far as I am concerned, may he live long!”

“That is a noble and Christian-like wish,” answered the Councillor, rubbing his long nose, “and no doubt spoken from your heart; still his opposition is and remains a stumbling-block to us, and I wish that were our only hindrance. But now, Count Golm tells me—I have just come from him; he will have the honour almost immediately; I only hurried on before him because I have something to say about him presently—Count Golm tells me that his efforts—he went over there in his present semiofficial capacity as future chairman of the board—that his efforts with the President in Sundin have been quite useless. He had made up his mind and could not alter it, however willingly he would give way to the Count, for a thousand reasons of neighbourly feeling and personal goodwill, and so forth. Golm, who between ourselves is clever enough and certainly not bashful, naturally allowed the great sacrifice to be perceived that we have determined to make—all in vain. In fact Golm thinks that he has rather done harm than good in the matter.”

“As is the case with all half measures,” said Giraldi.

“With half measures, my dear sir. How do you mean?”

“What was he offered?”

“Fifty thousand thalers down and the first directorship of the new railway, with six thousand a year fixed salary, besides an official residence, travelling expenses, and so forth.”

“Then about half what he demands?”

“He demands nothing.”

“A man does not demand under those circumstances; he lets it be offered to him. Authorise the Count to double it, and I bet you anything the business is done.”

“We cannot go so far as that,” answered the Councillor, rubbing his closely-cropped head; “our means do not allow it. Besides the rest of us—and then Count Golm himself is satisfied with fifty thousand for the present, we cannot offer the President twice as much without offending Golm. He is not particularly pleased with us as it is, and that is the point I want to talk to you about before he comes. Is it really impossible for you—I mean for the Warnow trustees—to sell the property directly to us, the provisional board?”

“Over the Count’s head!” exclaimed Giraldi. “Why I fancy, Councillor, that you are bound to the Count in that matter by the most positive promises.”

“True, true, unfortunately! But Lübbener, our financial adviser and—”

“The Count’s banker—I know.”

“You know everything! Lübbener thinks we might find some pretext in the case of a gentleman who, like the Count, is always getting into fresh difficulties and is always inclined or forced to sell his birthright for a mess of pottage. At the same time we do not wish or intend to act contrary to your intentions, and if you insist—”

“I insist upon nothing, Councillor,” answered Giraldi; “I simply obey the wishes of my client, which are on this point identical with those of Herr von Wallbach.”

“Good heavens!” said the Councillor impatiently. “I can quite understand that for the sake of appearances you would prefer to sell to a man of position rather than to a provisional board, although the man of position in question is a member of that very board; but you must not forget that we should pay you as much, or nearly as much, directly as we must afterwards pay to the Count.”

“The Count will not get off so cheaply either as you seem to think.”

“Then he will sell so much the dearer to us,” said the Councillor; “and it will be so much the worse for us.”

“Nevertheless I must refuse my support in this matter, to my great regret,” answered Giraldi decidedly.

The Councillor looked very much disgusted. “The best of it is,” he said sulkily, “that he cannot find the money—not even a hundred thousand, and still less the million or whatever sum we decide upon as the price of the land. He must come to us then; I know nobody else who would advance him so much at once, or even in instalments. I can tell him, however, beforehand, without being Merlin the Wise, that we shall not let him have the money cheap, so it will come to the same thing in the end. But now, my honoured patron, I must make room for the Count and take leave of you. Give my best regards to the lady, whom unfortunately I have not yet the honour of knowing, but for whom I have always had the deepest respect, and for whom I have broken many a lance in knightly fashion. And not in vain, for this family visit—I met Fräulein Sidonie in the hall, Fräulein Elsa had hastened on in front—is a concession which I may, without vanity, look upon as the result of my powers of persuasion. Apropos of my dear old friend Sidonie, you wished to know yesterday what it was that had actually decided the matter of the betrothal and put an end to Ottomar’s obstinate resistance.”

“Well?” asked Giraldi, with unfeigned curiosity.

“I do not know,” said the Councillor, with his finger on his long nose; “that is to say, my dear friend does not know, or she was sure to have told me. According to the servant’s evidence—that was all she could tell me—an interview took place the night before between the father and son; but I have every reason to suspect that the subject was no romantic one, but on the contrary, the equally prosaic and inexhaustible one of Ottomar’s debts. Farewell, my dear and honoured patron!—You will keep me informed?”

“Be assured of it.”

The Councillor was gone. Giraldi’s dark eyes were still fixed on the door; a smile of the deepest contempt played upon his lips. “Buffone!” he murmured.

IV

He stood sunk in the deepest thought, his slender white fingers stroking his dark beard.

“It is amusing to be the only well-informed man amongst the ignorant; amusing and sad. I feel it for the first time, now that I can no longer share my thoughts and plans with her. She has brought it on herself, and she is heaping wrong upon wrong. A little while ago and the measure was nearly full. If a spark of the old love remained in her she must have taken it differently. That pallor, that terror, that ‘no!’ at the mere vision of what formerly her soul thirsted for, as the thirsty traveller in the desert longs for the stream of water in the oasis. Only because it was a vision? Because it was not the truth? And if it were made truth?” Giraldi slowly paced the apartment. “His parents are dead, the monk may be disposed of, and the handsome youth can have no objection; he is vain and false, and in love; any one of the three would suffice to induce him to play the part. And then the likeness—it is not very striking, but she cannot convict me of falsehood when she sees him; and she must see him.”

In the anteroom was a stir as of several people moving; Giraldi, who was near the door, advanced a step nearer and listened; doubtless the visit announced in the niece’s note. They were all pressing round her now; they who had formerly avoided Valerie as an outcast and castaway hastened to her now that she was their equal and doubly as powerful. They would try to make up by the flatteries and caresses of one hour for what they had for long years committed against her in their stupid shortsightedness. She had said once that she longed for this hour, in order that she might set her foot on the necks of her persecutors, and pay them back in their own coin for their treatment of her. He had just now repeated the words that had often been mentioned between them, but she had not taken them up. The old German love of family was moving in her towards her blood-relations, while her own flesh and blood—his own—

He struck his forehead with his clenched fist. “That was the only foolish action of my life. What would I give if I could undo it!”

All was quiet again in the anteroom; Giraldi opened the door and beckoned in François, who handed him a number of visiting cards.

“I brought them out again, monsieur,” said François; “I was not sure of being able to remember those German names.”

“You must practise,” said Giraldi, letting the cards run through his fingers; “Privy Councillor Wallbach, Frau Louisa von Wallbach (née Herrenburg Semlow), Ottomar von Werben, Carla von Wallbach—mon Dieu! it is not so very difficult—I can remember twenty names that I have heard mentioned.”

“Oh yes, you, monsieur!” said François, bowing with a cringing smile.

“I expect the same of you. How did madame receive the lady who came first, the young Fräulein Elsa von Werben!”

“Mademoiselle shut the door when I wanted to follow her. I could not do it with the best will in the world. Mademoiselle seems to be very determined.”

“You are a fool. And the second lady, the older one, Fräulein Sidonie von Werben, or were you out of the way again?”

“Oh! no, monsieur! She is a great lady who gives herself airs; there was no difficulty with her. She walked ten paces forward and then made her curtsey. Oh, monsieur! such a curtsey! I could not help thinking of Madame la Duchesse de Rosambert, from whose service I came into monsieur’s.”

“Good! and madame?”

“Madame could not help smiling—a melancholy smile, monsieur, that went to one’s heart.”

And François laid his hand with a hypocritical look on his dazzlingly white closely-plaited shirtfront with its large gold studs.

“You may dispense with those grimaces in my presence! Go on.”

“Madame, who had passed her left arm through mademoiselle’s, and did not let it go now, held out her right hand and said: ‘Ah, que nous—’ ”

“In French?”

“No, monsieur, in German.”

“Then repeat it in German; the same words, if you please.”

“Do we meet again thus after eighty-seven years?”

“Twenty-seven, idiot! But the actual meeting?”

“It was such a confusion, monsieur! I could not distinguish anything in particular; it was impossible, monsieur!”

Giraldi shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“If Count Golm calls, tell him that I am at home to him, and add that monsieur can only spare him a few minutes because he is himself expected in madame’s salon. Then mention, casually, who is in the salon. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, monsieur.”

“One thing more; I do not pay two hundred francs a month to people to whom anything is impossible. You must perfect yourself if you wish to remain any longer in my service.”

“I will do everything to satisfy monsieur, and to prove myself worthy of the confidence with which monsieur honours me.”

François bowed himself out of the door.

“That is to say,” said Giraldi, “you have confided too much in me already to dare to send me away at a moment’s notice. It is our misfortune that we cannot live without these creatures. In Machiavelli’s time people took the precaution of not letting them live long. In these days one has to pay double without assuring one’s safety. Ah! the Count.”

François had opened the door to Count Golm; the Count entered with hurried steps. He looked out of temper and absent; his attitude and the tone of his voice showed the carelessness of the man of rank, who does not think it worth his while to conceal his dissatisfaction.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” he said; “but I will not take up your time for long; I have only come to tell you that in all probability nothing will now come of our bargain.”

“I should be sorry for that for your sake, Count,” answered Giraldi.

“Why for my sake?”

“We make nothing by the bargain, Count Golm.”

“Which is as much as to say that I should gain by it! I should be much obliged, sir, if you would tell me what.”

“If the Count, who proposed the bargain, does not know, we cannot pretend to do so.”

“And who are ‘we,’ if I may venture to ask, in this case; the trustees of the Warnow property, or yourself?”

“In this case the Baroness von Warnow, whom I have the honour to represent.”

There was so much calm superiority in the Italian’s coolly courteous manner, his black eyes shone with such a steady light, that the Count could not bear their glance and looked confusedly on the ground.

“I beg your pardon,” he said; “I—I did not mean to offend you.”

“And I am not offended,” answered Giraldi; “I never am when I see that people vent on me the vexation which I have not caused; it is like a letter that has been addressed to me by mistake. Shall we sit down?”

The Count accepted the invitation unwillingly.

“I cannot, however, consider you exonerated from all blame; it was you who told me yesterday that it would not be difficult for me to raise the first instalment of the purchase-money. As I take it for granted that you are in a general way acquainted with my circumstances, and on the other hand, you have been so long intimate with the Councillor, I could not but believe that between him and you on the one side, and him and Herr Lübbener on the other, some conversation had taken place upon the matter in question, and that you were authorised by those gentlemen to make an advance to me in their names, which could not be made by the gentlemen themselves to whom I am to sell again, though only in their capacity as directors of the new railroad. Good! I went this morning to Lübbener; he professed great astonishment, said it was very strange, might create bad feeling if it were known that he had advanced the money, still—to please me, as I was determined to be the seller—in short, he made conditions—impossible, degrading conditions, I tell you—for which I could have horsewhipped the—the fellow! I went away furious, and went straight to Herr Philip Schmidt. Herr Schmidt, you must know—”

“I know—a merchant-captain, much thought of by the Werbens. The Councillor spoke to me about him.”

Giraldi played with his watch-chain while he said these words in a careless, conversational tone, and looked up in astonishment when the Count exclaimed eagerly:

“Heaven forbid! What could I have to do with him! Herr Philip Schmidt is, as I learnt unfortunately too late, a cousin of that otherwise utterly insignificant fellow, who has, with incredible audacity, forced himself into the best circles; a man of no birth—”

“I beg your pardon; Herr Philip Schmidt then, to whom you went—”

“Is the contractor for the Berlin-Sundin Railroad, and is to build our line also—a successful man, fairly presentable, and immensely rich. Polite reception, as I expected, assurance on assurance of meeting my wishes; but his money was tied up in every possible undertaking; his new house had cost him fearful sums; he must keep a balance in hand for the contract for our new railroad, and—in short, scarcely better conditions than those of Lübbener. Now you see how easily I can raise the half million which you demand as an instalment.”

The Count pulled at his fair moustache; his pale blue eyes looked angrily at Giraldi. He made a motion to rise, but on a sign made by the latter with his white hand, remained sitting, as if rooted to his chair.

“I must again ask your pardon,” said Giraldi. “I thought I had made myself clear enough yesterday. I had forgotten that German ears are—I will not say duller than Italian, but different to them. I could otherwise have spared you an unpleasant morning; for what could be more unpleasant for a nobleman than to be obliged to deal with crafty men of business, still more when these men, as is apparent, are in collusion! I hope that with us you will be relieved from this and any other unpleasantness.”

“ ‘With us?’ With you?” asked the Count in the greatest astonishment.

“I must again say ‘we’ and ‘us,’ ” answered Giraldi, smiling; “for if I am myself only the manager, still the savings of an income of ten thousand thalers could not have increased to so large a sum without—what shall I say—some speculation by a lucky hand. For the last few years the money has been really lying idle, and I herewith offer it to the Count in the name of the Baroness.”

The Count stared at Giraldi; but the man’s dark eyes shone as calmly as before. It could not be a joke.

“In the name of the Baroness?”

“If it so pleases you.”

“The entire half million?”

“As it appears to us—this time I mean the trustees—that the payment of half the purchase-money at once is necessary for the better regulation of the property.”

“And the conditions?” asked the Count, after a short pause, with a somewhat hesitating voice.

Giraldi stroked his dark beard.

“We make really none, with the exception of one special condition, for the registration of the debt as a first mortgage on the property—which, as the Count knows, is quite free from debt—and the low interest of four percent, can hardly be called conditions, but rather natural securities, which the Count—”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the Count; “quite natural. And the special condition?”

“That the Count pledges his word of honour not to tell anyone, be they who they may, or even to hint from whom he has obtained the money.” Giraldi held out his hand with a pleasant smile. “It is the hand of a friend, not of a usurer, that we hold out to you.”

The Count was ashamed of his momentary hesitation. “There you have my hand and my word!” he exclaimed, laying his hand in that of the Italian. “I will speak of it to no one.”

“Not even to the Baroness,” continued Giraldi. “She wishes to be entirely unconcerned; that is to say, quite free. The Count will understand this womanly delicacy, not to say weakness.”

“Perfectly,” said the Count.

“Even her name—that is her particular wish—must not appear in any part of the transaction; so that the mortgage must be made out in my name. Do you agree!”

“Of course,” said the Count.

Giraldi dropped, with a friendly pressure, the hand which he had till then held in his, and leaned back in his chair.

“Then we are agreed,” he said. “I on my side consider myself fortunate in having delivered a nobleman, whose intelligence and energy had won my entire sympathy even before I had the happiness of making his personal acquaintance, from the unclean hands of these roturiers, and in having placed him in a position which, as it appears to me, confers on him that leading position in this affair which in every way is his right. I at least see the road quite clear before him. To raise the second half of the purchase-money—let us for the present fix the 1st of March as the term—I say to raise the second half of the purchase-money cannot be the least difficult, as by that time you will have long ago sold the property to your associates for double the money; you must not on any account agree for less than two millions. And now, Count, if it is agreeable to you, allow me to conduct you to the Baroness, who is longing to make your acquaintance, as I am sure you will be happy to become acquainted with a lady whom no one can know without loving and honouring her.”

Giraldi had risen; the Count stood embarrassed and undecided.

“You will easily believe that I should prize the happiness proposed to me at its fullest value; but—your servant—there are a lot of people—nearly all the family—in the salon. I fear I should be looked upon as a stranger and an intruder at such a moment.”

“But if,” answered Giraldi, “it should just be in the presence of her family that the Baroness especially needs the friendship of men of position and weight? If she lays the greatest stress on showing that wherever she appears the friendship of those men is secured to her.”

“Let us go!” exclaimed the Count.

“One word more,” said Giraldi.

In the hitherto calm eyes of the Italian a deeper fire burned. The Count stood breathless; he had an undefined feeling that now he was to hear the solution of the riddle which, in spite of all, was still a mystery to him.

“And if,” continued Giraldi slowly, as if weighing every syllable, “the Count should imagine that the Baroness does not expect to buy his friendship by doing him a service in a matter of business, but rather by using all her influence in his favour, in case he should have the wish, once for all, to make the reproach of being a stranger and intruder in the family impossible. I need say no more, if the Count understands, and I dare say no more if he has not understood me.”

The blood mounted into the Count’s face.

“If he dared to understand you!” he exclaimed, seizing the hand of the Italian and pressing it warmly—“if he dared!”

“That would be my smallest fear,” answered Giraldi, with a crafty smile; “but I feel neither that nor any other. Only let prudence go hand in hand with courage, and let Count Golm kindly trust in this delicate business to the experience and knowledge of the world of an older man.”

“I will not take a step without you—not a step!”

They had already reached the door when François entered with a card, which Giraldi, after glancing at it, handed to the Count.

“You see. Count Golm! Il n’y a que le premier pas qui coûte! The cost is not counted on that side! Ask Herr von Werben to come in.”

François opened the door for Ottomar.

“I come at the general wish of the ladies,” said Ottomar.

For the first time he saw the Count, The sarcastic smile left his delicate lips; his bright eyes took a gloomy shade.

“I beg pardon,” said he; “I thought I should find you alone, or I would have chosen a better time—”

“To me any time is right at which I make the acquaintance of the nephew of my highly revered friend,” answered Giraldi. “Besides, the Count and I were on the point of going to join the ladies in the drawing-room; now, indeed, I must ask the Count’s permission to enjoy the honour of Herr von Werben’s society here for a few minutes more.”

“Au revoir, then!” said the Count, leaving the room, and considering as he crossed the anteroom, accompanied by François, whether he ought to be affronted or amused at Ottomar’s distant manner. He came to the conclusion that he had more cause for the latter. Ottomar, indeed, had now reached the important goal; but it was extremely probable that he never would have reached it at all if a certain other person had arrived in Berlin a few days earlier. Everybody said so; and that it was only jealousy which had brought Ottomar’s indecision and faint-heartedness to an end. Faint-heartedness, indeed! To satisfy a woman like Carla von Wallbach, a man must have very different qualifications to any that Ottomar von Werben could boast—must, in short, be a Count Golm. Well, he had kindly released the family from the anxiety which he had caused them—Fräulein Elsa, too, who had evidently trembled for her brother. They owed him some gratitude, and all of them, excepting Ottomar, would feel that—they would be eager to show him that gratitude. And if when he rose that morning he had not quite made up his mind about the other matter, he had done so now. Favoured by the lady here, whom the whole family had hastened to visit the very morning after her arrival, the remaining difficulties would vanish that opposed themselves to his entering that family as a highly desirable member—if he chose to do so! Of course, he should reserve his liberty of decision to the last moment!

The Count lingered a little at the door to follow up his agreeable train of thought to the end, and to arrange his fair wavy hair and long moustache to the best advantage, before he desired François, who was waiting respectfully, to open the door for him; no special announcement was needed as he was expected.

François obeyed with a low bow the order given him in French, and then behind the closed door, with a still lower bow, said: “Monsieur le Comte, vous parlez français—comme une vache espagnole—je vous rends cette justice, ah!” and drawing himself up the man shook his fist: “que je déteste ce genre là!”

V

It was not so much the wish of the ladies, as the request of Carla that Ottomar had acceded to when he came in search of Giraldi. Carla was burning with curiosity to become personally acquainted with the man, of whom she had heard such an “immense number of the most interesting things;” it would be dreadful to lose such a pleasure! Could not Signor Giraldi get rid of his Excellency or of the Councillor? Could not Ottomar make a diversion by going in himself, and cutting short the Catholic question, or whatever other matter of high importance they might be discussing? Ottomar was so clever! Do ask him, Elsa! He will do anything for you! Elsa could do no less than say, “Pray oblige Carla!” and even then Ottomar had sat still, muttering that he did not speak Italian, till the Baroness said with an absent smile, “That need not prevent you, my dear Ottomar; Signor Giraldi speaks most European languages, and German in particular like a native.” “Oh! why can’t I go myself!” cried Carla. “If you wish it, my dear aunt,” said Ottomar, and went.

With very mixed feelings, however. He had only joined in paying this visit because Elsa seemed to wish it so much, and the Wallbachs had asked him so pressingly. But that he who, after his father, represented the family, should be the first to seek out the man whose name his father would never pronounce; the man who, if he might believe his father, had brought such sorrow and shame upon the family—this was too much for his pride. And yet in this very circumstance lay a demoniac charm which Ottomar, as he crossed the anteroom, with grim satisfaction allowed to take effect upon him. Had not his father just now forcibly interfered in his life, robbed him by his imperious proceedings of the woman he loved—now more than ever, made that life miserable, and brought her to the edge of the grave, perhaps to the grave, itself? Should he bow here again before the mere threatening shadow of paternal authority, or not rather rejoice that an opportunity was given him to set it at defiance?

And this defiance had curled his lips in an ironical smile as he met the much-abused man.

It seemed like an evil omen that instead of the Councillor whom he expected to find here, he should meet the Count, the last man he would have wished for as witness to a step which was almost a crime against the family honour, and was at least very hazardous. The words he would have spoken died on his lips, and the dark look with which he followed the retreating figure could hardly have been misinterpreted by a less shrewd observer.

“You have no love for that gentleman,” said Giraldi, waving his hand after the Count.

“I have no cause to love him,” answered Ottomar.

“No, indeed,” said Giraldi; “for two more opposite natures could hardly be brought together. In the one, openly expressed, supreme satisfaction with noble qualities which exist only in his imagination; in the other, perpetual gnawing doubt of the admirable gifts which Nature has so freely lavished upon him; in one, the miserable narrowness of a hard heart divided between vanity and frivolity; in the other, an overflow of love, falling into despair because all its blossoms do not ripen.”

Ottomar looked up, startled. Who was this man whom he now saw for the first time, and who read his inmost heart as if it had been an open book; who at the first moment of meeting not only could, but dared to say this, as quietly as if it were a matter of course, as if it were not worth while to respect the miserable fetters of social conventionalism even for a moment; as if he could wave them away with a single movement of the slender, white hand?

He looked into the black eyes as if asking for an explanation, and as he did so there crossed his mind the recollection, of a woodland pool by which he had often played as a boy, and which was said to be unfathomable.

“I have surprised you,” said Giraldi. “I might perhaps make use of your astonishment to appear to you—if only for a short time—in a mysterious light, and steal into your confidence by pretending to be in possession of heaven knows what secrets of yours. But I am no charlatan; I am not even the adventurer to whom you have come half-unwillingly, half-curiously; I am only a man whose dearest hopes and warmest wishes have been so long crushed and broken that he has forgotten how to hope or wish, and that only one feeling is left to him, that of pity for all sorrows wherever he may meet them, and especially when the sorrow is so plainly expressed on a young man’s face, at a moment when other faces are beaming with joy and gladness. And now, son of the man who is my enemy because he does not know me, give me your hand and tell me that you are not offended at my freedom!”

He extended both hands with a fascinating gesture half of entreaty, half of command, and Ottomar seized them with passionate eagerness. He had suffered so much in the last few days, and had had no one whose hand he could grasp, no one to whom he could unburden his overfull heart! And now from the eloquent lips of this handsome, strong, singular man came the first words of comfort! Were miracles possible then—or, as the man himself said, did the miracle only consist in the fact that one must be unhappy oneself to understand those who suffer?

His heart overflowed; his beautiful eager eyes filled with tears, of which he was ashamed, but which he could not check. Giraldi released his hands and turned away, passing his hand across his eyes. When after a brief pause he turned back, there was a look of humble joy upon his expressive countenance, and his voice sounded softer than before as he said: “And now, my dear young friend, you will not forget this hour, nor what I now say; I am a poor man in spite of what people say; but anything in my power shall be done for you, for a glance of the eyes so wonderfully like those for which I would go to meet death this day as cheerfully as I would go to a feast. Come!”

He put his arm familiarly within Ottomar’s, and led him to the door which he opened and let his guest precede him. Ottomar did not turn; if he had he would have been appalled at the convulsively distorted face of the man who was holding the handle of the door in his left hand, while he raised the outstretched fingers of the right hand like a vulture’s claws as he strikes down his victim from behind.

The Count’s entrance into the drawing-room had greatly surprised the Baroness; but a moment’s reflection had been enough for her quick wits to guess at the state of affairs, and that this surprise was the work of Giraldi, the result of which she was to observe and by-and-by to report upon. Such an incentive was not needed, indeed; Elsa had become so dear to her in this one hour; every look of the joyous brown eyes, which, she well knew, could look so earnest too, every word that came from the little mouth, every movement of the slender, graceful figure—all, all was balm to her aching heart, that was languishing for true affection, for beautiful, undefaced humanity. How far behind the tender grace of her favourite must the brilliant Carla stand! Carla, with whom everything, every tone, every gesture, every turn of her eyes, every movement was called into play by an insatiable thirst for admiration, which did not by any means always attain its object, and often far outstripped its aim. She had closely compared the two girls, and each time told herself that a man who had Elsa for a sister could not really love Carla, and that no good would come of the engagement for Ottomar, even if he had not passed the threshold to it, so to speak, over the body of the forsaken beauty who was breaking her heart now in despair. To her who had been initiated into the secret by her tyrant, the remorse which devoured him spoke only too plainly in the nervous glitter of his beautiful eyes, in his sullen silence or the forced speech to which he again roused himself, and in the constant gnawing of the delicate lip between his sharp teeth. And she, who had given her hand and her word to the unhappy man, seemed to see and suspect nothing of all this! She could chatter and laugh, and flirt with the Count exactly as she had done a minute before with her betrothed, only that her frivolous game was evidently not wasted now, but eagerly and sincerely admired, and gratefully responded to to the best of the man’s ability. And then her observant look returned to Elsa and met a pair of eyes which she had already learned to read so well, and in which she now thought she could perceive the same feelings that moved herself; sorrow, pity, astonishment, blame—all indeed in a lesser degree, as was natural in the young girl, who probably did not know the sad secret of her brother’s engagement. And this sisterly sympathy was certainly not mixed with any selfish feelings. When the Count entered so unexpectedly, he had been welcomed by no joyful lifting of the eyes in which every thought was reflected, no brighter crimson in the cheek on which the colour always came and went so quickly; nothing but a look of astonishment which was little flattering to the newcomer, and which proved to Valerie how well her tyrant was kept informed by his spies, Everything that she had seen and heard in this last hour tallied in every particular with what he had foretold. And now he would appear, accompanying poor Ottomar, whom in these few minutes he would have won, fascinated, enchanted as he did all who came within his reach—he would enter like a sovereign who appears last, when well-trained officials have appointed each guest his place, so that the eye of the ruler need not wander inquiringly, but may glance with a satisfied smile over the assembly which only waits for him.

He came in at last, only leaning on Ottomar’s arm long enough for everyone to have time to remark the confidential relations that already existed between him and the nephew of their hostess; and then hastening his step and leaving Ottomar behind him, he advanced to the party grouped round the sofa, whose conversation died away at once, as all raised their eyes curiously and wonderingly to the man they had been so eagerly expecting. And however many proofs Valerie had already received of the man’s tact, she was again forced against her will to admire the consummate art with which—she could hardly herself have said how—he became almost immediately the centre round which everything else revolved, from whom came every impulse and interest, to whom every thought and feeling returned. Even Frau von Wallbach had raised herself from the comfortable attitude in her armchair which she had taken after the first words of civility and had retained unchanged till now, and stared with half-open mouth and eyes which looked almost wide awake at the strange apparition. Elsa had evidently forgotten for the moment everything that had been troubling her before; and as she turned after a little while to her aunt and drew a long breath, there lay in her countenance the silent acknowledgment: “This is more, far more than I had expected.” Carla had the same feeling, and took care by her looks and gestures to let everybody know it, even before she openly expressed it.

“In these days,” cried she, “when the want of lively sensibilities and of courage to express the little that still exists is doubly felt, I have reserved to myself the childlike habit of naive admiration wherever and however I find what is admirable, and the privilege of Homer’s heroes of giving unveiled expression to my admiration. And when among the insipid faces of the north—present company, gentlemen, is always excepted—I see a face for whose description even the sunbathed portraits of a Titian, a Raphael or a Velasquez do not suffice, which I can compare to nothing but that miraculous picture to which I owe my most sublime impressions, to that indescribably dignified and yet most divinely benignant Head of Christ over the high altar in the Cathedral of Monreale at Palermo—I must speak it out though Signor Giraldi does raise his hand so deprecatingly, thereby increasing his resemblance to the picture, which will be to me henceforward indeed only a portrait.”

“I am delighted to offer a humble theme to so lofty an artistic imagination as undoubtedly inspires Fräulein von Wallbach,” answered Giraldi.

“I think we must be going,” said Frau von Wallbach, with an absent look at the ceiling.

“Good heavens! Half-past two!” cried Carla, starting up; “how time flies in such interesting company!”

The company dispersed; Giraldi, who had gone with them to the door, came back slowly, his head raised, his dark eyes gleaming with triumph, and a smile of contempt curling his lip. Suddenly, in the centre of the room, he stood still, and for a moment his face grew dark as night, but the next he was smiling again, and with a smile he asked:

“Is that the look of a victor after the battle?” Valerie had sunk back, with closed eyes, utterly exhausted in her chair, believing that he had left the room. At the first sound of his voice she started.

“Which you have won!”

“For you!”

He bent down to her as he had done before and raised her hand to his lips.

“My lady’s hand is cold, however warm I know her heart to be. The noise of the battle is not fit for her sensitive nerves. We must take care that she retires betimes to a quieter spot, where she may await the end in peace.”

“What do you mean?” asked Valerie with a smile, though a shudder ran through her.

“It is a plan which has just taken shape in my mind, and which—but no, not now, when you need repose! not now; tomorrow, perhaps, when these eyes may shine more boldly, when the blood will run more warmly in this dear hand—the day after tomorrow—there is no hurry; you know that Gregorio Giraldi does not make his plans for a day.”

“I know it,” answered Valerie.

He now really left the room; Valerie listened, she heard his door shut, she was alone. She rose trembling limbs and tottered to the chair in which Elsa had sat, and there fell upon her knees, pressing her forehead against the back.

“And Thou knowest it, Almighty God! Thou hast sent me Thy angel, in token of Thy grace and mercy. I will trust in Thee faithfully. Thou wilt not suffer that this tyrant shall destroy Thy beautiful world.”

VI

Autumn had come, and was boisterously asserting his authority; the weather was dark and gloomy, even in Reinhold’s eyes. “The gloomiest and darkest I ever experienced,” he said each morning to himself as the same spectacle always presented itself when he opened his window: dark, lowering clouds, trees swaying to and fro, from whose branches blustering winds were stripping the brown leaves and whirling them through the moist, foggy atmosphere across the roofs of the workshops, which looked so drenched and miserable that one would only have expected tombstones to be made there.

“And yet I have got through darker and gloomier days without losing heart,” philosophised Reinhold further; “it is not the weather out of doors, it is that whichever way I turn I see people in need and trouble, as if I were on board a ship that must sink shortly and could do nothing to save it, but must sit with my hands before me, and look on idly at the catastrophe.”

Reinhold could do nothing; of that he had only too soon convinced himself ever since that terrible morning when the General had come to his room, and in the deepest agitation, which even his iron strength could hardly master, had informed him of the conversation he had just had with Herr Schmidt, and its miserable results.

“I made every advance to your uncle,” said the General, “which was possible to a man of honour. I offered to him and to your family the reparation which, at least in the eyes of the world, would put everything straight, and would secure to the young people the possibility of that happiness which they have so recklessly pursued. If they will find it in this way, God only knows, but that is their affair, and must be theirs. What I feel about it, what hopes I bury here, what a sacrifice I make of my personal convictions, is a matter that lies between my God and me. May God guide your uncle’s heart, that he may put his trust in Him, as I do, in the inward conviction that our own wisdom will not help us here. I have come to you, my dear Schmidt, to say all this to you, not that I wish that you should try to influence your uncle; according to my judgment of him, that would be labour lost; but because I cannot endure the thought of being wrongly judged by a man whom we all think so highly of, and who, besides, is connected with me as a brother soldier, even if only for a short time.”

Reinhold had, notwithstanding, followed the impulse of his heart, and attempted the impossible. He had been, for the first time since they had been together, harshly repulsed by his uncle, and had been forced to own to himself that neither he nor any other man could persuade the fiery-tempered old man to retract a decision once made “because he must.” But when Aunt Rikchen, unable to rest from fear of the terrible something in the air which yet she could not comprehend, found Ferdinanda an hour later lying senseless on the floor of her studio; when the unfortunate girl was raving in high fever, and the family doctor came and went with anxious looks, and soon returned in company with a colleague, and in the evening the two were joined by a third physician, who seemed no less helpless before this strange seizure—then, when Reinhold’s first words, “It will kill her!” seemed likely to be so terribly soon fulfilled, he bethought himself of the General’s fervent prayer that God might guide his uncle’s heart, and sought his uncle, who had not left his room again since the morning, and asked him whether he would really allow his child to die when it was in his power to save her.

“I am convinced that you can save her,” he cried; “that a word from you would pierce to her troubled mind through all the horrors of a fevered fancy, and that she would awake to a new life.”

“And what would that word be?” asked Uncle Ernst.

“If your heart does not tell you, you would not understand it if I spoke it.”

“My heart only tells me that it would be a lie,” replied Uncle Ernst; “and as I understand life, no lie will restore it. What life would it be to which she would awake! Life at the side of a man whose courage holds out just so long as the darkness in which he has followed his course of intrigue; who only steps forth from that darkness when a villain tears off his mask, and he cannot endure his father’s eye upon his miserable face; who would do what he must today, driven on by the reproaches of his conscience and fear of the world’s opinion, only to repent it tomorrow from the same fear, and to hint it to her at first in a thousand different ways, and say it at last to her face. Is that a lot for a father to prepare for his child? No, never! Better a thousand times death, if she must needs die. Every man has his own way of looking at life, and this is mine; and no general officer, with I know not what confused ideas of honour and love, and no relation, however dear he may be to me, who in his good-nature would like to accommodate what never can be put straight, will ever teach me another. And if God Himself came and said to me, ‘You are wrong,’ I should answer, ‘I do right in my own eyes,’ and no God can demand more of man.”

“But you ought not to have urged Ferdinanda to a decision which cannot possibly have come from her heart.”

“Are not you attempting something of the same kind at this moment?”

“I have no authority over you, and your mind is not torn by conflicting feelings as Ferdinanda’s must have been in that unhappy hour.”

“So much the better, that one of us at least should know what he wishes and wills.”

That had been Uncle Ernst’s last word, and he had said it with a calmness that to Reinhold was more terrible than the wildest outburst of passion would have been.

And yet not so terrible as the smile with which the stubborn old man a few days later received the news that Ferdinanda was, in the doctor’s opinion, out of danger.

Reinhold could not forget that smile; it haunted him even in his dreams. He had never seen the like on any human face; he could not even describe it to Justus, to whom he had repeatedly mentioned it, till one day he stopped with a sudden exclamation at a face that stared at him from the wall in a remote corner of the studio.

“Good heavens, Anders, what is this!”

“The mask of the Rhondonini Medusa,” said Justus, looking up from his work.

“That was my uncle’s smile.”

“I dare say it was something like it,” said Justus, coming up with his modelling-tool in his hand, “although I cannot quite reconcile Uncle Ernst’s beard with the Medusa; but one sees sometimes such diabolical resemblances.”

Justus’s friendship was invaluable to Reinhold in these dark days; when he was almost giving way, the artist’s perpetually cheerful temper would keep him up. “I cannot understand you,” said Justus; “I certainly have every possible respect for Uncle Ernst’s splendid qualities, and I take really a sincere interest in Ferdinanda, to say nothing of Aunt Rikchen, poor soul, who will soon have cried her eyes out; but sympathy and pity and all that sort of thing, like everything else in the world, must have its limits, and if anything of the kind affects my own life and incapacitates me from working—why, then, you see, Reinhold, I say with Count Egmont: ‘This is a foreign drop within my veins!’ and—out with it! Have you written to the President?”

“Three days ago.”

“That’s right. Heaven knows how sorry I shall be to lose you; but you have been here too long already. You ought to have a ship’s planks under your feet again, and a northeaster whistling in your ears; that would soon blow your melancholy and hypochondria and all that well out of you, and clear your brain and your heart—you may take my word for it!”

“If only it comes to anything,” said Reinhold; “I almost fear, as the answer is so long in coming, that my report may have roused bad feelings in the other department as well, as the General prophesied it would.”

“Then we must think of something else,” answered Justus; “so smart a vessel must not be left to rot in the stagnant waters of a port. For the present you can sit to me occasionally as a model for my bas-relief; not that I want you yet, but one must gather the roses ere they fade. I will take your head now at once, life-size, to be sure of you in any case.” Justus set aside all other work, and busied himself over the designs for his bas-reliefs from morning till night, which came only too early for the busy worker. Two of them, the March Out and the Battle, were already finished, and the Ambulance Preparations had made great progress; but what was to be done about the Return? Heaven only knew! “And the idea was such a splendid one,” cried Justus. “You had been promoted to be an officer meanwhile, and were to be standing at attention in the right corner, your eyes left towards the charming burgomaster’s daughter, who, with the wreath in her hand, also turned her eyes right towards the smart lieutenant, while the two elders exchanged the most beautiful sentiments about union, peace, fraternity, and the like. Heaven help us! beautiful sentiments they have exchanged certainly! Those confounded politics! for after all they are at the bottom of all this trouble. Why must that old Berserker go running about upon the barricades in ’48! And he calls himself a Liberal now, and bottles up his anger for four and twenty years, and so spoils my splendid idea, for the idea was fairly embodied in those two. Who the devil is to make bas-reliefs from disembodied ideas! I, for one, can’t do it; I gladly renounce the doubtful glory of being an inventor; my motto is: ‘Seek, and you shall find!’ I have held by it, and it has held by me. I have always found just what I wanted for the moment; it has fairly fallen in my way, I must have been blind not to see it; and this time it was just as if Abdallah’s wonderful cave had opened before me: ‘Diamonds, emeralds, rubies, only the way between them is narrow … the camels laden almost beyond their strength;’ and now—just turn a little more to the right, my good fellow!—‘one only, the last, remained to the dervish.’ Admirable, my dear Reinhold, but, excepting you, every one of my splendid models has left me in the lurch; Uncle Ernst, the General, Ferdinanda—absolutely impossible! Aunt Rikchen declares that in such a time of trouble she cannot have anything to do with such nonsense—it would be quite wicked!—is not that good? Old Grollmann’s face, I positively cannot see through his melancholy wrinkles; our worthy Kreisel, since he has given up Socialism and taken to speculation, has shrivelled up into a mere grasshopper; dear Cilli even has only occasionally the sweet smile with which, gift in hand, she was to grope for the superintendent’s table; and among the new workmen I cannot find a single decent model. A parcel of stupid, coarse, sullen faces; and all comes from politics—those confounded politics!”

Thus Justus lamented, and between whiles laughed, over his own “splendid” idea, while he kneaded and moulded the wet clay incessantly in his busy hands, whose dexterity seemed miraculous to Reinhold, and then stepped back a few paces, nodding his half-bald head backwards and forwards, and shaking it gravely if he did not think he had succeeded, or whistling softly and contentedly if he was satisfied—which he generally had reason to be—in any case taking up again outwardly the work which he had not for a moment ceased mentally to carry on.

“I never know which to be most amazed at,” said Reinhold; “your skill or your industry.”

“It is all one,” answered Justus; “a lazy artist is a contradiction in terms, at the best he is only a clever amateur. For what is the difference between artists and amateurs? That the amateur has the will and not the power—the will to do what he cannot accomplish; and the artist can accomplish what he will, and wills nothing but what he can accomplish. But to this point—to comparatively perfect mastery over the technicalities of his art and knowledge of its limits—he attains only through unremitting industry, which is no special virtue in him, but rather his very self, his very art. Or, to put it differently, his art is not merely his greatest delight, it is everything to him; he rises with his work as he went to bed with it, and if possible dreams of it too in the night. The world vanishes for him in his work, and it is just, therefore, that he creates a new world in his work. Of course this makes him one-sided, narrows him in a hundred other directions—you must have discovered long ago that I am insufferably stupid and ignorant; but ask the ants, who pursue their way, because it is the shortest, right across the beaten tracks, or the bee who commits murder so jovially in the autumn, and roves about in such idyllic fashion in the spring, or any of the other artistic creatures—the whole tribe of them is stupid, and narrow-minded, and barbarous, but they accomplish something. Look at my Antonio; he will never accomplish anything but hewing a figure out of the marble after a finished model, and working it up till it is ready to receive the last touches at the artist’s hands, that is to say, being a first-class workman. Why? Because he has a thousand follies in his head, and in the front rank his own precious, conceited self. And then a feeling heart! Goethe, who was a real, true artist, though he did draw and paint some bad things, had his thoughts about that. The fellow—I don’t mean Goethe, but Antonio—was good for nothing during the first days of Ferdinanda’s illness, so that I had to send him away from his work altogether. What is Ferdinanda to him? Or, at any rate, what is she to him more than to me? and I have been able to work splendidly all these last days. And Ferdinanda herself! such a pity! She was absolutely standing on the threshold of the sanctuary, and yet she will never enter because she cannot grasp the stern saying over the door: ‘Thou shalt have none other gods but me.’ She has begun to work again, indeed, since yesterday; but defiance, and despair, and resignation, and all that—it may be all very fine; but it is not the muse. And neither is love the muse of art—let people say what they will. All this yearning of heart to heart, it is all very well, but just let a man try to work with a yearning heart, and see how soon his art gives way to the yearning! The artist must be cool to the centre of his heart. I have kept it so till now, and intend so to continue, and if ever you see the name of Justus Anders in a register of marriages, you need no longer look for it in the golden book of art; you would see a line drawn through the space where it may once have stood in alphabetical order.”

Reinhold would not allow this, any more than he would accept Justus’s theory of the necessary one-sidedness of artists. He saw in the artist rather the complete, perfect man, to whom nothing in humanity was strange; the more than complete man even, who poured out his exuberant wealth, which otherwise must have overwhelmed him, in his works, and thus, beside the real world in which ordinary men dwelt, created for himself a second ideal world. And if Justus maintained that he had never loved, it might be true, although for his part he ventured slightly to doubt the strict truth of his assertion; but even if it were so, this great finder had merely not yet found the right object, and as he boasted of always finding the right object at the right moment, here, too, at the right moment the right object would certainly present itself.

“That is a most unartistic view of the matter, my dear Reinhold!” cried Justus. “We, who according to your ideas are something of demigods, know better with what groans and creaks these beautiful creations are brought into life, and that at the best of times, when things go as smoothly as possible, you cannot boil anything without water. And as for love, you certainly have more experience in that, and experience, said Goethe’s grey friend at Leipzig, is everything; but very often it is better to be without that experience.”

And Justus hummed the tune of “No Fire, No Coals, No Ashes,” as, with his modelling-tool grasped in both hands, he worked at the forehead of his clay figure.

“Do not give expression to such profane notions this evening at the Kreisels’,” said Reinhold.

“Why not? It is the simple truth.”

“May be so; but it hurts good little Cilli to hear such things, especially from your mouth.”

“Why especially from my mouth?”

“Because she sees in you her ideal.”

“In you, I should think.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense, Justus!”

“Not at all. She fairly raves about you; she talks about nothing but you. Only yesterday she said to me that she hoped to live to see you as happy as you deserved to be, on which I ventured to observe that I considered you as one of the happiest men under the sun, notwithstanding your temporary want of employment, whereupon she shook her pretty head and said, ‘The best indeed, but happy?’ and shook her head again. Now I only ask you! You not happy!”

And Justus whistled the tune of “Happy Only Is the Soul That Loves,” and exclaimed, “There, now I have got rid of the wrinkles in your forehead, and now we will stop for today, or we shall make a mess of it again, as we did yesterday evening.”

He sprinkled his figures with water, wrapped Reinhold’s half-finished head in wet cloths, and wiped his hands.

“There, I am ready!”

“Won’t you at least shut your desk?” said Reinhold, pointing to a worm-eaten old piece of furniture, on and in which Justus’s letters and other papers were wont to lie about.

“What for?” said Justus. “No one is likely to touch the rubbish. Antonio will put it all in order; Antonio is order itself. Antonio!”

The other workmen had already left the studio; only Antonio was still busying himself in the twilight.

“Put these things a little tidy, Antonio. Come!”

The two young men left the studio.

“Do not you leave too much in Antonio’s hands?” asked Reinhold.

“How so?”

“I do not trust that Italian; so little indeed that I have repeatedly fancied that the fellow must have had a hand in betraying Ferdinanda.”

Justus laughed. “Really, my dear Reinhold, I begin to think that Cilli was right, and that you are an unhappy man! How can a happy man torment himself with such horrid ideas? I will just run up and make myself tidy. You go on, I will follow you in five minutes.”

Justus was just hastening away, when the door of Ferdinanda’s studio opened, and a lady came out dressed entirely in black, and muffled in a thick black veil. She hesitated for a moment when she saw the two, and then with hasty step and bent head passed them on her way to the yard. The two friends thought at the first moment that it was Ferdinanda herself; but Ferdinanda was taller, and this was not her figure or walk.

“But who else could it have been?” asked Reinhold.

“I do not know,” said Justus. “Perhaps a model—there are shy models. I hope at any rate that it was one. It would be the best sign that she was going to work again, that is to say to come to her senses.”

Justus sprang up the steps which led to his apartment. Reinhold continued on his way. As he turned the corner of the building, the black figure was just disappearing through the entrance to the house.

Antonio also, who had begun to tidy Justus’s desk as soon as the two friends had left the studio, had observed the lady in black as she glided past the window. He threw the papers which he held in his hand into the desk, and was about to rush out, but remembered that he could not follow her in his working dress, and stopped with much annoyance. The lady in black had been with Ferdinanda at the same hour yesterday, but as the studio was full, he had not been able to make his observations through the door. She was no model—he knew better than that! But who could it be, if not an emissary from the man he hated? Perhaps she would come for the third time at a more convenient hour. He must find out!

He returned to the desk. “Bah!” said he, “what is there to be found here? accounts, orders—the old story! And what use is it to listen to their conversation? Always the same empty chatter. I can’t think why he wants to know what the Captain talks about to the maestro!”

He knew that Ferdinanda was no longer in her study, but yet his gleaming eyes remained fixed on her door as he sat here brooding in the twilight.

“I will do everything that he commands. He is very wise, very powerful, and very wealthy; but what good can he do here? Is not she now even more unhappy than she was before? And if she should ever find out that it was I—but the signor is right there, one thing always remains to me—the last, best of all—revenge!”

VII

Latterly, while Ferdinanda still kept her bed, Uncle Ernst hardly left his room, and the Schmidt family circle therefore was to a great extent broken up, the two friends had divided their evenings between it and the Kreisels pretty regularly as they said, or very irregularly as Aunt Rikchen said. Reinhold was forced to agree with his aunt, and attempted no further excuses, as he did not want to tell any untruths, and could not acknowledge the true reason. The real truth was that his aunt’s perpetual complaints threatened to destroy his last remnant of cheerfulness, while on the contrary he found the comfort and consolation that he so greatly needed in the atmosphere of sunshine which the sweet blind girl diffused around her. Latterly, indeed, even this sunshine had been a little clouded. The two friends had a suspicion, which they did not however impart to the poor girl, that the eccentric old gentleman, having made up his mind, as he said, that he could no longer with honour remain a Socialist, had sacrificed his dislike to speculation to the darling wish of his heart, to provide for Cilli after his own death, and had been speculating eagerly with the scanty means that he had toilsomely scraped together in the course of years. He was very mysterious about it indeed, and denied it roundly when Justus laughingly taxed him with it; but Justus would not be deceived, and even thought he could gather, from a casual expression the other had let fall, that it was the doubtful star of the Berlin-Sundin Railway to which the old man had confided the fragile bark of his fortunes. It seemed some confirmation of this opinion that latterly, when the almost worthless shares had become, in consequence of the new and dazzling prospectus, an object of the wildest speculation, and had consequently risen to double their value, the old gentleman’s cheerfulness had returned also, and he had even ventured upon some of the dry witticisms which he only uttered when he was in the brightest spirits. Cilli said that now everything went well with her, and Reinhold, as she asserted this with her sweet smile, tried to stifle another and much worse anxiety—an anxiety which he had once hinted to Justus, whereupon the latter had replied in his careless fashion: “Nonsense! Love is a weakness, angels have no weaknesses; Cilli is an angel, and so—basta!”

He found Cilli alone in the modest little sitting-room, in the act of arranging the tea-things on the little round table in front of the hard, faded old sofa. She performed such small household duties with a confidence which would have quite deceived a stranger as to her infirmity, and with a grace which always had a fresh charm for Reinhold. She would not permit any assistance either. “It is cruel,” said she, “not to let me do the little that I can do.”

So he sat now in the sofa corner, which was always his place—the other belonged to her father when he came in from the office—and looked on as she came and went with her gliding step, and as often as she returned to the table seemed smilingly to bid him welcome again and again.

“Where is Justus!” asked she.

“He has just gone to dress.”

“How far has he got with you?”

“I shall be finished tomorrow, or the day after.”

“Then it will be my turn; I am looking forward to it so—I mean to the portrait. I should so like to know what I look like. However often I do so”—she drew her soft finger slowly along her profile—“and that is just like looking in the glass, yet you never know how you look till a great artist shows it to you in your portrait. Justus is going to do me in life-size too.”

“But he might have given you that small satisfaction long ago.”

“It is not a small thing, even though he does work so wonderfully quick,” answered Cilli eagerly; “every hour, every minute is precious to him; he owes them all to his work. Now that he can make use of me for his work, it is different of course.”

“Do you know then, dear Cilli, what we all look like?”

“Perfectly; you are a tall man, with curly hair and beard, and a broad forehead, and blue eyes. Justus is not so tall, is he?”

“He is a little shorter, dear Cilli.”

“But only a very little,” Cilli went on triumphantly; “and his hair is not so thick, is it?”

The last words were said with some hesitation.

“Not at the temples, dear Cilli.”

“Only not at the temples, of course!” said Cilli quickly; “but his great beauty is in his eyes—great, flashing artist’s eyes, which can take in a whole world! Oh, I know what you both look like, and my father too! I could draw his portrait!”

She laughed happily and then suddenly became grave.

“That is why I am distressed, too, when the faces I love are not cheerful. Justus’s face is always cheerful, but then he is an artist, and can only live in sunshine; my father, too, has recovered his old cheerfulness, and now you must return to what you were at first—do you remember?”

“Indeed I do, dear Cilli. So many things have happened since then; you know what I mean. They have troubled me, and trouble me still. And then Justus is right, I am an idler; I must manage to get to work again.”

“How did the General receive your work?”

Reinhold looked up in astonishment; there was nothing surprising indeed in the question. He had mentioned the subject, as he had nearly all, excepting one, the most important—often enough at the tea-table here; but the tone in which Cilli had asked was peculiar.

“How do you mean, dear Cilli?” he asked in return.

“I only wanted to remind you that you had not been idle even here,” said Cilli. She was standing opposite to him at the other side of the tea-table, and the light of the lamp fell full upon her pure features, on which was expressed some uneasiness. She seemed to be listening for the step of her father or Justus on the stairs. Then, as everything remained still, she felt her way round the table, sat down on the edge of the sofa, and said, while a deep colour suffused her whole face: “I did not tell you the truth; it was for another reason that I asked you. I have something else to ask you—a very great, very bold request—which you will perhaps grant me, if you are sure, as you ought to be, that it is not idle curiosity that prompts me, but heartfelt sympathy in your weal and woe.”

“Tell me, Cilli; I believe there is nothing in the world that I would deny you.”

“Well then, is it Elsa von Werben?”

“Yes, dear Cilli.”

“Thank God!”

Cilli sat still, with her hands in her lap; and Reinhold was silent too; he felt that he could not have spoken at the moment without tears. Cilli knew that he was not ashamed of his confession, but she had to a certain degree forced it from him, and as if in apology, she said: “You must not be angry with me. Good as Justus is, one cannot confide such things in him. I think he would hardly understand it. And you have no one else here excepting me; and I thought perhaps it would not be so hard for you if you could speak openly of your feelings even to blind Cilli.”

Reinhold took her hand, and carried it to his lips.

“I am as grateful to you, dear Cilli, as a wounded man is when balm is poured upon his wounds, and I know no one in whom I would rather confide than in you, purest, kindest, best!”

“I know that you like me and trust me,” said Cilli, warmly returning the pressure of Reinhold’s hand; “and I am well punished for my cowardice in having, notwithstanding, kept silence so long; for, only think, Reinhold, I believed at first—”

“What did you believe, dear Cilli?”

“I believed at first that it was Ferdinanda; and I was very, very unhappy about it, for Ferdinanda may be as beautiful as you all say, and as talented, but you would never have been happy with her. You are so kind and so good-tempered, and she is—I will not say ill-tempered, but haughty. Believe me, Reinhold, I feel it, as a beggar feels whether what is given him is from kindness or only to get rid of him. I have never put myself in her way, God knows; but He knows also that she has never gone a step out of her way to say one of those kind words to me which fall so readily from your lips, because your heart is overflowing with them. For some time, too, I trembled for Justus, till I learned to understand his nature, and saw that an artist—inasmuch as he is unlike other men—cannot love either like other men. But you, with your tender, loving heart, how should you not love—and love immeasurably—and be immeasurably unhappy if your love is misplaced! I have said this often to Justus when we were talking about you—at first; now I do not do so any more, for he chatters about everything that comes into his head, and I have observed how carefully you have guarded your secret.”

“That I have indeed!” cried Reinhold. “I might almost say from myself; and I cannot think how you have discovered it.”

“It seems almost a miracle, does it not?” said Cilli; “and yet it is not one, if you seeing people knew how well the blind hear, how they pay attention to every trifle, and to the tone in which you mention a particular name, as you bring it in at first shamefacedly, and then a little more boldly, as soon as you feel secure, till at last all your conversation is full of the music of the loved name, as in the East the dawn is filled with the name of Allah, cried by the Muezzins from the roof of the minaret. And ah! what sadness there often was in the tone in which you spoke it! What trembling hope of joy breathed in it, when you told me the other day that you were going to spend the evening with her, to pass hours in her company at that large party! They were your only happy hours, my poor Reinhold, for the very next day fell the frost upon the young green shoots, and since then the beloved name has never passed your lips. Are you then quite in despair now?”

“No, dear Cilli,” answered Reinhold; “I only see a happiness which I thought I might grasp with my hand, as a child thinks it may grasp a star, vanish from me in grey distance.”

And Reinhold related everything from the beginning, and how he was certain, though she had never spoken a word of love to him, not even on that delightful evening, that she understood him; and that so noble and high-minded a creature could never trifle with a man’s silent, respectful devotion, and therefore the favour with which she distinguished him—her kind words and friendly looks—could not be mere trifling, and if not love was yet a feeling that under happier circumstances might have blossomed into true, perfect love. But circumstances could hardly be more unfavourable than they were at present. So melancholy an event as that which had occurred would in any other case have united the other members of the two families in sympathy; in fact it could only have occurred between two families, the heads of which were so utterly opposed in their social views as were the General and Uncle Ernst. He was himself quite independent of his uncle, and should always assert that independence, particularly in his love-affairs; but Elsa was most especially the child of the house, the daughter of a father she so justly and highly honoured, and he feared the reaction which such an event might produce upon the General, who otherwise—from affection for his daughter and regard for him—might perhaps have sacrificed his class-prejudices, but now—and who could blame him?—would intrench himself doubly and trebly behind these very prejudices, which in his eyes were none. And there was another thing! From some remarks made by the General, at the dinner-table at Golmberg, he had taken the Werbens for one of the many poor noble families; and now Elsa suddenly appeared to him as a wealthy heiress, to whom, if she were really prepared to sacrifice her inheritance to her love, as would be necessary, he had nothing to offer but a faithful heart, and such a modest livelihood as a man like him could at best provide. Under these circumstances every prospect seemed so closed to him, every hope so crushed and forbidden to him by the feelings of simple propriety, that there could be no question of wooing on his part, and that it would require a positive miracle to change for the better the present miserable state of affairs.

Cilli’s face had reflected every sentiment that Reinhold expressed, as the crystal surface of a calm mountain lake reflects the light and shadows of the sky. But now the last shadow faded before the sunny smile with which she said:

“Love is always a miracle, Reinhold; why should not a second happen? Did you not tell me that Elsa understood and did not resent the silent language of your eyes? And even if, as I suppose, the late sad events have been concealed from her, she must have known the conditions of the inheritance, and also her father’s character and views, and yet she had no fear and saw nothing impossible in it, but believed, and so surely still believes, that all things work for the best with true love.”

“A pious belief, Cilli, such as well beseems a woman, but very ill beseems a man who is expected and rightly to understand and respect the world and the laws which regulate the world.”

“Understand!” said Cilli, shaking her head, “yes! But respect them! How can anyone respect what is so senseless, so godless, as that must necessarily be which will not allow the union of two hearts that God has formed for each other? What God has joined together let not man put asunder!”

“Ferdinanda and Ottomar might say that for themselves too, dear Cilli.”

“Never!” cried Cilli. “God knows nothing of a love which believes in nothing, not even in itself, and therefore bears nothing: no delay, no remonstrance, however just; no obstacle, however unavoidable; and proves thereby that it is itself nothing but pride, arrogance, and adoration of self. No, Reinhold, you must not do yourself the injustice of comparing your modest, noble love, with that dark, unholy passion! And you ought not either to have such a difficult road before you as those unhappy people. Your path must be free and light as your love; you owe that to yourself and to the woman you love.”

“Tell me what I ought to do, Cilli. I will believe in you as if an angel spoke to me!”

“Only be yourself, Reinhold; neither more nor less. You, who have so often opposed a bold front to the merciless, raging elements, must not stoop your head before your fellow-men; you must, when the hour comes, as it perhaps soon will, speak and act as your pure brave heart prompts you. Will you?”

She put out her hand to Reinhold.

“I will,” said Reinhold, taking her hand.

“And, Reinhold, as surely as these eyes will never see the light of the sun, will that sun shine on your path, and you will live to be a joy to yourself and a blessing to mankind.”

“Good gracious, Cilli!” said Justus, opening the door and standing still on the threshold; “are you celebrating Christmas in November?”

“Yes, Justus!” cried Reinhold; “Christmas, for Christmas it is when the heavens open and the messengers of love come down to announce peace.”

“Then,” said Justus, shutting the door, “I strongly recommend to them my Memorial Committee, which will not hold its peace, but is always plaguing me with suggestions of which each one is wilder and more impossible than the last. I have just found another letter four pages long, which I have answered in as great a heat as it put me into. And now, Cilli, give me a cup of tea with a little rum in it to cool me, for such—ah! here comes Papa Kreisel! and in the best spirits, as I can see by the twinkle of his eye. Berlin-Sundins have gone up another half percent; now we shall have a jolly evening!”

And a jolly evening it was, and when Reinhold went to his room late at night, he found a letter from the President, containing the official announcement that the Minister approved of his appointment, and he must present himself at once at the place in question, as he must enter upon his duties on the 1st of December at latest.

Reinhold let the letter slip from his hand musingly.

“The hour may soon come, she said, and here it is already; it shall find me worthy of her who is purity and truth personified.”

VIII

“Must I really pay the driver twenty silver groschen for my small self and my small box?” asked Meta, bursting into Elsa’s room.

“Good gracious, Meta!”

“First answer my question!”

“I do not know.”

“Fräulein Elsa does not know either, August!” cried Meta into the passage; “so pay him what he asks. And now, you dear, darling, best of creatures, tell me if I am welcome!”

Meta threw her arms round Elsa’s neck, laughing and crying both at once. “You see, here I am at last, without any letter, after announcing my arrival fifty times. I could not bear it any longer. As often as papa said, ‘You can have the horses tomorrow,’ it never came to anything; for when tomorrow arrived the horses were always wanted for somebody or something else. So when he said it again this morning, as we were having our coffee, I said, ‘No! not tomorrow, but today, immediately, on the spot, tout de suite!’—packed my box—that is why it is so small, my clothes had not come home from the wash—you must help me out—and here I am. And as for the cabman, that was only because my papa said: ‘Take care you are not cheated!’ and my mamma said: ‘Cheated! nonsense! if only she has her wits about her!’ And so on the way I vowed most solemnly to be desperately wise and not to disgrace you, and so I began at once with the cabman, you see.”

And Meta danced about the room and clasped Elsa round the neck again, and exclaimed: “This is the happiest night of my life, and if you send me away again early tomorrow morning it will still have been the happiest night!”

“And I hope that this evening will be followed by many happy ones for both of us. Oh! you do not know, dear Meta, how glad I am to see you!” cried Elsa, taking Meta in her arms and heartily returning her kiss.

“Now that I know that,” said Meta, “I do not in the least want to know about anything else; that is to say I should like it dreadfully, but it is a point of honour with me now to be wise and discreet, you know; and you do not know that side of my character yet—neither do I myself. We must make acquaintance with me together, that will be awfully amusing. Good gracious! what nonsense I am talking just from sheer happiness!”

Meta’s presence was for the house in the Springbrunnenstrasse like a sunbeam penetrating a chink in the shutters of a dark room. It is not broad daylight, there are heavy shadows enough still; anyone who happens to pass a looking-glass starts at the dim reflection of his own sad face; and people move carefully so as not to stumble, and speak with bated breath for fear of what may yet be hidden in the darkness. But still they move and speak; there is no longer the former silent darkness with all its terrors.

Hardly a week had gone by, then, before the bright, talkative little girl had become the favourite of one and all. The General, who had almost entirely shut himself up in his own room lately, now spent a few hours every evening, as he used to do, with the rest of the family, unless, as had happened several times already, they were going out. He allowed himself to be instructed by Meta in agricultural matters, in which she declared herself to be an authority even with her papa—and that was saying a great deal—and permitted her to question him as to “what a battle really was like?” “Did Moltke sometimes yawn when it lasted too long?” and “Might a lieutenant wear varnished boots in battle?”

“It makes me shudder when I hear it all, Elsa; your friend is quite an enfant terrible,” said Sidonie; but was calmed and consoled at once when Meta expressed the greatest interest in her “Court Etiquette,” and declared that it was a very different sort of thing from Strummin etiquette. One found oneself always in the best society with highnesses and serene highnesses; and if one did sometimes come down to the backstairs, in her eyes a page of the backstairs was a person highly to be respected.

“She really has very considerable talents,” said Sidonie, “and a great desire for instruction. I have given her the first part of Malortie’s High Chamberlain; you might read it aloud together for half an hour this evening, instead of chattering till two o’clock in the morning. Heaven only knows what you find to talk about!”

Even Ottomar, who since his engagement was hardly ever seen at home—“He is not with us,” said Carla—appeared again now, if he knew that his father would not be there, and made so merry with the mischievous girl, “that it cuts one to the heart,” thought Elsa.

The servants even were enchanted with the strange young lady. Ottomar’s man protested that she would suit the Lieutenant ten times better; the lady’s-maid praised her because one could at any rate quarrel with her, which was quite impossible with Fräulein Elsa; and August said she was A 1.

In society, too, Meta made many conquests. Old Baroness Kniebreche thought her tout à fait ridicule, mais délicieuse. The saying went the round, like all that came from that toothless old mouth, and la délicieuse ridicule was welcomed everywhere. Wartenberg was of opinion that the girl “always brought life into the place.” Tettritz was always reminded by her of the shepherd’s flute in Tristan; Schönau said she was an original; and Meta, in return, found everybody and everything charming. She had never thought there were so many charming people; “but you are the best of all, Elsa, and nothing else really signifies!”

And indeed while the kindhearted girl seemed to give herself up entirely to the enjoyment of the gay bustle of society, and often indeed to be quite absorbed in it, she really had only one serious interest, and that was to love and please Elsa. She had come because the melancholy tone of Elsa’s last letters had startled and distressed her, and she thought she knew better than anyone else the cause of this depression. That her brother’s engagement, however much against Elsa’s wish, should distress her friend so deeply, she could not believe; that the differences between her father and her Aunt Valerie and their consequences could depress and discourage the usually cheerful brave temper, she could not make up her mind to, either. Elsa, however, had put forward no other reasons, and either could not or would not give any others, as the actual connection of the tragical circumstances attending Ottomar’s betrothal was happily a secret to her and to Aunt Sidonie, and her own secret was carefully guarded by her modest pride.

So carefully, that even now in the confidential talks which to Aunt Sidonie’s horror extended so far into the night, when after tea with the family, or on coming home from a party, they retired to their rooms, no word passed her discreet lips, and Meta began to doubt her own acuteness. All the more as the engagement which distressed Elsa so much, really did look much more serious when looked at closely than it had seemed to Meta from the brief, written accounts. Meta had now made acquaintance personally with Ottomar and Carla; Ottomar, although Elsa said he was only a shadow of his old self, had fascinated her, and Carla was the only lady of their whole acquaintance whom she thoroughly disliked. She too began to think that the union of such a dissimilar couple could not possibly bring happiness, that Ottomar indeed was already unhappy. Added to this was the uncomfortable state of affairs which according to Elsa had certainly existed even before the betrothal, between the father and son, but which now, when everything was apparently put straight, had grown much worse, and for which Elsa could discover no reason excepting Ottomar’s still doubtful, perhaps desperate, financial condition.

Meta had been taken also to see the Baroness Valerie, had learned to sympathise with Elsa in her feeling for the interesting, and evidently most unhappy woman, and here too stood with Elsa on the threshold of a dark and terrible mystery. What were the relations between this woman and the man whom she must have passionately loved, when she sacrificed to him what is most dear to a woman; whom she must love still, as she still made such sacrifices to him, sacrifices which yet seemed to be so difficult to her! Had she not again and again said to Elsa that she could no longer live without Elsa’s love, or without her brother’s forgiveness? And yet in Giraldi’s presence she did not venture to show the smallest sign of love to Elsa, she did not venture to fulfil the condition imposed by the General, if there was to be any questions between him and her of a real reconciliation, of anything more than a mere superficial renewal of social intercourse—did not venture to separate from Giraldi, but seemed rather to stand now as ever under the absolute dominion of that hateful man!

“It is a dreadful state of things of course,” said Meta; “but I do not see why you are to wear out your bright young life over it. Dear me! there is something of the kind, after all, in every family. I do not like my sister-in-law at all; my brother is a true Strummin, always jolly and lighthearted, and she is a real wet blanket, who drives the poor man wild with her dry matter-of-factness and perpetual considerations. And as for one’s uncles and aunts—there I really may speak. Uncle Malte—at Grausewitz, you know, ten miles from us—we only see once in three years, and then he and papa quarrel dreadfully; Uncle Hans—he was a soldier, went into the Austrian service later, and afterwards into the Brazilian—we have not heard of him these six years; Aunt Gusting—who married a Baron Carlström in Sweden—has grown so fine that she only stayed half a day with us when she came to Strummin last autumn; she wrote afterwards that the combined smell of tobacco-smoke and plum-jam had been too disagreeable to her, and I could tell you a thousand other heartbreaking stories of our family. My papa always says: ‘If a man is to be responsible for all his relations, there is an end of all pleasure.’ ”

So spoke Meta to comfort her friend, as she plaited her long red-gold hair, of which she was rather vain now since Signor Giraldi had said, at a large party at Aunt Valerie’s, that it was of the true Titian colour; or sat prattling coaxingly by the side of Elsa’s bed as she had done on the first evening at Golmberg.

Meta often recurred to that evening. “It had been the birthday of their friendship,” said Meta; and the sight of Count Golm, whom they met at every party, and who had even lately once or twice joined their family circle at teatime, kept the dear remembrance always fresh.

But though Meta seemed inclined to be always indulging in recollections, she had no idea of doing so in reality, and her supposition that Elsa did not care a bit about the Count had been confirmed every time she saw the two together; but when she spoke of all that had happened at Golmberg, of the evening meal and the morning walk, it was quite natural, quite unavoidable that amongst others a name should be mentioned which Elsa never voluntarily allowed to pass her lips, and which Meta was convinced sounded day and night in Elsa’s heart.

Just because it never passed her lips. “There must be a reason for that,” said Meta to herself; “and also for his never appearing here where he has been invited and, as I hear from Aunt Sidonie, was so kindly and even warmly received; and the reason must be one and the same, and can only be a sorrowful one, and that must be why Elsa is so sad.”

But any remaining doubt of the justice of this conclusion vanished when one day, quite accidentally—she had not been looking for it, really not, but her clothes had the most obstinate disposition to get mixed up with Elsa’s—she felt a hard substance in the pocket of the blue tarletane dress that Elsa had worn the evening before at the Sattelstädts’, which she took at first for a purse, and as she did not quite trust the lady’s-maid she thought it best to take it out; and when she had taken it out she found to her great surprise that it was a pocket-compass in a pretty little ivory box. And in the inside of the box was engraved in very small, but quite legible, golden letters, a certain name which Elsa seemed quite to have forgotten. Meta had thought that as wisdom and discretion were now a point of honour with her, she could not do better than keep silence as to her discovery; had closed the box again—not without a most indiscreet smile—slipped it back into the pocket, and sat down in the window to write to her mamma, and was so deeply absorbed in her writing that she never looked up once when Elsa, who had only gone to look after her household affairs, returned and walked up and down the room two or three times without saying a word, each time coming a little nearer to the tarletane dress, which was hanging carelessly over the back of a chair; and at last—Meta had again got into trouble with her writing and could not of course look up—took the dress from the chair and hung it up in the wardrobe. And in doing so the case must have fallen out, though Meta heard nothing drop; at any rate, there was nothing now in the pocket, as Meta assured herself when Elsa again went out—not by accident this time. “I must know how matters stand,” said Meta, “for her sake!”

During the next few days Meta was most palpably false to her rule. Very contrary to her custom, she was silent and absent in society, and, on the other hand, exhibited a most indiscreet curiosity towards the servants concerning the circumstances and customs of the neighbours, particularly of the Schmidts, carrying her indiscretion even so far as to talk of her approaching departure, and that it was high time to pay various visits to friends of her parents whom she had most shamefully neglected until now. She did, in fact, go out several times without Elsa, and on the afternoon of the third day in particular disappeared for several hours, and, though she came back to tea, was so extraordinarily agitated that even Aunt Sidonie observed it, and Elsa began to be seriously uneasy.

But she was horrified when, both having retired earlier than usual, Meta flung her arms round her, and with a flood of tears exclaimed, “Elsa, Elsa! you need have no more fear or trouble! I swear it to you by what is to me most sacred—by our friendship—he loves you! I know it from his own lips!”

The first effect of these words did not seem to be that wished and hoped for by Meta, for Elsa too burst into tears; but Meta, as she held her friend in her arms, and pressed Elsa’s head against her bosom, felt that her tears, however hot and passionate, were not tears of grief; that the dull anguish that had so long oppressed Elsa’s poor heart had been removed at last, and that she might be proud and happy to have done this service to her friend, and broken the spell.

“And now let me tell you how I set about it,” said she, as she drew Elsa down to the sofa beside her and took her hands in hers. “The whole difficulty, you see, was in speaking to him; for how could I speak to a man who never comes here, whom we never meet anywhere, either in society or in the streets, although we live next door to each other, and whom one cannot visit, even with the best intentions in the world? So I laid myself out to hear what the servants had to say. August gave me the most information; he is some sort of cousin to the old servant over the way, and I heard from him, in addition to what I knew already, that he always spends the morning at work in his room, and the afternoon in the studio of a sculptor called Anders, who is ‘modulating’ him, according to August. I thought it might be modelling, although for my part I did not know what that was either. Well, perhaps you will remember that on Thursday evening, at your Aunt Valerie’s, there was a great discussion about art, and Signor Giraldi repeatedly mentioned Herr Anders, and that he had long intended to visit Herr Anders some day in his studio, and look at his newest production, since, unfortunately, the Satyr and Cupid was already sold. I hardly paid any attention at the time, but now I remembered it all word for word, and my plan was made. I paid a visit yesterday to Aunt Valerie, brought the conversation again round to art, and said how immensely I should like to see a sculptor at work for once, and would Signor Giraldi take me some day to a studio, and if possible to that of Herr Anders, because he lived so near us and my time was getting so short now? Signor Giraldi, I must allow him that, is more courteous than any of the other gentlemen, so he was ready at once; and your aunt agreed to go too, but only, I thought, because Signor Giraldi wished it. And I was right; for when this afternoon, punctually at four o’clock—that was the time settled—you are not angry with me now, are you, that I ran away from you?—I went there. Signor Giraldi received me alone. I must put up with him—your aunt had got a headache; all said with his polite smile that you know so well. But his eyes looked wickedly dark: I thought at once, ‘There has been a scene.’ I was dreadfully sorry, and the thought of making the expedition alone with Signor Giraldi was not particularly consoling; but you were in question, and I would have gone through the Abruzzi with Rinaldini—keeping my eyes open, you know. However, it was not so bad after all, for just as we were going out, who should appear but your heavenly aunt, with red eyes, alas! and looking very ill, but dressed and ready to go out. Signor Giraldi kissed her hand—Ottomar himself could not have done it so well—and whispered a few words in Italian at which your aunt smiled. I tell you, he can twist her round his little finger. So out we went; and now pay attention, you dear, sweet, darling creature!”

Here the two friends embraced each other tearfully, till Meta, in her wisdom, sobbed out: “I am sure I do not know why you are crying, and you do not know either, you see; and if you get so excited and spoil the thread of my story I cannot tell it properly, you see! So now, were you ever in a studio? Of course not. Imagine to yourself a room, like our church at Strummin—you do not know it, by the way; imagine, then, a room as wide and high as you please, and the whole high wide room full—no, it is indescribable, particularly for a young girl. I assure you I did not know sometimes where to turn my eyes; but he—no, you really must be a little sensible now—he helped me safely over everything, and only took me about wherever it was quite, or at least very nearly proper; and then we had—oh, dear! I had arranged everything so nicely while we were at tea, and now I have forgotten it all. I only know that when we came in, quite unexpectedly, you know, he jumped up from his chair as if he had been electrified, and turned quite red with pleasure; and when at last we were able to say a few words quietly together, he said nothing but, ‘Fräulein von Strummin! how is it possible! how is it possible!’ Dear me, Elsa, it was really quite unnecessary for him to say anything more; I knew all about it now! But of course we did not stop there. I had to tell him how it was possible, and that I had been here for a fortnight with you—and—you must not think, Elsa, that I was foolish or indiscreet—we talked about you, of course, and why he never showed himself now—I was obliged to ask that! And then he said, ‘How gladly I would come I need not assure you’—with an emphasis on the you, Elsa, you know—‘unfortunately’—now listen, Elsa!—‘there are circumstances so powerful that with the best will in the world we cannot set them aside; and I beg you to believe that I suffer more from these circumstances than I can or dare say.’ And then he passed his hand across his brow and said, ‘I will certainly come once more, however, before I go away.’ ‘Where?’ ‘I had a letter yesterday evening from’—you will never guess, Elsa; he had a letter from the dear President, and—only think, Elsa!—he really has got the post of Superintendent of Pilots at Wissow—at Wissow, Elsa! I really did not know what to say for joy, but he read my feelings in my face, and smiled and said, ‘We shall be almost neighbours, then, Fräulein von Strummin.’ ‘And we will be neighbourly,’ said I. ‘That we will,’ said he. ‘And if we ever get a visit from Berlin,’ said I—‘And you honour me with an invitation,’ said he—‘you will come?’ said I. And then he said—no, then he said nothing, Elsa; but he pressed my hand! There, Elsa, take it back, for it was not meant for me, but for you, you dear, dear sweet thing!”

The two friends held each other in a long embrace, and then there ensued a searching investigation of the important question: What could Reinhold have meant by “circumstances!”

“We shall never get to the bottom of it,” said Meta at last; “the circumstances are just the circumstances that you are called Elsa von Werben and he is called Reinhold Schmidt, and that you are a wealthy heiress and might if you pleased marry the richest and most distinguished man, and that he is poor; and wife of the Superintendent of Pilots certainly does not sound so well as baroness or countess. Perhaps he has heard, too—people hear everything in Berlin—that you would lose your inheritance if you followed the dictates of your heart, and so he really is right in talking of ‘circumstances,’ dreadful circumstances.”

Elsa agreed with her in it all, but still could not see any reason why he had not come again to see them, and why even her father apparently avoided his name. She would confess now for the first time that three days ago she had been rejoicing exceedingly at the thought of the Sattelstädts’ party, because she knew that Reinhold had also been invited, and even there he had sent an excuse—a proof how he avoided every possibility of meeting her even on neutral ground.

“I will get to the bottom of it,” said Meta.

“How would it be possible?”

Meta laughed; “I never do anything by halves, tomorrow I shall go there again. Will you come with me?”

“Meta!”

“You would not do, either,” said Meta; “it must be an old lady, and a lady of some position. We have got one, however; tomorrow morning I shall pay her a visit, and tomorrow afternoon, as I said, we will begin.”

“But for goodness’ sake, Meta, what are you talking about?”

Meta said it ought to have been a surprise; but she could not manage it under three sittings at the best, and she could not keep it secret so long, so that after all it might be better to confess everything at once.

“We were obliged, you see,” said Meta, “to break off our conversation at last, and take a little notice of the others, who, meanwhile, had been wandering about the studio and talking Italian together, which Herr Anders speaks beautifully, Signor Giraldi says. There was an Italian there too, such a handsome man, with a paper cap on his raven-black hair. ‘They all wear paper caps on account of the marble dust,’ said Herr Anders, who certainly is not handsome himself. I never could have believed that an artist, and such a great one as he is said to be, could look so little dignified and be so small. And when you hear him speak, you cannot believe it at all; for the way he chatters, Elsa, is just like me, you know; and he laughs, Elsa, I cannot describe how he laughs, so that one laughs too with all one’s heart only to see and hear him laugh. You never saw anything so funny, excepting his little curly poodle, which is just as funny as himself. We were standing then before Reinhold’s portrait—round, you know, and raised—in relief they call it, and such a likeness! fit to be kissed, I assure you.’ ‘For whom is that?’ asked I. ‘For the future wife of the original,’ said Herr Anders; ‘she can wear it on a black velvet ribbon round her throat as a locket.’ Just think, Elsa, what nonsense! a locket as large as a small carriage-wheel! he always talks like that. ‘It is a study for that design,’ said Reinhold. So then we looked at the designs—exquisite, I assure you. A battle, that would suit your papa! and Ambulance Preparations, with an old gentleman sitting behind a table, and a blind girl coming up with her gifts—I nearly cried when I saw that, and your aunt had tears in her eyes—and other women and girls. ‘How delightful to be one of them,’ cried I, quite from the bottom of my heart. ‘You might have that pleasure at any moment, and give me the greatest possible satisfaction at the same time,’ said Justus—that is his Christian name—funny one, is not it? ‘How so?’ said I. ‘Look, here is a splendid place still,’ said he—he says splendid, you must know, at every third word—‘for a really bright cheerful face, such as I have been wanting for a long time, because the thing was getting too sentimental to please me, only I had no good model for it; do, please, be my model!’ Dear me, Elsa, I did not know in the least what that might be, and as I told you before, there were some wonderful things in the studio; but I just looked at your Reinhold, and he said, ‘Yes, do it,’ with his eyes, like that, you know! and so I said quite boldly, ‘Yes, I will do it;’ and Signor Giraldi said that a queen might envy me the honour of being immortalised in such a work of art, and so the day after tomorrow I am to be immortalised!”

Elsa could have listened all night long; but Meta, who had gone through such an eventful day, and had never quite got over the habit of being tired to death at ten o’clock at latest, could hardly keep her eyes open while she talked, so Elsa put her to bed and kissed the good little thing, who put her arms round her neck and murmured sleepily: “Is it not, Elsa—blue tarletane—compass—one more kiss!” and before Elsa had drawn herself up again was fast asleep.

IX

Meta carried out her heroic design without allowing herself to be intimidated by anything, even by Aunt Rikchen’s spectacles, “And they are no joke,” said Meta, when in the evening she reported the result of the first sitting. “I could easier hold out against Baroness Kniehreche’s eyeglasses. Behind those there is nothing but a pair of old blind eyes, of which I feel anything but fear; but when Aunt Rikchen allows her spectacles to slip to the end of her nose, she then begins really to see so clearly, that one would feel anxious and uneasy if one had not so good a conscience. And do you know, Elsa, that something particular must have occurred between you and the Schmidts—what, I am quite in the dark about, as the good lady mixes everything together higgledy-piggledy; but she is very angry with you Werbens, as papa is with the Griebens, our neighbours, who are always trespassing on his boundaries, he says; and you must have been trespassing on the Schmidts, and that is the reason, you may depend upon it, why Reinhold has got so distant. We shall hear nothing from him; but Aunt Rikchen never can keep anything to herself, and we are already the best of friends. She says I am a good girl, and that after all I really had nothing to do with it, and the dove who brought the olive branch from the earth did not know either what it had in its beak: and then I saw that Reinhold, who was in the studio with me, looked at her, and Herr Anders also looked quite grave, and glanced again at Reinhold. They three know something, that much is clear, and I will find it out, you may depend upon it.”

But Meta did not find it out, and could not do so, as Aunt Rikchen did not herself know the exact state of affairs, and the others were most careful to keep her in ignorance. Meta’s communication therefore by no means contributed to Elsa’s peace of mind, and if Elsa had at first, at least, had the happiness of hearing of Reinhold through Meta, how he had come to the studio and kept her company for a long time, and what he had said, and how he had looked, even this source of consolation was now decreasing, and seemed gradually to be drying up altogether. One day he had scarcely been there for five minutes, another time only just passed through the studio, a third time Meta had not seen him at all, a fourth time she could not even say whether she had seen him or not. Elsa thought she knew the meaning of this apparent negligence. Meta had found out something which she could not tell her, or had in some other way become convinced of the hopelessness of her love; and the ample details which she gave from her other experiences and observations in the studio, only served to conceal her embarrassment.

It was therefore with a very divided heart that Elsa heard how Meta daily grew in favour with Aunt Rikchen, who was really a most excellent old lady, and whose heart was in the right place, if her spectacles did always get crooked, or slipped to the end of her nose. And how there was something especially touching to her in the good lady, for she herself would look just like that fifty years hence. But far more touching to her was a lovely young blind girl, who now came every day, because Herr Anders wished to bring the two together in one group. “When she spoke it was just as if a lark were singing high up in the blue sky on a Sunday mornings when all is still in the fields; and Justus said that Nature had never before produced such a contrast as she and Cilli made, and if he succeeded in reproducing it, no one could speak to him again save hat in hand. There was also next to Justus’s studio another which aroused all her curiosity, because the owner of it never allowed herself to be seen, and she could form no idea of what a lady could be like who modelled in clay or hammered at the marble, least of all of such a beautiful, elegant lady as Justus said Fräulein Schmidt was, for you know, Elsa, a sculptor looks like a baker, only that he has clay in his fingers instead of dough, and is powdered with marble-dust instead of flour, and you would hardly take such a queer-looking creature for a respectable gentleman, much less for a great artist, and Justus says the one who looks cleanest and most elegant in spite of his working blouse, and is handsomer than anyone I ever saw in my life, is no true artist, as he can do nothing more than point and block out; but you, poor child, do not know what pointing is. Pointing, you must know, is when you take a thing like a stork’s bill, you know—”

And then followed a very long and very complicated explanation, out of all which Elsa only gathered Meta’s desire to talk of everything excepting what alone lay near her own heart. “The work will soon be finished,” said Elsa to herself, “and the whole result of the fine plan will be that I can no longer consider Reinhold’s holding back as a mere chance,” But the work did not seem likely to be finished.

“Such a countenance had never before come under his notice,” said Justus. “You might as well model the spring clouds, which every moment change their form.” And again, when the portrait for the bas-relief was finished, “You can have no idea how dreadfully absurd I look, Elsa, like a Chinese!” Justus had begun to work at the completion of the “Ambulance preparations.” “And I cannot leave the poor man in the lurch after all his trouble, for you know, Elsa, it is no longer a question of the head only—that is done—but of the whole figure, the attitude, gesture, in a word, a new subject, you know; but I really believe, poor child, you do not know what a subject is. A subject is when a man has no idea what he shall make, and then suddenly sees something, where in reality there is nothing to see—say a cat or a washing-tub—”

This was the longest, but also the last explanation which Meta gave to her friend out of the fullness of her newly-acquired knowledge.

For the next few days Elsa had more than usual to do in the household, and another matter imperiously claimed her attention. The final conference over the future management of the Warnow estates took place at her father’s house, after two months of discussion backwards and forwards over it, and the three votes of Herr von Wallbach, Councillor Schieler, and Giraldi, as the Baroness’s proxy, in opposition to the General’s single voice—who recorded his dissentient view in a minute—had determined the sale of the whole property at the earliest possible opportunity, and Count Axel von Golm had been accepted as the purchaser in the event of his agreeing to the conditions of sale settled at the same by the trustees.

Her father appeared after the long conference paler and more exhausted than Elsa had ever seen him.

“They have done it at last, Elsa,” he said. “The Warnow property, which has been two hundred years in the possession of the family, will be sold and cut up. Your aunt Valerie may justify it if she can, since she and she alone is to blame that an old and honourable family falls miserably to the ground. Had she been a good and faithful wife to my friend—but what use is it harping upon bygone things? It is folly in my own eyes, how much more so then in those of others, to whom the present is everything! And I must confess the gentlemen have acted quite in the spirit of the age, cleverly, rationally, and in your interests. If the results are as brilliant as the Councillor flatters himself, you will be at least twice as rich as before. It is very unnatural, Elsa, but I hope he triumphs too soon. The Count—whom he proposes as purchaser—can only pay the outrageous sum named—for the entire property is really scarcely worth half a million, let alone a whole million—if he is certain that so great a burden will be immediately lifted off his shoulders; that is to say, if the scandalous project is carried out, the danger and folly of which I so strongly urged with the help of the staff and Captain Schmidt. If it does, however, come to anything, if the concession is granted, it would be an affront to that small authority which I can lay claim to, but which I do claim, so that I should look upon it in the same light as if I had been passed over in the approaching promotions. I should at once send in my resignation. The decision must be made soon. For Golm it is a question of life and death. He will either be utterly ruined or a Croesus; and I shall be his Excellency or a poor pensioner—all quite in the spirit of the age, which is always playing a game of hazard. Well, God’s will be done! I can only win, not lose, since no one and nothing can rob me of the best and highest—my clear conscience—and the knowledge that I have always stood to the old colours, and have acted as a Werben should act.”

So said the father to Elsa in a state of agitation, which, hard as he tried to control it, quivered and broke out in his words, and in the very vibrations of his deep voice. It was the first time that he had given her such a proof of his confidence, as to let her be a witness of a struggle which formerly he would have fought out in silence in his proud soul. Was it chance? Was it intentional? Was it but the outpouring of the overflowing vessel? Or did her father suspect or know her secret? Did he mean to say to her, “Such a decision may soon be awaiting you also. I trust and hope that you, too, will stand to the colours which are sacred to me, that you also will prove yourself a Werben.”

This had taken place in the morning. Meta, after another sitting, had unexpectedly received an invitation to dinner from a friend of her mother’s. She should not return till the evening. For the first time Elsa scarcely missed her friend. She was glad to be alone, and to be able to give way to her thoughts in silence. They were not cheerful, these thoughts. But she felt it a duty to think them out, so as to see her way clearly if possible. She thought she had succeeded, and found in it a calm satisfaction, which, as she said to herself, was truly her whole compensation for all she had renounced in secret.

And in this resigned frame of mind she received with tolerable composure the news which Meta brought on her return home, which otherwise would have filled her with sorrow, that Meta was going—must go. She had found at the lady’s to whom she had gone a letter from mamma, in which mamma made such terrible lamentations over her long absence, that she could not do otherwise than go at once—that was to say, the first thing tomorrow morning. What she felt she would not and could not say. It was an extraordinary frame of mind, in any case, as whilst she seemed to be drowned in tears, she broke into a smile the next moment, which she in vain attempted to suppress, until the smiles again merged into tears; and so she went on for the rest of the evening. The next morning this state of mind had reached such a pitch that Elsa became really uneasy about the extraordinary girl, and begged her to postpone her journey until she was somewhat calmer. But Meta stood firm. She was quite determined, and Elsa would think her quite right if she knew all; and she should know all, but by letter; by word of mouth she could not tell her without dying of laughter, and she did not wish to die just yet, for reasons which she also could not tell her without dying of laughter.

And so she carried on the joke till she got into the carriage, in which August was to take her to the station. She had absolutely forbidden anyone else to accompany her, “for reasons, Elsa, you know, which—there! you will see it all in the letter, you know, which—goodbye, dear, sweet, incomparable Elsa!” And off drove Meta.

In the evening August, not without some solemnity, gave Elsa a letter which the young lady had given him at the last moment before starting, with strict injunctions to deliver it punctually twelve hours later, on the stroke of nine in the evening. It was a thick letter, in Meta’s most illegible handwriting, from which Elsa with difficulty deciphered the following:

“6 o’clock p.m.

“Dearest Elsa,

“Do not believe a word of what, when I return home, I—ah! that is no use. You will not read this letter till—I write it here at Frau von Randon’s, so as to lose no time—August will give it to you when I am gone. Well, it is all untrue! My mother has not written at all. For the last week I have deceived and imposed upon you abominably, as since then I have no longer been on your behalf, and it would have been quite useless if I had; for it is now clear to me that your Reinhold has discovered long since how matters stood with us, and kept out of the way, even before we ourselves had a suspicion; for you may believe me, Elsa, that when two men are such good friends, they stand by one another in such matters as well as we girls could. And before dear blind Cilli we did not think it necessary either to have any reserve, because she always smiled so merrily when we teased each other; and then she could not see, and in such cases, you know, the eyes play a great part. It began, indeed, with the eyes, for till then everything had gone on quite properly; but when he came to them he said, ‘I shall now have an opportunity of finding out exactly what colour your eyes are; I have been puzzling my brains about it all this time.’ I maintained they were yellow, Aunt Rikchen said green, he himself brown; and Cilli, to whom the decision was left, said she was certain they were blue, because I was so cheerful, and cheerful people always had blue eyes. So we went on joking about it; and every day he began again about my eyes, and as you cannot very well talk about eyes without looking into them, I looked into his eyes while he looked in mine, and—I don’t know whether you have made the same discovery, Elsa, but when one has done so for a few days, one begins to see more and more clearly—quite down to the bottom of them—quite curious things, I can tell you, which makes one turn hot and cold, and one often does not know whether to laugh and to give the man who looks at you like that a box on the ear, or to burst into tears and fall on his neck.

“I had felt like this already once or twice, and today again, only rather worse than before. The assistants had gone to dinner, and Aunt Rikchen to see after her household affairs; there were only he and I, and Cilli, and Justus wished to go on working if we did not mind, that he might finish once for all. But he did not work so industriously as usual, and because I saw that, I also did not sit so still as usual; and we—that is, he and I—played all sorts of tricks with Lesto, who must lie down and pretend to be dead, and who barked furiously at me when I pretended to beat his master, and other nonsense, until we suddenly heard the sound of the door shutting which leads to the garden, and—good gracious, Elsa! how can I tell you?—Cilli had gone away without our having noticed it. We thought we must have gone rather too far then, and so became quite quiet—as still as mice—so that you might have heard a pin fall; and I was so embarrassed, Elsa—so embarrassed, you know—and getting every moment more so, when he suddenly knelt down right before me—my knees were trembling so, that I had sat down—and again looked so into my eyes, and I—I was forced to, Elsa—I asked quite softly what he meant. ‘I mean,’ said he—but also quite softly—‘that you must do what I ask you.’ ‘I shall box your ears if you do not get up directly,’ said I, still more softly. ‘I shall not get up,’ said he, but so close to me that I could no longer box his ears, but instead fell upon his neck, upon which Lesto, who evidently thought that his master’s life was in danger, began to bark furiously; and I, just to quiet Lesto and to make Justus get up off his knees, said ‘Yes’ to everything he asked—that I loved him, and would be his wife, and everything else that one says in such a terrible moment.

“And now only think, Elsa, Elsa! when, in the course of five minutes, we had quieted Lesto and were going out—as I said I had sworn to be discreet and to do you credit, and that I would not remain a second longer with so dangerous a man in so lonely a place, with all those dreadful marble figures—and as we went out arm-in-arm, Cilli suddenly stepped towards us from between two of the statues, herself as white as marble, but with the most heavenly smile on her sweet face, and said we must not be angry with her, as the door had shut itself and she could not get out, and she had heard all—her hearing was so acute, and there was such an echo in the studio. Oh, Elsa, I almost sank into the floor, for I think there had not been words only. But that divine creature, as if she had seen how red I grew, took me by the hand and said I need not be ashamed; there was no need to be ashamed of a true, honourable love; and I did not yet know how happy I was, how proud I ought to be; but I should learn it gradually, and then I should be grateful for my proud happiness, and love Justus very, very much, as an artist needed far, far more love than other men. And then she took Justus’s hand, and said, ‘And you, Justus, you will love her like the sunshine, without which you cannot live.’ And as she said so, a ray of sunshine fell through the studio window right upon the dear thing, and she looked transfigured—so marvellously beautiful, with the poor blind eyes turned upwards, that at last I could not help crying, and she had great difficulty in quieting me. And then she said: ‘You must not remain here in this state of agitation; you must at once return home and tell your mother, and no one before her, for my knowing it is a mere chance for which you are not to blame.’ And I promised her all she wished, and I feel now how right the dear angel was, as I am quite mad with delight, and should certainly have done some folly for very joy; and that I must not do, since I have sworn to be sensible and to do you credit. I shall start tomorrow morning, and shall be home tomorrow evening at eight o’clock, by half-past shall have told mamma all, and at nine August will give you this letter, as after mamma you are, of course, the next. I told Cilli so at once, and she quite agreed to it; and her last words were, ‘Pray to God that your friend may be as happy as you are now.’ And I will do so, Elsa, you may depend upon it; and in all other respects also depend upon your ever loving, wise

“Meta.

“P.S.—Of course, ‘he’ is an exception to the ‘all.’ I am very sorry, but it cannot be helped, you know.”

“The dear, foolish child!” said Elsa, as she finished the letter, with a deep sigh; “I congratulate her with all my whole heart.”

And as she sat there and thought over how wonderfully it had all come about, and how happy the two must be in their love, her eyes became more fixed, her breathing ever harder, and then she covered her eyes with her hands, bent her head upon Meta’s letter, and cried bitterly.

X

Three days later—the autumn sun was going down, and it was already getting dusk in the large room—Giraldi sat at his writing-table near the window, reading the letters which had arrived for him. A considerable number had accumulated in the course of the day, which he had spent since early morning in important business in the town, for the sale of the property to the Count had taken place today; there were political letters from Paris and London, ecclesiastical matters from Brussels and Cologne, a detailed report from a trusty friend at Strasburg upon the state of affairs in Alsace-Lorraine, business letters of the most varied kind—English, French, Italian, German. Giraldi read one as easily as the other; he even made his marginal notes always in the same language as his correspondent wrote in. “It grows and grows,” murmured he: “we are not far now from the crisis; and how delightful it is to hear from the mouths of others as extraordinary news, things that could not have happened without us. Unfortunately they are beginning to find out here the importance of the untitled and undecorated Signor, the mere private secretary to a lady of rank, and the best part of my working powers will be lost. So long as one is a nobody one can hear everything and hear it correctly; but the moment people begin to point at one, one learns very little, and that little wrong. That is the curse of royalty.” He took up a letter, which he had before thrown on one side, taking it from its shape to be one of the begging letters which he constantly received from poor fellow-countrymen, or from native chevaliers d’industrie. “It is a priest’s hand,” he said. “Ah! from my correspondent at Tivoli. Well! the worthy man has kept me a long time waiting for an answer.” He hastily opened the letter, ran through the contents, and then leaned back in his chair with a look of annoyance.

“H’m!” he muttered, “the old fox will not fall into the trap. He has understood me, that is clear. He admits that there are many wonderful dispensations of Providence, he even hints that the boy’s birth is shrouded in mystery, which means, in Italian, that he is not the son of his parents, only that circumstances are too much against my paternity. Idiot! He must himself know that best; or is he not so stupid? Have I not offered him enough? I ought to have left the price to himself. I would pay anything. I—”

He had got up, and slowly paced up and down through the darkening room. “That is to say, I do not care to throw away my money, and the first experiment has miserably failed. Her reluctance to see the boy was decided enough, and she will not even discover a trace of likeness; says he is the type of the Roman peasants, such as are found at Albano, and Tivoli, and everywhere. Not even his beauty will she allow. There is no soul in the countenance, only the commonplace, brilliant stamp of a strong, sensual nature. And to that she holds with an obstinacy which she has never shown in anything else. It seems that the mother’s instinct cannot be deceived. Bah! what deception cannot be carried out, if a man only sets about it in the right way! I have been too hasty, that is what has startled her. I must allow that I have been, too sanguine, must play at resignation, and then perhaps like a woman, out of sheer caprice, she will come round herself—

“What is it, François?”

“The lady in black, monsieur.”

“Once for all, she is to be shown in to me by the other passage.”

“They are working in the other passage today, monsieur.”

“Never mind. You will take her back by the other passage.”

“Very well, monsieur; can she come in?”

“One moment. Madame dines at home. I dine out, at Herr von Wallbach’s—the carriage for me at half-past five. Let madame know, and that at a quarter-past five I will come and take leave of her. Has Signor Antonio been here in the course of the day?”

“No, monsieur.”

“No one else is to be admitted. Let the lady come in.”

Giraldi did not get up as the lady entered, and now only gave her a sign to take a place near him at the writing-table.

“I was expecting you. How are we getting on?”

“No better than on the first day.”

“That is bad.”

“It is very wearisome,” said Bertalda, throwing back her veil, “very wearisome. I have come to tell you so; I am sick of the whole thing.”

She lay back in her chair, with a look of ill-humour, knocking the tips of her boots against each other.

“Bah!” said Giraldi, “how much do you want?” and he stretched out his hand to a casket which stood before him on the table.

“I want nothing,” said Bertalda. “I told you at once, the first time you sought me out, that I only did it out of pity for poor Werben, and because I have a weakness for him, and because I wish to annoy that fine Philip, who behaved so abominably to Victorine, and I wish from my heart that his sister should be no better.”

“I have told you already that it was not from Herr Schmidt that I learnt that Herr von Werben is visiting you again.”

“Then you heard it from Count Golm, and I cannot abide him; he will have to wait a long time before I give him a good word, and now—”

“My dear child, permit me to observe that you are not very judicious,” said Giraldi, smiling. “You have half a dozen personal reasons for doing what you are doing; I pay you besides, and beg you moreover to consider me at your disposal in that matter, and you want to give the whole affair up because—”

“It bores me! I can bear anything except being bored.”

“What is it that bores you? Explain that to me.”

“What is there to explain?” cried Bertalda; “it is just tiresome. If one is foolishly in love with a man, and he comes and weeps in one’s arms, and one hears from others why he weeps, why should one not do him a kindness and help him to gain the woman he loves? Why, goodness me, there is nothing very hard in that; I am a good-natured creature, and if there is a little acting to be done—why one learns to cut a few capers in the ballet, and it is all the more amusing. And the acting you suggested was very pretty so far, and there is no great harm in standing as a model for a couple of days, when there is nothing to be done but to hold up your bare arms, and half the time is spent in talking too; but on the third day one ought to be able to say, So-and-so is waiting for you at such a place, and make an end of it!”

“I gave you permission yesterday to hint at the real state of affairs.”

“Oh yes, hint!” cried Bertalda. “I told her the whole story today. There!”

Giraldi half started from his chair, but immediately recovered himself, and asked in his quiet way:

“What do you mean by the whole story, my dear child?”

“Why, that I am not a model, and that I have come on Herr von Werben’s account—”

“Sent by Signor Giraldi—”

“What! as if I would have allowed myself to be sent if I had not chosen.”

“Of your own accord then—so much the better! And how did she take it?”

Bertalda burst into a ringing laugh.

“My goodness!” cried she, “it was a farce! She did not know whether to thank me on her knees, or to trample me under her feet. I think she mentally did first one and then the other, whilst with clasped hands, and crying as I never saw a girl cry before, she stood in front of me, and then raged about the room with uplifted arms, as I never saw anyone rage before either. First she called me a saint, a penitent Magdalen, I don’t know what all, and a moment after a hussy, a—well, I don’t know what either. It went on so for at least an hour without pause, and the end of the story was—”

“That you were not to presume to return?”

“Heaven forbid! Tomorrow I was to return, and then it would all begin over again, and it really is too wearisome, I say, and I shall not go there again tomorrow.” Bertalda got up with one last energetic tap of her boots. Giraldi remained sitting, stroking his beard.

“You are right,” he said; “do not go there again tomorrow, nor the next day; on the third day she will come to you.”

Bertalda bent forward to look more closely at the man, who said this with such certainty, as if he were reading it from a paper which lay on the table before him.

“Supposing, of course,” continued Giraldi, “that you do not answer the letter which she will write to you on the second day, and that altogether you play at drawing back a little as a person whose kindness has been misunderstood, and so on. If you can and will do this we remain friends; if you will not—it is not well to make an enemy of me, believe me.”

Bertalda rose and went behind her chair, and leant both her elbows on the back.

“If I only knew,” she said, “what you have to do with it all?”

“And if you knew?”

“Then I should know what to do myself. I am not afraid of you—what can you do to me? but I fear for poor Ottomar. I do not wish that any harm should happen to him.”

Giraldi got up also, seated himself sideways in the chair on which Bertalda leant, and took her hands in his.

“Good girl!” he said; “and if I swear to you that I am Ottomar’s best friend, that he has no secrets from me, not even that of his debts; that it is I who have just now helped him up again, that it is from me that he has the hundred-thaler notes, of which, perhaps, one or two have found their way into your pocket; and if in case you will not believe me, I show it to you in black and white, in Ottomar’s own hand, what would you say then?”

“Nothing at all,” answered Bertalda. She had, while he still held her hands, come round the chair, and suddenly sat down on his lap, with her hands, which she now freed, stroking his soft black beard. “At most, that you are a charming uncle, such as are scarce, and that you deserve a kiss, and—there, you have one.”

She had wound her arms round his neck, and kissed him, first teasingly, then with a passion which seemed to surprise even herself, and which also deprived him for the moment of the full use of his faculties, so that he did not hear the knock at the door, and only let Bertalda slip off his knee when François was already in the room. Bertalda gave a shriek of surprise, and hastily drew her veil over her face.

“What do you want?” cried Giraldi hotly.

“Monsieur Antonio, monsieur!” said François in a whisper; “he begs so urgently.”

“All right,” said Giraldi. “Show mademoiselle out. I will let in the young man myself. I shall hear from you, mademoiselle. For the present, adieu.”

He walked hastily to the door of the anteroom, whilst Bertalda, conducted by François, rushed to another door leading into his bedroom, and from thence into the second corridor, and only opened it as Bertalda was on the point of disappearing behind the portière, one side of which François had drawn back for her. Antonio, who, standing close to the door and listening, had heard Bertalda’s shriek, and whose mind was filled with the image of Ferdinanda, had immediately concluded that he recognised her voice, and at once stepped in; Bertalda could not so quickly get out. In her embarrassment she had run against the side of the portière which was down, and entangled herself in it, and it was a moment or two before, with François’ help, she was free, long enough for the sharp-eyed Antonio to discover that the lady whom he was putting to flight was not Ferdinanda herself, but the mysterious unknown who had lately come so regularly to Ferdinanda’s studio, and whom he had taken for an ambassador from his deadly enemy. So she did not come from him, but from here! And why should she run off so hastily the moment he was admitted? If the signor mentioned the lady—well, perhaps it was all right—he would try and trust him still, as heretofore; if he did not mention her, he would never believe another word that passed his lips—never!

These thoughts flew through Antonio’s mind as he made his bow; meanwhile Giraldi had recovered from his surprise, and taken his resolution. He had taken it for granted that Antonio, from the studio in which he worked, would remark the coming and going of the black-veiled lady to the other studio, and had consequently enjoined the utmost circumspection upon Bertalda. Antonio was not to learn who she was, least of all that she had any connection with him. Now, in consequence of the youth’s hasty entry, the secret was within a hair’s-breadth of escaping; but that he should have seen, or in any way recognised Bertalda, was quite impossible. The end of the great room was buried in almost total darkness, and as his own attention had been entirely centred on the door by which Antonio would enter, the delay in Bertalda’s departure by the other had escaped his notice. “A second later would have been too late,” he thought to himself, as he took the youth’s hand and—now completely master of himself—said in his usual quiet, friendly tone:

“Welcome, my dear Antonio—no, no, my son—I am not consecrated yet.”

Antonio, bending low, had raised the hand which Giraldi had offered him to his lips. “The less you trust him the more submissive must you be,” said Antonio to himself.

“You are sacred to me, signor,” he said aloud. “The good Brother Ambrose, the benevolent guardian of my wretched youth, is not in my eyes more revered and sacred than you are.”

“I am glad to hear it,” answered Giraldi. “The best ornament of youth is a grateful disposition. As a reward for it I can impart to you the good brother’s blessing. I have just received a letter from him. But of that later. First, as to your business here. Have you at last again seen and spoken with her?”

“Only seen, signor—as she left her studio just now to go home. I do not venture to speak to her. She talks, they say, to no one, and no one dares go into her studio except—”

“Her father, probably.”

“A lady, signor, in black, and thickly veiled, who goes to her studio regularly every afternoon. The students take her to be a model.”

It must be decided now; Antonio’s heart beat till Giraldi’s answer came.

“A lady in black and thickly veiled,” repeated Giraldi slowly, as if he was deeply considering the matter; “and only a model? That is surely very unlikely, and very suspicious. We must try to get to the bottom of this.”

He lied. It flashed like lightning through Antonio’s mind that to this man he had confided his secret, the treason which he contemplated, his criminal desires, the very plan of his revenge; he had given all—all into his hands, as to the priest in the confessional, and he lied!

“I have tried to get to the bottom of it, signor,” he said, “but in vain. As she comes and goes while our studio is full of men, I cannot watch her through the door, nor absent myself without causing a sensation. Yesterday I tried under some pretext, but I was too late. A carriage—not an ordinary cab, signor, but a fly—was standing a few yards from the house under the trees near the canal; the unknown got in, and vanished from me in a moment.”

“He will be more cunning next time,” thought Giraldi; “she must on no account go again.”

“At what time does she come?” he asked.

“Between five and six at first; now, I suppose on account of greater security, between four and five.”

“Good! Tomorrow I will myself keep watch in my carriage; she shall not escape us, you may depend upon it. And now to continue, has nothing of importance transpired in the conversations between your maestro and the Captain? The name in question not been mentioned?”

“No, signor; on the contrary, since the young lady went away—”

“I know, three days ago.”

“They have been very prudent, and speak so low, that it is impossible to catch more than a word here and there. But instead I have just found this letter, which the maestro received today and has read through at least a dozen times, and also showed it to the Captain, who came in the middle of the day.”

“It was dangerous to steal a letter which awakens such interest.”

“The maestro threw it into his desk, as he does all his letters, and when he went out, locked it up, and took the key with him; but I have long known how to open that frail lock without a key. Tomorrow he will find the letter again in his desk.”

“Who is it from?”

“From the young lady, I think. It is an abominable handwriting, signor.”

“Give it to me!”

Giraldi took the letter out of Antonio’s hand, and stepped to the window to get the advantage of the last gleam of daylight.

A superstitious dread ran through Antonio, as he saw the extraordinary speed with which the man at the window ran through the sixteen pages of the letter, of which he, who so prided himself on his knowledge of German, had hardly been able to read a line. How could he venture to enter into a struggle of cunning and skill with him, who saw through everything, knew everything as if he were in league with the evil one? And yet, one thing he did not know, that he would have pierced him with his dagger as he stood in the window, with the evening light shining like an aureole round his head with its black locks, did he venture to deceive and betray him, as he had undoubtedly deceived and betrayed all the world besides.

Giraldi had read the last two pages more slowly than the first ones. He now read them over again. Then without saying a word, he lighted the candle which stood on his writing-table, sat down, and began as it appeared to copy out these two last pages. The pen flew over the paper almost as quickly as his eyes before over the pages. In a few minutes it was done, and he gave the letter back to Antonio. “There! now return it again to its place with the greatest care, and bring me every letter in the same handwriting. You will thereby be doing me the greatest service, and my gratitude will keep pace with your willingness to help me.”

“I do what I do for your sake, signor,” said Antonio; “without hope or expectation of reward. The only one for which I care, even you cannot give me.”

“You think so,” answered Giraldi. “Boy, what do you know of what I can or cannot do? I tell you that kings tremble when they feel that Gregorio Giraldi’s hand is upon them; that the Holy Father in Rome even, only knows himself to be infallible so long as I am near him. And shall I not fulfil the desire of your heart? Not give into your arms that beautiful woman, whom you may possess at any moment you choose? Are you not young and handsome? Are you not strong and courageous? What is impossible to a handsome and young man who is strong and courageous, where a woman is in question? I tell you that the times of Saul are not yet gone by, who went out to seek his father’s asses, and found a kingdom. The letter in your pocket might prove it to you. Do you fancy yourself worth less than that clumsy German sailor? Surely not. And he has won the love of a German maiden, to whom men of his position would not generally dare to lift their eyes. And now you! Do you not know that God has ever specially loved shepherds and shown Himself gracious to them? Have you never, as you drove your goats on the mountains near Tivoli, heard a voice out of the thundering cataracts of the Arno, or out of the sighing of the wind in the oak trees of Arsoli, which said, ‘Poor sunburnt, ragged boy, in a few years you, a beautiful youth, dressed like the gentlemen who approach yonder in their smart carriages over the dusty roads, shall walk through streets of the capital of the northern barbarians, whose very names you do not yet know?’ Believe me, my son, such voices may be heard by all, only one must understand them, as I have always understood those which speak to me. Or if you will not trust my guidance, let me speak to you through the mouth of the worthy man who protected your tender youth, and whom you may thank, that you do not still tend your goats. I had written to him about you, and how wonderful it was that you, favoured with these gifts of mind and body, should be of such low birth as are the people you have respected as your parents. And what does he reply?”

Giraldi had seized the priest’s letter, and read: “ ‘A miracle, truly, my dear sir, but are we not surrounded by miracles, so that they often appear no miracles just because they are so near us? And has God lost His omnipotence because the serpent of doubt and unbelief lifts its head now higher than ever? Can He not breathe His Spirit into a clod if He will? make the dead to live again? lighten the darkness in which the origin of so many men, and—I must admit—of our good Antonio also, is enveloped? Can He not raise up for a man who stands solitary and pines for love, a dear relation in a seeming stranger?’ Look, Antonio! there it stands, written in your honoured friend’s own hand.”

He held out the letter to Antonio—just long enough for the youth to be certain that it really was his old preceptor’s hand. He might not see what immediately followed; that according to all human calculation Antonio could not possibly be the son that Giraldi had so long lost, and whom he had so eagerly sought after, and still sought in spite of all disappointments, and for whose recovery no reward was too great.

As if overcome with emotion, he had thrown the letter into the drawer and stretched out both his hands: “Now go, in God’s name, my son, and remember that no father could more truly mean well towards you than I do!”

Antonio bent down and kissed the outstretched hands, moved and conquered by the superior mental power of the man, his mind filled with a confusion of ambitious hopes and dazzling dreams of satisfied love, as quickly followed by the fear that all was but a dream and an illusion, and that this great magician was playing with him, as he himself as a boy had often, enough done with a bird fluttering on a string.

He was gone. Giraldi touched the bell. François came in.

“I told you that no one was to come in, without exception!”

“Monsieur had always received the young man, and he was so pressing.”

“It may pass for this time; the next time you commit such a blunder, you are dismissed without appeal—mind that.”

He locked his letter into his drawer.

“I will dress without assistance; see that the carriage is ready in ten minutes.”

He went into the next room through which Bertalda had previously taken flight. François shook his fist behind him, and then again smiled his fawning smile, as if he would not admit even to himself that he had ventured to threaten the mighty man.

XI

“You will see, Carla, he will not come today either,” said Frau von Wallbach, trying to find if possible a more comfortable position in her armchair.

“Je le plains, je le blâme, mais—” Carla, who was sitting at the piano, played a scale very softly with her right hand.

“And Fräulein von Strummin has also gone away without paying us a farewell visit.”

“Silly little thing,” said Carla, repeating her scale.

“And Elsa has never once been here to apologise for the omission.”

“So much the worse for her,” said Carla.

“I wash my hands of the blame,” said Frau von Wallbach, slowly rising and going into the reception-room which some of the dinner guests were entering.

Carla was also getting up, but remained sitting when she heard that it was a lady, and moreover one of little importance. She let her hands fall into her lap, and looked thoughtfully down before her.

“He is not half so clever, he often evidently does not understand what I say; I think even he is un peu bête. But he—adores me. Why should I give up my adorers for a betrothed who never troubles himself about me? He would soon drive them all away.”

The door behind her into the anteroom was opened. Only intimate friends at small entertainments ever entered through this apartment—her room. The newcomer must be either Ottomar or the Count. She had heard nothing, and as the steps came nearer over the thick carpet, let her fingers wander dreamily over the keys, “Already sends the Graal to seek the loiterer—”

“Fräulein von Wallbach!”

“Ah! my dear Count,” said Carla, looking up a little, and giving the Count her left hand over her shoulder, whilst the right played “My Trusty Swan.” “Will you not go first and say ‘how do you do’ to Louisa? She is in the drawing-room with Frau von Arnfeld.”

The Count lifted the carelessly-given hand to his lips, “And then?” he asked.

“You can return here—I have something to say to you.”

The Count came back in half a minute.

“Draw that chair here—not so near—there—and don’t let my strumming disturb you. Do you know, my dear Count, that you are a very dangerous man!”

“My dear Fräulein von Wallbach!” cried the Count, as he twirled his moustaches.

“You must be so, when even Louisa already thinks so. She has just preached me the most charming sermon.”

“But what have I done? All the world worships you; why should I not dare what all the world may do?”

“Because you are not all the world.”

“Because—”

Carla lifted her eyes; the Count was always bewitched when he could look into those blue eyes, unhindered by glasses, under whose weary, drooping eyelids a secret world of tenderness and archness seemed to him to be concealed.

“Because I have come too late,” he whispered passionately.

“A man should not be too late, my dear Count; it is the worst of faults in war, in politics, in everything. You must bear the consequence of this fault—voilà tout.”

She played:

“Only one year beside thee,
As witness of thy bliss, I asked.”

The Count gazed before him in silence.

“He takes it for earnest,” thought Carla. “I must rouse him up again a little.”

“Why should we not be friends?” she said, reaching out her right hand to him, whilst the left played:

“Return to me! and let me teach
How sweet the bliss of purest truth.”

“Certainly, certainly!” cried the Count, imprinting a long, burning kiss on the offered hand; “why should we not be friends?”

“Friendship between pure souls is so sweet, is it not so? But the world is not pure. It loves to blacken all bright things. It requires a security. Give it the best possible under the circumstances. Marry!”

“And that is your advice to me?”

“Mine more especially. I shall gain immensely by it; I shall not quite lose you. More, I cannot—more, I do not expect.”

And Carla played, with both hands:

“Let me convert thee to the faith,
One bliss there is, without remorse.”

“Good God, Carla—my dear Fräulein von Wallbach! do you know that something similar—almost in the same words—”

“You have heard from Signor Giraldi,” said Carla, as the Count paused, embarrassed. “You may say it out, I do not mind. He is the cleverest of men, and one can keep nothing secret from him, even if one wished to do so, and—I do not so wish; you also—need not wish it. He is very fond of you. He wishes you well; believe me and trust in him.”

“I believe it,” said the Count, “and I should trust him implicitly, if the engagement which is in question did not also include just a little touch of business. You are aware that I have today bought the Warnow estates, I should hardly have taken such a tremendous risk upon myself, indeed could not have done so, if it had not appeared that at least half the money in the form of dowry—”

“Fi donc!” said Carla.

“For heaven’s sake, do not misunderstand me!” cried the Count. “It is evident that this suggestion could only come from Signor Giraldi, and from no one else. The thing is simply that Signor Giraldi, as the Baroness’s agent—”

“Spare me anything of that sort, my dear Count,” cried Carla. “Once for all, I understand nothing about it. I only know that my sister-in-law is a delightful creature, and that you are a terribly blasé man, whom every well-behaved girl must really be afraid of. And now go into the drawing-room, I hear Baroness Kniebreche, and she would never forgive you if you have not kissed her hand within the first five minutes.”

“Give me courage to go to execution,” whispered the Count.

“How?”

The Count did not answer, but took her hand off the keys, covered it with passionate kisses, and hurried in a state of emotion which was half affected and half real, into the drawing-room.

“He is a good creature after all,” murmured Carla, turning, and looking after him with her glass in her eye.

“That he is,” said a voice close to her.

“Mon Dieu! Signor Giraldi!”

“Always at your service.”

“Always at an opportune moment. You have not yet been into the drawing-room? Of course not. Come! let us have a few minutes’ chat. A tête-à-tête with you is a much envied privilege, which even Baroness Kniebreche herself would respect.”

“And then this respectable tête-à-tête is not quite so dangerous as the preceding one,” said Giraldi, sitting down by Carla on a little sofa, which stood at the end of the room beneath a candelabra on the wall. “Did you speak to him?”

“Just now!”

“And what did he answer?”

“He understands everything—except—”

“Not everything then?”

“Do not smile ironically; he is not quite a nonentity. He is clever enough, for example, to ask what the special interest is which you can have in his engagement with Elsa.”

“Do not be angry if I still smile a little,” said Giraldi. “What, the Count inquired as to the interest I have in the matter—he, on whose side the whole profit lies! But there! I confess the sale would have been delayed for a long time, as the General out of sheer obstinacy would not consent at all, and your brother, from some reasons of propriety, would not sell direct to the provisional board, and insisted upon a go-between; I further admit that the Count is not only in every other respect more convenient and more suitable than anyone else, but he is also more lucrative to us, because as a neighbour he can really pay more than anyone else. But that is an advantage on our side, which we fully compensate to him by granting him other advantages, with the details of which I will not trouble you. Believe me, my dear Fräulein von Wallbach, that the Count knows all this as well as I do, and he only affects ignorance and consequently hesitation for reasons which I will set before you. Firstly: It is always well not to see the hand which throws fortune into your lap; you can then, if convenient, be as ungrateful as you please. Secondly: He loves you, and—who can blame him?—he does not consider the matter quite hopeless, so long as you remain unmarried. Thirdly: It is not absolutely certain that Fräulein von Werben will accept him, and he has in fact better reasons for this uncertainty than his philosophy and vanity combined will allow him to imagine.”

“You are again referring to the fancy that Elsa is supposed to have for the handsome merchant-captain,” said Carla. “Much as I admire your acuteness, my dear Giraldi, here you pass the limits of my belief.”

“But supposing I have unquestionable evidence? supposing I have it in black and white, from the hand of Elsa’s most intimate friend, that little Fräulein von Strummin, who went off in such headlong haste, to startle us, from the security of her island, with the news of her engagement to the sculptor, Justus Anders. Pray do not laugh. What I am telling you is absolutely true. Herr Justus Anders, again, is the Captain’s most intimate friend; the two pairs of friends it appears have no secrets of any sort between them; Fräulein von Strummin also has none from her betrothed, and she writes in her letter, which arrived this morning, word for word—”

Giraldi had taken an elegant pocketbook from his coat pocket, and out of it a paper, which he unfolded.

“If anyone comes in, it is supposed to be a letter from the sculptor, Enrico Braga, from Milan. She writes the following, word for word—I am not responsible for the peculiar style:

“ ‘One thing more, dearest man, over which Lesto would howl himself to death with joy if he could understand it, and you also will rejoice like a child, as you always are. My Elsa loves your Reinhold with all her heart and soul, and that is saying something for anyone who knows as I do that she is all soul, and has the most divine heart in the world. I have no permission, still less any commission, to tell you this. But we are never again to play at hide-and-seek with one another, you know, and must also inspire our poor friends with courage, and the best way to do that is to be always saying to them, “He,” or in your case, “She loves you!” I have proved it at any rate with Elsa. Ah! my dearest heart, we ought indeed to feel ashamed of being so happy, when we think how unhappy our friends are, and only on account of these horrible “circumstances.” If I only knew who had devised these “circumstances” I should just like to have a few words with him, you know.’ ”

“This is wonderfully interesting,” said Carla; “and it will interest the Count extremely.”

“Without doubt,” said Giraldi, returning the letter to his pocketbook. “By the way, what a wonderful woman you are, never once to have asked where I got this. In the meantime, I propose that we do not communicate this until you are certain of one thing.”

“And that is?”

Giraldi bent towards Carla and looked straight into her eyes.

“That you do not finally prefer to bestow your hand upon Count Axel Golm, instead of on Ottomar von Werben.”

“You are really too bad. Signor Giraldi, do you know?” said Carla, flicking him on the hand with her pocket-handkerchief.

“If you say so! But look here, my dear young lady! any communication with regard to Elsa’s maritime fancy would in the end determine the Count to give up his suit; and until now it has appeared to us most convenient for all parties to marry him to Elsa. If you want him for yourself, and it seems so, well, that may also be managed; but in your place I would not be too hasty. We can keep the game going as long as we like. Why not drain the sweetness of courtship to the last drop? The more so that Ottomar—great minds are never shocked at truth—scarcely appears to appreciate, at its true worth, the happiness which awaits him in the arms of the cleverest and most agreeable of women.”

“Which means, if I am not mistaken,” said Carla, “that Ottomar must do as you wish; you have got the whip-hand of him. Well I know, dear friend, how powerful your hand is; but I confess that in this case I do not understand where the power lies. That Ottomar has had mistresses—very likely has them still—well! I have read Schopenhauer, who says nothing about monogamy, because he could nowhere discover it, and I should not like to be the first woman to find her beloved the less interesting because he is pleasing to other women. His debts? Good gracious! name anyone to me who has none! and my brother says they are really not so bad. My brother urges our hastening on our wedding, and so does my sister-in-law now. The General is, as you know, most inconveniently obstinate in carrying out his plans; and society will be greatly injured if we are not on our wedding tour by the beginning of March; on the 15th Ottomar must enter upon his office at St. Petersburg.”

“Let us make our arrangements accordingly then, if we are otherwise agreed,” answered Giraldi. “By the middle of February you will discover that your finely organised nature will no longer stand the strain of the season, and that, before you enter upon the new period of your life, you absolutely require quiet and repose, which you cannot procure in town, and can only find in the retirement of the country. And then it falls in admirably, that at that very time the Baroness, my dear friend, impelled by the necessity of rest, seeks a shelter in quiet Warnow. I have for this purpose reserved the castle and park from the Count, who this morning became the possessor of the property. He will be delighted that Fräulein von Wallbach should share the retirement of her betrothed’s aunt. Not alone! The Baroness, at her own urgent request—mark that—will be accompanied by Fräulein Elsa. The Count, whose business at that time—and particularly the harbour works at Warnow—makes his residence in the country a duty, will do everything to cheer and enliven the ladies’ solitude. Your brother—I myself—will come and go. What a spectacle, to watch the spring awaking in the country, on the shores of the ocean, perhaps to see the further blossoming of dear Elsa’s quiet fancy for the man of her choice, who has gone to his new post—he has lately been made Superintendent of Pilots—I think they call it so—at Wissow, just the same distance from Warnow as the Count is at his house. How do you like my little plan?”

“Charming,” said Carla, “à deux mains. But is it practicable?”

“Leave that to me. Give me your two pretty hands upon it, that you will support me.”

“There, you have them.”

“And I impress my lips upon both of them in confirmation of the agreement.”

“I really must venture to disturb your tête-à-tête,” said Herr von Wallbach, entering from the drawing-room. “The company have all arrived. Only Ottomar, whom we must again give up, and the Baroness still fail us.”

“I forgot to tell you,” said Giraldi, as he greeted Herr von Wallbach, “that the Baroness begged me to make her apologies—an indisposition—her nerves are so shaken—”

“What a pity,” said Herr von Wallbach. “Will you have the kindness, Carla, to tell Louisa? It makes no difficulty, as I was to have taken in the Baroness. Baroness Kniebreche claims you, Signor Giraldi.” Giraldi bowed. Carla had gone. “One moment,” whispered Wallbach, holding back Giraldi by the arm. “I am glad, very glad, that the Baroness is not coming. This is a day of surprises. Today, to our inexpressible astonishment—Lübbener cannot get over it at all—Golm paid the half million down! The concession, for the publication of which we feared we should have weeks to wait, as there was still some difficulty about the security, will appear tomorrow in the Gazette. Yes, my dear sir, you may rely upon it. I know it for certain from Herr von Stumm, who implored me not to betray him. It was to be a delightful surprise, on the part of the Ministers, for us; and—and—my dear friend, I am not easily put out of countenance, but c’est plus fort que moi—from the same unquestionable source I have learnt that the General’s name does not appear in the Military Gazette which will be published tomorrow.”

“Which means?” asked Giraldi.

“Which means that he is passed over, and that, according to our ideas, he will be forced to send in his resignation.”

“How extraordinary!” said Giraldi.

“There is no doubt about it,” continued Wallbach excitedly; “I could certainly understand the step, even see its necessity, if it had been the only means by which our affair could have been carried through; but as we have the concession in our pocket without that, it is—”

“An unnecessary cruelty.”

“Is it not? and one which will have further consequences. I prophesy that Ottomar will not go to St. Petersburg.”

“But that would be more than cruel, it would be absurd,” said Giraldi.

“You do not know our ways. There is great consistency in such things with us.”

Giraldi was spared an answer. In the doorway to the drawing-room appeared, supported on Carla’s arm, the bent form of an old lady who was waving an immense black fan up and down, and cried out loudly in a cracked voice:

“If Signor Giraldi will not come to old Kniebreche, old Kniebreche must go to Signor Giraldi.”

“I fly, my dear madam!” said Giraldi.

XII

Elsa’s old cook sat on her stool, with her elbows resting upon her knees, staring at the brick floor; August, who was leaning against the window, went on silently cutting his nails with his knife; and Ottomar’s servant was perched upon the table, swinging his long legs.

“It has just struck twelve,” said the cook, with a despairing look at the hearth, on which the kettle still hung in solitary state over the fire, as it had done since early morning. “Can neither of you at least open your mouths?”

“What is there to say?” answered August. “It will always be likely to happen with us soldiers.”

“It’s a sin and a shame!” said the cook.

“A 1,” affirmed August.

The Dutch clock ticked, the kettle bubbled. Friedrich let himself slide off the table, and stretched his arms.

“I can’t say that I am generally much in favour of these parades,” he said, “but it is my opinion that today we servants might as well have joined it.”

“Yes; the young master always has the best of it,” said the cook. “It is well to be out of range of the firing. If I had been in his place, I would have paraded them today.”

She smoothed down her apron. August shook his head.

“With us military men, that would—”

“Oh, stuff!” interrupted the cook. “Military here, military there! If anyone dismissed my father, I should dismiss him, and that pretty sharp, too!”

She gave her apron another energetic pull, stood up, walked to the hearth, turned the kettle round, and then, as that manifestly did not help matters, began to cry vehemently, from a sense of her helplessness.

“Hullo!” said the lady’s-maid, who just then stepped into the kitchen, “have the lamentations broken out here also?”

She sat down on the stool from which the cook had risen, and stroked down her black silk apron as the other had her coarse kitchen one.

“There, I’ve had enough of it! I can’t stand playing at nursing old women who faint every time anything goes wrong in the house! And to be turned out of the room by the young lady because one treads too heavily, and told to send that stupid goose Pauline, doesn’t suit me any better! And, moreover, I am not accustomed to a party once a fortnight at the outside, and now I suppose even that will come to an end! No, I thank you! Tomorrow they may look out for another lady’s-maid, if suchlike require another lady’s-maid, indeed! And—”

“There, I’ve had enough of that!” said the cook.

“I may talk, I suppose, if I like!” said the lady’s-maid.

“But not in my kitchen!” cried the cook, sticking her still strong arms akimbo, and walking up to the audacious speaker. “What! you will talk about ‘suchlike’ here, in the face of an old, respected servant, who has been twenty years in the house, or eight years like August, to say nothing of Friedrich, although he also is a respectable man, and would rather have gone to the parade today than sit here and see such misery! Do you know who ‘suchlike’ are? All your tag and rag, from whom you ran off to us—they are ‘suchlike,’ with their yard-long trains, and fallals and crinolines! And you are ‘suchlike,’ you shameless hussy, you! and if you don’t leave off grinning this very minute, and get up off my stool, and clear out of my kitchen, I’ll give you a couple of boxes on the ear that will make you remember ‘suchlike’ to the end of your days!”

“I shall not dispute with you,” said the lady’s-maid, getting up in haste, and slipping towards the door from under her antagonist’s raised arm. “You are too—”

“Out with you!” said the cook.

“Too vulgar!”

And the lady’s-maid slammed the door behind her.

“That is one of the A 1’s,” said August.

“A regular one,” said Friedrich.

“And you are dunderheads,” cried the cook, “to put up quietly with such a thing!”

“One should not enter into any discussion with such a person,” said Friedrich.

“The housedoor bell has rung,” said August, delighted to be able to break off the conversation, which was taking so disagreeable a turn. “Our master can hardly be back yet? And we cannot receive anyone today?”

“That depends,” said the cook. “Our poor young lady has not seen a soul today, and the poor thing must want to speak out. But it must be to a real friend.”

“Of course,” said August, buttoning his livery-coat, “one of the A 1’s. Herr von Schönau or—”

“Well, make haste and go upstairs.”

“Ah! the Captain!” cried August, seeing Reinhold in the anteroom.

The Captain stood high in August’s favour, and the Captain, who always looked so amiable, looked so grave today.

“The Captain, of course, knows all about it already,” said August.

“For heaven’s sake!” cried Reinhold, “what has happened? Is anyone ill in the house?”

“Ill—yes,” said August, “but only from fright. Fräulein Sidonie fainted immediately, and so of course we heard all about it. The Lieutenant is, of course, gone to the parade, and will not be back till evening, as he is on duty afterwards at the barracks; and I had to put all the General’s orders on his uniform, and he went to his Excellency the Minister and the other Excellencies to say so-and-so; and our young lady is with Fräulein Sidonie; but she will certainly wish to see you, and if you will come in here and wait—”

August had ushered Reinhold, who, in his bewilderment, followed him mechanically, up the stairs, and opened the door of the drawing-room.

Reinhold remained alone for a few anxious moments. What could have occurred to have caused the family such a shock as he saw reflected even in the servant’s face? And today, of all days! As if his heart were not heavy enough already!

A light step crossed the floor of the dining-room and over the carpet in the next room, and Elsa stepped in, holding out her hand to him.

“You have come to take leave. I know all from Fräulein—from Meta.”

“I have come to take leave,” answered Reinhold; “but before we speak of that, tell me, if you can, what misfortune has happened to you? It must be some misfortune.”

He still held her hand in his, and gazed, himself pale from emotion and sympathy, into her pale lovely face, with the beloved brown eyes, which, formerly so bright and happy, now looked so anxious and sorrowful.

“My father would reproach me if he heard me call that a misfortune of which he affirms himself to be proud. And yet—who knows how it appears to him in his heart, or how he bears it in his heart, and how he will bear it?”

She suppressed her sorrowful emotion with a deep-drawn breath, and offering Reinhold a chair, and herself taking a place on the sofa, continued in a calm voice:

“My father has been passed over in the promotion for which he stood next! You know what that means. He has just gone to offer his resignation in person to the Minister!”

“Good God!” said Reinhold, “an officer of his high character, of his vast services to the nation—is it possible!”

Elsa sat there, her fixed burning eyes looking down, a bitter smile trembling on her lips, while she slowly nodded her head once or twice. Reinhold saw how forced was the self-command with which she had come to meet him, how deeply she felt the insult which had been offered to her father.

“And to think,” he said in a low voice, “that I myself assisted to bring about this catastrophe. Your father has repeatedly impressed upon me what difficulties he had to struggle with, how precarious, how insecure his position was, and that a mere trifle might suffice to make it untenable—”

Elsa shook her head. “No, no!” she said, “it is not that. My father was determined to retire if ever this unhappy concession was carried through against his will. But that they should not even have waited, even given him time to carry out his resolution, that is what he resents, and what I fear will make his proud heart bleed.”

The tears ran from her fixed eyes down her pale cheeks. Reinhold’s heart was full to overflowing with love and sympathy. A voice within him cried out, “My poor, poor darling,” but he dared not speak out yet.

Elsa had dried her tears with her handkerchief.

“You must not look so miserable,” she said, trying to smile; “my father has done his duty, and you have done your duty. Is not the consciousness of this the best, the only consolation in such a case as this, which we must accept whether we will or no?”

“Certainly,” said Reinhold; “and yet how sad it sounds from such lips.”

“Because I am a girl,” said Elsa. “I think it is just we girls who can do so little for ourselves, who are often so helpless in the face of circumstances, who are not early enough impressed with this idea. What would have become of me in these last few days if I had not done so. If I had not at least tried to do so, so far as lay in my power. And now today, when I have heard everything from my father about Ottomar—”

Reinhold looked up startled.

Elsa’s eyes had fallen, a burning colour had come into her cheeks; she went on slowly in a low voice, “I have learnt everything!”

“Could not that, at least, have been spared you?” said Reinhold after a silent pause.

“I think not,” said Elsa, again looking up. “I think that my father followed a right impulse this morning when he told me everything, as to a friend (and, oh! how thankful I am to him for it, and proud!), told me of his position, of our position—confided to me even that. Oh! I cannot get rid of the thought that it would have been better, that it would have turned out better—for us all, if I had known it, if not from the beginning, at least after that terrible morning. Only a woman’s hand could, had it still been possible, have smoothed out the entangled threads of all the faults and follies there and here. What would I not give for the minutes that have been irreparably lost. Ah! I know I should have found the words to touch Ottomar’s and your cousin’s hearts. Poor Ferdinanda! What must she have suffered? What must she suffer? And my poor Ottomar, too! He is really not so guilty as he perhaps appears to you. It is not your fault that you have not learnt to know him better, that the wish of my heart has not been fulfilled—that you might become true friends. We know now why he shunned you, as indeed he did even his best friends, Schönau and the others—even myself—all of us. And so he has strayed so far, so helplessly away in the loneliness of his heart. And yet I know him from earlier, better days, how tender, how loving and affectionate his heart was; how susceptible he was to all that was beautiful and good, even if he had not the strength to let it ripen in him, to live for that alone. But it must be very difficult in the life that he leads, that he must lead, which I also have led in my way, and have enjoyed myself in it—all these prejudices of rank, these social fetters, which we no longer feel as such, because we have grown up amongst them and can never free ourselves without a hard struggle. And if he failed in this struggle, the strange circumstances of our family will certainly have contributed to it; and, lastly, the rebuff which he has experienced in the person of his father, whom, I know, in the bottom of his heart he deeply reverences. I will not defend him, when, passionate and hotheaded as he is, he rushed out of the house—we none of us knew what he intended—and returned engaged to Carla; but he must not, he cannot be utterly condemned.” She gazed anxiously, with clasped hands, into Reinhold’s face, a bitter feeling was stirring in him. If she spoke so eloquently of the singular position in which her brother was at the decisive moment, was not this position hers also? Would not she so speak at the last moment for herself? So decide for herself? or was it already on her account that she spoke? Had she so decided? Was he to read her decision between the lines?

“I always find it difficult,” he said, “to condemn anyone—in men’s hearts there are so many depths, which no lead can reach—and I have not condemned your brother. On the contrary, I have for his sake and—I cannot deny it—for yours—”

His voice shook, but he collected himself by a strong effort and went on quietly, “Done everything which a brother would at such a time do for a brother. I have even set my uncle’s friendship and affection, which are very dear to me, at stake, and I fear, lost them. That it was all in vain, that I must let that be, which I foresaw would be to those most nearly concerned a deadly blow, which would more or less recoil upon us all without exception—I do not know whether I need tell you how hard this has been to me, how hard it is!”

“You do not need,” said Elsa. “Take the thanks of the sister for the brother. You do not perhaps believe how grateful I am to you, and how your words have comforted me. Since this morning, through all the trouble which has come upon us, I have continually asked myself how you would be affected by it. I have longed to hear these words from you. Now that I have heard them my heart feels lighter, and now, between us two at least, all will be again as it was.”

“Do you believe that? do you really believe it?” asked Reinhold.

The smile died away upon her lips. She gently drew back the hand which she had given him, and which he firmly held; the blood flew again into her cheeks, which then became whiter than before.

“Have I been mistaken?” stammered Elsa.

“I do not think so,” said Reinhold, “because, forgive me, I cannot think that at this moment you have been quite sincere. And—you have yourself said it—what brought ruin upon your brother, and upon my cousin, save that they were not open, neither to themselves, nor to each other, nor to their friends—that they never had the courage of their opinions—that they never had the true courage of their love? Well! I, for my part, will not and dare not burden my soul with this reproach. I will keep my conscience free, however heavy my heart may remain. May I speak out what is in my heart? and will you answer me as your heart dictates?”

She sat there, pale and motionless, only the hand which she had given him, and which now lay in her lap, trembled.

“I will,” she said, in a low voice.

“Well then,” said Reinhold, “I came to take leave of your father, and before I took leave of him, to thank him from the bottom of my heart, for the kindness with which he had overwhelmed me, and for the confidence with which he honoured me. Perhaps, thought I, since I still remain in your neighbourhood, and my duties will also often bring me here, he would then have said that he hoped and wished to see me again. And I must have replied, that as an honourable man I could only take advantage of this permission under one condition. And I should have said ‘That condition, General, is impossible. I have had the fullest opportunities in this unfortunate business, and in the many confidential conversations with which you have honoured me, of entering into your thoughts and feelings; you have condescended even to initiate me into the circumstances of your family, and I am convinced that you will never of your own free will, grant me the hand of your daughter whom I love.’ ”

Elsa neither answered nor stirred, only her bosom rose and fell wildly.

“ ‘Whom I have loved,’ ” continued Reinhold, in a voice trembling with emotion, “ ‘I may say from the first moment that I saw her. Since then I have thought of her every hour of the day; and when I lie awake at night, her image stands out before my soul, clear, steadfast, immovable, like the north star; and I am as sure as that I am a living man, that this love can only end with my life.’ That is what I should have said to your father.”

“And then,” said Elsa softly, “then should you have come to me?”

“Yes,” said Reinhold, “then I should have come to you.”

A lovely colour lay upon her cheeks; her eyes resting full and steadfastly upon him, gleamed through tears, whilst her voice seemed as if it would cry out for joy, and again trembled with emotion.

“I should have said to you, that I was unutterably happy in the knowledge that I was loved by you, and that I love you with my whole, whole heart, and will so love you forevermore.”

They held one another in a close embrace. He kissed her hair, her forehead, her lips; she leant her head, sobbing, on his shoulder.

“Oh! my God! is it possible? This morning—even when I came in at the door—here, see! see! I wanted to give you this—my treasure! I meant to part with it, to renounce all happiness. And now, now! I may keep it, may I not, and look to my lord, as the needle does to the pole? I have learnt it from it.”

She kissed the compass and let it slip again into her pocket, and threw her arms again round Reinhold, and said:

“And now, my dearest, that you know that I will be true to you, waking and sleeping, and will be your wife, and will follow you to the ends of the world whenever you call me, do not call me yet, but leave me here with my father, whose support and comfort I am in this affliction, with my Aunt Valerie, who clings to me in the anguish of her heart. Ah! there is so much suffering which I only partly guess, but which does not therefore the less exist, and which I know will overflow so soon as I turn my back. It will perhaps come even now, and I cannot check it, but I shall have done my duty, you know, as Meta would say.”

The old sweet smile gleamed in the brown eyes which shone upon him. “We must just have patience and be sensible, and love each other very, very much, and then everything must come right, will it not, my darling?”

“The man who knows himself beloved by you,” whispered Reinhold, “can only fear one thing in this world—not to deserve your love.”

XIII

The two friends wandered up and down the brightly-illuminated platform of the station, waiting for the train. Uncle Ernst’s carriage which had brought them, had come very quickly, the train was only just being made up, they had still nearly half an hour.

“You will not stop in Sundin?” said Justus.

“Only tomorrow,” answered Reinhold; “I hope that will suffice to present myself before the President, and my immediate superiors, the Government surveyor, and the other gentlemen, and to receive my instructions.”

“I think the President has been here,” said Justus, “for the last four days. He is to be Chairman of the Board for the new railway. They made him the most splendid offer, I am told.”

“So the papers say, but I do not believe it,” answered Reinhold. “A man like the President could not agree to such a project, and moreover, if he were here, he would certainly have sent for me.”

“And the day after tomorrow you will be at your post with a northeaster whistling in your ears, and will swagger about in your pilot coat. What a lucky man you are!”

Justus sighed; Reinhold looked at his friend, who, with downcast eyes walked dejectedly beside him, and then burst into a fit of laughter.

“It is all very well to laugh,” said Justus; “ ‘laden with foreign treasures, he returns to his former home,’ but how do I stand? A leafless stem.”

“Do not cry yourself down, Justus.”

“Ah! cry myself down!” said Justus; “do you mean to say that it is not enough to drive a poor fellow mad! I meant to have spared you this today, so as not to disturb your happiness and joy; but perhaps it is better for me to tell you now, instead of writing to you as I intended. You will be in his immediate neighbourhood, and will surely do me the kindness to go over some day and appeal to the old gentleman’s conscience—though I don’t believe he is old.”

“Alack!” said Reinhold, “blows the wind in that quarter?”

“And how it blows!” cried Justus, “so that one can neither see nor hear. You know that Meta wrote to me on her arrival that everything was going capitally. Mamma was, as she foresaw, entirely on her side, but papa, of course, made a tremendous row—only then, as she also foretold, to give in utterly a little while after, supposing that the ‘stonecutter’ could maintain his daughter suitably, as he could give her nothing—not a shilling—he was a poor, ruined man. Good! I accept the ruined father-in-law, and he accepts me upon my showing that I had already for some years made—but you know all about that, and I only repeat it now to set before you in its proper light the abominable treachery of this man.”

Justus had halted under a lamp, and took a letter out of his pocket. “If the spelling leaves something to be desired, the letters are big enough, as you see, and the interpretation is clear enough from one point of view at any rate.”

Justus struck the crumpled leaf with the back of his hand, and read:

“ ‘Sir’ (the first time I was ‘Dear Sir’),

“ ‘In consequence of a telegram that I have just received from Berlin, the state of my affairs is so completely altered, my daughter’s future prospects are so entirely changed, that the position which you can offer her at the best no longer appears sufficient to me; and before I give a final answer’—as if he had not done so already, the Jesuit!—‘I must, as a conscientious man and provident father, beg for a few weeks delay, until the fortunate conjuncture of circumstances which has just occurred for me can be completely gone into.

“ ‘Sincerely yours,
“ ’Otto von Strummin,
“ ‘Lord of the Manor of Strummin,
Member of the Assembly, Vice-President
of the Agricultural Society of ———’

“I can’t read that—but it is enough!”

And Justus crumpled up the unfortunate letter, and with a scornful snort stuffed it again into his pocket.

“Am I not right, Reinhold? Every possible difficulty stands in your path, I admit, but through it all, at the worst, you have to deal with a man who is the very soul of honour, and on whose word once given—and he will give it—you may rely. You can build your house upon a solid foundation, but how can a man build a house upon sand—treacherous quicksand, which, when he thinks he is as firmly fixed as the Colossus of Rhodes, gives way under his feet? If I only knew what the ‘Lord of the Manor’ really means! It is my belief that the whole story—telegram, conjuncture, everything—is all dust which he wants to throw into my eyes to get rid of me—don’t you think so?”

“Of course he wants to get rid of you,” answered Reinhold, “and the man’s meaning is pitiful enough; but the matter to which he alludes has some truth in it, and I think I can tell you what it all means. Herr von Strummin has probably, for some reason or another, been kept in the dark as to the position of the question of the concession, so as to shut him out of a share of the first rich booty, possibly has been persuaded that the concession will not be granted. Disordered as his affairs appear to be, perhaps in a desperate condition, he was delighted to see his daughter provided for, and shut both eyes (which, by the way, are somewhat prominent) to the ‘stonecutter’s’ position. Now he has been informed that the concession is a fait accompli, some additional promises—God knows what—have been made to him, and everything looks bright to him. He reminds himself that he is lord of the manor and so forth, and that it is his duty to protect his daughter from a mésalliance. You see it is again the old pitiful bargaining with men’s hearts, sticking to insane prejudices at the expense of all sound morality. But console yourself, Justus, it is not you, but Herr von Strummin who has built his house upon sand. He will find it out soon enough, and he will come to you and say, ‘My dear sir, I have been terribly in the wrong, and here is my daughter’s hand.’ ”

“That would be splendid,” said Justus, smiling in spite of his trouble, “only—I do not believe in it.”

“Justus! Justus!” cried Reinhold; “do I hear this from you? From whom have I learnt that sandstone is hard to work, but marble much harder, and that whoso works all his life in sandstone and marble must take life easy, if he would not have the devil take possession of him. Do you really mean him to take possession of you?”

“You may well say that,” answered Justus; “I do not recognise myself any longer. It is as if gipsies had stolen me in the night, and left a miserable, dismal, incapable sneak in my place. All that I have lately done has been rubbish, which I would undo were I not certain that I should make it still worse. Oh! this love! this love! I have always foreseen it, I have always said it would be fatal to me; it always has been fatal to every artist. Today, whilst you were paying your visit, I glanced into Ferdinanda’s studio. She is working at a Bacchante—in her present mood! but there is genius in it, only it is carried to madness, to absolute caricature. That is what she has got by it, that glorious creature! Uncle Ernst is all right again. He has allowed himself to be elected delegate of the city, because he has not got enough to do, and next year will have himself elected to the Chamber of Deputies and the Imperial Diet, and will stupefy himself with work, which is at any rate more wholesome than wine. But poor, poor Ferdinanda! I think, Reinhold, you must get in.”

The platform had meanwhile filled with travellers, some of whom hurried into the opened carriages, or after taking possession of their places, stood chatting at the doors. Amongst the latter was a party of young men in shooting dress, whom the two friends had just passed.

“I don’t think he will come,” said one of them, in whom Reinhold thought he recognised Herr von Tettritz.

“Seems so,” said another—Herr von Wartenberg, as Reinhold, turning his head, convinced himself.

From the door of the waiting-room hastily appeared a gentleman, also in shooting-dress, followed by a soldier-servant carrying the game bag and gun over his shoulder. It was Ottomar.

And Ottomar, for all his haste, had at once recognised the two friends. They saw how he started, and then, as if he had remarked nothing, passed on, but suddenly turned round.

“I am not mistaken. Good evening, gentlemen. You are coming with us?”

“I am,” said Reinhold, “to Sundin.”

“Ah! I heard as much from my sister, who, I think, had it from Fräulein von Strummin, and also at Wallbach’s, from whom I have just come. You have got the post; I congratulate. Sorry I was not at home this morning. Parade, barracks—nonsense! You may be thankful that you have nothing more to do with such stuff. I envy you, by Jove! It’s shameful that we have seen so little of each other lately. It’s a little your fault too; you might have let yourself be seen again. I shall heap coals of fire on your head, and visit you at Wissow—next spring. Golm has invited me to shoot snipe—best in all Germany, so he says, and I believe him—for once. My sister will very likely come earlier—to Warnow; perhaps Fräulein von Wallbach also. My aunt Valerie, who finds this place too noisy, has invited both the young ladies. Au revoir, then, or will you—but that will not do—we are already six. We are only going as far as Schönau, a property belonging to an uncle of the Captain’s. Au revoir, then. I will soon pay you a visit too, if you will allow me—it was delightful in your studio. I must also see Fräulein von Strummin; I hear she is wonderfully—”

“Take your seats, gentlemen!” said the guard.

“Werben, Werben!”

“Coming! Goodbye, goodbye!”

Ottomar shook hands with the friends in passing, and hurried to his clamouring companions.

“Does he know?” asked Justus.

“No—by-and-by, perhaps; it is, for the present, a strict secret between Elsa and me. I shall write to the General from Wissow.”

“It is better so,” said Justus.

Reinhold did not answer. The evening of his arrival stood out suddenly, with all its details, in his memory. How eagerly Ottomar had then sought his friendship, how heartily Uncle Ernst had received him, how Ferdinanda herself had welcomed him! And now! It was not his fault—that was at least a consolation.

“Here is an empty carriage,” said Justus.

“Farewell, my dear Justus! Say goodbye again to Cilli for me, and Herr Kreisel, and tell him not to trust in the Sundin-Wissow; and hearty thanks for your friendship and affection.”

“Not a word more, or—I am desperately sentimental today. This love—this horrible—”

Justus smothered the rest of his blasphemy in a mighty embrace, pulled his broad-brimmed hat over his eyes, and rushed away.

“Good fellow!” said Reinhold to himself, as he arranged his goods in the carriage. “I never should have credited him with it. Strange! What has restored to me courage, and the old feeling of security, has robbed him of his ready creative power and his cheery humour. And yet the impediments which lie in his way are child’s-play compared to those that surround us. God grant he may soon smile again! Cilli is right—he cannot live without sunshine.”

Reinhold had seated himself. The signal for starting had already been given, when the door was again thrown open, and a gentleman was hastily bundled in by the guard.

“Here, please, I have no more empty carriages. Your ticket at the next station!”

The guard shut the door.

“Good evening, President; allow me,” said Reinhold, taking the President’s great travelling-bag and putting it in the net.

“Good gracious! is it you?” cried the President. “Where are you going?”

“I would not fail to present myself before you in Sundin on the 1st of December, according to your orders,” answered Reinhold, rather surprised.

“Yes, yes, of course!” said the President. “Pardon me—such a stupid question! I am so worried, so perplexed—once more, forgive me!” And he stretched out his hand to Reinhold with his accustomed gracious friendliness.

“It is quite unnecessary, President,” said Reinhold; “I know that you are busied about more important things and men.”

“Yes, yes, more important things,” said the President—“evil things! And the men—these men, these men—pray sit opposite to me! One can talk so much better, and I am very glad to see an honest face again.”

The President wrapped his rug round his knees. His fine, clever face looked pale and worn, and the touch of quiet irony and sarcastic humour which Reinhold had noticed at their first meeting had altogether failed him.

“I have been four days in Berlin,” said the President, “and should certainly have begged you to come and see me, only, to confess the truth, I have been skulking about like a criminal with the police after him, so as not to be seen by any respectable men, if I could avoid it. Perhaps you know what took me to Berlin?”

“The papers, President—”

“Yes, yes, the papers. Unfortunately there is no longer any decent obscurity. Everything will come out, and if it were only confined to the truth!—but unfortunately it is generally neither the whole truth, nor even the half. What falsehoods have not people—that is to say, the gentlemen concerned in the matter—told about me! I was concerning myself actively in the existence of the railroad, working for it, dinning into the Minister’s ears that the concession must be granted—I, who have fought against it from the first, and warned the Minister most strenuously against it! Then, as that would not do, they attacked me from the other side. I had been an opponent, a determined opponent—I had been convinced at last—Saul had become Paul. That sounded more probable, but not probable enough. I was not convinced—I was simply bought. That was believed at once—it spoke for itself. A President, with his few thousand thalers salary, notoriously devoid of private fortune, the father of six children—how could he withstand such inducements! It is a shame and disgrace that it was believed, as it will be believed tomorrow, that there was not enough offered! The crafty fellow knows only too well what he is worth; he will quietly bide his time, watch for his opportunity, and feather his nest well! That is the worst, you see. Confidence, is shaken in the honour and integrity of our officials. It is the beginning of the end for me—the threatening cloud which foreshadows a future which I pray God I may never live to see!”

The President tugged here and there at his rug which he was generally so careful to keep smooth, unfastened his kid gloves which he had just buttoned, and drew them off his trembling hands. Reinhold himself was moved by the intense emotion of a man usually so cautious and so shrouded in diplomatic mists.

“It would be presumption in me,” he said, “if I ventured to contradict a man of your great experience and judgment. Nevertheless I cannot refrain from suggesting that, just because the case concerns you so nearly, you may perhaps see it in too black a light.”

“May be, may be!” said the President, “but this is no isolated case; there are others which unfortunately speak on my side, where high officials have succumbed to the temptation put before them. And then—”

He was silent for a few minutes, and then continued even more excitedly:

“If the higher powers only had tact, I say—only tact not to strengthen this most dangerous, and I confess exaggerated, tendency of the public mind to suspicion and distrust. But you will feel it painfully—the slightest acquaintance was sufficient to make one honour and respect the man—General von Werben—”

“I know, President,” said Reinhold, as the President again became silent; “and my acquaintance with that excellent man has not been a transient one.”

“Well then, what do you say to this?” cried the President. “Differences have existed between him and the Minister, I know; differences which must have been settled by a superior authority. It is difficult, it is almost impossible to work with anyone who is determined not to act in concert. One must give way, and of course the inferior; but just at this time that should have been avoided. It will throw fresh oil into the fire, as if it did not burn fiercely enough already, as if matters had not already been made easy enough for these promoters! They will laugh in their sleeves: ‘Do you see that? do you hear that? We had just intended, modest as we are, to take our shares into the market tomorrow at 75; but now we ask 80—85! Paper that can send a General von Werben flying, cannot be difficult to float!’

“You will see, my dear sir, they will trumpet it in all the papers, and—even if it is all false—if the General’s position were untenable, the mob goes by outward appearance, judges by outward appearance, and—outward appearance is against us.”

The rug slipped from his knees, but he never seemed to observe it.

“And if that were all! But we, of whom our illustrious sovereign has so rightly said that we are appointed by fate to eat our bread in the sweat of our brow, we begin to desire to live for show, for glittering useless show. Take this railway business; it is all show whichever way you look at it—good high roads, decent communal roads are all that we need for the moderate requirements of our island, which the prospectus boastfully calls the ‘granary of Germany.’ Show is the security upon the ground of which alone the concession can be obtained; I know that they could not raise even the few hundred thousand thalers. The subscriptions according to rule from ‘good and substantial houses,’ are show—shameful show; the only real subscription is from Prince Prora, through whose territory nearly a third of the railway passes; the other ten million are from Count Golm, and Co.—and not one thaler is paid up, or ever will be paid. So it goes on, so it must go on. You can’t gather figs from thistles, and as to what is to be expected from that magnificent harbour which is to crown the whole, well, you know all about that as well as or better than I do.”

The President stood up and went to the window, through which the lights of the town were already disappearing. Then he came back to his place and said as he leant over towards Reinhold, in an almost mysterious voice:

“Do you remember a conversation on the evening when I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance at the Count’s table at Golmberg? I have so often thought of it lately. Your storm—I hope to God it may not come—but if it comes as you have prophesied, I should take it for a parable of what is hanging over us. Yes! for a sign from heaven! to awaken us, to startle us out of our criminal intoxication, out of our empty, visionary life, to withdraw the glittering show from our eyes, to show us, as Fichte says, ‘that which is.’ Ah! where is the hand which would now write us ‘Speeches to the German nation?’ I would bless that hand. Instead of it our philosophers prate about the intellect, which is meant for nothing but to lead the will into absurdities, and to crush and destroy all joy and cheerfulness which is yet the mother of all virtues; and our poets are disciples of the French school, and learn how to be frivolous and disreputable to the heart’s core without offending external proprieties, or wander, poor creatures, with their beggar’s staves in the ruins of the age, and try to make us believe that the clouds of dust that they raise are creatures of flesh and blood; and our composers show forth the blasé impudence, the shameless sensuality of the age in music which fairly bewilders the moral and aesthetic feelings of the great and small world, or heats the fevered blood to madness.

“It cannot remain so. It is impossible; a nation cannot continue to dance before the golden calf and sacrifice to Moloch. Either it will be overwhelmed in the flood of its sins, or it must cling to the saving Ararat of honest, manly, and middle-class virtue. God grant that our people may have strength for the latter. There are times when I despair of it.”

The President leant back and closed his eyes. Did he wish to break off the conversation? Was he too much exhausted to pursue it further? At any rate, Reinhold did not venture to express the thoughts with which his heart was full. Each sat silent in his corner. The last lights of the town had long disappeared. Over the broad, dark plain, through which the train rushed, lay a light covering of snow, from which the woods rose up gloomily. Above, in the darkening sky, sparkled and shone, in countless numbers, the eternal stars.

Reinhold’s eyes were gazing upwards. How often had he so gazed from the deck of his ship on stormy winter nights with an anxious, fearful heart! And his heart had again beat high with courage, if only one of the loved and trusted lights illuminated his lonely path. And now, when they all beamed upon him, those silver stars—and greater, mightier than all, the star of his love—now, should he lose courage? Never! The storm might come—it would find him ready; it would find him at his post.

Book
V

I

Dinner had been over an hour at Castle Warnow. Frau von Wallbach, Elsa, and Count Golm, who had been invited to dinner, were sitting in the drawing-room round the hearth, on which but a small fire was burning. Although only just the end of February, the day had been wonderfully sultry. François even had to open the window, and it was not to be wondered at that the Baroness should have been seized with one of her bad headaches at dinner, and directly they got up from the table should have begged leave to withdraw. Carla had gone to put on her habit, not wishing to lose the opportunity of riding once more, escorted by several gentlemen. Herr von Strummin, who had paid a neighbourly morning visit and remained to the early country dinner, now wished, or was obliged, to return home, and had gone to see after the horses. Count Golm, who had really intended to spend the evening at Warnow, now thought it would be better, in consideration of the Baroness’s indisposition, to return to Golm after the ride without again dismounting, and at once took leave of the ladies.

He had hoped that Elsa, to whom he had addressed himself, would have protested, at least with some polite phrase, which he might have accepted as genuine.

But Elsa was silent, and Frau von Wallbach with difficulty concealed a fit of yawning, as she leaned back in her armchair, and with her hand before her mouth, seemed to be making a minute inspection of the ceiling.

The Count bit his lip.

“I am afraid we have not been very lively company for the ladies,” he said. “Strummin was really unbearable. I believe he drank three bottles to his own share, and spoke about as many words. I think such silence must be catching, or is it in the air? It is really just like May, when the first thunderstorms come. What a pity that Captain Schmidt did not accept your aunt’s invitation, Fräulein Elsa! he might, perhaps, have told us the meaning of this wonderfully sultry state of the atmosphere. I wonder why he did not come?”

The Count seldom missed an opportunity of reflecting upon Reinhold in what he imagined to be a peculiarly sarcastic and witty manner. It could only be the consequence of the blind hatred with which, from the first he had honoured him.

Reinhold had once visited Warnow during the last week, and that for an hour only. They had certainly never given anyone the slightest indication by which a clue could be found to the nature of their mutual relations, yet the Count’s last remark sent the blood up into Elsa’s cheek.

“Captain Schmidt only expressed his regret that he had no time to avail himself of our invitation today,” she said.

“I should like to know what a man like that has to do,” returned the Count. “He does not, so far as I know, manage the boat himself, but looks on comfortably from the shore. A mere sinecure, it seems to me.”

“Perhaps you do not clearly understand the duties and cares of a man in such a position, Count Golm?”

“Very likely. For instance, I cannot understand why it is his duty, or why he gives himself the trouble to interfere in the strangest and most perverse way with my harbour works. Amongst other things, I know it for a fact that we owe to his suggestion, or rather his denunciation—”

“Forgive me for interrupting you,” said Elsa; “the gentleman of whom you are speaking possesses the regard, I may say the affection, of my father; he is my—friend, received by my aunt at Warnow. I do not think it right to allow him to be cried down here—in his absence.”

“But,” cried the Count, “you completely misunderstand me. I had not the slightest intention of maligning that gentleman. I call it a denunciation, because—”

“Perhaps you will be so kind as to take some opportunity of mentioning the matter before him; I am certain that he will give you a satisfactory answer. Dear Louisa, will you excuse my going to see after my aunt? she may want me.”

Elsa bent over Frau von Wallbach’s chair, then, drawing herself up, made the Count a civil but cold bow, and left the drawing-room.

“This is too much!” said the Count, looking after her; “what do you think of that, Frau von Wallbach? To make such a fuss about this man, who cavils at everything. Just imagine that he may manage to bring matters to such a pass, that we shall not dare to demolish the dunes on the left of Ahlbeck, in spite of the position being absolutely necessary to us as a depot for our materials! He asserts that the dunes are a protection for the whole coast. Just fancy! Sixty feet of beach at the narrowest part, and then to talk of protecting the coast! Absurd! And our dear President of course—”

“My dear Count,” said Frau von Wallbach, turning her head towards the Count, “what does it all matter to me?”

“Pardon me, my dear lady,” said the Count; “I thought—”

“And I am already bored to death,” exclaimed Frau von Wallbach; “good gracious, how bored I am! This week—oh! this week! If I could only write to Wallbach to come and fetch me back!”

“We should miss you dreadfully,” said the Count.

“I think you would get on very well without me,” said Frau von Wallbach; “and besides, my dear Count, this cannot go on any longer. Either you must make up your minds, or you must give it up. Do you think Elsa is blind?”

“Bah!” said the Count, “Fräulein Elsa has got her interesting Superintendent of Pilots!”

“Yes,” said Frau von Wallbach; “you are always talking about that; but I have lately watched them both closely, and I tell you it is nonsense.”

“I have it on the best authority.”

“From Signor Giraldi, of course; he knows everything! And yet it was Signor Giraldi who originally interested himself in your engagement to Elsa. I cannot understand it. It is such a bore to be groping in the dark like this.”

The Count, for whom there were also many obscure points in this delicate affair, thought it high time to break off the conversation.

“I think the horses must have been brought round,” he said, rising and kissing Frau von Wallbach’s hand; “excuse me for today; tomorrow, if you will permit it, I will call again. I want to show Fräulein Carla the harbour works. She interests herself very much about them. I hope that you will be of the party. Au revoir!”

He hurried away without waiting for the lady’s answer.

As he passed hastily through the anteroom, from which doors opened on all sides, Carla came towards him, holding her whip in one hand and in the other her hat and gloves.

“Your sister-in-law is still in the drawing-room,” he said out loud.

“Thank you,” replied Carla equally distinctly.

He made her a sign with hand and eye.

“Have you examined this charming old painting yet?”

“Which one!”

“This one, here! look!”

They had moved so far on one side that they could not well be seen from the drawing-room, of which the portières were open.

“One only,” whispered the Count.

“You are mad!”

“The first—and last today.”

She put up her lips to him.

“Angel!”

“Really charming!” said Carla out loud; and then in a whisper, “For heaven’s sake, go away!”

She vanished into the drawing-room, and the Count rushed into the corridor. Neither had remarked, their whole attention being directed to the drawing-room, that at the moment when their lips met the portière of a second door, which led to the inner apartments, was lifted, and as quickly dropped again.

“Is Elsa gone?” asked Carla. “I wanted to say goodbye to her.”

Frau von Wallbach turned her head so far as to be able to see Carla if necessary. “I have spoken to him.”

“What did you say?” asked Carla eagerly.

“That it is too boring here, and I cannot stand it any longer.”

“That was all?”

“It was enough for me. You must manage for yourself.”

“But Edward himself thinks your presence necessary here.”

“Your brother cannot expect that I should bore myself to death for you.”

Carla shrugged her shoulders. “You will be in a better temper tomorrow. Goodbye!”

“I go tomorrow, you may depend upon that.”

To hear a decided resolution from her sister-in-law was something so extraordinary, that Carla, who was already at the door, turned round again. “But, Louisa—”

“Well, I do not see it at all,” said Frau von Wallbach. “Elsa is always amiable to me, much more so than you are. I was really sorry for the Baroness today, to see the trouble she took without receiving the slightest thanks from you, and I am sorry for poor Ottomar. Whatever he may be, he does not show me that he thinks me a fool, as you do, and I do not think it seemly that behind his aunt’s back in her own house—”

“Warnow has long belonged to the Count,” said Carla.

“It is all the same. We are staying here with the Baroness, and not with the Count. If you wish to stay with the Count, marry him—for all I care. But I think you would be sorry if you gave up Ottomar, and I do not see how it would be possible now. However, do as you please—I go!”

The unheard-of obstinacy of her sister-in-law began to make Carla really uneasy. She laid her things down on a chair, knelt by Louisa’s side, and as she held and stroked her hand, said in a soft coaxing voice, “My sweet pet will never hurt me so. She will not leave poor Carla in her need. Ottomar is too bad. I know now, from Giraldi, why he proposed to me, because he was refused by Ferdinanda Schmidt, and he is still madly in love with her, and is making use of his former mistress to win her back. And Giraldi says that he has so many debts that his whole inheritance would not pay them, even if Elsa—and Giraldi knows everything, everything, I tell you—married that man; and you yourself would hardly wish to have the wife of a Superintendent of Pilots for a sister-in-law—would you, my sweet pet!”

“That is all nonsense,” said Frau von Wallbach, with a feeble and fruitless attempt to draw her hand away from Carla’s. “You never had scruples about Ottomar’s mistresses formerly. I am certain that the Count also has his mistresses—all men have; and the same with regard to his debts. The Count has certainly as many—and perhaps more.”

“But not such bad ones,” said Carla hastily. “He has terrible debts, Giraldi says.”

“The fact is,” said Frau von Wallbach, “you are over head and ears in love with the Count.”

“And if I say yes, will my sweetest Louisa remain here?” whispered Carla, suddenly throwing her arms round her sister-in-law and laying her head on her shoulder.

“You will see, no good will come of it.”

François looked into the room. “I beg pardon, but the Count has sent to ask if mademoiselle—”

“I am coming,” cried Carla, stretching out her hand for her hat. “You will, will you not, sweet pet?—please fasten the elastic of my hat behind—you will remain! Thanks! Adieu, sweet pet!”

She once more embraced her sister-in-law, took her gloves from the chair, and hastened away, her skirt trailing far behind her.

“If it were only not such a bore!” said Frau von Wallbach, sinking back in her chair.

When the Count came down, the horses had just been brought round. Herr von Strummin was sitting on a bench which encircled the trunk of a wide-spreading lime-tree, and playing with the point of his riding-whip in the fine gravel.

“You have come at last?” he said, looking up angrily.

“Fräulein von Wallbach wishes to say goodbye again to the ladies,” said the Count, seating himself by the side of his friend, “and it is rather a long business. We shall still have some little time to wait.”

“So much the better,” said Herr von Strummin; “I have not for a long time had the pleasure of speaking to you for a minute alone. So, without any beating about the bush—I am very sorry, but I must have back my five thousand thalers.”

“I am very sorry too, my dear Strummin,” replied the Count, laughing, “because I cannot repay them.”

“Cannot repay me!” exclaimed Herr von Strummin, as the colour grew still deeper in his red face. “But you told me that I could count upon it at any time.”

“Because I naturally supposed that you would not choose just the most unsuitable time. You know that I must pay off that mortgage tomorrow.”

“Why did you give notice to pay it off? It was most imprudent. I told you so from the first.”

“I wanted to save the interest; and if you can get back two million for one—in the meantime—of course—as things stand at present—”

“You may be thankful that the directors have postponed the date of payment of the second instalment, which was due tomorrow.”

“Certainly,” said the Count; “it is very kind of the gentlemen. I should have been in a terrible position; but it has not made my situation even now particularly pleasant. That confounded mortgage! My creditor is most disagreeably pressing; he says he must have the money back.”

“Perhaps it may now transpire who this creditor really is whom you make such a mystery about?”

“I have given my word of honour—”

“Then say nothing. It is all the same to me, moreover; and if you can pay half a million tomorrow to the gentleman in question, you can also raise my five thousand!”

“I do not know yet whether I shall be able to pay!” cried the Count impatiently—“Lübbener—Haselow and Co.—I could not stand Lübbener any longer—unlimited orders to sell; but if tomorrow our shares go down still further—they stood the day before yesterday at forty-five—”

“And yesterday at twenty-five!”

“Impossible!” cried the Count.

“Good heavens, man! have you never troubled yourself to inquire, then?”

“I—I—my letters lately—the presence of the ladies here—there are so many claims upon me—”

“So it seems,” replied Herr von Strummin, taking a letter out of his pocket. “I got my banker to write to me yesterday, as I saw what was impending, and have carried his letter about with me since this morning. I have already been over to Golm, too, to tell you of it.” He unfolded the letter: “ ‘Sundin-Wissows were offered freely today at thirty-five; no buyers. They then rose to forty-five on large purchases. When it became known, however, that Lübbener himself was the buyer, merely to keep up the price, they fell rapidly, and closed at twenty-five! Please telegraph distinct orders whether to sell at any price. A further fall is inevitable.’ There you have the whole affair.”

“It is certainly bad,” murmured the Count.

“And whom have we to thank for all this?” cried Herr von Strummin. “You—you only! You first led us into the affair, and promised all sorts of things, and then prudently left us in the dark until you had pocketed your profits as promoter. Then we fell further into the trap, and had to pay up heavily; and finally you throw half a million into the market, and bring down the value of our own shares. And I, like a fool, gave you the last penny I had; and instead of looking after your own affairs, as it was your bounden duty to do, you hang about here with the women, and—”

“I think that last clause has nothing to do with the matter,” said the Count, getting up.

“Nothing to do with it!” cried the other, also springing to his feet. “Very well! very well! ruin yourself if you please, but at least leave other people out of the game. And I tell you, that if by twelve o’clock the day after tomorrow my five thousand thalers, which I lent you on your word of honour, are not lying on my table at Strummin to the uttermost farthing—”

“For heaven’s sake do not speak so loud,” said the Count; “you shall have your money, although I am convinced that the great trousseau is only a pretext—”

“A pretext? a pretext?” cried Herr von Strummin, raising his rough voice if possible still louder; “pretext indeed! when Meta is herself gone this morning to Berlin, to—”

“This morning?” said the Count, with a jeering laugh; “excuse my remarking, mon cher, that was very imprudent of you! Our shares may rise again, and—the stonecutter will not run away.”

Herr von Strummin’s light blue eyes almost started out of his burning face. He became suddenly hoarse with passion.

“What, what, what!” he snarled. “A stonecutter? An artist! and a great artist, who every year makes his six to ten thousand—a stonecutter?”

“I only say it because you always call him so yourself.”

“I can call my son-in-law anything I choose, but if anyone else permits himself to do so, he shall eat his words as sure as I—”

“You gentlemen must certainly have grown very impatient,” said Carla, who came out of the door just at this moment.

“Not at all,” said the Count, turning on his heel and hastening towards her.

“Yes, very impatient!” cried Herr von Strummin, who had suddenly recovered his voice. “I was only waiting to take my leave; I must be at Strummin in half an hour. I hope the conversation will get on better without me; I have the honour—”

He snatched the reins of his great strong-boned black horse out of the groom’s hand, swung himself into the saddle, and sticking his spurs into the animal’s sides, galloped out of the courtyard.

“Good gracious!” whispered Carla, “what does it mean?”

“A little row,” said the Count, hiding the excitement into which the altercation had thrown him as well as he could under a forced smile; “nothing uncommon between old friends.”

“And the cause?”

“A last attempt, it seemed to me, to get a Count for a son-in-law, before accepting a sculptor.”

The Count had assisted Carla into her saddle, put the riding-whip into her hand, and was now arranging her skirt.

Carla bent towards him: “You bad man, I will give you a lecture on the way.”

“Pity it cannot be without a witness,” whispered the Count, with a look towards the groom, who was holding the reins of the other two horses.

“You are really too bad!”

“At your service,” said the Count out loud, and he stepped back and signed to the groom. He swung himself on to his horse, and started off with Carla, followed by the groom at a considerable distance. He had had some trouble in getting into his saddle.

II

Frau Feldner, Valerie’s old lady’s-maid, told Elsa that her lady was in a sound sleep, as was always the case with her after a violent attack of headache, and out of which she would hardly awake before evening. Elsa, who had herself suffered from the extraordinary sultriness of the day, and from the uncomfortable conversation at dinner, and was also put out and agitated by the scene with the Count, intended to employ the time in taking a walk; and thinking that Carla and the Count were already gone, was going, out of courtesy, to invite Frau von Wallbach to accompany her. Hat and shawl in hand, she was coming out of the Baroness’s rooms, and innocently lifting the portière of the anteroom, had become a very unwilling spectator of the little scene which took place between the Count and Carla. In her consternation she had let the curtain fall again, and without even thinking whether she had been observed or not, had hastily run downstairs, and now wandered round the garden trying to persuade herself that what she had seen was a mistake—her eyes had deceived her. It was not possible that Carla could have so far forgotten herself, that she could so shamefully deceive her brother. But the more determinately she tried to drive back and destroy the hateful picture, the more terribly distinctly it stood out in her mind.

It must be so! The link that should have united Ottomar and Carla was torn asunder forever, even if what she had just seen were only the sudden delirium of the moment. But how could that be, when she thought of Carla’s intense frivolity, which had often caused her such anxiety; and of the Count’s audacity, from which she had from the first instinctively shrunk, and of which he had even now given such proof; when she remembered the confidential whispering, the coquettish flirting, the many, many things which had taken place between the two in her very presence, and which had been so displeasing and offensive, but, above all, so incomprehensible to her, and of which she now found so terrible an explanation! What would Ottomar say? He must hear of it! What would he do? Perhaps exult that the chain which fettered him was broken—in good time! But that would not be like Ottomar. No man would take it patiently—and he! so sensitive, passionate, and violent, who had so often risked his life in a duel on the slightest provocation—a disagreeable word, a look—which gave him offence! But, on the other hand, had he really a right to feel himself offended? Had he really tried to retain Carla’s love, or even first to win it, as it was his duty to do, after he became engaged to her? Had he not neglected her in the eyes of the world? left her, unguarded and unsheltered, to throw herself into that roaring whirlpool of social life in which she had formerly moved with such fatal enjoyment, and in which she had gained such brilliant triumphs? If so, he would have no betrayed love, only wounded vanity to avenge—to risk his life for a thing in which he did not himself believe, only because in the eyes of society this sad comedy of errors needed a sanguinary end. Oh! this miserable slavery, in which she had once fancied herself happy and free, only because she had not learnt how a free heart beats, and for what a soul longs which that heart has set free, and which now spreads out its wings to soar away from all these wretched barriers of prejudice and illusion into the clear atmosphere of a noble and unselfish love! She could no longer bear to remain between the high, straight hedges and the interwoven branches of the beech-walk, in which here and there appeared stone gods and goddesses in odd and exaggerated attitudes, as if startled at the sight of one who could think and feel so differently to those who had their pride and joy in these quaint, old-fashioned splendours.

Away! away! to him she loved, if it might be, to seek shelter in his strong arms from this hollow, unreal world, to weep out upon his faithful breast her grief and indignation, to feel free in his presence from all this self-made sorrow, this foolish misery, and never, never again to leave him. And if this highest happiness were denied her, if she must return to the slavery of these intolerable circumstances—out into the open then, over the brown meadows, through the dark fields, to the white dunes which peeped out in the distance, to have one look at the sea—his beloved sea! Might it but bring her a greeting from her beloved, a waft of his breath to cool her hot brow, to refresh her burning eyes, were it only by a tear of unsatisfied longing!

Over the brown meadows and through the dark fields Elsa hurried, in the direction of a farm which lay before her at some distance, and which she must pass if she followed any further the sandy path, which looked as if it would take her quickest to her goal. The path led her ever nearer to the farm, and at last directly into it. Elsa did not like it; she would rather have met no one, since she dared not hope to meet him for whom she longed; but an attempt to get round the outside of the barn was frustrated by wet ground here and a hedge there. She must turn back or pass through the farm—a little, melancholy, quiet farm, a few tumbledown outbuildings, from which the dwelling-house was only to be distinguished by the windows—which looked dilapidated enough too—and by the two lime-trees, which in summer made a pleasant shade before the door, but whose bare, leafless branches now projected in a ghostly manner over the decayed thatched roof against the grey sky.

A tall, broad-shouldered man came out from a barn-door, followed by a little dog, who flew at the stranger, barking loudly. The man called the animal back. At the first sound of his voice, Elsa, to whom the whole scene had appeared wonderfully familiar, as if she must have seen it before, recognised the honest farmer who had so kindly sheltered her last autumn.

“Herr Pölitz!” she said, holding out her hand. “You have forgotten me.”

A look of joy came over the sunburnt face. “Come, this is good of you to pay us a visit!”

“You knew, then, that I was in Warnow?”

The farmer smiled in his melancholy way.

“How should the like of us not know such a thing? But that you should have remembered us! My wife will be so pleased.”

He went towards the house. Elsa was very sorry to spoil the pleasure of these worthy people, but she could not permit herself even so trifling an untruth. The farmer’s face clouded, as she explained, with some embarrassment, that during the week she had been at Warnow she had never been beyond the garden, and had not now intended any visit; in fact, that she had not known that these buildings, which she had often enough seen from her window across the fields, were Herr Pölitz’s farm. “But,” she added, “I should have come had I known, or as soon as I discovered it. For that I give you my word.”

“We could not have expected it,” answered the farmer; “but since you say so, I believe you. But will you not come in!” he added hesitatingly.

“Yes, for a minute, to speak to your wife and to see the children.”

“The children!”

As they now stood before the door, the farmer laid his brown hand on her arm, and said in a low voice:

“Don’t ask after little Carl. Since Christmas he has slept over there in the churchyard. It was a sorrowful Christmas. But in a few days, if God will, we shall again have two.”

He left Elsa no time to answer, but opened the low housedoor—how well Elsa remembered the rattling bell!—called out to his wife, and showed his guest into the parlour on the left. As she went in, the figure of a woman rose up from a stool near the stove, whom Elsa in the dusk, which already prevailed in the room, with its small, dull windows, took for Frau Pölitz, but on coming nearer, saw that it was a young and pretty, but pale and sickly-looking girl. She greeted her in a shy and embarrassed manner, and went away without speaking a word.

“A sister of mine,” said the farmer, answering Elsa’s look, in a low voice and turning away his head. “Will you not sit down? If you will allow me, I will go myself and look for my wife.”

He went out. Elsa would have preferred to follow him. The close atmosphere in the little, overheated room nearly took away her breath; and worse than the atmosphere was the sense of misery which was so palpable here, and spoke so distinctly in the farmer’s melancholy face, in the girl’s white cheeks, in everything on which her glance fell—even in the gloomy silence of the wretched farmyard and in the dilapidated house. Had she fled from the splendid misery of the castle only to find the same helpless sorrow in the little farmhouse! But at least it was not self-made suffering, so that it must awaken compassion, though it could not revolt the soul like what she had just experienced. How could she refuse these poor people the only thing they had asked of her—a tender word of compassion?

The farmer came in with his wife. He had already told her all—that the young lady could only say a word in passing today, but that in a few days she would come and spend a longer time with them. “Hardly in a few days,” said the farmer; “we are going to have bad weather. I must even urge the young lady not to remain too long; it may break up this evening.”

He had been standing at the window, and now left the room, murmuring a few words of apology, of which Elsa only understood “roof” and “cover.”

“It is the roof of the barn,” explained his wife; “it is so rotten he has had to take down one corner, and must now cover it over as well as he can, that the storm may not carry away the rest. To be sure it may be all one to him. We must leave at Easter anyhow.”

“How is that?” asked Elsa.

“Our lease is not renewed,” answered the woman; “and no new farmer is coming either. Everything here is to be pulled down and a big hotel built, so they say. God knows what will become of us!”

The poor woman, who looked even paler and more worn in her present condition than in the autumn, sighed deeply. Elsa tried to comfort her with words of sympathy. “It would be easy for a man like Herr Pölitz to find something else, and if capital was wanting to rent a new, and perhaps larger and better farm, some means would be devised for that also. The great thing was, not to lose courage herself. She must think only of her husband, who took life hardly enough as it was, and whose strength would be paralysed if she lost heart. She must think of the child that remained to her, and of the other that was coming, and everything would come right.”

The woman smiled through her tears.

“Ah!” she said, “what a comfort it is to hear such words from kind people! It does not last long, but for the moment one feels lighter; and that is a great deal when one’s heart is so heavy. That is what I always say to the Captain. He is just like you.”

A thrill of joy passed through Elsa. Reinhold had been here! He had also sought the place to which her thoughts had so often returned.

“He has often been here already,” said Frau Pölitz; “only the day before yesterday he came on foot; but generally he goes in his boat to Ahlbeck.”

“How far is it to Wissow?” asked Elsa.

“About four or five miles if you go right over Wissow Head; three miles to the Head, and half as much down to Wissow. You can see it there from the top. It is very fine up there on a summer’s day. We used to go there very often formerly, but we never go now.”

The pale girl here came in, took a key from a shelf near the door, and went out again immediately.

“Your sister-in-law is here to nurse you?” said Elsa. “The poor girl seems rather to need nursing herself.”

“Yes, God knows?” said Frau Pölitz. She pulled at her apron with an embarrassed look and drew nearer to Elsa on the little sofa, and went on in a low voice, “I ought not to talk about it, but you are so kind and good, and it lies so terribly heavy on my mind. If you would—”

“If your husband has forbidden you to speak, you had better not tell me.”

The woman shook her head.

“No, no, not that; he does not know—at least I hope not, although since yesterday—perhaps it is as well—”

“Tell me then, it may calm you,” said Elsa, who was frightened at the woman’s evident excitement.

“Yes, yes; true,” said Frau Pölitz; “and you might also advise me as to what I shall do. Marie is—she has—if you look at me like that I cannot tell you—she has always been in all other respects a good, industrious, clever girl, only sometimes a little high-flown, poor thing. She was housekeeper over at Golm to the Count, for two years, although my husband never approved of it, as in a large house like that—you know well how it is—there are so many people, and in a bachelor’s establishment it is difficult to keep order and discipline. But she had good wages, and all went on well till last Michaelmas, when she suddenly gave warning, without saying a word to us, and went to Sundin, also as housekeeper, to the President’s. But that did not last long, and the President’s lady, who is a very good lady—may God reward her!—looked after her; and we knew nothing about it all until the poor infant died, in November. My husband was quite frantic, as he lays great store by his family, which has seen better days, and especially this sister, who had always been his pet. But what was to be done? What is done is done, and when at Christmas our little Carl died, and I could not well manage the household work, I wrote to the President’s lady and she sent her here to us, and wrote at the same time such a kind letter. I will show it to you next time you come. Marie has been a real help to me, and has cost us nothing. She has saved something, and the President’s lady also helped, and she has often offered me her little store. Of course I have never taken it, although I am convinced that it is honestly earned, and that he—the father—has never troubled himself about the poor thing. She told me that herself, but always added, ‘He knew nothing of it—nothing at all.’ But that is impossible to believe, even if we, my husband and I, had no suspicion as to who could be the father. The name should never pass her lips, the poor girl said. And even yesterday it never did so.” The woman paused for a few moments, as if to gather strength for what she still had to relate. Elsa’s heart beat with sympathy, and with a dull fear, which increased every moment, for which, however, she could not account. What possible reference could the poor girl’s story have to her! The woman had come quite close to her, and went on in a still lower voice: “Yesterday afternoon, just at this time, my husband was behind there at the barn, Marie was ironing, with the child in the room next the kitchen, where, if you remember, the window looks on to the garden, and I was here washing, when some riders came up to the farm—” Elsa’s heart gave a leap, and she involuntarily turned away from the woman. “Good heavens!” exclaimed the latter; “I trusted the Captain. He told me the day before yesterday that there was not a word of truth in the report about here that you were going to marry the Count. If it is true, I dare not say another word!”

“Thank God it is not the case,” said Elsa, by a strong effort overcoming her emotion. “The Count is then the man!”

Frau Pölitz nodded. “She cannot any longer deny it, and indeed she confessed as much to me, when I brought her to herself. They had dismounted and come into the house; the Count said that the young lady was unwell, and begged for a cup of coffee. May God forgive him, but it was certainly untrue, as the young lady was not the least unwell; on the contrary, did nothing but laugh, and they went through the house straight into the garden. A few old trees stand in it, and the hedges are also rather overgrown, so that it is quite sheltered; but Marie must have seen more than the poor girl could bear; and as I stood there by the stove she suddenly shrieked out, so that I thought she had let the heater of the iron fall on her foot, or that the child had hurt itself, and rushed in. There she lay on her back on the floor, and I thought she was dead, as she neither moved nor stirred, and was cold as ice and white as a sheet. You may easily imagine how frightened I was, and I may thank God that it was no worse. I called out, and Rike, our maidservant, came, and I sent her for my husband; and it was well I did so, for Marie came to herself, looked all round her with a bewildered, glassy stare, and then to the window, and asked timidly, ‘Is he still there?’ I knew then for certain, and begged her, for God’s sake, to keep silence before Carl, my husband. But since then he has been so odd; I am afraid he must have remarked something when he went into the garden to tell the Count that they must wait a little for the coffee and so forth. The Count would not hear anything more about the coffee, and the young lady told me how sorry she was. She had had no idea that we had an invalid in the house. Upon which my husband said, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, my sister is not an invalid, she has only just been taken ill;’ and he said it so strangely, with his eyes fixed as if some other thought were in his mind. What shall I do? Shall I tell him? What do you think?”

Frau Pölitz held both Elsa’s hands clasped in hers and looked anxiously into her eyes.

“I think—yes,” said Elsa. “You cannot keep it from him in the end, and a wife should have no secrets from her husband. It seems to me that all the evil in the world comes from our keeping and concealing from one another our most sacred feelings, as if we had reason to be ashamed of them; as if we did not live in them—only in them!”

She stood up and seized her hat and shawl from the round table.

“You are going already?” said Frau Pölitz sorrowfully; “but indeed it is a long way to Warnow.”

“I have much farther to go,” said Elsa, putting on her hat. “Three miles, did you say?”

“Where to?”

“To Wissow Head.” Frau Pölitz stared at Elsa, as if she were talking nonsense. “Yes,” said Elsa, “to the Head. I cannot miss the way?”

“A road goes from here straight through the marshes, but makes a great bend at Ahlbeck on account of the brook. But, my dear young lady, for heaven’s sake what do you want to go there for?”

Elsa had put on her shawl, and now grasped Frau Pölitz by both hands. “I will tell you. To have one look—one look only—at the place where the man I love lives. You need not look at me so anxiously, dear Frau Pölitz, He really lives at Wissow.”

“The Superintendent of Pilots?” exclaimed Frau Pölitz.

She sat down and burst into tears of joy.

“You also love him,” said Elsa with a proud smile.

“Oh! indeed I do,” cried Frau Pölitz, sobbing; “and oh! how happy my husband will be! May I tell him—”

“You may tell whom you will.”

“Oh! how pleased I am! You could not have given me greater pleasure than to tell me this. It makes me feel quite young again. Such a charming gentleman as he is, and such a dear, dear young lady! I feel sure that everything must go right now.”

She kissed Elsa’s hand again and again, with hot tears. Elsa gently disengaged herself. “I will tell you everything next time. Now I must go.”

“No,” said Frau Pölitz, standing up, “you must not walk such a long way; my husband shall drive you.”

“I am determined to walk,” said Elsa.

“You cannot be back before dark. It is already beginning to get dark, and we are certainly going to have bad weather.”

Elsa would allow no objection to weigh with her. She was a good walker and had eyes like a hawk. She feared neither the distance nor the darkness.

With that she once more shook Frau Pölitz’s hand, and the next minute had left room, and house, and farm, and was walking quickly through the fields along the road, of which the farmer’s wife had spoken, towards the headland, whose broad mass stood out from the wide plain.

III

It was three miles, Frau Pölitz had to Wissow Head, but it seemed to Elsa as if the long, winding road would never come to an end. And yet she walked so quickly, that the little empty wagon which at first was far ahead of her, was now as far behind. That wretched vehicle was the only sign of human life. Besides that, only the brown plain, like a desert waste, as far as her eye could reach. No large trees, only here and there a few stunted willows, and some wretched shrubs by the ditches which intersected each other here and there, and by the broad sluggish stream which she now crossed by means of a rickety and unprotected wooden bridge. The stream evidently flowed from the chain of hills on her right hand, at the foot of which Elsa could see far apart the buildings of Gristow and of Damerow, the two other properties belonging to Warnow.

Taking a long circuit, she gradually ascended to Wissow Head, which lay straight before her, whilst the plain to the left stretched without the smallest undulation to the low-lying dunes, which only showed white here and there over the edge of the moor. Only once, for a few minutes, a leaden-grey streak showed through a gap by which the brook made its way, which Elsa knew must be the sea, although she could scarcely distinguish it from the sky, for the sky above her was the same leaden colour too, only that towards the east, over the sea, it seemed somewhat darker than over the hills to the west, and in the leaden firmament hung here and there a solitary whitish speck like the smoke of gunpowder, which in the motionless air remained always in the same spot. Not the slightest breath was stirring, but from time to time a strange murmur passed across the waste, as if the brown moor was trying to rouse itself from its long slumber; and through the heavy, gloomy atmosphere there came a sound as of a soft, long-drawn-out, plaintive wail, and then again a deathlike stillness, in which Elsa seemed to hear the beating of her heart.

But more fearful almost than the stillness of this desert spot was the shrieking of a great flock of seagulls, which she had startled from one of the many hollows on the moors, and which now hovered hither and thither in the grey atmosphere, their pointed bills turned downwards, and followed her for a long time, as if in furious anger at this intruder upon their domain.

Nevertheless she walked on and on, quicker and quicker, following an impulse which she would allow no considerations of prudence to check, which was stronger even than the dread which earth and sky whispered to her with ghostlike breath, threatening and warning her with supernatural voices. And then came another more terrible fear. Far away in the distance, at the foot of the headland, which ever stood out more majestically before her, she had fancied she saw dark moving objects, and now that she approached nearer, she was convinced of it. Labourers—many hundred—who were working at an apparently endless embankment, which had already reached a considerable height.

She could not avoid crossing the embankment, even if she made a great circuit; she must pass through the long line of workmen. She did so with a courteous greeting to those who stood nearest to her. The men, who were already working lazily enough, let their barrows stand, and stared at her without returning her greeting. As she passed on, loud shouts and coarse laughter sounded behind her. Turning involuntarily, she saw that two of the number had followed her, and only stopped as she turned, perhaps also checked by the noise made by the others.

She continued on her way, almost running. There was now only a narrow path over the short withered grass and across the sandy tracts which alternated on the slope of the hill. Elsa said to herself that she should remain within sight of the men till she reached the top, and might at any time be followed by them. But if she turned back in the deepening twilight the men would perhaps have left off work; no overseer would be there to keep their rudeness in check, and there would be the whole endless plain as far as Warnow in which these rough men might bewilder, terrify, and insult her. Should she turn back at once, while it was yet time? beg for the escort of one of the overseers? or take refuge in the wagon which she had before overtaken, and which was now close to the workmen, or in another vehicle, which from the height on which she stood she could now see in the distance, and which must also have followed her, as there was no other road over the plain.

Whilst Elsa was thus deliberating with herself, she hastened, as if under a spell, with beating heart, up the incline, whose top stood out sharply in a straight line against the grey sky between her and the sea.

With every step the sea and the line of dunes stretched broader and farther to the left, and her gaze wandered out to where the vapour of the sea and sky mingled together, and over the beautifully curved line of the coast to the wooded heights of Golmberg, whose purple masses hung threateningly over.

Above the confused mass of crowded treetops rose the tower of the castle. Between Golmberg yonder and the height on which she stood was the brown plain over which she had passed—inhospitable as the sea itself, from which it was only divided by the yellow outline of the dunes. The only abode of mankind was the fishing hamlet of Ahlbeck, which, close to the foot of the promontory, now lay almost directly at her feet. There also, between the houses and the sea, on the broad strand, were long moving lines of workmen as far as the two piers, which, curving towards each other, ran out into the sea. At the piers were two or three large vessels, which seemed to be unloading, whilst a fleet of fishing-boats, all on the same course, were making for the shore. Though all the sails were set, yet the boats were really only moved by the oars. The uniform position of the brown sails and the monotonous movements of the oars, formed a curious contrast to the confused whirring of the white gulls, who, as before, circled incessantly above her head, between her and the shore.

She saw it all with her clear-sighted eyes, as a traveller on the railway mechanically observes the details of the landscape which the train rushes through, while his thoughts are at home, tasting the rapture which he will feel after his long separation from those he loves. And she, alas! dared not hope to look into the dear eyes, to hold the loved hands in hers, to hear the sound of that strong, yet gentle and kind voice. She only wanted to see the place where he lived.

And it seemed as if even that small consolation was to be denied to her. She had already wandered some way along the path on the top of the hill, without gaining the slightest glimpse of the other side, where Wissow must lie, only the sky looked leaden over the edge of the plateau. Perhaps she might see it if she followed the broader road that she had now reached, and that, coming from her right, led upwards along the side of the hill to a heap of immense logs, above which rose a huge signal-post, which must be erected on the topmost height of the headland, and probably also on its extreme edge.

And in fact, as she now climbed higher and higher, a pale streak appeared to her right—the shore of the mainland—and then again the leaden surface of the sea, on which here and there a sail was seen, and at last, immediately beneath her on this side, a white point of dune, which spread gradually like a wedge towards the headland, until it formed a little peninsula, in the centre of which lay a dozen or so of houses of various sizes between the white sands and the brown moor. That was Wissow! That must be Wissow!

And now, as she stood on the point which she had reached by the exertion of all her physical and moral powers, and however lovingly she stretched out her arms, felt that the object of her desires still lay so far off, so utterly beyond her reach—now for the first time she believed that she understood the dumb, terrifying voices of the solitude and loneliness around her, the whispering and rustling of the moor, the wailing spirit-voices in the air. Alone! alone!

Infinite sorrow welled up in her heart, her knees gave way, she sank down upon a stone near the logs, buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears like a helpless, lost child. She did not see that a man, who was leaning against the signal-post behind the logs, watching the sea, startled by the strange sound near him, stepped forward. She did not hear his steps as he hastened towards her over the short turf.

“Elsa!”

She sprang up with a half-stifled cry.

“Elsa!”

And again she cried out—a wild cry of joy, which rang strangely through the stillness, and she lay on his breast, clinging to him like a drowning woman.

“Reinhold! My Reinhold!”

She wept, she laughed, she cried again and again: “Reinhold, my Reinhold!”

Speechless with happiness and astonishment at the sweet surprise, he drew her down to him on the stone on which she had been sitting.

She leaned her head on his breast. “I have so longed for you.”

“Elsa, my darling Elsa!”

“I was forced to come, I could not help it; I was drawn here, as if by invisible hands. And now I have you! Oh! do not leave me again. Take me with you yonder to your home. My home is there with you. With you! Do not drive me out again into the desolate, false and loveless world which lies behind me. With you only is happiness, peace, joy, truth, fidelity! Oh! how your true loving heart beats, I feel it. It loves me as I love you. It has longed for me, as my poor, distracted heart has longed for you.”

“Yes, my Elsa, it has longed for you intensely, unspeakably. I came up here because it gave me no peace. I wanted to have one look only to where you were—one last look, before—”

“Before what—for heaven’s sake!”

He had led her the few steps to the logs, and now stood, with his arm round her, close to the edge of the hill, which sloped so precipitously down from its frowning brow, that they seemed to be hanging immediately over the grey sea in the grey sky.

“Look, Elsa! There comes the storm. I hear it, I see it, as if it were already let loose. It may be hours first, but it will come, it must come with terrible fury. Everything shows signs of it. That leaden sea below us will be tossed in wild waves, whose spray will be thrown up even to this height. Woe to the ships that are not already safe in harbour, and perhaps even there they are not secure from its wild fury. Woe to the low-lying lands beneath us. I meant to have written to you this morning, because I saw it coming even yesterday, and to tell you that you would do better to leave Warnow, but you would not have gone.”

“Never! I am so proud that you trust me, that you have told me this. And if the storm breaks, and I know that your dear life is in danger, I will be firm; or if I tremble I will not fear, only to myself I will say, ‘He could not do his duty, he could not be the brave true man whom I love, if he knew that I were weeping and wringing my hands, whilst he must guide and command as on that evening;’ do you remember? Do you know, my darling, that I loved you then! and do you remember you told me that I had the eyes of a sailor? Oh! how I remember every word, every look, and how pleased I was that I was not obliged to give you back the compass directly! I did not mean to keep it, I meant you to have it again.”

“You were more honest then than I was, my darling. I was determined not to give you back your glove. You had taken it off when you were looking through my telescope; it lay on the deck and I took it up. Since then it has never left me. See! it has been my talisman. We sailors are superstitious. I have sworn never to part with it, until instead of the glove, I hold your dear hand in mine forever.”

He kissed the little grey glove before he returned it to his breast-pocket. They had again seated themselves on the stone—softly whispering, caressing, jesting, in loving talk, heart to heart and lip to lip, forgetting, in the paradise of their young love, the desert which surrounded them, the darkness which was ever deepening, and the storm which was brooding in the leaden air, over the leaden sea, like the angel of destruction over a world which he hoped to annihilate forever, and to cast back into primeval chaos. A dull rumbling sound quivering in the distance attracted their attention; followed immediately by a sound of rushing through the air, without any motion that they could feel even at this height, and then again followed the deathlike stillness.

Reinhold sprang up.

“It comes quicker than I thought. We have not a moment to lose.”

“What are you going to do?”

“To take you back.”

“You cannot. You must be at your post. You did not come to Warnow this morning on account of it. How can you now absent yourself so far, when the danger is much nearer? No, no, my darling, do not look so anxiously at me. I must learn to live without fear, and I will. I am quite determined. From this moment there shall be no fear, even before the world. I cannot live any longer without you, and you cannot live without me. If I were still in ignorance—but now I know! And, believe me, my dear father will be the first to understand. He must have known already when he said to me, what he also wrote to you, ‘I leave your fate in your own hands.’ Ottomar and my aunt may share my inheritance; my proud father would have taken nothing from me, and you—you take me as I am, and lead me to your home forever. One more look at my paradise! One more kiss, and now farewell! farewell!”

She embraced him fervently, and then would have freed herself, but he held her hand fast.

“It is impossible, Elsa; it is already growing dark up here, and in half an hour below it will be night. You cannot be certain of keeping to the road, which can no longer be distinguished from the moor, and that is full of deep bogs. It is really impossible, Elsa.”

“It must be possible. I should despise myself if I kept you back from your duty; and how could you continue to love me, and not to look upon your love as a burden, if I did so? How do you know that you may not be wanted at the shortest notice? At this moment possibly the men may be standing helpless, and looking out for their leader. Reinhold, by your love! am I right or not?”

“You are indeed right, but—”

“No ‘but,’ my darling, we must part.” They were as they spoke hastening hand-in-hand along the path by which Elsa had before reached the top, and now stood on the cross way which led on one side to the Warnow moor, and on the other to Wissow.

“Only to the foot. Till I know you are on the right path,” said Reinhold.

“Not a step farther. Hark! What is that?”

He had also noticed it already—a sound as of horses’ feet, galloping on the hard turf behind the slope of the hill which rose before them and concealed from them any farther view of the other and more precipitous side. The next moment a rider appeared in sight over the hill. He had now reached the top, and pulling up his horse, rose in his saddle and appeared to be looking round him.

“It is the Count,” said Elsa.

A deep glow came into her face. “You must accompany me a little way now,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “Come.”

She took his arm. At that moment the Count, who had been looking above them, looked down, and saw the pair. He put spurs to his horse, and galloping down the slope, was with them in a trice. He had no doubt recognised Reinhold at once, for when he checked his horse and took off his hat, his countenance did not show the slightest trace of wonder or astonishment. He seemed in fact not to see Reinhold, as if he had met Elsa alone.

“This is good luck indeed. How delighted your aunt will be. She is waiting there; the carriage could not come any farther.”

He pointed with the handle of his whip over the slope of the hill.

“I assure you it is so, though you seem so astonished. Your aunt was very uneasy at your long absence—inquired in the neighbourhood—learnt from Pölitz that you had come here—a strange fancy, by Jove!—your aunt was determined to come herself—I had just returned with Fräulein von Wallbach, and begged to escort her—was beginning to despair. Awfully lucky! May I be allowed to accompany you to the carriage? it is not a hundred yards off.”

He had swung himself from his saddle, and held his horse by the bridle.

Reinhold looked straight into Elsa’s eyes. She understood and answered the look.

“We are much obliged to you, Count Golm,” he said, “but we will not trespass on your kindness one instant longer than is necessary. I will myself conduct my betrothed to the Baroness.”

“Ah!” said the Count.

He had pictured to himself beforehand the terrible embarrassment which, in his opinion, the two culprits would feel on becoming aware of his presence, and the shock that the Baroness would experience if he could tell her in what company he had had the happiness of meeting her niece. He took it for granted that on his arrival the fellow would take himself off to Wissow, with some embarrassed words of explanation. And now he could not believe his ears, and he could hardly trust his eyes, as Elsa and this fellow, turning their backs upon him, walked off arm-in-arm, as if he had not been there. With one spring he was again in his stirrups.

“Allow me at least to announce the joyful news to the Baroness!” he cried, as bowing sarcastically he galloped past and hastened up the hill, behind which he almost immediately disappeared.

“Wretch!” said Elsa; “thank you, Reinhold, for having understood me, for having freed me forever from him and all. You cannot imagine how thankful I am, nor why I am so thankful. I will not trouble your loving heart yet with the hateful things I have learned. I will tell you another time. Happen what will, I am yours, you are mine. That happiness is so great, everything else is in comparison small and insignificant.”

At a slight distance from them stood the open carriage, and beside it a horseman. They thought it was the Count, but on coming nearer they saw that it was a servant. The Count had vanished. As soon as he had imparted the great discovery, with a sneering laugh to the Baroness, receiving no other reply than, “I am obliged to you, Count, for your escort so far”—the two last words being pronounced with peculiar emphasis—he again took off his hat and rode away over the hill.

The Baroness got out of the carriage and came towards the lovers. Elsa dropped Reinhold’s arm and hastened towards her aunt. Her impetuous embrace told all that was necessary. As Reinhold stepped forward, the Baroness held out her hand to him, and said in an agitated voice, “You bring me my dear child—and yourself. I thank you doubly.”

Reinhold kissed the trembling hand. “There is no time to make speeches,” he said, “and your kind heart knows what I feel. God bless you!”

“And you also, my Reinhold,” cried Elsa, throwing her arms round him; “God bless you! Good luck and joy be with you!”

He had helped the ladies into the carriage, one more pressure of the loved hand, and the vehicle started off, preceded by the servant. In spite of the hilly nature of the ground, it was possible to go quickly, as the soil was firm and the road good, even up here on the top, and Reinhold had urged the utmost speed. Only a few minutes had passed, therefore, before the carriage disappeared behind the hill, and half an hour must elapse before it again came in sight on the plain. He had no time to wait for that. He dared not lose another moment. The beacons were already lighted below in Wissow. At that moment a light shone over the sea, it was the signal for a pilot. It would be instantly obeyed, he knew; but at any moment some new arrangements might be necessary which would require his presence. He would take a quarter of an hour to get there at his quickest pace. He sprang in great bounds down the hill, when a horseman rose up right before him out of a dip in the ground which lay in the direction of the hills to the right, and remained standing on the path. He appeared so suddenly that Reinhold nearly ran against the horse.

“You are in a great hurry now, it seems,” said the Count,

“I am in a great hurry,” answered Reinhold, breathless from his quick run, as he tried to pass the horse. The Count turned it round so that he now faced Reinhold.

“Make way!” cried Reinhold.

“I am on my own land,” answered the Count.

“The road is free!”

“And you are for freedom in all things!”

“Once more! Make way!”

“When it suits me.”

Reinhold seized the bridle, and the horse, struck sharply by the spurs on either side, reared up. Reinhold started back.

The next moment he had drawn a long dirk, which, sailor-like, was always at his side.

“I should be sorry for the horse,” he cried, “but if you will have it—”

“I only wished to say good evening to you, Captain; I forgot it before. Good evening.”

The Count took off his hat with a sneering laugh, turned his horse round again, and rode off down into the hollow out of which he had come.

“Such people never learn,” murmured Reinhold, as he put up his knife. It was a speech he had often heard from his uncle Ernst. His uncle Ernst, who must have felt as he now did, in the terrible moment when the sword descended upon him. Her father’s sword. Good God! is it really true that the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children? That this strife will last forever, from generation to generation? That we, who are blameless, must take it up against our will and our convictions?

A clap of thunder, still in the distance, but coming nearer, rolled through the heavy air, louder and more threatening than the last, followed again by a tremendous gust of wind, not this time in the upper strata of clouds, but already descending upon the heights and slopes, and wailing and groaning as it died away in the hollows. The next gust might strike the sea, and let loose the storm which would come up with the tide.

Another struggle was impending before which human malice would seem as child’s play, and human hatred an offence, and only one feeling would remain victorious—Love!

Reinhold felt this in the lowest depths of his heart, as he now tried to make up for the moments lost in so painfully trifling a way, and hastened down in spite of all to risk his life if necessary for the lives of other men.

IV

Few words passed between the ladies until they reached home. The aunt appeared to be suffering from extreme exhaustion that was increased by the rough drive over the bad road, which, as Reinhold had foretold, they could hardly distinguish from the heath in the rapidly approaching darkness; and to all this was added the oppressive sultriness of the thick damp atmosphere, in which even Elsa herself found breathing difficult. She also was silent though her heart was full, for she had thankfully perceived that, come what might, her aunt would be on her side. Had she not answered the announcement of Elsa’s engagement to Reinhold, startling as it must have been to her, unhesitatingly, with a warm embrace which was more eloquent than any words? And now she scarcely once let go her hand, or if she did so for a moment it was only to seize it again immediately as if she wished at least to assure her of her sympathy and love, though in her weakness she could do no more for her.

They reached the castle at last. The Baroness sank almost fainting into her maid’s arms, and was immediately conducted by her, with the help of Elsa, to her own apartments. “Thank you a thousand, thousand times,” said Elsa, as she wished her aunt good night.

She was the less inclined to look for Carla in the drawing-room where she would probably be, as she heard that Frau von Wallbach had already gone to her room—to read, as she always gave out herself—to sleep, as Carla maintained. The chattering lady’s-maid told Elsa, without waiting to be asked, that the Count had come there again shortly before their return, but only for a few minutes, and had brought Fräulein von Wallbach word that they would soon be back, probably with Captain Schmidt. The girl smiled as she uttered the last word, not so much but that she could have denied it if need were, but still just sufficiently to show the young lady that she knew more, and was quite ready, if asked, to place at her disposal her good advice and experience. The Count then had made good use of his time. Let him! for whatever reasons, whether out of hatred to Reinhold, out of jealousy (the ugly word was only too good in this case), out of miserable offended vanity, or only for the malicious satisfaction of himself and Carla, let him tell all Berlin tomorrow, as he had today told the inhabitants of the castle, what had happened. He would not certainly long have the pleasure of spreading about so precious a secret under the seal of mystery. The announcement of the engagement would soon enough break the seal, and could no longer be delayed. The post from Jasmund to Prora passed through Warnow at nine o’clock. There was just time. Elsa seated herself at the little table in the deep bow which was her favourite seat on account of the view from the window over the plain as far as the sea and Wissow Head, and wrote with flying pen a few heartfelt lines to her father. Neither she nor Reinhold had intended, since they were assured of each other’s love, to do otherwise than wait patiently for brighter and happier days. But after what had happened she must be careful; there must be no gossip connected with the name of her father’s daughter. No one could know that better, or feel it more deeply, than the dear kind father in whose righteous hands she now laid her righteous cause. She gave the letter into the care of an old and faithful servant, who, during the long absence of the owners, had been in charge of the castle, and now walked up and down her room in a strange, half-frightened, half-joyful, but wholly overpowering state of emotion. “Elsa von Werben—Reinhold Schmidt, Superintendent of Pilots. Betrothed. Berlin—Wissow.” A Superintendent of Pilots! How odd! What is it exactly?—and Wissow! Does anybody know where Wissow is?—Wissow, ladies and gentlemen, is a little sandy peninsula, with about twenty houses, not one of which is a quarter the size of the shooting-box at Golmberg, or of one of the outbuildings of the ancestral castle of Golm, whose courtyard gate you pass on the road from Prora to Warnow. How extraordinary! Really! But she always had extraordinary taste!—and how wise of the Count to draw back in time from so unseemly a competition. He is said to be otherwise an agreeable man. That is always said afterwards. An officer of the reserve too. À la bonne heure! In that case the General’s daughter could really no longer hesitate. And Elsa laughed and danced as she pictured to herself many well-known voices in this little concert, to which old Baroness Kniebreche beat time with her great black fan, but she started back as she skipped past the window, when a dazzling flash of lightning lit up the broad plain with a pale light, the Pölitz’s farm lying there as clearly as in broad daylight, and at the same moment a long rolling peal of thunder made the windows rattle. And then it seemed as if an earthquake shook the very foundations of the castle. The tiles rattled from the high roof, shutters clapped to, doors banged, whole windows must have been blown out, as the wind moaned and whistled and howled round the walls and gables and through the joints and crevices. Running, hurrying, and calling resounded through the castle; steps approached her door. It was her aunt’s elderly maid: “Would she come to her aunt? she was so dreadfully restless and excited, and it was impossible even for the young lady to think of sleep in such horrible weather.” Elsa was ready at once. She wanted to go to her aunt to thank her for her kind consideration, and to beg her for her sake on no account to deprive herself of the rest which, after such a trying day, was so necessary to her. She said as much to the maid, who only shook her head and answered nothing, but conducted Elsa in silence to her lady’s door.

Valerie came to meet Elsa at the door. Elsa was startled at the deadly-white, tear-stained face. She could only imagine that the shock of the tremendous thunderclap had increased her aunt’s malady to this pitch; she begged her to calm herself; to allow herself to be put to bed; she would remain with her—the whole night. Her aunt would take courage when she saw how courageous she herself was, who certainly had sufficient cause for anxiety.

She led the tottering, trembling woman to the sofa, and would have rung for her maid, but the other caught her hand convulsively, and pulled her down by her on the seat. “No, no,” she murmured, “not that; it is you I want; you must stay, but not because I am afraid of the storm—I fear something much worse than that.”

She sprang up and began walking up and down, wringing her hands, through the large room, which was but dimly lighted by a lamp on the table.

“I cannot bear it any longer. Now or never is the time. I must speak out—I must—I must.”

She suddenly threw herself at Elsa’s feet, as if struck down by the thunder which just then pealed above them, and clasped her knees.

“It has been my hope and consolation all this time, to confess to you, so pure, so good! To free myself from the thraldom in which my tyrant holds me. To make the highest, greatest sacrifice that I can make of the one bright spot in this dark world—your love!”

“You will not lose my love,” said Elsa, “whatever you may confide to me, that I swear to you!”

“Do not swear it; you cannot. See, I feel even now, how your dear hands tremble, how your whole body shakes, how you are struggling to keep calm, and as yet you have heard nothing.”

“How can I be calm when you are so terribly excited?” answered Elsa. “Look, aunt, I have long felt that something lies between you and me, something more than the unhappy family dissensions, so far as I know them—a secret which you have not ventured to tell me. I have often and often longed to beg you to tell me all, but have never had the courage to do so, though I have reproached myself for not having done it. But lately it has seemed to me that you have been more reserved towards me than at first, and that has made me still more anxious. And I also had a secret on my mind, and did not venture to confess my love to you, notwithstanding that every hour I spend with you only makes me more certain that you—you above all others—would be just in the position to set aside the prejudice with which even my dear father is surrounded. Shall I confess it to you? Your relations with—with Signor Giraldi, however much you must have suffered and still must suffer from them—have seemed to me on this account to be comforting and encouraging. Whether you approve of my love or not, you will at least understand it, will be able to sympathise with what you must once have felt yourself, that one may love a man for himself alone, because one sees in him the ideal of all that appears to oneself to be worth loving. And now chance, if it is not wrong to speak of chance here, has snatched my secret from me. Take courage! Have confidence. Tell me all. You say it is the right moment, and it certainly is so. It must not be let slip. And now, dear aunt, rise up, and if I really am, as you said the first moment we met and now repeat again—your guardian angel, let me prove it—let me prove that in the midst of the happiness of my love for the best and noblest of men, I have the strength to free you, to restore to you the peace and joy for which your soul pines.”

With gentle violence Elsa raised up her aunt, whose head had sunk upon her bosom, dried the tears on the lovely pale face, which seemed already somewhat calmer and more composed, threw her arms round her and made her lie down on the sofa, reseating herself on the stool by her side, after she had put the lamp out of the way on the console.

“I can only confess by the light of your dear eyes,” said Valerie. “From any other my secret would creep back into my heart.”

Outside the storm raged and thundered against the old castle, in long, unequal gusts, and whistled and howled round the walls, between the gables, as if wild with fury at meeting with resistance, and at this resistance defying its omnipotence.

“So will he rage,” said Valerie, shuddering, “when he comes tomorrow and demands his victim, and she does not and will not follow him, if he does his worst, even if he annihilates her.

“Yes, Elsa, he is coming tomorrow; I found the letter when we came in. The diabolical scheme is ripe, which is to be the destruction of you, Ottomar—all of you. I myself only partly know this scheme. Hard as his heart is, he has yet discovered that my heart has gone from him—how much, how entirely, he does not know, he does not even suspect, or she whom he once loved as well as he is capable of loving, and who so passionately loved him, would certainly no longer be alive. Yes, my dearest Elsa, I must begin with this terrible confession, or you would not understand the worse things that remain for me to tell. You would look upon me as the most degraded of our sex; even your loving heart could not absolve me—if indeed it ever can do so!

“I loved him with an infinite, unholy love, the fiend, who to this day entraps all who come under his pernicious influence, and whom you must have known in the beauty and lustre of his youth, to conceive how even good women found it hard to resist his fascinations.

“I was not absolutely bad, but neither was I good—not in my heart at least, which longed eagerly for fuller joy; nor was my imagination so pure as not to be allured and captivated by the world and its glory. I may have been so unhappily constituted by nature, or the frivolity and luxury of the court life to which I was so early introduced may have corrupted my young heart, I do not know, but so it was that my heart and imagination were alike undisciplined and uncontrolled. How otherwise could it have been that the bride, whose wedding was to take place in a few weeks, fell desperately in love in one moment with a man whom she saw for the first time, and against whom, moreover, even her dulled conscience warned her, and that, in spite of all and of the utter hopelessness of this passion which she could not tear from her heart and—shame and misery!—with this passion for a stranger in her heart, she stood with her betrothed, in God’s sight, before the altar, to plight him that troth which she had already broken in her heart, and which, indeed, she had already more than half resolved to break in reality.

“Do you shudder, my poor darling? I can tell you she had friends who would not have shuddered had they known! Yes, who knew it, and did not shudder, who, laughing, pointed to one who had already done so, and before whom no gentleman took off his hat the less respectfully, before whom the nobles of the land did not bow less low, and to whom learned men and artists did not the less render homage.

“Why should we not be allowed what was permitted to her? Were we less beautiful, less agreeable and clever? She borrowed from us the lustre which surrounded her. From whom did the fame of the Medician Court proceed, if not from us and such as we? So might we also allow ourselves the liberty, which she permitted herself behind the cloak she borrowed from us.

“And now occurred what I never for one moment believed possible, had never even thought of. My husband gave up his embassy, quitted the public service for good, and wished to live here on his property with me—to live for me. If the latter were not a mere form of words, it did not mean much at least to my mind. The fact is, he had, in his usual methodical way, made a regular programme for his whole life, and in it was laid down, that after he had served the State for a certain number of years he should marry and retire to his estates. He now intended to live for me as formerly for the State; fulfilling his duty with anxious care, without enthusiasm, without pleasure—marriage was to him a task which must be got over like any other.

“He had concluded and arranged everything before he confided it to me. I was horrified, rebellious, distracted, furious, and yet—dared not by look or word betray my feelings. There was only one faint consolation for me, that the mission on which Giraldi had been employed at our Court (our duchess was a Roman Catholic, you know) was ended, and he must at any rate return to Rome. We parted from each other with promises of eternal love, ‘Even if we never see each other again,’ I sobbed. ‘We shall meet again,’ said Giraldi, with that imperious smile that you know.

“I did not believe it. I was in despair. And with despair in my heart I arrived here.

“Was it really despair for the dreamed of happiness? Was it the soothing influence which the solemn neighbourhood of the sea, the melancholy solitude of the shore, exercised on my passionate heart? Was it that my better self was really getting the dominion at last? Little as I can say for myself, I may at least say this, that I took great pains to do my duty as the mistress of this house—the wealthy country lady. I tried even to love my husband, and there were moments when I thought I did love him. But only moments. I must admit that he was always and in all things a well-meaning man, who endeavoured to the utmost to act up to his favourite saying, ‘Give every man his due,’ so far as he understood it, and another woman would perhaps have been very happy with him. I was not, and could not be so. The profound difference between our characters could not be concealed, but seemed to show more clearly, the harder I tried to overcome it. He was extremely well-informed, I might even say learned, but with a want of sensibility which provoked me, and with a poverty of imagination which drove me to despair. Nothing was great, nothing was sublime to him. For him there was nothing heroic, nothing divine. I tried to enter into his prosaic view of the world, into his narrow-minded judgment of people and things. I was forced sometimes to admit that he was right, that the selfish motives which he discovered everywhere had in many cases played a part, had contributed to bring about this or that result. But what was there in this melancholy satisfaction of the intellect, in comparison with all the noble spiritual qualities which were thus left to lie fallow and perish miserably.

“I felt that I was deteriorating. That whatever blossoms my mind still bore, were withering as they came under the influence of this dry atmosphere in which he lived, in which he moved and spoke. I felt that in the dry sands of this unvarying commonplace life the roots of my mind were one after another dying down, that I began to hate this life, which was no life to me, I who had so loved life!—that I began to hate my husband, who imposed upon me this torturing existence in place of life.

“It could not last so. I had become a mere shadow of myself. The doctors shook their heads. Ah! if I had but died then. But I was still so young, I wanted to live. I swear to you, Elsa, that was all I wished for. In four such years of suffering one fancies one has learned to give up even the faintest glimmer and hope of happiness. Strange delusion! As if one could live without happiness; as if I could have done so, with the ardent, insatiable heart I had; as if I were not at that very time giving proof that I could not do it.

“But, truly, it is easy to see this on looking back, but when one looks forward, one does not see it.

“My husband naturally considered it his duty to follow the doctor’s advice, and to set off on a journey with his young wife. Let me be silent over the splendid misery of that journey. It brought change, diversion, but neither peace nor happiness; at the utmost, it deadened for a moment the wretchedness that reigned uninterruptedly in my innermost heart, greatly as the young wife in her renovated beauty was admired in the society of all the Courts which we visited. I may boast that I victoriously withstood all the temptations with which I was surrounded; and yet not altogether. For if I did so—if I remained cold in presence of the passionate feelings which I roused in other hearts—if I was not touched by the love with which I inspired men whose worth I well knew, it was not conviction of the sacredness of marriage that guarded me; it was not pride; it was, although I knew it not, a deep, bitter grudge against fate which had denied me my happiness—that happiness of which I had dreamed. It was, in a word, the recollection of that great passion which filled my soul in my dreams at night, so that I saw my daily waking life only through its magic veil—the love which, unknown to myself, still filled my heart, like the aroma of attar of roses, which long after it is gone scents the crystal phial which it once filled.

“I discovered this when it was too late—when I had seen him again. It was not my fault. I had learnt from an apparently unquestionable source that he had for some years held an important post in South America, and that he was at that moment in the far West, on the shores of the Pacific Ocean. A command from the Pope—or, as he said, his star—had brought him back. You will believe me, Elsa, that I speak the truth, that the agreement which it is said we made together was an invention; it is further said that I, whether by agreement or by chance, seized the cleverly-arranged or unhoped-for happiness with eager hands, and drank it down greedily.

“And I?

“I went that same evening on which we had met Giraldi at an entertainment at the French Ambassador’s to my husband, and told him that I wished to return home—the next day. He had given no reason when he threw up his post and brought me here into this solitude, and I thought I might also keep silence on the reasons which took me from Rome and the world into solitude. Neither did he inquire. He had already seen—had, like all the world, perceived the extraordinary charm which was even more remarkable in the man who had ripened to such splendid maturity under a tropical sun, than in the fascinating youth of former days; he probably remembered what kind friends then no doubt had told him, and what in his pride and self-confidence he had certainly not believed. And now this confidence was not broken; but it was shaken. The past years, so empty and joyless, stood out before his startled eyes in a strange and suspicious light. All I had suffered and been deprived of must have come before him. But it was still not too late, in his eyes. I wished to do my duty apparently by flying from temptation. He accepted silently what in his opinion was a matter of course. We left the next morning, and went home.

“And now commenced a dark and fearful drama which I shudder to look upon, even now that the entangled threads have become clear before my eyes. We had curiously changed our parts. Whilst I, proud of the victory I had obtained over myself, held my head up and took a melancholy pleasure in the renunciation to which I doomed myself, he suffered more and more from the disquietude which had until now possessed me; he was tortured by longings after a happiness which I had resigned. He had married me because I was young, handsome, and brilliant; perhaps had also fancied at the time that he loved me, after his fashion. Now he loved me for the first time with all the passion of which he was capable, and which must be the more fatal to him, that he, to whom a calm bearing had always been the ideal of a gentleman, was ashamed of his passion, and would certainly give no expression to it; and, what was worse than all, he must see, or fancy he saw, that he was too late in treading the path which led to my heart—which perhaps even now would have led to it. It is so hard for a woman to shut her heart against the charm which the knowledge that she is loved sheds around her. I saw how he suffered. I suffered terribly under it; for I held it to be impossible that I could ever return his sentiments; yet I suffered with him, and pity is so near akin to love! If children had played around us, perhaps everything would have happened differently, and I truly believe that their gracious influence at this stage of our affairs would have brought about a happier ending. But as it was, the reckoning was not between father and mother, but always between man and wife, and childless marriages are only too fruitful a source of sorrowful home tragedies. And yet all would have gone, if not well, at least better in time, which gradually buries so many raging flames under its embers, had not my husband been taken possession of by an unlucky thought, which became a fixed idea. What had appeared to him, so long as he had not loved me, as a piece of wisdom and diplomatic reserve—namely, our leaving Rome—now appeared to him in the light of a shameful flight, a miserable cowardice, which he could never forgive himself, which I could never forgive him, and which, infatuated as he was, he now held to be the principal—the only reason, indeed—that I remained cold to him, whilst he was consumed with love. He could not, as usual, find any soothing, explanatory words for the agitated condition of his heart.

“I should be in the dark now as to this portion of my unhappy history had I not learnt the real circumstances from letters of your father, which my husband on his second departure from Rome left in his desk, and which afterwards were found by Giraldi and shown to me. It appeared from these letters that my husband confided everything to his friend, and had begged his advice especially with respect to the fatal plan with which he deluded himself. Your father advised most strongly against it; not that he doubted that I should be victorious in the struggle to which I was to be exposed—a Werben would always, and in all circumstances, do her duty—but because he took the whole thing for a romance, that might do very well in a French play, but was altogether out of place in the realities of German life, and particularly in the case of a German nobleman and his wife. If we had not found happiness in our marriage, he certainly deplored it with all his heart; but he knew of no other remedy than the determination not to depart from the good and right course; and should this means prove unavailing, there was nothing for a man to do but to accept in all humility the fate which he had assuredly prepared for himself, and bear it with dignity as inevitable. We were not sent on earth to be happy, but to do our duty.

“Oh, Elsa! with what sensations did I at that time read this letter, which I took to be the perfect expression of a mind which had forgotten all human emotions in the formalities of the service, and which revolted me the more as I had clung to him who could so write with true sisterly love, and believed myself beloved by him as by a brother. What terrible experiences were needed before I understood what great though bitter wisdom, and how much true love, was in these words!

“A second journey to Rome was announced to me, like all these resolutions, in the most courteous manner, but with a tacit assumption of my assent. It was not my fault that I also had meanwhile learnt to conceal my feelings. In the company of taciturn people even sympathetic minds become silenced at last, and then forever. I saw beforehand what would happen—yes, I was determined that it should happen. I have not concealed from you the frivolous levity with which I approached the altar. The evil disposition of my young and half-corrupted heart had not been fulfilled. I had continued a better woman than I had believed myself—yes, I may say I had grown better in time. Now that all my honest efforts were fruitless, that I knew them to be slighted and misunderstood, that I saw fate insolently challenged by the man who should have been grateful to me for having preserved myself and him from it by such great sacrifices of my own heart—now I became worse than I had ever been—now I became truly bad. I scoffed in my inmost heart at the madman who strove to gather grapes from thorns; I secretly derided the vain fool who could imagine for a moment that he could prevail in the struggle with the noblest of mankind; I triumphed beforehand over his downfall.

“It is terrible to have to say all this to you; all the more terrible as it did not remain the mere fancy of a distorted imagination, but was all, all most horribly fulfilled.”

Valerie, who sat crouched up on the sofa, hid her face shuddering in her hands. A cold shiver ran through her slender form. Elsa would willingly have begged her to leave off for that day, but she felt that she could not take the bitter cup from the lips of the unhappy woman, to whom it gave one drop of comfort that a sympathising human eye should at last look down into the depths of her misery.

She comforted her with tender words, gave her a glass of water, which the exhausted woman hastily drank with feverish lips, and then again seized Elsa’s hand, which she had all along held tightly in hers, and went on with her sorrowful confession, whilst the storm howled without like a band of demons whose victim was trying to escape them from the gates of hell.

“Alas that I cannot relate further without offending your pure ears, as I have already troubled your pure mind. But it must be. What is bad cannot be expressed in good words; and from the moment when I again touched Rome’s venerable soil everything in my life was for long, endless years soiled and tainted, until at last I looked almost with envy upon the poor women in the streets. I was in the hands of one who seemed to have risen from the bottomless pit to destroy both body and soul. And yet it was years and years before this knowledge began to dawn upon me; years before the abhorrence grew into secret rebellion, and if this rebellion expresses itself in action, as I hope and pray to God it may, it is you, you only, I have to thank. I owe it to the new life that I have drunk from your loving looks, to the courage with which your strong, noble love has inspired me, which without neglecting one single duty, has looked steadfastly through all impediments to its one lofty star. I owe it to my longing to win your love, to be worthy of it as far as lies within my power, as far as the deepest repentance may expiate the heaviest guilt. I might call it a sudden insanity that threw me into the arms of this terrible man, in other words, that brought me to my ruin; and many things conspired together, too, to dull my feelings and judgment; the long torture which I had borne, and borne in vain, the violence with which I had been torn from such a hard-won act of resignation, the madness of a passion which, after having so long been forcibly restrained, now overflowed all barriers; the unholy charm which guilt offers to an undisciplined mind! How many have fallen who had not such temptations! But that this insanity lasted so long! that I should have known I was mad! that I chose to be so! It all appears to me now like a dark dream, in spite of the golden sun of Italy which illuminated it, of the perfume of orange blossom which surrounded it, and of the gentle tides of the blue sea which flowed about it. My husband had, after a few months, given up the futile struggle; he had gone away, beaten, broken down, without even the strength to come to any decision, only giving me permission in writing to remain away as long as I pleased. Whether he hoped that this apparent magnanimity would touch me, or that his absence would appeal more strongly to my heart than his presence, that the separation would teach me what I might lose in him—what I had already lost—I do not know. I only know that I had nothing but scorn and derision for what I called his pitiful flight, without a shadow of pity for him, even if I thought of him at all, or of anything but of enjoying my freedom to its fullest extent. And had I wished to follow him, as I did not wish, I could not have done so. Even before he fled I was fettered to him from whom he fled, by the strongest chains by which a woman can be bound to the man of her choice. But what so often brings about a transformation in a woman’s life, what leads even the most frivolous to reflection, and awakens in her nobler feelings, brought no repentance to me, even—terrible to say—no joy. I needed no pledge of his love; and it brought to him whose path I would have strewn with roses, only care and perplexity.

“He had had no trouble in convincing me that my condition must remain a profound secret to all the world. Our hope was that my husband would himself insist upon a divorce, and as we—thanks to the devilish ingenuity of that fearful man—had never openly violated public decorum, as my husband had gone of his own free will, he leaving me, not I him, the separation could only terminate in my—that is in our—favour. Our fates were now irrevocably joined.

“And now came a circumstance which—Oh, Elsa! Elsa! have pity on me! How can I tell you? We reckoned on, we hoped for, my husband’s death. From Giraldi’s spies—he has them all over the world—we heard that my husband was ill, then that his illness was taking a serious turn, at last that the doctors gave no hope, even if the end did not come immediately. We tremblingly awaited the messenger who should summon me to his sickbed; we thought over what excuses I should make if I did not obey the call; but the messenger never came. But neither did that come for which we waited in more intense suspense, as my time drew ever nearer. Though indeed we should not have been easily found. We had hidden ourselves deep in the mountains in a lonely place between Amalfi and Salerno. My old Feldner was our only companion. The loveliest boy was born, and as soon as I was able to move, was left in the hands of the faithful woman. It was necessary again to show myself before the world, and talk in the drawing-rooms of Naples about Sicily, through which we had hurriedly passed, and where I was supposed to have spent the last few months. And not one pang of remorse, not one wish to hear of or see the innocent child, left up in the mountains! To say that I was mad is perhaps the right word!

“But my husband still lived, and news came from Feldner that travellers—acquaintances of ours—had passed through her mountain retreat, and that she had only escaped discovery by the merest chance. The faithful soul begged us to liberate her and the child from their isolation. She asked if I did not wish to see the dear little creature again. A queen would be proud of such a child!

“Intoxicated though I was with the poisonous draught of sinful passion which none knew better than he how to mix, the cry for help from the faithful woman pierced my obdurate heart. I wanted to see my child; I wanted to have it with me. It was needed to fulfil my happiness. Nothing short of a full, even overflowing happiness would now content me. He had to bring all the force of his powers of persuasion to keep me from a step which he assured me would overthrow all our carefully-arranged plans. ‘And if you do not consider yourself,’ he cried, ‘whom such an open admission of your position would reduce to beggary, think of our son, who would become a beggar with you. His future depends upon our caution, our foresight, our prudence; but prudence enjoins us to leave him in concealment until everything is decided, even, as his present place of abode has been shown not to afford sufficient security, to remove him to deeper concealment. It is only a question of a short time, of a few weeks, perhaps days. Trust me in this, as you have hitherto trusted me in all things. Leave it to me; I have already considered and prepared everything.’

“He communicated his plan to me. We had visited Pœstum in the spring. The young and handsome guide who had conducted us over the ruins had left an agreeable impression on my mind, as well as the plump little wife whom he had lately brought home there. I had envied both these poor people their unconcealed happiness. ‘Those are the people,’ said Giraldi, ‘to whom to entrust our Cesare. The young wife will think but little of such an addition to her cares, and the strong husband will be an admirable protector to the child. Moreover, the presence of a detachment of soldiers at Pœstum is sufficient to ensure his safety.’ He silenced my doubts, set aside every objection, and went to carry out his plan—alone. I dared not at this moment, when a thousand suspicious eyes watched us, when we were assuredly surrounded by invisible spies, leave the town on any account.

“He was back by the evening of the next day. All had gone perfectly as arranged. The child was well; the good Panaris (that was the name of the guide) full of joy over the treasure confided to them, which to these poor people became naturally a real treasure.

“Quite different indeed was the account of Feldner, who had accompanied him on the expedition. She painted with the utmost horror the wilds they had passed through, and over whose burnt-up surface malaria breathed its poison, and the pale, fever-stricken countenances of the poor inhabitants in the ruinous, dirty huts. The Panaris, too, had been ready enough to undertake the charge of the child, but the man was not without many doubts, which he had secretly imparted to her. The brigands were just then gathered in unwonted force in the mountains, and in spite of the soldiers posted in various places, and of the military escorts which accompanied travellers from Salerno or Battipagha to Pœstum, robberies had taken place in the immediate neighbourhood of the ruins. He could the less answer absolutely for the safety of the child, as he was himself never for a moment sure that his own property, perhaps even his own life, was safe.

“Unfortunately, out of fear of Giraldi, Feldner only let out these warnings gradually and cautiously. I myself, who had only been to Pœstum in the spring, and seen the broad plains covered with tender green, and gleaming in the mildest sunshine, naturally looked upon one cause of this anxiety as exaggerated, and Giraldi laughed to scorn the other objections. ‘At the worst,’ he said, ‘it is an attempt on the part of the Panaris to get higher pay, which moreover I am quite willing to give them; and do you buy a silk dress and a coral ornament from the Chiaja for your duenna, that is all she wants. Only patience for a few days!’

“And as if fate itself were bound to serve him, a few days later news came that my husband had breathed his last here in Warnow, and with the announcement of his death came a copy of his will.

“I was distracted; I could have wished the world to come to an end, when all the happiness for which I had hoped, in which I had already revelled, lay shattered before me. I swear to you, it is the one bright spot in the infernal darkness of my unhappy soul that I never thought of myself. I lived only for him, lied for him, intrigued for him, stifled the voice of nature for him. I would have lived in a hovel with him, and in the sweat of my brow worked for the daily bread of us both. I would—but let me keep silence upon what I would have done for him—the infamy is too great as it is.

“He smiled his sarcastic smile. He did not believe in love in a cottage. My husband’s disbelief in all unselfish sentiments had revolted me; here I only saw the right to a demand which so finely-organised a nature made upon life; nay, must make if it would not lose any of the charm which surrounded it. But if the will forbade me, under penalty of disinheritance, to call the man I loved my husband before all the world, there was no such penalty attached to a shame of which he had never thought, it did not forbid me to recognise my child. I would have my child at once. I had so much at least to retrieve.

“Now, I cried, that we are denied the luxury of a legitimate position, now that we are driven back to the sources from which we have drawn so deeply without asking anyone’s permission—to nature and love—not one link shall fail of the chain which nature and love can forge; now for the first time I feel how only the pledge of our love can make our bond complete and indestructible. Let us not lose one moment.

“A feverish impatience had taken possession of me, which he—and oh! how thankful I was to him—appeared fully to share. I see him now, pale and disturbed, pacing through the room, and then standing still and spurring on Feldner, who in the hurry could not collect the child’s things, and myself even to greater haste.

“ ‘We do not want to lose a moment,’ he cried, ‘and we are losing hours, which are perhaps irretrievable.’

“We were getting into the carriage (there was no railway then), which would take us by Battipaglia to Pœstum, when an old woman, who had been crouched on the steps of the hotel, hobbled up, and in the cool way of a Neapolitan beggar, pulled him back by the tail of his coat, just as he had his foot on the step.

“He turned unwillingly, and—I have tried a thousand times in vain to recall the particulars of this scene—Feldner and I must have been just then arranging ourselves in the carriage. I only know that when I looked round at him the old woman was disappearing round the corner of the hotel, with greater activity than I should have given her credit for, whilst he, with his back to us, was standing in the entrance of the hotel apparently reading a letter. He then came out again. ‘I had another direction to give to the porter,’ he said, as he sat down by us and pressed my hand with a smile, saying, ‘Coraggio, anima mia! coraggio!’

“ ‘Coraggio!’ I answered tenderly, returning the pressure. His face was so pale, his eyes looked so gloomy, that he seemed to me to need more encouragement than I did.

“It was evening before we reached Battipaglia. The little place, from which travellers over the lonely plain were in the habit of taking their military escort, was in great excitement. A company of Bersaglieri had just marched hastily through, a second company was on its way from Salerno to Pœstum, a third was lying in wait for the robbers in the mountains. Such a measure had become really necessary. The robbers had swarmed before the very gates of Salerno, and for days past no one could venture out of Battipaglia into the country. From Pœstum no news had come for the same time, and the worst was feared for the poor dwellers there.

“An inexpressible terror came over me. The unhappy child in the midst of this universal distress, in the very centre of the horrors! It was in vain now that Giraldi attempted to calm me by arguing that the approach of the troops gave promise of safety; I would not, I could not listen to anything; I could say nothing but ‘On! on!’

“The people said we should not get far, and in fact we had scarcely gone a mile before we came up with a large body of soldiers, whose young officer courteously but decidedly ordered us back. The carriage had passed the lines against the distinct order of the colonel, and we could go no farther, as the banditti had rendered the bridge over the Sele impracticable for carriages and horses; very likely at this moment there was fighting in the open field before Pœstum. Tomorrow the roads would be safer than they had ever been before; we must have patience so long.

“No prayers, no supplications availed. Back to Battipaglia! The impossibility of reaching the child, the fear of losing it, perhaps of having already lost it, drove me almost frantic. For the first time Giraldi had lost his power over me. He left me to my despair in the miserable inn and wandered about out of doors. It was a fearful night!

“The next morning the roads were, as the officer had promised, free. He thought it his duty to bring us the news himself, advising us, however, to postpone to another time our romantic trip. We had wanted to see Pœstum yesterday by moonlight! Good God! It looked melancholy in Pœstum. The little hotel was a ruin, the house of the guide Panari destroyed, he himself dangerously wounded in the defence of a strange child, which had been entrusted to him, and which the banditti had carried off to the mountains. This had taken place unfortunately the evening before last, so that the robbers had had time to convey to a place of safety their prey, on which indeed they must set great store, as they had made the most tremendous efforts to attain it, and had put themselves in such evident danger to place it in safety. There was, however, still a hope of snatching their prey from them. The pursuit was hot, and the precautionary measures well laid out. The lady might for the present calm her compassionate heart, and moreover, even if the child were to be pitied, the unnatural parents who had placed their child in such danger deserved no pity. Who could tell that they had not themselves planned the robbery, the better to hide the living witness of their shame, and that the pursuit of their accomplices was more than inconvenient to them? Such things had happened before.

“Oh! Elsa! Elsa! when the young man spoke these words so unsuspiciously, I did not venture to look up for shame and horror; I had provoked this fate. I ‘deserved no pity!’ and yet—and yet—

“But there was yet a possibility of escaping from this hell of anguish. Bandits were almost daily brought in—men, women, and children! ‘It is not our Cesare,’ said Feldner. I—Good God! I should not have known with certainty if it were my child. Feldner cried quietly to herself night after night, that she had been robbed of her heart’s-blood, her sweet little Cesare. I forbade her to cry. I threatened to dismiss her. I would not endure that he who appeared to suffer so terribly under the blow should be still further distressed by her complaints. He had in no way given up hope; prisoners had reported that a certain Lazzaro Cecutti, one of their principal leaders, who had for reasons unknown to them conducted the actual robbery of the child, with two others who had fallen in the fight, and his mother, with whom he had sent the child into the mountains, could alone give any information as to the destination of the same. Why should not Lazzaro or old Barbara be taken prisoners, like so many others? But they were not taken.

“ ‘They are too cunning,’ said Giraldi; ‘they will not let themselves be taken; but when the pursuit is over, and that will soon be, the ardour of our authorities dies quickly, they will emerge in some distant spot and demand the ransom, which is naturally the only thing they care for; and on that very account we may be easy about our child, they will treasure it as the apple of their eye. Everything for them depends upon the child.’

“ ‘But how will they find us?’ I asked; ‘we who by your direction have never openly claimed the child, have never offered a reward for his restoration?’

“ ‘Those are measures,’ said Giraldi, ‘which would only have drawn upon us the attention of the public and the officials; that is to say, would have made it more difficult for the robbers to come to us unnoticed. You do not know either the loquacity or the cunning of my country people. The Panaris have assuredly not kept their counsel, and Lazzaro, before he achieved the robbery, knew our address better even than the police authorities; and when Italian bandits want to get a ransom they can find their men, wherever they may be. And believe me, they will find us.’

“The pursuit came to an end, very quickly too, astonishingly so, the papers said. It was at an end, but Lazzaro and his mother appeared neither here nor elsewhere. No one talked any more about the affair, it was buried in profound silence; the silence of death! Lazzaro was dead—he must be dead—he and his mother, and—my child! They, wounded to the death, drawing out their last breath in some deep and lonely mountain glen; the child, whom they no doubt kept with them to the end, hungry and thirsty, perishing miserably.

“Giraldi himself had to give it up at last. Heaven, he trusted, would send compensation. But Heaven, who had seen our firstborn given over to be a prey to the fox and the eagle, would not confide a second to such unnatural parents. The one so ruthlessly sacrificed remained the only one.

“And here I anticipate my narrative by years, in saying, that I thank God it remained the only one. More, I shudder at the thought that this child of sin and shame may still be living, may one day step out from the darkness which has so long enveloped him, may appear before me and say, ‘Here I am; Cesare, your son.’ Oh! Elsa, Elsa, everything is crushed and destroyed in me. How can my feelings be simple and natural like other people’s? How can I do other than shudder at the possibility of finding him again when I think to myself how I must find him, who has grown up amongst robbers and murderers? in whom I have no share, save that I bore him, in whose soul I have no part? The son who would only come to help his father to rivet again the worn-out chain at the very time when I was in the act of breaking the last link? He feels and knows this. And it is by no chance, therefore, that he now, at this very time, has again and again conjured up that terrible picture—ah! no one understands as he does that devilish art!—Cesare is not dead. Cesare lives; wandering about the world in lowly guise, shortly to throw off the peasant dress and stand before us in his bright beauty.

“And I am to believe him—I, who have long been convinced, with my faithful Feldner, that what the young officer had thrown out as conjecture and possibility, with soldierly bluntness, was the terrible truth. He had taken the unhappy child to the foot of the mountains in the wilds of Pœstum, from whose barren slopes the robbers descend on to the plain, that he might be carried off at any time, that is, as soon as I showed a serious intention of producing him before the world, before the right time came. He—he himself had thrown the prey to these villains. He had learnt from the woman who came to the carriage-door that the villainous plot was carried into execution, at the moment when he would have given anything not to have contrived it. And then it unfortunately happened that at that very time the raid against the robbers was taken in hand by the Government, but at any rate the crime remained undiscovered; he could still raise his insolent eyes to mine as before.

“It is terrible to have to relate this, and to feel that though it was years and years before my blindness was in some measure removed, and I began to estimate the depth of my misery, I still endured it so long. But however slight the bond that unites bad men, that between a thoroughly bad man and one who is not utterly lost to nobler impulses is almost unbreakable, especially when that other is a woman. If she has repented her sinful life, and would turn with horror and aversion from her destroyer, fear prevents it; and if fear is forgotten in the excess of sorrow, she is bound once more and forever by the shame of having to confess that she has so long been the companion of the reprobate.

“Oh, Elsa! I have gone through all these horrible phases. I thank heaven and you, whom heaven has sent to me, that at last I have come to the end.

“When we came here in the autumn, my soul was filled with terror, like a criminal who has escaped with noiseless tread from his prison, and is terrified at the trembling of a leaf. I knew that the crisis was approaching on all sides, that a word, a look, might betray me, the more so that suspicion had certainly been roused in him. A sure sign of this was that he no longer trusted his accomplices. All our servants have always been such. Even my old Feldner had long been in his pay—apparently. She takes the wages of sin, with which he pays her betrayal of her mistress, and we give it to the poor. She says nothing to him but what we have agreed upon beforehand. But since we have been here, he no longer employs her. He must even have begun to suspect François, a crafty bad man, who had at first promised to be a particularly useful tool, and rightly. Whether Giraldi has offended him, or the clever Feldner has won him over, he has come over to us. But he also has no longer anything to tell. It seems that his last commission, to accompany and watch me here, was only a pretext to get him away from Berlin, where Giraldi is weaving the last meshes of his net. Let him. I fear him and his devilish arts no longer, now that an angel has spread its pure wings over me.

“He has long lied to me as he has to all the world. The last time that he divulged his plans to me, and then only in part, was on the morning after my arrival in Berlin, a few minutes before I saw your dear face for the first time. I may not, and will not importune you with the repulsive details; it is enough for you to know, that with the courage to oppose him, I have also the power to frustrate his plans.

“The net, into the toils of which he thinks to bring you, will close around his own guilty head. When he comes to me tomorrow, sneering at the intelligence which the Count and Carla will hasten to impart to him, that Elsa von Werben has forfeited her inheritance, he shall have his answer, and if he announces in triumph that Ottomar has also returned to his forsaken love, and equally forfeits his inheritance, he shall not long await his answer; and if with lips trembling with passion he asks how I, his tool, his slave, have dared to rebel against my lord and master, I will seize you by the hand and say, ‘Away from me, tempter! back into the darkness of your hell, Satan! before this angel of light!’ ”

With the last words, Valerie had slipped from the sofa to Elsa’s feet, her weeping face hidden in her lap, and kissing her hands and dress in an excess of agitation, which only too clearly proved what terrible anguish the dreadful confession had cost her, with what rapture her poor heart, which so thirsted for comfort, was now filled. It was long before Elsa could in any degree calm her, only at last through the consideration that she must gather up all her strength for the interview with Giraldi next day, and that a few hours’ sleep after such a day was indispensable. She would remain with her. She must allow her good angel to watch even over her slumbers.

She got the exhausted, broken-down woman to bed. It was long before her quicker breathing showed that Nature had asserted her rights. But at last she lay really asleep. Elsa sat by the bed, and gazed with deep sympathy upon that still lovely, noble, deathly-white face.

And then she thought of him whose image during her aunt’s story had ever stood out in her mind, as if it were to him and not to her that the confession was being made. As if he and not she had here to decide, to judge, and to absolve. And as another tremendous clap of thunder now shook the old castle, and the sleeper moaned in terror, she folded her hands, not in fear, but in thankful emotion that whilst her lover was risking his dear life to save the lives of others, she was also permitted to pilot a human soul out of the storm of passion and sin into the haven of love, and that their works of salvation would succeed for the sake of their mutual love.

V

The storm was raging that night through the straight streets of Berlin also.

Let it! What does one more discomfort signify to us, as we hurry along the pavement? We are accustomed to discomforts of every sort; and if a tile or a slate falls down occasionally at our feet, we have not been struck yet, thank goodness! And if a chimney should be blown down, or a new house fall in, or anything of that sort, we shall read about it in the papers tomorrow. We have weightier matters to consider, truly! The storm which raged through the Chambers today during the debates, will also unroof many a fine edifice on the Stock Exchange in quite another fashion, and many a great house which appeared this morning to stand firm enough, and command the market, will be shattered to its foundations, and will drag others down with it to disgraceful failure. Like this one here for instance; it is just finished after years of labour, having cost untold sums, and its magnificence having roused the astonishment of everybody who was favoured with a view of it, and the eager curiosity of the many who were obliged to content themselves with a sight of the lofty scaffolding. Was it not to be opened tonight with a great ball, of which for the last fortnight such wonders have been related? To be sure! And it is really a curious coincidence that it should take place just today, when the lightning has struck the neighbouring houses, that stand upon the same insecure foundations, have been erected from the same disgraceful materials, and are in every respect the same miserable swindle from basement to roof. I should not like to stand in that man’s shoes.

Nor I either, my dear friend, but, believe me, our virtuous indignation, if he could be aware of it, would only be an additional satisfaction to this man. He has landed his goods in safety. What does it matter to him if you, or I, or anybody be drowned in the rushing stream from which there is no escape except for him and such as him? Who asked us to venture into the water? You thought, perhaps, that if he were not prevented from giving this feast by the black Care that sits behind him, he must be so by very shame, especially today when he and the whole brood of them have been branded with the mark of Cain upon their brows. And now look I look up at this splendid façade, see how the light from the innumerable wax candles streams through the great plate-glass windows, with their crimson silk hangings, and shines like daylight upon us out here in the dark! No contemptible gas except in the passages and corridors! That is how it is in the Emperor’s palace, and he must have the same. That splendid awning before the door, which is being blown about by the wind, the Brussels carpet which is laid in the dirt of the street from the door to the carriages, will be thrown into the dust-hole tomorrow in rags and tatters. Why not? That is what they are for. But come—the police are already beginning to look indignantly at us. They suspect our wicked doubts about the sacred rights of order, which consist in plate-glass windows, marble doorways, fringed awnings, and Brussels carpets. Or have you got a card of invitation like Justus Anders there, who is lost in wonder over the varnished boots which so seldom deck his feet, and is in trouble about his new hat, with handsome Antonio following as his aide-de-camp, hastening in without noticing us his best friends; but do not look morosely at him, and hurl no anathemas at him out of the depths of your injured, democratic conscience. The poet is the equal of the king, and the artist must be the equal of the speculator. Those are laws which we must respect. And now let us go and drink a glass to Lasker’s health. Only this one more carriage? Oh! you rogue! because there are ladies’ dresses—it serves you right! Old Kniebreche. Sauve qui peut!

The old Baroness was of course there. She was everywhere, it was said, where anything was to be seen. She had been present at the creation of the world, and would assist at its end. She had first intended to let Ottomar get her an invitation, but eventually entrusted the honour to Herr von Wallbach. The dissension between the Werbens and the Wallbachs was no longer a secret, at least from her. Dear Giraldi, who was, however, discretion itself, and really only repeated what could absolutely no longer be concealed, had told her something—too terrible, but still not so terrible as what that good Wallbach, who had fetched her in his carriage, had related to her on the way.

“Poor, poor Carla! Absolutely deserted on account of a pretty girl of no family, whom his former mistress had had to intercede with for him. Wallbach was going to show her at this very ball the principal performer in this pretty story, a dancer from an obscure theatre. Wallbach must be sure to remember! She was so curious to see this person. In such an utter scandal, it was impossible to be too careful about the most trifling details. And if dear Carla had tried to comfort herself in her grief—of course, my dear Wallbach, what was she to do? It speaks for itself. And she had the dear Count there under her very hand! Oh! Mon Dieu! How I have been deceived in Ottomar, but they have, none of them, been good for anything. I knew his grandfather, and even saw his great grandfather when I was a little girl. But the old gentleman would turn in his grave if he knew what his great-grandchildren were doing. And Elsa—my dear Wallbach, I suppose I must believe that story, but it is a strong measure for a General’s daughter. As to Ottomar drawing lots of bills of exchange—I know whole regiments who do it; but there I stop—further than that I cannot go, unless I heard it from his own lips.”

“But, my dear lady, I conjure you by all that is sacred, be discreet.”

“Do you take me for a baby—for a goose, for I don’t know what? You have no business to talk like that to old Kniebreche, who might be your grandmother. Give me your arm, and point out a few interesting people. Will Lasker be here, too? What do you say? One ought not to talk of the hangman.—What is it to me if tag and rag fall out together? But our worthy host—do point him out to me—the big, broad-shouldered man with the fine forehead and full chin? A fine-looking man. Bring him to me at once!”

Philip was charmed, at last and in his own house, to become personally acquainted with a lady who was reckoned amongst the few celebrities in which Berlin rejoices. Now, for the first time, he could venture to say that his entertainment had not proved a failure. Would her ladyship allow him the honour of conducting her to the ballroom? Unfortunately he had not been able to restrain any longer the young people’s desire to begin dancing, or he would certainly have asked her ladyship to have led the polonaise with him. He flattered himself that she would not feel herself too isolated at his house, though several illustrious names would not appear in the list of those present; as, for instance, that of Count Golm. One could not have everything and everybody at once. He was, and always had been, a modest man; and that “a king’s glory was his state, and our glory was the labour of our hands,” was a saying which he had, all his life, held to, and hoped to continue to do so. Were the pillars which supported the orchestra real marble? Certainly. He was the son of a worker in marble. He might say that everything her ladyship saw here was real, save, perhaps, a little of the colour on the ladies’ cheeks, about which, for his part, he had secret doubts; and the nobility of a few barons and baronesses, which might also seem a little doubtful to her ladyship. The Stock Exchange seemed nowadays to be all-powerful, but after all, however long the train might be, and whatever quantity of diamonds were worn in the hair, or sewn on the dress, what a difference there was between Baroness Kniebreche and Baroness—He would name no names, but a difference there must always be. Would her ladyship permit him to offer her some refreshments? they were here close by.

“Quite a presentable man for a parvenu,” whispered Baroness Kniebreche into the ear of Baroness von Holzweg, whom she met in the refreshment-room in the midst of a group of great ladies. “He understands the art of living, it must be allowed. There is not a more magnificent room in Berlin, even at his Majesty’s, only here it is much more comfortable. What a capital idea to put a refreshment-room so close to the ballroom, and such good things too. What have you got there, my dear! Oyster patties? Delicious! Young man, bring some oyster patties and a glass of Château Yquem. How well that sort of man understands bringing people together. Of course there are all the tag and rag here—actors, dancers, heaven knows what! But if one does not look too closely one might imagine oneself at a court ball. The ballroom absolutely swarms with guardsmen. Well, young people, I cannot blame you; you are cocks of the walk here. Apropos, what brought you here, dear Baroness?”

“Quite between ourselves, dear Baroness,” whispered Baroness Holzweg.

“Of course between ourselves!” cried Baroness Kniebreche.

“Prince Wladimir is expected to be here for a moment.”

“ ‘You don’t say so! Of course you and your niece could not fail. But take care! The ‘illustrious lovers’ are getting quite common. Come, come, I meant no harm; I readily allow the greatest latitude in the upper circles, if only the proprieties are observed as regards the lower ranks. But such things are going on now, dear Baroness—such things!”

And Baroness Kniebreche began waving her gigantic fan with much energy.

“May I venture to ask, dear Baroness?” whispered Baroness Holzweg, drawing nearer, in curiosity.

“Well, quite between ourselves, you know, dear Baroness.”

“How can you imagine, dear Baroness—”

The heads of the two old ladies disappeared for a long time behind the black fan.

“And these are all facts, dear Baroness?”

“Absolute facts. I have them from Wallbach, who is generally discretion itself—but there are limits to everything. Is not that him there behind the door? Actually! and talking to Signor Giraldi. I must go there. That good man absolutely hears the grass grow.”

The old lady got up with difficulty, and rustled off, with her glass to her half-blind eyes, towards the two gentlemen, everyone retreating, scared, before the black fan.

Baroness Holzweg remained sitting, with an evil smile upon her pale, puffy face.

“Ah!” she murmured, “how pleased Agnes will be. The haughty Herr von Werben, who will not dance with her, because he can understand either secret or open engagements, but not those that cannot be made public! And his arrogant sister, whom he has forbidden to have anything to do with Agnes, and who has now taken up with a merchant-captain. Charming!”

“What is amusing you so, my dear?” asked Frau von Pusterhausen, coming back again to her friend. “You were talking such secrets with Baroness Kniebreche, and I could not get away from Madame Veitel, or whatever she calls herself. She chatters and chatters—I only heard a few words—you seemed to be talking about the Werbens? Am I right? And can you tell me what it was about?”

“But it remains between ourselves, my dear?”

“You may be quite easy, my dear.”

And the two ladies put their heads together, one maliciously listening, the other spitefully retailing what she had herself just heard.

Giraldi, after he had wandered through the rooms for half an hour, met Herr von Wallbach, who had luckily got away from the Baroness.

“I was just going,” he said; “the heat, the noise, the everlasting talk about Lasker—”

Herr von Wallbach passed his hand over his bald forehead with a gentle sigh. “To be sure,” he said, “Lasker! it is a terrible blow. Such a splendid business. We shall never recover the blow, although he has not directly attacked us. It is the beginning of the end, believe me.”

“I do not think it looks so bad,” said Giraldi. “It is only the first shock; our Ministers have certainly behaved miserably, the mob will triumph, but the reaction cannot be long in coming. They will find that the sun of radicalism, which shines so brightly just now, is itself not without a flaw. The Government, if only to anger the opposition, will guarantee the interest for a sufficient loan for a time, and probably afterwards take over the whole business. The promoters must have acted worse than stupidly if a good slice does not fall to their share, amongst others to our friend the Count.”

“Nevertheless we—I mean the Warnow trustees—may have to wait a long time for the payment of the second instalment,” said Herr von Wallbach thoughtfully.

“I am certain of that,” answered Giraldi. “You may thank your forbearance, which has lasted until the shares with which you paid him have gone down so far. If I had only been listened to, he must have paid the whole million at once, when the shares stood at seventy-five; it would have been possible, and he would still have retained nearly half a million.”

“Yes, true,” said Herr von Wallbach, “it has again been proved that you are the best financier amongst us. It is lucky that we got the first instalment. The money, if all happens as you say, is as good as the Baroness’s property already; but, nevertheless, we must one of these days—I wanted to remind you of that—meet once more, as a matter of form, to receive your report. You have still got the money at Haselow’s?”

“Where else?”

“I only mention it because we left the investment absolutely to you. I wish to heaven the time had already come when I was quit of the whole thing. At any rate I shall make Schieler represent me at the trustees’ meeting. When a man is on the point of breaking with the son, he cannot very well be on friendly terms with the father.”

“Pay Ottomar’s bills tomorrow; close one eye to certain mistakes in the signatures which must be amongst them—how should he have managed otherwise?—shut the other to the fair Ferdinanda, and everything remains as it was.”

“Do not joke about it. At the best there will be a fearful scandal.”

“Better too early than too late. And besides, if the public hear of the new engagement at the same time that they hear of the breaking off of the other, all will be well again.”

Herr von Wallbach looked very thoughtful.

“Since this morning, since that terrible speech,” he said, “the Count’s position has become much worse. I don’t know what will become of him now.”

“Pardon me,” answered Giraldi; “to my mind the affair looks quite different. The respite is an immense gain for the Count. There are so many chances. The shares may go up again, or the powerful hand which enabled him to pay the first instalment may be held out to him again. If it is not, why, the trustees must agree to a compromise—say twenty-five percent off; that is to say, the Count can pay up seventy-five. And after all he has always got the entailed estates.”

“True, true,” said Herr von Wallbach; “that would always remain to him.”

He passed his hand over his forehead.

“Have you seen Werben yet?”

“He will hardly come. He is more agreeably employed. Bertalda has again lent her house to the loving couple, and is dancing away the sorrows of her young widowhood. The polka is over. I will beg for a few more details from the communicative little thing, in case they may be of use to you. I shall see you perhaps tomorrow. For today, Addio.”

Giraldi turned away at the very moment that Baroness Kniebreche came up, and slipped into the ballroom, making as he passed a sign to Bertalda, whom he met on the arm of a very smart officer. Bertalda dismissed her partner, and soon overtook Giraldi, who had passed into one of the less-crowded side-rooms.

“Well!” he asked, sitting down, and inviting Bertalda by a gesture to take a place by him, “did you get the money, child!”

“Yes, and I am extremely obliged to you. I was really in great need of it. My poor brother—”

“I do not want to know what you did with the money. So long as you oblige me, that is sufficient. The important point is, are they happy at last?”

The girl coloured. “I really did my best,” she said hesitatingly.

“She never came?” asked Giraldi vehemently.

“Oh yes! I had told her so much about her brother’s ball, and—”

“Your dress—and so forth.”

“Yes, that also. But it was not needed. I saw in her eyes that she could not hold out any longer, and was delighted that I had given her such a suitable opportunity. She came, too, half an hour before the time, and found everything very charming, just as it was the first time she was there, in November, and helped me to dress, and—well, one knows what it is when a girl, who is really in love, is waiting for her lover. A ring was heard. ‘Who can that be?’ said I. ‘Perhaps it is Herr von Werben,’ said Johanna, who naturally knows all about it. ‘What brings him here today? Perhaps a bouquet; he is always so attentive,’ said Johanna. She turned white and red in one moment, and trembled from head to foot, then fell upon my neck and sobbed, ‘No, no, I have sworn it;’ and before I could turn round myself, she was out of the room, without hat or cloak, down the stairs, and into the carriage, which was waiting at the door—br‑r‑r!—and she was gone. Next time she will not run away, I am certain of that.”

“Next time,” cried Giraldi, with scarcely restrained fury, “as if I could wait a hundred years. I had so set my hopes on it. Made so much of it to him. How did he take it?”

“He was frantic. I had to spend half an hour in consoling him. There never was anything like it. I really think he will do himself a mischief, if he doesn’t get the girl. It is no joke, I can tell you, to deal with them both. If I were not so fond of Werben, and so sorry for poor Ferdinanda, I would not do it for all the money in the world.”

“Did not he want to come here with you?”

“He is lying full length on my sofa and would listen to nothing. But I think he will come still. An hour or so of that sort of thing gets tiresome, here it is delightful. There is the quadrille beginning, and here comes my partner; may I—”

“Yes, go; and if you see him, tell him that I expect him tomorrow morning between nine and ten. He will know why.”

“I have been looking for you everywhere, Fräulein Bertalda.”

The black-haired young dandy carried off his charming, tastefully-dressed partner, who smilingly took his arm, blowing a kiss to Giraldi over her shoulder as she went.

Giraldi remained seated. While the stream of gaiety rolled uninterruptedly around him, he could snatch a few minutes to think over his position. It was by no means so prosperous as it had been a few days ago. Since midday he had had to give up all hope of the second instalment upon which he had counted at least in part. He had moreover reckoned with absolute certainty, that today the net which he had woven with such untiring perseverance would entangle Ottomar and Ferdinanda. He would have made better use of the interesting facts than Antonio had done about the rendezvous in the park. Ottomar’s and Carla’s engagement had been the consequence of that—this would have been the cause of the breaking off of that same engagement. Who could now blame Ottomar if, irritated by the girl’s absurd prudery, frantic and despairing, he returned to Carla—to Carla, who loved him as much as she was capable of loving anyone, and, frivolous as she was, would, for the mere sake of change, turn back from the new love to the old? And had not his conversation with Herr von Wallbach just now shown him that there were at any rate waverings in that quarter as to whether matters should be allowed to come to extremities? Herr von Wallbach had from the first declared that he did unfortunately share Giraldi’s “suspicion” that there had been some ugly circumstances connected with Ottomar’s continual drawing of bills of exchange, but that he would never directly interfere upon that point himself. If this suspicion should be justified—possibly at the next final settlement of the trustee business—he should of course be obliged to take notice of it; all the more in proportion to the extent to which the report might already have spread, but still he should only do so to express his sorrow and his conviction that such ugly rumours must disappear as absolutely as they had arisen mysteriously. On the other hand, if any positive proof appeared of the relations that Giraldi maintained still existed between Ottomar and Ferdinanda, he—Wallbach—was quite determined to make the proper use of it on his sister’s account, to whom such a rivalry must, in the long run, be disagreeable. But this positive proof was still not procurable. There remained the affair of the bills of exchange! And if Ottomar came to grief tomorrow? and his proud father took the burden upon himself to avert the fearful disgrace which would recoil upon the whole family? He indeed knew the truth; but could he in that case speak? Would he not have to look on silently, while the father and son settled the matter amicably between them? Twenty thousand thalers indeed would not be so easily procured; but in such a case impossibilities might be overcome, and the General would be sure to have good and powerful friends. At the worst, if Baroness Kniebreche and the others who had been let into the secret should have too completely broken the sacred seal of confidence, there might be two or three duels, which would just suit Ottomar, who had laughingly asserted the other day that he should soon have made up his dozen!

A duel between him and Herr von Wallbach indeed! That would be decisive.

Only Herr von Wallbach, whose nerves were always a little unsteady, was thinking of anything but a duel. How to provoke Ottomar against him?

There would be difficulty about that. It would be necessary to speak more plainly, to mix himself up more directly in the business than before, and it had been his well-weighed decision not to let the mask fall, until—

The Italian’s face grew still darker as he sat there brooding and meditating, his head lightly resting on his gloved right hand, his crush-hat on his knees, while from time to time joyous couples hastened past him to the ballroom, where they were still being summoned to the quadrille, which was more difficult to arrange now on account of the number of dancers.

If Valerie tomorrow, as he still hoped, agreed to everything, as she had always hitherto done, the mine could then, before it was fired, be so deeply laid that not one stone upon another should remain of the edifice of the Werbens’ prosperity; the very bones even of the hated race should be scattered here and there through the air.

But if she opposed him? If, after seven and twenty years of dumb submission, she should rebel? and not now, and for once only, but forever, should refuse him obedience? If she should appear as the mistress and superior? Well, she would do so at her peril! He was prepared for it too. The time for temporising, waiting, diplomatising, would be over at once; there would only be a very plain, very clearly-expressed question: Yes, or no? But she would never have the courage. And she was welcome to hate him, if only she feared and obeyed him.

A slight noise near him made him look up, and he started as he met the fiery black eyes of his young countryman.

“Eccolo!” cried Giraldi, stretching out his hand with his most bewitching smile; “how did you get here, my boy!”

“There was a lack of dancing-men,” answered Antonio, pressing the offered hand to his heart; “the maestro was desired to bring a few young artists with him, and was good enough to think of me.”

“And why are you not dancing?”

“I have not the happiness of being acquainted with so many beautiful young ladies as Eccellenza.”

Giraldi smiled, whilst he turned over in his own mind whether Antonio could have recognised in Bertalda the veiled lady who came to see Ferdinanda. It was extremely improbable, but he must give some explanation of his intimate conversation with the pretty girl.

“Do you envy me my happiness, Antonio?” he asked.

“I do not grudge Eccellenza his happiness. Who can deserve it better?” answered Antonio, with fawning humility.

“And since you are modest, you will be happier than all the gold in the world can make me. You are young and handsome, and—you love; and that your love may be crowned with success, you have but to leave it to me and Brother Ambrosio. We are both busy on your behalf. Have a little patience only, and your probation will be ended, and you will have everything your heart can wish for—yes, more than you have dreamed of in your wildest dreams; but, above all, revenge—the most brilliant, triumphant, heart-stirring revenge—upon your enemy! I swear it to you by the Sacred Heart and the Holy Virgin!” The two Italians crossed themselves. “And now, my boy, I will talk to you in a few days. For today forget the cares of love, and pluck the rose of pleasure, without wounding yourself with the thorns.”

He pointed towards the ballroom, again pressed Antonio’s hand, and went.

The young man looked after him with a gloomy brow, as he slowly walked away. He had never for a moment doubted that the charming young girl whom he had seen talking so earnestly and familiarly to the signor, was the same whom he had met that evening in the dusk—that is to say, the same who had at one time repeatedly visited Ferdinanda; he knew her height and figure so well. She might be his mistress—well, but then what had she to do with Ferdinanda? Why had he not told him the real state of the case? Why did he not tell him the lady’s name today? Why had he passed as quickly as possible to another subject—or rather had only repeated the same fine speeches with which he had so often flattered his confiding companion, although to this day not one of his promises had come true? And were these to suffice him? Was he to prolong his miserable life for this—he whom the clever signor had long ceased to trust? The signor had better beware of a person named Antonio Michele, who, when the signor had sworn by the Sacred Heart and the Holy Virgin, had also taken an oath which stood in the closest connection with that of the signor. There was the signor’s lady. He would not approach her directly—Antonio Michele was not such a fool—but he would try and find out her name, which could not be very difficult; and, above all, he would not lose sight of her.

Meanwhile Giraldi had wandered farther through the overcrowded rooms, looking round him from time to time to see if he could discover Ottomar, uncertain whether he wished to do so, or whether he should wait for him, whether it would not be better to go away now and leave things to take their course. The train for Sundin started at one o’clock. It was now twelve; he had still half an hour. Half an hour! Half a minute would have been enough generally for him to decide the most weighty matters. But a man grew stupid from dealing with fools. And now that boy also must get in his way!

The sudden and quite unexpected meeting with Antonio had troubled Giraldi greatly. He had not thought about the young man for a long time; he had almost forgotten him, as he did all those whom he did not require immediately, or might not require again, for the furtherance of his plans. He required Antonio no longer. For the net which he was weaving for Ottomar and Ferdinanda, Bertalda was a much more accommodating and convenient tool. About Reinhold and Elsa he had long known all that he wished to know; and over the ardour with which at first he had followed up the idea of making out the handsome young man to be the son who should restore the already shaken relations between him and Valerie, he had himself smiled since. If Brother Ambrosio, indeed, had entered willingly into the affair—if by his hints to Valerie he had awakened her longing, if not hope, for the lost son! But the experiment had entirely failed; it had even rather had the contrary result, and had shown him more clearly than ever that her heart was more and more, perhaps was entirely, turned against him. And even if, perhaps under other circumstances, he returned to his plan, there was no use thinking any more of Antonio, against whom Valerie’s suspicions had once been roused. She would not now believe in the strongest proof, to say nothing of a more or less well-invented fiction. And it was for this, for this hollow mockery, that he had inspired that passionate spirit with brilliant hopes and ambitious dreams, which must soon prove themselves an empty nothing, in which the young man himself perhaps no longer believed. There was sometimes a wild glare in the black eyes that had suggested to him that the young man would sooner or later go mad—perhaps was already so; and at the moment in which he swore to him that he should be revenged upon his mortal enemy, a smile had passed like a flash across his usually firm-set lips, which only admitted of one interpretation. If he ever learnt that the man who had promised to help him to gain the woman he loved had driven her into the arms of his rival, would it not be well while it was yet time to give the murderous weapon another direction—the right direction—to the heart of their mutual enemy? To say to Antonio, “I must confess to you, my son, that what you have above all things feared is true—the woman you love is now in his arms. I could not prevent it. Kill me! Or, if you would avenge yourself and me, keep your dagger ready—I know you always carry it with you. In a few minutes he will be here, still intoxicated with his happiness. Strike him! strike him down!”

Giraldi had stood leaning against the doorpost, lost in his bloodthirsty fancies as in a dream, looking with fixed eyes upon the throng, without seeing anything. Suddenly he started. There in front of him, only separated by the width of the room, was Ottomar. He was talking to one or two other officers, and still had his back to him. He could still get away through the door against which he was leaning into the next room, and out of the house. That would be best. After all his arrangements were made, the manager might give up the stage to his puppets. What need was there of a dagger in this domestic drama? A few dishonoured bills, a good deal of gossip, truth cunningly mixed with falsehood and cleverly insinuated in society, and the wished-for result could not be long in coming, even if one or other of the wires failed in its effect. “To be too busy is some danger,” as Hamlet says over the body of Polonius.

And Giraldi slipped back into the room from which he had come, and, passing through some side-rooms and down the brilliantly-lighted marble staircase, gained the vestibule and cloakroom.

Some guests were still arriving—a few ladies who to judge from their remarks, had been kept late in the ballet, and an elderly gentleman, who took off his fur coat whilst the servant was helping Giraldi on with his. The Italian hastily turned up his collar, but the other had already recognised him, and stopped him as he was going.

“What, Signor Giraldi! Are you going already?”

“I am tired to death, Councillor, and the heat and noise upstairs are amazing.”

“I have already been three times today to your house in vain. I must talk to you at least for a moment. What do you think of it, my dear friend—what do you think of it?”

“Of what?”

The Councillor almost let his crush-hat fall. “Of what? Good heavens! Is it possible to talk about anything today except this abominable speech?”

“It appears not,” said Giraldi. “Every other man and every fourth lady is talking about it upstairs. Fortunately it does not concern me.”

“Not directly,” said the Councillor eagerly, “but indirectly. How clever you have been again. The only man who would not hear of a postponement of the date of payment of the second half of the purchase-money. You were only too right. The Count is ruined. He will never pay the second half.”

“One must reconcile oneself to the inevitable.”

“Very philosophical! But indeed with your genius for finance, you will soon make up for it. I only heard today that you—I presume on the part of the Baroness, but it is the same thing—had lent the Count the half million with which he—”

Giraldi’s brows met together like a thundercloud.

“Had the Count been talking—against his word of honour?”

“The Count! the Count!” cried the Councillor. “As if he troubled himself about anything. He throws his shares into the market, depreciates their value, and in short amuses himself. I regret, by every hair on my head, that we ever had anything to do with a fine gentleman! Lübbener—”

“Ah!” said Giraldi.

“Of course, Lübbener,” continued the Councillor, “he no doubt only acted in the interests of the railway, when he paid you this afternoon the half million of the mortgage, after you had declared your fixed resolution in any other case to move for an immediate public sale. I cannot blame you either for wishing to get back at once money which seemed in such danger; but it is hard when friends and foes alike work for our ruin—”

“I do not consider Lübbener’s finances by any means exhausted.”

“Because—pardon me, my dear sir—this supposition suits you; I can assure you I was with him a quarter of an hour after you had finished your business with him. He was furious. He said it had done for him, and for our whole enterprise. Lasker’s speech this morning—shares went down twenty percent; half a million to pay this afternoon, for which he was not in the least prepared—it was the beginning of the end—”

“Just what Herr von Wallbach said,” said Giraldi. “But pardon me, Councillor, it is rather warm here—”

“You will not come up again!”

“On no account.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said the Councillor. “I would go with you if it were not for Lübbener, who is sure to be up there—”

“I did not see him.”

“You must have overlooked our little friend. I wanted to tell him something that I have just heard from the Minister who sent for me, and has only just set me free, and which I hope may be useful to him in tomorrow’s battle.”

“Then I will take leave of you. I am really tired to death.”

The Councillor had not yet let go the button of Giraldi’s coat. Through the comparative silence of these downstairs rooms sounded from above the wild strains of a furious waltz, and the dumb rush and sweep of the dancers, whose whirling steps made the magnificent building tremble as if with ague.

“They are dancing over a volcano,” said the Councillor in a low voice. “Believe me, he cannot hold out; it is impossible. We have been obliged to pay him with shares, of course, like all the world. How he is to meet his engagements now that our shares have fallen to twenty—heaven only knows. I calculate that the man will be ruined in three weeks at the latest, and we with him.”

“I regret it extremely, but if the world were coming to an end in half an hour, I should go to bed now.”

The Councillor let go the button almost terrified. Such a wicked look had shot out of Giraldi’s great black eyes, although he had spoken with the tired smile of a completely worn-out man.

“One would think he might play an active part in the downfall of the world,” murmured the Councillor, as he brushed up his short, dry hair before the big looking-glass. “Strange what odd ideas come into my head when I am with that man! Such calmness at such a moment! He does business to the extent of half a million, of which no human soul is aware, loses another half million, and—goes to bed! Mysterious man!”

The Councillor put his brush in his pocket, pulled out once more his white tie, seized his crush-hat, and was on the point of leaving the cloakroom, when another guest stepped hastily in, and throwing his fur coat on the table, called to the servant, in a voice apparently trembling with haste, “Be good enough to keep them separate, I shall only be here a short time. Ah, Councillor!”

“Good gracious, Lübbener, what is the matter with you?”

Lübbener signed to him to be silent, and laid his finger on his lips at the same time, then drew the horrified Councillor into the farthest corner of the cloakroom, and said, as he stood on the tips of his toes, and stretched his short neck as far as possible out of his white tie, “Is he still upstairs?”

“Giraldi?” asked the Councillor, whose mind was still full of the Italian’s image. “You must have met him at the door.”

“He! Philip—Schmidt?”

Utterly absurd as the question seemed, the Councillor could not smile; his friend’s face, always grey, was now ashy-white; the little black eyes, which generally twinkled so merrily, were now fixed; each one of the short hairs, so thickly covering the low forehead, seemed to stand up of itself.

“Do not stare at me so,” exclaimed Lübbener. “I am quite in my right senses; I only hope that other people see as clearly into their affairs as I do with mine. I was with Haselow just before closing-time, to see if he could not help me with a hundred thousand or so tomorrow, as I had had a somewhat heavy payment to make, for which I was not prepared. ‘It is just the same with me,’ said Haselow. ‘Signor Giraldi took away the last fifty thousand of the Warnow money an hour ago—the whole half million in three days.’ ”

“Extraordinary! most extraordinary!” said the Councillor; “as the agent of the Baroness, to whom the half belongs, we certainly allowed him to invest the whole, but still—”

“Beware! beware!” gasped the other. “There is something wrong—very wrong. Yesterday Golm throws half a million into the market; I keep up the price notwithstanding to thirty; this morning that abominable speech of Lasker’s—down they go to twenty; this afternoon I have to pay Giraldi every farthing of the Golm mortgage. I have struggled, I am struggling still desperately, but there are limits to everything.”

“It is very hard,” said the Councillor, sighing. “Our splendid, splendid enterprise! The Minister, too, was quite in despair today; but—shall we not go upstairs? We can go on with our conversation there. I have several things of importance to communicate to you.”

“Hush!” said Lübbener.

He stood listening intently, then walked quickly to the big window from which he could see out of the cloakroom into the vestibule, shook his head and came back to the Councillor, muttering unintelligibly between his pale lips.

“What is the matter now?” said the Councillor anxiously.

The banker’s little black eyes glanced towards the servants in the cloakroom. They could hear nothing, and were moreover occupied in arranging their numbers; then he made the Councillor a sign to stoop his tall figure to him.

“I ought to have consulted you properly, but the danger that he”—the banker pointed with his finger in the direction from which the noise of the ball came—“was too great. Our four millions preference shares which would have to be issued now—”

“Good heavens!” said the Councillor.

“It was a mere vague suspicion, but it left me no peace. He and I, you know, have the keys, and when after the office was shut, I told the clerk I had some business still to do—true enough”—the Councillor had bent his head so low that the banker was whispering into his ear. Then they looked fixedly into each other’s eyes. The Councillor’s long face had turned as grey as the other’s.

“But this is a matter for the police,” he said.

An evil smile crossed the banker’s compressed lips.

“It has cost me a great deal of trouble to convince them of it.”

“So then—”

The banker nodded.

“And when?”

“I expect them every minute. They wanted me to show myself here, because my remaining away altogether—”

“Quite right! Quite true!” said the Councillor. “It is very, very painful—still—I will certainly—under these circumstances—”

And he made a step towards the cloakroom table.

“Councillor, you will not,” cried Lübbener, holding fast by his coattail.

At this moment a tremendous flourish of trumpets sounded in the vestibule. The servants rushed from behind their table to the window. The pretty girls who had been waiting upon the ladies ran past them; “They are coming, they are coming.”

The two gentlemen had also gone to the window, as the flourish sounded a second time, from long trumpets, which eight men dressed as heralds were blowing on the broad landing of the staircase. They turned their instruments upwards to right and left, as if to summon the assembly from above. And in fact they had scarcely uttered their call for the third time, before the company, who had been prepared beforehand, began to appear.

A splendid sight, whose magnificence even the Councillor, in spite of his thoughts being full of anxiety and care, could not but allow, whilst the servants broke out into loud cries of admiration; only Herr Lübbener’s grey countenance kept the look of a man who is too much behind the scenes to take much pleasure in the play himself.

The guests came down the marble stairs from both sides, the width being more than sufficient for two couples at once. The brilliant streams met on the landing, but only to separate again, and swarm down the lower stairs to the vestibule, which already began to fill, whilst the staircase and surrounding passages were still swarming with the gay crowd, which while waiting for the stairs to be free for them, could meanwhile enjoy the brilliant spectacle from above all the longer. Preceded by the trumpeting heralds they paraded the vestibule, which was decorated by Justus’s four statues, and brightly lighted by an immense chandelier and numerous candelabra, while it was divided from the outer hall by splendid columns, till suddenly the great folding-doors were flung open, and, as the trumpets ceased, soft music sounding from within invited to the pleasures of the table.

“Did you see him?” asked Lübbener, with a grim smile.

“How could I avoid it?” answered the Councillor, sighing; “with my old friend Baroness Kniebreche on his arm. Wonderful! The man has nerves of steel.”

“I think you had better come in with me, Councillor,” said Lübbener; “if only for the reason that I suspect you could not get out of the house now.”

“Do you think so?” said the Councillor, sighing; “then there is really nothing else to be done.”

And he followed his resolute companion, with anything but a festive countenance, into the vestibule, where they mingled with the last comers, who, now that the ranks had been broken, were pressing most impatiently into the supper-room.

VI

Any anxiety about finding places proved quite unfounded. There would have been room for the whole party in the gorgeous dining-room, if every seat had been occupied at the little tables laid for eight or ten people each. But as it had been foreseen that this would not be the case, tables were also laid in the great conservatory, which stood at right angles with the dining-room and connected this wing of the house with the other. The last comers had the privilege of supping under palm trees, as Justus laughingly remarked to Ottomar, both being amongst the latest arrivals.

“Stay with us,” said Ottomar, pointing to his table, at which three or four officers and some ladies belonging to the theatre, amongst whom was Bertalda, were trying to arrange themselves. “I think there is room enough, if not we will make room.”

“I am sorry,” answered Justus; “but I am already engaged to a few friends there in the corner, and if our garden is not quite so brilliant as yours—yet you see we also have roses blooming.”

“And magnificent ones. Who is the lady in silver grey? What a splendid figure!”

Justus laughed. “You must not betray me. Perfect carnival freedom reigns here. She is a cousin of my colleague Bunzel, alias—his model, alias—”

“Werben! Werben!” resounded from the officers’ table.

“Justus! Justus!” from that of the artists’.

“Hope you will enjoy yourself,” cried Ottomar.

“Same to you,” said Justus; and to himself he added, “poor boy!”

He knew the sad story, and had besides heard lately from Reinhold, with whom he kept up a constant correspondence, new and worse things of Carla, which Meta, who had arrived quite unexpectedly this morning, fully confirmed.

“You will see,” said Meta, “it will turn out badly. Dear Elsa suspects nothing; but I have a pair of sharp eyes, you know, and I am sure that the Count and Carla have got some understanding between them. If only Ottomar would let her go! but he is the sort of man who, if anyone tries to take from him what he ought to be thankful to let go, says, ‘No, not now.’ He is not so sensible as we are, you know. And now make haste and be off to your great party!”

How laughing and beaming were his Meta’s eyes, who by her great good sense had overcome all obstacles—“Tomorrow we will order the furniture to suit your artistic tastes, you know!”—and how darkly and restlessly gleamed the eyes in which he had just looked! “The handsome face sunken and wasted as if in the last ten weeks he had aged twice as many years,” thought Justus, “and in spite of his gay words, how bitter a look there had been upon his lips! Poor boy!”

“What are you making such a wry face for?” cried Kille, the architect, as the newcomer approached the table.

“No mooning allowed here!” cried Bencke, the historical painter.

“He is thinking of the left hip of his Industry, which is so much awry that it is almost dislocated!” cried friend Bunzel.

“Or of Lasker’s speech, which has been cutting everybody up!” cried the architect.

“I am thinking just now of what you are always thinking of, nothing at all!” said Justus, taking a place next to Bunzel’s “cousin,” and passing his hand over his bald forehead to brush away the unpleasant impression.

It would have been hard indeed for even a less cheerful disposition to have given way to gloomy thoughts at this table and in such company. They talked and laughed and joked in the most extravagant way. They had all worked at the great building, especially the architect who had drawn the plan and directed the execution, and now were showing up each other’s mistakes in good-humoured banter. And between whiles came serious and weighty talk upon art and artists, or upon Lasker’s speech, which Justus, who in the sweat of his brow had sat out the whole debate—“for reasons, you know, Meta”—thought splendid beyond all belief, while the architect declared that the man might certainly be right on the whole—there were stranger stories even connected with some of the railroads—but of actual building he knew no more than a newborn babe; till one or the other who thought the conversation was getting too serious, threw in some wild joke, and the laughter that had been for a short time checked resounded again louder and more heartily than ever. And at the other tables, if there was perhaps less mirth, there was no less noise. The champagne flowed in streams. The innumerable servants had enough to do to renew the empty bottles in the silver wine-coolers; and great irritation seemed to be felt at the smallest neglect of the servants in this, matter. Everybody gave orders; everybody wanted the best wine, the second best was good for nothing, People passed the wine or the dishes from table to table, “just as if it had been a public dinner,” said Baroness Kniebreche, surveying the crowd through her eyeglass; “quite like an hotel. I never saw such a thing in a private house before. It is extremely amusing. Do you know, Wallbach, that when you passed behind my chair just now I was within an ace of addressing you as the head waiter.”

“Ha! Very funny!” answered Wallbach absently. “You cannot expect to find the good company and manners to which we are accustomed in such a house as this. It is and will always remain the house of a parvenu. But I was going to ask you, my dear Baroness, if you had kept your counsel as to the last piece of information I gave you, as I asked you to do?”

“The last piece of information?” cried the Baroness; “but, my dear child, you have told me so much, that I positively have forgotten which is the first and which is the last. Why do you want to know?”

“Ottomar avoids me in a way which, notwithstanding that our relations have been disturbed lately, is most marked. Just now he looked straight over my head.”

“Then look over his head, my dear child. I really can give you no other advice. Besides, what is it you want? You can’t wash fur without wetting it. That’s nonsense. If you want to have a row, have it—if not, let it alone; but don’t bother me any more about the matter. And now give me some of that lobster salad—there, at your elbow—it is delicious.”

“The old woman is drunk,” muttered Wallbach, as he returned to his place at the next table.

Philip had excused himself for a quarter of an hour from the old lady to go round the room, and was now going from table to table with his glass, which had to be constantly replenished, in his hand, received here with praises of the splendid feast, there with cordial shouts, “Splendid, my dear fellow!” “Well done, my boy!” and at several points with hurrahs and drinking of healths; while at others people seemed to require a reminder that the gentleman in the white tie and waistcoat, with the broad forehead, and the courteous smile on his red, clean-shaven face, who stood there glass in hand before them, was the master of the house.

Philip had gone the round of the room, and must now pay a visit to the conservatory which opened out of the room. He came here at once upon a large table surrounded by young men, who received him with such enthusiasm that he seemed quite to overlook a smaller table close by, and with a wave of his hand and a jesting word to the young men was passing on farther, when a hoarse well-known voice said: “Now then, Schmidt, are not we to have the honour?” Philip’s face quivered, but it was beaming as if in joyful surprise as he turned round and threw up his arms, crying, “At last! Why, Lübbener, Councillor! Where the deuce have you been hiding? I really thought I was to be deprived of this pleasure. And you are quite alone, too! Like the lions, you keep apart!”

“We were late comers,” said the Councillor, touching Philip’s extended glass with his; “it was a mere matter of chance!”

“As long as you are amusing yourselves,” said Philip.

“Certainly,” answered Lübbener. “We can see here into both rooms. It is the best place of all.”

“Then it belongs to you by right,” cried Philip. “The best place in the room. The best in the house! Where would room and house be without you, my good Hugo? Dear old man!”

And, as if overcome with emotion, he took the little man in his arms, and held him, not daring to resist, pressed to his breast, when a loud voice a few steps from them cried, “Gentlemen!”

“Oh, horror!” exclaimed Philip, letting Lübbener out of his embrace.

“Ladies and gentlemen—”

The speaker was a bank clerk from the young men’s table, famed among his companions for his extraordinary talent for after-dinner speeches. He had so placed himself, glass in hand, between the dining-room and the conservatory that he might have been heard in both rooms, if, in the noise which increased every moment, one man’s voice had not been as much lost as a drop in the ocean.

“Stand on a chair, Norberg!”

“Hear, hear!”

“Stand on two chairs, Norberg; one is of no use.”

“Ladies and gentlemen—”

“Louder, louder! Silence! Hear, hear!”

Nobody could hear anything, but here and there people could see someone standing on a chair gesticulating, and apparently making an attempt to speak; they drew the attention of their neighbours, and though silence was not attained, Herr Norberg, with renewed hopes, exerted the full force of his lungs, so far overpowering the noise as to make himself audible, at least to the circle which had gathered round him, and which was increasing every moment.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Our German proverb says that every man forges his own fortune—”

“Bravo! hear, hear!”

“But, unfortunately, everyone does not understand smith’s work, and the work fails in consequence. For the smith’s work we need a Schmidt—”1

“Very good! Hear! Silence there!”

“And if a smith forges his fortune, we may be assured that it is a work which he need not be ashamed of before masters or apprentices.”

“Capital! Bravo! Bravissimo!”

“And, ladies and gentlemen, the masters, and more particularly we young apprentices who have still much to learn, and who wish to learn, will watch his fingers in order to find out how and with what tools he works; for the tools are the first consideration!”

“Bravo! Bravo!”

There was almost perfect silence. Herr Norberg, now sure of his effect, continued in a pathetic tone of voice:

“But what are his tools? First, of course, the anvil—the immovable anvil, formed of the cast steel of honesty—”

“Hear! hear!”

“Of honesty, which can bear every blow and shock, because it rests on its own merits, and tested as it is by the enduring and flattering confidence of the initiated, and, if I may so express myself, polished by the good report of all honest people—”

“Bravo! bravo!”

“May laugh to scorn the rust of slanderous tongues which are raised against it and its like, if such there be, even should it proceed from the tribune of a certain great House—”

The last words were scarcely to be heard in the indescribable uproar which arose at the first allusion to the great event of the day, with which the minds of all were still filled, or at least occupied. Whether the opprobrious word was approved or condemned by the majority of the company, it was impossible to decide. Encouraging, even enthusiastic acclamations, in which Norberg’s particular friends were the loudest, words of dissatisfaction, of disapproval, even of the greatest indignation, all this buzzed, resounded, and reverberated, till almost suddenly the storm abated, as if all, friends and foes, were curious to hear what the man would utter further, as they all took it for granted that he would not rest satisfied with this one sally.

But the prudent Norberg was careful not to stake the issue of his well-considered speech by another impromptu. He spoke again in the flowery language in which he had begun, of the “Heavy hammer of Strength,” which the master he honoured could wield better than any other; of the indefatigable “Pincers of Energy,” with which he held fast to plans that he had once made; even of the “Bellows of strong breathing Courage,” which ever renewed in his own breast and in the hearts of his fellow-workmen the flame of inspiration which belongs to all creative power. Provided with these tools, and gifted with these qualities, it had been possible for the master to attain to this imposing result; to carry through his vast plans in spite of the indifference of the public, in spite of the ignorant opposition of the authorities; to make new roads for trade, convenient ways for commerce, towards the completion of which he was now working, it might reasonably be hoped not in vain, in spite of all and everything. Lastly, as the keystone of the edifice of his fortune, or to keep to his simile, “as the last link in the long chain of famous works which he has forged, to erect this house, which he has made so great, so splendid, not for himself, for he is the most retiring of men, but for his friends, whom he has assembled around him today in hundreds, as representatives of the remaining thousands, and who may now prove their representative powers by three times three, as from the thousands, for the brave, disinterested Schmidt, the smith of his own fortune.”

The company acceded to the invitation, some from conviction, the majority excited by wine, not a few out of mere politeness, with loud hurrahs, accompanied by a noisy flourish from the band, while the speaker descended from his chair and received, with proud modesty, the thanks of his host and the congratulations of the guests. He had surpassed himself today; he had been magnificent, it was only a pity and a shame that he had not given it stronger to Lasker, who really had deserved more.

“I do not think he will be too pleased as it is,” answered Herr Norberg complacently; “but now, Schmidt, old boy, up with you! You can’t help yourself!”

“No, you can’t help yourself!” chimed in the guests; “up with you! fire away!”

“But, gentlemen,” exclaimed Philip, “after such a speech! Let me have a few minutes to think at least.”

“It won’t do you any good!” said Herr Norberg encouragingly and patronisingly, “I know all about it! Improvise as I did, it always answers best.”

“If you think—”

“Silence! listen! don’t you see?”

The tall, broad-shouldered man who now stood on the chair was visible enough; and as his appearance in that place was already expected, there ensued at any rate sufficient quiet to enable him to begin with a certain amount of dignity.

He would be brief, as fortunately he was in a position to be. The gratitude he felt for the distinguished honour which had just been shown him, for the kindness, the friendliness, yes, he ventured to say the word—the affection which was showered upon him—such gratitude, heartfelt as it was, could be expressed in a few words which, however, came from the heart. Besides, it was not expected from the man of deeds, in which capacity he had just been honoured, that he should be an orator like his predecessor, whose speech it was easier to criticise than to surpass; he had detected one defect. His strength, his courage, his honesty had been praised; those were qualities which, the latter especially, he expected from every man; and he therefore ventured to accept a small portion of the exuberant praise lavished upon him.

“The whole of it!—without deduction—without discount—with interest!” exclaimed the enthusiastic crowd.

“Well, well, gentlemen!” exclaimed Philip, “if you will have it so, the full praise! But, gentlemen, what of the head, the mind and understanding! Perhaps you will say they do not exist—”

“Oh, oh! I will take a hundred thousand shares in you!” shrieked the enthusiastic auditors.

“No, no, gentlemen!” shouted Philip over the heads of the shouters; “where nothing exists, the King himself must lose his rights. I am no Prince and Imperial Chancellor, who has not only his heart, but his head also in the right place.”

Here Philip was compelled to pause, till the storm of applause which his last words had called forth was somewhat abated.

“Yes, gentlemen, I acknowledge it; he is my ideal, but an unattainable one! The qualities that a great man, world-renowned as he is, unites in himself—the most opposite qualities, yet all equally necessary to success—for these we small people must combine. And with me it is no accidental chance, but a dispensation of Providence, and a sure confirmation, that in this moment, without any previous agreement, as you will believe me on my word, the two men who are my associates in business and in every sense of the word, are standing near me; and in this association if I am really the heart, they have unquestionably the department of the head; here to my right, Councillor Schieler—to my left, the banker, Hugo Lübbener.”

Uproarious applause followed, which changed to shouts of laughter, in which even the impartial spectators joined, when the next moment, raised and held fast by the irresistible hands of the half-intoxicated crowd, the two gentlemen named by Philip appeared in person on chairs to his right and left. Philip, with quick presence of mind, seized the hands of both, and cried:

“Here! I have you, I hold you, my two heads who are only one, and who are all in all one with me; one heart and one soul! I was about to call for a cheer for these two, without whom I were nothing; but as we three are one, and cannot with the best wishes for health drink our own healths, I ask you, we ask you for a cheer, a hearty cheer for those whom we have to thank for the satisfaction of being here together this evening, and I think I may say, of enjoying ourselves; the architect of this house and the artists who have decorated it.”

While the company willingly complied with his request, and the band again accompanied them with a shrill flourish of trumpets; while Herr Norberg embraced Philip and assured him that he himself could not have done it better; while the two other gentlemen, who had sprung quickly from their chairs, were overpowered with shaking of hands and congratulations, great excitement reigned in the group of artists. Of course somebody must answer, but who should it be? The historical painter would just as soon have mounted the scaffold; one or two others “could have done it, but it was not in their line;” the architect, as a native of Berlin, freemason, and member of numberless societies, a born and bred orator, did not see why he who had done the most should do anything extra now.

“Justus must speak!” exclaimed Bunzel; “he can take the opportunity of putting to rights that dislocated hip.”

“As you will,” said Justus; “there is something here that requires setting to rights undoubtedly, of which your empty heads would never think.”

“Silence there! Hear! hear! Silence!” thundered the artists.

“Bravo! bravo! da capo!” shrieked the young men.

“I think once will be enough, gentlemen,” said Justus, who was already mounted on the chair.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I come before you as a boy before his schoolmaster. For though it is only proper that we artists should express our thanks for the kindness shown to us, I am neither the eldest nor the youngest amongst us, neither the one who has the greatest merit with regard to this beautiful house, nor perhaps the one amongst us who has sinned most with regard to it; but as I am here, I offer in all our names my most grateful thanks for your goodness, and as I feel by no means steady on this rickety pedestal, and as I have learnt from my predecessors—”

“Bravo! bravo!” exclaimed the artists.

“That if one wishes to leave this place one must first look out for a successor, but feel that in this way the matter would never come to an end, I have chosen for the purpose a person who is not in this company; and I ask you to give a cheer for him, who has already spoken himself today, and has spoken to my heart, and, I know, to the hearts of many in this company; and to give a second cheer for him, because it would ill become this company if a word were spoken against him here, as has been done, without an answer being forthcoming from amongst us; and a third cheer, and long life to him who requires three lives in order to carry out the herculean labour he has undertaken!”

Justus drew up his slender figure, and his clear voice sounded like a trumpet:

“Long live Edward Lasker!”

And his “Hip! hip! hurrah!” resounded in shouts from the artists, whilst the astonished opponents remained silent, and all who had been shocked at the previous offensive words, and they were many, cheered with them, and the music sounded in the midst, so that the whole room shook, and old Baroness Kniebreche shrieked out to Baroness Holzweg, “I really believe I can hear again with both ears!”

The storm was still raging when Anton, the valet, came up to Philip, who stood shrugging his shoulders and trying to smooth matters amidst a group of gentlemen who were all talking to him at once, with violent gesticulations, hoping and expecting that he would properly resent and punish such a public insult. Anton must have had something very urgent to say, as he pulled his master repeatedly by the sleeve, and dragged him almost by force out of the group.

Philip’s face had got very red, but at the first words which the servant, as he unwillingly bent towards him, whispered in his ear, it became white as ashes. He now himself hastily drew the man a few paces farther on one side.

“Where is the gentleman?”

“He is close at hand, in the billiard-room,” answered Anton; “here is his card.”

The servant was as pale as his master, and brought the words out with difficulty from between his chattering teeth.

“Anyone with him?”

“They are in the vestibule and out in the street and in the court—oh, sir, sir!”

“Hush! Will you help me?”

“Willingly, sir.”

Philip whispered a few words into the man’s ear, who then went hastily through the room into the vestibule, from which, unchecked, he disappeared, through a door, into the cellar regions. Philip stood there for a few minutes, his firm lips tightly compressed, and his fixed eyes bent on the floor. He had not expected this; he had hoped to have had at least another week’s law. The devil must have prompted Lübbener. However, the great haul must in the end have failed, and he had got the ready money, at any rate, provided; but he must venture it! If he could only get out of the house, they must be more than cunning—he had had everything prepared for weeks in case of this happening. As he again lifted his gloomy eyes, his glance encountered Lübbener’s, who, only a few paces off, apparently in eager conversation with the Councillor and some other gentlemen, had closely observed the short scene between the master and servant, and, as the former stepped back to the group, now turned his back upon him.

“Excuse me for a few minutes, gentlemen,” said Philip; “I have still some arrangements to make for the cotillon, and then, if you please, we will leave the table.”

He said it in his usual loud and swaggering tone, whilst at the same time he caught Lübbener by the wrist, as if in an overflow of hilarity, and drew him out of the group.

“What do you want?” gasped Lübbener.

“To tell you,” said Philip, grinding his teeth, “that you shall pay me for this, sooner or later!”

He flung the little man from him so that he tumbled backwards into the group, and making his way through the conservatory with a firm step, passed into the billiard-room, to meet a gentleman who stood there alone with folded arms, leaning on one of the tables, and apparently studying the ornamentation of the door through which Philip entered.

“Inspector Müller?” said Philip, who still held the card in his hand.

“I have that honour,” answered the inspector, unfolding his arms so slowly that he could not well take Philip’s outstretched hand.

“And what procures me this pleasure?” asked Philip.

“The pleasure is a very doubtful one, Herr Schmidt. I have a warrant against you!”

The officer took a paper from his breast-pocket, and so held it that Philip could easily have read it by the lamp over the billiard-table; but Philip had taken up a ball, and was making a hazard.

“A warrant! How very strange! Look there! a double hazard too! Are you a billiard player, Herr Müller?”

“Occasionally, when I have time, which I seldom have—for instance, not at present. I must therefore beg of you to follow me without delay.”

“And leave my guests? But, Herr Müller, just imagine—four hundred people, and no host! It is absolutely impossible!”

“It must be possible.”

“But it is not necessary. You are my guest. Toilette at this hour is of no consequence; besides, you are got up regardless. Remain by my side, of course—a cousin who has just arrived—what you will! Your men, in plain clothes I take it for granted, can amuse themselves finely meanwhile with my people. Afterwards we can drive together in my carriage—”

“You are very kind, but a carriage is already provided, and now stands in the courtyard amongst a number of equipages, so that we need not again pass through the vestibule. You see, Herr Schmidt, I go to work with the greatest consideration; but I must now really beg that you will not put my patience to a longer test.”

Philip rolled the ball which he held in his hand from him at random, and turned round.

“Well, if nothing else will satisfy you; but I hope I may change my dress?”

“I have no objection to that, only you must submit to my presence meanwhile.”

“No apologies, Herr Müller, between men! Will you be so good?”

And he led the way, the officer following on his steps. In the library, which opened out of the billiard-room, an assistant officer was waiting, who now joined them.

“You are very cautious, Herr Müller,” said Philip over his shoulder,

“My duty, Herr Schmidt!”

He touched Philip’s arm, and said in a low voice, “If you will give me your word of honour to make no attempt at escape, which would moreover be quite fruitless, I can”—and the inspector made a sign over his shoulder—“spare you at least this escort.”

“No attempt at escape!” said Philip laughing; “oh! Herr Müller, I can think of nothing else. I would vanish through the floor or the walls if I only could.”

The officer could not help smiling.

“Go back into the vestibule again, Ortmann,” he said.

“Thank you for your confidence,” said Philip, as they went up a winding staircase, guarded by a handsome richly-gilt railing, by means of which the library was connected with the upper story of the right wing, which was separated from the ballroom by the whole width of the courtyard, that was partially glazed like the conservatory.

“The fact is, Herr Müller, that inconvenient as it certainly is to me, I cannot take this episode really in earnest—”

Philip had opened a door in the corridor in which they now stood.

“This is a passage-room,” he said in an explanatory tone; “I should prefer to turn to the right, through that door into my living rooms, which are today being used also as company rooms. But as there is no help for it, we must go through the one on the left to my bedroom.”

He pushed the door open. “Pray go first; for the time being, at least, I am still the host here.”

The officer did as he was asked, ready, if his prisoner should attempt to shut the door upon him, which opened inwards, to stop it with his outstretched foot. But Philip followed him close, shutting the door behind him.

“My bedroom!” said Philip, waving his right hand, whilst the left still played with the lock, to the magnificent apartment, which, like all they had passed through, was brilliantly lighted with wax candles; “furnished in French style, and as if it were for a young lady who had just returned home from school! but these upholsterers are autocrats. This way, please, Herr Müller—my dressing-room—the last in the row—and dark—but that we can rectify.”

Philip held up the branch candlestick, which he had taken from the console under the looking-glass in the bedroom, and threw the light all round as if to assure the Inspector that there was no second door in the space left free by the carved oak wardrobes, and that the one they had come in by was the only entrance and exit. He put the candlestick down on a table, took off his coat, and opened one of the cupboards.

“I will wait in your bedroom while you are dressing,” said the officer.

“Pray do,” said Philip, as he took off his white waistcoat and undid his tie; “I hope you will find the armchairs to your taste—”

The officer returned to the bedroom without quite shutting the door, and took his place on one of the magnificent sofas.

“From Delorme in Paris,” said Philip, opening and shutting the cupboards in the dressing-room; “it is supposed to be something quite out of the way, although I cannot see it. Only a few minutes, Herr Müller; I am just as if I had come out of the river. My whole house is ventilated after the newest principles, and yet this awful heat! Apropos, I suppose I may give notice downstairs that I have been taken suddenly unwell, and so forth.”

“I have no objection,” said the officer. “I am only afraid that, discreet as I have been, the rumour will have spread; it is generally so at least.”

“It can’t be helped then,” said Philip, who seemed busy with his boots; “will the thing never come out? There, at last! What a pity that it is midnight, and the magistrates cannot be got hold of, or I should certainly be back again in half an hour. I have never asked what it is about. I know without asking; it is some wretched trick of Lübbener’s, to drive me out of the board of directors. I knew that he had been for some days in frightful difficulties, and was certain that our preference shares were not safe from him. No respectable bank would advance him a farthing upon the whole four million; but some swindling firm—he knows plenty of them—might advance him six or eight hundred thousand—a mere nothing in his position, but when there is nothing better to be had the devil himself eats flies. So, thought I, they are more secure in my hands than in the safe. In proof that I was right, he has found me out. You must know from experience, my dear Herr Müller, that no one thinks of looking for a man behind the bushes unless he has been in hiding there once or twice himself. It was a bold thing to do, I know, but mine is a daring nature. There! now another pair of boots, and I am ready.”

Herr Schmidt, who must have been going about in slippers for the last five minutes, appeared to have gone again to one of the cupboards, in which he was hunting about. “Varnished boots? Impossible! these are the right ones—these,” the officer heard him say, as if to himself. The creaking of a chair—he was a heavy man—a smothered oath—the boots apparently did not go on easily—then silence.

Absolute silence for a minute, during which Herr Müller got up from his armchair and went to the window to look across the glass roof of the courtyard, to the illuminated windows of the ballroom, behind which one or two ladies and gentlemen could be seen. The supper had apparently lasted too long for the lovers of dancing, and since the master of the house had vanished, they wanted to set the ball going again of their own will. And indeed the music began again now from beyond, whilst beneath the glass roof sounded the stamping of horses, and the talking and shouting of the coachmen.

“A terrible business for Herr Schmidt,” thought the Inspector; “the affair is certainly not literally as he represents it, but Lübbener is perhaps the biggest swindler of the two. They generally get off free. He might really be ready now.”

Herr Müller stepped from the window back into the room. “Are you ready, Herr Schmidt?”

No answer.

“Are you—Good God! the man must have done himself an injury!”

The officer pushed open the half-closed door—the candelabra burnt on the dressing-table—coats and linen were strewed about—the room was empty.

“Don’t play any foolish tricks, Herr Schmidt,” said the officer, looking towards the big cupboard, whose door stood partly open.

But he no longer believed in a joke, as after having hastily glanced into the open cupboard, he threw the light of the candelabra right and left over the hangings, which were leather coloured to represent wood. No trace of a door! And yet there must be one! There, at last! This scarcely perceptible crack, where the darker stripes of the hangings met the lighter wainscoting—wonderfully done!—and here below, hardly visible, the tiny lock. Herr Müller pushed and kicked against the door, only to discover that it was made of iron and would defy his utmost efforts. He rushed out of the dressing-room into the bedroom—the door into the anteroom was locked! There, close to the handle, was the same lock as that on the concealed door, no bigger than the keyhole in the dial plate of a clock. He was a prisoner!

The infuriated officer threw open the window, and called as loudly as he could to his men, of whom two should be in the courtyard. But on the other side the fiddles squeaked and the violoncellos growled, and below the horses stamped and the coachmen shouted and laughed. No one heard the cries from above, until in his despair he took the first thing that came to hand and flung it through the glass, so that the fragments fell upon the heads of a pair of fiery horses, which, frightened out of their wits, reared and backed, driving the carriage into another one behind them, which rolling back again made the horses of a third recoil. In the midst of the frightful confusion and the tremendous noise that ensued, the shouts of the officer were overpowered, until at last one of the policemen remarked them, but without being able to understand a word his superior said. Nevertheless, he hurried out of the court into the vaulted passage which, running on the right side of the building and round behind the court, connected the latter with the street, and was used for the exit of the carriages, those coming in entering on the opposite side, to tell his comrades who were posted there that something had happened, and that they must be on their guard. He had done so in a few breathless words, and was in the act of running back, when from one or other of the doors opening into the passage, two servants rushed out, one an elderly man, who seemed to be trembling from head to foot with excitement, and one younger and very tall who nearly ran into his arms. The policeman connected the hurry of these servants with what had just occurred, and he was confirmed in this opinion by the fact of his remarking at the same moment, that a narrow, steep stone staircase led up from the door which the servants had in their haste left open.

“What has happened upstairs?” cried the policeman.

“Herr Schmidt has had a fit of apoplexy,” answered the tall servant. “I am going for the doctor, do not detain me. Here is the Inspector’s card.”

“All right!” said the policeman, throwing a glance at the card. “Let him pass. He is going for the doctor. How can I get upstairs?”

“Straight up these steps,” was the breathless reply.

“Then be off with you!”

The man rushed breathlessly to the exit past the policeman, who willingly made way for him, ran to the string of cabs which stood before the house, only carriages being allowed inside the courtyard, and sprang into the end one, calling to the driver to go as quickly as possible; he should be well paid. It was a matter of life and death!

In the supper-room the confusion increased as the absence of the host continued.

Amongst the few who still kept their place was Baroness Kniebreche, although Herr von Wallbach urgently pressed her departure.

“Only a few minutes more,” cried the Baroness, without taking her glass from her eye; “it is so interesting. In spite of my eighty-two years, I have never seen anything like it. Only just look, my dear Wallbach, at that table where the little bald-headed man is sitting who a little while ago proposed that man Lasker’s health; tell me—I did not hear a word of it for my part. The man with the long fair hair is positively kissing his neighbour—an artist too of course—enviable people! Who is the handsome young man with the black hair and fiery eyes; at the same table? I have noticed him already this evening—a foreigner, we do not grow such plants. He, moreover, never takes his eyes off Ottomar’s table. He seems to be struck by the pretty ballet-dancer. I cannot understand how Ottomar can go on flirting with Ferdinanda, when he has such a choice before him. But it is no use disputing about taste; it is a wonderful thing. That faded Agnes Holzweg and Prince Wladimir. Well, he cannot be very particular, and it seems to be going off too, as he has not even been here for a few minutes. Take care of the old lady! Pooh! She can hear me? I can hardly hear myself speak. That old woman is a tremendous chatterer. She was talking just now for ever so long to young Grieben of the Hussars, who I think is somehow related to her, and has also paid attentions to Agues in his time, before the Prince began to do so. There he is talking to Ottomar. If the old lady has been chattering, Grieben will take the greatest satisfaction in boring Ottomar with it, as he knows of his dislike to Agnes, whom Grieben, I hear, in spite of all, still adores.”

“But, my dear lady,” cried the horrified Wallbach, “you have not told that notorious gossip—”

“Look! look!” cried the Baroness, giving Wallbach a sharp blow with her closed fan, “there, at the first—second—fourth table! The men are coming to blows! it is really splendid! I never saw anything like it in my life.”

“It really is high time for us to go,” said Herr von Wallbach; “it is getting too bad. Allow me to send a servant for my carriage—”

“Well, if you really are determined,” said the Baroness, “but I am still amusing myself immensely.”

Herr von Wallbach had stood up, but the servants who were hurrying about with wine and ices seemed little inclined to do his errand, and he was forced to look elsewhere through the room for someone more accommodating.

Whilst he was still talking to the Baroness, Ottomar went up to Justus, who was talking to his friend Bunzel as quietly as if the storm which he had raised, and which increased in fury every minute, was not of the slightest consequence to him.

“A word with you, Herr Anders.”

“Ten, if you like,” rejoined Justus, jumping up; “but for heaven’s sake, Herr Von Werben—”

“What?”

“Pardon me! you did not look very cheerful before, but now—has anything unpleasant happened to you?”

“Indeed there has. Tell me, Herr Anders, I am in a great hurry, and cannot stop to explain—I know that you are very intimate with Captain Schmidt, and I have just heard that there exists, some understanding between him and—my sister. Do you know anything of this?”

Justus did not know what this meant. Ottomar’s eyes, blazing with fury and an excitement which rose above the fumes of wine, boded no good; but no evasion was possible.

“Yes, Herr Von Werben; and I am convinced that only the lack of any friendly advance on your part has made my friend hold back, and caused him to leave you in ignorance of his understanding with your sister, whilst, so far as I know, your father has long been acquainted with it.”

“Very likely, very likely,” said Ottomar; “my family and I have long been—but no matter! And in any case—I deeply regret that I did not cultivate Captain Schmidt’s friendship—however, I admire and esteem him highly, very highly—I should always have considered it an honour—everything might have been so totally different—”

He passed his hand over his brow.

“Is there still no possibility?” asked Justus quickly.

A melancholy smile passed over the handsome face.

“How I wish there were,” he said. “I thought myself—but it is too late, too late! I have found that out—this evening—just now—a man in my position cannot allow his name to be in everyone’s mouth; and that fact is used with great skill—the greatest skill—confounded skill!”

His teeth were gnawing hard at his lip, his angry eyes looked beyond Justus into the room as if seeking someone, and they kept their direction as he asked, even more hastily and abruptly than before:

“Perhaps you are also acquainted with Car—with Fräulein von Wallbach’s relations with—with—I see by your eyes that you know what I mean. And you—but the others, who are talking of it all round, and reckoning that for well-known reasons I must keep quiet about it; but I’ll be hanged if I do!”

“Only a man cannot have everything at the same time,” said Justus.

“But I will keep quiet before those chatterers until it suits one of them to speak out. I will settle it, believe me, in five minutes!”

Ottomar suddenly rushed away from Justus, “Like a falcon after its prey,” thought the latter, “Oh, this fatal honour! What sacrifices has Moloch already required! Poor boy! I like him in spite of all the harm that he has already done and that he still seems intent upon doing. Well, I cannot hinder him with the best will in the world. Good gracious!—already half-past one!”

Justus had of his own accord promised Meta to leave the party at twelve o’clock punctually. He looked round for Antonio, who was talking eagerly, near the table at which Ottomar and the other officers had supped, with the piquante young lady whom one of the officers—not Ottomar—had conducted to supper, and who, now that Ottomar was also gone, appeared to have been left behind by the whole party.

“He is always making up to somebody, is Antonio,” said Justus, as he watched the insinuating manners of his handsome assistant and the smiles of the young lady. “Let him be; I shall not get him to come home with me.”

He looked from Antonio to the tall painter who was in hot argument with a few men who belonged to the “young men’s table.” “He will soon finish them off,” thought Justus, just as two or three men left the group and came with angry faces towards him.

“You took upon yourself to wish long life to Lasker!” said a swarthy youth.

“And I hope that he will long gratify that wish,” answered Justus, with a courteous bow, as he continued on his way past his astonished interlocutor.

Ottomar, meanwhile, had gone up to the Baroness, and, without taking the chair next to her, although it, as well as half those at the table, had long been unoccupied, said in a loud voice, as was necessary to the deaf old lady in the noise which prevailed around:

“Pardon me, Baroness, but will you allow me to trouble you with a question?”

The Baroness looked at him through her immense glasses. She knew at once what Ottomar wanted to ask, and that Baroness Holzweg must have repeated what she had told her, and she was determined not to allow herself to be mixed up in the matter.

“Ask anything you like, my dear child,” she said.

“Certain rumours which are circulating in this company, about myself on the one hand, and Fräulein von Wallbach on the other, and which have come to my ears from Herr von Grieben amongst others, are traced hack to you, Baroness, as Grieben has them from his aunt, Frau von Holzweg, and she asserts that she had them from you.”

“That is a long preamble, my dear child,” said the Baroness, to gain time.

“My question will be so much the shorter. From whom did you hear this story?”

“My dear child, all the world is talking about it!”

“I cannot be content with that answer, my dear lady; I must know the actual person.”

“Then find him for yourself!” said the Baroness in her rudest tone, turning her back upon him.

Ottomar bit his lip, and went straight up to Herr von Wallbach, who, having vainly sought for some willing messenger through the whole room, now returned to the Baroness to tell her that he would go and look for the carriage himself.

“Baroness Kniebreche has commissioned me to discover the actual person who has set in motion certain rumours about myself and your sister. Am I to find him in the person of that sister’s brother?”

“Really, Werben,” said Herr von Wallbach, who had turned very pale, “this is not the place to talk about such things.”

“That comes rather late, it seems to me, from you, who have spoken of it here, as it appears, not once, but often, and with many people. However, I have naturally no desire to enter into a controversy, but simply to make sure of the fact that this story, impossible as it seems, emanates from you.”

“But really, Werben, I may have—it is just possible—made some communication to our old friend Baroness Kniebreche.”

“Pardon me one moment, Herr von Wallbach. Herr von Lassberg, would you be kind as to come here for a minute to hear an explanation which Herr von Wallbach will be good enough to give me? You say, Herr von Wallbach, that it is quite possible you may have made a certain communication to our old friend Baroness Kniebreche. Will you oblige me by going on?”

“I really do not know what communication you are thinking of!” cried Herr von Wallbach.

“Do you mean to compel me to mention names?” asked Ottomar, with a scornful movement of his lip, whilst his flashing eyes seemed to pierce Herr von Wallbach’s, who stood there helpless, in painful perplexity.

“I think this is sufficient,” said Ottomar, turning to his companion; “of course, I will put you au courant at once. Herr von Wallbach, you will hear more from me tomorrow, for today I have the honour—”

Ottomar took his companion by the arm, and walked back to his place with him, talking to him with passionate eagerness, whilst Wallbach was surrounded by several of his acquaintances, who from a distance had watched the scene between him and Ottomar, and now wished, with all discretion, to know what had passed between him and his “brother-in-law.”

“I cannot engage myself without first speaking to Herr von Werben,” Bertalda was just saying, her eyes shining with the desire to dance with the handsome young Italian.

“Are you engaged to that gentleman?” asked Antonio.

“No, but he brought me here in his carriage, and is to take me back again. He wanted to go before. There he comes, ask him—or I will do so myself.”

Ottomar, who had just parted with his companion, with a shake of the hand and the words, “Tomorrow, then, at eight,” was now close to them.

“This gentleman—Herr Antonio Michele, wishes to dance the next waltz with me,” said Bertalda. “They are dancing upstairs quite merrily.”

Ottomar did not answer immediately. He had already once or twice looked at Antonio, who had sat corner-wise to him at the artists’ table, without being able to recollect where he had seen that handsome dark face before. Now as he looked into the black eyes, he knew it was in Justus’s studio. This was Justus’s Italian assistant, whom Ferdinanda had warned him against, of whom she had said that he persecuted her with his love, that she trembled before his jealousy! In the black eyes which were fastened upon him there gleamed, in spite of the courteous smile upon the lips, an evil flame, as of hate and jealousy mingled. An inexpressible mixed feeling of contempt, disgust and terror passed through Ottomar. After all he had already suffered this evening, that this should be added!

“I must beg you to excuse the lady,” he said in his haughtiest tone; “I was just going to offer her my carriage to return home in.”

Antonio had discovered long ago from the artists, who were greater frequenters of the theatre than himself, who Bertalda was.

“I will see the lady safely home by-and-by,” he said, with an equivocal smile.

The blood flew into Ottomar’s face.

“Insolent fellow!” he cried between his teeth, as he lifted his hand.

Antonio started back and put his hand to his breast pocket. Bertalda threw herself almost into Ottomar’s arms, and drew him on one side. At that moment, a perfect swarm of men, who had assembled for a game of pool in the billiard-room, poured into the conservatory between the disputants.

Their startled countenances, their violent gesticulations, their loud and confused words, all proclaimed that something unusual had occurred, and that they brought terrible news. But the terrible news had already spread from the other side—from the vestibule into the supper-room. It had already reached the dancers above, who were hastening down the broad stairs, whilst many others met them from the supper-room. “Is it possible?—Have you heard?—Good heavens!—Pretty work!—Who would have thought it!—A man like that!—Let us get away—No one can get away till the house has been searched!—We shall see about that!—Good gracious! where is papa?—A glass of water. For heaven’s sake! don’t you hear?”

No one heard. Neither the servants, nor the guests, who were streaming out of the rooms into the vestibule and cloakroom, where there was soon a positively dangerous crowd.

It was in vain that some calmer people attempted to quiet the mob; in vain that the released police officer and his men tried to stem the current. The terrified people crowded in confused masses from the brightly-illuminated house, which was still echoing with the noise of the festival, into the dark streets, through which the midnight storm was howling.

Book
VI

I

“Has Friedrich not come back yet!”

“No, General.”

August, who had his hand already upon the door, was just leaving the room.

“One moment!” said the General.

August obeyed with a face of much embarrassment; the General had come close up to him, and there was in his countenance, not anger, as August assured himself by one nervous glance upwards, but something peculiar; while the deep tones of his voice did not sound peremptory but very strange, thought August.

“It is of great importance to me to know where my son is at this moment; Friedrich will perhaps not return immediately, and I am losing precious time. You do not know where Friedrich was to take the things?”

The faithful fellow trembled, and his broad, honest face quivered as if tears were not far off; it was only with an effort that he could answer: “Yes, General; Friedrich told me, and he has already two or three times had to take things there when the Lieutenant did not come home; she is called Fräulein Bertalda, and lives in ——— Street, and is, with all due respect, a person who—”

“Good!” said the General, “you need not send Friedrich to me now. It is possible that I may require to send you out. Be ready, therefore!”

“Breakfast will be ready. General—”

“I shall not breakfast today.”

“Fräulein Sidonie was coming to speak to you, sir; can she come now?”

“I am very sorry—I am busy—you must tell Fräulein Sidonie.”

The General turned back into the room. August, in his heartfelt anxiety, longed to say: “If only our young lady were here!” But he did not venture, and so slipped out.

“Part of it was true then,” murmured the General, “so I suppose the rest will be also.”

He went up to his writing-table, on which lay an open letter that he had received a quarter of an hour before from Herr von Wallbach. Bending over it in vague bewilderment, supporting himself by one hand on the table, he almost mechanically perused it again, then raised himself with a long-drawn breath and passed his hand over his bushy brows, as if trying to sweep away from his mind, like a bad dream, the fearful thing which he read there. Not merely what he read! between the lines there flitted to and fro terrible things which he himself had mentally inserted whilst he read, as in a bad dream the most dreadful part is not in the images which a terror-stricken imagination calls up, but in the expectation of horrors that are still to come. And yet! what more could come, when an alliance with the Werben family was declined as dishonourable! when satisfaction was denied to a Werben!

The latter point, as the most comprehensible, was that to which the unhappy man’s wandering thoughts returned and clung most persistently.

A betrothal broken off was a thing that had happened before and might happen again; it was a trifle even, a mere nothing, if only honour were untouched by it, if only Ottomar could stake his life upon his unimpeachable honour. Might not Wallbach’s cowardice—he had always thought the man a coward—be taking advantage of Ottomar’s difficulties, which “had reached a height and assumed a character that made it dubious, at least, if Herr von Werben were still entitled to demand satisfaction as an officer and a gentleman, or even from the standpoint of ordinary honesty.”

This must be cleared away! He had thought since that last affair, when in the autumn he had paid the bills which had come into his hands, that everything was settled, since no more bills had been presented to him—he had erred, grossly erred. Ottomar in his need had drawn more bills—he himself was the cause of Ottomar being in such need!—why had he at that time so sternly refused him any further assistance? Might he not have known that such embarrassment cannot be at once ended? that when a man’s true friends refused their assistance he would turn to false friends who would ruthlessly make profit out of his position, as had evidently been the case here? No matter, no matter! all should be forgiven and forgotten, if Ottomar would only confide in him again, would only allow him to put things straight for him again, as he had so often done. But could he do so? Counting all that he possessed, he could not make up more than about ten thousand thalers. That might not be enough; as much again might perhaps be wanted; it should be found then, it must be found—it must! Ottomar had evidently sent his man for his sash that he might make the necessary communication to his colonel of what had occurred. Herr von Bohl would of course require that the money difficulties should be settled before bringing the matter before a court of honour. He himself would then become surety to the fullest extent for Ottomar’s debts; their old friend would for once—once more! not look too closely into it; he would accept the surety and let the matter rest till all was settled. If only Ottomar would not now, at this very time, let himself be led into taking steps—that must be the meaning of the obscure part of Wallbach’s letter; what else could the man mean?—steps which could only increase the difficulty of arranging the business. That an officer should put his name to a bill with the most exorbitant interest—that was, alas! for Ottomar no new thing! The fact that he had sent for plain clothes as well as for his sash appeared to point to some such intention. There was not a moment to lose! he had lost only too many in his first bewilderment! The General rang the bell. He was himself in plain clothes this morning, as he usually had been since his retirement; he would put on his uniform. It would take him a few minutes longer, but he always felt a little want of confidence without his uniform, and there must be no want of confidence today. As August still did not come after he had rung a second time, he was about to go to his bedroom, when there came a knock at the door, and on his irritable “Come in!” Captain von Schönau entered the room.

“I beg your pardon, General,” said Schönau, “for coming in unannounced, but I did not find your servant outside, and my errand here will bear of no delay.”

The perfect calmness and concentrated energy which generally marked the Captain’s well-cut features had given place to an expression of the deepest anxiety and trouble.

“You come about Ottomar’s affairs?” said the General, mastering his fears, and stretching out his hand to the Captain.

“Yes, General, and I beg and implore you to allow me to keep silence as to how I obtained my knowledge of the state of his affairs. But the state is this, that without any delay whatever, and before the matter comes to Herr von Bohl’s knowledge, those bills of Ottomar’s which are due today, and are in the hands of a banker here, whose address I know, must be paid. I know also the total of them. The sum is large, so large that so far as I know, General, neither you nor I alone could pay it; but together we might find it possible if, as I do not doubt, you will put at my disposal all that you can lay your hands upon, and will allow me to take the further management of the affair into my own hands and deal with it as if it were mine.”

Schönau had spoken with decision, but in breathless haste, and the General could not doubt but that the Captain’s thoughts had taken the same direction as his own. So long as Ottomar was left to himself, and attempted to save himself in his usual fashion, any delay could only increase the difficulties of his position, perhaps make it impossible for his friends, with the best will in the world, to help him. However painfully his pride was wounded by the conviction that he could not avert the threatening danger by his own efforts, he had made up his mind, even while Schönau was speaking, to accept the help so generously offered to him, supposing that he found it possible to repay the debt thus incurred. This he expressed in the fewest words, at the same time explaining the state of his finances and naming the sum which at the utmost could be raised upon the security of his interest in his house.

“Will that suffice!” he asked, “and for how much shall I be indebted to you?”

“It will suffice,” said Schönau; “and I only ask now for a line to your banker, giving me full powers.”

“You have not answered my last question,” said the General, as with rapid pen he wrote the required words.

“I must beg you to excuse me from answering,” replied Schönau; “be satisfied that the remainder does not surpass my means, and that it will be an honour and a pride to me to be able to serve you and your family.”

The young man’s steady clear voice faltered as he said the last words.

As the General continued writing, he remembered that amongst their friends Schönau’s and Elsa’s names had been often coupled together in jest, with the regret that it might not be done in earnest, as the two were far too good friends ever to fall in love with each other. He had shared this view, not without some regret. Could he have been mistaken? Could Schönau—it would be no detraction from his generosity—be offering help less to the father of his friend than to the father of the girl he loved? In the excited state of his mind these thoughts had taken no more time than was required to carry his hand from the end of one line to the beginning of another; and moved by the sudden consideration, he stopped in his writing, and looked up at Schönau who stood by him.

A sad smile played round the Captain’s firmly-closed lips.

“Do not stop, General,” said he; “I desire and expect nothing, I assure you, but the continuation of your friendship and that of your belongings.”

The General compressed his lips and went on writing. It was bitter—most bitter to him to have to take everything from the full hands of this generous friend, with no power of returning to him anything from his own empty ones—it was too bitter! A cloud came over his eyes; he was forced to break off.

“There is nothing but the signature wanting,” urged Schönau, leaning over his shoulder.

“I cannot do it, Schönau!” said the General.

“I implore you,” cried the Captain, “life and death hang upon it—oh! my God!”

Startled by a sound at the door, he had turned and saw Colonel von Bohl enter the room.

“Too late!” muttered Schönau; and then, with a desperate effort to save what was already lost: “Your signature. General!”

But the General had turned round, and had seen the Colonel. Ottomar then had been to him already—had told him everything; the affair could go no further without consultation with his commanding officer.

The Colonel’s usually severe military aspect had the stamp of a solemn gravity upon it now, as he said, after briefly apologising for his intrusion:

“Have the goodness, my dear Schönau, to leave us. I have a communication to make to the General which will admit of no delay, and which I must make without witnesses.”

A word trembled upon Schönau’s lips, but he restrained himself, and only bowed and said:

“Certainly, Colonel!” and then turning to the General: “May I ask permission to pay my respects meanwhile to Fräulein Sidonie!” then, after a little pause: “In case you should wish, however, to see me again, I think my visit will be a long one.”

He bowed again and went. The General looked after him with fixed, terrified eyes. Evidently there was some understanding between Schönau and the Colonel, although they had not spoken to one another yet; evidently both knew something that Schönau had not said, and that the Colonel had now come to say. He shuddered as before when he had laid down Wallbach’s letter; again there came upon him that agony of fear, only now it was no longer lingering at the threshold; now it had come close to him in the person of this iron soldier, in whom, though he had never formed any intimacy with him socially, he had always seen and honoured the pattern of a soldier after his own heart. The door was shut behind Schönau.

“I know all,” cried the General; and said to himself, at the same moment, that he had spoken falsely.

The Colonel shook his head.

“You do not know all, General; Schönau could not tell you all, or rather, as I suspect from his manner, would not tell you all.”

“Then I am prepared for anything,” said the General in a hollow voice.

Again the Colonel shook his head.

“I wish you were, but I think it is impossible. You must be prepared for the worst; your son’s bills, which fall due today, are all forgeries.”

The General fell back as if he had been shot, his hands convulsively grasping the air. The Colonel sprang forward to save him from falling, but with a frightful effort the unhappy man recovered himself before the other could touch him, and stammered: “I—I thank you—it is over—it is—”

He could say no more, he could bear no more, but fell back into his chair, pressing his cold hands to his throbbing temples, and muttering with bloodless lips: “It is all over—all over!”

The Colonel, who could only with great difficulty retain his own composure, drew forward a chair, and said:

“It is terrible, I can offer you no word of consolation, for I know only too well that you will not take it as an extenuating circumstance that it was your name, his father’s name, in and by which the fraud was carried out.”

“You are right, quite right,” said the General; “the fact is irrelevant—absolutely irrelevant.”

Had he understood? Did he know what he was saying? The Colonel, who had not taken his eyes off him, almost doubted; the dark eyes, usually so steady, stared vacantly into nothing; the voice that had formerly been so strong and decided, sounded harsh and wavering as if his mind were giving way; the Colonel thought it best to recall him to a sense of the reality, however terrible, by a relation of the circumstances.

He related, therefore, in his dry way, that Ottomar had come to him at about ten o’clock, and had immediately on his entrance announced to him, with the calmness of utter, hopeless despair, that he had that morning sent a challenge by Herr von Lassberg to Herr von Wallbach, on account of certain reports, now current in society, concerning on the one hand his relations with Fräulein Ferdinanda Schmidt, and on the other Fräulein von Wallbach’s conduct with Count Golm, which reports could only have originated with Herr von Walbach. That Herr von Wallbach, without further reference to the truth or untruth of these reports, or to his share in spreading them, had refused satisfaction, until Herr von Werben had cleared himself from the suspicion of having lately made use of improper methods to free himself from his money difficulties. He, Herr von Wallbach, would of course be ready to give satisfaction for this insinuation touching his honour in case it should not be substantiated.

“Unfortunately,” continued the Colonel, “Herr von Wallbach was but too sure of his facts. His informant, whose name, I know not from what consideration, he refused to mention even to Herr von Lassberg, could only be, according to your son’s assertion, the very man with whose assistance this miserable fraud has been carried out; a man whose name, if I remember rightly, has been often mentioned lately in the Wallbach circle—Signor Giraldi.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the General. “My son could not—impossible!”

“I beg your pardon, General,” said the Colonel, “I am repeating to you exactly the account which I received from your son’s mouth, and which I believe to be perfectly truthful. According to him, from the first moment of their acquaintance, Signor Giraldi manifested the most lively interest in your son. Herr von Werben intimated also that Signor Giraldi had known and encouraged his passion for a certain lady; but he did not go further upon this point, only added that these, as he believed, equally treacherous efforts had proved absolutely useless. Although from his agitation Herr von Werben’s account omitted some details, I must suppose that he has been, with regard to his money affairs, also the innocently guilty victim of a villain who has mercilessly made use of his unsuspicious and blind confidence for ends which escape my comprehension. It seems that Herr von Werben’s evil genius recommended him, as the easiest means of freeing himself from his difficulties, to speculate on the Exchange, under a feigned name of course; that he enticed him into the wildest speculations, allowed him to win two or three times at first, till suddenly the luck changed and turned more and more against him; and then, as usual, bills had to be given, to which at first your son’s name was put, and afterwards, as the sums grew larger, yours, General, was forged, with the help of the credit which Signor Giraldi enjoyed, although he declares himself to be without any available means. That the bills might not come into your hands too soon, they were lodged at first with various bankers, and finally with one alone whose name has unfortunately escaped me. Signor Giraldi undertook to meet them regularly as they fell due, and promised of course to meet them also today when the enormous sum of twenty thousand thalers is due. Herr von Werben of course went at once, on the receipt of Herr von Wallbach’s answer, to Signor Giraldi’s hotel; Signor Giraldi had left in the night. From that moment Herr von Werben seems to have given up the case as hopeless. Signor Giraldi had, as you may suppose, most distinctly engaged to receive him at this hour; the people of the hotel declared that he had not so much as mentioned his destination; it was only when Herr von Werben, whose suspicions were aroused by the porter’s manner, offered him a considerable bribe, that he learned from the man that Signor Giraldi had gone to Warnow, where letters were to be forwarded to him. With despair in his heart he hastened to the banker, to hear only what he had expected: that Signor Giraldi had made no arrangements for meeting the bills, which however had not yet been presented, but on the contrary had withdrawn from the bank yesterday afternoon the remainder of the very large sum—half a million, if I mistake not—which he had deposited with them. Half an hour later Herr von Werben was with me.”

The Colonel paused; he could no longer endure the sight of the General, who still stared straight before him like a man bereft of his senses. What was he brooding over? Undoubtedly upon the final end of the story, and undoubtedly also upon the same brief and bloody end which in his innermost heart he felt to be unavoidable. But this man was the father! he had not fully considered that before. He had not allowed himself to put forward any extenuating circumstance; now he ransacked his mind for any such circumstance, for any sincere word of comfort even in which he could himself have faith.

But he found none.

“Shall we ask Schönau to come in again?” said he.

The General lifted his fixed eyes, evidently not understanding why the Colonel should ask the question, having probably forgotten that Schönau was still in the house.

The Colonel did not wait for his answer, but rang the bell and desired August, who immediately appeared, having been in the kitchen giving vent to his grief to the old cook, to summon Herr von Schönau. The Captain meanwhile had been passing a most uncomfortable half-hour. With the terrible certainty that he had come too late, and that Ottomar was lost, now that he had officially informed his commanding officer of his misconduct, and that the latter, as was to be expected from his opinions and his ideas of honour, had acquainted Ottomar’s father with what had occurred; with the miserable anxiety which increased every moment till it became an unspeakable terror, that now—now—at this very moment might happen, perhaps had already happened, what must plunge his loved and honoured friends into unutterable grief, it was too painful to have to keep up a conversation with the good-humoured, unsuspecting, and talkative old lady upon indifferent or tiresome subjects, such as the bad weather, the next ball at court, or a doubtful passage in Malortie which had already cost the compiler of “Court Etiquette” several sleepless nights.

“And, before I forget it,” said Sidonie, “have you heard yet of the shocking thing that happened last night, and of which, people tell me, the whole town is talking? I am sorry for our neighbour, poor Herr Schmidt; he is a very respectable sort of man I am told, and he keeps a manservant who is—only think, my dear Schönau!—a cousin or something of the sort of our August, and August told us—my brother and me—since Elsa has been away he always takes his coffee with me, which he used not to do, but he is always so kind and attentive—What was I saying, my dear Schönau? oh! yes; it is another proof to me that nothing but harm and evil can come out of societies that have once imbibed the poison of democratic tendencies. A young man who has been educated in those pernicious principles has no safeguard in the critical moments of his life such as religion and family honour, thank God, afford us. At such moment he seizes—not I dare say without some struggles—for after all we are all children of God, however few of us walk in His ways—but still he seizes upon improper, doubtful, desperate, and even criminal means. Millions, so I am told, he has stolen from a safe entrusted to him; and then to take flight at the very moment when he was giving a large party. What recklessness! what a want of the most ordinary delicacy, although, quite between ourselves, my dear Schönau, I do not think it particularly delicate of us to take part in festivities which end in such a way. I indeed might triumph, for what in the world could prove better than such occurrences how necessary is the existence of well-ordered small courts, as schools of morals and manners, of chivalry and true goodness, to our distracted and increasingly democratic society? But heaven forbid that I should feel such pride! My sentiments are those of silent grief and tender pity, all the more that, as you know, Ottomar also could not deny himself this equivocal pleasure. When the models of modern chivalry go and dance at Herr Schmidt’s, Herr Schmidt himself, indeed, is none the better for it, as we see, since a crow will always remain a crow; but the swans, my dear Schönau, I only ask you, can the swans retain their purity in such company?”

Schönau was spared the necessity of answering, as August here came to summon him, and he took his leave in a way which so little agreed with his usual irreproachable demeanour, that Sidonie, as the door closed behind him, shook her head, and opined that her little lecture would not come amiss to the Captain.

“I beg your pardon, Captain,” said August, as they crossed the hall to the General’s room.

Schönau looked round.

“I beg your pardon, Captain, but I am sure something has happened to our young gentleman. Could not you let a faithful servant, sir, who has been eight years in the family, and would go through fire and water for the General, or the Lieutenant, or our young lady, know what it is?”

The tears were rolling over the honest fellow’s cheeks, and Schönau’s own eyes were moist.

“No,” said he, “I cannot tell you. We must hope that all may yet be well.”

He gave August his hand.

“God grant it!” said August, wiping his eyes with the other hand; “I don’t think man can do much. But I wanted to say, too, if you wished, sir, to speak to our young gentleman, he will be at the lady’s in ——— Street—you know, sir.”

When Schönau entered he found the two others sitting in silent meditation. At a sign from the Colonel he sat down, but, as the youngest, did not venture to break the unnatural stillness. At last the General raised his head; he seemed to the Captain to have grown years older, and his voice was dull and toneless like that of an old man.

“You are aware, Captain, what—on what account—”

The words came with difficulty from his throat.

“Yes, General,” said Schönau. “Herr von Wallbach came to me this morning, with the acknowledged purpose of justifying his conduct in the eyes of Ottomar’s friends and those of his family. He was evidently playing a carefully prepared game. For while he skilfully avoided every expression which could directly accuse Ottomar, I could plainly perceive by every word that he was absolutely certain of his facts, and that Signor Giraldi had initiated him into the minutest details of this unfortunate affair. From him also I learned the sum at stake, and the name of the banker who held the bills, who happens to be also my uncle’s banker, and with whom I am personally acquainted through business which I have transacted for my uncle—Messrs. Haselow & Co. I hastened there at once, but came too late; Ottomar had just been there. I am sorry to say that his only too easily explained agitation and his distracted questions have at least startled those gentlemen, but I am convinced that I allayed any doubts by asserting positively—I was obliged as matters stood to take the liberty, General—that before this evening all bills due should be taken up. I intended then, when I had collected the money with your assistance, sir, to pay these bills, and—”

The Captain hesitated.

“To save a swindler from his just punishment,” said the General, without looking up.

“To save a man whom I venerate beyond all men, from unmerited suffering,” returned the Captain.

“That implies a reproach to me, Captain von Schönau!” said the Colonel, knitting his brows.

“Pardon me, Colonel, if I differ from you. I had here no office but that of friendship. You, sir, as Colonel, had received an official communication, of which you were obliged to take notice, the more so that the idea of an arrangement of the affair would not and could not strike you as it would me.”

“That is to say, if I understand you rightly, that as soon as the arrangement was effected you would have considered the affair at an end? I confess that, however painful it is to me, I cannot agree with you in that view.”

“Pardon me again, I did not intend to say that.”

“I should be much obliged to you, Captain, if you would communicate your opinion to me without reservation, in the presence of General von Werben.”

“I am obliged to you for the permission, Colonel; the whole thing turned for me upon the question of sparing as much as possible the General and his family, as they so fully deserve to be spared. This of course would require also that my friend should be spared to a certain degree. That is to say, the bills must be paid, as I hoped to be able to pay them with the General’s help, and they must be paid as the General’s bills. I should then of course have required that my unhappy friend should leave the service, under some pretext that might easily have been found, and should retire absolutely into private life.”

Schönau had raised his keen eyes imploringly to the Colonel, who, on his side, never turned his look from the speaker. He understood him now for the first time. In explaining his own plans the Captain had at the same time suggested the line which he wished his commanding officer to adopt as a guide to his action if not to his views. Even in this light the matter was one of great gravity, the Colonel felt and knew this well; but the sight of the venerable man before him so utterly broken down, the remembrance of Ottomar’s thousand proofs of courage before the enemy, and all the tender memories and compassionate feelings which crowded upon his mind, all told him that he had already gone to his utmost length, that he could do no more, that notwithstanding what he felt to be his duty, he must accept the compromise suggested by the Captain, at any rate must refrain from putting forward the reasons against it.

“Thank you. Captain,” said he; “I hope that, even as regards the claims of the service, this most unhappy affair may be settled as you propose. I am glad on this account, that in the first shock and bewilderment, as I must confess, of what might happen next, I gave Herr von Werben three days’ leave of absence, which he had requested on account of private affairs, though he entered into no particulars on the subject, nor did he confide to me the object of the journey which he must undertake in consequence. This leave of absence will be a very proper preparation for sending in his papers, which must be done at the same time with a notification of his wish to retire, and which I will undertake to support with the authorities. I only require first that the bills should meanwhile be settled by Captain von Schönau in the manner suggested.”

Schönau gave the Colonel a grateful look and rose. He would not hazard the unexpectedly happy result of the interview, and he knew too well that every word further spoken now might and would endanger it.

“I am already late for my work,” said he, “and I must go down to the Staff Office to ask leave of my chief for the day. I will then immediately settle the matter of the bills, if the General will have the goodness to give me his authority, and then, with your permission, inform Herr von Werben, whom I think I know where to find, of what has been decided here. May I ask you, General?” and Schönau pointed towards the table on which lay the unsigned power of attorney.

The Colonel had risen also.

“One moment, gentlemen,” said the General.

He walked up to the table, took the paper and tore it into two pieces, which he threw into the wastepaper basket.

It was done without any visible emotion, without any apparent thought of those present, as if someone alone in his study had torn up and thrown away a letter that had now become worthless. The Captain shuddered at the fall of the rustling paper, as a pitiful judge might do as he puts on the black cap.

“I thank you, gentlemen,” continued the General, who seemed to have completely recovered his self-possession; “you, Colonel, for the humanity which would have extended to another man’s son the mercy you would surely have denied to your own; you, my dear Schönau for the affection which would lead you to sacrifice not merely your fortune, but, like the Colonel, your conviction also.

“I cannot accept this sacrifice, gentlemen. One wrong figure spoils the sum, one false premise nullifies the conclusion. You must allow a father to draw the inference which you from friendship and compassion would not draw. If with the assistance of Captain von Schönau—for alone it would be impossible—I took upon myself my son’s fraud and thus—which God forbid!—allowed a man who is himself not rich, like you, my dear Schönau, to impoverish himself for the sake of a swindler, my son would then be allowed, there being nothing further against him, to retire with honour. His Majesty, our gracious commander-in-chief, would certify to the honour of a man, who, before God and his conscience, before his father and you, gentlemen, who cannot at this moment raise your eyes to me, is dishonoured. He could call to account those who doubted his honour, and there would be enough of them—his enemies would see to that—he who must acknowledge to himself that they are in the right, and that in the very act of demanding and receiving satisfaction he was perpetrating another deceit.

“And thus, gentlemen, the one lie—forgive me the word!—would call forth a thousand new lies; and we who sit here should have spun this web of deceit, and must leave those who become entangled in it without warning or aid.

“The situation is impossible, gentlemen! Impossible—even for my son. Guilty as he is, he cannot be so false to the blood of his ancestors as to determine to exist at the mercy of even his best and most generous friends; to live under the sword of the doubtful reputation that must precede and follow him whichever way he turned; to endure the scorn that any man might make him feel as he pleased, without the power of defending himself.

“And it is impossible—to me. Suppose to yourselves that I were the president of a court of honour which had to decide upon this case; forget for a moment that I am a father—and you would, you must answer me that it is impossible.”

“I cannot forget it!” cried Schönau wildly; “I cannot!”

“You must,” returned the General, “as the Colonel here has already done.”

The Colonel was in the most painful embarrassment. The General was undoubtedly right, and he would thus be released from a very difficult position; and yet! and yet!

“I have already expressed my most decided wish to arrange the affair without letting matters proceed to extremities,” said he, “I hope the General may yet persuade himself of the possibility of so doing, however difficult I allow such a solution may be. Meanwhile, Herr von Werben is on leave of absence. Bills of exchange have, if I remember rightly”—the Colonel attempted a smile—“three days’ law. Let us make use of this delay granted by the law; three days count for a great deal under some circumstances in the life of a man. Shall we leave the General alone now, my dear Schönau?”

The two officers went silently down the street, with their heads bent, and from time to time pressing on their caps more firmly, which the storm that raged through the streets threatened to blow away. At the corner of the cross street Schönau said: “I must take a carriage from here, Colonel.”

“You are going to him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is a hopeless case, my dear Schönau.”

“I fear so.”

“You will bring me news!”

“Certainly, sir.”

“It is eleven o’clock now; I shall be at home till two.”

The Colonel pressed the Captain’s hand with a warmth very unusual for him, turned up the collar of his overcoat, and went on down the street. Schönau’s cab drove quickly up the side street.

The General had remained standing at the door, to which he had accompanied the others, and listened mechanically to their steps upon the stone floor of the hall, then under the window of his room, and passing away down the street.

Now he could hear nothing more, excepting the storm which was raging without. They were gone, these men of the highest honour, the representatives of his class, gone after pronouncing sentence upon the dishonoured and unworthy member of that class.

And that sentence was—death.

Death by his own hand.

And his father must announce it to him.

No! not that; only confirm what he must have already said to himself; only say: “Your father agrees to what you have already decided upon, and may God have mercy upon your soul!”

He pressed his hands together, and heavy cold drops of sweat stood on his deeply-furrowed brow.

“Must it be? oh God, my God, have mercy upon me! must it be?”

But no word of comfort or hope came to him. All was dumb within him, in his burning head, in his panting breast, and through that dumb silence only the fearful words: “It must be!”

When August entered the room at the sound of the bell, the General was sitting, turned away from him, at his writing-table, leaning his head upon his hand. On the round table behind him, on which he used always to put his finished papers, stood a box, and on the box lay a letter.

August turned cold all over; it was the box in which his master kept the two beautiful old pistols which he had inherited from his father, and on which he set such great store.

“My son is obliged to undertake a long journey,” said the General; “and he will require my pistols. The key is in the letter. You will go to him at once, and take him the box and the letter; there is no further message, the letter contains everything. Afterwards I shall go away also; when you come back you will put up my things for a few days’ absence.”

“Very well, General,” said August, merely to say something, and so perhaps to get free of the horror which oppressed him.

With mechanical obedience he had carefully taken up the letter and box, and stopped at the door.

“Shall I say anything kind from you to the Lieutenant, sir?”

There was a few moments’ pause before the answer came.

He mustered all his courage:

“Tell him, I hope to God to be with him soon again.”

The faithful servant breathed again. He was satisfied now; whatever had happened between the General and the Lieutenant must be something very bad, much worse than it had ever been before, but if the General hoped to meet the Lieutenant again, and that very soon too, there was nothing to break one’s heart over, and it would soon be all right, as the Captain had said indeed.

But when August had left the room, the General let his head fall upon his clasped hands, and so sat for a long time, while his whole frame was shaken at times as if with ague, or at others a dull groan was forced from his oppressed breast, as he prayed for his son’s soul, and took leave of that son of whom he had been so proud, and who might no longer live now with the shame that he had brought upon himself; the son whom he had so dearly loved, and whom he still loved, oh! how dearly!

At last he rose, an old, broken-down man, with but one thing more for him to do on earth.

For that, he knew that his strength would suffice.

And not trembling and with burning tears as he had loaded the pistol which he sent to his son, but with a steady hand and rigid flaming eyes did he load the second, with which to shoot down the scoundrel who with devilish cunning had enticed his son to disgrace and death.

II

Ferdinanda had gone today, as usual, at her accustomed hour to the studio, and had even attempted to work; but, in spite of the determination which she had long exercised in subduing her talent to her will, and the success which had often attended her efforts, the struggle was vain today, and she threw down her tools again.

“For the last time,” said she to herself.

She had meant for today; but the words, as she spoke them aloud, sounded strangely in the great, high room, as if not she but someone else had said them—a ghostly, prophetic voice speaking from far off, that left her standing and listening in terror lest the voice should speak again.

What need was there of a prophetic voice to convince her of what her own broken heart had said long since?

It was all in vain—her efforts, her struggles, her renunciation, vain—even the tender remonstrances, the gentle warnings, the bright example of the saintly Cilli herself!

How often and often, when that angelic being had left her, had she thrown herself in the dust before the Pietà, which she had modelled two months ago from her, and prayed that the all-merciful love with which the heart of the blind girl overflowed might descend upon her heart too, if it were only a drop! Even that would suffice to extinguish the flames that raged there! But in vain.

Yesterday evening would have proved that, had proof been needed.

How she had debated whether she would accept that girl’s invitation, and see him again whom she had solemnly sworn never more to see! She had kept her oath, and had fled at the last moment.

But was such a flight to be called a victory? Had she not been conquered—did she not lie here helpless, shattered, bleeding? Her deadly wound had never been healed, only insufficiently and with difficulty bound up; and now she had torn off the bandages, and might bleed to death! There was no more hope for her.

All else within was dull, dead, and insensible. She had fancied that she felt a kind of respect for Philip’s activity and daring—that she was bound to him by at least a feeble bond of fraternal love. And yet this morning, when Aunt Rikchen had brought the terrible news, and had wept and lamented so that it might have moved a heart of stone, she had not even been touched. She had received it like any other piece of sensational intelligence which her aunt was in the habit of reading out of the newspaper and making remarks upon. She seemed turned to stone in the selfishness of her passion, so that it had not even occurred to her to go to her father and say to him, “You have still one child, father.”

But could she have said that without lying—was she still at heart the child of the man who, in an hour of madness, had obtained from her that letter of renunciation, every syllable of which had been like a poisoned arrow in her heart? Had he attempted to compensate her, in some measure at least, for so enormous, so unsurpassable a sacrifice, by multiplying his own love to her a hundredfold? Perhaps his pride forbade him that, or he shrank from hers, which he knew so well. Well, then, she was well acquainted with his pride too. She could see his expression if she went to him in his room; she could hear his voice saying, “You have come to me about that wretched man; I wish to hear nothing more about the matter than is, unfortunately, necessary for me to hear. In my house at least I may be spared; so as you have come to see me at last, talk of something else.”

No, no, her father did not need her; and for herself! others might importune him with their troubles, and humble themselves before him—her proud father’s prouder daughter would sooner die a martyr at the stake!

Cilli was better off. She was sitting now beside her father’s sickbed, and listening patiently to his childish complaints of how foolish he had been to believe in Philip, and how just was the punishment that the savings of many years, so carefully accumulated in a thousand frugal ways, and by unceasing self-denial through so many long years, should have been lost in one night, with the millions of the gambler on whose cards he had staked his little fortune! Then she would comfort the old man, and believe every word that came from her pure lips. And in secret she had another comfort, at which she only hinted sometimes in mysterious words, as if she were ashamed of such divine help—the comfort of believing that, as one consecrated to early death, she needed no earthly consolation.

She might well be secure of that consolation! How transparent her white skin had grown in the last few weeks; how spiritually beautiful the expression of her pure features; how unearthly the look of her great, blind eyes!

Oh, how happy she was! To die so young, before the faintest stain had marred even the hem of her white robes! To find above, if there was anything above—and for her there must surely be—a heaven which she had already created for herself on earth in her pure, humble heart! To rise from joy to bliss—from light into glory! Oh, how happy she was!

And she herself, most miserable! That world above was only a beautiful fable to her ever since her restless brain had begun to work behind her burning brow. Her passionate heart had once desired to possess all earthly joy as the sea receives into its bosom the streams which roll gleefully and exultingly into it, and now it was pining away like the barren desert under a sky of brass; and her vigorous form seemed made to drag the weary burden of life through the never-ending years to a far-distant, desolate grave, like some captive hero who, bending under the heavy load bound upon his strong shoulders, may not hope to break down or fall beneath the lash of his driver like his weaker companion, but must throw away his load, and turn upon his tormentors, crying, “You or I!”

But there was no alternative here. Death was very sure for those who did not fear it!

Did she fear death?

She!

With this chisel, with the first tool from off her table, she would accomplish it with her own hand, if—

If within her deepest, inmost heart, where some spring that she had thought dried up must still be bubbling, a siren voice had not wailed and whispered: “Do not die! for so you would kill me, the last and mightiest of all the sisters. Only one moment is mine, and there is night before me and after me; but this one moment surpasses the bliss of eternity!”

In the next room to her had been noise and whistling and singing the whole morning, louder than usual, as the master had been absent today; and there had been much talk as to whether, when there was a Mrs. Sculptor—some wit had suggested this—things would be quite so lively in the studio. Now all was still, only the storm howled and raged round the silent house, and shook and rattled the tall windows.

How had he endured the disappointment of yesterday? Was he raging like the storm without? Was he the storm? Was it he who tapped at the windowpane, and knocked at the door? Good heavens! there was really a knock at the door! Was it possible! had he at last, at last broken the final fetter, and come here to carry her away?

With trembling limbs she rose, her heart beating as if it would break in joyful terror.

There again! at the closed window now! and was there not a cry, “Ferdinanda?”

With a shriek she rushed forward, tore back the bolts, flung open the door: “Bertalda! Good God! he is dead!”

“Not yet,” said Bertalda, “but he is not far off it.”

The girl’s usually laughing rosy face was pale and changed; she was breathless from the haste she had made, and could hardly bring out her words, as with trembling knees she sank into the nearest chair.

“He is ill! where? in your house? for God’s sake, Bertalda, speak!”

Ferdinanda stood before the girl, pressing her hands in hers, and putting back the ruffled hair from her brow.

“Speak! speak!”

“There is not much to say,” said Bertalda, raising herself up, “only you must come with me at once, or he will shoot himself. He wanted to do it before, and now his own father sends him a pistol to do it with! There is an officer—Schönau is his name—with him now; but those sort of people talk such nonsense—America! I dare say! He will never leave my room if you do not come to him and tell him that you would remain with him if he had forged his father’s name for a hundred thousand instead of this miserable twenty thousand. Why, my goodness! an Englishman once offered me forty thousand, but I didn’t like him, so there was an end of it; but these men are all like children with their foolish ideas of honour. I only tell you that you may not be startled by anything, because you, too, are so absurd about such things, and if you only look—There! you are just like the others; you are heartless, the whole lot of you.”

Bertalda said all this behind Ferdinanda’s back, as the latter after her first words was moving wildly about the studio, looking for her things, and now stood still with her hand pressed to her forehead.

“If only I were you,” said Bertalda, “I would go with him to the devil if he would take me. He is not wise, he would get more from me than from you. Why did I sit with him and comfort him all night long, when I was dead tired and might have been sleeping in my comfortable bed—or on the sofa even, or the carpet?—it would be all the same to me, if only the poor boy were at ease. And this morning again! I should like to see the woman who would go through it for her husband! That would be a fine fuss! and I, like a good-humoured fool, agree to everything, and persuade him instead of shooting himself to go to Sundin, and farther on—I don’t know the name of the place—and shoot Count Golm, merely to change the current of his thoughts, for he does not care one bit about his so-called betrothed—and then I rush headlong here, and—well, what do you want?”

Ferdinanda had hardly heard or understood a word of Bertalda’s rambling speech. She had been pulling out and ransacking drawers from the desk which stood in a corner of her studio near the window, and now sitting down opened her blotting-book.

“What are you about?” repeated Bertalda.

“I have enough to begin with,” said Ferdinanda, still writing; “a thousand thalers! There! take up the packet—thank God! I only received it yesterday.”

“That is always something to begin with,” said Bertalda; “I had already offered him what I had, but of course he would not take it from me. But do let that scribbling alone. What are you doing now?”

“Here!” cried Ferdinanda.

She folded the paper on which she had been writing, and held it out to Bertalda.

“What am I to do with it?”

“Take it to my father, whilst I go to Ottomar.”

“Oh! I dare say!” said Bertalda. “I am not generally afraid of people, but I won’t have anything to do with your father. Just leave it there. Someone will find it and give it to him, and if not it can’t be helped.”

“I will give it to him,” said a gentle voice.

Ferdinanda started up with a cry, as she saw Cilli, who had entered as usual by the door which led from the studio into the narrow passage between the house and garden, and unnoticed by the others had been present for some minutes, and had heard with her quick ears every word of the latter part of their conversation.

“Oh! my better self, my good angel,” cried Ferdinanda; “you are come to tell me that I am doing right, that I may, that I ought to follow him as my heart tells me, through shame and grief, through misery and death!”

“And may God be with you!” said Cilli, laying her hands on Ferdinanda’s head, who had thrown herself on her knees before her;—“with you both! He only asks for love, and yet again for love, the love that beareth all things. You can now—you can both now prove that your love is true love! Give me the letter to your father! and farewell!”

She bent down and kissed Ferdinanda on the forehead, as the other rose sobbing and gave the letter into her hand.

“You look so pale, Cilli, and your dear hands are cold as ice. Is your father very ill?”

“He is very ill; but the doctor says he will get over it. He is asleep now—Aunt Rikchen is with him, so I have plenty of time.”

She smiled her own sad sweet smile.

“And now, farewell! for the last time!”

“Come,” cried Bertalda impatiently; “come, we have lost only too much time already! Whatever you want besides I can supply you with.”

Ferdinanda was forced to tear herself away from Cilli. In her own passionate way she had learned within the last few weeks to love, and honour, and even worship the fair being who had come to her, as the good Samaritan came to the wounded man in the burning desert sand. An inward foreboding warned her that this was a farewell forever, that she should never again behold these angelic features. And today the face in its transparent clearness seemed hardly that of an earthborn creature.

Was she who seemed fragile as a breath, who was like a ray of light from a better world upon this dark sinful earth, to take this earthly burden upon her slender shoulders, to touch with her pure hands these dark sorrows.

“I will go to my father myself!” cried Ferdinanda.

“Then you may just as well stay here altogether,” said Bertalda.

“Go, go!” said Cilli.

And now again it was Ferdinanda who thought that Bertalda could not quickly enough put on the cloak which she had thrown off in the hot studio, or find the bonnet which she had flung down anywhere.

“I called a cab as I came,” said Bertalda; “it is waiting at the door; we shall be at my house in five minutes.” At the house door there were two cabs waiting.

Bertalda helped Ferdinanda to get into the first, and was in the act of following her, when the driver of the second carriage asked whether the gentleman was not coming.

“What gentleman?”

“The one who called me. Doesn’t he belong to you?”

“I know nothing about him,” said Bertalda, getting in and shutting the door behind her.

The vehicle was hardly in motion before Antonio came out of the house, with a broad-brimmed hat upon his black hair, and a large cloak over his shoulders—he had brought them both from Italy, and they were the first things which he had laid his hands upon—and with a small travelling-bag under his cloak into which he had thrust a change of linen. He rushed up to the driver of the second cab:

“I told you to wait at the corner!”

“I thought as there was another one at the door, and I had seen you run in here—”

“No matter—follow that cab—at the same distance that we are now, not a step nearer, and when the other stops, pull up!”

“All right,” said the driver, “I understand.”

III

The door closed behind the retreating figures, and Cilli was left alone in the studio. She sat down on a low stool, holding in her lap the paper which Ferdinanda had given her, and supporting her head upon her hand.

“He will not understand it,” she murmured; “he will be very angry; no one will understand it, not even Reinhold himself; even he could not feel with me as I feel. Oh! my poor heart, why do you throb so wildly! Can you not bear it a little longer, only a little longer! Let me fulfil this, it may be your last service!”

She had pressed her two hands against her bosom, as with stoical fortitude she bore the fearful pain, the agonising breathlessness caused by her palpitating heart, as had so often happened in the last few days. The terrible attack passed off, but the exhaustion which followed was so great, that she made several vain efforts to rise. She succeeded at last, and feeling for the table on which she knew a jug of water and glasses always stood, drank some water.

“I can do it now,” she murmured. And yet she often thought she must break down, as she languidly put one weary foot before the other, and slowly, slowly groped her way from the studio, and through the narrow path between the house and garden. As she passed the door of her own dwelling, she stood still and listened at the foot of the stairs which led to their rooms above. All was still, and her father was sleeping under good Aunt Rikchen’s care. He would not miss her; her poor father did not even know that her dearest wish, that she might die after him, and so remain with him till he breathed his last, and spare him the pain of seeing his child die, could hardly now be fulfilled. Her poor father! and yet not so poor as the proud lonely man to whom she was going.

She had reached the house and got as far as the carpeted marble stairs. A step came down towards her, and she stood still, leaning against the balustrade and smiling up at the newcomer.

“Dear Grollmann!”

“Good gracious, Fräulein Cilli! How came you here? And how ill you look! Dear me! you ought to go to bed at once!”

“I have no time for that, dear Grollmann, but I do feel very weak; will you help me up the stairs?”

“Why, where do you want to go?”

“To him—to Herr Schmidt.”

Grollmann shook his head.

“Dear Fräulein Cilli, you know that I would do anything in the world to please you, and particularly today, when you are in such trouble about your good father; but you really cannot possibly go to Herr Schmidt. If you want anything for your good father—and he has been asking after him already, although he has so many things on his mind—I will take an opportunity of saying it—”

“It is not about my father,” said Cilli, “nor about myself, but I have such difficulty in speaking, dear Grollmann.”

The old servant was awestruck as she raised her blind eyes to him. He did not venture another word of reply, not even to ask her what was that paper which she had slipped inside her dress, and led her silently and carefully up the remaining steps to the master’s door.

“Shall I announce you, Fräulein?” he whispered.

“Only open the door, dear Grollmann.”

The old man hesitated for a moment, and then opened the door boldly, guided the blind girl across the threshold with outstretched arm, without himself entering, closed the door behind her, and dropped into a chair close by, resting his chin upon his hands.

“I must take the poor child downstairs again,” he muttered; “she will not stay long.”

Uncle Ernst, who was walking up and down the room with his hands behind his back, lost in sullen meditation, had not heard the gentle opening of the door. Now, having reached the farther end of the room, he turned and started.

“Cilli!” he exclaimed with a long-drawn breath.

“Cilli,” he repeated, as he went up to her, where she silently awaited him.

He was standing before her, strangely moved by the contrast between the dark and dismal thoughts in which he had been plunged, and the angelic, radiant face into which he now looked; and his hand, which had taken hers, trembled, and his voice shook, as he led her to a chair and said: “What brings you to me, my child? Is your father worse?”

“I think not,” answered Cilli, “although I know that he cannot last long.”

“That is all stuff and nonsense,” said Uncle Ernst, the gentleness of his tone contrasting oddly with the rough words. “Those three hundred pounds would not have made you happy. And what have I done to him that he should be afraid that I would not take care of him and you if it came to the worst?—his Socialism—pooh! He will always remain for me what he is—one of the few honest men in a world of rogues.”

“I know how kind you are,” answered Cilli, “and I had meant to come to you this morning to thank you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done for us, and will do for my poor father when I am gone.”

“I will not hear anything about that,” said Uncle Ernst.

The ghost of a smile flitted over Cilli’s pale face.

“Death has an eloquent voice,” said she; “I trusted to that when I dragged myself to you, and hoped that my voice, which comes from a heart where Death has taken up his abode, might penetrate to your heart, which, stern as it often seems, is so good and kind to the poor and desolate, to the helpless and the unhappy.”

Her voice was so low that Uncle Ernst had some difficulty in understanding her. What did the poor child want? she had evidently something still upon her mind.

“Tell me what it is, Cilli,” said he; “you know that I can refuse you nothing, however difficult it might be to me to grant it.”

“You ought not to refuse me this, although it will be difficult to you; for you are very proud, and the noblest of the angels fell through pride, and your pride is bleeding already today from a deep wound—forgive me if I touch it—I know it must be painful, but our Lord upon the cross forgave His persecutors, forgave all men, and all who sin, however wise they may be in worldly wisdom, they know not what they do. But he who sins in men’s eyes because he loves, not himself but another, to whom his whole heart and soul belong, so that he no longer feels his own pangs but suffers a hundredfold from those of another—for such a poor loving soul every good man feels divine compassion; how should not a father then, who ought to stand in the place of the Father in heaven to His children on earth, and should be perfect even as the Father in heaven is perfect! Oh! have compassion upon Ferdinanda!”

She had slipped from her chair on to her knees, her hands crossed upon her breast, her sightless eyes turned to him who had always moved about in the darkness that surrounded her like a demon in his height and stateliness, but fearful also as a demon. Had her feeble voice reached the unattainable height where he was enthroned? or reached it only to unloose the storm, the thunder of his wrath, which she had so often heard rolling and raging above her head? Would he stoop down to her and raise her up, as he had raised so many from the dust, with his strong helpful hands? Then she heard—by his long-drawn breathing—that he was bending over her, and she felt the strong hands raise her and replace her carefully in her chair. She took his powerful hands in her own weak trembling ones, and guided them to her quivering lips.

“No, no, my child! You have spoken the truth, but I am not angry with you—not in the least. And that paper there, did she give you that!”

“I do not know what she has written,” said Cilli, taking the paper from her bosom, “You ought not to look at the words; they are wild, perhaps bad words! but how can a poor human creature know at such a moment what she does or says?”

He had hastily run his eye over the lines. “Ferdinanda has eloped—when?”

“About half an hour ago—perhaps more; I do not know exactly.”

“Did he carry her off?”

Cilli, from whom Ferdinanda had long had no secrets, mentioned Bertalda’s name and residence.

“So even this time it was not himself!” murmured Uncle Ernst with a bitter smile. “Thank you, my dear child, thank you for your honesty. I have always thought highly of you, I see that I did not think nearly highly enough. And now let me call my sister to take you back and see you into bed; I am sure you ought to be there.”

“She is sitting at my father’s bedside,” said Cilli; “she has been there these two hours. I can go very well alone.”

“Then I will take you.”

“If you are really grateful to me, if I am not to think that I have been here in vain, you have something else to do now; pray let me go alone.”

She rose from her chair and folded her hands again upon her bosom.

“Go alone then, if you really wish it.”

She moved slowly to the door, there stood still, and turning round raised both hands with an imploring gesture to him, as he gazed sadly and gloomily after her, then felt for the handle. The door opened from the outside. Grollmann, as before, stretched out his arm without crossing the threshold, received Cilli’s groping hand in his, and shut the door behind her.

“They are all leagued together against me for good or evil,” murmured Uncle Ernst; “Reinhold, Rike, that old man, all, all! And she, good child, who is probably worth more than all of us, she brings me this with her pure innocent hands—this!”

He stared fixedly at the paper which he held in his hand.

“I bid you farewell—forever! You do not need my love, and yours I have sufficiently experienced! You have crushed my heart and broken my spirit; you have ruthlessly sacrificed my heart, my soul, my love to your pride, as a fanatical priest slaughters the lamb at the altar of his gods. And that other—his father! Truly when the spirit has been killed, it is an act of mercy to kill the body! Wrap yourself then in your pharisaic virtues, enjoy your arrogant pride! For us, welcome disgrace! welcome shame! welcome death!”

“So be it then—death!”

He tore the paper in half, and tore the pieces again and again, flung the fragments on the floor, put his hands behind his back, and began once more to pace up and down the room as he had been doing when Cilli came in.

As he thus moved, with burning downcast eyes, he set his foot upon one of the fragments which were fluttering about here and there. He tried to put it aside, but only ground it deeper into the soft carpet. “Bah!” said he.

But yet he turned and took another direction through the room. At that moment an insecurely fastened window was blown open by the storm, and the fragments fluttered round about him like snowflakes.

“They want to drive me mad,” he cried out loud; “but I will not go mad! Oh Lord, my God! what have I done that Thou shouldst so persecute me! What more can we unfortunate men do than act according to our knowledge and conscience! Have not I done so, so long as I can remember? If our knowledge and our wisdom are imperfect, is that our fault? Why dost Thou punish us for that of which we are not guilty? Surely Thou art pledged to help us in time of need! If Thou hast spoken to me by the mouth of this poor blind girl, I will sacrifice my conviction, my understanding, I will be blindly obedient as a child—if Thou hast spoken to me by her!”

He pressed his hands against his throbbing temples; everything grew dim before his eyes; he staggered to the open window, offering to the storm which raged against him his burning forehead and his breast, from which he had torn open his shirt.

And through the raging storm he heard a voice crying: “Help! help!”

Did he only hear without, the echo of the cry within him?

But there—in the courtyard—was not that Grollmann rushing with uplifted hands from the open door of Justus’s studio towards the house? while “Help! help!” sounded clearly in his ear!

“That poor girl! Is it Cilli?” he cried.

But Grollmann did not hear him, and ran into the house; Uncle Ernst hastened out of his room.

“Lean well upon my arm, Fräulein,” said Grollmann, as he took charge of Cilli at the door. He would have given anything to know what she had been talking about so long with his master, but she was so fearfully pale, and her breathing was so quick and hurried, that he had not the heart to ask her any questions, even if the answer could have been given in one word. As they reached the top step she was obliged to stop, however; but she pressed his hand almost imperceptibly, it was all she could do, and smiled at him.

“That is as good as an answer,” thought the old man, and aloud he said:

“Now, don’t you speak another word, Fräulein Cilli; but if you would like me to carry you, just nod. I am an old fellow, and you might be my granddaughter.”

She smiled again, and shook her head; but he did almost carry her down the stairs and across the corner of the courtyard, into the narrow passage between the garden and the neighbouring house, till they came to the little back door leading into Herr Anders’ studio.

“Here,” said Cilli.

“Only a few steps more,” said Grollmann.

“I have already taken leave of my father,” said Cilli.

The old man did not know what she meant, and thought the poor child’s mind was wandering at last; but still he had not the courage to make any further objection as she pointed, with an imploring gesture, to the little door, as though wanting him to open it. He did so, and, extending her hand to him, she said:

“You may leave me now, and may God bless you!”

“And you, Fräulein!” said Grollmann.

But he hardly knew what he said, as, unable to tear himself from the doorway, he followed with his eyes the slender figure as, sometimes raising her arms for a moment, like a bird about to take wing, thought Grollmann, she moved amongst all the casts and models and the thousand and one things which crowded the studio, as if she really could see, thought Grollmann.

Near one of the two high windows, in the place where Herr Anders himself generally worked, stood a white marble bust upon a small pedestal. It was a portrait of Herr Anders’ betrothed, and Grollmann, who had lived so long among artists that he was something of a connoisseur himself, had been delighted with the portrait, as it grew more and more like every day—really a speaking likeness, Grollmann had said.

She went up to the bust, and remained standing there, Grollmann at first thought because she could go no farther, and must rest herself there, for she was leaning against it as if she could not stand alone. Then she raised her hands and stroked the face—her hands were as white as the marble—and nodded to it just as if she were talking to the bust, and kissed it as if it had been a living creature, and sat down upon the stool which stood near, and on which Herr Anders used to stand when he could not reach up to his figures, and leant her head upon the pedestal, and did not move again.

“Poor child,” said Grollmann, “she will fall asleep there and catch her death of cold; it is quite cold now, and there will be no more fire made up till the gentlemen come back at two o’clock. I must take her upstairs.”

So he came into the studio, and went up to her very gently—not that that was necessary, for he was quite determined to wake her if she had fallen asleep, but the nearer he came the more gently he moved.

And now he was standing by her.

“Poor thing,” he thought to himself, “she really is asleep already, with half-shut eyes, and how sweetly she is smiling! It really would be a pity to wake her. If I had a cloak or—there is a rug lying there!”

Grollmann moved a step forward, and struck against a board, which made a sudden noise. The old man turned round much annoyed—he had certainly awoke her. But her eyes were still half shut, and she was smiling as before.

“It is very odd,” thought Grollmann, and stooped nearer to the sleeper, and then raised himself, trembling in every limb, and ran as fast as his old legs would carry him out of the studio into the house after Aunt Rikchen, whom he had just seen going in, crying in wild terror, “Fräulein Rikchen, Fräulein Rikchen! help, help!” while yet he was saying to himself that no help could avail now.

But before he could get up to the good lady and communicate his terrible news, Justus and Meta had entered the studio from the other side.

IV

They were returning from a long expedition into the very heart of the town, where they had been wandering about since the morning, looking for a wonderfully-carved oak wardrobe which Justus had heard yesterday from his friend Bunzel, was to be found there in the possession of a broker. Meta, indeed, had humbly suggested that it might be wiser to go first to some large shop, there to choose and order their necessary furniture, and then to look for the fanciful part; but Justus had proved to her that the whole matter had begun with fancy, and that they could not be wrong in pursuing the same road a little further—firstly, because the road, on the whole, was particularly pleasant; and secondly, because the temptation of getting, probably for a mere song, a genuine Nuremberg wardrobe of the beginning of the sixteenth century, was not to be resisted by a true artist mind. Meta’s great good sense had, happily, seen the force of his reasoning, and so they had gone joyfully on their way.

But unfortunately this immensely-important conversation about the unique and priceless wardrobe had taken place yesterday evening at a period of the supper when friend Bunzel’s communications had begun to be somewhat wanting in lucidity, and the broker’s direction had consequently remained in an obscurity which Justus considered to be highly appropriate to the whole affair, and which gave it quite a local colour, but which still, in the interests of art, must be cleared up, and, if they put their wits and their understandings together, certainly soon would be cleared up.

So they drove on, at first through broad, straight streets, then through narrower and more twisted ones, till their driver, whom they had hired by the hour, declared that he had come as far as he could with his horse and carriage, and that if his fare took the matter as a joke, as they seemed to be doing, he did not see the fun of it; and that as for the “old wardrobe” of which they were always talking as they got in and out, he believed it to be nothing but a hoax.

“Heartless barbarian!” said Justus, as the cab rumbled on over the antediluvian pavement. “No ray of light has illuminated his benighted soul; he has no faith in the woodcarving of the sixteenth century—perhaps not even in Isaac Lobstein! How do matters stand with your heart, Meta?”

Meta replied that her heart was all right, but that she was beginning to feel very hungry. They had better try this one street more, and if Herr Isaac Lobstein did not live here, then she should certainly propose to beat a retreat.

And behold! their heroic perseverance was crowned by success; Herr Isaac Lobstein did live in the street, and was in possession of a wardrobe for sale, indeed a whole row of wardrobes, which all had the immense advantage over the cabinet that the young couple were looking for, of being brand-new; while as for oak, that was quite out of fashion, and not the right sort of wood either, as it made the furniture much too heavy, which in the changes of residence that “young couples” so often found necessary, according to all experience, was a very important matter.

And Herr Isaac Lobstein smiled so benevolently as he said all this in a tone of paternal remonstrance, that the “young couple,” feeling quite crushed, bought the first wardrobe that came to hand for a very considerable sum, and when they found themselves in the street again, looked at each other with very long faces.

“I think, Meta,” said Justus, “our driver was not far wrong. Hang that fellow Bunzel! but he shall pay me for this!”

And therewith he made so fearful and comically-furious a grimace, that Meta burst into a fit of laughter, in which Justus, after a moment’s consideration, joined her.

And during their long drive back to the studio, where Justus had to make some arrangements before spending the afternoon with Meta’s hostess, they were perpetually breaking into laughter again, although between whiles they were talking in all seriousness of the most weighty matters; Philip’s flight which was simultaneous with the breaking up of the company, and how with all the trouble which this break up had brought to so many people, it had done this good, that it had at last obtained consent to their marriage from Meta’s father, as Reinhold had foretold; and what effect the affair would have upon Reinhold and Elsa’s fate; and how poor Herr Kreisel, who had put his savings into Sundin-Wissows, had been quite off his head this morning from the shock, and trouble and anxiety for Cilli, whose future he now saw unprovided for, so that he had had to go to bed; and how foolish it was of the good old man, as he must know that his friends, and Uncle Ernst especially, would never forsake him or his dear Cilli.

On this topic they gradually became quite grave, especially Meta, who sat for some time quite still in her corner, till suddenly sitting up, she said:

“Do you know, Justus, we must take care of Cilli, for you know if she were not blind, dear thing, you would have married her, only that if she were not blind and could see what a dreadfully ugly old darling you are, she would not have been in love with you, for you know the poor thing is very much in love with you, as I am a little, you know.”

Herewith she threw herself into Justus’s arms, and cried as if her heart would break, and then laughed again as Justus suggested that she had better have both windows shut, so that he had much trouble in restoring her to anything like her natural self, as they crossed the court to the studio.

“For you see,” said Justus, “it is all nonsense, begging your pardon, though Reinhold did suggest something of the kind. You know better than other people that I am not overmodest, but as for Cilli, you see she is simply an angel. She has shown herself so more than ever lately, in the way she has borne with poor Ferdinanda, who really does not deserve it, as only an angel could. And it was not because she was blind that I did not fall in love with her, and would not have married her, but because I could only fall in love with and marry a human being, and you were the human being, and so—”

They had by this time entered the studio.

“Hush!” said Meta. “Don’t speak so loud; it sounds as if we were in a church here, you know, like that time when Cilli—oh! the poor dear is sitting there; I think she must be asleep.”

“Where?”

“There, under my bust.”

But Justus needed but one glance to see with his sharp artist’s eyes, that the sleep in which the pale angel form was lying, was the sleep that knows no waking.

His first idea was to spare Meta the sad sight, and he caught her hand to lead her away, but the shock which she saw expressed in his varying countenance had told her all more plainly than even the sight of the sleeping figure. She trembled all over, but she held fast the hand which he had given to her, and they went together up to the dead girl, and looked in solemn silence into the smiling face.

“She has been praying for us,” whispered Justus; “the last thought of her pure soul.”

Tears choked his voice. Meta threw herself sobbing on his breast.

“Oh! Justus, Justus, how we must love each other!”

A sound close by made them look up. It was Uncle Ernst, who had hastily entered by the open studio door, and seeing the strange group had been suddenly seized by a terrible misgiving of what had happened. He had come nearer to them, and stood now close behind them with his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes fixed upon the dead face.

Grollmann and Aunt Rikchen came next, Aunt Rikchen trembling, and often sobbing aloud, but valiantly struggling with her sobs and tears as often as they threatened to dim her eyes, proving the truth of what she had always maintained of herself, that in spite of everything she was a true sister of her brother, and that when there was any need for it, she would always be found at her post.

It was she who took all necessary measures with due forethought and decision; and only when the fair corpse had been laid upon a hastily-contrived bier to be carried into the other house, and she was about to follow, and her brother, who had let her do everything quietly, took her hand, and said with a long-drawn breath, “Thank you, Rikchen,” was the warm brave heart suddenly stirred to its depths, and she would have broken into loud weeping if Uncle Ernst had not said peremptorily, but in a kindly tone such as she had never heard from his mouth, “Let that be, Rikchen! There are so many things to be done still.”

“God knows there are!” thought Aunt Rikchen, but she did not say it, and followed the procession which was moving to the door.

But Uncle Ernst was standing again as before, with his arms folded across his breast, and looking fixedly at the spot where in his mind’s eye he still saw the same touching picture.

“Death was in her heart!” he murmured, “and she knew it. She said it so meekly, and I did not understand it. There are no more miracles, but there are signs given to those who have eyes to see. I asked for a sign!”

His arms relaxed their pressure, and two burning tears dropped from his eyelashes and rolled down his furrowed cheeks to his grey beard. He looked round timidly, but no one had seen him weep.

With his stately head bent low, but a step as firm as ever, he left the studio.

V

An hour later—at a few minutes before twelve—a carriage drove up to the departure-platform of the Berlin and Sundin railway station, and August jumped quickly from the box to assist the General. The General mounted the steps, while August looked round in vain for a porter.

“I told you so,” called the driver, handing the small portmanteau to August. “We ought to know!”

“Perhaps it is all the better so,” thought August, hastening after his master, who was standing in the empty hall at the booking-office, before the closed windows of which the green curtains had been let down.

“So the man was right after all,” said the General.

“Yes, sir,” said August.

A porter, who was passing by, confirmed the driver’s information. The day-train went at eleven o’clock since the first of this month. The next through train was at midnight, as before. A superior official now joined them, who had served in the regiment which the General had last commanded as colonel.

“If the General were in a hurry, as he seemed to be, there was another gentleman who had come too late a few minutes ago, and who had asked for a special. There would be some difficulty about it, as all the trains had been sent off today with two engines, on account of the storm which was said to be raging fearfully towards Sundin. And they were obliged to keep a few engines in reserve, in case of any accident happening, particularly as the telegraphic communication with Sundin was already broken off, and they could only get news in a roundabout way. Still something might be managed perhaps. The gentleman had just gone to speak to the stationmaster, who was out there by the goods sheds, but he would be back again directly. Would the General be good enough to wait till then?”

With these words the man opened the door of the first-class waiting-room for the General, who followed him mechanically. The other then said that he would himself go and see after the matter, and would bring him back word, and so left the room. August, who had followed with the portmanteau, asked if the General had any more orders.

The General told him to wait; he did not know yet what he should do, and August went away greatly disturbed in mind; it was the first time since he had been in the General’s service that he did not know what he was going to do.

The unhappy man was in fact in a state of mind bordering on madness. After the terrible reckoning with his son, all his remaining strength had been concentrated upon one idea—revenge, immediate, implacable revenge upon the wily villain, the hypocritical scoundrel who—he felt sure of it at heart, although his disturbed reason could not penetrate the details of the plot—had now robbed him of his son, as formerly of his sister, and heaped shame and disgrace upon the proud name of Werben. At the moment when, with this one thought in his mind, he entered the carriage which was to take him to the railway, two letters arrived, one by the post in Elsa’s handwriting, and a note brought by Schönau’s servant. He had opened Elsa’s letter at once, and hastily glanced at the few lines, but without really understanding the contents. How could he? How could he have sense, feeling, or understanding for anything in the world, before he knew what Schönau’s note contained? But he knew it already! It could be but one thing! Schönau had not ventured to come himself to say, “He is dead!”

He sat thus a long time, with the fatal note in his trembling hand, and at last, when they were close to the station, by a mechanical impulse he tore it open and read it, only to crush the paper in his hand afterwards, and thrust it into his pocket, while he leaned back in a corner of the carriage with a ghastly smile upon his pale worn face.

He was walking up and down now in the great empty room, from the looking-glass between the glass doors which led on to the platform, to the door into the entrance hall, and then back again, stopping only sometimes at the centre table in front of the little box which stood there, once even stretching out his hand to it, and then with a shake of the head pursuing his walk.

Was there any sense in it now? Might he not just as well have left at home his pistol, the caps for which were in his pocket! Or better still have remained at home himself, let things take their course, and people have their own way? At any rate confess to himself his helplessness in regard to things or men, and that he was a broken-down old man, good for nothing but to look on idly at the battle of life as others fought it out, however melancholy, perverse, and miserable the spectacle might be!

Melancholy for him whose heart was crushed and broken, even where formerly he would have looked with satisfaction—his Elsa’s happiness. It was not indeed the happiness of which he had dreamed for her, but to that he was resigned; it was not a brilliant lot which she had chosen for herself, but she loved the man, and, other considerations apart, he was worthy of her love. And it could not be helped either when a stranger knew her secret, that the whole world should know it at the same moment that it was confided to her father.

And yet! and yet! Why should it have happened just now, just today? She was not to blame, neither was he whom she would own as hers before all the world; but upon her name and his their nearest relations had heaped such shameful guilt, had so dragged both the humble and the noble name through the mire, that every beggar might tread upon them with impunity. Death would have atoned for so much, perhaps almost for all! The worst part of the disgrace would have been hidden in the darkness of the grave, and that which had been left behind on earth—the whispers of malicious tongues—would soon have been silenced! Had he required too much? Was death more bitter than the agony of mind which he had endured in these last terrible hours? And if it were, Ottomar must surely know how to die; he could not add to the disgrace of his forgeries, the thousand times greater disgrace of a cowardly flight. And could Schönau have given his consent to this shameful course? He had not done so with goodwill evidently; he hinted even at accompanying circumstances, which he could have wished omitted, but which appeared to have been unavoidable, though he could not take upon himself the responsibility of them. Could this man think and write so, whom he had often, and not merely in jest, called a knight sans peur et sans reproche? Had he so entirely misconceived his and the Colonel’s opinion? Did he remain the sole survivor of an earlier and better time, incomprehensible to the present generation as they were incomprehensible to him? What difference remained then between a nobleman and officer and an adventurer who runs away from his creditors, a clerk who flies with his master’s strong box—what difference between Ottomar von Werben and Philip Schmidt? There was none; the bankrupt tradesman and the aristocratic forger stood on the same level, only that the former might say, “I at least had not the face to compromise an honest man’s daughter, to morally compel my father to go to the girl’s father, and put himself in the humiliating position of being refused—brightly and wisely, as the result shows!”

To the General’s overexcited imagination the scene of that morning suddenly presented itself as if it had only happened an hour before. The day had been gloomy, like this day; the autumn wind had howled round the walls as the March wind was doing today, and the rain had pattered against the window just as it did now. It had been a terrible hour, when he had been forced to humble himself so deeply before the proud plebeian, even though the man himself bore the stamp of nobility—which nature can give and which life often confirms—upon his broad forehead, and on every feature of his fine and venerable countenance. If he should ever again meet this man, should have to endure the look of those deep, shining eyes, where, where could he turn his own?

The General, who had been standing, hardly knowing where he was, with his fixed eyes to the floor, looked up as one of the glass doors on to the platform opened with some noise, and the man whom he had just been seeing in his mind’s eye entered, and closing the door came towards him.

He passed his hand across his forehead. Had his senses really forsaken him? Was that the reason why this vision so little resembled the reality?—why the fire in the deep eyes was extinguished?—why the head, which had been held so high, was now bent low?—why the voice which now addressed him was not harsh with anger and hate, as it had been that morning, but a deep, gentle voice, gentle as the words he now began to understand, and which roused him to a sense of reality?

“I have just heard, General von Werben, that you also wish to go to Sundin; I must suppose, for the same business that takes me there. I have been promised a special train in half an hour. Will you do me the honour of making use of it also?”

The General’s stern, self-controlled countenance looked so distracted and wild with grief, the clear, commanding eyes looked so bewildered, so helpless, that Uncle Ernst could not but feel, as the other had done before, that he was now the stronger and more collected. With a courteous movement he pushed forward a chair to the General, who was leaning unsteadily against the table, and when he mechanically followed the suggestion, seated himself opposite to him.

“I take it for granted. General, that you have received Herr von Schönau’s letter, and that your presence here is the result of that letter?”

The General appeared not to have understood him, and, indeed, he had only heard the words. What did Herr Schmidt know of Schönau’s letter? He uttered the question as it crossed his mind. It was now Uncle Ernst’s turn to look up in surprise.

“Have you not received a letter from Herr von Schönau?”

“Yes.”

“Mentioning that your son—has gone away?”

The General nodded.

“An hour ago—from this station—to Sundin?”

“To Sundin?” repeated the General. Strange that he had not guessed that at once! If Ottomar intended to live, his first thought must naturally be revenge upon that scoundrel—or was it rather the last thing that he wished to accomplish before his death? He might have left it to his father; but, still, here was a gleam of light in the terrible darkness—a spark from the heart of the son, who was not, after all, so entirely lost, into that of the father. “It was not mentioned in the note,” said he. He had raised his head a little, and a feeble fire shone in his sad eyes; there was some look in him again of the iron soldier with whom Uncle Ernst had had that terrible passage-of-arms the other day.

“Not mentioned?” said Uncle Ernst; “but, good heavens—”

He broke off suddenly; his face darkened, and his voice sounded harsher, almost as it had done that morning, as he continued:

“Then in his brief note. Captain von Schönau probably did not mention the circumstance that Herr von Werben undertook the journey in question with my daughter!”

The General drew himself up at these words, like a man who was about sharply to resent an unexpected insult. The looks of the two men met; but while Uncle Ernst’s eyes blazed more fiercely, the General’s sought the ground, as, with a faint groan, he sank back in his chair.

“Miserable man!” he muttered to himself.

“You have to thank this circumstance—I mean the intervention of my daughter—that he is still alive,” said Uncle Ernst.

“I can feel no gratitude for that,” replied the General in a hollow voice.

“And that the father has not the son’s death upon his head.”

“The father would have been able to endure that responsibility.”

“So I should suppose,” muttered Uncle Ernst.

He sat for a few moments silent, and his looks also were now gloomy and downcast; but this was neither the time nor the place to renew the ancient feud. In a composed tone he said:

“If General von Werben did not know where Herr von Werben was gone, and that he was with my daughter, may I ask what brought him here?”

“I had intended to call to account the man whom I must suppose has brought ruin upon my son, as he has already brought ruin and shame upon my family. I confess that I hardly see any sense in this project now, and that I—”

The General made a movement as if to rise.

“Do not go, General,” said Uncle Ernst. “If time had permitted, I would have gone to you and asked the favour of an interview; now that chance—if we may call it chance—has brought us together, let us make use of this half-hour; it may spare us perhaps years of vain remorse.”

The General shot from under his bushy brows a dark, uncertain glance at the speaker.

“Yes, General,” said Uncle Ernst, “I repeat it—remorse; though we have neither of us had much opportunity yet of making acquaintance with such a thing. I think we may both bear witness of ourselves, without boasting, that we have all our lives long desired to do right, according to the best of our knowledge and conscience; but, General, since that first and only interview which I had with you, the words have been constantly ringing in my ear, and I hear them at this moment more plainly than ever, that I have indeed forgotten nothing, but have also learned nothing. It was a hard saying to a man like myself, whose highest pride had been to have striven from his youth up after a better and purer experience, after truth and light; and I put it from me, therefore, as an absolute injustice. But it has returned upon me again and again, all through these dark and gloomy winter months, day after day, and night after night, and it has gnawed at my heart till I almost went mad over it, for I thought I could not believe those words without giving up myself, without denying the sun at midday, or at least admitting that that sun had dark, very dark spots, fearfully dark for one who would joyfully have laid his head upon the block for its spotless purity. And yet, General, it was so. However the tortured heart might cry out against it, the relentless words would not be silenced: ‘You, who glory in having forgotten nothing, have lost the better part, and you have learned nothing.’

“This hard battle, General, in which I have nearly perished, and which has certainly shortened my life by many years, has continued till this very day, till this very hour. Even the shameless and disgraceful act of my son, with whom for years past I have lived in unnatural enmity, could not break my pride. ‘What is it to me,’ I cried, ‘if he drew poison from the honey, if, when I had made respect for foolish prejudices ridiculous to the boy, he later on lost all reverence for the sacredness of law? If my teaching that it was every man’s duty to stand upon his own feet and trust in his own strength was perverted by him into the doctrine that he who had the might had the right also to take all that his hand could grasp, and to tread under foot whatever was weak enough to allow itself to be trampled upon? He has been corrupt from his childhood,’ I cried, ‘let Nature be answerable for all that she has created in her dark recesses! What matters it to us who, out of the chaos where right and wrong, reason and folly, are wavering and mingling confusedly together, are striving after the light of absolute self-dependence? What matters it above all to the plebeian, to whom the aristocrat’s pride in his forefathers seems ridiculous? Let the children go their way! Why should the question of whither we go seem to us more worthy of inquiry than of whence we come, concerning which on principle we ask nothing? Pale spectre of family honour, write thy Mene Tekel on the walls of the prince’s palace, on the walls of the noble’s house, but attempt not to awe the free man who has no honour and desires no honour, but that of remaining true to himself!’

“And then, General, as I thus strove with my God—I believe in a God, General von Werben, Radical and Republican as I am—there crossed my threshold an angel, if I may so call a being whose heavenly goodness and purity seem to have no trace of earth, my clerk’s daughter, a blind girl, whom you have perhaps heard mentioned in your family circle. She came to tell me that my daughter had fled—fled with your son, to save him whom she loved with every fibre of her warm, passionate heart, to shield him from the death to which his own father, for what reason I knew not, had condemned him. But I had thrust the spectre from my door, I would not listen now to the angel’s soft voice, although a strange awe, which I could not account for, thrilled through me. The meaning was not long unexplained. The pure, pitiful words had been the last which that noble being had drawn from the strength only of her immeasurable love; a few minutes later the purest heart which ever throbbed in human breast had ceased to beat.”

Uncle Ernst pressed his hand to his eyes, and, suppressing his deep emotion by a powerful effort, continued:

“I cannot require of you, General, that you should share my feelings, and I will not waste the precious minutes in a detailed account of the steps which I have now taken, moved by a force which I have neither the power nor the wish further to withstand, in order to save what is perhaps not yet utterly lost. Suffice it to you to know that I have ascertained from the woman who has been your son’s confidante lately, and also, without knowing it, the tool of that dangerous man who is such an arch-enemy of your family—I have ascertained, I believe, nearly all that I need know of the sad history which has been played beneath our eyes, unobserved by us.

“Suffice it to you that I am convinced, not of your son’s innocence, it would be a lie were I to say that, and today more than ever we must have the courage to be sternly true to ourselves and to each other, but that he is not more guilty than a combination of unhappy circumstances may make a young man who, in spite of all his apparent knowledge of the world, is absolutely inexperienced, and whose heart, though no longer sinless, is not corrupt, but capable of noble impulses. And, General, if I have made to you, in whom I have always seen the impersonation of the principles most detested and abhorred by me, to you, above whom in my own self-righteousness I stood so high, a confession which has not been easy to my pride; if I have acknowledged that the principle of unbounded liberty and absolute self-dependence when carried to its extreme consequence may lead weaker spirits into error, must so lead them perhaps, as I see my two children erring now, one irrecoverably lost, the other only trembling on the edge of the abyss, into which some mere accident may precipitate her; have you, too, General von Werben, nothing to repent of, nothing to atone for? Have not the narrow fetters of aristocratic and military routine, in which you have tried to confine your son’s easily-led disposition, been equally fatal to him? To him who in a freer and lighter atmosphere might have happily and naturally unfolded the bright gifts of his clear understanding, the powers of enjoyment of his warm heart, and who now, compressed and confined by prejudices on all sides, entangled in hopeless contradictions, has gradually accustomed himself to look upon life so completely and entirely as a series of necessary and unavoidable contradictions, that his death at this moment would be only one more?

“A terrible and monstrous contradiction. For would it not be one? Death by his own hand, at the moment when that hand is seized by the woman whom this self-condemned suicide—from all that I now hear I am certain of this—loves with all the force of which his heart is capable, and certainly far more than his own life; and this woman, who is not unworthy indeed of such love, says to him in tones which can only come from a loving and despairing heart: ‘Live, live! Live for me, to whom you are all! I have left father, and house, and home, to live for you! With you, without hoping for better days! With you, in shame and misery, if need be—with you!’ ”

Uncle Ernst ceased, overpowered by the feelings of his noble, strong heart, choked by the thoughts which surged in his powerfully working mind. The General, who had been sitting in gloomy meditation, raised his sorrow-dimmed eyes.

“If need be?—it must be!”

“Must be?” cried Uncle Ernst; “why? Because to the poor weary wayworn wanderers it seems that the farther road for them can only be toiling through the desert, through thorns and over stony ground? For them! Good heavens! They who are young and strong, who will soon in the palmy Eden of their love recognise their youth and strength, and with renewed courage and refreshed hearts go out into life, which stretches boundless and beautiful before them! Life, in whose immeasurable space there is a thousandfold room for the man who has erred, if he has but courage and can rise firmly to his feet again to resume the battle, and to conquer in a new sphere of work, a home for himself, for the woman he loves—for his children! The children, General, with whom a new world is born which knows nothing of the old, which needs to know and should know nothing of the father’s sin; that sin which, if the father indeed has not atoned for by his sorrow, by his penance, by a single noble deed, they may redeem by the simple fact of living, of being new blossoms on the tree of humanity, at the foot of which we old people with our ancient griefs and troubles shall long have gone to rest.”

Uncle Ernst’s great eyes were glowing with noble enthusiasm; but the General’s troubled face gave not the faintest response to it. He slowly shook his grey head.

“I must ask you one question, which sounds very cruel, but is not meant to be so, only to bring us down from this region of bright and, to my thinking, fantastic dreams to this dark earth. Does the perspective which you open to my son, extend also to your son?”

Uncle Ernst started, the fire of his glance was dimmed, and some moments elapsed before his answer came.

“The cases are as far apart as heaven is from earth, as far as a thoughtless act intended to injure no one, which he who committed it hoped, I know, to make good, and to which he had been after all led away by fiendish suggestions, differs from a proceeding which was carried out with the most cold-blooded calculation, in the full knowledge of the ruinous consequences to thousands of others.”

“And for which meanwhile there can be no atonement in your eyes!”

Uncle Ernst moved restlessly, impatiently in his chair.

“What do you mean, General?”

“Only to remind you, that turn ourselves which way we will, we must always judge life from our own point of view, and we can only measure men’s actions by the rule which birth, education, intellect and reflection have given to us. Or do you think that the stockjobber, the speculator, the reckless adventurer, would in their hearts, if such men have hearts, condemn your son as the man of honour, the honest manufacturer does, although he is his father? And can you blame an honourable soldier because he condemns and brands the dishonourable conduct of another soldier, although that soldier is his son, or rather because he is his son? Can you suppose that I would deny my son, whom I have loved as well as any father ever loved his son, whom even at this moment I love with a love that rends my heart—”

The General’s voice shook, and he drew a long breath, almost a groan, that echoed shudderingly in the silent room.

“Can you suppose that I would deny him the life which you describe, if I did not believe it to be impossible? It may be that the narrow bonds, of which you spoke just now, have so cramped my mental horizon that they have forever checked the free flight of thought. But these conditions of thought and feeling exist for the whole class, and must so exist if it is not to be swept away; and so they exist also for my son. Never, under any circumstances can he forget that he has cast a stain upon the shield of his forefathers, that he has himself broken the sword which he received from his commander-in-chief, that he has disgraced his arms, that he could not look one of his old comrades in the face even if they met in a desert, that he must carefully seek the society of obscure men whom he would formerly as carefully have avoided, he who once might stand freely and boldly before his king, whom his king—”

And again the General drew a long, deep breath.

Uncle Ernst’s lips were twitching. Here again there rose before him the barrier which pride and arrogance had drawn straight across life’s bloom; the barrier which in his stormy youthful days he had thought to conquer by one effort, and which he had afterwards tried through long weary years to carry off stone by stone! And not one stone was missing after all; it stood straight and strong, unapproachable and invincible as ever! And he stood powerless on this side, and on the other side was his child who must be lost now because pride and arrogance would have it so. No, it should never be!

He sprang up.

“Then I must set to work alone.”

“What was your plan?”

The General had risen also, but the mere movement seemed difficult to the man who used to be so alert and active.

“Roughly this,” answered Uncle Ernst; “not to allow my child to go out unreconciled to me into a life whose varied changes no man can reckon upon, and whose otherwise too hard path I desired as far as possible to smooth by my advice and help. I gathered from the woman of whom I spoke that in the first hurried agitation of his distracted thoughts, even before his father’s message arrived, your son had intended to hasten to Warnow, to force an explanation from the traitor in the presence of his aunt the Baroness, who according to this scoundrel’s declaration had taken upon herself the material responsibility, so to speak, of these unhappy bills, at least had promised under all circumstances to make good the deficiency. Herr von Schönau even, after many objections, had agreed to this. When, therefore, the unhappy man wished to kill himself, in spite of the presence of his friend, who felt his own powerlessness and yet could advise my daughter to return home, as flight with her at this moment would make it absolutely impossible for him to intervene further on behalf of his brother-officer, when it became the first consideration for her who wished to save her lover at any cost, even that of the pitying contempt of his best friend, to escape from the influence of this very cautious friendship, no matter whither; then the adroit confidante brought forward again the idea of Warnow, merely, I believe, because the train for Sundin was the first to start. I, for my part, hoped and still hope to overtake them in Sundin, to be able to tell your son that there is no object in the continuation of his journey, as I claim for myself the right of paying the debts of the man who has eloped with my daughter, and who will therefore also marry her. Should they have gone on to Warnow I shall of course follow them there, or anywhere else until I overtake them. At Warnow too I promise myself the assistance of my nephew. He possesses and deserves my daughter’s highest respect, and I am convinced that he would add to the father’s blessing the good wishes of a friend who, in turning the pages of the book of honour, does not omit the chapters which treat of humanity.”

The patience of the passionate spirit was exhausted; in the last words might be traced even suppressed wrath. He buttoned his overcoat and took up his hat, which stood on the table by the General’s little box, as the man who had before offered his services to the General entered the room from the platform with the stationmaster. The stationmaster went up to Uncle Ernst to inform him that the train was ready, while the other handed a telegram to the General.

“I happened to be in the office,” said he, “when it arrived, through Stettin, having been handed in early this morning at Prora. I think the contents are of importance.”

The General took the paper, which in the hurry had not even been folded:

“Come by the next train. Frightful storm. Must perhaps go to Reinhold. Aunt alone then with that wretch. Come for my sake, Ottomar’s, and aunt’s, who throws herself upon your mercy. Everything is at stake.—Elsa.”

Uncle Ernst came forward.

“I must wish you goodbye, General.”

“I will come with you.”

Uncle Ernst looked in astonishment at the General, who folded the telegram, while August, who with old Grollmann, whom he had met outside, had been looking after the two gentlemen’s things, and had now returned, seized the little box to carry it after his master to the carriage in which he had taken his seat with Uncle Ernst. The two servants were in the next carriage, which with the engine made up the whole train.

“They seem to be of one mind so far,” said Grollmann.

“Whatever is wanting still will be made up before we get to Sundin,” said August.

“If only the storm does not blow us off the rails first,” said Grollmann.

“It really is A 1,” said August.

VI

Nobody had had any sleep at Castle Warnow excepting Frau von Wallbach. And even she had been repeatedly awakened or nearly so by strange noises of rolling and rattling, just as if she were at home in the Behrenstrasse and a dozen big parties were breaking up at the same moment, and an alarm of fire sounding between whiles. What could it have been? The maid who brought her chocolate to her bedside told her that it was the storm, which had been raging fearfully since her lady went to bed last night.

“How odd!” said Frau von Wallbach. “But why have you come in so early? I do not want to start before eleven.”

“It is ten o’clock now, ma’am; it will be no lighter today.”

“Of course not, if you do not open the shutters.”

“They have not been shut, ma’am; we did not dare to do it even last night. One shutter has already been torn off by the wind, as I saw from the ground-floor window.”

“How odd!” said Frau von Wallbach. “You have packed my things, I suppose?”

“Oh, certainly, ma’am; but we shall not be able to travel today. Herr Damberg has sent over to say that he is very sorry, but it can’t be done; there is no knowing what may happen, and he must keep all his horses at the farm.”

“Why, what could happen?”

“I don’t know, ma’am, but they do say that it may be something very bad. If you would only get up, ma’am, and see for yourself. One would think the world was coming to an end. Everyone is running about with pale faces, and I am dreadfully frightened, ma’am.”

“It is very foolish of you. Is Fräulein von Wallbach up yet?”

“Yes, ma’am, she has already inquired after you twice.”

“You may tell her that I can see her now. And then take my compliments to the Baroness, and ask her if she will be so kind as to lend me her horses to drive to Prora; I will come and see her myself as soon as I am dressed.”

Carla came in just as Louisa was slipping on her dressing-gown. She was already dressed for the day, and Frau von Wallbach thought her looking very pale, with deep circles under her eyes. Carla assured her that this was only the dreadful light, and besides, she had not slept quite so well as usual; but this was certainly less the result of the storm than of the communication that the Count had made to her when he rode by yesterday evening; he had only remained five minutes, just long enough to tell her this delightful story in a few hasty words.

“What story?” asked Louisa, sipping her chocolate.

“The same story,” said Carla, “which my sweet pet would not believe yesterday, but which she cannot help believing, now that the last interesting chapter has been partly played out in presence of Count Golm.”

And Carla gave her, with all the additions and embellishments she considered necessary for her purpose, an account of the events at Wissow Head yesterday evening.

Frau von Wallbach meanwhile finished her second cup, which she usually took on the sofa, and leaned back.

“Well, what do you say?” asked Carla.

“What should I say,” answered Frau von Wallbach, “since you prepared me for it yesterday? And I do not see either why you should pretend to be so very much astonished today. What does it signify after all to you or Golm? I should have thought you had both very good reason to be satisfied that things have turned out so. He could only marry one after all. It seems now that you will be the one.”

“But what will Edward say?” cried Carla.

“I do not see what objection my husband can have. It seems to me rather, the more I think of it, that he only sent us here to settle it between you. Only I think it would have been more civil of him—and of you too, by the way—if you had told me so beforehand instead of leaving me in the dark; and I shall tell Edward so when we get home today.”

Carla had sat down on the sofa by her sister-in-law, and was playing with one of the long ribbons of her dressing-gown.

“We, sweet pet?” said she. “I thought you meant to go home alone, pet?”

“And I think you are too foolish,” answered Frau von Wallbach, “and I should be ashamed of myself in your place, only I suppose you are too much in love to know what you are talking about. How can you, now that you have come to an understanding with Golm, as you seem to have done—”

“But there is nothing decided between us!” cried Carla.

“It is all the same, besides—begging your pardon—I don’t believe it. But no matter, you cannot remain another day as a guest in the house of Ottomar’s aunt; it would be perfectly scandalous, and I will have nothing to do with it, and if you do not come with me—what’s that?”

The remaining shutter closed noisily, and a pane of glass fell with a clatter into the room.

Carla jumped up with a scream of terror.

“Do you want us to travel in this weather?”

“If I can, so can you,” said Frau von Wallbach; “and now have the goodness to get ready; we shall start in an hour at latest.”

Fortunately for Carla, who did not know how to avert the threatened blow, the maid came back at this moment to say that the Baroness was very sorry that she could not oblige Frau von Wallbach; she was herself obliged to go out with Fräulein von Werben. But she had sent to inquire in the village; perhaps one of the peasants might provide horses, but it was not very likely.

“This is pleasant,” said Frau von Wallbach, “I cannot go away on foot. Where are the ladies going?”

The maid smiled. She could not say for certain, but Fräulein von Werben’s maid thought they might be going to Wissow.

“Very well,” said Frau von Wallbach; “just see that that window is put right. I will go myself to the Baroness, she will excuse my déshabillé. Come with me, Carla!”

Carla would much rather not have gone, but Louisa was so intolerably determined today, that she must do all she could to coax her back into good humour. Besides, if, as now appeared probable, Louisa did not go away, she had at least the pleasant prospect of seeing the two other ladies out of the house, perhaps for the whole day. She could soon talk over Louisa into not putting any insurmountable obstacle in the way of the daring, delightful scheme which she had hastily concocted with the Count yesterday. And as to the important question of her own stay, there could hardly remain a doubt.

“But, my sweet pet,” said she to her sister-in-law, as they passed along the corridor to the Baroness’s room, “you would not do such a thing by me as to make any allusion to Count Golm in my presence? So long as they keep silence towards us, we really need not be the first to speak.”

“I thought nothing had been decided between you,” said Frau von Wallbach.

“All the more then,” said Carla.

Valerie was alone when the two ladies came in, and already dressed for her drive. She, too, looked pale and tired, so much so that the good-natured Louisa exclaimed:

“You should go to bed again, my dear Baroness, instead of braving this storm, which really seems to be frightful. I will go with Elsa, that sort of thing does not hurt me; or, what would be the wisest thing, we will all stay here and keep you company, even if my company is not too amusing.”

“Certainly,” interposed Carla, “we will willingly remain with you, and pass this dull day sociably together.”

Valerie, without seeming to see Carla, took Louisa’s hand.

“Thank you for your kindness, dear Frau von Wallbach, but forgive me if notwithstanding I seem to slight the duties of hospitality. It can only be for a few hours, as I expect another visitor today, Signor Giraldi, with whom I have to speak of some most important business. He will be surprised and disappointed, therefore, at not finding me, and so I wanted to ask you to tell him that I have gone to Wissow with my niece, whose betrothed—of course you have heard of it all from Fräulein von Wallbach—is exposed to great danger in this fearful storm. We have waited until now for news, but in vain, as was natural under the circumstances; and have no hope of receiving any now, while we fear the worst, at least I do; for my dear niece is still trying to inspire me with courage, though hers must be inwardly failing her. Your kind heart can feel for me—for us, I am sure.”

“Of course, of course!” said Frau von Wallbach, in whose good-natured eyes tears were standing; “go, my dear Baroness, and think no more of us; and as for your commission—when do you expect Signor Giraldi?”

“He ought to have been here the first thing this morning, but no doubt the violence of the storm has detained him; he may arrive at any moment.”

“It is all the same to me,” said Frau von Wallbach; “I will do the honours to him. The chief thing is that you should set off; and here comes dear Elsa.”

She met Elsa, who now came in ready for her drive, with a warmth to which Elsa gratefully responded. It was a comfort to feel that all good hearts would be on the same side in this conflict which was threatening all around, and in which so many of the worst passions were let loose, so many sordid motives were mingling. And she could not help admiring the honesty with which this woman, whose insignificance had become a byword, declared herself on the side which she considered right in the decisive moment, even in Carla’s presence, following the impulse of her own heart with no thought for anything further. What Carla might think of it, as she stood apart, trying to retain her usual company smile of civility, but not venturing, in spite of her boasted self-possession and presence of mind, to join in this painful scene by so much as a word, Elsa did not desire to know; she was glad when she was in the carriage with her aunt, and they had started.

It was unfortunately impossible today to choose the shorter road to Wissow. The fields and meadows along the shore, through which Elsa had passed the evening before, were too wet, the coachman said, in consequence of the torrents of rain which had been falling since last night. They saw traces of this as soon as they had left the comparatively higher ground on which the castle with the park and home farm were situated, and had reached the hollow which extended along the side of the chain of hills on which the village stood, and which joined at either end the plain. The wheels sank at once almost to the axles, although the road was well gravelled and was in general quite dry; and they had some trouble in getting through it though it extended for barely two hundred yards.

It was dreadful, said Herr Damberg, the farmer, who met them on their way to the village, and rode a little way back by the sides of the carriage; and one couldn’t tell yet whether it might not get much worse, and if it would not be better to follow Captain Schmidt’s advice, who had sent word all round the coast yesterday that there would be a frightfully high tide if the storm came up from the east, which might reach far inland, and measures should be taken to prepare for it. Well, the castle and the home farm lay high enough, unless things got worse than bad; but the hollow here, whose bottom was on the same level as, or even lower than the marshes, would at any rate be flooded, and then at Warnow they would be on an island. And a pleasant situation that would be, particularly as inland here they had got no boats, and nobody could tell how long this state of things might last. He was only glad that he had not signed the new agreement with the Count. The wheatfields and meadows there were all very well, but they could not yield enough to carry one through a calamity such as threatened now, and the consequences of which were not to be foretold, especially when rents were twice as high as they used to be.

“Ah! yes, my lady,” said Herr Damberg, “your good husband was a just man. He thought of other people, and not of himself alone, like some other gentlemen. Well, my lady, I must go back now, and look after things at home, before they all lose their heads there. I hope your ladyship and the young lady will get safe to Wissow and back again, and tell the Captain that he had better keep some boats ready for us, as he may have work to do here before night.”

The old man said this quite seriously, and then pulled his cap, which he had taken off, well down upon his forehead, set spurs to his horse, and rode down to the farm just as the carriage reached the first house in the village.

Here, too, the excitement, which today had roused the most sluggish, had taken hold of the people. Although they were themselves safe from the flood in case it came, with the exception of a few cottages at the foot of the hill, their comparatively lofty position had exposed them all the more to the ravages of the storm. Both thatched and tiled roofs had been partly or entirely destroyed, windows blown in, chimneys knocked down, hedges overthrown, branches had been broken off in quantities, and even the trees themselves blown down. On the little green before the inn-door, about the highest spot in the place, lay the great lime-tree, the pride of the village, torn up by the roots. It had only happened half an hour before, and it was fortunate that the three wagons which had come down from Jasmund, on their way to Prora, had not already stood where they were waiting now, at the inn-door, for if so horses and men must all have been killed. The men would not go any farther, said the landlord, who had come to the carriage-door; they were afraid that the wagon might be blown off the road in the storm. And indeed the Baroness had much better turn back too; for though the road to Wissow ran behind the hill for a part of the way, and so was to some extent protected, it might be very bad when they got round the point and down upon Wissow itself, where they would be fully exposed to the storm again.

“Oh, go on, go on!” cried Elsa.

She had indeed summoned up all her strength, so that no one who did not feel for her like Valerie could have guessed what was passing in her mind. But now, when the fury of the elements, from which she had been sheltered in the castle, broke upon her from all sides, and appeared to her by a thousand terrible signs; when she saw written upon so many faces, the terror which she, for her aunt’s sake, had been hiding in her trembling heart, even her courage wavered, and she laid her head weeping upon her faithful friend’s shoulder.

“Cry as much as you will, dear child,” said Valerie kindly; “it will relieve your poor anxious heart. They are pure and gentle tears, and truly you need not be ashamed of them. You have struggled as not many could have done.”

“But I had promised myself and him to be brave,” sobbed Elsa; “and I always think he will find out if I am not, and then he will not be so strong himself as is required of him by his duty and by his own brave heart.”

A wonderful smile flitted across Valerie’s pale face.

“If all could rest as securely in their love and in their faith in those they love as you can do! Oh, Elsa, Elsa, how unspeakably happy you are in your sorrow!”

“I know it,” said Elsa, “and am doubly ashamed of myself for burdening your poor heart with fresh cares for me.”

“And for whom else should I care?” answered Valerie. “Certainly not for myself, I have told you all without losing your love; I want to carry your love with me to the grave, and so end my life joyfully, as a wild, fever-haunted night ends with a gentle morning dream. It might all be over then; for the day so passionately hoped for through the long, terrible years—the day when your father would say to me, ‘Valerie, I have forgiven you,’ will never come now.”

“What if it were today?” said Elsa, taking her aunt’s hand in hers. “Forgive me for what I have done without consulting you! As I sat by you last night, and the storm raged more and more furiously, I felt that I had over-calculated my strength, that I should have to leave you today to hasten to Reinhold, and that I ought not to leave you without sending for my father. I telegraphed to him early this morning; he will come, I am sure. But he cannot be here before the evening, and that is why, my dear aunt, I have let you accompany me. Everything fits in so well with this arrangement: that dreadful man has not come as we expected, and when we go home this evening, even if you go home alone, you will not have to meet him by yourself; you will have one by you who can and will protect you better than I could do. You are not angry with me, aunt?”

Valerie smiled through the tears which ran down her pale cheeks.

“I cannot be angry with my good angel! May you have been my good angel in this case also!—but I dare not hope it! Your father knows and respects justice alone; the gracious, redeeming power of mercy he does not know. I cannot but suppose that he despises it, and despises those who plead for mercy. My imploring letters, which I was forced amidst a thousand terrors to hide from spying eyes, as I hid the answers also, have never moved him. Cold and repelling was the look with which he met me after so long a lapse of time, which generally softens the sternest; cold and repelling the few words which he deigned to address to me, merely to tell me what was the first step I must take if there were to be peace between him and me. He did not see what you, my darling, perceived at the first glance, that I could not take this step as matters now stood—that without the help of some compassionate heart I never could take it. Oh, Elsa, Elsa! I will not blame your father, especially before you; but, Elsa, many things would have happened differently and more happily for me—for us all—for your father himself—if he had ever really understood that profound saying, that the proud will not enter the kingdom of heaven.”

“But my father has been so kind to me,” said Elsa, “although my attachment has so completely destroyed all his hopes for my future. And it was he, too, who made the first advance to Reinhold’s proud uncle, so that it was not his fault certainly that Ottomar’s affairs turned out so badly.”

Valerie did not answer. She did not wish to tell her dear niece how very differently the matter appeared to her; how she believed, on the contrary, that it was just his father’s intervention that had made Ottomar’s union with Ferdinanda impossible; and that even his consent in Elsa’s case was not the hearty approval of a loving father, but that of a man who unwillingly allows what he cannot prevent, without violating his highest principles of justice.

Elsa was silent also; her thoughts had flown forward in advance of the carriage, which seemed hardly to make any progress, in spite of all the efforts of their bold driver and powerful horses. They would have been even slower in their movements over the ill-made road, which in some places was almost destroyed by the rain, if the hill, along the side of which they were driving, had not broken the force of the gale. Two or three times only, on rising ground, they met its full power, and then it seemed almost a miracle that the whole equipage was not blown over.

Still it held firm, and so did the horses, who repeatedly had to stand still and stem the blast with the whole weight of their bodies. At such moments when they could see over the plain to the left, right down to the sea, the two ladies saw with terror, above the long waving line of the grey dunes from Golmberg to the point, another white line rising and falling, and here and there shooting up thirty or forty feet into the air, and falling upon the land in dense clouds. They knew that this was surf, the surf of that same sea whose waves generally rippled and splashed on the smooth sand, fifty or a hundred yards away from the foot of the dunes, as they had done on that rainy evening when Elsa stood there wrapped in her cloak, and the waving grasses on the edge of the dunes behind her seemed to entice her on farther to more delightful adventures.

Ah! her mind was no longer full of adventures! Whither had fled that bold and daring spirit which had thought it might defy fate? Whither the sunny cheerfulness which had then so filled her whole soul that that dark and rainy evening had seemed to her brighter than the brightest day! Whither, ah! whither, the joyous heart that knew nothing of love, nor wished to know anything excepting as the rose-scented, nightingale-haunted idea reflected back from the enchanted mirror of fancy and dreamland? Now the reality had come, in grim mockery of the bright fable of old! And yet—and yet! poor tormented heart, you would not resign it for Paradise, if you could not meet him there!

“And if I did not meet him again!”

She had exclaimed it aloud, horrified at the sight which presented itself to her, when having surmounted the line of hills which now descended from Wissow Head to the sea, Wissow itself lay below them. The little peninsula, which might be at the outside a mile long and about half as wide at the foot of the headland, looked with its small houses, as seen from the moderate elevation at which they were, like a narrow plank on which children had built their toy-houses, and had then set afloat in a brawling stream. The surf, which till now they had seen only from a distance, and always partly concealed by the dunes, here rose between the open sea and the little strip of sand like a great wall, whose upper edge, torn into zigzag lines, rose and fell, and rose again, and was driven in foam and froth over the grey sand and amongst the little houses.

And yet, strange as it seemed, these little houses on the grey sand could still afford safe shelter! But how could she hope that he would meet her on the threshold of one of them? That his boat would be one of the twenty or thirty vessels of all sizes which were rocking at anchor immediately below them, in the bay between the little peninsula and the mainland? He would be out beyond, beyond where, as far as the eye could reach, foaming waves towered above each other; beyond where sea and sky mingled in one terrible darkness, as if they had met together for the destruction of the world.

“There! There!”

But the words died on Elsa’s trembling lips; the hand with which she had pointed seawards fell heavily beside her.

Valerie took the cold, rigid fingers:

“He will return, Elsa!”

But Elsa shook her head.

VII

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. Frau von Wallbach sat in the drawing-room, in her usual place by the fire, and stared at the flames, which, after many vain efforts, had at last been successfully kindled; and, notwithstanding the terrible uproar that raged round the castle, was on the point of forgetting her annoyance in a refreshing afternoon nap, when Signor Giraldi was announced, having only just arrived.

“He might as well have stayed away another hour,” said Frau von Wallbach. “Well, it is all the same to me; let dinner be got ready for him, François, and then ask him to come here.”

“Signor Giraldi particularly wishes to see you at once, ma’am.”

“Very well; it is all the same to me today.”

Frau von Wallbach had just time to turn her head towards the door as she leant back in her chair, when Giraldi entered. He was still in his travelling dress, having only thrown down his wet cloak in the hall; his black beard, which was usually so carefully arranged, was wild and dishevelled; his calm, dark eyes glowed with a lurid fire; his usually impassive face, that had seemed chiselled in yellow marble, was furrowed and agitated.

“Dear me, how strange you look!” said Frau von Wallbach.

“I must apologise,” answered Giraldi; “but I have been travelling since last night, perpetually detained by the most provoking hindrances, and I arrive here at last to learn that the Baroness, with whom I have to talk upon the most important and urgent affairs, is not at home. You can imagine—”

“Do sit down,” said Frau von Wallbach. “You make me quite nervous by standing about like that, and talking so quickly.”

“I must apologise again,” said Giraldi.

“Not at all. I only remained here to receive you, although I tell you fairly that I had rather not have done so.”

“Then I will not take up another moment of your valuable time—”

“Do sit still, and don’t make any speeches. I never make any, as you know, and am not at all inclined for them today. Oh yes, you may look at me as scornfully as you please. I dare say you think me, as other people do, half a child or a fool; but children and fools speak the truth, and the truth, my dear Signor Giraldi, is, that if you had not intermeddled and set everything at sixes and sevens, Carla would be Ottomar’s wife by this time, and everything would be properly arranged, while now she is out in this dreadful weather—you must have met them I should think—riding with the Count, although I told her to the Count’s face that it was scandalous, to say nothing of her catching her death of cold.”

“You cannot possibly hold me responsible for the irresistible impulse which makes heart meet heart,” answered Giraldi, with an attempt at his usual supremely ironical smile, which only resulted, however, in an evil grimace.

“Hearts!” said Frau von Wallbach; “stuff! The little heart that Carla ever had was Ottomar’s, and no one else’s; and there would have been quite enough for matrimony, at least I know some that have done very well with less. And as for the Count, good heavens! at first she was always telling me that he talked such nonsense, and my husband said so too, and old Countess Kniebreche and everyone; and then you came and cried him up to the skies, and of course what you said must be true, and so you have got your own way so far. And why? because it suited you that Ottomar should not marry, but should continue his careless way of living, and get into all sorts of troubles and scrapes, and that you should have him in your power. And you have succeeded very nicely, as Carla would say. But I don’t think it nice at all, but perfectly horrid of you; for Ottomar has always been pleasant and good-natured to me, and I like him a thousand times better than the Count; and if I had never respected Elsa before, I should now that I see she does not care one bit for the Count, but has declared honestly, as the Baroness told me and Carla this morning in Elsa’s name, that she is going to marry her sailor, although it is rather a strange proceeding for a Fräulein von Werben; but that is her affair; and she has gone with the Baroness to see him at Wissow, or whatever the name of the place is, which is quite right, I think, under the circumstances. I was to tell you this, and that they would be back in a few hours; and now I will add a few words from myself. You think, perhaps, that you have done something very fine by upsetting Ottomar’s and Carla’s engagement; and I dare say you are not less pleased at Elsa losing her inheritance in this way, but you are very much mistaken. The Baroness and Elsa are one, heart and soul; and if Ottomar chooses to marry Captain Schmidt’s cousin, the Baroness will have no objection, and she will make the brother and sister her heirs, whatever the trustees may say. If I were in her place I should do the same thing. And now here comes François to tell you, I suppose, that your dinner is ready. I wish you a good appetite.”

Frau von Wallbach’s last words were spoken without the least touch of sarcasm, in the same lazily comfortable way as the former ones, with her pretty head resting sideways against the back of her chair, and her eyes turned away from Giraldi and looking at the ceiling, as if it were all written up there and she were merely reading it off.

But not the most passionate warmth, nor the bitterest attack could have so upset the composure of the man who had sat before her gnawing his white lips, without interrupting her by a word, and who now rose to leave the room with a silent bow, as this imperturbable calmness and blunt sincerity affected him from a woman whom he had hitherto considered a nonentity, as the emptiest of all empty-headed dolls, and who now dared to tell him this to his very face; to unfold the web of intrigue which he had toiled so hard to spin with all the energy of his crafty mind, and to show him the gaps which his sharp eye had overlooked, his most watchful art had not succeeded in covering, and then calmly to tear it from top to bottom like some worn-out rag!

He had hardly entered the dining-room, where a place had been laid for him at one corner of the large table, before he gave free vent to the fury which had nearly choked him. He stamped, he swore, he tore his beard, like a madman, thought François, who handed him his soup as calmly as if monsieur’s wild gestures had been a gymnastic exercise which every gentleman was in the habit of practising before sitting down to dinner after a fatiguing journey and a long drive.

“Why don’t you speak?” shrieked Giraldi.

“I am waiting for monsieur’s permission.”

“Speak, then!”

“I have written all my observations to monsieur with such minuteness—”

“You have written nothing that was worth reading! You did not write me one word about the intimacy that has sprung up between madame and her niece, and which you must have seen if you had eyes in your head. You are either a fool or a traitor.”

“I am unfortunate—”

“Don’t let me hear any of your confounded long words! I have no time for them. What else do you know?”

“Besides what I told monsieur on his arrival, I know absolutely nothing of importance. Ah! by the by, I had almost forgotten that!”

François slapped his forehead suddenly. He had not forgotten it for a moment; he had been considering all the time that monsieur was in the drawing-room with Frau von Wallbach, whether he should say it or not. He could not speak without betraying madame as he had betrayed monsieur, but for what purpose take money from both if not to betray both? So far everything had gone on well; all he had to consider was that each step to right or left should be well paid; and if he were not greatly deceived, now was the moment to take another step on monsieur’s side.

“Will you speak?” cried Giraldi, shaking his fist at him.

“I have forgotten it after all,” said François, looking with impudent coolness into Giraldi’s face, that was white with passion.

Giraldi dropped his arms,

“How much?” he ejaculated.

“I cannot do it cheaply, monsieur. The matter, in case I can recollect it, is one of the utmost importance for monsieur, and as madame has been lately so extraordinarily kind to me, and has given me, through Madame Feldner, so many sterling proofs of her kindness, and monsieur will of course not trust me in future, but this will undoubtedly be the last service which I shall render monsieur—”

“How much!” shrieked Giraldi.

“Ten thousand francs, monsieur.”

Giraldi pulled out a pocketbook from which he took a handful of banknotes, and threw them on the table.

“Count them!”

“There are three thousand thalers, monsieur.”

“Take them and speak!”

François smoothed the notes carefully, put them no less carefully into one side of his pocketbook, and said, as he took a paper from the other side:

“Monsieur’s generosity is adorable, as usual. I should be most deeply ashamed if I were not convinced that monsieur would take this as a fully sufficient equivalent.”

And, with a low bow, he handed Giraldi the paper—a copy of Elsa’s telegram to her father.

François had hoped that the terror which must now be painted on monsieur’s expressive face would produce an interesting variety in the scene; but he flattered himself in vain. Monsieur, who had been trembling all over with rage and fury, and who had gesticulated and raved like a madman, now stood, after glancing in his own rapid fashion over the paper, looking as calm and composed as François had ever yet seen him; and asked, in his usual low inquiring voice:

“When and where was this sent out?”

“This morning, at five o’clock, from Prora, by a man on horseback, whom I sent myself, after I had taken a copy of the open note.”

“Then your news is not worth a farthing. The telegraphic communication between Berlin and Sundin has been interrupted since four o’clock this morning.”

“Just so, monsieur. That was what the clerk said who received the telegram, after he had inquired at Sundin and received the answer that he might telegraph through Grünwald; there might be some chance there. Inquiry made at Grünwald. Reply, ‘Yes, and on through Stettin.’ The messenger, an old trustworthy servant, one of the late Herr von Warnow’s, monsieur, took note of everything, and reported it all to mademoiselle in my presence, adding that according to the clerk’s report the telegram would reach Berlin rather late, but certainly in the course of the morning.”

“In your presence, do you say? How came that?”

François shrugged his shoulders.

“Mademoiselle knows how to appreciate my knowledge in such matters—an old courier, monsieur! To speak the truth, I had myself given the messenger the necessary instructions.”

“Why were you not sent?”

François smiled.

“The night was very stormy, monsieur; I am not fond of roughing it. I said I could not ride, and did not know the way.”

“But you can ride, and you know the way to Wissow?”

François bowed.

“How far is it, to ride?”

“If one rides fast, one may do it in half an hour.”

“Even through the storm?”

“I think so, monsieur.”

“And how long would the ladies be, driving?”

“Like the rider, they must take the longest road over the hill and through the villages, monsieur; that could not take less than an hour, monsieur.”

Giraldi had taken out his watch and was making a calculation. He put back the watch.

“It is just twenty minutes past four. You must be ready in ten minutes, at latest, to take a letter from me to madame at Wissow.”

“Impossible, monsieur; even this morning, at eleven o’clock, Frau von Wallbach, who was bent upon going away, could not get horses; nobody will supply them, monsieur.”

“There are the horses which brought me.”

“Impossible, monsieur; I saw them, and they are quite exhausted. It must be a good, fresh horse, monsieur, a riding horse. There are none such in the stable.”

“You can find one if I give you another thousand thalers in case madame is back at the castle before six o’clock.”

“Two thousand, monsieur.”

“Good. And now, paper and ink—quick!”

François brought the required materials in a moment from the next room, and Giraldi was already writing at the table beside his untouched dinner, when François left the dining-room to prepare to earn the second sum, if possible, of which he had serious doubts.

Giraldi wrote:

“Your drive to Wissow is a subterfuge or a flight. I forgive your vacillation, even your desertion, which can only be a passing error, for the sake of the love which you bear me, and which I bear you. And if your love is extinct (mine is not!) the accompanying letter, which I copy for you (the original, which I cannot trust to the messenger, I retain in my own hands), will awake new flames from the ashes, as he has awoke to life for us, in whose death I could never believe. And as my faith was the stronger, so am I in all things stronger, and would make unrestrained and pitiless use of that strength, no longer for myself, but for our son. You know me, Valerie! As the clock strikes six, I leave the castle forever, with the Warnow property, which I carry about me to the last thaler, and which now belongs to mother and son, or to the son alone if it should appear that he has no mother. But it cannot, it will not be. I implore to this end the most holy, the sorrow-laden Mother of God. She who bore all the pangs of maternity will guide a mother’s heart!

“Giraldi.

“Warnow. Half-past four in the afternoon.”

He took a letter from his pocket, which he had received last night when he got home from Philip’s party, and had first found time to read in the waiting-room at the railway station, and wrote, with a hand that flew like lightning over the paper:

“With failing hands, and eyes darkened by the shadow of death, I write this: Antonio Michele is your son. A very aged woman in Arsoli, who has been known since she suddenly appeared in this place, seven and twenty years ago, under the name of Antonia Falcone, but whose real name is Barbara Cecutti, and who was the mother of that Lazzaro who carried off your child from Pœstum, confessed this to me yesterday on her deathbed. She was found by the woman Michele in a ravine of the hills above Tivoli, on the verge of starvation, the stolen child beside her almost at the last gasp too, the wounded Lazzaro having breathed his last an hour before, during their flight. The woman Michele took pity upon these unfortunate creatures; the two women swore, on the Host, the one never to say that she had received the child from Barbara, and the other that she had given him to the Michele, so that Barbara might wear out the end of her life undisturbed by the police, and that Father Michele might make no inquiries after the parents of the child, whom his wife pretended to have found on the hills, exposed, like Moses on the shores of the Nile, by a poor girl whom she knew well, but whose name she would not mention. She had never had any children herself, though she had longed for them, and would not part with this one at any price. She carried her secret with her to the grave. Barbara Cecutti also is now no more; and you, my dear sir, receive this legacy from the dead at the hand of a dying man. The ways of God are wonderful! Let us praise His mercies! Amen!

Ambrosio.”

“Dear Sir,

“From the hand of a dying man, indeed! Our good brother Ambrosio—but just returned from his charitable mission—has this night departed, let us hope, into eternal blessedness, as no purgatory can be needed for him who was a saint on earth, I send you his bequest, and beg you to transfer to my poor convent the expression of your gratitude for the happy tidings which the grace of God has permitted you to receive by means of our brother who is now with Him.

“The Prior of the Convent of
“S. Michele at Tivoli,
“Eugenio.”

Giraldi had just written the last word as the door flew open, admitting François, who wore a long cloak, below which appeared a pair of riding-boots. As he entered he exclaimed:

“Really, monsieur, I am ashamed to have doubted for an instant the luck of such a man! As I went into the courtyard, the Count’s groom galloped in, who had been sent back to fetch a pocket-handkerchief which mademoiselle had forgotten! If it had only been an umbrella! In fact, monsieur, they wanted to get rid of the man; we shall hear nothing of either of them before tomorrow morning, you may take my word for it. I know the style of thing! I explained this to the man after a fashion, and he will let me have his horse. He says that neither man nor devil shall drive him out into this storm again.”

“You must remain in my service, François,” said Giraldi, laying his hand on the impudent fellow’s shoulder. “And now—don’t spare the horse.”

“Monsieur may depend upon me!” answered François, putting the letter in safety. “Au revoir, monsieur!”

François hastened away, and Giraldi went to the deep bow-window which overlooked the courtyard, and watched while he mounted the handsome beast, whose bridle the groom was holding, and, waving his hand towards the window, galloped out of the yard.

Giraldi went back to the table and broke off a piece of bread, which he washed down with the glass of wine that François had poured out for him. Then he began slowly to walk up and down the great room with his arms folded across his chest.

How could he have allowed himself to be so carried away by his passion just now? What had happened for which he might not have been prepared—for which, in fact, he had not been long prepared? The weather was to blame for the disturbance of his nerves—weather only fit for northern barbarians and those in league with them! It could only have been some unfriendly demon which in the morning twilight had driven the little steamer, that was to have brought him over to the island from Sundin, against a rudderless drifting wreck, and so had forced it to turn back; an unfriendly demon who forbade the rude sailors to take his money and to venture the passage in an open boat, till at last, at half-past eleven, the steamer was repaired, and then took an hour to do the distance—half a nautical mile! Fiend against fiend! Gregorio Giraldi was the stronger. If the telegram had really reached the General at Berlin in proper time—if he left Berlin by the eleven o’clock train, he could not be at Sundin before three o’clock, or at Warnow before six. An hour! Kingdoms had been lost and won in an hour; and everything, everything else was on his side: Ottomar irretrievably entangled in the net which he had cast over him, and already at deadly feud with Wallbach, whose giddy sister was now in love with the Count, to say nothing else! the proud Elsa betrothed to a man of low degree, paying for her love with her inheritance!—the course clear from all obstacles, and at its goal the rich treasures, the great estates, which now fell to Valerie by law, and which she must leave absolutely to her own son, who had risen from the dead—that is to say, she must leave them to himself! Could she choose to do otherwise? Did any choice remain to her? Must she not submit whether she would or no? And if she wavered—one minute only alone with him—here in this room, in which so often they had in fancy stood together, which she had so minutely described to him that he knew every piece of furniture, every picture on the wall—this especially, the portrait of the man from whose arms he had scornfully torn her, that some day his picture might hang here—the portrait of the new lord, who would pull down this barbaric edifice and build a new castle—the new lord!

He stood before the picture, and looked at it with an evil smile.

“You were the last of your race, with your narrow forehead and the broad ribbon of some high order over your cold heart! and now you are mouldering in the tomb of your ancestors! And he, whom in life you could not vie with, stands still alive here, in his undiminished strength—the peasant’s son, who will now be the founder of a race of princes for whom even the chair of St. Peter shall not be too high!”

A shock like that of an earthquake struck the castle. The windows rattled, the doors flew open and banged to again. The picture, to which he was looking up, and which had hung from its rusty nail for a generation past, shook and fell, so that the mouldered frame broke into fragments, and the picture itself, after standing upright for a moment, fell forward under his feet.

He sprang back.

“Do you still move, accursed dust? Down into hell to his accursed soul!”

And, as if in answer to the master’s voice, from the depths of hell to which he had called, howls and yells resounded round Castle Warnow.

VIII

They looked back after the groom as he galloped back to the castle.

“Carla!” said the Count.

He had brought his horse close up to hers; she bent towards him, and he put his right arm round her slender form and kissed her again and again on lips and cheek.

“Bad man!” said Carla.

He hastily put up his hand to remove the veil which the wind was blowing between their faces, and in so doing pulled off her hat.

“Axel, do be sensible!”

She dropped the reins on her horse’s neck and tied her veil round her hat.

“Sensible!” cried the Count; “when I am really alone for the first time with the prettiest girl in all the world!”

“You are too bad,” said she. She put on her hat again and secured it; he tried to renew the charming game. “You shall not have another kiss!” cried she, touching her horse with the whip and starting forward.

He soon overtook her, and for a short time they galloped on side by side, lost in each other, eye meeting eye, and often hand touching hand, unheeding the road till both horses suddenly stood still.

“Hallo!” cried the Count. The horses would go no farther; they had long been hardly able to lift their feet out of the swampy ground in which they had now sunk above the fetlock. They were frightened, and tried to turn back. “Pooh!” said the Count; “we know all about that! Wallach has carried me over much worse roads than this; and your horse is much lighter made.”

“Come along!” cried Carla.

They urged their horses on; the terrified brutes flew over the uncertain ground, through pools of water, over a wooden bridge, through water again, till the rising ground grew firmer under their feet.

“We have come across,” said the Count laughing, “but how we are to get back I do not know. We shall have to stay together for good, I believe. Would that please you, my dear girl?”

They were riding now at a foot’s pace to breathe their horses over the higher ground between the brook, which they had just dashed through, and Wissow Head, at the foot of which ran the long line of the railway embankment towards Ahlbeck. The gale was right in their teeth now, so that they felt its full power; and the panting horses were forced to lean forward as if they had a heavy weight behind them, while their riders let the reins hang loosely, not sorry to have their hands at liberty.

“I would pass an eternity with you!” said Carla, as her glowing cheek almost touched his; “but I must be back in an hour.”

“Then, by Jove, we should have to turn back at once; I assure you we cannot get through that brook again; I can hardly see the bridge now, though it is only two minutes since we passed it! it is extraordinary! We shall have to go round by Gristow and Damerow.” He pointed with the end of his whip back towards the chain of hills. “It is a terribly long round.”

“Louisa was so disagreeable.”

“Let her be!”

“She will say such horrid things of us to Edward!”

“Let her!”

“You will have a dreadful scene with Edward!”

“So long as I have you—”

“And when you have me—”

“Carla!”

“Hush! Swear to me that when we get back you will declare our engagement in the presence of the Baroness, of Elsa, and of Signor Giraldi, and that this day month we shall be man and wife!”

“Does it need an oath?”

“I will have an oath.”

She caught his hand and pressed it to her bosom.

“What shall I swear by? by this little hand? by that fair form? by your own sweet self, which I could devour for love?”

“By your honour!”

The voice had no longer its former coaxing tone—the words came with an effort, as if the raging storm oppressed her.

And his answer, too, came hesitatingly and forced: “Upon my honour!”

His eyes, which before had been raised full of passion towards her, avoided hers; she drew her hand hastily out of his, turned her horse sharply round, and galloped away.

The movement had been so sudden that it was not possible for him to have prevented it. But now he even held back his horse, which had also turned and wished to follow its companion.

“Shall I let her go?”

That was his first thought, followed by a stream of others: an unavoidable duel with Ottomar, his own desperate financial position, which would hardly be improved by Carla’s hundred thousand thalers; the recollection of a cousin in Silesia, who would have brought him a dowry of a million, and a marriage with whom had been proposed to him the other day most unexpectedly—he had been for years at daggers drawn with that branch of the family. And then she who was riding away really did not suit him at all; he was merely in love with her, and had never contemplated marriage.

The spirited horse, already startled by the storm, and seeing its companion disappearing in the distance, reared high, and as its rider forced it down, darted forward like an arrow. The Count could not perhaps at this moment have held it in, but he did not wish to do so; he dug in his spurs, and in a few seconds—his hesitation had been only momentary—had overtaken Carla.

“Carla, Carla!”

“Go! You do not love me!”

He spurred forward so that he could catch the bridle of her horse, then turned and so stopped them both.

“You shall not escape me so!”

She looked at him almost with hatred.

“But, Carla, this is madness!”

“I am mad,” murmured she.

“And I am—madly in love with you. But what matter?”

His beautiful white teeth glittered as, putting his arm round her, he laughingly exclaimed: “Will you come with me now?”

“With you? Take me! Take me! I am yours, yours!”

“You foolish darling!”

He pressed kiss after kiss upon her burning lips, then gave back the bridle into her hand, and both turning their horses suddenly round, they rode on side by side in the teeth of the gale—as his horse was the stronger and faster he could do as he pleased—along the gradually sinking ground beside the railway embankment down to Ahlbeck.

They did not speak another word; there was no need.

In Ahlbeck, not far from the beach, stood an inn, which for some years had provided decent entertainment for the summer guests who could not find accommodation at the more important places along the coast, or who were attracted by the quietness and cheapness of the place; and during the last autumn, by the suggestion and greatly assisted by the money of the Count, the little inn had been turned into a fashionable hotel. It was kept by a young widow—a protégée of the Count’s. In the upper story of the house were two rooms, often used by the Count as night quarters when he had stayed out shooting too late to get back to Golm or Golmberg. If the lady and gentleman chose to have these rooms no one would trouble themselves about it, least of all the landlady, who would have quite enough to do with the other guests, the two engineers who were superintending the Railway and Harbour works, the ship’s captains and revenue officers, and anyone else who might be crowding the public rooms as usual on such a day. And if, after waiting in vain for the groom, he appeared at last, having missed them as they returned home, he might just ride quietly back to Castle Warnow.

Immediately before reaching Ahlbeck the road, which till then had led them over the open ground, suddenly narrowed between two dunes, advanced posts of the chain of sandhills along the shore, which formed a sort of doorway, through which, on fine days, might be seen a wonderful view of the village running down to the beach; and beyond the village the beach itself, always covered with boats; and beyond again, the boundless ocean. They had gained this spot by the utmost exertion of their horses, when the panting brutes suddenly fell back, and they themselves, accomplished riders as both were, were nearly flung from their saddles. The force of the storm had closed the space between the two hills as if with iron gates.

“Let us turn back!” said Carla.

The Count did not answer at once; he saw the details of what, to the shortsighted Carla, was only confused mist; the upper part of the village lying nearest to them was half destroyed by the storm, so that hardly a house retained its whole roof, while in the lower part only here and there a house, amongst others the inn and the two great sheds for smoking the herrings, appeared out of a cloud, which at first the Count could not make out at all. It could not possibly be the foam and froth of the storm-beaten surf? If this were the surf, where were the houses which had stood there in a long line close to the beach? Where were the hundred and fifty Ahlbeck fishing smacks which had come in yesterday on account of the storm? Where the six boats laden with cut stone from Sundin which had anchored yesterday evening at the breakwater? Where the two breakwaters themselves, which had been begun last autumn and during the mild, calm winter and the unusually low tides had been almost finished? Where, above all, the million of thalers which had been also almost entirely spent in the building? Could that infernal Superintendent of Pilots, who was always coming across his path, have been right here after all? That fellow who, at this moment, perhaps, was embracing Elsa as his betrothed, whilst he—

“Over it if we cannot get through it!” cried he, spurring his horse up the hill to the right, while between his teeth he muttered: “I will get something out of the business at any rate.”

Carla had followed him.

From above, however, the view was not much more reassuring; it was indeed so fearful that the Count himself, as they forced their horses step by step through the broken bushes, doubted whether they had not better turn back. And what seemed to him even more ominous than the raging sea, was the crowd of people which his keen eyes could distinguish swarming down below, and as he now perceived hastening in small parties up the ridge of Wissow Head, at the foot of which stood a part of the village. They might be the people who lived nearest to the beach, the navvies, perhaps, who had run up their temporary huts on the level sand. What did it matter to him? Let them help themselves as best they might. The tide had certainly not reached the inn, and that was the principal point. He had carried off Carla from her sister-in-law’s guardianship at the castle, under the pretext of showing her the full effect of the storm; it would certainly be near enough to them from the inn windows. And should he carry out his purpose amidst all this tumult? It was madness. The maddest act of his whole life, perhaps, but it should be done!

They were riding again now on the narrow sandy road between the first outlying houses. The Count spurred forward. He was glad that the houses hid the view below; he wanted to draw Carla on, who had again several times anxiously inquired whether they had not better turn back. The rest might be managed; it might not perhaps be so bad as it had seemed to him from above; at any rate Carla had hardly seen anything, and was only alarmed at the roar of the surf, which had been bad enough certainly from the heights.

But what was that roar compared to the thunder which met them now, as they turned from the narrow way between the first low huts into the broad village street, at whose lower end stood the inn, and which led directly down to the sea. It seemed to the Count strangely short; and indeed the sea, which used to leave several hundred yards of smooth sand uncovered, now flung its waves far up the street. And that street was crowded with crying, shrieking, screaming women and children, and shouting and halloing men, flinging out their goods pell-mell from the houses, rushing back to fetch more, and strewing everything wildly over the ground before the gale brought their houses down about their ears.

“Make way there, make way!” called the Count imperiously.

He did not feel particularly comfortable in this crowd, in which more than one person glared angrily at him, and hardly moved out of the way of the horses. It sounded like a curse, too, which the woman called after him, whom by accident—why did she not get out of the way?—he had knocked down, and who now in the door of her cottage shook both her fists at him, and then pointing her finger at him called to her neighbours; but the raging storm swallowed up the single human voice.

The Count could not even understand half of what the young engineer called to him, who had suddenly—he could not see whence—rushed up to him, as he persistently pointed down below:

“Breakwater—tremendous breakers—boats wrecked—people furious—get back—happen—”

“What should happen to me?” screamed back the Count in answer.

“Mischief—the lady too—unpardonable of you—too late!”

The young man pointed no longer below, but in the direction from which they had come.

The Count, startled more by the look of terror in the young man’s face than by the warning itself, turned in his saddle, and at the same moment set spurs to his horse. He had seen a crowd of men and women—foremost the one who had just threatened him—rushing down the street, brandishing sticks, cudgels, and knives.

His first thought had been to take refuge in the inn, which must afford him shelter till he could speak a few words to the people, perhaps from the window—fear had evidently driven them wild. And with this purpose, dashing on before Carla, he had almost gained the little open space in front of the inn, when he suddenly discovered that he was only going from bad to worse.

In the middle of the square, lying on its side, the keel turned towards him, lay one of the Sundin boats, which some huge wave must have flung up here, and around the stranded vessel, with the surf at their feet, whose storm-beaten foam was blowing in clouds of spray over them, were dancing and raging—as only madmen or men who had drunk to madness could have raved—a crowd of navvies and sailors who had taken possession of all the provisions the inn could give them, before the approaching flood engulfed everything.

The idea flashed through the Count’s head that it was his duty, if any man’s, to interpose here, and at least to attempt by his authority to avert the terrible evils that must be brought upon the unhappy village by these madmen, but he had already repeatedly had the most violent scenes with these ruffians, who were always increasing their demands; he would be torn to pieces if the men who were now pursuing him, urged on by that miserable woman, should join these.

All this passed like lightning through his bewildered brain, but he never thought of Carla for a moment; he was even astonished when, having turned aside from the main street, and dashing at a venture down a side lane to the left, he found himself galloping along the meadows behind the dunes, he suddenly saw Carla again at his side.

“That was done in the nick of time!” cried he; “those scoundrels would have murdered us.”

Carla answered not a word. Notwithstanding her extremely short sight, she had been able to form a tolerably correct idea of the danger they had escaped; she knew from the gestures and shouts of the people she had dashed past that it was a matter of life and death to escape them, and she knew also that the man at whose side she now rode had deserted her at the critical moment, and that she had to thank only the speed of her horse and her own powers of riding for her life. Would Ottomar have dashed forward in such a way, careless whether she succeeded in following him or not; whether she escaped from the narrow lanes and little gardens, to do which she had at last been forced to leap a hedge, amidst the shower of stones and sticks which were hurled after her? “He is a coward,” her heart whispered to her; “he only cares for himself; I should only have been his victim.”

“This is a bad business,” thought the Count. “She is affronted of course, though after all, anybody else would have done the same in my place.—You don’t know how those fellows detest me!”

He spoke the last words aloud, by way of saying something at any rate.

Carla answered not a word.

“An infernal business,” thought the Count, relapsing into silence.

So they galloped on, side by side, through the sand, which the unceasing rain had fortunately somewhat hardened, along the inner edge of the dunes, which were now the only barrier between them and the sea, which thundered and roared on the other side, often tossing up the broken edges of its waves high enough to shower down upon them in torrents, Fortunately the wooden bridge still stood over the brook which ran into the sea close by Ahlbeck, through a sharp cut in the dunes; the brook even had not overspread its banks so much here as above, where the lower ground offered no opposition to the water; but the Count thought with a shudder of what might happen when they got to the Pölitz farm, on the edge of the broad hollow which extended to the sea almost entirely unprotected by the dunes. Behind the farm, towards Golmberg, was a still broader and deeper hollow, but he did not trouble himself about that. If once they reached the farm, which itself stood on higher ground, they would find a road leading from it along the back of the hills straight to Warnow. The Count knew the ground well, he had ridden over it fifty times while hunting.

And now they came to the first hollow. On the right, where the hills opened out, was a wall of surf, whose crest threatened at any moment to topple over. More than one wave must have broken through already, which had left smaller and larger pools in the lowest parts of the ground; evidently not a moment was to be lost. But the Count saw that the passage might be ventured, which was fortunate, as in any case it must be tried.

“Follow me boldly, Carla!” he cried, as he again rode forward.

Carla answered not a syllable.

“It is all over between us,” said the Count to himself; “she will never forgive me as long as she lives.”

They rode on quickly, and had already reached the middle of the hollow, when the Count saw to his horror that the wall of surf, which had stood in the opening of the dunes, was in movement and seemed to be advancing towards them. For one moment he thought it was a delusion of his excited imagination, but only for a moment.

“On! for heaven’s sake, on!” he cried, urging his exhausted horse to its utmost speed with whip and spur. He did not look round, he dared not look behind him; he knew from the fearful roar that the wave had flung itself far inland—behind him!

The panting horse staggered up the slope—saved!

He had no need to pull his horse up; it stopped of itself. Carla stopped by his side. How had she got through? He could not tell, and took care not to ask.

And now he looked back.

For a hundred yards at least of the hollow they had crossed, a single stream now carried its dark waters foaming and roaring far inland. The Count saw it with a shudder; there could hardly be a question that the same wave must have broken through above also, on the other side of the Pölitz’s farm, and then in all probability the waters would have united behind the farm. If this were the case, only two places of refuge remained—the farm itself, or the lofty dune—called the White Dune—between the two hollows. The dune stood higher, but was farther off, and it was doubtful whether they could reach it as lower fields lay between it and the farm; besides, what would become of them up there?

“We will go to the farm,” said he, “if it were only to give the horses a rest in some sort of shelter; they can’t get on any farther.”

He rode slowly on in front, Carla followed. Her silence made him furious.

“Little fool!” he muttered between his teeth; “at the very moment when I am risking my life for her! And now to go to Pölitz—after the scene we had yesterday!—a pretty wind up to the whole affair—possibly to spend the whole night there!—I thought so!”

He had reached the highest point behind the farm garden, and for the first time could see beyond; the whole immense space between the farm and the Golmberg was one sea of wild waves! The sea must have broken through here even earlier.

He could see now too how the stream behind him had joined on the left with the sea before him. There was no communication possible now between this place and Warnow; they were on a long, narrow island, one end of which was lost in the waters towards Warnow, and whose highest point was the White Dune, though it was probably divided again between the farm and the hill.

The Count did not consider the position to be absolutely dangerous, but it was confoundedly disagreeable; and all on account of this mute, perverse young lady, who apparently honoured him with her hatred as thanks for all that he had done for her!

The Count was in a desperate frame of mind, as they now turned the corner of the outhouses towards the entrance to the farmyard. A man, whose rough hair was being blown wildly about his head by the wind, was vainly exerting his giant strength to shut the great wooden gate, the left half of which—the right was already bolted—was fixed to the wall as if by iron clamps by the force of the gale.

“I will help you, Pölitz!” called the County “only let us through first!”

The farmer, who had not heard them coming, let go the door which he had just freed, and sprang into the gateway, where he stood with his gigantic form in his torn clothes, his dishevelled hair, his face convulsed with despair and now with furious anger, and his bleeding hand clenched—a terrible vision to the Count’s guilty conscience.

“Come, be reasonable, Pölitz!” he cried.

“Back!” cried the farmer, catching hold of the horse’s bridle. “Back! we will die alone! Back with your mistress! I have got one of yours already here!”

The man had thrust back the horse with such violence that it almost fell. The Count pulled it up by a tremendous effort, so that it sprang forward. Pölitz started back to seize the pickaxe with which he had been working, and which lay behind him on the wall of the outhouse. At the same moment the unfastened half of the door was shut between him and those outside with such appalling violence, that the whole door was shattered as if it had been made of glass, and as its splinters fell, the beams of the falling roof of the barn crashed down just in front of the horses, who started back in mad terror, and turning short round, dashed across a fallow-field to the pollarded willows which used to stand at the edge of the common, but behind which now eddied the turbid waters of the invading flood; then turning off to the right, led by their instinct, they followed the field to the dune which rose in dusky whiteness before them. To have guided them would have been impossible, even if the terrified riders could have thought of such a thing. They were carried as if by the storm itself to the foot of the hill. The panting horses climbed and climbed, and pressed deeper into the sand, which gave way under their hoofs and rolled down into the stream, which rushed from one hollow to the other where a moment before had lain the fallow field between hill and farm.

Carla’s horse fell. The Count urged his on a few paces farther, and threw himself from the saddle at the instant when the animal under him fell like a lifeless thing—perhaps really lifeless—into the depths below. With hands and feet he worked his way up, up! cursing his ill luck that had led him to the steepest part, and yet not daring to turn farther to the left, since here at least there was grass and scrub to cling to, while there the smooth sand offered no hold. Drops of anguish trickled from his brow into his eyes—he could see nothing more, could only hear the roaring of the sea as it broke on the other side of the hill, as a confused ringing in his ears. He gained the summit and staggered forward, as his groping hands found no resistance, gathered himself up again, and looked wildly round him.

There, not far from him, lay a dark object.

Was it Carla? How came she here? Dead?

The dark object moved. He tottered forward to her side.

“Carla!”

She raised herself to her knees and stared fixedly at him, as he bent down to lift her up.

But hardly had his hand touched her, than she started up and away from him.

“Wretch!” she shrieked, “I too will die alone! Back to your other mistress! You have one already at the farm!”

She laughed wildly, and the wind, which had carried away her hat, blew her long hair about her, some locks crossing her deadly-white face, distorted now to a ghastly smile.

“She is mad!” muttered the Count, drawing back as far as he could. He could have wished it had been farther. They were on a miserably small strip of ground, which in the centre was shaped like a trough, with sides which yesterday had been at least five feet high, with sharp clear edges, and which the storm had already reduced to two or three feet of smooth surface. How long would it be before the last hand’s breadth of sand remaining would be blown into the trough, and they would be left without the smallest shelter, even supposing that the flood did not rise above the summit?

And should neither of these things happen—should this point remain unsubmerged—the Count shuddered again and again. How could poor human nature endure it all—the driving storm, the torrents of spray which were unceasingly flung up over the hill, the long long night which now began to close in? Already his keen eyes could only just distinguish through the grey mist the dim outlines of the Golmberg, which was hardly a mile off. Wissow Head had entirely disappeared; the farm itself, barely three hundred yards from him, seemed every moment to sink deeper in the water, which, as far as his eye could reach, covered fields and meadows far inland, perhaps even as far as Warnow, which only appeared at intervals out of the mist like a phantom castle. To the right, the thundering, raging, roaring sea, around him the surf creeping higher and higher up the dune, and here and there sending up columns of spray over the already covered line of hills. And there—now seeming so close to him that he drew back in terror, and in the next moment so far off that she might have been on the Golmberg—the dark, motionless figure of the woman whose lips had clung to his only an hour before—no, no! no living, loved woman, but a spectre risen from depths of horror, and sitting there, crouched together, immovable, only to drive him mad!

And the wretched man cried aloud in his agony, and clasped his hands before his face and sobbed and whimpered like a child.

IX

“It is half-past four,” said Elsa, “we must go.”

“You might remain here.”

“I am not sure whether my father will have arrived yet; indeed, supposing he came by the midday train, he could not be at Warnow yet; but that terrible man is certainly there, expecting you, and perhaps may go away again without waiting for you—”

“I must speak to him,” murmured Valerie.

“And you must not speak to him alone; I will not allow it; and so we must go.”

“Without taking with us any comfort for you, my poor child!”

“I am comforted, I am quite calm; you can surely perceive that by my voice and manner.” And Elsa bent down and kissed her aunt’s pale lips.

They were sitting at the window of Reinhold’s study, on the right hand as you entered the one-storied house, which was imposing compared with its neighbours, which were still smaller.

Elsa had entered almost all of them; the houses of the two chief pilots, and some of those amongst which the four and twenty other pilots were distributed; that of the chief revenue officer, who shared his house with his subordinate; and she would have gone into the other pilots’ houses and the fishermen’s huts, of which there might be perhaps a dozen, only that it was not necessary, as the people were all standing at their doors wherever she passed, and stretching out their hands to her—the rough, hairy hands of two or three invalided old sailors who crept out from the warm chimney-corners; powerful sunburnt hands from strong, sunburnt women; hard little hands from ruddy, flaxen-haired children, who looked up curiously with their blue eyes to the beautiful strange lady, and could not believe what their mothers told them, that she was no princess, but the Captain’s betrothed, who was coming to live here always, and was so pleased with everything! And the Captain would come back, the women all said, though the storm was very high—the worst that Clas Rickmann remembered, and he was ninety-two years old, and so might be allowed to know something about it! The Captain knew what he was about, and he had got six men with him who knew what they were about; and last time they had been out three times in the new lifeboat without being upset once, and it was not likely to upset now, especially when his own sweetheart had come here to receive him when he returned.

So spoke all the women, in almost identical words, as if they had settled them together beforehand; and then they all had something pleasant to say about the Captain, who was even better than the last Superintendent, though he had been a good man too; and here again they all said pretty nearly the same thing, almost in the same words, with the same hearty expression and the same monotonous voices; but Elsa could have willingly heard it all repeated a thousand times, and thanked each one separately as if she heard it for the first time, and as if it were an announcement from heaven.

And then quite a crowd of women and girls accompanied her, with a still greater crowd of children running beside and after them, to the spot nearly at the end of the peninsula, where, on a high dune, signal-posts and beacons were erected, and behind the dune which still afforded some shelter—stood a close group of men in high seaboots and sou’westers, looking out over the raging sea, who, as the young lady came up to them, pulled off their hats, while Clas Janssen, as the eldest, took upon himself to be spokesman, and to tell the young lady all about it; and all bent their heads eagerly to listen, and nodded, and when they turned away to spit, took great care to do it to leeward.

Then Clas Janssen related that this morning, as soon as it was light, a vessel, which was now at anchor round there in the bay, had come in and brought word that close to the Grünwald Oie a ship had run aground, and was flying signals of distress. There was so much surf at the spot, that only the mast was altogether visible, and the stern occasionally, and they had seen men clinging to the yards. The vessel—a small Dutch schooner—seemed well built, and might hold out for another hour or two, as it was on smooth sand, if only the heavy sea did not wash off the crew. From the Oie no one could get at them; an ordinary boat would be swamped at once by the waves. Half an hour later the lifeboat had been launched, with the Captain on board, and for three hours they had kept it in sight, as it worked against the wind, and had seen it at last in the surf near the Oie; but the sea was too high there, and the weather very thick, and so they had lost sight of it, even from the lookout above, and with the most powerful glass, and could not tell whether the Captain had got on board; anyway, it must be a tough job, as it had taken him so long; but the Captain would be sure to pull through. And now if the young lady would go in and let Frau Rickmann make her a cup of tea, they would bring her word when the boat came in sight; and as for their coming back again, she might make herself quite easy—the Captain knew what he was about, and the six men who were with him knew what they were about.

Elsa had smiled, not because the man had repeated again in the same words what the women had said to her, but because this confirmation from the mouth of an experienced man brought sweet peace to her heart; and she had shaken the man’s rough hand and the hands of the other men, and had gone back to the houses with her escort of women and children; and while she talked to them—the storm blowing away half their words—she had always repeated to herself, “He knows what he is about, and the six men who are with him know what they are about!” half as a prayer which she durst not utter with her lips, half as a song of joy which she was ashamed to sing aloud.

Then she had gone to his house, which was soon to be hers; had drunk tea with her aunt, and had made her lie down to rest—for she was quite exhausted—in a small room, where as little as possible might be heard of the storm, and with a beating heart, like a child whose mother is leading it to the Christmas-tree, had gone over the whole house with Frau Rickmann, old Clas Rickmann’s elderly granddaughter, the childless widow of a pilot, who managed Reinhold’s house for him. It was a modest house, and modestly furnished; but she admired everything, as if she had been wandering through an enchanted palace. And how clean and tidy everything was! And how tasteful, when Frau Rickmann’s province of kitchen and storerooms was passed, and that of the Captain himself began! The furniture, as if she herself had been consulted in the choice of every article; the large writing-table, covered with books and carefully-arranged papers and pamphlets; and the handsome bookcase, with glass-doors, full of well-bound books, another case of mysterious nautical instruments, and a third with splendid shells, corals, and stuffed birds! Then Frau Rickmann opened the door of a little room which adjoined the study, and Elsa nearly exclaimed aloud: it was her own little room next to the drawing-room—the same carpet, the same blue rep covering to the sofa, the same chairs, the same corner looking-glass with a gilt console! And it had only one window too; and in the window was a small armchair, and in front of the chair a little worktable—all perfectly charming! And Elsa had to sit down in the chair because her knees shook under her, and to lean her head on the little table and shed a few joyful tears, and kiss the table for love of the man whose tender care seemed enfolding her here like a mantle, and who was now tossing about on the stormy sea which she could see from the window, and risking his precious life for the lives of others!

Meanwhile four o’clock had struck—although it was already so dark that it might have been six—and Frau Rickmann gave it as her opinion that it was high time to see about the Captain’s dinner, if the ladies really would have nothing but tea and cakes. She said it as quietly as if the Captain were only rather late in returning from a quiet row on smooth water, though the storm at that moment was raging more wildly than ever, and the little house was shaken to its foundations.

Aunt Valerie, who could not sleep, came out of her room in terror, to be assured by Frau Rickmann that there was no cause for alarm, as the house would stand a good shaking, and Wissow Head sheltered them from the worst; and as for the flood, they stood like the other houses, fifty feet above high-water mark, and they might wait some time before the tide came up there!

Therewith Frau Rickmann went into the kitchen, after again ushering the ladies into the Captain’s study; and here they now sat at the window, which also looked out to sea, each trying to turn her thoughts to that of which she knew the other’s heart was full, from time to time exchanging a loving word or a pressure of the hand, till Elsa, noticing the growing uneasiness on her aunt’s pale face, pressed for an immediate departure, if only on the ground that the darkness was gathering rapidly, and they could not possibly take the perilous journey back by night.

Frau Rickmann came in with her honest face glowing from the kitchen fire, and took her modest part in the deliberations. The ladies might as well wait another hour; it would not get darker now before sunset, and the Captain must come in now soon, if her dinner was not to be done to rags.

And Frau Rickmann had hardly spoken, when a finger knocked at the window, and a rough voice outside called: “Boat in sight!”

And then, it was in a bewildering, delicious dream, that Elsa ran down to the beach beside a man in high seaboots and a curious-looking hat, who, as they ran, told her a long story of which she understood not a word, and she reached the place where she had gone on her arrival under the shelter of the dunes, and then went up on to the dune, where the beacon was now glimmering through the evening mist, amongst a number of other men in high waterproof boots and odd hats, who pointed to the sea and then spoke to her, without her again understanding a single word, and one of whom hung a great pea-jacket over her shoulders and fastened it securely, without her asking him for it or even thanking him. Then suddenly she saw the boat, which she had been looking for persistently, heaven knows where in the misty air, quite close to her; and then she was in another place where the beach was flat and the surf did not roar so fearfully, and she saw the boat again, which seemed now twice as big as it had been before, and the whole keel was lifted out of the white foam and sunk again, and rose a second time, while some dozens of the men ran into the foam which closed over their heads in spray. And a man came up through the ebbing waves, in high boots and just such another odd hat, and she gave a cry of joy and rushed towards him and threw her arms round him, and he lifted her up and carried her a little way, till she could set her feet again upon the sand; and whether he carried her again, or whether they flew, or walked on side by side, she never knew, and only saw him really when he had changed his clothes and was sitting at his dinner-table, while she poured him out glass after glass of wine, and her aunt sat by smiling, and Frau Rickmann went in and out and brought in mutton chops with steaming-hot potatoes, and ham and eggs, and he, though he never turned his eyes from her, ate everything with the hunger of a man who had not tasted food since seven o’clock that morning. There had been no time for that; it had been a nasty bit of work getting to the stranded vessel, and still worse to take off the poor men through the surf; but it had been successful; they were all saved, the whole eight of them. They had to be put ashore at Grünwald then, which was another difficult job, and had kept them a long time; but it could not be helped, the poor fellows who had been clinging to the rigging all night were in such a deplorable condition, but they would be all right now.

Intoxicated with the bliss of that flower of happiness which they had plucked from the edge of the abyss, they remarked now for the first time that Aunt Valerie had left them. Elsa, who had no secrets from her Reinhold, explained to him in a few words the poor thing’s position, and that they had not now a moment to lose in starting on their disagreeable journey homewards.

“Not a moment!” cried Reinhold, rising; “I will give the necessary orders at once.”

“They have already been given,” said Valerie, who had heard the last words as she entered; “the carriage is at the door.”

The noise of the wheels had been inaudible in the deep sand to the happy lovers, as had been also the approach of the rider, whom Aunt Valerie had seen from the window, and to receive whom she had left the room.

He was there; he ordered her to come! She knew it before she opened the letter which François handed to her. She had read the letter—in the little room to the left, standing at the open window, while François stood outside—and then the enclosure; and as she read the letter she had laughed aloud, and torn the paper into fragments, and thrown the fragments scornfully from the window, out into the storm which in a moment whirled them away.

“Madame laughs,” said François, speaking French as he always did when he wished to be impressive; “but I can assure madame that it is no laughing matter, and that if madame is not back at the castle before six o’clock, something terrible will happen.”

“I will come.”

François bowed, swung himself into the saddle again, and—to the breathless astonishment of the village children who had been attracted by the unusual spectacle of a horseman—set spurs to his horse, and, with his head bowed almost to the saddle, dashed off, while Valerie begged Frau Rickmann to send for the carriage which had been put into the head pilot’s barn up in the village, and then with a heavy heart went to separate the happy pair. But if she made up her mind to a last meeting with her dreaded, hated tyrant, it was only for the sake of those she loved, and for whom in the threatening catastrophe she would save whatever might still be possible to save! It would not be much—she knew his rapacity—but enough perhaps to secure her Elsa’s future, to free poor Ottomar from his difficulties. And she smiled as she thought that even Elsa could believe she was thinking of herself in this matter, of her future!—Good God!

Elsa was ready at once, and Reinhold would not detain her by word or look. He would have dearly liked to go with her, but that was not to be thought of. He must not leave his post now for a single hour; at any moment duty might call upon him again.

And before Elsa had got her cloak on a pilot came in to bring news of the boat which had gone out at two o’clock after the steamer that had been signalled from Wissow Head, asking for a pilot. They had got out to sea in ten minutes and round the Head in half an hour; but the steamer was no longer there, and must meanwhile have doubled the Golmberg and got out to sea, as they had seen for themselves when they had passed the Golmberg. On their way back—about half-past four—they had been alarmed at seeing so much surf on the dunes between the Head and the Golmberg, and had kept inshore as much as possible, to make out if the sea had broken through there as the Captain had foretold. They could not make quite certain at first, just on account of the heavy sea; but when they went in closer still, so as to be sure, Clas Lachmund first, and then all the rest too, had seen two people on the White Dune, one of whom looked like a woman and had not moved, but the other—a man—had made signs to them. They could not reach them, however, try as they would, and might think themselves lucky that they got off again even, for they had run aground close by the White Dune, and had seen then for certain that the sea had broken in—north and south of the White Dune, and probably at other points too—for they could see nothing but water far inland. How far they could not say; the weather was too hazy. They must be in a bad way at Ahlbeck too; but they had not gone nearer in there, for the people there, with Wissow Head hard by, could be in no danger of losing their lives; but the two people on the White Dune would be in a very bad case if they could not be brought off before night.

“Who can the unfortunate people be?” asked Valerie.

“Shipwrecked folk; what else could they be!” answered Reinhold.

“Goodbye, my Reinhold,” said Elsa; and then clinging to him, half laughing, half crying: “Take six more men with you who know what they are about!”

“And you will pledge me your word,” said Reinhold, “that the carriage shall not drive down from the village to the castle, if from the height above you cannot see the road absolutely clear through the hollow!”

The two ladies were gone, and Reinhold got ready for his second expedition. It was not exactly his duty, any more than the morning’s work had been; only none of the men—not even the best of them—quite knew how to handle the new lifeboat.

Those two people on the dune, however—he had not liked to say so to Elsa—but they could not be shipwrecked people, for any vessel that had gone ashore there would have been signalled long ago from Wissow Head. They could not well be from Pölitz’s farm either, though that was close by, for Frau Rickmann had told him when he went to change his clothes, that Pölitz had sent back word by the messenger he had despatched to him, that he would send little Ernst and his men with the livestock to Warnow; but he could not go away himself, neither could Marie, and still less his wife, who had been confined last night, of a boy. Things could not be so bad with them either.

But things were serious now—very serious—and even if the head pilot Bonsak had a little exaggerated, as he did sometimes in similar cases, there was danger any way; danger for poor Frau Pölitz, who was kept to the house by the most sacred of duties; greater danger still for the two of whom he asked to know nothing but that they were fellow-creatures who without him must perish.

X

The large room at the Warnow Inn, filled with the smoke of bad tobacco and the odour of stale beer and spirits, was crowded with the noisy wagoners who had arrived that morning, and who had been joined in the course of the afternoon by two or three drovers, who also thought it pleasanter to remain here. The landlord stood near, snuffing the tallow-candles and bawling even louder than his guests, for he must be the best judge whether a railway from Golm direct by Wissow Head to Ahlbeck, without passing by Warnow, were a folly or not. And the Count, who had ridden in that afternoon, would pull a long face when he saw what havoc had been made; but if a man wouldn’t hear reason anyhow, he must suffer for it. There were terrible doings at Ahlbeck, he heard, and murder and fighting too; it served the Ahlbeck people well right, they had been bragging enough lately about their railway station, and their harbour, and their fine hotels; they might draw in their horns again now!

The landlord was so loud and eager in his talk, that he never noticed his wife come in and take the keys of the best rooms upstairs from the board on the door, while the maid took the two brass candlesticks from the cupboard, into which she put candles, and then lighted them and ran after her mistress. He only turned round when someone touched him on the shoulder and asked where he could put up his horses, the ostler said there was no more room.

“No more there is,” said the landlord; “where do you come from?”

“From Neuenfähr; the gentlefolks I brought are upstairs now.”

“Who are they?” asked the landlord. “Don’t know; a young gentleman and a young lady; something out of the common I should think. I couldn’t drive quick enough for ’em; but how’s a man to drive fast in this weather? We came a foot’s pace. Two horses or one made no difference. A one-horse carriage that was behind us might easily have got ahead. It must have been a Warnow trap, it turned to the right as we came to the village.”

“Jochen Katzenow,” said the landlord, “was at Neuenfähr this morning; he’s got a devil of a horse! Well, come along; we’ll see what can be done; but I don’t think we can manage it.”

The Neuenfähr man followed the landlord into the hall, where they encountered the gentleman whom he had brought, who took the landlord on one side and spoke to him in an undertone.

“They won’t have done in a hurry,” thought the driver, and so went out, unharnessed his horses, and, leaving the carriage standing for the time, led them under the overhanging roof of a barn, where they would be sheltered at any rate from the worst of the storm. He had just spread some horse-cloths over the smoking animals when the gentleman left the house and came up to him.

“I shall probably not remain long here,” said the gentleman; “perhaps not more than an hour, and then shall continue our journey.”

“Where to, sir?”

“To Prora, or back to Neuenfähr; I do not know yet.”

“It can’t be done, sir.”

“Why not?”

“The horses couldn’t do it.”

“I know better what horses can do; I will give you my orders by-and-by.”

The Neuenfähr man was irritated at the imperious tone in which the gentleman spoke to him, but he did not venture to contradict him. The gentleman, who now wore a greatcoat with metal buttons—during the drive he had worn a plain overcoat—turned up the collar as he passed round the shed towards the street. The light from the taproom fell full upon his face.

“Aha!” said the Neuenfähr man; “I thought as much. One doesn’t forget these things, however long one has been in the reserve. Where the devil is the Lieutenant going to?”

Ottomar had obtained full directions from the landlord, and indeed the road which led straight down through the village could not be mistaken. He walked slowly, and often stood still; sometimes because the storm which met him full would not allow him to continue, and sometimes because he had to try and recollect what he wanted to do at the castle. His head was confused with the long drive in an open carriage through this fearful storm, and his heart felt dead within him; he felt as if he had not energy left to tell the villain to his face that he was a villain. Besides, it ought to be, it must be done in his aunt’s presence, if the scoundrel were not to be able to deny everything afterwards, and entangle his aunt again in his web of lies as he had entangled them all. Or was it all an arranged plot between him and his aunt! It looked suspicious that she should have left the castle so early today, when he must have been expected to come to call the villain to account. She had gone with Elsa, it was true; but might not the affection which she seemed to bestow upon Elsa—in secret, like all the rest of these dark mysteries—be affection after the pattern of Giraldi’s? Perhaps his aunt had undertaken to allure and befool Elsa as Giraldi had done by him; and they had both fallen into the snare, and the crafty fowlers were laughing at their foolish prey. Poor Elsa! who had also no doubt put her faith in these fair promises, and now would have to try how she could get on as the wife of a Superintendent of Pilots with a few hundred thalers, and her home in that miserable fishing hamlet. “That was not what had been looked forward to for her, poor Elsa! That was to have been our inheritance, the castle by the sea, as we called it when we used to lay plans for our future; we were to live there together, you in one wing and I in the other; and when you married the prince and I the princess we were to draw lots which should have it to themselves; we could not continue together because of all the suite.

“And now, my dearest and best of sisters, you are far from me, waiting for your lover who is out in the storm, perhaps, to save the precious lives of a few herring-fishers; and I—”

At the spot where the road, leaving behind it the first houses in the village, turned downwards through a narrow gorge which led to the hollow whence it again began to rise towards the castle, he sat down upon a stone which projected from the extreme edge of the gorge towards the hollow, and was only held in its hazardous position by the roots of a magnificent fir-tree, which must once have stood much farther from the edge, and which now creaked and groaned as it bent backwards under the pressure of the gale, as if trying to avoid falling into the depths.

“There is no help for either of us,” said Ottomar, “it has all crumbled away bit by bit; and we are hanging with our roots in the air. The stone that would gladly have held us up cannot do it; rather the reverse. And if there come one great storm, such as this, we must both fall. I wish to God we lay there, and that you would fall upon my head and kill me, and that the flood would come and wash us out to sea, and no one should know how we came to our end.”

And she? She, whom he had just left in the miserable, dreary inn-room, she, whose kisses he still felt upon his lips, and who, as he went out at the door—thinking, no doubt, that he could not see her—threw herself upon the sofa, and leaning her head upon the back covered her face with her hands, weeping he was certain. For what? for her miserable fate that bound her to a man weaker than herself. She was strong, she would endure it all, come what would. But what could come for her? She had repeated to him a hundred times on the road, that he was not to trouble himself any more about that miserable money; that her father was far too proud to refuse her entreaty, the first she had made to him since she could remember, the last that she would ever make to him. And she had written to her father from Neuenfähr, where they had had to wait half an hour for the carriage. “The thing is done,” she had said, as she stroked his hair from his forehead as a mother might have done to her boy, who had been playing truant from school.

She was the stronger; but then what did she lose? her father?—she seemed never to have really loved him; her comfortable life in her beautiful luxurious home?—what does a girl know of the things that make up her life!—her art? that she could carry with her everywhere; had she not said with a smile, “It will support us both.” Of course! she would have to support him now, the disgraced soldier!

The fir-tree, against which he leaned, creaked and groaned like some tormented creature; Ottomar could feel how the roots heaved and twisted, and the soil showered down the steep gorge, while in the branches the wind whistled and howled and crackled like grapeshot or musketry fire, and from the sea came a roar and thunder as if from an endless line of batteries, whose fire was incessantly kept up.

“It would have been so simple then,” said Ottomar; “my father would have paid my few debts and would have been proud of me, instead of sending me a pistol now, as if I did not know as well as he that it is all over for Ottomar von Werben; and Elsa would have often and lovingly talked of her brother, who fell at Vionville. Dear Elsa, how I should like to see her once more!”

He had learned from the landlord that the carriage with the two ladies, if they returned this evening as the driver had told him, must pass this way, it being the only road still practicable; the shorter road through the lower ground was no longer passable. Ottomar wondered what the man meant by the lower ground. The situation was so entirely different from what he had heard described; the sea seemed to be breaking immediately behind the castle, though in the wet, grey mist which was driving in his face he could no longer distinguish individual objects. The castle itself, which must surely be close under his feet, seemed to be a mile off; he could hardly have seen it sometimes, if lights had not been constantly flickering in the windows. In the indistinct masses of building to the left of the castle, which must belong to the farm, lights also glimmered occasionally, shifting their places as if people were running about with lanterns; and once or twice he fancied that he heard men’s voices and the lowing of cattle. It might be all a delusion of his senses, which were beginning to fail him, as he sat there unsheltered from the raging storm which was freezing the very marrow of his bones. He must go on, if he were not to die here like a straggler behind a hedge on the roadside.

And yet he remained; but through his bewildered brain wilder and more confused images chased each other. There was a Christmas-tree with lighted candles, and he and Elsa came to the door hand-in-hand, and their father and mother stood at the table, on which there were dolls for Elsa, and helmet and sword and sabretache for him, and he threw himself joyfully into his father’s arms, who lifted him high in the air and kissed him. Then the Christmas-tree changed into a lofty pine, and the crest of the pine was a blazing chandelier, under which he was dancing with Carla, in defiance of the Count, who looked on with furious glances, while the double bass boomed, and the violins squeaked, and the dancing couples whirled in and out: Tettritz with Emilie von Fischbach, that tall Wartenberg with little Fräulein von Strummin. Then it was a bivouac fire with the trumpets sounding to the attack at Vionville, against the batteries which thundered in return, and he called laughingly to Tettritz and Wartenberg, “Now, gentlemen, a bullet through the heart, or the cross on the breast!” and set spurs to his charger, which dashed straight forward with a wild neigh. Ottomar started to his feet and looked round him in bewilderment. Where was he? at his feet there foamed and hissed a broad eddying stream, and now he heard distinctly a horse neighing—close by him—in the hollow way, at the edge of which he stood, and below him was a carriage which was being backed by the resisting horses against the bank.

With one spring he was behind the carriage and helping the coachman to turn the snorting horses; there was just room left.

“Where are the ladies!”

He had seen that the carriage was empty.

“They got out—above—in such a hurry, by the causeway in the meadows to the park. Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! if only they can get across it! Lord have mercy upon us!”

A wave of the stream which had broken through between the hill and the castle, and which the coachman had nearly driven into, poured into the hollow way, and eddied up under the horses’ feet, who could no longer be restrained but dashed up the road, the coachman running by them, having fortunately caught up the reins, and doing his best to stop them.

Ottomar had only understood so much from the coachman’s confused words, made almost unintelligible by the storm, as to gather that Elsa was in danger. What was this causeway? Where was it? He ran after the coachman, calling and shouting to him, but the man did not hear.

XI

As Giraldi moved with restless steps up and down the deserted rooms of the castle, there was added to the grey spectres of fear and anxiety which lurked around and followed him, another, that as the twilight deepened grew and grew, and seemed to come nearer and nearer with every movement of the minute-hand of the watch that he never put down. Not merely seemed. He could see it advancing from the windows which looked towards the sea, from the roof of the round tower to which he had made the old servant show him the way; he could see the tide advancing like storming columns which, step by step, slowly but irresistibly, gained ground, following up the skirmishers, which as soon as the main body reached them were swallowed up in it. Over there, where an hour ago he had seen a narrow line of water running through the lower ground—it was the brook, the old servant said—the foaming waves of a broad gulf were now tossing; there, straight before him, where, to right and left of the little farmyard, he had seen half an hour before dark masses of water in the hollows which he had at first taken for large ponds, was a great lake out of which the farm appeared like a little island. And ten minutes later the foaming lake had joined the gulf, and if this went on for another half hour we should have the flood up here, and not a mouse could creep out of house or courtyard—so said Herr Damberg.

This was said in the courtyard itself. Giraldi had seen the farmer there from the window of the dining-room, and had gone out to question the man.

“For you see,” said Herr Damberg, “there is rising ground certainly between us and Pölitz’s farm, which reaches from the Golmberg almost up to the brook right across the hollow; but behind it—towards us—the ground sinks again pretty rapidly, to the height opposite where the village stands, and between which and us again is the lowest part of all. If the flood rises above that higher ground which has checked it as yet the hollow will be filled to the brim like a basin; and I shall think myself lucky if it does not get into my stables and barns, particularly those on the park side, for that will go too. It is very fortunate that the ladies are away; what could they do here? I told Frau von Wallbach too that she had better go up to the village, but she won’t. My goodness! there goes another roof!”

The farmer rushed off to the endangered building, from whose thatched roof the gale had torn off whole bales of straw and whirled them like chaff over the courtyard. The terrified farm-servants came running up from all sides, while the farmer grumbled that they had better keep their wits about them now; what was to happen later if they had lost their senses already?

Giraldi looked at his watch, it wanted twenty minutes to six. François, who had returned half an hour before, had sworn that he was convinced that madame would start immediately after him. The road was not so bad as he had thought; they might very well be at the castle at six o’clock.

Giraldi went into the house to question François once more. François was not to be found; someone had seen him a short time before go through the garden-door towards the park, with a cloak round him.

“The fellow is prudent,” said Giraldi to himself; “he has got his money and takes himself off. I am in the same position, I ought to follow his wise example.”

He must come to a decision; if Valerie came too late, or not at all, he would find himself in about half an hour face to face with the General, who must have heard this morning at any rate—perhaps from Ottomar himself—of the affair of the bills, and, his suspicions once aroused, would certainly make inquiries, and learn from the banker, to whom he would of course apply first, that the Warnow money had been withdrawn, from the bank. Elsa’s telegram too! All these things coming together would rouse the most sluggish of men, how much more one so active and energetic! And yet everything was not lost, everything might still be won, was won already, if Valerie were on his side; the half million of mortgage money, which he had withdrawn from Lübbener’s yesterday, belonged to her by rights; and for himself, without overstepping by one hair’s breadth the powers given him by the other trustees, he could withdraw the half million of purchase-money from Haselow, and keep it in his desk, or carry it on his person if he did not think it secure elsewhere; but Valerie must give her consent—she must, she must, she must!

He cried it aloud, stamping his foot on the wet ground, while in the branches of the trees overhead the wind whistled and howled, and louder and louder grew the roar of the sea breaking against the barrier which it only needed to surmount to fill the hollow like a basin. Even the park would be swept away then.

He hardly knew why he had entered the park; perhaps to look for François, perhaps because he had been told that from the balcony of the summerhouse in the south corner a long stretch of the road to Wissow over the hills could be seen. If indeed in the darkness, which seemed deepening at every moment, anything could be seen at a distance! And where was this south corner? As if between the brambles of these rustling hedges, and in the gloom of these creaking boughs, a man could find his way as one would between the laurel bushes and the pines of the Monte Pincio!

In this howling northern wilderness the image of the Eternal City stood suddenly before his mind, as he had seen it that night when, for the first time after years of separation, he saw Valerie again—by no effort of his, against all expectation or hope—at a fête given by the French Embassy in the enchanted gardens of the Villa Medici. There, when a jealous husband had carried away his beautiful wife only too soon, he himself had left the festive crowd, and ascended the stone steps in the shade of the evergreen oaks till the lights of the festival below him had been lost and the sounds had died away; there, in the darkness and silence which surrounded him, he had mused as he went yet farther and higher, and reached the Belvedere, where his beloved Rome, bathed in moonshine, lay at his feet; there he had sworn by St. Peter’s, on whose gigantic dome streams of soft golden light were pouring down from the blue heavens, that the love of this fair northern woman should be the golden stepping-stone to his power, which he, the layman, in the service of St. Peter’s, and yet free—free as an eagle here above the world—would extend over the whole earth. It had taken him longer than he had then hoped—much too long; he had held fast to his once formed plans with too obstinate tenacity; he might have attained more brilliant results, quicker and more surely, by other ways such as had a thousand times offered themselves; but it was the star of his fate which he had followed, in which he had always trusted, and would trust still when—at the last moment—everything seemed to conspire against him to snatch his prey from him, the fruit of the arduous labour of so many years, the noble fortune which he carried about him close to his body, as if it were a part of himself, as it was indeed a part of his life which he would give up only with that life.

He looked at his watch—he could no longer distinguish the numbers on the dial-plate; he sounded the repeater—he could not hear the faint stroke through the roaring of the storm which crashed and howled around him. He would count five minutes more; if she did not come then—so be it!

And there was the summerhouse for which he had been looking so long, a wooden erection on four slender columns, to which a narrow steep staircase led up, at the extreme edge of the park, some ten or twelve feet above the enclosing hedge, high enough as he could see from the balcony to overlook the ground outside between the park and the hill; a long trough-shaped bit of ground, some fifty or a hundred yards broad, through which, from the hill to the park, a dark winding causeway led, formed apparently of large stones arranged at even distances to facilitate the crossing of the low-lying meadow-land.

He examined the position narrowly. In the meadow-land below he could see larger and smaller pools of what must be water already accumulated there; but the stone pathway was decidedly passable. In the comparative lightness of his post of observation he could see his watch now; it wanted ten minutes to six, and there was not a moment to be lost. He would go back through the park to the castle and find out if Valerie had arrived, or perhaps the General. Then, if necessary, back through the park over the causeway to the village; he would hunt up a carriage of some sort, and then—to the devil with this miserable country of barbarians, he would leave it forever!

He glanced once again over the hills without, along whose edge he ought to have seen the carriage coming. Folly! who could have distinguished anything there now, when over all a dark veil had spread itself which was growing more dense at every moment! Even the stepping-stones in the meadow were hardly visible, he should have trouble in finding them; the dark line waved up and down, the stones seemed in movement. Something was really moving there—that was not the stones. There were people there—women—two—coming across the stones—she, no doubt, with that detested girl—no matter! she was coming, obedient as ever! to tell him that she would obey him in future as she had always obeyed him! What else should she come for? For fear of him? For love of her newly-found son? no matter!—no matter!—she was coming!

He would not need now to steal away like a thief with the stolen treasure; he might lift his head proudly, he who always and everywhere was master of the position which his ruling spirit had created. He rushed down the steep steps, through the beech avenue, where it was almost completely dark, to the little door which he had noticed before at the entrance to the avenue, and at which he supposed the causeway must end. And at the moment when with a powerful effort he shook the locked or warped door from its rusty hinges, they stood without.

Valerie started back with a shudder, as she so suddenly saw before her the terrible man, who seemed to belong to the darkness and the raging elements. But he had already caught her hand and drawn her into the path, while Elsa, at her aunt’s entreating “Let me be alone with him!” unwillingly obeyed her, and remained standing at the shattered door, following with her keen eyes their retreating figures through the dark pathway, ready and determined to hasten to the poor woman’s assistance; straining her ear through the rustling and crackling of the bushes, and the roaring and creaking of the trees, and the raging and howling all round her, for any cry for help.

She stood there gazing, listening—for some fearful minutes, of which she could have counted each second by the beating of her heart. Now she could see them both walking quickly up and down at the lower end of the path; she thought she could catch a few broken words in Italian—an entreating “Il nostro figlio” from him—a passionate “Giammai! giammai!” from her. Then again the wild raving of the storm and the tide drowned every sound; the figures vanished into the darkness. She could bear her anxiety no longer, she hurried down the path—past something that glided by her—past him, the traitor! the murderer!

She shrieked it aloud, “Traitor! murderer!” The wild scream sounded no louder than an infant’s cry. She rushed down the path to the summerhouse, crying: “Aunt! aunt!” though she expected to find nothing but a dead body. There—at the foot of the stairs—was her aunt, her dear aunt!

She crouched on the lower steps of the staircase, and lifted upon her knees the fallen form, from whose icy forehead a warm stream trickled. But she still lived! she had attempted to press with her slender fingers the hand which had grasped hers; and now, now! thank heaven! there came a few low words, which Elsa, bending low over her, tried to catch.

“Do not be alarmed! It is nothing—a fall against the railing as he flung me from him; free—Elsa, free!—free!”

Her head sank again on Elsa’s bosom, but her heart still beat; it was only a swoon, the result of the terror and loss of blood; she tried to rise and sank back again.

Elsa did not lose her courage; as she bound up the wounded forehead with her own and her aunt’s handkerchief and a strip torn from her dress—she had had plenty of practice in the hospitals during the war—she considered whether she should try to carry the slender figure to the castle, or whether it would be better to hasten home alone and procure assistance. She would lose a great deal of time either way; but in the first case she would remain with the sufferer, and need not leave her alone in this terrible situation, without, perhaps, being able to make her understand that it was necessary to leave her.

Still she decided upon the second alternative as the safer. The bandage was arranged; she was just about to raise her aunt gently from her lap and arrange her as comfortable a couch as possible, when through the bushes, through the hedges, between the trees, there came upon her what seemed like thousands and thousands of serpents, whose hissing sounded even through the howling of the storm, with a strange and horrible noise that made Elsa’s blood run chill. For a moment she listened breathlessly, and then with a wild shriek started to her feet, snatching up her aunt, and with the strength of despair dragging her up the steps to save the helpless woman and herself from the flood which had broken over the park. She had hardly reached the last step before the water was pouring through the lower ones, and seeming to be everywhere at once, foaming and roaring through the hedge which ran from the summerhouse to the castle, as if over a weir, rushing into the hollow, which was no longer a valley but the bed of a broad stream whose waters, pouring in from either side, met with a crash like thunder, throwing up jets of water to the balcony, over the edge of which Elsa leant with a shudder.

A bench ran round the inner side of the balcony. Elsa laid her aunt here, who was falling from one fainting fit into another, after wrapping her up as warmly as possible, for the greater part with her own clothes.

And there she sat, with the poor thing’s head again in her lap, as the storm howled and the flood roared around her, and shook the frail slender wooden edifice in every joint of its worm-eaten planks, praying that God would send someone to them—the only man who could save them in their fearful need.

XII

As Ottomar’s steps died away upon the creaking stairs and across the hall, Ferdinanda sprang up, and wringing her hands, paced two or three times up and down the little room; then she threw herself down again as Ottomar had last seen her—her face in her hands, her head leaning against the back of the sofa. But she had not cried then, neither did she cry now; she had no tears to shed; she had no hope left, no wish save one—to die for him since she could not live for him, since her life could only be a burden and a torment to him. Why had she not believed his brother officer, with the clear brow and keen, pitiful eyes, who had said to her:

“You deceive yourself, my dear young lady! Your flight with Ottomar is no deliverance for him from his difficulties, but another complication, and that the most fatal. The worst point for Ottomar is the terrible wound to his honour as an officer. Appearances at least must be saved here, and this is still possible according to the arrangements I have made. At the best his life can only be half a life, one which I do not know how he will bear. I doubt even if he can bear it; but in such a case as this one may perhaps stifle one’s better judgment. There can be no doubt, however, that if you now fly with him, and the circumstance becomes known—as it must be—there will be no longer any possibility for us, his friends, to save even appearances. That an officer should be forced to retire from the service on account of debts, that his betrothal should on this account be broken off, that he should even in his delicate position neglect to call to account the gossips and scandal-bearers—all this may occur, does occur unfortunately only too often. But at the same time, forgive me for saying so, the door is open wide for scandal. A man who at such a moment can think of anything but of saving what still is possible out of the shipwreck of his honour, or, if there is nothing left to save, of giving up with dignity perhaps even life itself—who instead of this drags down with him another person whom he professes to love, a stainless woman, a lady who has always been highly respected—that man has thrown away every claim to sympathy or fellow-feeling. Ottomar himself must see this sooner or later. This journey of his to Warnow is, in my eyes, absolute folly. What does he mean to do there? Call Giraldi to account? The Italian will answer, ‘You are no child, you must have known what you were about.’ Call out the Count? For what cause, when he travels with you? But let him go if he will, only alone! only not with you! I conjure you, not with you! Believe me, the love in whose power you trust to save Ottomar from all his difficulties will prove itself absolutely impotent, even worse; it will finally break down the remains of the strength which Ottomar might otherwise still possess. For his sake—if you will not think of yourself—do not go with him!”

Strange, when he had drawn her on one side at the last moment, while Ottomar and Bertalda in the next room were arranging a few last things, and spoken to her thus—hastily, yet so clearly—his words had passed by her like an empty sound; she had hardly known what he was speaking of; and now it all came back upon her memory word for word! It was all coming true already, word for word! All-powerful love! Good heavens, what a mockery! What answer had he had for the pictures of the future which she had painted for him in colours whose glow was drawn from her overflowing heart, but a sad, gloomy smile, or monosyllabic absent words, evidently only spoken because he must say something, while his spirit was weighed down with the burden of his thoughts about his angry father, his pitiful or scornful brother officers, and of the possibility of forcing a duel upon Herr von Wallbach or Count Golm. His very caresses when, with a heart full of unutterable fear, she put her arms round him—as a mother round her child whom she is carrying from the flames—his very caresses made her shiver as she thought, “He treats me like a lovesick girl, who must be humoured, like a mistress whom he has taken on his journey, and from whom he wishes to hide that he is weary of her before their first station is passed.”

She! she! who had once dreamed that her love was an inexhaustible spring, and had blamed herself that she had been so chary with it, and had turned away her suitor from her door, had left him without in the barren wilderness of life to despair and perish without her! She who had been so proud! so proud, because she knew that she had boundless wealth to give; that her love was like the storm now raging without, throwing down all that was not stronger than itself—like the flood rushing by, destroying, devouring all that did not rise into the clouds!

That had been her fear all this time, that he too, even he, would never quite understand her; there would always remain a gaping breach between the real and the ideal, and she ought not therefore to sacrifice the ideal, however yearningly her heart might throb, however stormily the warm blood might rush through her veins. She had but this one best thing to lose, to be forever after poorer than the poorest beggar, she for whom inexorable experience had once for all destroyed the fair dream of so many years—that of being an artist by the grace of God!

How she had fought! how she had struggled through so many weary days, so many wakeful nights passed in gloomy brooding, in writhing despair! days and nights whose terrors would long since have brought even her strength low, if his beloved, fascinating image had not flitted through her feverish morning dreams, alluring her on to other weary days, to other tortured nights.

It was no longer his image now, it was himself; no longer fascinating, but still beloved as ever!

And oh, how dearly loved! more than ever! immeasurably more in his helpless misery than in his brighter days.

If she could only help him! For herself she had no wish, no desires; God was her witness! And if tonight she lay in his arms, and he in hers, she could think of it without one more heartbeat, without for a moment losing the despairing thought that weighed down her heart: “He will breathe no new strength, no new life from my kisses! He will rise from his bridal couch a weary, broken-down man!” How could she maintain strength and courage to live—no longer for herself alone—for both of them now?

If not strength and courage to live, then at least to die!

If she could die for him! could say to him with her dying lips: “See, death is bliss and joy to me, if I can hope that from this hour you will despise life, and because you despise it, will live a noble and beautiful life, like one who lives only that he may die nobly and gloriously!”

But to his weak soul even this would be no spur, no check, only one more dark shadow amongst all the dark shadows that had fallen upon his path; and upon that gloomy path he would wander feebly on, inactive, inglorious, to an early and an inglorious grave! Thus she lay, sunk in the depth of her grief, heedless of the howling of the storm, which perpetually shook the house from roof to cellar; deaf to the noisy uproar of the drunken guests just under her room, hardly raising her head as her landlady now came in. The landlady came to ask her ladyship—as the gentlefolks must mean to spend the night here now—how she would like to have the beds arranged in the next room; but at the strange expression of the beautiful pale face, which raised itself from the sofa and looked at her so oddly, the question died away on the tip of her tongue, and she only succeeded in bringing out her second question: whether she should make a cup of tea for her ladyship? Her ladyship did not seem to understand the question; at any rate she did not answer, and the landlady thought to herself, “She will ring if she wants anything,” and went into the bedroom with the candle which she had in her hand, half closing the door—which always took several efforts to shut it—so as not to disturb her ladyship, and then took the candle to the windows, to see if they were properly fastened. One of them was not, the upper bolt had stuck fast, and as she pulled up the lower one, the wind blowing through the narrow opening put the candle out, which she had set upon the windowsill. “I can find my way, however,” thought the landlady, and turned in the dim light towards the beds, but stopped as she came near the door, and heard the lady give a faint cry. “Good gracious!” thought the landlady, “it is almost worse with these fine people than it is with us.” For the gentleman, who had come in again, had begun to speak at once, not loudly but evidently warmly. “What could be the matter between the two young people?” thought the landlady, and glided on tiptoe to the door. But she could understand nothing, whether of the many words spoken by the gentleman, or the few interposed by the lady; and then it struck the landlady that it was not the gentleman’s clear voice, and that they were neither of them speaking German; and she put her eye to the keyhole, and to her astonishment and terror saw an absolutely strange man standing by the lady in the next room, who as she looked let his brown cloak fall from his shoulders without noticing it, while he violently gesticulated with both arms, and talked faster, and louder and louder, in his incomprehensible jargon—like a madman, thought the terrified landlady.

“I will not turn back,” cried Antonio, “after I have run almost all the way like a dog after his owner who has been carried away by robbers, and the rest of the way have been lying crouched in the straw in a cart like a beast led to slaughter. I will no longer be a dog, I will no longer suffer worse than a beast. I know all now—all—all! how he was faithless to you, the dishonourable coward, that he might go to another, and again from her to you, and lay at your door whimpering for mercy while they settled it for him—his mistress and that accursed Giraldi, whose neck I will wring when and wherever I meet him again, so surely as my name is Antonio Michele! I know all—all—all! And that you will give your fair self to him, as you have given him your soul already!”

The miserable man could not understand the half-scornful, half-melancholy smile which curled the beautiful girl’s proud lips.

“Do not laugh!” he shrieked, “or I will kill you!” And then, as she half rose, not from fear, but to repel the maniac: “Forgive me! oh, forgive me! I kill you!—you who are my all, the light and joy of my life; for whom I would let myself be torn in pieces, limb from limb! for whom I would give every drop of my heart’s blood, if you would only allow me to kiss the hem of your garment, to kiss the ground upon which you have trod! How often—how often have I done it without your knowledge—in your studio, the spot where your fair foot has stood, the tool which your dear hand has touched! I ask for so little; I will wait for years—as I have waited for years—and will never weary of serving you, of worshipping you, like the blessed Madonna, till the day comes when you will listen to my prayers!”

He had fallen on his knees in the place where he stood, his wild eyes, his quivering hands raised to her.

“Rise!” said she. “You do not know what you say, nor to whom you say it. I can give you nothing; I have nothing to give. I am so poor, so poor—far poorer than you!”

She was wandering about the little room and wringing her hands, passing by the kneeling man, who, as her dress touched his glowing face, sprang to his feet as though moved by an electric shock.

“I am not poor,” he cried; “I am the son of a prince; and more than a prince—I am Michelangelo; and a greater than Michelangelo! I see them coming in moving crowds, singing hymns in praise of the immortal Antonio; bearing flowers, twining garlands, to adorn and encircle the wonderful creations of the divine Antonio! Do you hear? do you hear! There! there!”

From the broad village street there rose up the confused, tumultuous cry of the people, who had been alarmed at the news of the advancing flood, and were hastening to the scene of the catastrophe; from the tower of the neighbouring church there rang out, broken by the storm, the clang of the bells, now threateningly near, and again in trembling distance.

“Do you hear!” cried the maniac. “Do you hear?”

He stood with outstretched arm, smiling; his eyes, lighted with joy and triumph, fixed upon Ferdinanda, who gazed in terror at him.

Suddenly the smile changed to a fearful grimace, his eyes glared with deadly hatred, his outstretched arm was withdrawn with a shudder, his hand convulsively clutched at his breast, as immediately under the window a voice rose, clear and commanding, above the raging of the storm and the shouts of the crowd:

“A rope, a strong rope—the longest that you have got! And thinner cord—as much as possible. There are some people there already! I shall be there before you!”

A hasty step, taking three or four stairs at once, came up the creaking staircase. The maniac laughed wildly.

The landlady, too, had heard the clear voice below, and the hasty step on the stairs. There would be an accident, for sure, if the gentleman came in now, when that strange, disagreeable man was with the lady! She burst into the room at the moment when the gentleman opened the door on the other side.

Uttering a howl of rage, and brandishing high his stiletto, Antonio rushed upon him. But Ferdinanda had thrown herself between them before Ottomar could cross the threshold, shielding her lover with outspread arms, offering her own bosom to the fatal thrust, and falling without a groan into Ottomar’s arms, as the murderer fled past them in cowardly, mad flight at sight of the crime that he had never intended, and that had broken through the night of his insanity as if by a flash of lightning—fled down the stairs, through the crowd below, who had been summoned by the clang of the alarm-bell and the cries of terror of the hasty passersby from the taproom and all parts of the house, and who now drew back in terror from the stranger with the wild black hair, brandishing a knife in his hand—out into the village street, overthrowing all that came in his way in the confused, shrieking, shouting crowd without—out into the howling darkness! And “Murder, murder!” “Stop him!” “Stop the murderer!” rang through the house.

XIII

“Heavens and earth!” cried the Neuenfähr man, “I must go in here! One moment, sir!” and he ran into the house.

The gentleman who was just getting into the carriage drew back, and stamped his foot furiously.

“Is hell itself let loose against me?” he cried, and gnashed his teeth.

As he had made his way cautiously through the darkness a few minutes before to the inn, of which he had taken note as he drove through the village in the afternoon, and where he hoped to find some vehicle to convey him farther, he had met the Neuenfähr driver, who was just harnessing his horses again, for which the landlord, with the best of goodwill, could find no stable-room, at any rate not before a part of the outhouse was cleared out.

“The horses will catch cold,” the man had said to himself; “the best thing after all will be to drive back.”

He was still busying himself in the dark over the harness, which had got twisted, when someone who suddenly appeared beside him asked:

“Will you give me a lift, my man?”

“Where to, sir?”

“To Neuenfähr.”

“What will you pay, sir?”

“Anything you like.”

“Get in, sir!” said the Neuenfähr man, delighted to find that instead of taking his carriage back this long distance empty, he had found a passenger who would pay him anything he liked to ask. He would not take him for nothing, but he must see about this alarm of murder.

“He will not come back in a hurry,” muttered the gentleman; “and I shall run the risk of meeting him again; it is almost a miracle that he did not see me.”

He had been standing close to Ottomar as the latter gave his orders to the people, and, to give more authority to his words, mentioned his name, and that it was his aunt and sister who were in danger, and that there was not a moment to lose or it would be too late.

The stranger moved farther into the shadow of the barn before which the carriage stood. He would make sure of not being seen in any case. But just then the Neuenfähr man came back in a state of great excitement.

The young lady had been stabbed and killed, whom he had brought here with the young gentleman! Heavens and earth, if he had known that it was Herr von Werben! and that the beautiful young lady, his wife, would so soon be murdered by a foreign vagabond—the same no doubt whom he had seen hanging about in Neuenfähr, when he drew up at the inn by the bridge—a young fellow with black hair and black eyes; and he had noticed the black hair again as the fellow rushed out of the house—plainly—he could swear to it. The fellow might attack them on the road; he was not afraid for himself—he did not fear the devil; but if the gentleman preferred to remain here—

In his excitement the brandy he had been drinking before had got into the man’s head; he would have willingly remained; he was evidently a person of importance here, and the gentleman had quite staggered back when he spoke of the foreign vagabond, and had muttered something in his black beard which he did not understand.

“Shall we remain here, sir?”

“No, no, no! Drive on! I will give you double what you ask!”

So saying he sprang into the carnage. The Neuenfähr man had meant to ask five thalers, now he would not do it under ten, and so he should get twenty.

For that one might leave even a murder behind one!

“Make way there! Make way!” cried the Neuenfähr man with an oath, cracking his whip loudly over the heads of the dark figures who were running towards him down the village street, and more than one of whom he nearly ran over.

For twenty thalers it was worth while running over somebody—in the dark too!

In the darkness and the storm! It really was worse than before, though then it had been bad enough, and he had said a dozen times, “We had better stop at Faschwitz, sir;” and then as they came to Grausewitz, “We had better stop at Grausewitz, sir;” but the young gentleman—Herr von Werben—had always called out, “Drive on, drive on! Farther, farther!” If he had only known that half an hour later the lady would have been dead as a doornail! and he had taken the horse-cloths too to cover her feet, here in this very place!

The fact seemed so important to the Neuenfähr man that he stopped to show the gentleman the very spot, and to breathe his horses a little too, for they could hardly make way at all against the storm. To the right of the road was a steep clay bank some five or six feet high, at whose edge stood two or three willows wildly tossed about by the wind; to the left was level marshy ground reaching down to the sea, which must be about a mile or so off, although they could hear it roaring as if it were close by the roadside.

“On, on!” cried the gentleman.

“Are you in such a hurry, too?” said the Neuenfähr man, and grumbled something about commercial travellers, who were not officers so far as he knew, and need not snap up an old soldier of the reserve in that way; but he whipped his horses up again, when suddenly the gentleman, who had been standing up behind him in the carriage, clutched his shoulder with his right hand, and pointing with the other to the left, cried: “There, that way!”

“Where to?” said the driver.

“No matter where! That way!”

“We can pass it,” said the Neuenfähr man, thinking only that the gentleman was afraid that in the narrow road they could not get out of the way of a carriage which had just appeared coming towards them through the grey mist, and might still be a few hundred yards from them.

The gentleman caught him by both shoulders.

“Confound it!” cried the Neuenfähr man. “Are you mad?”

“I will give you a hundred thalers!”

“I’ll not be drowned for a hundred thalers!”

“Two hundred!”

“All right!” cried the driver, and whipped up his horses as he turned them to the left from the sandy road down to the marshes. The water oozed up under their feet, but then came firmer ground again. It might not be so bad after all; and two hundred thalers! He called to his horses, and whipped them up again.

They dashed forward as if the devil were behind them; he could hardly keep them in hand. And meanwhile he had gone much farther than he had intended; he had meant only to turn off a little way from the road, and then come back to it again. But when he looked round, the road and the trees had alike disappeared, as if all had been wiped out with a wet sponge. And from the thick, dark atmosphere the mist was falling so that he could not tell at last whether he ought to go straight on, or turn to right or left. Neither could he trust his ears. Along the road the roaring of the sea had been on his left hand, then in front of him; now there was such an infernal din all round him—could they be already so near the sea?

The fumes of the brandy suddenly vanished from the Neuenfähr man, and instead of them a terrible fear took possession of him. Who was the mysterious passenger who was sitting behind him in the carriage, and who had promised him two hundred thalers if he would avoid the other carriage which was coming towards them? Was he an accomplice of the foreign vagabond? He had just the same black eyes and black hair, and a long black beard too, and just such a curious foreign accent! Was it the devil himself to whom he had sold his miserable soul for two hundred thalers, and who had meant to wring his neck just now when he took him by the shoulders, and who had enticed him out into the marshes this fearful night to make an end of him in the storm and mist? And there were his wife and children at Neuenfähr! “Good Lord! good Lord!” groaned the man. “Only let me get out of this! I will never do it again, so help me God! Oh Lord! oh Lord!”

The carriage was driving through water; the man could hear it splashing against the wheels. He flogged his horses madly; they reared and kicked, but did not move a step forward.

With one bound the man was off the box beside his horses. There was only one means of safety now—to unharness them and dash forward at their full speed. He had said nothing; the thing spoke for itself. He had thought, too, that the man in the carriage would help him. He had just got the second horse out, and raised his head, when—his hair stood on end, as if all that had passed before were child’s play to what he saw now! There had been only one person in the carriage, and now there were two; and the two were taking each other by the throat, and were struggling and shouting together—one of them, his passenger, as if he were asking for mercy, and the other yelling like the very devil himself—and the other was the murderer of that afternoon.

The Neuenfähr man saw no more. With a desperate spring, he threw himself on to the near horse, and dashed away, the other horse galloping beside him. The water splashed over him, and then he was up to his waist in water, and then up to his neck and the horses swimming; and again he had dry land under him, and got on to firm ground, and the horses stopped because they could go no farther, and the one on which he sat had trembled so that he had nearly fallen off. And he looked round to see what had happened and where he was.

He was on rising ground, and before him lay a village. It could only be Faschwitz; but Faschwitz was two or three miles in a straight line from the sea, and there behind him, from where he came—it was a little clearer now, so that he could see some little distance—was the open sea, rising in fearful waves, which roared and foamed, as they rolled farther and farther—who could tell how far inland?

“They have been drowned like kittens, and my beautiful new carriage. May the—”

But the Neuenfähr man felt as if he could not swear just then.

He dismounted, took the horses by the bridle, and led them, almost exhausted, at a foot’s pace into Faschwitz, his own knees trembling at every step.

XIV

“That won’t do,” cried the village Mayor; “haul it in again!”

“Ho! heave ho!” cried the thirty men who had hold of the rope. “Ho! heave ho!”

They had hurriedly constructed a kind of raft from a few beams, boards, and doors torn from the nearest houses, and let it go into the stream experimentally. Instantly it had been whirled round and upset, and the thirty men had enough to do to haul it on shore again.

For what had been the side of the hill was now the shore of a rushing, foaming stream. And on the hillside half the village was already collected, and others were ever breathlessly joining the crowd. There was no danger for the village; the nearest houses stood ten or fifteen feet above the water, and it seemed impossible that it should rise so much, more especially as in the last few minutes it had already gone down about a foot. The gale had shifted more to the north, the incoming flood would be driven towards the headland; and although the storm still raged with unabated fury, it had grown a little lighter. The first comers had no need now to point out the place to the new arrivals; everyone could see the whitewashed balcony on the other side, and the dark women’s figures—once there were two, then again only one, who at first, said the first comers, had waved her handkerchief constantly, but now sat crouched in a corner, as if she had given up all hope, and was resignedly awaiting her fate.

And yet it seemed as if the work of deliverance must succeed. The distance was so small; a strong man could throw a stone across. They had even—foolishly—tried it, the best thrower amongst them had flung a stone, fastened to the end of a thin cord; but the stone had not flown ten feet, and with the cord had been blown away like gossamer. And now a huge wave from the other side rolled through the park, broke over the balcony, and, joining the stream, ran up to the top of the bank. The women shrieked aloud, the men looked at each other with grave, anxious faces.

“It won’t do, boys!” said the Mayor; “long before we can get the raft across, the thing over there will have given way. Another such wave, and it must be knocked to pieces; I know it well, the pillars are not six inches across, and worm-eaten besides.”

“And if we got to the other side and ran against it we should go to pieces and be upset ourselves,” said Jochen Becker, the blacksmith.

“And there would be ten of us in the water instead of two,” said Carl Peters, the carpenter.

“There is no good talking like that,” said the Mayor; “we can’t let them be drowned there before our very eyes. We’ll take the raft thirty yards higher up, and the men must go off at once; I’ll go with it myself. Haul away, my men. Ho! heave ho!”

A hundred hands were ready to drag the raft up stream. But thirty yards were not enough, it would require twice as much. Half-a-dozen courageous men had been found, too, to make the attempt; the Mayor might stay behind; who else was to command those who held the ropes? And that was the principal matter!

With long poles they steadied themselves on the raft. “Let go!” The raft shot out like an arrow into the centre of the stream.

“Hurrah!” cried those on shore, thinking the object already attained, fearing only that the raft would be carried into the park and driven against the trees.

But suddenly they came to a standstill; not a foot farther would it go, but danced about in midstream till the six men on board were forced to throw themselves down and cling fast, then darted down like an arrow against the near shore, to the spot where they had stood before. It took all the strength of the fifty men there assembled to hold it in, and it was only by the greatest exertion and with much apparent danger that the six men got safely off the raft and up the steep bank.

“This won’t do, boys!” said the Mayor. “I wish the Lieutenant would come back; they are his relations. He drives us down here, and then doesn’t come himself.”

The slight increase of light they had had, when the driving mist was partly blown aside, had disappeared again. Hitherto the leaden sky and dense storm-driven mist had made the evening seem like night; but now the real night was drawing in. Only a very sharp eye could still distinguish the black figure on the balcony, and even the balcony itself was not visible to all. At the same time the gale decidedly increased in violence, and had again veered from northeast to southeast, while the water rose considerably in consequence of the backward flow from Wissow Head. Now might have been a good opportunity, as the velocity of the stream was thus diminished; but no one had the heart to renew the hopeless effort. If there were no means of getting a rope over to the other side and fastening it there, so that some men might pass over the frail bridge to guide the raft over from that side, there was no hope.

So thought the Mayor, and the rest agreed with him. But they had to shout it into each other’s ears; no word spoken in an ordinary tone could have been heard through the fearful uproar.

Suddenly Ottomar stood amongst them. He had taken in the whole position at a glance. “A rope here!” he cried, “and lights! The willows there!”

They understood him at once; the four old hollow willow-trunks close to the edge! Let them be set on fire! It was true, if they could succeed in doing it, there would be danger to the village; but no one thought of that. They rushed to the nearest houses and dragged out armfuls of fir-wood and pitch, and thrust it all into the hollow trunks, which fortunately opened to westward. Two or three vain efforts—and then it flamed up—blazing, crackling—sometimes flaming high, sometimes sinking down again—throwing shifting lights upon the hundreds of pale faces which were all turned with anxious gaze upon the man who, with the rope round his body, was fighting with the stream.

Would he hold out?

More than one pair of rugged hands was clasped in prayer; women were on their knees, sobbing, wailing, pressing their nails into their hands, tearing their hair, shrieking aloud madly, as another fearful wave came up and rolled over him, and he disappeared in the billows.

But there he was again; he had been thrown back nearly half the distance which he had already won—in another minute he had recovered it. He had been carried down some way, too; but he had chosen his point of departure well, the summerhouse was still far below him; he was traversing the stream as if by a miracle.

And now he was in the middle, at the worst place; they had known it to be that from the first. He did not seem to make any progress, but slid slowly down stream. Still the summerhouse was far below him; if he could pass the centre, he might, he must succeed!

And now he was evidently gaining ground, nearer and nearer, foot by foot, in an even, slanting line towards the balcony! Rough, surly men, who had been at enmity all their lives, had grasped each other’s hands: women fell sobbing into one another’s arms. A gentleman with close-cut grey hair and thick grey moustache, who had just arrived, breathless, from the village, stood close to the burning willows, almost touched by the flames, and followed the swimmer with fixed gaze, and fervent prayers and promises—that all, all should be forgiven and forgotten if he might only receive him back—his beloved, heroic son. Suddenly he gave a loud cry—a terrible cry—which the storm swallowed up, and rushed down to the bank where the men stood who had hold of the rope, calling to them to “Haul in, haul in!”

It was too late.

Shooting down the current came the great pine-tree, at the foot of which the swimmer had sat half an hour ago, torn up by the storm, hurled into the flood, whirled round by the eddying waters like some monster risen from the deep, now showing its mighty roots still grasping the stone, now lifting its head, now rising erect as it had once stood in the sunshine, and the next moment crashing down over the swimmer—upon him—then, with its head sunk in the foaming whirlpool and the roots raised above, it went out from the realm of light down into the dark night.

Strangely enough, the slender cord had not been broken, and they drew him back—a dead man, at whose side, as he lay stretched on the bank, with only one broad, gaping wound upon his forehead, like a soldier who has met his death gallantly, the old man with the grey moustache knelt and kissed the dead lips of the beautiful pale mouth, and then rose to his feet.

“Give me the rope now! He was my son! And my daughter is there!”

It seemed insanity. They had seen how the young man had battled—but the old one! He threw off coat and waistcoat. He might be an old man—but he was still a strong man, with a broad powerful chest.

“If you feel that you can’t keep up, General, give us a signal in good time,” said the Mayor.

And now there happened what, to the people who in this one hour had seen such strange and terrible horrors, seemed a miracle. The blazing willow-stumps, which were burning now from the roots to the stiff branches, threw a light almost like day over the bank, the crowd, the stream, and the summerhouse opposite—far into the flooded park up to the castle, whose windows here and there gave back a crimson reflection of the flames.

And in this light, floating down the narrow stream, on whose grassy bed the village children were wont to play, down the foaming current which had just now whirled along the branching pine-tree, like a sea-monster stretching out a hundred feelers for its prey, there came a slender well-built boat, that had just landed a strange cargo at the back entrance of the castle, as if at a quay. They had heard there how matters stood, and the man sitting at the helm had said: “My men, she is my betrothed!” And the six others, had shouted, “Hurrah for the Captain! and hurrah for his betrothed!” And now they shot past with lowered mast, and the crew holding their oars erect, as if they were bringing the Admiral on shore in his own boat. And the flag fluttered behind the man who sat at the helm, and with a light touch of his strong hand guided the willing vessel through the eddying foam to the goal which the clear keen eyes held fast, as the eagle his prey, however wildly the brave heart might beat against his bosom.

So they shot past—past the crowd who gazed breathlessly at the miracle, past the summerhouse, but only a few yards. Then the man at the helm turned the boat suddenly like an eagle in its flight; and the six men took to their oars, at one stroke—and “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”—the oars were withdrawn again, and the boat lay alongside the balcony, over which and over the boat an immense wave reared its foaming crest towards the bank, and there breaking threw its spray up into the burning trees, covering the breathless lookers-on with a cloud of moisture.

And as the cloud dispersed, they saw in the dim light of the decaying fire that the summerhouse was gone, and there was only left a shadowy boat that vanished into the darkness.

They drew a long breath then, as if from a single oppressed spirit relieved from a weight of fear. And “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” resounded as if from a single throat, rising above even the howling storm.

The boat might disappear in the darkness, but they knew that the man sitting at the helm knew what he was about, and the six men who were with him knew what they were about; and it would return in safety, carrying the rescued from storm and flood.

XV

The setting sun no longer stood high above the hills. In the magic glow were shining the calm pools of water which covered the immense semicircle between the Golmberg and Wissow Head. The slanting golden rays shone dazzlingly in Reinhold’s eyes, as he steered his boat from the lake into the broad gulf close by the White Dune, against whose steep sides the long incoming waves were washing, while the boat glided over its broad surface, and the blades of the oars as they rose and sank in regular cadence almost touched the edge.

The eyes of the rowers were turned towards the dune as they glided by, while the scene of deliverance on the night of the storm must have recurred to every man’s memory, but no one spoke a word. Not because it would have been a breach of discipline. They knew that the Captain would always allow talk that was to the purpose at the right time, even when as today he was in full uniform, with the Iron Cross on his broad breast; but he had pulled his cocked hat low down upon his forehead, and if he occasionally raised his eyes to see the course he was steering, they did not look gloomy—they had never seen him look gloomy yet, any more than they had ever heard a bad word from his mouth—but very grave and sad. They would not disturb the Captain’s meditations.

Grave and sad meditations—graver and sadder than the honest fellows could imagine or comprehend.

What to them were the two people whom they had rescued from death on this sand-hill, with untold efforts and at the repeated risk of their own lives; what were they to them but a couple more fellow-creatures, saved as a matter of duty, and added to the others whom they had already saved that day? As to how Count Golm and the young lady had got there, and the relation in which they stood to each other—what did they care about that? But he!

He had shuddered when he found the brilliant Carla von Wallbach, whom he had seen a few days before flirting and coquetting in the light of the chandeliers, in the drawing-room at Warnow—now cowering on the storm-beaten dune, a picture of utter misery, her clothes soaked through with wet, her tender limbs shaken by icy cold, half out of her senses with terror, and hardly resembling a human creature; as he carried her to the boat, and at the moment when he laid her down, she woke from her stupor, and recognising him, shrieked wildly: “Save me from him! Save me!” and clung terrified to him—a stranger—as a child might cling to his mother, so that he had to use force to free himself!

The Count was in a hardly less pitiable condition, when two of the men carried him into the boat and laid him down near Carla; but then he suddenly started up, and at the risk of falling overboard staggered to the bow of the boat, and there sat lost in gloomy meditation, taking no notice of anything that passed, till they had worked their way to the Pölitz’s farm, and prepared to take the poor wretches there into the boat through the window of the attic in which they had taken refuge. Then he had sprung to his feet, and shrieked like a madman that he would not be packed in together with those people! he would not! and had laid violent hands on the men, till he was cowed by the threat that they would tie his hands if he did not implicitly obey the Captain’s orders; and then, covering his face with his hands, he had devoured his wrath in silence.

There was the attic, there was the window opening—they had been obliged to tear out the window and knock down a bit of the wall to make room. It seemed to Reinhold himself almost a miracle that he had been successful, that he had been able to save the poor creatures from this abyss of misery, and carry the most fragile human blossom through night and storm and darkness to the safe harbour of the castle where all danger was over.

The passage from the submerged farm to the castle had only lasted a few minutes—the gale had driven the boat before it like a feather—but this was the only time when even his heart had trembled, not with fear, but with tender care. His eyes grew wet as he recalled the memory now of the mother as she lay in the boat, her little one in her bosom, her head on her husband’s knee, while poor Marie, full of compassion, supported in her arms the senseless Carla. What would the wretched man in the bow of the boat have thought of this sight if he ever raised his eyes? When they laid the boat alongside the back entrance of the castle, he sprang out and rushed away in furious haste, to hide himself anywhere in the darkness—like Cain fleeing from the body of his murdered brother.

And sadder and sadder grew Reinhold’s thoughts. He had succeeded even in his highest hopes—he had rescued his beloved from certain death, and with her the unhappy woman who loved them both as if they had been her children, and whom they both loved and honoured as a mother. So far was all the deepest happiness; and yet! and yet!

How dearly had that happiness been bought! Could it be happiness that cost so high a price? Was there still left any happiness on earth, when sorrow in pitiless shape lay so close at hand—even as the purple shadows yonder between the battlements and projections of the castle lay close against the patches of sunlight? Did not the most apparently firm ground quake, just as the waves here were dancing over the field where the countryman used to drive his plough, over the meadow where the shepherd had tended his flock? Must they needs die—so young, so beautiful, so richly dowered with the noblest gifts and qualities? And if they must die, since they could no longer—would no longer live, since death was to them only a deliverance from inextricable entanglements—what a doubtful good seemed life which brought with it even the possibility of so terrible a fate! How could the two fathers bear it? Nobly, no doubt. And yet! and yet!

They rowed round the castle and the park, and drew near the shore at the spot where the willows had been burnt that night, and where the blackened stumps still rose above the bank. Several large and small boats lay there already from Ahlbeck, and even from villages farther distant along the coast. From all parts—from miles around—they had come, for everywhere for miles around had the story been repeated from mouth to mouth, with many variations, yet always the same—the touching story of the youth who loved a maiden; of how the two had fled from home, but could find no happiness or peace; and now both were dead, and were to be buried today.

Reinhold turned his steps from the shore to the village. The President had written to him that he should be at Warnow at the appointed time, and wished to speak to him before he met the family. He knew the worthy man’s punctuality; and, indeed, he had hardly reached the open space in front of the inn, where a whole army of vehicles was already assembled, before a carriage drove up, from which the President alighted, and the moment he saw him came towards him with extended hand.

An expression of almost fatherly goodwill lay in his silent greeting; for the good man was too much moved to be able to speak at once, until, after walking a few steps side by side, he began, with a melancholy smile:

“Prophets both of us! Yes, my dear young friend; and what would we not give to have been found false prophets, and that our storm-floods had never come! But here they are, however. Yours, thank God, has quickly exhausted its fury; mine—God help us!—must rage for a long time yet. I wish such another valiant St. George might arise there too, to fight the dragon so boldly and save the poor victims! I am proud of you, my dear friend; there can be few people who rejoice so heartily in the gallant deeds which, by God’s good help, you have performed. To have saved so many human lives—even if your betrothed had not been of the number—how happy you must be! It will not add to your happiness—I mean it will not increase the joy with which your heart must be full—but it is right and proper that such good service should meet with its proper recognition in the eyes of the world. Neither has your former conduct, which roused so much ill-feeling at the time, been forgotten. Had your advice been followed, the unfortunate harbour works at least would never have been begun, and millions and millions would have been spared to our poor country, to say nothing of the damage done. The Minister thinks that such heads should not be left idle; he has telegraphed to me, in answer to my brief report of the events here, desiring me to offer you, in his Majesty’s name, the medal and ribbon of the Order of Merit given for saving life, and to ask you, in his own name, whether you are disposed to enter his office in any capacity—as Naval Councillor, I imagine; but of that you would hear from himself personally; or possibly in the Admiralty Office—the two gentlemen seem inclined to dispute over you. I think I know your answer—you would like to remain here for the present—and I should most reluctantly lose you just now. But keep yourself disengaged for the future; you owe it to the public good and to yourself. Am I not right?”

“Perfectly so,” said Reinhold; “it is my warmest wish and firm resolve to serve my king and country, by land or water, wherever or however I can. Any summons that comes to me will always find me ready; although, indeed, I do not deny that I should most reluctantly leave this place.”

“I can believe that,” said the President. “A man like you puts his whole soul into everything, and is absorbed by his duties, be they small or great; and you have proved that great things can be done in comparatively insignificant positions. But the matter has its social side too, which it would be false heroism to overlook. The thorough appreciation of your services in the highest places will be gratifying to your poor father-in-law, and he would feel himself, besides, terribly lonely in Berlin without his daughter near him.”

“How kind you are!” said Reinhold, much touched. “How you have thought of everything!”

“Have I not!” said the President, responding warmly to the pressure of Reinhold’s hand. “It is wonderful! But I have the honour of being a friend of the family; you yourself acknowledged me in that capacity, when, at the same time with the official report of the events of the flood, you sent me a private account of what had concerned yourself and the family to which you now belong. I feel myself honoured by your confidence; I need not say that it will all remain buried in heart. But you did right; in such complicated affairs it is better not to trust to oneself, but to make use of the experience and judgment of one’s friends. And who could be better placed than I to give advice and assistance in this case? I have thought over everything already, and settled a good deal in my own mind, and have even taken some preliminary steps, which have met with the readiest concurrence on all sides. We will speak of this more at length when you come to see me at Sundin, which you must do shortly. For today, as I must return immediately after the funeral, I will only say this: I am certain that the estates of your aunt the Baroness may be saved, as both Golm and the Company are bankrupt, and must be satisfied with any reasonable conditions. I shall not offer them favourable ones, you may be sure! These men, who have brought such untold misery upon thousands, deserve no mercy! Even so there will remain only the ruins of a magnificent property, for the principal part is lost forever, I fear, with that terrible man Giraldi. Or do you not think so?”

“Indeed I do,” said Reinhold. “I supposed so from the first; and the account given by the man who drove him, and whom I afterwards thoroughly questioned and examined, confirmed my supposition. The influx of the tide between Wissow Head and Faschwitz was so frightfully violent that the waters that first entered the so-formed gulf must have been emptied out by the succeeding waves as out of a basin, with everything that was floating in it. The water thus forced out would join the immense stream running westwards into the open sea between the mainland and the island, and if the corpse should ever, weeks hence, perhaps months hence, be carried to some distant shore—”

“It is a pity, a great pity,” said the President; “such a magnificent property! According to my calculations, and the expressions used by that dreadful man in his last interview with the Baroness, not less than a million. How much good might have been done with it! And in your hands, too. But then it would be a terrible thing to come into such an inheritance. And the Baroness, too; are the dreadful details known to her?”

“She knows that Antonio was the murderer of my poor cousin; and she knows also that the two Italians met in their flight, and were drowned together. I hope the unutterable horror that the man’s account reveals to us will remain forever hidden from her.”

“She does not believe in the son?”

“Not in the least! It is as if God in His mercy had blinded her usually quick eyes on this point. She takes the whole thing for an invention and sheer lie of Giraldi’s. You may suppose that we strengthen her in this idea, and thank the fates on this ground at least for the darkness that has swallowed up what never ought to see the light of day.”

“True, true!” said the President; “that is a comfort, certainly. The unhappy lady has suffered enough already. The fates have not been so merciful to your poor uncle. It is terrible to lose such a daughter—so beautiful and gifted—in such a way; but for a man such as your uncle from all I hear must be, so high-minded and upright, to be haunted by the vision of a son who is pursued whichever way he turns by warrants and detectives; for such sorrow as that I think no greatness of mind, no philosophy can be of any use; it is utterly horrible, without the least hope of consolation. Such grief cannot be alleviated by even time, which cures most troubles; death alone can bring relief; but the man will not let himself die.”

“I do not know,” said Reinhold; “he is one of a family who do not fear death. However differently in some points the poor man may see life, I can easily imagine that even to him the question may present itself in a form which he understands, and that he may then not hesitate for a moment in his decision.”

The faintest glimmer of a sarcastic smile played round the President’s delicately-cut lips; he was about to say, with some courteous periphrases, that he quite understood family pride, even when as in this case it clearly overshot the mark; but a loud shout from a rough voice close by them left him no time. The shouter was Herr von Strummin, who with Justus came so quickly down the lane which led from the High Street of the village to the parsonage, that Reinhold, who had already received notice of his friend’s arrival early that morning, had no time to explain to the President the connection between the two men. However, before Herr von Strummin had offered his hand to the President, he called out:

“Allow me the honour, President, to introduce my son-in-law—Herr Justus Anders—celebrated sculptor! Gold medallist, President! Came this morning from Berlin with my daughter, in company with your aunt, Captain Schmidt. Has already by desire of the Baroness taken the arrangements into his hands, cleared out the whole of the big ground-floor saloon; looks like the church at Strummin. Yes, my dear President, an artist you know; we must all give way to him. And now, only think, President, the clergyman cannot, or rather will not, say the last words over the grave! declines doing so at the last moment! We—my son-in-law and I—have just come from him; he would not receive us—can’t speak to anybody—can’t speak at all! Conveniently hoarse! The parsonage of Golm, which the Count has promised him, sticks in his throat, I dare say! And it is a good mouthful—three thousand thalers a year, without the perquisites. But I should think the authorities would refuse their sanction; the toad-eating, hypocritical—”

“But, my dear Herr von Strummin!” said the President, looking round nervously.

“It is true enough!” cried Herr von Strummin; “the Count has forbidden him; the Count and he are always laying their heads together. My son-in-law—”

The two friends could not hear what Herr von Strummin, who at last, at the President’s repeated request, moderated his loud voice, brought forward in further support of his views. They had dropped behind a little way, to clasp each other’s hands again and again with tears in their eyes.

“Yesterday at the same hour we buried Cilli,” said Justus. “Ferdinanda’s Pietà, which I will finish, is to adorn her grave, and to make known to the world what a treasure of goodness, and love, and mercy lies buried there; and I will erect a monument to the two here. I told Meta my idea for doing it on the way here; she says it will be splendid; but how gladly would I really break stones for the rest of my life, as my father-in-law used to say of me, if I could awake to life again the good, the beautiful, the brave.—Your naval uniform is wonderfully becoming, Reinhold! I ought to have taken your portrait so; we must repeat it some day; the large gold epaulettes are splendid for modelling. And that parson won’t read the funeral oration because the General and Uncle Ernst have determined that the two shall rest in one grave! He implored the General to alter the arrangement; they had not even been publicly betrothed! only think! But the General stood firm, and has asked your uncle to say a few words. Even that the parson won’t have; but the two old gentlemen will not give in; they hold together like brothers. A telegram came just now for your uncle; I was with him when he opened it, and saw how he started; I am certain it has something to do with that unfortunate Philip, he has been arrested probably. It is terrible that your uncle must have that to bear too, on such a day as this; but he has said nothing to anyone excepting the General. I saw them go aside together, and he showed him the telegram, and then they talked together for some time, and at last shook hands. Uncle Ernst, who had vowed that the hand which pressed the General’s should wither! And today he has asked me half-a-dozen times if I believe that Ottomar’s brother officers, who are expected, will really come—we have made the funeral so late on their account—it would be too sad for the General if they stayed away! As if he had no sorrows himself! He is really heroic! But your Elsa is admirable too. She loved her brother dearly, but how quietly she moves and speaks now, and arranges everything, and has a willing ear and a kindly word for everyone. ‘I could not do that, you know,’ says Meta; ‘there is only one Elsa, you know.’ Of course I know it! But there is only one Meta too; don’t you think so?”

“My dear son-in-law!” cried Herr von Strummin, looking back.

“He has called me that at least a hundred times already today!” said Justus with a sigh, as he hastened on, lengthening his short steps.

They had reached the upper end of the deep narrow cutting, and saw the castle now immediately in front of them. It was a strange sight to the President, who had formerly known the place well, and whom Reinhold now led a few steps forward to the precipitous edge of the bank. For the stream had so washed and torn away the soil that here and there the bank positively overhung, and Reinhold could no longer find and show to the President the spot where the pine-tree had stood, whose fall had been fatal to Ottomar. Below them, between the steep bank and the castle, the stream still ran, no longer with the foaming waves and roaring whirlpools of that night of terror, but in calm transparent ripples, which met and joined together to form fresh ripples that plashed against the keels of the five large boats on which had been laid the temporary bridge that connected the head of the gorge with the old stone gateway of the castle yard. The battlements of the gateway and the great shield above, bearing the Warnow arms, shone in the evening light, as did the round tower of the castle and the higher roofs and gables, down to the sharply-cut line of the blue shadow thrown by the hillside over the receding portion of the building. And farther on to the right shone the tops of the trees in the flooded park, and beyond castle and park the still water which filled the whole immense bay, and seemed to flow without interruption towards the open sea. Under the brilliant slanting rays of the sun, the few points of the dunes still above water vanished even from Reinhold’s sharp eyes; he could hardly distinguish the roofs of the Pölitz’s farm, and here and there on the wide expanse the branches of a willow which formerly stood by the side of a ditch.

The President stood lost in thought; he seemed to have forgotten even Reinhold’s presence.

“The day will come,” Reinhold heard him murmur.

They crossed the bridge of boats, with the water gurgling and splashing against the sharp keels; through the wide gateway sounded a subdued hum of voices.

Now for the first time as they passed through the gate, they saw why the village had looked deserted. The immense courtyard was filled, particularly at the end nearest to the castle, with a crowd of nearly a thousand people, standing about in large groups, who as they respectfully made way for the gentlemen advancing to the door, took note of them curiously, and made whispered remarks upon them behind their backs. “The one next to the Captain was the President!” said those who knew him, and they were the majority, to the others. “If the President, who was the principal person in the whole province, and such a good gentleman too, who was sure to act for the best, had come here and was going to be present at the funeral, why then the parson could not possibly stay at home. And if the parson had known that the President would be here, he would never have been ill. He wouldn’t get the parsonage at Golm for a long time yet, and if the Count liked to make him his domestic chaplain, why he might please himself; but whether the Count and his chaplain would be any richer than the mice in the chapel at Golm was another question. And if the Count meant to play the master here, they would soon put him out of conceit with that; but Herr Damberg said there was no chance of that; he might think himself fortunate if he came off with his life, and at any rate his property would be sequestrated!”

The four gentlemen had entered the castle. A more numerous and brilliant group which now appeared on the bridge, attracted the attention of the multitude. It was a party of officers in full uniform, followed at a little distance by a larger number of noncommissioned officers—belonging to Herr von Werben’s regiment, said those who had been in the army and who had seen Ottomar in his coffin. “And the Colonel, who came first, he commanded his regiment too, and anyone who had served under him in France could see that he knew how to command, by the look of his eyes and nose; and the Captain, who came next to him, was one of the Staff who had been sent here by Field Marshal Moltke himself; and the tall Lieutenant, also in the uniform of Herr von Werben’s regiment, was the young Herr von Wartenberg of the Bolswitz Wartenbergs; and as for the old Bolswitz people, they had arrived more than an hour ago in their carriage with three outriders from their place ten miles off. And so how could a word be true of all the nonsense talked about young Herr von Werben, that he had not been taken to Berlin because he would not have had an honourable burial there, and now here were people coming the whole way from Berlin to assist at his funeral!”

Justus, who had readily undertaken the direction of the simple funeral ceremonies, and who now saw the officers crossing the courtyard, waited in the hall long enough to receive them, and to conduct them into the room on the right hand where the company was assembled. Then he made a sign to Reinhold to follow him, and led him through a door at the end of the hall which he opened cautiously and immediately shut behind him. “No one is allowed to enter now,” said he. “What do you say to it, Reinhold?”

The lofty and handsome room had its shutters closed, but was filled with the soft light of innumerable wax candles in chandeliers and branches on the walls, and in candelabra between masses of evergreen plants and young fir-trees, which were beautifully arranged in a semicircle opening towards the entrance to the room, and surrounding the two coffins which stood on a high dais, carpeted and covered with flowers. The walls around were adorned with old armour which Justus had rescued from the lumber-room, and fine casts from the antique, even some originals collected by a former art-loving possessor of the castle, and which he had brought together from the various rooms, and also with bouquets of leafy plants and fir-trees, between which lights were burning.

“Have not I made it splendid!” whispered Justus, “and all in these few hours this morning! How they would both have liked it—he the armour, and she the statues! But the most beautiful things here are themselves. I must call the family now, Reinhold, before we close the coffins; do you take your farewell now. You have not had so much opportunity yet as the others.”

Justus disappeared through a door which led to the inner apartments; and Reinhold mounted the steps and stood between the coffins, in which they slept the sleep that knows no waking.

Yes, they were beautiful! more beautiful than they had been in life. Death seemed to have purified them from every earthly taint, that their noble natures might show themselves in all their grandeur. How grand, how fine was this maiden’s face! how exquisitely sweet the youth’s! And as if in dying the union of their souls had been truly accomplished, and each had lovingly given to the other what best adorned them in life, on her lips that had been so proudly closed was a tender, happy, humble smile, while from his delicate pure features death had wiped away with the restless glance of the nervous eyes and the impatient quiver of the delicate mouth, all that was imperfect and unfinished, and left nothing but the expression of heroic determination with which he had gone to his death, and to which a solemn seal was set by the broad red scar on the white forehead. There was a slight rustle in the leaves behind him; he turned and opened his arms to Elsa. She leant against him weeping: “Only for a moment,” she whispered, “that I may feel your dear heart beat, and know that I have you living still, my comfort, my help!” She raised herself again. “Farewell, farewell! For the last time, farewell, my dear, dear brother! Farewell, my beautiful, proud sister, whom I should have loved so dearly!”

She kissed them both on their pale lips; then Reinhold took her in his arms and led her down from the side of the dais, where he saw Justus and Meta standing hand in hand a little way off between the shrubs, while from the back appeared upon the dais the General, Valerie, and Sidonie, Uncle Ernst and Aunt Rikchen, to take leave of the dead. It was a solemn yet exciting moment, the details of which Reinhold’s tear-filled eyes could not seize or retain, while to Justus’s keen artist’s eye one touching and beautiful picture followed another—none more touching or beautiful to him, who knew these people and their circumstances so well, than the last which he saw: the General with tender care almost carrying down the steps of the dais the utterly exhausted Valerie—she had only left her sickroom for this moment, and had covered her head with a thick lace veil—while Uncle Ernst’s powerful figure, still standing above, bent down to good little Aunt Rikchen, and he passed his strong large hand soothingly over her pale, sorrowful, tear-stained cheek.

“Do you know,” whispered Meta, “they are feeling now just what we did when he stood by our sleeping angel, that they must love one another very much now, you know.”

Half an hour later the funeral procession moved from the gateway, from whose battlements floated in the soft evening breeze on one side the German flag, on the other a black flag, and passed over the bridge of boats, up the gully, and from there turning to the right, entered the gradually ascending road to the churchyard, which lay on the highest of the hills that had now become the shore, a few hundred paces from the village. It was a long, solemn procession.

First came village children, strewing with fir branches the sandy road before the coffins, the one adorned with palms, in which lay hidden the virgin form of the beautiful and heroic maiden, carried by sturdy pilots and fishermen from Wissow, who insisted upon bearing their Captain’s cousin to her last resting-place; and the other with the warlike emblems of the man for whom she had died, and whom a merciful fate had permitted to die the death of a brave man, worthy of the decorations he had won in presence of the enemy, and which the sergeant of his troop carried behind him on a silk cushion, worthy that the gallant soldiers who had known him in his brightest days, whose shoulders his kindly hand had so often rested on in the heat of battle, by the blazing campfire, on the weary march, should carry him now on his way to answer to the great roll-call.

Behind the coffins came the two fathers, then Reinhold leading his Elsa, Justus with his Meta—Sidonie and Aunt Rikchen had remained with Valerie—the President and Colonel von Bohl, Schönau and the brilliant company of other officers, the neighbouring gentry with their wives, Herr and Frau von Strummin, the Wartenbergs, the Griebens, the Boltenhagens and Warnekows, and all the rest of the descendants of the old, long-established families; the innumerable following of landsmen and sailors, the gigantic form of the worthy Pölitz, and the stalwart figure of the head pilot, Bonsak, at their head.

A long, solemn, silent procession, accompanied step by step by the monotonous sound of the tide washing against the steep banks, and now and then the shrill cry of a gull, as skimming over the dazzling water, it seemed curiously to watch the strange sight, or a whispered word from some man to his neighbour, that even those nearest before or behind could not hear.

Such was the word that the General spoke to Uncle Ernst, as the head of the procession reached the graveyard, “Do you feel strong enough?” and that which Uncle Ernst answered, “Now for the first time I feel myself strong again.”

But even Reinhold and Elsa, who walked behind them, would not have understood it if they had heard. Uncle Ernst had not shown to anyone yet, excepting the General, the telegram of which Justus had spoken, the fateful message, in the dry hard style of a police official.

“Philip Schmidt, on the point of embarking tonight on board steamer Hansa, from Bremerhaven to Chile, recognised, and shot himself with a revolver in his cabin; misappropriated money recovered untouched; will be buried tomorrow evening at six o’clock.”

Under the broad hand which he had thrust into his overcoat lay the paper, and against it beat his mighty heart, beat in truth stronger and with revived pride, now that he might say to himself that his unhappy son was not at least one of the cowards who prized life above all things; that even for him there had been a measure of infamy which could not be over-passed, since at that moment he had spilt the cup of life—a draught too insipid and miserable for even his dishonoured lips.

The coffins had been let down into their common grave. At the head of the grave stood Uncle Ernst bareheaded, and bareheaded stood the crowd in a wide semicircle around him.

Bareheaded, silent, looking up to the stately man whose figure stood out giant-like from the hillside in the rosy evening light.

And now he lifted his great eyes, which seemed to embrace the whole assembly in one glance, and now he raised his deep voice, whose bell-like tones carried every word distinctly to the extreme edge of the circle:

“My friends all! I may call you so, for in the presence of a great sorrow all men are friends, and in this lies the healing and saving power of a tragic fate, and also its necessity. As my shadow falls here upon you, so does everyone stand between other men and the sun of fortune, and each envies the other his portion, which should, he thinks, belong to him; and he forgets that it is only an outward show that he so eagerly desires, a glittering show without warmth, and that the warmth which he should indeed desire dwells in the heart of every man, and is that alone which makes life worth having, or even possible. Woe to us poor human creatures, that we forget this for long, loveless years, forget the sublime words that love is above all, and drown the pleadings of the heart that longs for love with the hollow tinkle of our meagre knowledge and our paltry wisdom! Woe to the individual, and woe to the nation!

“Woe to the nation that forgets it, and exists for generations and centuries in crass selfishness and blind hatred, till the hereditary foe breaks into its fields, and, waking the people from their dull dreams, reminds them at length that they are brothers; and as brothers they stand by one another, as we have done on innumerable battlefields in the most glorious and most righteous of all wars, only on returning home to begin anew the struggle over mine and thine—the wild, desolating struggle of self-advancement, that feels no shame and knows no mercy, desires no peace and gives no pardon, and respects no right but that of the victor, who scornfully tramples the conquered under foot. Oh, my friends! we have experienced this! These last years will remain noted as the most shameful, following immediately upon the most glorious in our history—a melancholy memorial and sign how low a great nation can sink.

“But our great German nation cannot, will not sink deeper.

“Let us, my friends, take this fearful storm with its desolating horrors, which have now exhausted themselves and upon which this sublime peace has come down from heaven, as a token that the storm which is now raging through German society will sweep away the poisonous vapours of self-love, and make the glorious German sun shine brighter than before; that the barren waters which now cover so many acres of young green grass will pass away, and offer a new land for fresh honest labour and honest golden fruits.

“May this hope and this assurance soften the grief for the beloved dead whom we now commit to the sacred bosom of the earth—this hope, this assurance, and the certainty that they have not died in vain; that they were blossoms struck down by the storm to warn the gardener that he must tend and cherish the noble tree more carefully.

“The call comes thus to us the elders and old men. As they died gladly and joyfully, without asking whether they might not still live, hastening to death as to a feast, so must we live without asking whether we had not rather die.

“The call comes thus to you who are younger, to you all the louder and more urgently, the longer the road stretches before you, the more powerful are the obstacles that rise in your path.

“Oh! thou bright star of day, whose last ray now shines upon us, and thou holy sea, and thou reviving earth, I take you all to witness the vow which we make at the grave of these too early dead: to renounce from this hour all littleness and meanness, to live henceforth in the light of truth, to love each other with the whole strength of our hearts! May the God of truth and love overrule all to the honour of man, and the glory of the German name!”

The voice of the speaker died away, but the echo of his words reverberated in the hearts of the hearers as they pressed silently round to offer the last honours to the dead, bathed in the reflection of the rosy glow which the sun, now set, threw up to the sky, and which the sky lovingly returned to the earth.

Endnotes

1. No translation can give the full effect of the play upon the word “Schmidt;” Anglicè, Smith. —Translator’s Note

Colophon

The Breaking of the Storm
was published in 1877 by
Friedrich Spielhagen.
It was translated from German in 1877 by
S. E. A. H. Stephenson.

This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
Robin Whittleton,
and is based on transcriptions produced in 2010 by
Charles Bowen
for
Project Gutenberg
and on digital scans from the
Internet Archive.

The cover page is adapted from
Early Morning After a Storm at Sea,
a painting completed in 1903 by
Winslow Homer.
The cover and title pages feature the
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This edition was released on
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