The Hohenwalds by no means belong to the old German imperial nobility. It is said that in the forest-depths of the domain of a Saxon Prince his trusty huntsman saved the life of his lord from the furious onslaught of a wild boar, and that in gratitude the Prince bestowed upon him the hunting castle where he had previously been overseer, and in memory of his bravery gave him the name of Hohenwald,[2]which gradually came to belong to the castle and the neighbouring village on the estate. The title of Freiherr, or Baron, was bestowed much later by the Emperor. Baron Werner von Hohenwald, who distinguished himself as a colonel during the Thirty Years' War, was probably the first thus honoured, and the founder of the family ofvonHohenwalds.
This old colonel, who added much to the estate, not a large one originally, was passionately devoted to the chase; he took up his abode in the old castle, surrounded on all sides by the forest, and his example was followed by all his successors, although such a residence by no means lightened the cares of the management of the extended estates of Hohenwald. The solitude of the forest had an irresistible attraction for the Hohenwalds, and although they had erected a comfortable grange near the village, they always occupied the castle. Around the comparatively new grange were gathered the farm buildings and the dwellings for inspectors and other officials. The Hohenwalds thought nothing of the inconvenience of riding a couple of miles to reach the grange; they thought themselves amply compensated by the wonderful beauty of the site of the castle, buried in the depths of a magnificent forest. The love of solitude seemed inherrent in the Hohenwalds. If some among them had in their youth frequented the Court, of Dresden, they were sure to return finally to Castle Hohenwald, and none of them ever left it in summer. They had lavished so much money and taste in fitting it up for a home, that it would indeed have been difficult to find one more charming and desirable. The imperial colonel had first begun to improve and add to the old hunting-nest, and each of his successors had done his part in giving fresh beauty and grace to castle, to gardens, and even to the forest, a portion of which had been converted into a magnificent park. If they loved solitude, they were all the more determined to surround themselves in their solitude with every luxury that wealth could procure. Some of the rooms of the castle were furnished with princely splendour, especially those on the lower story, in which the present Freiherr Werner had been wont to assemble frequent guests before his separation from his wife. The walls were hung with paintings by illustrious masters;--the collection of pictures at Hohenwald, although for years it had been seen by none save the inmates of the castle, was accounted one of the best and largest in the country,--and the castle library exceeded many a public one in its treasures of literature.
The ground-floor of the castle was less gorgeously fitted up than was the first story. The present possessor, Freiherr Werner, had arranged it for himself, and he thought more of solid comfort than of superficial splendour. Nothing had been spared to make the rooms pleasant and comfortable, but the hangings and furniture-covers were not of silken damask, but of substantial woollen fabric, subdued in colour, suiting well with the dark oak wainscoting and furniture.
The Freiherr's favourite retreat was a large apartment, at one end of which lofty folding-doors of glass opened upon a terrace, whence a flight of steps led into the garden. As the castle crowned an eminence, from this terrace almost all the garden could be overlooked, as well as part of the road leading to the castle from the village of Hohenwald.
The garden-room, as it was called, was the dwelling-room of Freiherr Werner; he spent most of his time here, even in winter, and in summer, when the tall doors were thrown wide open, the view from them partly indemnified him for the loss of open-air exercise, from which he had now been debarred for some years.
Every morning he was pushed into this room in his rolling-chair from his bedroom, for his right foot was so lame from the gout that he could not walk. Here he assembled his family about him, here the daily meals were eaten, and only late in the evening was he rolled back again to his bedroom by his servant or by his son Arno. Every day he sat at the open doors, gazing out into the garden. In former years he had devoted much time to his garden; he was enthusiastically fond of flowers, but since the gout had confined him to his rolling-chair he had been forced to content himself with merely superintending the gardeners, to whom from time to time he would shout down his orders. It was but seldom that he could be taken out into the garden among his flowers, for the slightest motion occasioned him great pain.
On the afternoon of a lovely day in May the Freiherr was seated in his favourite spot, looking abroad into the garden, where his beloved flowers were budding gloriously, and delighting in their beauty and the mild air of spring. He was in the most contented of moods; his book was laid aside; he could read at any time; storms did not interfere with that. His keen gaze wandered with intense enjoyment from shrub to shrub; most of them he had planted himself, and his interest was unflagging in watching their daily development from bud to blossom.
If the Assessor von Hahn could have seen the Freiherr at this moment he would hardly have recognized the gloomy misanthrope in this kindly old man with genial smile and gentle eyes; but the next moment the expression of the mobile features changed, the genial smile vanished, the brow was contracted in a frown, the dark eyes sparkled with irritation.
It was the sound of a distant post-horn that caused this sudden change in the Baron's expression. The old man listened. An extra post! He had not heard the signal for a long time, but in former years his ears had been familiar enough with it; he could not be deceived. A visit was impending, for the road led only to Castle Hohenwald and ended there; any traveller upon it must have the castle for his goal. Again the signal sounded, rather nearer; the postilion was evidently determined that the castle should be thoroughly apprised of the visitor at hand.
The Freiherr picked up a bell from the table beside him and rang it loudly. A servant instantly appeared at the door leading into the hall. "Did you hear that, Franz?" his master angrily exclaimed. "Did you hear that? An extra post!"
"It cannot be, sir," old Franz calmly replied. "Who is there to come to us?"
"That's just it. Who can have the insolence? But there; hear it for yourself. The cursed postilion is blowing with all the force of his lungs just to vex me."
"Can it be possible?" old Franz exclaimed, in the greatest astonishment, as he hearkened to the postilion's horn now sounding much nearer.
"No doubt of it! A visit! Such insolence is insufferable! Do they think me old and childish? Whoever it may be will find himself mistaken. Hurry, Franz, to the castle gate; you know what to say. I receive no one; I'm sick,--I cannot see anybody. The carriage must turn round and go back; whoever it may be, don't let them get out. Call the gardener and old John to help you, if you need them. Go; be quick. In a few minutes that carriage will be here."
The old man looked very angry as he shouted out these orders; his dark eyes flashed from beneath the bushy snow-white eyebrows. With one hand he stroked, as was his habit when vexed, his full silver beard, with the other he rapped upon the small table beside him. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he growled to the man, who still stood hesitating at the door.
"What if it should be the Herr Finanzrath?"
"Werner? I positively never thought of him," replied the Freiherr, mollified on the instant. "Of course he is an exception; but now to your post. Go!"
Old Franz vanished, and the Freiherr leaned forward in his chair, disregarding the pain the movement caused him, that he might better overlook the road leading up the hill, for in a few moments the extra post would emerge from the forest and be visible upon the road.
On came the horses and the vehicle, a light chaise, in which sat an elegantly-dressed man leaning back among the cushions, and talking to a horseman who was riding beside the carriage.
"Of course it is Werner!" muttered the Freiherr, relieved, sinking back into his chair. And yet he did not seem particularly rejoiced at the unexpected arrival of his eldest son, for the frown did not quite leave his brow. He looked annoyed. "What does he want, coming thus without letting us know? But perhaps he did announce his visit to Arno; he is riding beside him. Well, well, we shall see."
The old man had not long to wait,--the post-chaise soon rattled over the stones of the court-yard, and a few minutes later the Finanzrath von Hohenwald, accompanied by his brother Arno, entered the garden-room.
The Finanzrath was a tall, handsome man, something over thirty years old; he, as well as his brother Arno, bore a decided resemblance to the old Baron,--they had the same dark, fiery eyes, and the same finely-chiselled mouth, which, when tightly closed, lent an almost hard expression to the face. And yet, despite their likeness to their father, the brothers were so unlike that it was only after long familiarity with them, and a careful comparison of their features, that any resemblance between them could be detected. Both were handsome men, tall and shapely, but their air and bearing were entirely dissimilar, Arno having preserved the erect military carriage of the soldier, while the Finanzrath was distinguished by an easy, negligent grace of movement. Although he was the elder of the two, he looked much younger than Arno; his fresh-coloured, smooth-shaven face had a very youthful expression, while Arno's grave, earnest eyes made him appear older than he really was.
The old Baron's face cleared somewhat as the Finanzrath drew a chair up beside his father's and greeted him most cordially. "I am delighted to see you looking so well, father," he said, kindly. "I trust that terrible gout will soon be so much better that you can get out among your flowers. But where is Celia?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes, where is she? Who can tell the whereabouts of that will-o'-the-wisp? In the forest, in the park, in her boat on the lake, in the village,--everywhere at once!" the old man answered, with a smile.
A slight shade flitted across the Finanzrath's countenance. "Just the same as ever," he said. "I thought so; and perhaps it is as well that Celia is not here at the moment, as it gives me an opportunity to speak to you and Arno, father, of a matter that lies very near my heart, and that I should like to have settled before I see her. I hope, sir, you will not be angry with me if I speak frankly with you in regard to your darling, whom you have just designated so justly a will-o'-the-wisp?"
"What do you want with the child? Have you any fault to find again with Celia?" the Freiherr asked, crossly.
"Yes, father; I feel it my fraternal duty towards Celia to speak very seriously to you and to Arno in regard to her. You both spoil the girl so completely that a stop must be put to it. Celia is now fifteen years old, she is almost grown up."
"She is grown up," Arno interposed.
"So much the worse. Then it is certainly high time that something were done about her education, if she is not to run quite wild. She is a charming, sweet-tempered creature, and I can hardly blame you, living with her here in this lonely forest, for being content with her as she is, nor can I wonder that you, my dear father, can scarcely grasp the idea of allowing her to leave you."
"What do you mean?" the Freiherr exclaimed, angrily. "What are you thinking of? I let Celia leave me? Never!"
"I knew what you would say, father," the Finanzrath replied; "but I hope, nevertheless, that after calm consideration you will agree to a plan that I have to propose to you. Celia has grown up here in the castle without feminine companionship, for you will hardly call our old Kaselitz, who has always spoiled the child to her heart's content, a fit associate for a Fräulein von Hohenwald. The only person of education with whom Celia comes in contact, with the exception of yourself and Arno, is her tutor our good old pastor, Quandt, who, as Arno wrote me, has taught her well in various branches of science and literature, but can of course teach her nothing of what a young girl of rank should know when she goes out into the world."
"She never shall go out into the world!" the Freiherr indignantly exclaimed.
"Do you wish Celia to pass her entire life here in the solitude of Castle Hohenwald? Will you run the risk of hearing her one day say to you, 'You have robbed me of the joys of life, father! I might have been a happy wife and mother, but since you chose to keep me by your side, I am become a weary, unhappy old maid!' You cannot be so selfish as to wish that your darling should sacrifice to you her entire youth?"
"Nonsense! What would you have?" growled the Freiherr. "But go on. I should like to know what you really want."
"You shall soon learn. I spoke of Celia's education; she is well grounded in science and literature; she rides like an Amazon,--not badly perhaps; she handles a fowling-piece with the skill of a gamekeeper. So far so good; but does she understand how to conduct herself in society? does she possess the talent for social intercourse,--a knowledge of those forms which, worthless in themselves, are nevertheless indispensable accomplishments for a young lady of rank?"
"I have not brought her up to be a fine lady!" the Freiherr said, peevishly.
"I think, sir, if you will pardon me, that you have not brought her up at all. I detest a fine lady and modern artificial culture, but a Baroness von Hohenwald should not be utterly ignorant of the forms of society. Celia must learn to conform to the rules that govern the society of to-day, and it is high time that she began to do so. Arno will admit that I am right."
"I cannot deny it," said Arno, who had been an attentive listener as he paced the room to and fro, and who now paused before his brother and nodded assent. "I, too, have pondered upon what was to be done for Celia. Something must be arranged for her further culture, but I have vainly tried to devise what it shall be."
"And yet the matter is simple enough. Two methods are open to you. Let my father choose which he prefers. The first, which I myself think the best and would therefore most strongly recommend, is perhaps the one that will prove least pleasing to my father. Frau von Adelung's school in Dresden has the best of reputations, and Frau von Adelung herself is a woman of refinement and culture, who moves in the first society. I made an excursion to Dresden before I came hither, saw Frau von Adelung myself, and spoke with her regarding Celia, whom she is quite willing to receive among her pupils."
"Deuce take you for your pains!" cried the Freiherr, with a burst of anger. "I know without being told that if I choose to pay for it the best boarding-school in the country will be thankful to have my Celia, but I tell you, once for all, I will not hear of it. I cannot part with the child. Celia is my sunshine in this gloomy house. My heart rejoices at the sight of her. The pain that tortures me is forgotten when I look into her laughing eyes. I am a sick old man. You ought not to be so cruel, Werner; leave me my jewel for the few years that I have to live."
The Freiherr's tone from one of angry reproach had become that of almost humble entreaty.
The Finanzrath nodded and smiled. "I hope you will rejoice for many years in your jewel, and one day see her a happy wife and mother," he said; and then continued: "If you will not part with Celia, she must have the training here in Hohenwald which she could indeed procure more easily at school; all that remains to be done is to engage a good governess for her."
Arno suddenly paused in his pacing to and fro in the room. "Impossible!" he exclaimed. "What are you thinking of, Werner? A governess here in the house! Live with the pedantic, insufferable creature day after day, week after week, and always have her interfering between our Celia and ourselves! Our entire life would have to be changed. If so pretentious a person were to come here she would require to be amused; we should have visitors, and would be forced to pay visits in return. The peaceful repose that has hitherto reigned in Hohenwald would be gone if a strange inmate were introduced among us."
"Would you rather send Celia to school? I confess I should prefer it myself."
"But I should not!" the old Freiherr exclaimed, with decision. "I do not like womenfolk, but sooner than part with Celia I will endure a governess in the house. After all, she will be only a superior sort of servant. We get along with Frau Kaselitz, and we can get along with her too!"
"Frau Kaselitz does not pretend to sit at table with us, nor to join our family circle," said Arno.
"That would be insufferable," the Freiherr said, reflectively.
"Then let us have recourse to the school."
"Don't say another word about that cursed school," growled the Freiherr; "let us have the governess and be done with it!"
Arno would have made some further objection, but his father cut it short by declaring that not a word more should be said upon the subject until Celia was by; the girl was old enough to have an opinion concerning her own affairs.
To this decision the Finanzrath assented, rather unwillingly, to be sure, since he would have preferred to have the matter settled on the instant. He saw, however, that his father was coming round, and he feared to injure his cause by any insistance. And Celia herself prevented the possibility of continuing the conversation in her absence.
A shower of syringa blossoms suddenly rained down upon the Finanzrath, who was seated near the open door leading to the garden, and a charming young girl appeared upon the threshold. It was Celia,--the will-o'-the-wisp, as her father loved to call her,--who always appeared when least expected.
With a merry laugh she flew to the Finanzrath, sealing her flower-greeting with a light kiss upon his cheek, and then turning to the old Baron, she threw her arms around his neck. "You are a dear, darling old papa!" she cried, gayly. "You will not let your Celia be sent to school like a little child; you will not let me be disposed of without consulting me! Thank you, my own dear papa; but as for you, Werner, I shall not forget that you would have banished me from Hohenwald."
The Finanzrath shook off the syringa blossoms, and, leaning back in his chair, contemplated his sister with increasing satisfaction. He had not seen her for nearly a year; he had not been at Hohenwald since the Freiherr's last birthday, and during this time Celia had changed wonderfully. He had left a child, he found a maiden; the tall, lithe figure had gained a certain roundness and grace.
Celia was developed physically far beyond her years; mentally, she was still the gay, careless child; the happy spirit of childhood laughed in her large brown eyes, was mirrored in the bright smile that lit up her lovely features, and in the gay defiance with which, after having fairly smothered her father with kisses, she confronted the Finanzrath with folded arms. "Well, my sage brother," she said, laughing, "here I am, in my own proper person, prepared to listen to your highly valuable advice with regard to my future training."
"Have you been listening, Celia?" the Finanzrath asked.
"Of course I have. I saw you arrive, and by way of welcome plucked a whole apronful of syringa flowers to surprise you after a sisterly fashion, and then crept up to the door on tiptoe. There, to my horror, I heard how the redoubtable Finanzrath had the impudence to tell my darling old papa that he had not brought me up. Was it not my duty to listen? You are a detestable monster, Werner! Look at me and tell me what fault you have to find with me."
At this moment the Finanzrath certainly had no fault whatever to find with his charming sister; he thought her lovely, and owned to himself that if no one had brought Celia up, mother Nature had done the best that was possible for her. Her every movement was graceful, her bearing that of a lady, and even in the stormy embrace she had bestowed upon her father there had been nothing rude or unfeminine, but only an impulsive warmth that became her admirably.
"Why do you not speak?" Celia went on, as the Finanzrath continued to look at her with a smile but without replying. "You were ready enough just now to prate about my want of social elegance, and Herr Arno, in the character of a dignified echo, added his 'I cannot deny it.' Only wait, Arno; you shall atone to me for that!"
"That's right!" the Freiherr cried in high glee. "The little witch has you both on the hip."
"And, papa, I am a little angry with you, too. You were nearly talked over by that odious Werner. Now let me tell you, if you ever send me to boarding-school I will run away immediately. Even if I have to beg my way back to Hohenwald I never will stay in Dresden with that horrid Frau von Adelung, to whom Werner would sell me like a slave."
"You would not talk so, child, if you had ever seen Frau von Adelung," the Finanzrath observed.
"I am not a child, and I will not let you treat me as such. Remember that, Werner. I will never consent to be sent to school."
"Assure yourself on that point, little one. You heard me say that I never will permit such an arrangement: that I cannot and will not be parted from you," said the old man.
"Yes, I heard that, you dear old papa, and I could have shouted for joy when you refused to listen to Werner's odious plan. You cannot live without me, nor can I without you. So let Arno talk as he pleases. You and I know that I am very well brought up. Neither you nor Arno has ever found any fault with my manners, and as for what Werner has to say about marriage, it is all nonsense. I shall never marry, but live here with you two at Hohenwald. Upon that I am resolved."
"Ah, indeed?" the Finanzrath asked, smiling. "So elevated a resolve adopted by a girl of fifteen of course alters the case."
"You are detestable! In two months I shall be sixteen."
"A most venerable age, I admit; fortunately, however, not so advanced but that you may still have something to learn. How, for example, does your music come on?"
Celia blushed, and replied, rather dejectedly, "I have not practised much lately. Our good old pastor is so deaf that he never hears my mistakes."
"And therefore you prefer not to practise at all, but to forget the little you have learned, although you have considerable talent, and might give my father a great deal of pleasure if you had a good teacher. Think, father, how you would enjoy having Celia give you an hour or so of delicious music every evening."
The old man looked fondly at his darling: "Yes, yes, I should like it very well, but if it tires the child to practise, I can do very well without it."
"Oh, no, papa; I will turn over a new leaf, and practise well, if it really will please you."
"Practice is not enough," said the Finanzrath; "you never will improve without a teacher. I consulted Frau von Adelung upon the subject, for I foresaw that my plan of sending you to school would meet with invincible opposition from you and my father. Therefore I asked Frau von Adelung if she knew of any one whom she could recommend as a governess for Celia."
"Ah, now we are coming to the governess!" cried Celia, laughing. "You are a born diplomatist, Werner. This is why you praised my 'talent' and talked about my music. But no, my cunning brother, I am not to be caught in your net. Am I, grown up as I am, to be ordered about by an ugly old governess in green spectacles? I can hear her now: 'Fräulein Celia, sit up; you are stooping again! Fräulein Celia, no young lady should climb a chestnut-tree. Fräulein Celia here, Fräulein Celia there! You must not do this, and you must not do that.' Oh, a governess is always a horror! and I tell you, Werner, that if you send one here, I will contrive that she is tired of her post in a week."
"We will see about that," the Finanzrath rejoined, coolly. "Frau von Adelung has recommended to me very highly an accomplished young person, who, so far as I know, neither wears green spectacles nor is a horror. She is very musical, plays the piano charmingly, and speaks French as well as English."
"She must be a prodigy, indeed!" Arno said. "Is it possible that such a combination of the arts and sciences can condescend to come to Castle Hohenwald? Celia is right; the lady could not stay here a week. Our lonely castle is no place for such a wonder, nor is Celia any pupil for her. Neither my father nor I could alter our mode of life for a governess. Women, in fact, are so little to my mind, that it is only by an effort that I can bring myself to speak to them."
"Pray let me thank you in the name of the sex," Celia said, with a low courtesy to her brother.
"Nonsense! you are an exception, you little will-o'-the-wisp. No need to talk artificial nonsense to you; you are not greedy for admiration, and do not expect to be flattered."
"And how do you know that Fräulein Müller, the lady recommended by Frau von Adelung, expects it?" asked the Finanzrath.
"All these modern governesses expect it. Most of them are pedantic, and all of them are greedy for admiration."
"You are certainly mistaken in this case. I described exactly to Frau von Adelung the life that is led at Castle Hohenwald; I expressly told her that no guest is admitted within its walls, that the governess would have no companionship save Celia's, that my father was ill, and therefore unfit for social intercourse, that Arno was a woman-hater, who would never, probably, exchange three words with her, and that therefore the position of governess here would not suit any one with any social pretensions."
"And what was Frau von Adelung's reply?" Arno asked.
"That it was just the kind of situation that Fräulein Müller wanted."
"That seems to me a rather suspicious circumstance. Why should such a woman as you describe, talented and accomplished, desire to bury herself in the solitude of Castle Hohenwald?" Arno objected, and his father, too, shook his head doubtfully.
But the Finanzrath was prepared for this objection; he said, "Frau von Adelung, in whose sincerity and truth I place perfect reliance, explained what seemed to me, too, an anomaly. Fräulein Müller has had much to endure in her life; her father was a wealthy merchant, and she was brought up in the greatest luxury. But all the young girl's hopes in life were disappointed: her father lost his entire fortune. Frau von Adelung hinted that he had committed suicide, probably in despair at his losses, and gave me to suppose, although for the young lady's sake she did not say so directly, that the poor girl was betrothed, and that the loss of her money broke her engagement. Alone, and dependent entirely upon her own exertions, the unfortunate girl is anxious to earn an honourable livelihood. The solitude of Castle Hohenwald, Frau von Adelung maintains, would make the situation here peculiarly desirable to Fräulein Müller. I expressly stated, also, that my father would be quite ready to indemnify her by an unusually high salary for the disadvantages of her position here; and I have so arranged matters that it only needs a note from me to Frau von Adelung to secure Fräulein Müller for Celia. She might be here in a few days. It is for you to decide, father, whether we shall embrace the opportunity thus offered us of procuring a suitable companion and teacher for Celia, or whether we shall let it slip."
The Freiherr was convinced by his son's representations. There was still a conflict going on within him between his distaste for having his quiet life disturbed by the intrusion of a stranger and his desire that Celia's education might be complete. But he was so far won over to the Finanzrath's views that he would not say 'no' to his plan. Celia must decide. "Well, little one," he said, "what do you think now of Werner's scheme? Shall he write to Frau von Adelung to send us this Fräulein Müller, or do you still declare that you will not have her?"
Celia looked thoughtful. She must decide, then. She thought of the delicious liberty she had hitherto enjoyed, of the restraint that would be laid upon her in the future. But she thought also of her father's pleasure in her progress in music, and more than all, it quite broke her heart to think that her "no" would destroy the hopes of an unfortunate girl who was seeking a position as governess.
Her brother's account had excited her profound sympathy. She could not say "no." "You are an odious fellow, Werner!" she said, after a short pause for reflection. "You do just what you please with us; but you shall have a kiss, and you may write to Fräulein Müller to come, and I will try not to tease her."
So the Finanzrath had his kiss, but he could not keep her by his side. She had been serious long enough, and she ran laughing into the garden, leaving her father and brothers to farther consultation.
The Prussian-Saxon boundary defines also the bounds between the Hohenwald estates, that lie entirely on Saxon territory, and the Prussian domain of Grünhagen. The boundary-line here makes a great curve into Saxony, so that the Grünhagen lands are almost shut in by the Hohenwald forests and fields. The Grünhagen forest indeed forms a continuation of the magnificent woods of beech and oak that surround Castle Hohenwald, the boundary-line between them being only marked out by a narrow path, so overgrown with moss and underbrush that only careful observation can detect its course.
The vicinity of the two estates has always been, since the memory of man, a fruitful cause of quarrel between the respective proprietors of Hohenwald and Grünhagen, each being strictly jealous lest his neighbour should infringe upon his rights. At times some of the Hohenwald cattle, when the herd-boy was not sufficiently on the alert, would stray into the Grünhagen fields and be taken into custody by Herr von Poseneck's people, and on one occasion the Hohenwald forester had actually sequestrated the fowling-piece of Herr von Poseneck, when that gentleman, who was devoted to the chase, had in his hunting attempted to make a short cut through the Hohenwald forest. There had also been various trespasses upon the rights of the chase which were hardly to be distinguished from poaching committed on both sides of the boundary by enthusiastic Posenecks and Hohenwalds.
These innumerable quarrels had begotten a hostility between the Barons of Hohenwald and Poseneck, which had been handed down from generation to generation, and which was by no means lessened by the fact that, since the annexation of Saxony with Prussia, the Posenecks had become Prussian noblemen. No Hohenwald ever visited Grünhagen, and even in the days when Hohenwald had been renowned for its brilliant entertainments, at which were assembled all the country gentry and many families from beyond the border, no Poseneck was ever invited within its gates.
The hatred of the Hohenwalds for the Posenecks was so great that Freiherr Werner, although he was not wanting in a certain amiability, could not suppress a sentiment of exultation when, in 1849, Kurt von Poseneck, who had allied himself with great enthusiasm to the revolutionists, was forced to sell Grünhagen to his brother-in-law, the Amtsrath Friese, and emigrate to America with his family to escape the trial for high treason that threatened him as a member of the extreme left of the Frankfort National Assembly.
Since then, however, the animosity between Grünhagen and Poseneck had slumbered, for the new possessor of Grünhagen was a man who detested litigation, and who did all that he could to avoid giving cause for offence to the Hohenwalds, while he overlooked any slight trespass on their part. Thus open strife was avoided, but the old dislike only smouldered. Freiherr Werner had transferred it to the Poseneck's near relative, the Amtsrath, whom he detested for his Prussian extraction.
Like master like man! All the inmates of the castle and the inhabitants of the village of Hohenwald hated everything relating to Grünhagen. The Hohenwald servants, from the steward and inspector to the commonest stable-boy, held the "Grünhagen Prussians" for an odious race of men, and, as they had received strict orders from the Freiherr not to be led into any disputes, avoided all association with the Grünhagen people.
Thus the road from Grünhagen to the village of Hohenwald wellnigh disappeared beneath weeds and grass, for there was not the slightest intercourse between the two places. Was it to be wondered at, then, that a Hohenwald plough boy, driving his team in the meadow bordering upon the Grünhagen lands, stopped his horses and stared in surprise at a young, well-dressed man sauntering slowly along the disused road, crossing the boundary, and then, when near the village of Hohenwald, striking into a by-path leading directly to the Hohenwald oak-forest? The fellow looked after the stranger until he was lost to sight in the forest, and then whipped up his horses, resolving to acquaint the inspector that very evening with the remarkable occurrence.
The stranger noticed the ploughboy's wonder, but it merely provoked a smile as he slowly loitered along the meadow-path. Now and then he paused and looked around, surveying with evident pleasure the lovely landscape spread before him, the fertile fields and meadows, girdled by the glorious oaken forest, now clothed in the delicious green of early spring. As he reached its borders he paused again to look back at the charming village of Hohenwald, nestled on the edge of the forest, and at the stately mansion of Grünhagen, overtopping the farm-buildings, granaries, stables, and cottages about it.
How near the two estates were to each other and yet how wide apart! A smile hovered upon the young man's handsome face as he called to mind the strange hatred of the two proprietors for each other. He had laughed aloud when the Amtsrath Friese had told him of it at Grünhagen, and he could not now suppress a smile, for such an inherited aversion was entirely inconceivable to him; it was a folly for which there was no possible explanation.
Entering the wood, he pursued the narrow path through the thick underbrush, and gazed about him with intense admiration. Nowhere else in Europe had he seen such magnificent old oaks; they belonged exclusively to the Hohenwald domain, whose proprietor cared for them most tenderly, and never allowed any of the giant trunks to be felled except those which nature had decreed should yield to time. The Baron could well afford to cultivate his love for his oaks; and whatever might be done in distant parts of the forest, no axe was ever allowed to work havoc near the castle among his old oaks and beeches in his dear "forest depths." The narrow foot-path crossed a broad road through the wood; here the stranger paused irresolute and looked about him searchingly. To the right the road wound through the forest, in whose depths it vanished; to the left it led through rows of trees up a gentle incline to Castle Hohenwald, one of the wings of which the stranger could discern in the distance. He had not thought himself so near the castle; the foot-path must have led him astray. According to the directions of the Grünhagen inspector, he should be upon the path which, cutting off a corner, was a more direct road to the Grünhagen woods than the one leading from the mansion; but if this were so, it ought not to have brought him so near to Castle Hohenwald. He hesitated, pondering whether to follow the path on the other side of the road or to turn round, when his attention was arrested by a charming sight. Galloping upon a magnificent and spirited horse, there suddenly appeared upon the road from the castle a girl scarcely more than a child. She managed her steed with wondrous case and security; the mad gallop gave her no fear; she sat as firmly and even carelessly in the saddle as though the horse were going at an ordinary pace; indeed, she even incited him to greater speed with a light touch of her riding-whip.
How lovely she was! A young girl, judging by her slender, well-rounded figure, and yet only a child. There was a bright smile upon her charming face, her eyes beamed with happiness, and her dark curls, blown backwards by the breeze, escaped from beneath her light straw hat.
She was very near the stranger when the horse suddenly started and shied, probably frightened by the young man's light summer coat among the trees.
A practised horseman might well have lost his stirrup through such an interruption of the swift gallop, but the young Amazon kept her seat perfectly, punished her horse by a smart cut with her whip, as she exclaimed, "What are you about, Pluto?" and then, as with a strong steady hand she reined him in, looked to see what had caused his terror.
A stranger in the Hohenwald forest! Celia had reason enough for astonishment, for she could scarcely remember ever having seen any save the people of Hohenwald upon her father's estate. And this was an elegantly-dressed stranger, no forester or peasant, but a young man evidently from the higher walks of society. Now a well-educated young lady would certainly have found it becoming in such an unexpected encounter with a stranger in the lonely forest to display a certain amount of embarrassment, perhaps of timidity. Not so Celia. She scanned the intruder upon her father's domain with a long, searching look,--the sensation of fear she knew only by name, and there was no cause for embarrassment. She was at home here, upon her native soil. She had a perfect right to ask the stranger bluntly, "How came you here? Who are you?"
The stranger bowed very respectfully. "I think," he replied, "that I have the honour of addressing Fräulein von Hohenwald."
He was evidently a very polite and agreeable young man,--"the honour of addressing Fräulein von Hohenwald." Celia suddenly felt very much grown up. Hitherto she had been only Celia. Even the servants, who had known her from infancy, called her nothing but Fräulein Celia. Fräulein von Hohenwald sounded delightful. She quite forgot to pursue her inquiries, and answered, "Yes, I am Cecilia von Hohenwald."
Again the stranger bowed low, and taking a little card-case from his breast-pocket, produced a visiting-card, which he handed to her, saying, "I must pray your forgiveness for presenting myself in this informal manner as your nearest neighbour."
Celia read the card. "Kurt von Poseneck!" she exclaimed, and the tone of her voice as well as the expression of her eyes manifested such surprise and even terror, that for Kurt all the inherited hatred of the Hohenwalds for the Posenecks found utterance in this brief mention of his name.
When the Amtsrath Friese, his uncle, had told him of the fierce hatred between the Hohenwalds and the Posenecks that had been handed down through generations, Kurt had laughed heartily, but now when he thought he saw that this insensate hate had taken root in the heart of this lovely child, he was filled with a sense of painful regret. "What have I done to you, Fräulein von Hohenwald," he said, sadly, "that my name should so startle you?"
"It does not startle, it only surprises me," Celia replied, quickly, as she looked with increased interest and a greater degree of attention at this young man, who did not in the least resemble the picture she had formed from the tales of Frau Kaselitz of a member of the evil-minded, cross-grained quarrelsome Poseneck family.
Certainly Kurt von Poseneck looked neither cross-grained nor quarrelsome as his frank eyes met her own kindly and yet sadly.
Her first inspection had inclined her in the stranger's favour, and Celia now decided that he was a very fine-looking man, almost as tall as her brother Arno and far handsomer, for Arno looked stern and gloomy, while Kurt smiled kindly. His full brown beard and moustache became him admirably. Celia thought his expression exceedingly pleasing; she had never supposed that a Poseneck could have so frank and honest a smile.
The girl was quite incapable of dissimulation,--her thoughts and sentiments were mirrored in her eyes,--and Kurt perceived to his great satisfaction the first startled expression vanish from her face as she looked at him with a very friendly air.
"I thank you, Fräulein von Hohenwald," he said, "for those simple words. I was afraid you shared the melancholy prejudice that has been the cause of so many terrible disputes between our families in former times, and this would have specially pained me in you."
"Why specially in me?"
The question was simple and natural, but yet not easy to answer. "Because--because--well, then, honestly and frankly, Fräulein von Hohenwald, because as soon as I saw you I said to myself, 'Let the Hohenwalds and the Posenecks quarrel and hate one another as they choose, Fräulein Cecilia von Hohenwald and Kurt von Poseneck never shall be enemies!' Forget the mutual dislike that has divided our families. Will you not promise me this? I know it is a strange request to make of you, but you must forgive my bluntness. I returned to Europe only a few months ago, and cannot forget the fashion learned upon our Western farm in America. I hope you will not blame me for it."
"Oh, no; on the contrary, I like frankness. Werner always scolds me for having my heart upon my lips; he is odious, but papa and Arno take my part."
"Who is Werner?"
"My brother, the Finanzrath. I thought you knew; but indeed you cannot know much about us if you are only lately come from America."
"More than you think. My father used often to tell me of Grünhagen and Hohenwald, and my uncle Friese has talked of you to me also. I knew and admired you, Fräulein von Hohenwald, from his description, and I am doubly rejoiced that chance has brought us together. But you have not yet answered me. Will you grant my request and promise me that for us the old family feud shall not exist?"
"With all my heart!" said Celia; and in ratification of her promise she held out her hand to Kurt, although her horse seemed to take the stranger's approach very ill, and grew restless.
Kurt took the little proffered hand. "Peace is formally concluded, then," he said, gayly. "We are to be good friends, and I trust, Fräulein von Hohenwald, that if you should meet me again in the Hohenwald forest, bound for the Grünhagen wood by the shortest way, you will permit me to exchange a few friendly words with you."
This Celia promised readily; but at the same time she pointed out to Kurt that he never would reach the Grünhagen wood by pursuing a path leading directly to the lake in the Hohenwald park, and offering to show him the path he was seeking, she walked her horse beside him.
She never dreamed that there could be anything unbecoming in her readiness to show him the right way through the lonely wood; she thought it very natural that she who was at home here should direct a stranger aright, and quite at her ease, she chatted on to Kurt as to an old acquaintance.
He told her of his life in America, and spoke with such affection of his parents, who had been dead now for some years, and with such loving tenderness of his sisters, who were married in America, that Celia could not but be interested and attracted by him. He told her how he had served in the Northern army in the war with the South, attaining the rank of major before it was over. He had then resigned, and, after his father's death, had disposed of the American property, and had now returned to Germany to assist in the management of the Grünhagen estates, which, as his uncle's declared heir, would one day be his. He had spent a few months in travelling in England, France, and Italy, and had arrived only three days before in Grünhagen, where his uncle had given him the warmest of welcomes.
All this Kurt detailed to his guide on their way through the forest, and he also expressed to her his sincere regret that, as his uncle had told him, there was no possibility of establishing friendly relations between Hohenwald and Grünhagen, and that he himself could not even venture to pay a visit to Hohenwald to show that he had inherited nothing of the old family hatred.
"Oh, no, it would never do," Celia said, sadly. "Papa would be terribly angry; his orders are positive that no visitor shall ever be admitted to the castle. Arno would have liked so much to ask his dearest friend, a Count Styrum, to stay with us; but, although papa thinks very highly of the Count, and says himself that he must be an excellent man and a worthy son of his father, who was once papa's dear friend, he could not be induced to let Arno send him an invitation."
"Of course, then, I cannot venture to come, but I hope at least to make your brother Arno's acquaintance; this will surely be facilitated by his being an intimate friend of my cousin, Karl Styrum."
Celia shook her head dubiously. Arno was just as dear and good as papa, but just as disinclined to come in contact with strangers. He never left Castle Hohenwald except when some inspection of the estate was necessary; he spent all his time in studying learned books.
"Are you, then, quite alone in the lonely castle?" Kurt asked, compassionately, but Celia laughed aloud at his question. "I alone and lonely!" she cried. "What can you be thinking of? I have my own darling papa, and Arno, who is so kind; you cannot conceive how kind he is. Then I have my tutor, dear old Pastor Quandt, to whom I go every morning from nine to eleven; that is, I always have gone to him until now,--how I shall do in the future I cannot tell, for only think, now in my old age I am to have a governess."
Kurt laughed, and Celia laughed too, but the laugh did not come from her heart. "You must not laugh at me," she said, with some irritation. "I am afraid I have said something that I ought not. Tell me frankly and honestly, are my manners so odd that I really need a governess?"
"What a very strange question, Fräulein von Hohenwald!"
"Answer it by a simple 'yes' or 'no.' Ought I to have a governess or not?"
Kurt looked at her, with a smile. "Do you really want a frank answer?" he replied.
"Of course I do; it would provoke me very much not to have it!"
"I am afraid you will be provoked with me for giving it, but I will do as you ask. In truth, I think you might learn much of a really good governess, and that she would do you no harm in spite of your 'old age.'"
"How odious of you!"
"Did I not say that I should provoke you by my frankness?"
"No; I am not provoked with you, quite the contrary. I see now that Werner was right. If you, who have only known me a quarter of an hour, see that I need a governess, it must be so. But here we are on the borders of Grünhagen, and there is the path that will lead you back to the house."
She stopped her horse, and pointed out to Kurt with her riding-whip a narrow path, so grass-grown that it could have been detected only by some one very familiar with the locality.
"And you really are not angry?" Kurt asked, unpleasantly surprised by his abrupt dismissal.
Celia looked thoughtful, and after an instant's pause held out her hand to Kurt. "No, I am certainly not angry with you," she said, cordially. "I was provoked, I do not deny it, that you should have thought Werner right; but you meant no unkindness, I am sure, or you would not have been so frank."
"I assuredly meant nothing but kindness!"
"I am sure of it, and it makes me all the more sorry that you cannot come to Hohenwald. It would be so pleasant to have you tell me more about America and your adventures there. But that cannot be, and it will be long before we see each other again, unless we should meet by chance in the forest."
"I trust in my good fortune."
"Well, we may possibly chance to meet again soon, since I take my ride almost every afternoon about this hour, and am very fond of the broad road leading towards the Grünhagen woods. Adieu, Herr Kurt von Poseneck."
"Au revoir, Fräulein von Hohenwald."
She gave him a friendly little nod, touched her horse with the whip, and vanished in a minute along the road leading to Castle Hohenwald.
Kurt looked after her vanishing figure, and then resigned himself to delightful reflections. Was it not something more than chance that had decreed that he, who had found his way so often in American forests, should lose it here, and thus make the acquaintance of this charming girl?
The next day about four o'clock Kurt was seized with an irresistible desire to inspect the forests; he could not stay in the house; it drove him forth, much to his uncle's surprise, who, however, ascribed it to the love of nature engendered by his life in the open air in America. Kurt did not this time, however, pursue the path he had taken on the previous day; he remembered the ploughboy's gaping wonder, and did not choose to become a theme for gossip to the Hohenwald servants; he followed, instead, the more direct course across the Grünhagen fields to the woods, but scarcely had he reached it, when chance guided him to the very spot upon the broad road leading from Castle Hohenwald where he had been so unfortunate as to frighten Celia's horse. The same chance that led Kurt to this place arranged that Celia also, who had hitherto been very careless about the time at which she took her afternoon ride, suddenly required her horse to be saddled on the stroke of four. Old John, the groom, could not imagine why Fräulein Celia should all at once be "so very particular." She never had seemed to care whether the horse were brought to the door a quarter of an hour sooner or later, and now she insisted sharply upon punctuality, although it was the Baron's birthday, and the old servant had had a great deal to do, as Fräulein Celia knew. She could scarcely restrain her impatience to be gone, and as she galloped off down the road, the old man looked after her with a thoughtful shake of the head.
"We may possibly chance to meet again soon," Celia had said to Kurt as she took leave of him, and chance conducted her to the very spot where she had met him yesterday, and where she now met him again. From afar she espied his light coat among the trees, and her lovely face was lit up with a happy smile.
Had she expected him? Impossible! She had made no appointment with him. She knew enough of social rules to understand that a young lady could not appoint a rendezvous with a young man whom she had seen but once, and then only for a short time. Of course it was chance that had brought them both to this spot at the same time, but she was very glad of it, and greeted Kurt with a charming smile.
It was quite natural that she should now walk her horse that Kurt might walk beside her, although it cost her a struggle with Pluto to induce him to agree to this new order of things. Kurt walked beside her, looking up at her with admiration. How graceful was her every movement as she reined in and controlled her impatient horse! She held the curb in a firm grasp, but there was nothing unfeminine in the strength thus put forth. For a while her whole attention was given to her horse, but when she had reduced him to a state of obedient quiescence she replied kindly to Kurt's greeting, and when he expressed his pleasure that a fortunate chance had again brought them together, she answered, with perfect freedom from embarrassment, that she also was much pleased. As she spoke, her smile was so arch that he could not but laugh. And then they laughed together like two children. They knew well what made them laugh, although they said no more about it.
It sounded almost like an excuse when Celia said that she had come from home nearly a quarter of an hour later than usual this afternoon, old John had been so long saddling Pluto, but that she could not scold him, for he was very old now, almost seventy, and he had been up half the night helping her to hang oaken garlands all about her father's beloved garden-room, that he might be surprised by their beauty when Franz rolled him in from his bedroom at five o'clock on his birthday morning. And her father had been very much delighted,--he so loved his oaks,--and he had been specially pleased with a tobacco-bag that she had embroidered for him as a birthday gift. He was not very fond of embroidery, but he knew how hard it was for her to sit still at any kind of work, and he had been touched by the trouble she had taken for him.
Thus Celia talked on, and Kurt listened with rapt attention, as if she were imparting to him the most important secrets. Her delight in the garlands of oak-leaves and in the completion of her gift for her father charmed him. He thought her almost more lovely now than when, a few moments before, her eyes had sparkled and flashed in her struggle with her horse. He did not know which to admire more, the blooming girl or the lovely child; he only knew that both were adorable.
On the day previous, Kurt had told of his adventures in the war and his life in America; to-day he begged Celia to describe to him her life in Castle Hohenwald, and she did so willingly. She was glad that Kurt should have in his mind a true picture of her dear old father, whom strangers could never portray truly, for no one knew how dear and good he was. Arno too, Frau Kaselitz and Pastor Quandt had often told her, was just as little known or appreciated as his father. She had seen yesterday, from the compassionate way in which Kurt had spoken of her solitude at Castle Hohenwald, how false was his conception of the life there; now, strangers might think what they pleased of it, but Kurt von Poseneck must know what happy days she led there with her kind papa and her dear Arno.
And so she described it to him, beginning with her father, so truly kind, although a little hasty perhaps now and then, bearing pain so patiently, never requiring any sacrifice of his people, but always ready to befriend them. All who knew him loved him. The old servants declared that there never was a better master; even the Herr Pastor had a great respect for him, and only regretted that he had withdrawn from the world, and was in consequence so misjudged. Arno, too, was as kind as he could be. He might look stern and gloomy, but he was not so,--only very sad,--and for this he had good cause. He had been betrothed, and had lost his love, of whom he was inexpressibly fond. Celia did not know how it had happened. Frau Kaselitz would not tell her anything about it, and she could not ask Arno, for when the engagement had been broken some years before, her father had forbidden her ever mentioning the subject to her brother. He had travelled for a long time, but travel could not make him forget his grief; that was why he seemed so stern and gloomy, although he was always gentle and kind to his father, to her, and to the servants and villagers. If any of them were in trouble they always came to Arno for help; and even when it was impossible to help them he always had a kind word for them.
Celia's praise of her eldest brother was by no means so enthusiastic. He was a very good fellow, but then he was not Arno; still, he was very wise, and could always persuade his father to do as he chose. She had been told that in his boyhood Werner was very irritable and passionate, but he had quite conquered this fault. Now he rarely allowed himself to be carried away by anger; his self-control was so great that even when he was deeply irritated he could preserve a perfect calmness of manner, and this was why he had such influence with his father, that whatever he wished to have done at Hohenwald was done. If he did not succeed in one way he tried another. Thus he had contrived that in spite of his father's dislike of having a stranger in the house he had consented to the engagement of a governess.
As she said this Celia could not suppress a little sigh, although she instantly laughed, and added, "Well, it may be best,--you think so, and I will do what I can, and receive Fräulein Müller as kindly as possible."
Werner, she went on to say, came but seldom to Hohenwald, usually only once a year, to be present on his father's birthday, when he stayed only two, or at most three weeks. He was always very good and kind, but she could not love him as she did papa and Arno; she could not tell why, but so it was, and she could not deny that she was always a little glad when he went away again. She was quite sure that papa and Arno felt just as she did, although neither of them had ever said one word to that effect, but she had observed that papa breathed more freely after the carriage had rolled away with Werner.
Then Celia described the few people, not her relatives, with whom she had daily intercourse--Pastor Quandt, her tutor, an old bachelor nearly eighty years of age, but still hale and hearty, and dear and good, and Dr. Bruhn, the village physician, also an amiable old bachelor, and Frau Kaselitz, the housekeeper, who could not do enough to show her love for her darling Fräulein Celia. She, Frau Kaselitz, was the childless widow of one of the former stewards of Hohenwald, and had passed her entire life either in the village or at the castle. She was as good as gold; far too kind; she, Celia, knew that Frau Kaselitz spoiled her and made a governess so desirable--as he had thought it, the girl added, with an arch glance at her companion. She could not deny herself the pleasure of this little thrust.
Celia's lively description soon made it possible for Kurt to have in his mind a vivid picture of the simple life at Castle Hohenwald, and his admiration for the lovely speaker was increased tenfold. What a treasure of simple content she must possess, to preserve such a cheerful gayety of mind with so little in her surroundings to induce it!
A long conversation followed upon Celia's narrative; she required, in her turn, to be told of Grünhagen and its inmates. She asked about his uncle Friese, and was amazed to learn that he was an amiable, kindly old man, who only desired to live at peace with all men. According to Frau Kaselitz and the Hohenwald servants, he was a cross, quarrelsome, purse-proud old person.
In such mutual explanations the time sped rapidly, and Celia, as well as Kurt, was surprised to find that they had reached the Grünhagen woods and the end of the broad road that led through the Hohenwald estate.
"It is time for me to turn back," said Celia, with a slight sigh.
Kurt did not venture to remonstrate, although he felt as if he should have liked to talk on with her forever, and although in Celia's manner there was an indirect appeal to him to ask for a prolongation of the conversation.
"Indeed I must turn round," Celia added, with an interrogatory glance.
"I am afraid you must," Kurt replied, suppressing his desire, and yielding to more prudent suggestions. Then, holding out his hand to Celia, he continued: "Chance has been so kind to-day that I trust it will prove no less so in the future, and so I do not say 'farewell' to you, Fräulein von Hohenwald, but 'till we meet,' and may that be speedily!"
Celia smiled as she nodded her farewell to him, and rode back along the forest road; and on the following day chance was again so amiable as to bring about a meeting between the young people at the same spot in the woods. Yes, chance here proved steadfast and true, and day after day the pair passed slowly along the forest road to the Grünhagen woods, deep in innocent but profoundly interesting conversation. Kurt was on the spot with unfailing punctuality at four o'clock, and a few minutes later Celia would appear on Pluto, who now greeted Kurt with a neigh, and was no longer impatient at the slow walk along the road to the Grünhagen woods. For ten days the skies smiled upon Kurt's forest walks, but then May, which had hitherto shown him such favour, justified the reputation for variability which she shares with April.
At Grünhagen a cold rain pelted against the window-panes, through which Kurt disconsolately watched the skies, covered with dull gray clouds that gave no hope that the weather would clear that day, nor perhaps for several days to come.
The Amtsrath had just finished his after-dinner nap and lighted his long pipe. Sitting in his arm-chair and comfortably sipping his coffee, he was not in the least incommoded by the rain that so interfered with Kurt's good humour; on the contrary, he thought it good growing weather, for