"My dear Arno,--You have a right to scold. I can see you frown when you learn that this letter would have reached you two weeks ago, if I had fulfilled my promise of writing to you about my visit to my uncle Guntram soon after my arrival in M----.
"But man proposes, and a charming, smiling little blonde disposes. Indeed she is charming enough to make a man forget even the sacred claims of friendship, and so I confess my fault, and pray your forgiveness. But I can see the frown deepen on your brow, you incorrigible woman-hater, and you are less inclined than ever to forgive upon such a plea. What will you say, then, when you know the worst? Listen, and wonder, Arno. I am betrothed,--the happy lover of the aforesaid lovely little blonde. I beg leave to present to you the betrothed pair, Adèle von Guntram--Karl, Count Styrum. There! Do not throw the letter angrily aside, or you will not learn how it has all come about so quickly, and, besides, you must accustom yourself to the idea of receiving, upon your promised visit to Altenheim, a welcome from a charming little Countess Styrum. That your welcome from her will be of the warmest I can assure you, for my betrothed takes the keenest interest in Arno von Hohenwald, about whom she is never weary of hearing. I might almost be jealous of him did I not know his views with regard to women.
"And now let me tell you what is stranger than all, that it is owing to this interest of Adèle's in you that I am now her accepted lover, or rather that I am so much sooner than I could otherwise have been; and I will tell you as briefly as I can, without breaking a promise I have made, how this came about.
"You know I visited M---- on account of the vexatious lawsuit with my uncle Guntram which I inherited from my father, and concerning which I hoped to effect some sort of compromise. My uncle received me with the greatest cordiality, and we should speedily have arranged matters had it not been for my cousin Heinrich, who, being a newly-fledged lawyer, would not hear of any adjustment of the affair. I believe I could not have offended him more deeply than by voluntarily relinquishing my claims. Now he must put up with this offence, although it is given in a manner different from any that he could have foreseen. His zeal for litigation was of the greatest service to me, for it kept me in M---- when I thought my presence necessary at Altenheim. Thus weeks and even months passed, and I was no nearer the goal than at first, that is, so far as the lawsuit was concerned, otherwise my stay in M---- was entirely delightful to me. My uncle Guntram was all that he could be in the way of affectionate kindness, Heinrich extremely amiable in a cousinly way, and Adèle--no, I will not write about Adèle, for you would only laugh at me and call me a love-sick fool. Wait until you come to M----, as friendship demands you should do, to be present at my marriage, and you will understand how welcome any pretext was to me for a protracted stay here, and how willingly I spent day after day beneath my uncle's roof, passing the most of my time talking with Adèle. She treated me in the kindest manner, but her innocent familiarity, which was almost like that she might show to a brother, made me anxious. A distant connection of yours, a certain Assessor von Hahn, frequents my uncle's house, and was evidently suing for my cousin's favour. I heard reports from all sides of a private betrothal between them, which was not to be announced until the Assessor had obtained the position of circuit judge, since my uncle greatly disapproved of long engagements.
"I really could not perceive that Adèle favoured the pretensions of the Assessor, who is a very well-disposed but rather ridiculous little man; but as all the world declared that it was a settled affair, and as even the Assessor himself let fall several hints to the same effect, I thought I should be forced to accept my fate. I should never have dared to tell my charming cousin how dear she was to me had not you, Arno, without knowing it, lent me your aid.
"I had often talked of you to Adèle, telling her of our delightful travels, and even describing to her your father, your sister Cecilia, and your surroundings at Castle Hohenwald, as I had learned to know them from yourself.
"When I went to my uncle's this morning at the usual time, I found Adèle alone; she received me more kindly than usual; she even owned frankly that she had for an hour been longing for my coming. Flattering as this reception was, I founded no hopes upon it, for I saw that my cousin was desirous to acquaint me with some plan, in the execution of which she looked to me for assistance. She was in a state of feverish agitation; at times she would look at me with an expression of intense entreaty, and then, just when I hoped she was about to speak frankly of what was nearest her heart, she would introduce some indifferent topic of conversation. At last she evidently summoned up courage sufficient to enable her to bestow her confidence upon me. 'Cousin Karl,' she said, in her sweet, gentle voice, 'I have a very, very great favour to ask of you.' I need not tell you how fervently I assured her that she could not ask what it would not be my delight to grant. She then proceeded to tell me that her dearest friend, a Fraulein Anna Müller, who had been her schoolmate at Frau Adelung's, in Dresden, was forced by dire misfortune to seek a position as governess. Frau von Adelung had recommended the young lady to your brother Werner for your sister Celia, and Fraulein Müller was to start for Hohenwald this very day. The mighty favour that Adèle asked of me was to write to you and exert my influence with you to insure the young lady a favourable reception at Castle Hohenwald. I never can tell so evil-minded a woman-hater as yourself how exquisitely lovely Adèle was as she thus pleaded with me for her friend, nor how it happened that I retained the hand I took in mine and forgot all the silly stories about the Assessor von Hahn. Indeed, I do not know where I found the courage to tell her how inexpressibly dear she was to me, and how life had no greater joy for me than the hope of keeping for my very own forever the hand I then held. I was afraid she would instantly withdraw it, but she did not, and--no, I will only tell you that I am the happiest fellow in the world. Uncle Guntram, when he came from his study shortly afterwards, found us betrothed, and gave us his blessing, assuring me that his dearest wish was fulfilled in our betrothal, and adding that Adèle should have the lawsuit for her dowry, so that if I wished to continue it I could do so with my wife. Heinrich made a wry face at this, but there was no help for it, and he offered us his brotherly congratulations.
"Thus, you see, I owe my being the happy lover that I am to you, Arno, for had it not been for Adèle's request I never should have had the courage to confess to her that I loved her. The bugbear of her betrothal to Herr von Hahn would have prevented my speaking frankly to her. Adèle laughed at me when I told her this, and rallied me upon lending an ear to such silly gossip.
"And now, Arno, that my confession is made, my next duty is to fulfil my love's request, and cordially to recommend her friend to your kindness. I do this with a good conscience; she is a cultivated, highly-gifted person. I congratulate your sister that your brother succeeded in inducing her to come to Castle Hohenwald. I as well as Adèle am convinced that Fraulein Müller's talents and acquirements will achieve for her an honoured position in your father's household, and Adèle hopes for more yet; she trusts that her friend in the solitude of Hohenwald, in a refined family circle, may in time forget the misfortunes that have befallen her, and that your kindness may assist her to do so. I know your magnanimity and delicacy of sentiment, and that you only need be told that Fraulein Müller, owing to no fault of her own, is very unhappy, and that any allusion to her past, any question with regard to it, would be extremely painful to her. To alleviate her sorrow she only needs cordial kindness, confidence which she deserves in fullest measure, and considerate regard. All these I know she will find at Castle Hohenwald, and among you she will not be subjected to a curiosity to which she would be specially sensitive. You will forgive me for communicating no further particulars to you with regard to the lady's past when I tell you that I am bound by a promise. I know that you will be content with my declaration that I vouch for Fraulein Müller's blameless integrity and purity of character. When you receive this she will already be beneath your roof; let me pray you not to let her know that I have written to you, and my Adèle will thank you for not doing so when you come to M---- to our marriage.
"One thing more before this long letter is concluded: with regard to your nearest neighbor, my cousin, Kurt von Poseneck. I have heard something of an hereditary feud between the Hohenwalds and the Posenecks, but I know you too well to suspect you of giving heed to any such folly, and therefore I cordially commend my cousin to your kindness. Kurt's life in America has been the best of training for him; he is a fine fellow. I learned to know him well when he paid me a visit at Altenheim not long ago, and I assure you that I have rarely seen a young man so greatly to my mind, as I know he will be to yours. Although we are antagonistic in politics (he is a democrat, as was his father before him), I enjoyed every moment of his stay with me at Altenheim, for even in a political discussion Kurt never forgets that he is a gentleman. He defends his views with spirit, but with such calmness and moderation that he is never offensive. I am sure you will soon be friends, if you will only consent to break the spell of your solitude so far as to become acquainted with him.
"And now adieu! God bless you! Woman-hater though you be, your congratulations are confidently expected by
"Yours always,
"Karl Styrum."
Arno laid the letter aside, after he had read it, with a sigh. He had found it with his other letters by the day's post upon his table after he had left the garden-room, as we have seen, long after midnight. "He, too!" he muttered to himself, with another sigh, and then he read the letter for the second and third time, his face darkening as he read. After the third perusal he sat for a long time lost in thought, and finally took up a pen and wrote:
"My Dear Karl,--You expect congratulations from your friend; it is indeed an ancient custom to offer kind wishes to the newly betrothed, and I follow it all the more readily as in my case I employ no empty, idle phrase when I wish you happiness with all my heart. We have always agreed to be frank and true in our dealings with each other, and never to shun entire openness through fear of giving offence. I now fulfil my share of our compact. Indeed, after reading your letter three times I cannot but reply to you, my only intimate friend, as my heart dictates upon the impulse of the moment, not as I might after long and cool consideration. Therefore this is no formal letter of congratulation, but the true and faithful reply of a friend. Yes, I wish you all happiness, but I do so with a heavy heart, for I know how much I lose by your betrothal,--I, who have hitherto held the foremost place in your regard, must content myself with the second, and I shall shortly, as mournful experience teaches, lose this also, for love is the mortal foe of friendship. Both cannot exist together in the same heart. Thus I know that I have already half lost you, and shall soon lose you entirely, for I shall never be content with the cold modicum of regard which is all that the bridegroom and husband has for an every-day acquaintance. This pains me profoundly. You were the only man in whom I could thoroughly confide,--the only one to whom I could look for entire comprehension and sympathy. Nevertheless, I wish you happiness, and my wish is all the more fervent since I dread its non-fulfilment. Yes, my pain in losing you is augmented by my fears for your future. I know you, and I know that you never can content yourself as can so many unless your marriage brings you full sympathy of heart and mind. You are in love, and I know from sad experience that love drugs the intellect and bewilders the judgment. You will, therefore, doubtless regard my doubts as to your future as a positive crime against your betrothed, but I must be frank with you, my regard for you demands it. I repeat, I wish you joy; you need all good wishes, and if I could I would close this letter with mine, for my head and heart are so full of your betrothal that there is hardly room in them for another thought, but you have made a request of me to which I must reply.
"Fraulein Müller, your betrothed's friend, has been for several hours in Castle Hohenwald, to which I myself introduced her after a most extraordinary fashion. Of this I will write you shortly. I will only tell you now that I have already had abundant opportunity to admire the lady's rare courage. She has by her beauty and her frank attractive bearing already taken Celia's heart by storm and conquered my father's prejudice against her. I received your letterafterher arrival here, and therefore could not comply with your request as to her reception, but rest assured that the lady herself insured its cordiality far better than I could have done. I could not have believed it possible that my father should treat a stranger with such urbanity, although a few hours before Fraulein Müller's arrival he had scouted the idea of any friendly familiar intercourse with the new governess, and had declared that while Celia's companion and teacher was entitled to a courteous and respectful reception in Castle Hohenwald, she could lay no claim to admission within our family circle. Fraulein Müller can have no cause to complain of any want of the cordiality you desire in my father's or Celia's welcome, but the requirement of such from me is, unfortunately, a demand with which I cannot comply. You know how I value your opinion, how highly I rate your recommendation; it is a warrant to me that the lady is deserving of all regard. I promise you that she shall be annoyed by no curiosity as to her past, and that I will do all that I can to conceal from her the discomfort that her stay among us causes me. More I cannot promise. You would not ask me to be false to my nature, and I tell you frankly that I have an invincible repugnance to all intercourse with this young person, which is rather increased by the fact that she is beautiful, cultured, and amiable, and that I cannot refuse to accord her a certain degree of esteem in view of the admirable courage she displayed this evening under exceedingly trying circumstances.
"To treat her with cordiality is impossible for me; I will keep out of her way as far as I can. I will always observe every rule of conventional courtesy in my unavoidable intercourse with her, and, in deference to your request, will endeavour to make her position in the household as pleasant as it can be under the circumstances; you will not ask more of me. Enough for to-night. In a few days I will write you a detailed account of my adventures in bringing Fraulein Müller to Castle Hohenwald, and of my encounter with your cousin Kurt von Poseneck, whom I saw for a moment upon the same occasion. Farewell, and do not be angry with me for perhaps mingling one bitter drop in your cup of happiness,--I could not help it. I must always be utterly frank and true with you.
"Always and all ways your faithful friend,
"Arno von Hohenwald."
The letter was finished; but when Arno read it over he was not satisfied with its contents. He had meant to tell his friend in heartsome words how he feared for his future; but now that they were there on the paper in black and white they seemed cold and insulting. It was but a poor reply to Karl's warm-hearted letter. And he was no better pleased either with what he had written about Fräulein Müller. He had meant to be perfectly candid and true to his friend. Had he not promised always to be so? and this surely justified all he had said. But was what he had written quite true? Did he feel an invincible repugnance to any familiar intercourse with Fräulein Müller? Had she not, on the contrary, inspired him with an inexplicable interest which he vainly tried to suppress? While he was writing she was perpetually in his mind. He had been obliged once to lay down his pen because her image so flitted before him; he saw her walking beside him through the night and the tempest, braving the storm so boldly, and yet without doing violence to a true feminine nature. Even on the road to the village of Hohenwald he had tried to resist the impression that the first sight of this charming girl had made upon him, but in vain, although he conjured to his aid the ghosts of a vanished past. He would gladly have detested this stranger thus thrust into his life; he heaped her with all kinds of accusations, and yet confessed to himself that they were all unjust. What reason had he for crediting her with a desire for admiration? had she sought by look or by gesture to attract him? Would Styrum have commended her so warmly if she had not been worthy of all praise? Still, why should she alone of all women be careless of admiration? No; Styrum was in love; he saw with his betrothed's eyes. He was credulous, and had not purchased with his heart's blood the sad experience that the most innocent of smiles upon lovely lips is but a prearranged means to some desired end. Poor Karl! he had not seen through the game they were playing with him, or he would not have fallen into their toils so easily. The rich Count, belonging as he did to the foremost of the Saxon nobility, would at any time have been considered by the President Guntram as an excellent parti for his daughter; but the prospect of a happy conclusion to the lawsuit had doubtless made the match doubly desirable. Therefore it was that the engagement between the fair Adèle and the Assessor had been dissolved, and no means had been neglected to bring the Count to a declaration. Interest for her friend had afforded Adèle an excellent opportunity to treat her cousin with flattering confidence, and she had won the game. Poor Karl! in his noble trust in innocence and purity he had fallen a victim to an excellently-laid plan, and was now made use of by Adèle to insure her friend a firm footing in Castle Hohenwald. Arno could not but laugh at himself. Had he really been in danger of proving false to his principles? He had seen through the game at the right moment, however,--the suspicion that had been aroused on the road to Hohenwald now became a certainty, and what he had written to his friend was the truth. Yes, he now felt an invincible repugnance to any closer intercourse with this intriguing stranger, who had selected Castle Hohenwald as the theatre for her schemes. The letter should be despatched just as it was. He folded and sealed it, and then betook himself to rest. The day's exertions had wearied him, and he soon slept, but the image of the lovely stranger mingled in his dreams.
The stranger herself stood at the window of the room to which Celia had shown her, and gazed out into the gloomy night; she heard the howling of the wind and the beating of the rain against the panes, but she did not heed them, for before her mind's eye rose a form that made her oblivious of the present. She shuddered as she looked back to that last terrible night spent beneath the same roof with the wretch who would have bartered his wife's honour for a release from poverty and detection. She had clung to him faithfully, had always conscientiously fulfilled her duty to him, hoping that she might perhaps in the end influence him for good. She had forgiven him for squandering her property, for plunging her into poverty, although she no longer loved him, and was bound to him only by a sense of duty; but that he could so dishonour her as actually to wish to sell her to the Russian was a sin never to be forgiven,--it separated her from him forever.
He had spoken the decisive word himself, he had restored to her her freedom, lured by false hopes perhaps, but he had done so unconditionally, and she was now her own mistress; she no longer felt the chains that had bound her to her wretched husband; they might exist for the world, but no longer for herself, for her own conscience. When on that dreadful night she had bolted herself into her bedroom, her resolution was already taken. Without hesitation she proceeded to carry it out. She exchanged her ball-dress for a simple stuff gown; she packed a few necessary articles of clothing in a travelling-bag, and hastily wrote these lines: "You have given back to me my freedom; I accept it. It is your desire that we should part; it shall be fulfilled: you will never see me again. Should you dare to persecute me, you will force me to denounce you publicly and to give to the world the reasons that justify my conduct. The detected thief, who would barter his wife's honour, has forfeited the right to control her destiny.--Lucie."
Her hand did not tremble as she wrote these words. She folded the sheet, sealed it and placed it where its address could be plainly seen by any one entering the room.
It was done! She was parted from him forever. A shudder ran through her as she thought of his threat of suicide if she refused to accede to his wishes, but the thought did not for an instant deter her. Only the coward, whose courage is never equal to the commission of the deed, can threaten suicide; if he could have preferred death to disgrace he never would have been a detected thief.
She cautiously unbolted her door and crept through the drawing-room to the hall, upon which the door of Sorr's sleeping-room opened. Here she paused and listened,--he was wont to breathe heavily in his sleep,--but she could hear nothing: a proof that he was still awake. What if he should hear her and come from his room to prevent her departure? What then? The wonted gentleness of her look gave place to stern determination; involuntarily she clinched her hand; the struggle had begun, and should under all circumstances be carried on.
Fortunately, however, she encountered no obstacle to her progress down the stairs to the house-door, which she softly opened and as softly closed behind her. The streets were deserted; she passed a watchman asleep on a doorstep, and walked as quickly as possible towards the President's mansion without being seen by a human being. The windows of the house were still gleaming with light, and there was a long line of carriages in the street before it. Lucie paused and hesitated for a moment. The ball was not yet over. She had hoped this would be the case; else it would have been difficult for her to obtain an entrance to the house. But how was she to pass the line of carriages? So late a wanderer would be sure to be noticed by the coachmen and lackeys, and she might be the object of coarse jests. Perhaps the little gate leading from the garden into a side street was open: it was seldom locked; and even should it be so, she could easily climb the low garden-fence. She was not to be stopped by such an obstacle; from the garden, the wing in which was Adèle's room was easily entered by a back-door, which was, of course, still open, and once in the house she could soon make her way to Adèle's room.
She hurried into the side street. The garden-gate was not locked, nor was the back-door even closed. Fortune favoured her; not a servant did she encounter as she hurried up a narrow staircase and along the passage leading to her friend's room, which she reached without being observed. Arrived here, she sank down upon the little lounge where she had so often sat conversing gayly with Adèle, upon whose aid she now relied in her plan of flight.
An hour passed slowly; the music floated in from the ball-room; but at last it ceased; there was a bustle of departing guests, servants ran to and fro in the house, and the rattle of carriages told Lucie that the ball was at an end. Another half-hour went by; the house grew quieter, the bustle entirely subsided; there were steps in the passage, and Heinrich von Guntram's voice said, "Good-night, Adèle. Shall I light your candle for you?"
"Oh, no; there are matches on the table Good-night, Heinrich."
"Good-night."
The door opened. Adèle entered, bolted it behind her, and then, going to the table in front of the sofa, lighted a match, by the flickering light of which she distinguished a dark figure sitting on the sofa. She gasped with terror and ran towards the door, but was instantly arrested in her flight by the gentle tones of a familiar voice, whispering, "Don't be frightened, dearest Adèle; it is I,--Lucie!"
"You--you here at this hour?"
"I need your help, Adèle. In my extremest misery I seek refuge with you, my dearest friend."
In an instant Adèle's arms were about her, and the tenderest assurances of sympathy and aid were poured into her friend's ear. Then she drew the curtains close and lighted the candles, before seating herself beside Lucie and entreating her to tell her all.
Lucie complied; she told her of her wretched past with her worthless husband, and of the incidents of the last few hours, remaining perfectly calm amid the storm of indignation with which her friend greeted her narrative. Anger was dead within her, slain by the thorough contempt she now felt for Sorr.
"And now, dear Adèle," she concluded, "I come to claim your aid. Your last words to me this evening when I left the ball-room were, 'Trust in me; whatever happens, I will stand by you.' This has given me courage to take this decided step to break the fetters that bound me to one so unworthy. I knew I should not be quite alone, that you would not desert me, and therefore I come to you."
"Never, Lucie dear, never; and not only I,--there is another whose aid will be of more use to you than that of a poor weak girl. My cousin Karl told me every detail of the miserable scene in Heinrich's room; he suspected you would soon need protection and assistance, and is ready to give it to you. You may trust him; he is a noble, true-hearted man, and has promised me to befriend you at your need. Be sure he will keep his promise. He will advise us what is best to be done."
"I do not need any advice," Lucie gravely rejoined; "my resolution is taken, my plans for the future are arranged. I need the help of faithful friends only in their execution. I shall be grateful for Count Styrum's help; but later, when I am no longer here."
"What do you propose to do?"
"Herr von Sorr has given me my freedom. I will employ it in beginning a new life. For years I have foreseen that I should one day be obliged to turn to account for my support the accomplishments acquired during my girlhood, and I have continued to study with this end in view. I am perfectly qualified to fill a position as governess. Such a position I shall endeavour to find in some retired country-seat, but in order to obtain it I need testimonials, with which so young a man as Count Styrum cannot furnish me. I have therefore thought of writing to our dear old teacher, Frau von Adelung, in Dresden. I remember that she was constantly applied to for governesses. But I am afraid to confide wholly in her. With the best intentions she is something of a gossip, and would find it difficult to keep my secret, and yet her recommendation I must obtain. When Herr von Sorr finds my letter to-morrow and discovers that I am fled, he will, I know, together with Count Repuin, leave no stone unturned to discover my retreat. He will not be deterred even by the threat in my letter, and he must learn nothing, and therefore I cannot confide in good Frau von Adelung. You must write to her and bespeak her good offices for a friend of yours; you were always one of her favourites, and she will not hesitate to comply with your request. I am sure, dearest Adèle, you will do this for me."
Lucie's scheme seemed to her friend admirable, and she declared herself ready to do all that she could to further it: but when Lucie went on to state that she intended to leave M---- the next morning by the five o'clock train, to await in some retired village the result of her friend's action, Adèle reused to entertain any such idea. Nowhere, she said, could Lucie be so safe from Sorr's persecution as in M----, where he certainly would never expect to find her. The arrival of a lady alone and unattended in any little village would surely excite remark, while Lucie might stay for weeks in Adèle's room and her presence beneath the President's roof never be suspected. Adèle never received her friends in her bedroom or dressing-room, and neither her father nor her brother ever came to her there. All that was to be done was to take Lina, Adèle's special maid, into their confidence,--she had lived in the house for years, and a more faithful, trustworthy creature there could not be. Adèle's representations overcame her friend's scruples, and it was agreed to admit the maid to a full knowledge of the state of the case. And when the dawn was at hand the two friends retired to bed, Adèle happier with regard to Lucie than she had been for a long while.
The next morning when Lina came to call her young mistress her surprise was great at finding a new inmate in the room, of whose coming no one had been aware. Adèle told her the true reason for Frau von Sorr's flight from her husband's roof, and Lina, flattered by the confidence shown her, promised to keep such guard over the fugitive that no one should dream of her whereabouts, while she should daily fare like an honoured guest, without arousing the suspicions of the other servants.
She kept her word, which she would have done out of her faithful devotion to Adèle alone, even if Frau von Sorr's gentleness and misfortunes had not excited her sympathy and spurred her on to redoubled watchfulness. The scheme was eminently successful. Neither the President nor Heinrich nor any of the other inmates of the house ever suspected that Lucie von Sorr, whose sudden disappearance was the town-talk of M----, was concealed in Adèle's room.
The President, at the dinner-table, expressed his surprise that so beautiful a woman could have contrived to vanish utterly without a trace. He told how Herr von Sorr had applied to the police for assistance in his search for his wife; that inquiry had been made of all the hack-drivers of the town and the porters at the railway stations. No one could remember having seen the fugitive; an extraordinary fact in view of the lady's remarkable beauty. Herr von Sorr was beside himself, and feared that his wife might have been driven to suicide by the strange reports circulating in the town.
Adèle listened to all this in silence, and reported it to her friend afterwards.
In a few days many visitors made their appearance at the President's, in hopes of learning something satisfactory from Adèle, who was well known to be Frau von Sorr's nearest friend. Among them were Madame Gansauge and Frau von Rose, the Messrs. von Saldern and von Arnim, Assessor von Hahn, and others, all craving information.
Adèle listened to all that they had to say, but had nothing to tell them. She could not imagine why her friend had left M---- so suddenly; she could not look upon her disappearance as a flight, and she feigned a fresh interest in every repetition of the reports circulating in M----.
It was positively certain, the wife of Major Gansauge asserted, that Frau von Sorr had destroyed herself,--a peasant had seen her at five o'clock in the morning near the Marble Gate, close by the large pond. The body had not yet been found, but doubtless would be shortly. Count Repuin was quite inconsolable, far more so than Herr von Sorr, who bore his trial with more equanimity.
Frau von Rose knew from the very best authority--she was not at liberty to mention names--that Count Repuin and Herr von Sorr had a violent quarrel. The Count would not believe that Sorr was ignorant of his wife's whereabouts. The affair was certainly very odd, for the Count behaved precisely as though his wife, and not Herr von Sorr's, had run away, and had threatened the husband with some dire revenge if the fugitive were not shortly discovered.
The Assessor von Hahn was more cautious in his expressions; he hinted that Frau von Sorr had made a profound impression upon Count Styrum, and that the Count had perhaps been willing to shield her from Count Repuin's persecutions. The Assessor remarked that he was too discreet to say more; he did not boast of it, for discretion was a gift of nature, and her bounties were variously distributed; discretion was one of his natural endowments, therefore he would be silent.
All these contradictory reports which Adèle heard from the gossiping friends of the family she faithfully recounted to Lucie, and the friends congratulated themselves that no attempt had been made by Frau von Sorr to leave M----.
Adèle had written immediately to Frau von Adelung, telling her that one of her dearest friends, a Fräulein Anna Müller, was very desirous to procure a situation in the country as governess. She expatiated upon the talents, acquirements, and culture of the young lady, who regretted that, never having dreamed of being obliged to support herself, she possessed no testimonials to her ability. Now, however, she was in great distress; her father had died brokenhearted at the loss of his large fortune, and Fräulein Müller had been very unfortunate also in other ways, so that she craved retirement from the world, and would prefer a situation in the solitude of the country.
An answer to this letter arrived by return of mail. Frau von Adelung expressed her pleasure at being able to do anything for her dear Adèle, whose friendship for Fräulein Müller was a sufficient recommendation in her eyes. At present she knew of no situation for her, although there was no doubt that one could shortly be found, and she promised to write again as soon as this was the case.
More than a week elapsed before Frau von Adelung was again heard from. Lucie continued to live in her concealment in her friend's room, hearing from her all that was going on in M----. Count Repuin and Sorr had both suddenly left town, the latter deeply in debt. Whither they had gone no one knew. Count Repuin had left orders that his letters should be sent to Berlinposte restante.
At last, when Lucie was beginning to chafe under her enforced idleness, a second letter arrived from Frau von Adelung, asking whether Fräulein Müller would be willing to accept the position of governess to the Baroness Cecilia von Hohenwald, or rather, as the young lady was sixteen years old, that of companion and teacher. Lucie and Adèle were greatly surprised by this letter; they well remembered the description given by Count Styrum on the evening of the ball of the secluded life at Castle Hohenwald, and this remembrance decided Lucie at once to accept the offered position. In the solitude of Castle Hohenwald, where no guest ever found admission, surely she might look for the seclusion she so earnestly desired.
In a short time a third letter was received from Frau von Adelung, enclosing the one addressed to Fräulein Müller by the Finanzrath, of which we have already heard. His dreary picture of the castle and its inmates, far from deterring Lucie from accepting the post offered her there, only made her the more desirous to accept it, and she acceded instantly to the Finanzrath's request that she would, if she could, return a favourable reply and inform him of the day of her arrival at the station A----.
Thus the die was cast. Two days more were all that she could spend with the dear friend who had so aided and sheltered her. Adèle now wished to intrust Lucie's secret to her cousin, that he might write and insure her a friendly reception at Castle Hohenwald, but this Lucie permitted her to do only upon condition that she should wait until she had actually departed from M---- before she spoke to Count Styrum upon the subject.
The day of departure arrived,--an agitating day for Lucie. Hitherto Lina's fidelity and caution had made concealment possible; not one of the household even dreamed that the vanished Frau von Sorr was quietly living in Adèle's apartments; but how could she steal away unobserved?
The gossiping Assessor had reported that Count Repuin had bribed all the railroad officials, who were to give him immediate notice of the appearance at any one of the M---- stations of the well-known Frau von Sorr. The police also were in his pay, and it seemed to Lucie almost impossible to leave the President's house without discovery.
Here, too, the faithful Lina rendered most efficient aid. She had come to seek service in M---- years before from an Altenburg village, and the ugly national dress of the Altenburg peasantry, although long since discarded by her, was still reposing neatly folded in her trunk. She was about Lucie's height, and, with a few alterations, the peasant's dress was made to fit the lady perfectly, so that when, one morning towards four o'clock, a neatly-dressed Altenburg peasant-girl walked out from the President's garden into the side street, the most experienced detective would hardly have suspected her of being the admired Frau von Sorr.
At the Marble Gate Lina was awaiting her in a covered wagon, driven by one of her cousins, an Altenburg peasant lad, whom she had sent for to take her to her native village, where she had received permission from her master to spend a week's holiday. The peasant lad was rather surprised that his cousin Lina should have stopped him, when they had driven no farther than the Marble Grate, to wait for a young girl, who shortly arrived and got into the vehicle. Still greater was his surprise when, at a little wayside inn some miles from M----, Lina made him wait much longer, while she went into the house with the young girl, who must have remained there, for when Lina got into the wagon again it was in company with a very fine lady, who paid him for driving her to the nearest railroad station, where she took a kind leave of his cousin.
Once in the railway carriage bound for A---- Lucie had no farther fear of discovery, and we have already heard of her safe arrival there, and of her adventurous drive with the Finanzrath.
How different her reception at the castle had been from any she had anticipated! She had looked forward with a heavy heart to meeting the old Baron; but he had welcomed her so kindly, so cordially, that she felt sure that in him she should find a friend.
But Arno? Even if Count Styrum had written to him beseeching his kind offices for the new governess, this morning, after his visit at the President's, he could not have received the letter; his conduct had been characterized only by the coldest courtesy. Still, she was prepared for this; she knew his sentiments with regard to women. He had behaved precisely as she had expected him to do, and his manner was certainly far preferable to the Finanzrath's. As she called him to mind a burning blush overspread her cheek, and she leaned her forehead against the cool glass window-pane. She could not tell what it was in his behaviour to her that so aroused her repugnance. He had been all that he should be, and no more, and yet his courtesy inspired her with dread; this man was antipathetic to her. But why trouble herself about him in any way? He was but a guest at the castle, where everything seemed so much more encouraging than she had hoped to find it; he would be gone in a few days, and Celia, this charming, lovely Celia, who had evidently conceived a sudden affection for her new companion, would still be with her. How entirely unnecessary had been Lucie's fear of the "wayward, spoiled child"! Celia could not feign; in her clear, honest eyes the genuine welcome she had given to her new governess was plainly to be read. How happy she had seemed upon noting the pleasant impression produced by the pretty and luxurious bedroom and dressing-room to which she had shown Lucie! How cordially she as well as Frau Kaselitz had begged to know if anything were wanting for the comfort of the new inmate! and how caressing had been the kiss with which she had said good-night!
Yes, everything was far, far more pleasant than Lucie had expected; surely she could find repose and forgetfulness amid these surroundings, and in the fulfilment of a duty so interesting as the instruction of this sweet young girl; and yet she could not look forward into the future with any degree of buoyancy; the driving rain, the dark night, the moaning wind, seemed to her to symbolize her destiny.
The tempest had spent its fury in the night, and the sun shone warm and bright into Lucie's bedroom when she awaked at a rather late hour the next morning. She was habitually an early riser, but the fatigue of the previous day and evening had prevented her from sleeping until towards morning, and she did not awake until eight o'clock from her dreamless and refreshing slumber. She gazed around her in some bewilderment, and could not at first remember where she was; but in an instant all the past, her parting from her dear Adèle, her journey hither, and last night's adventures, flashed upon her mind, and brought with them the consciousness that she was actually in Castle Hohenwald. If her room had looked pretty and comfortable by candle-light on the previous evening, it was positively charming now, with a bunch of fresh spring flowers, which she had not seen the night before, upon a little table between the windows, and the sunlight glorifying the landscape without. Lucie hastily left her bed, and was proceeding to dress, when there came a low knock at her door. "Who is there?" she asked.
"I,--Celia. I waited until I heard you stirring, to tell you that your trunk has been brought over from Grünhagen, and is here in the next room--our morning room--with your dry dress from the Inspector's. I will come to take you to breakfast in half an hour."
When Lucie opened the door into the next room Celia had vanished, but her trunk stood near, and her travelling-dress, brushed and dry, hung across a chair. She made haste to perform her simple toilet, and then went again into the apartment which Celia had called "our morning room." This room, then, she was to share with her pupil. It was a delightful and luxurious retreat; its windows opening upon an enchanting prospect of the garden, the mighty oaks in the park, and the distant mountains; near one window was a table, upon which lay a half-finished piece of embroidery, while another table, evidently new, and prettily furnished with writing materials, was plainly destined for the new governess. Upon it was a small vase filled with flowers evidently plucked but an hour ago, the dew not yet dry upon the petals of the roses. Flowers! So little, and yet so much! They made a welcome where they stood. Lucie bent over them to inhale their cool fragrance, and when she raised her head looked into Celia's laughing eyes. "How can I thank you for placing these here, Fräulein von Hohenwald?" she said, with emotion.
"By never again calling me Fräulein, but Celia. Every one who cares for me calls me Celia, and I want you to care for me very much."
Such a request, accompanied as it was by a kiss and a caress, could not be refused. The girl's frank tenderness was inexpressibly soothing to Lucie.
"And now come with me to the garden-room," Celia went on, putting Lucie's hand within her arm. "Papa is waiting for us; he drank his morning cup of coffee long ago, but he wants us to take our breakfast in the garden-room all the same."
The Freiherr had indeed been awaiting the appearance of the ladies to breakfast in the garden-room for more than an hour. Seated in his rolling-chair in his favourite spot, he was rejoicing in the beauty of the lovely morning and inhaling the mild air of spring, while, as he sipped his coffee, he received his morning visit from his son.
Arno seated himself beside his father's chair and began, as was his wont in the early hour of talk, to discuss matters connected with the estate, agricultural schemes, etc., which did not, however, appear to have the power to interest him today as deeply as usual. It almost seemed as if he were thinking of other things as he expatiated upon the new ploughs and the building of fresh stables. He now and then paused in his talk, and seemed to lose the thread of his discourse. The case seemed the same with the Freiherr. He could think of nothing but what had already occupied his mind since he arose,--the pleasant talk of the previous evening. For years he had not conversed with a lady. Celia, Frau Kaselitz, and the servant-maids were the only women with whom he ever exchanged a word. His conversation with the governess had therefore the added charm of novelty, and he had greatly enjoyed it.
Celia's appearance to wish her father good-morning interrupted, to the Baron's satisfaction, the agricultural discussion, and gave him an opportunity to ask after Fräulein Müller. Celia announced that she had listened several times at the door of her bedroom, but that she was not yet stirring.
"Evidently accustomed to late hours," Arno observed.
His words sounded like sarcasm, and instantly aroused Celia's combativeness. "Do you suppose," she said, indignantly, "that a delicately-framed woman, not used like you to hunting all night long, can endure without fatigue such a walk through the storm as Fräulein Müller took last evening? It was almost three o'clock when we went to bed, and it is now just seven. Four hours' sleep is not much after such fatigue, although you may think it sufficient for yourself. Besides, you are used to such early rising that you should not judge for others."
"Don't quarrel, children," the old Freiherr interposed; "although you are quite right, child, to take up the cudgels for your governess; she certainly has well earned a few hours of sleep. Even you, Arno, expressed your wonder last evening at her quiet endurance of so much fatigue."
"Yes, papa; is it not odious of Arno to be so unjust to Fräulein Müller, when she is so charming, so divinely beautiful, and so amiable?"
"The child is all fire and flame!" Arno remarked. "Well, well, it is nothing to me; believe that your governess is an angel of light and a miracle of amiability if you choose, only do not require me to agree with you. Your enthusiasm lightens the duty with which my friend Styrum has charged me. I found a letter from him among my papers last night announcing his betrothal to his cousin, Adèle von Guntram, and telling me that Fräulein Müller is his betrothed's most intimate friend. Here is his letter; read aloud to my father what he says of Fräulein Müller, Celia, if you like."
This Celia did most willingly. As she returned it to Arno she said reproachfully to her brother, "You do not deserve the confidence, Arno, that Count Styrum reposes in your friendship. I cannot conceive how you can judge Fräulein Müller so harshly and unjustly after such a recommendation from your dearest friend."
"Bah! his recommendation is utterly worthless; he sees with the fair Adèle's eyes, and would recommend the devil's grandmother to us if his betrothed desired it. What I did promise him was that the lady shall be annoyed by no inquiries or allusions to her past. In this respect Karl's word is all-sufficient, for not even the entreaties of his betrothed could induce him to vouch for Fräulein Müller's purity of character if the slightest blame attached to her. I know my promise will be kept by all."
"Most certainly it shall," the old Freiherr rejoined. "Styrum's word is quite enough for me; he is a man of honour, as was his father, once my intimate friend. I respect the young fellow, although I do not know him personally. You remember, Arno, how well he conducted himself upon a former occasion, with what tact and delicacy----"
"Let the past be forgotten, father!" Arno interrupted him; and, turning to his sister, he added, "I hope you will be discreet, Celia, and not ask any idle questions of Fräulein Müller."
"I am not curious, and I certainly will be careful," Celia replied, as she left the room.
The Freiherr called after her, "Beg Fräulein Müller, if she is up, to take her breakfast here in the garden-room. I am expecting her."
It was not long before his darling reappeared with the governess, whose cheerful good-morning the old man returned after his most genial fashion. Then, ringing the bell, he desired Franz to have Fräulein Müller's breakfast served immediately, and to roll his chair nearer to the table that he might take part in the conversation.
This he found exceedingly entertaining. Whatever was the subject under discussion Fräulein Müller bore her part charmingly. The Baron found her possessed of a far higher degree of culture than he had thought possible in a woman, and he was specially pleased to find her at home in his beloved classical literature.
When the meal was ended she seated herself, at his request, at the fine grand piano, which had been his last gift to Celia, and, after a lovely prelude, sang a little national melody, in a rich, deep contralto, with such pathos that Celia embraced her enthusiastically with eyes swimming in tears, and the old Freiherr was inexpressibly delighted. It certainly was a fact that Werner had found a treasure; his advice, after all, had been worthy of all gratitude. The old man was in an admirable humour, as was plainly shown when his sons unexpectedly entered the room together. He had intended on the previous evening to greet the elder upon his return from Grünhagen with a thunder-blast; but he was now half inclined to condone his transgression of the family traditions. "Why, here we have the Herr Finanzrath," he said, as Werner approached him. "Have you had a comfortable night at Grünhagen with the Posenecks? I am pleased to see that your broken leg is mended again. I certainly should not imagine from your walk that anything had ailed it."
Werner had expected a much harsher reception, therefore he quietly accepted the raillery. "It was not so very bad," he replied, with a smile, "although it certainly pained me so much last evening that I could not have undertaken the long walk to the village."
"Which Fräulein Müller courageously accomplished, in spite of her evident fatigue," Arno interposed.
"I admire Fräulein Müller's courage," the Finanzrath continued, with a courteous bow to Lucie; "but she would hardly have been able to walk so far had her injury been of the foot instead of the temple. I positively could not, and, as Herr von Poseneck was polite enough to invite me to Grünhagen, I saw no reason for declining his kindness; it might have offended him."
"So you preferred to offend your father by accepting it," the old Baron said, angrily, his good humour already disturbed by Werner's words.
"I knew of no reasonable grounds why you should be offended by my doing so. Young Herr von Poseneck, who has only lately come to reside at Grünhagen, has certainly never insulted you, nor had any desire to insult you. He assured me that he had the highest respect for you, and that only your express refusal to receive visits at Hohenwald had prevented him from paying his respects to you."
"Let him try it! let him try it!" the old Baron said crossly.
"I hope, father, that calm reflection will induce you to change your mind," the Finanzrath quietly rejoined. "I can assure you that young Kurt von Poseneck in no wise deserves the dislike which you have transferred to him from his late father, and that he really desires to testify his respect for you. I cannot sufficiently extol the cordial hospitality extended to me at Grünhagen, and which can be ascribed only to the fact of my being your son."
"Nonsense!" growled the Freiherr.
"The Amtsrath Friese, as well as Herr Kurt von Poseneck, repeatedly expressed his pleasure in being able to render any little service to a Hohenwald. Both lamented your seclusion, and wished they might convince you of their friendly regard. Both treated me with distinguished hospitality, for which I am greatly obliged to them. Herr von Poseneck, after he had conducted me to Grünhagen, went back with horses and men to the quarry to extricate the carriage and horses and get them under shelter; he sent over Fräulein Müller's trunk at daybreak this morning, and when I expressed a wish to return home, the Amtsrath placed his own carriage at my disposal. Common courtesy requires that I should drive to Grünhagen to-morrow to call, and to tell Herr Kurt von Poseneck that he will gratify me by visiting me in return at Hohenwald."
Celia's eyes sparkled as she heard the Finanzrath thus announce his intentions, but her joy quickly fled as she looked at her father, upon whose forehead the frown had deepened as Werner spoke, and whose rage now burst forth with, "I'll have the dogs set on him if he dares to enter the court-yard! No Poseneck shall show his face in Hohenwald so long as I am master here!"
"Papa, that is very disagreeable of you," Celia ventured to say; "you do yourself great injustice!"
"Is the girl out of her senses?" the Freiherr asked, angrily. "What are the Posenecks to you, that you should defend them against your own father?"
Celia flushed crimson; she could not answer this question.
Fortunately, Werner came to her assistance, saying, "Celia's words, although they are perhaps to be reprehended, are prompted by her innate sense of justice. She could not help exclaiming against your threat of requiting the courtesy of a visit by setting the dogs on the visitor. I think, upon calmer consideration, you will find her conduct but natural. I am very sorry, sir, that I should so have provoked you, and will try to avoid doing so again. Of course I am not to be deterred by the unfortunate prejudice entertained by you against the Posenecks from fulfilling the duty enjoined upon me by common politeness. I must call at Grünhagen, but I will not invite Herr von Poseneck to Hohenwald. I will convey to him your thanks, and tell him you regret your inability to receive him at Hohenwald, since your health does not admit of your receiving visitors."
"Then you will tell him a lie; my health admits of my receiving any visitors whom I care to see."
"I think my conscience can endure the weight of a lie of that kind," the Finanzrath rejoined, with a smile.
"Do as you please, but let me hear no more of the Posenecks!" growled the old Baron. His relations with his eldest son were peculiar; he constantly disputed with him, but in spite of his father's angry vehemence Werner usually gained his end, because he never lost his temper. The old Baron felt now that he had been wrong, and, although he did not frankly admit this, he yielded.
Werner seemed not to notice this; he was too wise to insist upon his father's acknowledging himself in error. To change the conversation he turned to Lucie, who, still seated at the piano, had been an involuntary listener to the dispute between father and son. Approaching her, the Finanzrath took her hand, and saying, with the air of protection which had so annoyed her on the previous evening, "Permit me, dear Fräulein Müller, to bid you cordially welcome to Castle Hohenwald," would have carried it to his lips had she not hastily withdrawn it.
Why she did so she could not herself have told. She had frequently allowed her hand to be kissed by way of greeting; it was a received custom in the society to which she had belonged, and yet she could not endure that this man should avail himself of it; it seemed to her an unbecoming familiarity on his part. She acted upon an impulse, and she did not observe the fleeting smile that passed over Arno's face as he noticed the intentional withdrawal of her hand. She replied to the Finanzrath's courtesy by a simple inclination of her head.
Celia, too, had seen that Werner's salutation was not received with favour, and with ready tact came to her new friend's aid. "You must reserve all your fine speeches for another time, Werner," she said, stepping to Lucie's side; "Fräulein Müller belongs entirely to me to-day. I am burning with desire to take my first lessons of her, to show her what a good scholar I can be."
Lucie's grateful glance as she arose and followed Celia from the room showed the young girl that she had done right.
From this time Celia devoted herself to her studies with ardour. Lucie's hardest task was to induce her to moderate her zeal. The "will-o'-the-wisp" quite forgot its errant nature; for hours the girl would sit at the piano practising wearisome exercises, and at other times she would bury herself in a book,--an entirely new experience for Celia. It needed but a few weeks of intercourse with her new friend to arouse within her a genuine literary taste. The old Baron and Arno were astounded at the change; the former feared that his darling, whom he saw thus tamed, might perhaps become too tame; he shook his head as he reminded Celia that she must not study too hard, lest her health should suffer; she ought to continue to take her daily exercise in the open air.
To such admonitions the girl was not at all deaf. True, she no longer roamed about the garden as she had done: it took too much time; she confined herself to a morning's walk there with Fräulein Müller to visit the green-houses and the shrubberies; but her afternoon ride was never omitted. When the hour for this arrived she could no longer fix her attention upon her book: her thoughts flew forth to the forest. Fräulein Müller smiled at her enthusiasm for her daily ride, ascribing it in great part to the force of habit, since no weather was too stormy to keep her at home.
Celia always rode alone. Formerly, old John had sometimes accompanied her, but, although he soon recovered from the effects of his fall, his young mistress never now desired his attendance. She could not so easily have declined Lucie's companionship, but Fräulein Müller had never been a horsewoman, and did not care to learn to ride.
Thus, then, Celia rode alone. A happy smile illumined her features and her dark eyes sparkled as she daily caught the first glimpse of the light straw hat among the trees, and found Kurt at the appointed place in the forest waiting to walk along the woodland road by her side. Then the girl would drop the bridle on her horse's neck, and Pluto, who was now on the best of terms with Kurt, knew perfectly well that before he was urged to greater speed than a leisurely walk an hour would elapse. An hour! How quickly it flew by! how much had both Celia and Kurt to say in that brief space of time! Celia told of her studies, of the delightful hours she now owed to her friend Anna, whose beauty and loveliness, clearness of head and goodness of heart, she described in such glowing terms that Kurt could not at times suppress a smile, for which Celia would instantly reprove him as implying a doubt of the accuracy of her descriptions.
Kurt, on the other hand, would tell of his life at Grünhagen: how he was becoming more at home in Germany, how his uncle's hospitality and social qualities made his house delightful, a resort for the country gentry and for the principal people in the neighbouring town of A----. He often spoke also of the Finanzrath, who was now frequently at Grünhagen. Kurt, who was always candid and unreserved towards Celia, admitted to her that, although for her sake he should always treat her brother with the utmost politeness, he had very little liking for the exaggerated polish of his manners and bearing.
Thus they talked in the most innocent manner. At parting Celia always offered her hand to Kurt, and smilingly permitted him to imprint upon it an ardent kiss, but not again did she bend over him as when she once had yielded to an irresistible impulse. If he had uttered one tender word she would hardly have refused him a second kiss, but this word was not spoken; he withstood with manly determination the temptation to utter it. He had registered a vow that never should this innocent girl have cause to regret the frank confidence she had shown him.
Lucie had no suspicion of the attraction that took Celia to the forest, nor that the simple-hearted girl could have a secret from her. She took delight in her charming pupil's tender affection for her, which indeed she reciprocated with all her heart.
The old Freiherr had greatly changed since Lucie's coming to Castle Hohenwald: he had grown social. True, his sociability was confined to a desire for the society of his immediate family circle, among whom he reckoned, of course, Fräulein Anna Müller; but with them he developed a genial courtesy that astonished his sons.
Arno, on the other hand, preserved the same attitude towards his sister's governess that he had adopted upon her first arrival at the castle; he was conscious of an involuntary thrill of delight when, in the course of conversation, or upon an accidental encounter in their walks, Fräulein Müller bestowed upon him one of her rare sweet smiles; but the next moment he would rouse himself to renewed hatred of the entire sex, bethinking himself that this very enchanting smile was bit a trap set by overweening love of admiration, and could avail nothing with him. And yet he could not avoid her. When Lucie, occupied with some bit of feminine work, seated herself at the table beside the Baron's rolling-chair and talked pleasantly with the old man and Celia, Arno would join the circle, placing his chair where, unobserved, he could watch every change of expression on the lovely face. He spoke but little, but not a word of hers escaped him,--especially did he watch and listen when, as was but rarely the case, she appealed to Werner.
Why was he so pleased at the coldness and reserve of her usual manner towards his brother? Why should he be so much annoyed when one day Werner announced that he had just received a favourable reply from his chief in office to his request for a prolongation of his leave of absence? Wherefore should Werner have seemed to him absolutely insufferable since he had taken to paying such marked court to Fräulein Müller?
Arno had never been upon terms of close intimacy with his brother,--theirs were antagonistic natures; but now he felt an absolute repugnance to him for which there was no accounting; surely it was nothing to him if Werner chose to pay court to Celia's beautiful governess.
No; it was not "nothing to him." He excused himself for this by reflecting that Werner's superficial, frivolous manner was unworthy a Hohenwald. What views could he entertain with regard to Fräulein Müller? Had he not often declared that in the choice of a wife he should consult his head, and not his heart? Wealth was of no consequence; but the future Freifrau von Hohenwald must belong to a family through whose influence the Hohenwalds might recover the importance they had lost with the government. Arno thought he knew well that Werner, keenly devoted as he was to his own interests, never carried away by sentiment, would not be false to these expressed principles of his. It was inconceivable that he should sacrifice his ambition to love for a poor bourgeoise girl, his sister's governess! He could scarcely cherish honest intentions with regard to her, and Castle Hohenwald should never be profaned by the reverse! And this was why, as Arno tried to convince himself, he watched Werner and Fräulein Müller so narrowly.
Often when riding alone in field or forest it would suddenly occur to him to wonder whether Werner were at the moment talking with Fräulein Anna in the library, or walking with her in the garden. Then resistance was useless; he was forced to succumb to the impulse that drove him to plunge the spurs into his horse and gallop furiously to the castle, where his calm was restored only when convinced of the groundlessness of his alarm.
Lucie found nothing to offend or displease her in his manner towards her. When she had resolved, in defence of her honour, to undertake the battle of life under a maiden name, she had not been unmindful of the dangers that might beset her path, and she had gladly accepted the position offered her at Castle Hohenwald, since she knew from Count Styrum and Adèle that there she should have nothing to fear from obtrusive admirers. She had reckoned upon Arno's hatred of her sex, and she had not been deceived. From her first meeting with him his manner had been not only indifferent, but even repellent. It was what she had hoped for, and she was glad of it; but her gladness was not heartfelt. Count Styrum's recital of his misfortunes had awakened Lucie's interest in the misanthrope, and this interest had grown since she had known him personally. His coldness and reserve did not irritate her; they were but natural after the terrible experience that life had brought him. He had--how could it be otherwise?--lost all faith in mankind; but still he might have shown a trifle less animosity towards her. Sometimes a severe remark of his would bring a warm flush to her cheek, and she was tempted to as severe a retort; but if she yielded to the temptation she always reproached herself afterward. He was so unhappy! What a blessed task it would be to heal the wounds from which he was still bleeding! But such ministry was forbidden in her sad case.
Here was a dark spot in Lucie's otherwise contented life at Castle Hohenwald, and there was one still darker in the anxiety she felt at the Finanzrath's demeanour towards her. There was surely no sufficient cause for this anxiety, for the cultured man of the world never transcended conventional bounds. He was attentive and polite, but never officious; his courtesy and kindness never degenerated into any familiarity which Lucie could be justified in resenting. When he extolled her beauty and amiability, her delightful singing, her admirable instruction of Celia, and spoke of the excellent influence she exerted over her pupil, it was all done after so refined a fashion that she could not take exception to what was said. The old Freiherr said precisely the same things, though far more bluntly. And yet Lucie could not away with a feeling of uneasiness with which the Finanzrath's manner always inspired her. The news of the prolongation of his leave of absence was very unwelcome to her; it made her really unhappy.