If anyone should have taken a special interest in Mr. Timm, he would have noticed that something extraordinary must have happened to him lately. The black dress coat which he now daily wore, and the greater care which he bestowed on his appearance, together with other kindred changes in his general manner, might have been explained by Miss Helen's presence, and the higher style which seemed to prevail at Grenwitz. But what meant the grave expression which was now frequently seen on his white forehead and in his blue eyes? What the silence to which he, the talkative man, now condemned himself for hours? What, especially, the restless industry with which he stood all day long bent over his drawing-board, busy with pencil and brush? Up to the day on which the family returned, Mr. Timm had given himself entirely to the pleasures of a pleasant rural retreat; but from the hour at which he had gone into the archive-room, and there found a small package of letters tied up with a red silk cord, all had changed. Not that it had been in Albert's nature to repent of hisdolce far nienteduring that pleasant week--he, besides, worked so rapidly and easily that it was a trifle to him to make up for lost time. It was surely not the plats and the surveys, therefore, which troubled him now. Any one might have seen that by looking on that afternoon into his room, which he had, to his habit, carefully locked after him.
Mr. Timm was sitting on a lounge in his room, one leg crossed over the other, his head resting in his hands, and blowing mighty clouds from his cigar, while he was evidently thinking deeply. By his side, on the lounge, lay the letters which he had found among the archives. There were not many of them, all written in the same delicate handwriting, and upon rather grayish paper, such as was universally in use, even for letters, some forty years ago. The letters were rather old, apparently, for the ink was very much faded; but no contrary date was to be found anywhere.
"These letters ought to be valuable in some way," said Albert, speaking confidentially to his best friend and only intimate, his dear own self, "only I do not know how. If I should succeed in finding the answers, it would go hard indeed if a clever fellow, such as I am, could not ferret out the whole of the great secret. Besides, I think I am on the track. It is improbable, though not impossible, that both should have died, mother and child alike. Marie was evidently a fine girl, and that little trouble and heart-sore could hardly have cost her her life. And the child, illegitimate as it was, enjoyed, in all probability, the proverbial good luck of such children. Therefore, the mother may be alive, and the child may be alive. If they are both alive,--and I do hope and wish it,--they either know something of the codicil to the will of the noble scapegrace, or they do not. If they have been informed of it,--which again is not very probable, since it would be a perfectly sublime height of stupidity to shut the mouth against such a roast pigeon flying about and seeking to be devoured,--they must be made to apply for their property. If they should know nothing of it, which is more likely, we must assist them in their lamentable ignorance. In any case we must first of all find out where they are. It is not to be presumed that they have concealed themselves in the neighborhood. For in the first place Harald would have found them, when he spared no money and left no means unemployed in his search; and secondly, such people are very apt to run, on like occasions, as far as they can; and thirdly, this Monsieur d'Estein seems to have been a very sly fox, who would be sure to hide his little dove as safely as could be done from the fierce lion. This monsieur is every way a very inconvenient quantity in the problem, which I should like to eliminate if I knew how to do it. If he did not die soon afterwards, he probably did a good deal of mischief yet; perhaps he even married little Marie, adopted the child, carried both of them back to France or to America, and spoilt the whole game for me--who knows? That would be disgraceful; for the story might really become highly interesting to me and to others. I should like to see the faces of the two, if I appeared before them and said: My good friends, what will you give me if I help you to a nice little fortune of a hundred thousand dollars or so? Or perhaps--and that might be the more convenient way of doing the thing--I might present myself before dear Anna Maria some fine afternoon, and say to her: Pardon me, madam, if I interrupt you, but I found among the papers of my father, who, as you know, did business for your departed cousin Harald, certain documents which enable me to trace the legal owners of Stantow and Baerwalde with tolerable accuracy. My sense of justice, and the special respect I entertain for you and your daughter, are contending in my bosom. The one compels me to report my discovery to the proper court; the other whispers to me to keep the matter secret. What do you say, madam, if you were to re-enforce my disinterested veneration by a few thousand dollars, which, upon my honor, are very much needed just now?"
This suggestion seemed to inspire Mr. Timm. He jumped up from the lounge and walked up and down in the room, gesticulating actively. "That might become a gold mine for me," he said to himself. "I should worry the old woman till her big gray eyes were twice as large. I should put the thumbscrews on her, and every time I wanted money I would give a turn or two. She would do anything rather than risk a lawsuit. Then I should be, so to say, master in the house; then I could drop the fool's mask and show myself in my true form. Then I might say who was to marry Miss Helen; why, I might marry her myself if I chose, and calmly look forward to the arrival of my good friend Felix, which dear Anna Maria has just confided to me as a great secret. Not that I am much troubled by it, any way, for friend Felix was the worthy pupil of his master, and handled the cards as well as I did and would probably not have fared any better than I did if he had not belonged to an old family. As it was, Ensign Baron Felix Grenwitz escaped with a reprimand, while Ensign Albert Timm had to quit the service. I am curious how we shall meet. Perhaps he won't recognize me; perhaps he'll try to get rid of the troublesome guest as soon as possible. Ha! How things would change if these wretched letters did not skip over the most important points with a levity and carelessness of which women alone are capable!" Albert sat down again and commenced his letters once more, although he nearly knew them by heart. He had carefully numbered them, and perused them in the order in which they came.
No. 1.--"Sir:--I do not know you, and if you are the same person who, a few weeks ago, intruded upon a conversation between myself and my companion, and were so energetically rebuked by the latter, the same who every evening pursues me when I return home from the store--then you will find it but natural that I should decline making your acquaintance. I pray you to spare me further requests, and all other letters. I should have left this note unanswered like the others, if I were not afraid to encourage your boldness by my silence. Surely no man would refuse the request of a lady, and especially of an unprotected, helpless woman?
"Marie Montbert."
No. 2.--"Sir:--You seem indeed to know how to obtain the forgiveness of a woman whom you have offended.--Whatever may have been the motives that induced you--you have dried many tears, you have saved a whole family from despair. I myself was unable to do anything for my poor countrymen--I could only pray to God to send them help. He sent you. Show yourself worthy of such favor! Remember that he who asks for reward has his reward already, and do not let your left hand know what your right hand has done.
"Your humble servant,
"Marie Montbert."
No. 3.--"What do you know of my father's fate? For heaven's sake, sir, do not trifle with the heart of a child! You say you have learnt from a French colonel of the Grand Army, in whose regiment my father made the campaign against Russia, everything about his experiences during that year, and all the minor details about his death, shortly before the passage of the Beresina. All this sounds so very improbable--and yet how could you know anything about it except from good authority?--even the colonel's name is right, as I see from my father's letters to my mother. I do not know what to believe--but why will you not give me this information, which you know must be of inestimable value to myself, in my house, I mean in the house of the good lady who has been in my mother's place for several months now? Why ask for a secret rendezvous? Why force a child, who expects information about the death of her father, to take a step which that father, if he were still alive, could never approve of? I am not appealing in vain to your generosity, I am sure.
"My lodgings are Ann Street, No. 21. If you are not afraid of three flights of steps, I shall be ready to receive you tomorrow morning, between 10 and 12 o'clock.
"Your humble servant,
"Marie Montbert."
No. 4.--"You insist upon a rendezvous which you say is by no means secret, as it is to take place in the open street, in one of the most frequented parts of the city, and at a time when the streets are still crowded with pedestrians. You will state yourself, you say, your reasons for declining to comply with my wish, 'however painful such a step may be,' and you vow I shall approve of your motives as soon as I hear them. Are you quite sure of that? But, it is true, you offer to give--I am to receive--and so I must needs give way to your wishes. I cannot, I will not, imagine that you mean to deceive me. You have been so generous towards poor and unhappy people, you will surely not be less so towards a poor unprotected girl.
"M. M."
No. 5.--"Dear Baron! Once more my heartiest thanks! Thanks also for the delicacy with which you had arranged it all! How much I have wronged you! But could I anticipate that you would make me acquainted with Colonel St. Cyr himself? That I would hear from the lips of that veteran, in my beloved mother-tongue, the heroic death of my father? You would not have it that the colonel should find the daughter of a hero, the last scion of a once rich and illustrious family, in such reduced circumstances; you wished to spare me the mortification of having to receive the Count of St Cyr and Baron Grenwitz in a garret. You preferred to present me to him as the governess of a family whom you knew, and it was after all perfectly right and proper that I should call in your company upon the old gentleman, tired as he was from his long journey, at his hotel. Once more a thousand thanks! Thanks also for the silence by which you honored my renewed grief during the long drive from the hotel to my lodgings! I know how hard it must have been to a man of your liveliness. How have I deserved the interest you take in my fate? Ah! I have been so ill-behaved towards you! You ask me, finally, whether I believe now that you mean it well with me? This letter may give you the answer. You leave the city tomorrow--farewell, and may the enclosed little keepsake, worked by my hand at night, remind you sometimes of
"Your grateful
"Marie Montbert."
"Now the little doll is ready and well trained," said Albert, who read the familiar letter, with a strange and unnatural zeal, over and over again. He sat there like a conjurer studying the rules of a rival in the Black Art. "This Harald, it cannot be denied, was the real Ratcatcher of Hameln. I should like to know what kind of a colonel that was who invented the pretty story of the 'heroic death, shortly before the passage of the Beresina.' Perhaps a colonel of devils; at all events, one of his associates--the thing must have cost Baron Harald an immense amount of money. However, it was spent to some purpose, for in No. 6 he has made great progress!"
No. 6.--"I can hardly recover from my surprise. You back again! And back for my sake! Back, because your desire to see me left you no rest! Oh God! What is to become of it all! You are a rich nobleman--I am a poor girl, who, whatever my ancestors once may have been, must now earn my daily bread by hard work. My judgment tells me that all this can only bring wretchedness upon me; that I ought to avoid you, flee from you. What did I tell you yesterday? What did I promise? Oh, give me back my promise! I cannot, I must not see you. I must never see you again. I beseech you, leave the city. You must do it if you really love me. Farewell. Thousand thanks!
"YourMarie."
"What eight days' absence must have done!" said Albert, lighting his cigar again, which had gone out during his perusal of the last note. "'Your Marie!' How the brave Harald must have chuckled when he read this tearful epistle--here are the traces of the tears now. But let us go on."
No. 7.--"You must take back the costly jewels which an unknown man left here to-day. How have I deserved it, that you should think so meanly of me? You know that I love you in spite of my reason, which reproaches me constantly for it; I have not been able to conceal it from you any longer, nor did I wish to do so; but you ought at least to leave me the consolation that my love is pure and disinterested. These costly rubies, this red gold, it burns in my hand like coals of fire--leave me as you found me! If the poor simple girl could win your love, you see yourself that poverty and simplicity are perfectly compatible with love.
"M. M."
"Prettily expressed," said Albert, putting the letter on top of the others, "but very stupid! Poverty and love are as compatible as fire and water. I should like to know the burning love that would not be extinguished if a bucket of poverty were poured on it! Pshaw! I ought to know better. I think I would be capable of marrying poor little Marguerite if I were a dignitary with an ample income guaranteed by the State; but as I am nothing but a poor devil, with a famous appetite and a real patent stomach, it would be a clear case of suicide if I were to share the scanty ration with another person. Love! Nonsense! Love is a most acceptable dessert after the dinner of life. A good dinner without a dessert--bon!a dinner with a dessert--still better; but a dessert without a dinner--well, women may be able to do even with that, but it does not suit my constitution. I wonder whether sweet Marie, if she is alive, as I fervently hope, does not sometimes regret having rejected the 'costly rubies and the red gold' for the benefit of other young ladies, who deserved them less well? In the next letter the virtuous little damsel becomes quite rampant."
No. 8.--"Aha! my dear, we can be jealous, can we? Who would have suspected Baron Harald Grenwitz of such plebeian foibles? I must change my lodgings--why? That I may not perish with cold in winter and with heat in summer; that I do not risk every day breaking my neck on the steep narrow staircase? Oh no! Simply because my good lord does not like Mrs. Black, with whom I live, and because my good lord has found out that a young Frenchman, a Monsieur d'Estein, lives on the same story with me; that I am quite well acquainted with said monsieur, and have actually been seen with him arm in arm late at night in the street! Horrible! But in good earnest, dearest Harald, you have no cause to complain. Mrs. Black is a very respectable, excellent woman, to whom I am deeply indebted, and who has been like a mother to me as far back as I can think; and as for Monsieur d'Estein, your jealousy will be lulled to sleep, I hope, when I tell you that he is the same little old gentleman on whose arm you saw me the first time in the Park. Monsieur d'Estein could very well be my father, and really was my father's friend. He is, like ourselves, descended from a family of French refugees, and would long since have gone back to the land of his fathers, since he has no relatives nor even friends here, if he was not justly afraid that he would starve there, since everybody there speaks the language which he here teaches to earn his daily bread. He is very eccentric, but the kindest heart in the world. He would go for me through fire and water, and beau désespoirif he had the slightest suspicion of our friendship. All this I would have told you last night, but I wished to see if you could bear contradiction. Are you satisfied now?Au revoir, Monsieur le baron.
"Votre très méchante
"Marie M."
"This is the only notice about this Monsieur d'Estein," said Albert, letting the letter fall back in his lap, and puffing out clouds of reflection from his cigar; "no doubt the same man who afterwards reappears as the Jew pedler in the old woman's story, when he first reconnoitred the locality and then eloped with the oppressed Innocence. I fear several letters must have been lost here, because the next following note shows matters very much advanced."
No. 9.--"I have just received the--why should I not tell you?--the long-expected letter of your aunt. She writes me in a trembling but legible hand, that she values the happiness of her nephew more highly than the peace of her few remaining days; that she was even pleased to have such a motive for returning to her ancestral home, the place of her birth, where she now also expects to die. She says she will start on her journey, the last before the great journey home, on the 13th, so as to reach Grenwitz before me, 'as you fear atête-à-têtewith my wild nephew' so much. I cannot tell how deeply I am touched by so much goodness and love! How grateful I am to the dear old lady, and how I long to kiss her withered old hands! Yes, Harald, if she, the matron, the oldest of your knightly race, has thought me worthy of you, if she blesses our union, I am willing to become yours. What pains me is only this, that I am to steal away like a thief at night from the woman whom I love as a mother, and from the man who has been both father and brother to me. But then--it cannot be helped. You are right. They would only make the parting harder; they would blame the whole as a romantic adventure. They do not know you; they do not know how good and noble you are! But I may at least bid them good-by in writing! Thank them in a few words for all their love and kindness, and hold out a bright future to them as a compensation for the grief I must needs cause them now. Ah, that that future were the present! Your new valet, whom I, by the way, like much less than the old one with the good face, told me last night that all was prepared for day after to-morrow. I am glad I am to travel in your carriage, and accompanied by your servants; the thought of so long a journey rather frightens me. I hope soon to see you, my dearly beloved.
"M. M."
"Well, now the little bird is in the net," said Albert, adding this letter to the others, and tying them all up again with the red-silk ribbon. "I could imagine the rest, even if I did not know it from the old woman's story. I believe the old witch, the dear friend of my excellent neighbor Stein; could tell a good deal more if she chose. I must try to win her favor and to obtain admittance to her salons. I wonder if she has not some things that belonged to Miss Innocence in her possession, that might lead to further discoveries? The little one can assuredly not have cleared all her chests and drawers so completely, before her hurried flight at night, that the old woman should not have gleaned a nice store of ribbons, shoes and stockings, and perhaps also letters. She may keep all that in perfect security at the bottom of that big wooden chest on which I lay myself sore that afternoon, where it is now awaiting a joyful resurrection. There is an idea for you!"
Albert had risen and gone before the mirror, probably in order to see how such a clever head looked. "There is an idea," he repeated, and kissed his hand to his double in the glass, who returned the compliment promptly, "a very famous idea, which must be carried out at any hazard. Perhaps the Jew pedler may have been a real Israelite, and agent of Monsieur d'Estein; perhaps he only brought the girl a letter which contained the plan for the elopement, and perhaps this letter might, if found, put us on the track of the fugitives."
Mr. Timm suddenly paused in his monologue, and his face grew dark: "Confound it," he murmured, "there is no money, thatnervus verum, that divining-rod by which alone treasures can be raised! Of course I shall have to make several trips in order to find it all out. I must go to Berlin, Ann Street, No. 21, third story, to look for information. But travelling costs money, and my assets amount to about five groschen, one of which I believe is counterfeit. I must make a forced loan. Marguerite must help. I was near enough doing it the other day, when the agreeable family suddenly returned and abruptly terminated our idyllic life. To be sure, these miserable plats must first be finished; otherwise Anna Maria won't let me go. I must submit to it."
And Mr. Timm lighted another cigar, unlocked the door, bent over his drawing-board, and worked with a zeal as if he had no other plans and knew nothing else in the world but the simple duty of a first-class surveyor.
Baron Felix had arrived--in the middle of the night. He had left the ferry early in his own carriage, when his valet suddenly remembered that his master's dressing-case might not be with the rest of the luggage, as he had placed it on board the boat between his feet and probably left it there. A timid suggestion to that end--terrible indignation on the part of Baron Felix, threats of boxes on the ear, beatings and dismissal--a thorough search in the middle of the road--finally return, as thecorpus delictiwas really missing. The ferry-boat, however, had unfortunately gone back in the mean time, and with it the precious box. Several hours had to pass before it would return, for the wind had lulled, and the men had to pull desperately with their heavy oars. Baron Felix watched them through his pocket telescope and became furious. At last, when the evening had come, the baron could start a second time, this time with the dressing-case. He was in a terrible state of mind. He had promised to arrive in Grenwitz early that day, as he could not await the moment to see his fair cousin. The delay might be interpreted unfavorably, and it was better, therefore, to arrive at night than not at all. On the other hand, it suited the taste of the ex-lieutenant by no means to travel by night through the forest and over damp moors, especially in an open carnage. He suffered--probably in consequence of indescribable exertions on the parade ground and at drill of rheumatism, and feared a cold like the plague. He chose, therefore, the least of two evils, and only threatened Jean, his valet, to make his punishment on the next morning depend on the nature of his cold.
It was therefore a matter of great rejoicing to Jean when his master awoke next day in very good humor. They had tried to disturb the sleepers at the château as little as possible, and had quietly taken possession of the long-prepared rooms, with the aid of one of the more wakeful servants. Baron Felix ordered his cacao to be brought to his bed, and when he was dressed--he did very little of it himself--he sent Jean to ask Mr. Timm to come and see him for a few minutes in his room. For Albert's presence had been one of the first things he learnt when inquiring about the state of things at the château.
"Ahvoilà, dear Timm, how do you do?" said Baron Felix, emphasizing the last word in a peculiar manner, when Mr. Timm entered. "Pardon me for troubling you so early; but I--why on earth has the donkey brought me hot water again instead of warm water?--excuse me--Jean, warm water, rhinoceros!--now tell me how are you, Timm? Glad to meet you here by accident. How do you do?" and the baron held out one of the fingers of the left hand, which he had just been drying.
"Thank you, baron, tolerably!" said Albert, touching the proffered finger very lightly with two fingers of his own hand, for it was not one of Albert's foibles to let himself be overawed by haughty insolence--"I really thoughtyouwould have forgotten me and my name."
"Oh no!" said Felix, "I thought of it directly this morning, when Jean counted out the company.--But how divine you look in citizen's dress! ha, ha, ha! if our comrades could see you! really divine! upon honor!" and Felix, a hair-brush in one hand and a small looking-glass in the other, remained standing before Albert, and stared at him from head to foot as if he were examining an animal from foreign lands.
"Do you think so?" asked Albert, dryly; "glad of it. Am sorry cannot return the compliment. This much I can tell you, however--you don't look any younger. Have you another cigar? or is the Havana you are smoking the last of the Mohicans?"
"There, on the table," said Felix, "in the ebony box--press the spring down--not younger? but I hope not older, I mean perceptibly--at least you see I still enjoy all my teeth, and five-sixths of my hair," and Felix brushed with infinite satisfaction the very pretty crisp curls which covered his well-shaped head in surprising abundance.
"Well, the hair is tolerably fair," said Albert, pitilessly; he had taken a seat on the sofa and examined Felix, as he stood before the long mirror, with great delight; "but what has given you all those wrinkles in your face? The bright morning light is really not good for you any more. Formerly I used to compliment you on your likeness to Byron; but now you are more like Byron's father. And then--you never were particularly stout, but now you are really reduced to a minimum."
"The slimmer the more elegant," replied Felix, "and besides that comes back. I have been kept rather short of late by my doctor."
"The old story?"
"Well, perhaps a new edition."
"Revised and augmented?"
"So, so; but it is all right now. We have become steady; we are going to settle down. How do you like these trousers? I had them built. A clever combination of the military cut and the civilian cut. We are going to marry----"
"You ought to leave that alone, baron."
"Why?"
"At least you ought to many a sensible elderly woman."
"Why?"
"Because ere long you will need a motherly friend much more than a pretentious young wife."
"Pshaw!mon cher, I have the honor to come from a race in which men can live fast and yet long. A little rheumatism--that is the worst. How do you like this coat?"
"Why, I cannot say. You know I never understood anything about these things."
"I know. You were always the unclean vessel into which our good colonel discharged his wrath. Do you know the poor devil has killed himself?"
"No; why?"
"Some say on account of debts; others, because he could not survive the disgrace of having had a whole company appear in white trousers, instead of cloth trousers, at the last parade. The commanding general reprimanded him publicly."
"May he be happy!"
"Amen! Apropos, how long have you been here? I am told several weeks; you must know the company inside and outside. Oh, what I wanted to ask you! How is my worthy uncle and my excellent aunt? And how does my cousin look? Did you ever see such a watch! Double second-hand--the hand above shows months and days--direct from London--I believe it is the first that ever was brought to the Continent. Apropos, who on earth was that pretty black-eyed little thing we roused last night, and who slipped by us in the passage, in a delicious little night-costume---she looked like a sort of housekeeper, or some such thing? There is no other visitor here now?"
"No----"
"Ah, quiteen famille, then? Will you please pull the bell just over your head? I think I look uncommonly well today?--Jean, did I not tell you, you camel, that you must not wear that coat here?--go instantly and put a new one on! and then go and ask if I can pay my respects to the baron and the baroness."
"The baron has asked already twice after the baron."
"Well, then say I am coming directly--au revoir, dear Timm; I hope to see you at dinner"--and with a last look at the mirror, and after pouring some Cologne on his handkerchief, Felix left the room, while Jean respectfully held the door open, without deigning to notice Albert, who followed close behind him.
Mr. Timm looked after his friend with a bitter smile on his thin fine lips. "Dear Timm," he murmured, "I'll teach you to say Dear Timm, you monkey!"
It was the evening of the same day. They had just finished dinner, which was always served on the terrace when the weather was good, and were getting ready for a walk through the beech-forest down to the beach, which the baroness had proposed. Oswald would have preferred remaining behind, but Felix, who seemed to take a great fancy to the silent, sober man, had begged him so earnestly not to spoil the pleasure, that at last he decided to accompany them. Bruno was rejoiced. They all started together, and soon reached the wood, where the red evening lights were still playing merrily in the green branches. Felix had offered his arm to the baroness, and Miss Helen walked by the side of her father; Oswald, Albert, and the boys, and Mademoiselle Marguerite, went before or behind, now singly, and now in pairs, as the narrow forest path permitted. Felix, whom the physician had warned against catching cold, found it cooler and damper in the forest than he had thought, and wished in his heart the excursion might soon come to an end. But he thought it best not to give utterance to his secret wishes, but to compliment the suggestion of this romantic promenade.
"I am glad I have anticipated your wishes," said Anna Maria. "I confess I had not expected you would have so much taste for the simple pleasures of country life. How fortunate it is that Helen has the same taste! You will lead a very sensible, quiet life one of these days, as it suits your position."
"Well, my position, dear aunt----"
"Will be very good, I doubt not; but you will have to work hard, dear Felix, till you can breathe quite freely again. How long it has been before we could remove the most serious obstacles here in our own position! And, after all, our position will not be perfectly secured till Stantow and Baerwalde are positively our own, and the other farms are in the hands of new tenants. You ought to have your estates also surveyed anew, Felix. You would find Timm a clever and diligent workman. I was quite surprised to hear that you knew him before, as cadet, I suppose?"
"Yes, dear aunt; he was a great----"
"Favorite--I doubt not. We all like him very much."
"I did not mean to say that exactly," replied Felix, laughing. "Still, they were generally quite fond of him. He was an indefatigable joker, and whenever some bold prank was to be played he was sure to lead. However, it is well to keep an eye upon him; he is one of those people who, if you give them the little finger, are sure to take the whole hand."
"Ah! indeed!" said Anna Maria, raising her eyebrows; "I took the young man to be modesty personified; he certainly is far more modest than, for instance, Mr. Stein."
"Really!" said Felix. "Why, I thought Mr. Stein was fully aware of his position!"
"Well, you will learn to know him better. He is one of the most arrogant men of his class I have ever known."
"We'll soon get that out of him," said Felix, twirling his very diminutive moustache. "With such people short answers are best. I know that. These low-bred people are all alike. As soon as they find out that we really mean to be what we are by right--the masters at home and in the State--they become submissive. It is our own fault if they are impertinent. They have to be kept down in a proper knowledge of their position. You have been too kind to that man, that is all. To tell the truth, I was wondering at dinner why Miss Helen should submit so very patiently to some correction or other."
"Well, Helen is not generally a friend of his. She has a thoroughly aristocratic aversion to everything plebeian. I hope you will encourage her in these principles. Besides, that is the nearest way to her heart."
"Well, I hope the way will not be so difficult to find," said Felix, with a self-complacent smile; "I have some experience in that line,ma chère tante."
"Which you will all need in this case, dear Felix. Helen is a very peculiar character, hard to understand. I confess I have not ventured yet to tell her of our plan. I wished first to see what impression you would produce on her heart. You have the finest opportunity here to show yourself in the most favorable light; there is not even a rival to fear. We live very retired, and I shall take good care that our retirement is interrupted as rarely as possible while you are staying with us."
"Pardon me, dear aunt," said Felix, "if I differ with you on that point. I should really have to pay forfeit if I had to be afraid of a comparison with the young men of my class here in the country. On the contrary, I am very anxious to measure myself with these goslings! Every one of them whom I defeat is a step nearer to my goal, if it is really so far off. No! Ask as much company as you choose. Make Helen's presence and mine the pretext for giving little dinners, suppers, teas. etc.; and then sum it all up in a great ball, on which occasion our engagement can be proclaimed, and thus produce a sensation such as these people have not often experienced."
"You are bold, dear Felix," said the baroness, who liked this method all the less that it was rather expensive.
"What else would have been the use of my wearing a sword by my side so long?" replied Felix, gallantly kissing her hand.
While the baroness and Felix were disposing so coolly of Helen and her fate, she and her father had had a conversation which oddly crossed the cunning plans of the baroness, and the idea of the victorious race which the young ex-lieutenant so naïvely expected to win.
The old baron loved his beautiful daughter with all the love of which his good heart was capable; he loved her all the better, as he had always had great doubts about the justice of the law which excluded the young girl from the entailed property. Besides, he felt the indifference with which his wife had so far treated their daughter, although he had been too weak to take measures to counteract it, and especially to make an end to the exile in Hamburg. He had, likewise, consented to the proposed match only because Anna Maria had persuaded him that thus the inequality in the fortunes of the two children could best be remedied, since Helen, as Felix's wife, would obtain possession of the whole estate, if Malte should die without heirs. But here also he had stipulated that Helen must give her free consent, and in return he had pledged himself to leave the whole management of this delicate affair in the hands of his wife, and especially not to divulge the project before the time.
Recent events, however, had seriously shaken his resolution. In the first place, he had thought of it while lying ill with fever in Hamburg, that he might die soon, and Helen would then stand quite alone, without his counsel, without his veto, which he was determined to interpose between her and her mother's plans if it should come to the worst. He had always loved his child, but now he almost worshipped her. She was so beautiful, so proud, and yet so kind and modest with him, that his heart was filled with anguish and sadness at the thought of leaving this world without having secured her fate. If Felix had been such a man as he desired for her, it would have been easier. But Felix was far from pleasing him. The old baron had been a soldier in his time, like Felix. He knew perfectly well to what temptations a rich young man of good family is exposed in the army; he had himself not always escaped from such temptations, and now, when his naturally serious mind had developed itself fully, he repented bitterly of the sins of his reckless youth. He had seen in his cousin Harald a fearful illustration of the terrible effects which unbridled passions have even on a superior man, and his experience in these cases made him see at a glance that his nephew Felix had been a slave to similar passions, and probably was so still. He had seen the young man a few years ago, when he first entered the army. Then he recollected him as a slender, well-built youth, with a fresh, handsome face, and bright, clear eyes; now he found nothing but a sad shadow of the pleasing form of those days. A ghastly leanness, deep furrows in the precociously old face, the large blue eyes looking glassy, or shining in feverish glow, and always with that impertinent, fixed gaze which speaks more eloquently than a whole biography--his gestures sudden and short, evidently in order to hide the weariness within; loud and quick in speech, and judging all things with the same superficial arrogance--his whole being eaten up with a diseased vanity--this was what the concerned father saw in Felix, in spite of his good-natured efforts to cover up the worst parts of the picture.
He regretted now having promised his wife not to interfere with her in this matter. It seemed to him as if he had been too hasty, and at all events he did not think he was breaking his promise if he tried to sound Helen, how she felt herself on the subject. After they had been walking for some time in silence, he said, therefore, taking her arm in his:
"How is your health, my child?"
"Thank you, papa, pretty good; why?" replied Miss Helen, rather surprised at the question.
"I thought you looked a little pale."
"That is the unfavorable light here under the green trees," replied the young girl, merrily; "but I am really perfectly well."
"I was always afraid the sudden change of air, of diet, and even of friends, might injure you. You have been a long time away from home."
"That was not my fault, dear papa."
"I know--I know! Nor was it my fault; I always advocated your return from school, but----"
"Well, I am here now, and mean to make up for lost time. We will take a great many walks together; I will read to you all your favorite books, and we are going to have a quiet, happy life," and the young girl took her father's hand and carried it to her lips.
"You are a dear, sweet child," said the baron, and his voice trembled slightly; "God grant that I may long enjoy your presence here!"
"But, dear papa, don't give way to such melancholy thoughts! You are, God be thanked, quite as well and as hearty again as ever. Why should we not live a long time happily together?"
"But if you should leave us?"
"I am not going to die so soon, you may take that for granted," said Miss Helen, laughing.
"God forbid! But children part with their parents in other ways besides dying. When you marry we shall have to give you up once more, after having but just gotten you back."
"Why, papa, don't you speak as if I were to marry tomorrow morning! I have not even thought of it. Mamma, too, began to talk about that yesterday. I am afraid you want, both of you, to get rid of me again."
"Ah, indeed! Your mother has spoken to you about that, hm, hm?" said the baron, thinking of course that the baroness must have come out with her long-prepared project, and admiring the skill with which she had chosen the time, the day before Felix arrived; "ah, indeed? hm, hm! Well, and how do you like your cousin?"
"Whom? Felix?" asked Helen, as yet not in the least suspecting the connection of this question with what had gone before.
"Yes."
"He looks to me like the champagne we drank at dinner. The first drops tasted very good; but when the glass had been standing a little while, I found the wine quite flat and tasteless.--But you do not really intend me for Cousin Felix?" asked Miss Helen, very eagerly, as the thought suddenly flashed through her mind.
"Oh, no, by no means--unless you choose; I mean--we shall never force your will in this respect," replied the old baron, rather confused, as he dared not tell the whole truth, and yet did not choose to state an untruth.
Helen made no reply; but the thought she had awakened was actively at work in her mind. She compared the conversation she had had the day before with her mother with her father's words just now.... It required much less ingenuity than she possessed to discern the connection between many casual remarks and the two interviews. Her proud heart rebelled at the thought that her fate had been decided and her hand disposed of without consulting her wishes, and asking her own opinion; that this Felix, against whom her chaste heart was instinctively rising in arms, might already look upon her as his own! These thoughts occupied her mind so fully that she could not fall in with the loud admiration of the company, as they stepped out of the forest upon the bluff near the shore.
And yet it was a sight well worthy of enthusiastic admiration. The sun had just sunk into the ocean, and seemed to draw down with it the clouds shining brilliantly in a variety of gold and crimson hues. From the point where it had set bright streaks of light were shooting up in all directions, piercing the clouds, and losing themselves high up in the deep blue ether. The sea was like a mass of fire near the horizon, and golden sparks came dancing towards the shore on the crests of the waves. The chalk cliffs, with their colossal clefts, and the beech-trees crowning them, flamed up in the red evening light as in a blaze. All around was solemn stillness, broken only by the dash of the waves below upon the shingle, and now and then the shrill cry of a gull fluttering restlessly over the waters.
The company stood about in groups, lost in admiration of the glorious sight, which changed every moment Oswald, tired of the continuous Ahs and Ohs, in which especially the baroness and Felix vied with each other, had gone aside from the others and seated himself upon the exposed root of an immense beech-tree.
"Have you room for me there?" asked Helen, coming up to him.
"I pray you will take my seat," said Oswald, starting up.
"Only for a moment; I do not know why, but the walk has tired me more than usually."
"Perhaps you stayed too long in the garden this morning?"
"No, butà propos. how does it happen that I have not seen you to-day--nor yesterday?"
"A mere accident."
"I am glad to hear that."
"Why?"
"To tell the truth, I was afraid I had driven you out of the garden; I thought this constant meeting with one and the same person would have become quite intolerable to you."
"You are too modest, I am sure."
"No, do not laugh at me; I really thought so--yes, and worse still; you have become very silent since day before yesterday, and, as I fancied, especially reserved towards me. Nor did you give me my lesson in literature yesterday, which I anticipated with so much pleasure. Have I given you, unknowingly, cause to----"
"What can you mean?"
"Well, sometimes I say things that sound harsh or arrogant; at least I have been told so; but really I do not mean them----"
As Helen looked up at Oswald with her full, dark eyes, he stood before her utterly lost in admiration of her beauty, and in wonder at her sudden and inexplicable gentleness and sympathy.
"Why do you look at me so astonished?"
"Because I did not know so much kindness could be hid behind so much pride."
"Do you think the world deserves seeing our heart?"
"A strange question from the lips of so young a lady."
"To be sure, we are not expected to think. At best we are pretty dolls, to play with and to be given away to the first man who looks as if he would like to have us."
"Cousin!" called Felix, "we are going down to the beach; will you join us?"
"No," answered Helen, without looking round at the speaker.
"It is a charming walk," added Felix.
"May be," replied the young girl, curtly, without changing her position.
But Felix was not the man to be defeated so easily. He came up to the place where Oswald and Helen were sitting, and said:
"But, Helen, surely you will not refuse me the first request I ever made of you?"
"Why not?" replied the other, and her voice sounded peculiarly harsh and bitter. "I cannot bear begging and beggars, and you had better learn that at once."
"Have you twisted your foot, dearest cousin?" asked Felix.
"Why?"
"Because you sit so still, and are in such awful humor," replied Felix, laughing, and went to join the others, without giving a sign that he had been hurt by Helen's manner.
"Will you not join the company, doctor?" asked Helen, on whose cheeks the excitement of the last little scene was still glowing, while the others began the somewhat steep path which led down to the beach.
"Do you wish to be alone?"
"Oh, no! on the contrary, I am glad you mean to stay. After the very witty conversation at dinner, and since, I feel the want of talking sense for a little while. You have not told me yet whether I have hurt your feelings unwittingly, by some thoughtless word, perhaps?"
"No, not in the least. But I received some news night before last which has distressed me deeply.... Do you remember a Professor Berger, whom you met at Ostend three years ago?"
"Oh, very well! He is not so easily forgotten. I can see him now before me, with his magnificent eyes under the heavy eyebrows, and always something clever on his lips. What of him? He is not dead?"
"No, worse--than that--he is insane!"
"For God's sake! Professor Berger? The very picture of a clear and lofty mind. How can that be? Did you tell papa and mamma?"
"No, and I beg you will not tell them; I could not bear just now to hear the matter discussed."
"You were very fond of the professor?"
"He was my best, perhaps my only friend."
"How I pity you!" said Helen, and she showed very clearly in her beautiful face the sympathy she felt. "Such a loss must be terrible. And you are here quite alone with your grief, and no one to sympathize with your suffering?"
"I have been accustomed to that all my life."
"Have you no parents, no near relatives?"
"My mother died when I was an infant; my father died many years ago; I never had brother or sister, nor have I ever known any relatives of mine."
Helen was silent, drawing lines in the sand with the point of her sun-shade.
Suddenly she raised her head and said, in a tone that sounded half like complaint and half like defiance:
"Do you know that one may have parents and brothers--yes! and even relatives, and yet be quite alone, and feel very lonely! And you are, after all, well off, for you are a man; you can act for yourself, while----"
The young girl broke off here, as if she was afraid of being carried away by her feelings. She rose and went a few steps beyond Oswald, close to the edge of the precipice. It was a wondrously beautiful picture, this proud, tall figure on the bright background of the golden evening sky, which surrounded her glorious head as with a halo, while the sea-breeze was playing with her dark curls. And to Oswald she looked like a good angel, dropping kind, sympathizing words in his sickened heart, like soft rain falling upon a withered flower. And now, for the first time, he recollected his conversation with the doctor as they returned from the village. It was true, then! This sweet, this glorious creature was to be sold, to be sold like Melitta! She had said so herself. He had just heard it from her own lips! She was standing alone in the world; she could not act for herself; and yet she had still sympathy and comfort for him, she who stood in such need of sympathy and consolation herself. To protect the weak and the helpless is man's right and duty--there would probably have been few adventures into which Oswald would not have plunged without hesitation for the sake of the fair sufferer. He did not remember that the knight's first duty is to be faithful to the lady of his heart, and that to break a lance for another, at the risk of losing her, speaks neither of wisdom nor of generosity.
Suddenly a cry arose from the beach, where the others had in the mean time arrived, and as Helen, who was quite free from vertigo, stepped to the very brink and bent over the abyss, a second cry was heard, still more piercing and more anxious.
"For Heaven's sake," cried Helen; "what can have happened? I thought I heard Bruno's voice. Let us make haste and get down."
The two young people were quickly down, although the path which led down in zigzag on the chalk cliff was steep and dangerous. When they reached the beach, out of breath, they saw Bruno fainting and lying in Albert's arms, while the others were standing around helpless.
"Fetch some water, quick!" said Oswald, taking the boy, untying his neckerchief and unbuttoning his clothes. Nobody had thought of it.
"How did it happen?" asked Helen, taking Bruno's cold hands in her own, and gazing anxiously in his fair, pale face.
"None of us know how," said the baroness.
"Perhaps an attack of vertigo," suggested Felix.
In the mean time water had been brought, and Oswald had washed the boy's forehead and temples and chest. Helen remembered that she had a flacon of Cologne in her pocket, and helped Oswald in his efforts to revive the boy. He soon came to himself again. He opened slowly his large eyes, and his first glance fell upon Helen, who was bending over him.
"Are you dead, quite dead?" he murmured, closing his eyes again.
They thought he had lost his mind.
"Collect yourself, Bruno," said Helen, passing her hand lightly over the boy's brow and eyes.
Bruno seized the hand and pressed it firmly upon his eyes, while two big tears came oozing out from between the closed lids; then he raised himself, with Oswald's assistance.
"I am quite right again," he said; "have I really been fainting? How long have I been so?"
"Only a little while," replied Oswald, wiping Bruno's face with his handkerchief and setting his clothes in order again.
"You have really frightened us; what in the world was the matter?" asked the baroness.
"I do not know," replied the boy, whose pale cheeks suddenly flashed in deep purple glow; "it came very suddenly. Thank you, thank you, I think I can get on very well if Mr. Stein will help me."
"We'll go back," said the baroness. "How provoking that every little pleasure must be spoilt by some mishap or other."
They made their way slowly up again, and returned, out of temper, through the forest. Felix, who was afraid of taking cold, urged them to make haste; Oswald remarked, dryly, he did not wish to detain the company, and would follow slowly with Bruno. Helen declared her intention to stay with Bruno; and the old baron, who had exhibited throughout very warm, but very useless sympathy, proposed that the company should divide into a vanguard and a rearguard; he meant himself to stay with the latter.
"You will catch cold, dear Grenwitz," said the baroness; "I think you'd better come with us."
"No, I prefer staying with the others," said the old baron, with an earnestness which surprised all of them, and himself perhaps most.
He gave his arm to his daughter, but remained near Oswald and Bruno, chatting with them leisurely, as he liked to do, and inquiring from time to time how the boy came on.
"I am quite well, quite well," said Bruno, again and again; but Oswald felt that he leaned heavily on his arm, and that his hands were cold.
Thus they reached the house, one by one. The old baron disappeared, wishing Bruno a speedy recovery, while Oswald carried the boy at once to his room and sent him to bed.
"You are worse, Bruno, than you wish to confess," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed; "you have your old pain, have not you?"
"Yes," said Bruno, and his teeth chattered, and cold perspiration broke out on his forehead.
Oswald hastened to use the same remedy as before; and he succeeded in this case also in relieving the patient, at least as far as the pain was concerned.
"Will you not tellme, Bruno, what brought on the attack?" asked Oswald.
"Oh yes!" said the boy. "I only did not like to tell while the others were present, because they would have laughed at me. I had stayed behind a little, and a projecting rock hid the others from my sight I thought I could overtake them at any moment, and so I was walking on slowly, often looking upward. Suddenly I saw Helen come so close to the edge of the precipice, which there comes down a hundred feet or more, that it looked as if she must fall if she moved ever so little. I cried out in my anxiety--then she came still nearer, actually bending over, and everything turned around me well, you know the rest. But there is Malte coming. Goodnight, Oswald."
"Good-night, you mad boy."
Oswald kissed his pet on his forehead and went in deep thought to his room. He leaned out of the open window and looked down in the garden, lost in meditation. The night was dark; only here and there a single star peeped for a moment through the canopy of clouds. At times a sound came from the trees, as if they were speaking to each other in low, confused murmurs; the fountain of the Naiad splashed gently and abruptly, as if it were telling a weird old story.
"Your life is like this night," said Oswald to himself; "here and there a star, which vanishes again, and then chaos and darkness. You were right, dear Berger, our life is nothing, and quite sad enough to make any man who has sense wish to get rid of it quickly. Now you are where Melitta is, and Oldenburg too. Perhaps you see them pass by your cell, arm in arm; perhaps that will make your mind return to you, while others lose it at the sight. I might make a little trip to N., to see my good friends. Who knows? The place might prove so pleasant that I might stay there altogether."
"How is Bruno?" asked a voice from below. It was Helen's voice. Oswald saw her white dress shine in the dark.
"Thank you; he is well," he replied.
"Good-night."
And the light dress vanished in the shrubbery.
"No, life is more than an empty nothing," murmured Oswald as he closed the window. "If Berger had seen this girl, he would not have given up life. And yet he has seen her, admired her, sung her praises even in sweet verses, and yet he has lost his mind--oh, it is a fearful thing this life--dark and ghost-like, and nothing real in it but the sweet voice that bids you good-night!"