For when he returned on the next following day, towards evening, from a long absence to the village, he found a carriage and two horses standing before the door of Mother Carsten's cottage. This was so very unusual an event in this secluded part of the world, that Oswald at once presumed something extraordinary must have happened. Women and children, and the few men who were not out fishing, stood staring around the carriage and the door of the cottage. They wanted to know if Stephen, Mother Carsten's father, was really going to die this time, or whether the young doctor whom Mother Carsten had sent for a few hours ago, would once more save him in spite of his fearful cough.
This was what Oswald learned when he came in their midst. They stood there with troubled faces, and were very talkative, contrary to their usual habit. For Father Stephen was the patriarch of the village, honored by all, even by Oswald, who, forgetful of his incognito, at once hastened into the house and the sitting-room. The white-haired old man sat there pale and languid, but apparently out of danger--thanks to the opportune assistance of Doctor Braun, who was just trying to escape from the expressions of gratitude with which he was overwhelmed by Mother Carsten, her daughters, and half a dozen other women.
"Welcome!" he said to Oswald, as the latter entered, "Welcome indeed, for I have a commission for you; will you permit me to deliver it at once, as my time is short?"
The doctor took Oswald unceremoniously by the arm and led him out of the house.
"Pardon my impatience," he said, as they were walking down the beach arm in arm, "but you see I am running away from the thanks of these good people; and secondly, I look upon you, although we have, to my regret, met only once before, as an old acquaintance, for you have been very much in my thoughts since we met last at Mother Claus' cottage. But now for my message! You probably do not know that the Grenwitz family have all returned from their great journey, which I had prescribed a few days ago."
"No!" said Oswald, very much astonished.
"How should you know it, to be sure, in this secluded village, inhabited only by rude ichthyophagi? Enough, they are all back! The baron--so says reliable Anna Maria had a terrible attack of fever in Hamburg. The doctor who was called in declared it would be madness to undertake a sea-voyage under such circumstances, and advised a return home. Anna Maria, who had always opposed the journey, approved highly of his advice--bref!they packed the whole family, Miss Helen included, into the old family coach, and here they are back again since last night! Of course they sent immediately for me. I have been there this afternoon, and when I accidentally mentioned that I would have to come to this village, the baroness begged me to tell you that they would be delighted at Grenwitz to see you once more within the old walls of the château. I replied that it gave me very particular pleasure to execute their commission, and that I would offer you my carriage and my company, if you were ready to return with me--an offer which I herewith most respectfully beg leave to repeat."
Doctor Braun said this cheerfully and with much animation, as was his wont, fixing his gray eyes, with the bright brown stars, steadily upon Oswald. "I am not very welcome, I see; you need not conceal it from me!" he added.
"Not at all," replied Oswald, "I mean I know very well to distinguish the messenger from the message, as Achilles did when they stole his Brisæis."
"And who is the beautiful Brisæis they have stolen from you?" asked the doctor.
"Solitude!" replied Oswald.
"Well, I do not blame myself much for that," said the other, laughing; "solitude is like the perfume of poisonous plants, sweet, but intoxicating, and in time downright fatal, even for the strongest constitutions. Will you follow my advice? Let the fair Brisæis go her way unhindered, wherever she wants to go; take a seat in my carriage, and let us drive to Grenwitz, where you will, moreover, find a girl that will make you cry out, at first sight: Here is more than Brisæis!"
"Miss Helen?"
"Miss Helen--also a Greek name, and one of better sound than the other. But the sun, or rather Helios, is lowering his chariot, and my horses are becoming impatient. You will come?"
"Certainly!" said Oswald.
* * * * *
Fifteen minutes later the carriage with the two young men was already rolling swiftly towards Grenwitz, which was only an hour's distance off. Oswald had been compelled to promise Mother Carsten that he would soon come back again. Old and young had crowded around him with great cordiality, calling Good-by, sir! after him, and thus showing that without any effort on his part he had succeeded, during the short time of his stay there, in winning the favor of the harmless good people in a high degree.
The evening was extremely beautiful. The sun was hanging like a red ball on the horizon and poured a magic light over the lonely landscape. In the tall heather the cicadæ were chirping; right and left, while above the swallows were swiftly shooting to and fro in the clear soft air. Oswald felt for the first time almost cheerful again, and had to admit that the wise man by his side was right in saying that the pleasures of solitude were paid for too dear.
"How sorry I am," he said, "that we have not been able to carry out our intention of meeting more frequently."
"L'homme propose et Dieu dispose," replied Doctor Braun. "We must try to do better hereafter. You will remain, I am told, for some time in this neighborhood, and I also will probably not move to Grunwald as soon as I had intended."
"You mean to settle there?"
"At least for a time. I am in competition here with an excellent man, who has certainly far more experience than I have, but who still suffers by the good luck I have had in some cases where I have cured my patients, and because the world is ever running after something new, though it may not be any better than what they had before. Two physicians, however, is too much for this neighborhood; my colleague is old and has to support a large family; I am young and as yet only engaged to be married--consequently it is for me to make room for him."
"That is very generous."
"It may look so, but it is not quite so generous. I only pour out the good water because I hope to find it still better. My future father-in-law is one of the first physicians in Grunwald. Half of his practice I shall certainly fall heir to when he retires, which he contemplates doing. My future wife is at home in Grunwald, and as every fish is most comfortable in its own little pond, and as I am, besides, heartily tired of the company of Cyclops and Ichthyophagi--well, you see my generosity does not go very far, after all."
"Would it be indiscreet to ask you the name of your lady?"
"Not at all: Miss Roban."
"I have often had the pleasure of meeting Miss Roban in company, when I lived in Grunwald. My worthy friend, Professor Berger, used to call her the only swan in an enormous flock of geese."
"You lived some time in Grunwald?"
"I have but just left it, after having led a most idyllic life in the shady, silent street of the good old town for half a year, and after having passed through my examinations under Berger's auspices."
"But--I fear you will complain of my indiscretion--what induced you, when you once had that bridge of the blind and the lame behind you, to prefer the still life of a tutor in a noble family to a sphere of action in a larger circle? You have evidently all the qualifications for the latter, while here it is simply impossible for you to develop your full powers?"
"What induced me?" replied Oswald; "I hardly know myself. This only I know: I always had an innate horror of what the world calls a permanent place; then the influence of Professor Berger, who advised me earnestly not to tie myself down before my time, but first to wander a few years about in the world. My present engagement actually binds me to do so, as soon as my pupils shall have wings able to bear them abroad."
"Do you know, I fear, or rather I hope, you will not be able to carry out the plans of your eccentric friend as far as he intended?"
"Why?"
"Because--pardon me if I am too candid--because you are here in a false position, which must sooner or later become unbearable. Such a position is good only for one who cannot stand on his own feet, and is compelled to lean upon others; one who is accustomed from childhood up to subordinate his will to that of others, or rather, one who has no will and no opinion of his own. You are nothing of the kind. You are far too important for these people. They annoy you, andvice versâ. You think the baroness, what she really is, an ambitious, proud, avaricious person, stupid in spite of her reading; the baroness thinks you, what you are not, an immensely conceited, supercilious fool. You live in the same house, you eat at the same table, and yet you have no more points of contact than if a world lay between you. You stay together because neither of you chooses to say the word that will part you till the moment comes when one or the other will be compelled to utter it. Am I right?"
"I cannot deny it."
"You see! And the matter will be worse and worse."
"Why so?"
"Till now you had in this house of fools only one noble being whom you could love and pity, that admirable boy, Bruno; now, when you return, you will find there a second client. I fear the poor girl has been dragged away from her idyl, at the Hamburg boarding-house, in order to play the principal part in a family tragedy. I fear there is a terrible tempest ready to break upon the fair head of the unfortunate girl. As I know you, you will try to ward off the blow and you will be disconsolate if you fail. You look at me with open eyes, and I see that you know as good as nothing of the secrets of the family with whom you have been living now for three months. The thing is this: Anna Maria lives in constant fear of the death of the baron, because, as soon as he dies, she loses not only an old husband, but also the prospect of laying up quite a fortune out of the surplus of her revenues. That is why Malte is of less importance to her. Nevertheless, she fears for him also, because at his death the entail passes out of the family, and into the hands of a younger line, of which Felix Grenwitz, an ex-lieutenant and well-known roué, is the representative. And now comes the deviltry: to secure her influence even after the death of the baron and of Malte, Anna Maria has concocted a match between Miss Helen and her excellent cousin Felix. The poor child knows nothing as yet of this interesting project; but I fear the great Felix knows all the more. He is coming to Grenwitz in a few days--as the baroness says, to recover his worn-out health, far from the exciting life of the city, in the peaceful retirement of country life. In a word, it is the usualmisèreof Credit and Debit, the ordinary farce in which an innocent doll-baby is trained and prepared, and you will have the happiness to be allowed admittance to this sublime performance."
"That shall never be," exclaimed Oswald.
"Then you will give up your place."
"I suppose I must--or----" a tempest of passion filled Oswald's soul. He thought of unhappy Marie, who now frequently appeared to him in his dreams, with her hands crossed on her bosom, and looking like a martyred saint; he thought of Melitta, who had been sold by her own father! Now the rascality was to be repeated--before his eyes.
"Never, never!" he said.
"Then you will give up your place?"
"No; at least not till I have defeated that plan in some way or other--before I have done all in my power to defeat it!"
"But what do you think you can do? My dear friend, generosity is a virtue which has to be examined very closely, lest the crown of the hero, of which we dream, changes into a fool's cap! Think of the noble knight of La Mancha, and how his knightly body was beaten and bruised for his benevolent intentions!--And then, are you sure that the Andromeda, whose Perseus you propose to become, really desires to be liberated? I do not know Baron Felix--perhaps he is better than his reputation; I never said two words to Miss Helen--perhaps she is by no means as good and sweet as she is beautiful."
"She is so, rely upon it," cried Oswald, warmly.
"It is well for you, you are not thirty yet!" laughed the doctor.
"Why?"
"Because you know what happens to enthusiasts at that time of life, according to Goethe? They die--on the same cross which they have been dragging through life so far. But here we are at the gates. Will you permit me to set you down here? I have to make a visit in the village and this is the nearest way; if I went through the castle it would detain one too long. Day after to-morrow I shall be in Grenwitz. I hope your pulse will be calmer then. I told you before: Solitude is simply poison for your system. Adieu!"
It was a superb sight which the courtyard of Castle Grenwitz presented when Oswald entered through the dark portal,--a sight well calculated to lull a careworn heart to slumber. The red evening sun was still lying warm on the highest tops of the magnificent linden-trees, which led up to the portal of the château, and upon the lofty battlements of the old castle; but deep shadows had fallen already upon the space beneath the trees, the sides of the walls, and the tall grass, which everywhere cropped out between the pavement. The crowns of the linden-trees, which were covered with a snow of white blossoms, exhaled a sweet perfume which filled the whole atmosphere. All around reigned such perfect stillness that the busy hum of insects was distinctly heard; on the brim of the basin of the headless Naiad sat a little bird and sang to the setting sun; high up in the rose-colored air a few swallows were still swiftly shooting to and fro, as if they could not leave the glorious bright air for their homes below.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Oswald approached the château. He felt the charm of this evening hour, and knew that the first word spoken by man would break it. But he met no one. The whole courtyard was deserted. He ascended the winding staircase and went through the long passages, in which his footsteps sounded loud, to his room. The windows were open; the arm-chair stood in its right place; on the table, before the sofa, stood a vase filled with fresh flowers, and the head of the Belvedere Apollo had also been crowned with ivy. The room had been righted up by one who knew the owner's peculiarities. Evidently Bruno had been at work here.
Oswald was most pleasantly surprised by this silent and yet eloquent welcome. It was like a warm hand which kindly pressed his own,--like a breath that whispered his name. The storm in his soul, which had been roused by the doctor's words, had passed away, and its place was filled by melancholy sadness.
Oswald had been sitting at the window, leaning his head on his hand. Suddenly he thought he heard voices from the lawn on the other side of the château. He recollected that it was time he should seek out the company and speak to them. He dressed, took a carnation from the bouquet, and went down.
As he opened the door of the sitting-room, from which the glass door led upon the lawn, he heard the voices more distinctly, and when he had entered the empty room, he saw a part of the company busy upon the lawn with the favorite game of the baroness. He softly went up to the door, and remained standing at the very spot from which Melitta on that afternoon had seen him for the first time, when he came from under the trees, arm in arm with Bruno.
The company consisted of the baron and the baroness, Mademoiselle Marguerite and Mr. Timm, Malte and Bruno, and a young lady who was turning her back to Bruno, so that he could only see the slender, lithe figure, whose charming outlines a simple white robe set off to great advantage, and the luxuriant, slightly curling black hair, which, parted in the middle, was taken up behind in countless braids and plaits, following the contour of the marvellously well-shaped head.
Oswald's eyes were attracted, as if by magic spell, by this youthful figure who stood there motionless, without leaving the place for a moment, and who only at regular intervals raised the arms in order to receive the graces sent to her with unerring accuracy by her neighbor Bruno, or to send them on to Malte, who let them as regularly drop, and bitterly complained that Helen was throwing so badly. He added that she only did it to spite him, and that somebody else ought to take his place.
"Then come here, Helen," said the baroness. "You really throw too badly."
Mother and daughter exchanged places, and Oswald could now see Helen's face.
It was one of those faces that are never forgotten again; one of those faces which we remember with melancholy pleasure half a century later, as we remember a warm summer evening on which we little school-boys were playing in a garden and the laughing of the big girls came from the garden-house; one of those faces which smile upon us when we are most sad, like a ray of the sun on a dismal autumnal day, which, when all is sad and sorrowful in our hearts, make us believe once more in poetry, and in all that is good and divine.
Oswald was standing there lost in admiration, as we remain standing in adoration before a sublime painting. It was not the lovely oval of the charming face; it was not the large, dark, dreamy eyes which shone forth from under the long, black lashes with such magic light; it was not the full, rosy lips that laughed so bewitchingly, nor the dark carnation of her velvety complexion--it was all and everything. Who can catch the sunbeams? Who can reduce the song of the nightingale to notes? Who can analyze beauty? Oswald did not attempt it; he only felt that he never had seen, and never would see anything more beautiful in all his life, and he fancied a sweet dream he had so often dreamt was at last fulfilled, and he had found the Blue Flower for which he had been looking everywhere in vain.
Oswald wished to speak to the company, but he felt as if he were chained to the ground. An inexplicable anxiety seized him, a timid fear, as if something fearful must happen next; as if at that moment the secret powers of Fate were deciding on his weal and woe for life.... He would have liked to fly away to the deepest solitude.
He noticed just then that the old baron, who might have found it too cool out of doors, had left the circle, and was coming up to the house. He made an effort and stepped through the glass door to meet him. His appearance was of course noticed at once, and a universal: Ah, see there, Doctor Stein! See there, the doctor! greeted him, while Bruno, running and leaping up to him, had embraced him long before the others could come near to greet him.
"Why, this is charming, doctor," said the baroness, with her most gracious smile. "We were inconsolable at the thought that we would miss you for weeks yet, and now you are here in our midst. What do you say to our coming back so soon? Poor Grenwitz! he was very sick. Go in, dear Grenwitz, it is really quite cool out here. We will all go in. And our circle has been added to in the mean time. Where is Helen?--Hélène, viens ici, ma chère!Let me present my daughter Helen to you. I have made her hope that you will be kind enough to help her in supplying the many things she ought to have learnt and has not learnt. For you do not know how very imperfect the education of girls in boarding-schools is in point of science! I am sure you will admit the little one among your pupils?Mademoiselle, n'avez-vous pas mon fichu? Ah, le voilà. Merci bien! et dites-donc qu'on allume la lampe!I think we will all go into the salon."
"Certainly," said Mr. Timm, who had been unusually quiet so far. "Hard weeks, pleasant Sundays, work in the day-time, and a merry bowl at night, as the old Privy Councillor says. No allusion, madam, I assure you!"
"But you would not be sorry, I am sure, if we understood the allusion, eh?" said the baroness, apparently determined to charm everybody to-night.
"I would not be true to myself if I were to deny it," said Mr. Timm, placing his hand on his heart, "and you know, madam, I hate all want of truthfulness."
"Eh bien," said the baroness, "and you shall yourself select the ingredients. Will you arrange it with mademoiselle?"
"Famous," said Mr. Timm; "madam, permit me to kiss your hand," and after having obtained and used the permission, he drew the little Frenchwoman aside to teach her the receipt for a famous bowl of punch.
They had been sitting perhaps for an hour in the salon, pleasantly chatting, Mr. Timm had sung several comic songs of his own composition with the accompaniment of the piano, and performed a few burlesque scenes, in which he represented two or three different persons with as many different voices,--in short, he had done all in his power to amuse the somewhat silent company, and yet been compelled to drink his self-brewed punch almost alone,--when the baroness proposed that they should retire. Mr. Timm requested, as his only reward for his efforts, the permission to kiss the ladies' hands, which was granted him very graciously by the baroness. Miss Helen, however, refused, and told him curtly, and slightly contracting her beautifully arched brows, that the artist's reward was in himself. Mr. Timm began to remonstrate, but Oswald cut the matter short by wishing everybody "Good-night!" and leaving the room with Bruno (Malte had gone to bed before), thus compelling Mr. Timm, who lived in the same part of the building, to follow his example. Altogether Oswald had not treated his old friend exactly well, and it required all the good-nature and the humility of the latter to bear it quietly, and to continue in his usual reckless way of talking till they had reached their rooms.
"God be thanked!" said Oswald, when he saw himself alone in his room with Bruno, "at last we are rid of the eternal talker. And I have not yet been able to ask your pardon, Bruno, for my coldness and indifference at our last parting, nor to thank you for forgetting it all like a good brother.--Was it you who prepared me such a friendly welcome? Who put those flowers there?"
"Yes----"
"And the ivy wreath around the head of Apollo?"
"Yes."
"And you put the arm-chair in its place?"
"Yes----"
"You dear, dear fellow! Come, let us both sit down in it, and now you must tell me all about your wanderings, of the cities you have seen, of the Cyclopes you have blinded, of the sufferings you have endured--all, all in order, you know, as Polyphemus milks his sheep."
Oswald had thrown himself into the chair, and drawn Bruno down on his lap. Thus they sat; the boy came close up to his only friend and began to tell,--first describing ironically the journey; how now the baron and now Malte had been unable to sit with their backs to the horses; how, at last, both had taken a seat on the box, while the postilion came into the carriage--and how much he, Bruno, had enjoyed it to see ever new towns and villages, and at last Hamburg itself.
Then his recital assumed another tone. He described quite seriously the impression made upon him by the city, the fine, stately houses, the crowd in the streets, the activity in the harbor, the great basin, in which the brilliant gas-lights were reflected, and what a superb effect that produced, and how he had come near falling into the water, if Helen had not held him. And when he had once mentioned Helen's name it turned up continually, like a bright star amid dark clouds; how Helen had wept upon leaving Hamburg; how she had dried her tears at her mother's words: "You seem to be quite sorry to return to your parents," and how she had scarcely ever smiled after that during the whole journey. For she is very proud, he added, but also very, very kind towards all she loves, for instance, towards her father and also towards me, although I would not pretend to say that she is fond of me. Only this, the boy said, he knew, that one evening, when it was very late and he very tired from the long ride, so that he could not keep his eyes open any longer, she had sat very quietly and patiently, with his head resting on her shoulder. He should never forget her for that; and if ever the opportunity offered to render her any service, he only wished it would be a matter of life and death, else it would not be enough for him.
Thus the boy talked on, and the words fell like fiery sparks from a house in full blaze, and his cheeks were all aglow. Oswald noticed that the beautiful girl had made a deep impression upon the wild boy, but he did not suspect how deep, how all-powerful this impression was, and what a revolution this first sudden affection had produced in his precocious and overflowing heart. He laughed at his pet's fiery enthusiasm all the more wittily, as he shared it in no inconsiderable degree, and Bruno, who accepted anything from Oswald, laughed too, and laughing and joking they said "Good-night" to each other. Bruno went to his room; Oswald sat down again in his chair.
The lamp was burning on the table before the sofa, but so dimly that even the faint gleam of the moon, which was just rising above the forest, could be distinctly seen in the room. A single star near the delicate crescent shone from the nightly blue of the sky. The soft balsamic air came in through the open window--it was so still that the noise of the falling dew-drops could be distinctly heard. And now, as Oswald sat and listened, he heard suddenly the sounds of a piano, coming to him like the echo of an Æolian harp. It was evidently a most skilful hand that produced them; first low, quite low, as if she feared to awake night from her slumber, then very gradually louder and louder. The accords floated slowly into a melody, and soon a soft alto voice began to sing the song to which the melody belonged. Oswald could not hear the words, but they seemed to be soft and sad as the air, which spoke wondrously to the heart with its simple touching complaint.
Such music at such an hour would have charmed Oswald even if he had not suspected who the singer was. But now that he knew there was no one else who could sing here but the beautiful girl, before whom he had that night bowed his soul in adoration as before an apparition from on high, at seeing whom he had felt as if a new revelation was vouchsafed to him--now it touched the innermost chords of his heart, and he felt as if he must seek words to give vent to the overwhelming impression which he could not otherwise master. He rose like a drunken man from his seat at the window, he went to the table and wrote in wild, incoherent words, which gradually arranged themselves and finally assumed the shape of a sonnet. He locked it up carefully and went back to the window. The moon and the stars were hid behind a dark storm-cloud, which had risen behind them and now overhung that part of the heavens. The song had ceased and the night wind alone sang in the trees.
He closed the window and went to his couch. A heavy sleep fell upon him, disturbed by anxious dreams. Now he was in a terrible fire, and now he was to be torn by wild beasts; then again he felt that indescribable anguish which seems to be a horror coming down to us from another world, but always at the moment of greatest need an angel appeared at his side and stretched a protecting hand over him, and this angel bore the features of--Melitta.
As Oswald was looking for something among the papers on his writing-table, on the following morning, he came upon a note, which he had overlooked the night before. He recognized at once the handwriting, which was as problematic as the writer, with its now bold and grand, now scribbled and confused characters. Oldenburg wrote:--
"I have just received information which compels me to start immediately on a distant journey, which may be extended I know not how long. Certainly not less than a week. I write these lines to drop them at Grenwitz, if I should not see you, which I would regret very much, as I have much to tell you. I take our Czika with me, as the solitude does not seem to me a safe place for her during my absence. I shall certainly be back for the day appointed by the gypsy woman. Until then, farewell.
"In great haste, and with still greater friendship,
"A. O."
Oswald was strangely impressed by this letter, for that divining power which plays so prominent a part in matters of the heart, made him at once suspect some connection between this sudden departure of Oldenburg and Melitta's departure. Whether much that he heard about the relations existing between the two appeared to him now in a new light since Melitta's recital, or whether it was merely the vagueness of Oldenburg's statement--enough, Oswald resented it as a kind of insult, that he was continually encountering riddles in that direction. He determined to go across to Berkow this very day, and to see if old Baumann had a letter for him from Melitta.
Then his thoughts turned into another channel when his eye fell upon the verses he had written the night before. He smiled now as he read them over. "There your wretched imagination has played you another trick," he said to himself. "You have only to hear of a pretty girl who is to marry somebody else and not your highness, and you have a paroxysm of pity with the girl and a paroxysm of hate against the man. And then you have only to see the girl, and to find that she has large bright eyes, and looks more attractive than half-grown girls generally do, and a boy has only to tell you stories about this half-grown girl, and you are forced to write miserable verses like these, which I would put instantly in the fire if we were not unfortunately in the dog-days."
But Oswald held noauto da fe, although the light of a candle would have done him the same service, but put the paper away again in his desk.
The morning greeted him so kindly from the dew-refreshed garden, that Oswald could not resist the temptation to saunter about a little among the flower-beds and in the shady avenues. Besides, it was early yet, almost two hour's time, and the boys were still asleep.
Oswald hastened down and went to his favorite place, the immense wall which encircled the château, the garden, and the courtyard, and on which he loved to walk under the beeches and the walnut-trees, especially in the morning, when the red rays of the sun were peeping through the waving branches, and the half-wild ducks were enjoying themselves heartily on the moss-grown moat.
Oswald sauntered leisurely along, enjoying all the charming details of the delicious morning, and giving himself up to the enjoyment all the more heartily to-day, as the loveliness, the soft beauty that surrounded him here on all sides contrasted very strangely with the sombre monotony of the seacoast, which he had of late continually had before his eyes. Now he could hardly understand how he had been so completely overcome by his bad humor. The doctor was right: solitude is a sweet intoxicating poison which finally kills. I must consult the doctor frequently. A clear head, which sees men and things always in the right light. But still he is mistaken about the proposed match between Miss Helen and her cousin. In the first place, she is much too young; secondly, she is too beautiful; and thirdly, I won't have it. Do you hear,madame la baroness? I won't have it! You will not carry out your nice plan, however much you may stare at me with your big and presumptuous eyes, and draw yourself up to your full height.
It was fortunate that Oswald was not pronouncing these words grandly and pathetically, but murmured them merely in his beard, for just as he was turning round the corner of the walk, which a projecting shrub made still sharper, he found himself suddenly face to face with Miss Helen. The meeting was so surprising to both parties that the young girl scarcely succeeded in suppressing a loud cry, and Oswald, contrary to his habit, became exceedingly embarrassed, and hardly knew whether to speak to the young lady or pass her with a silent bow.
Miss Helen, however, relieved him from his doubts; for she found it quite natural that the young tutor, whose powers of conversation had not shone forth very brightly the night before, should not have the presence of mind to start immediately a conversation. She thought it, therefore, quite proper to help him, by making a harmless remark about the fine morning.
"The fine morning, I see, has brought you out too."
"Yes, the morning is really very fine."
"Delicious. Have you always had such fine weather of late?"
"Always--I mean, a few rainy days excepted."
"When one sees the sky looking so deep blue, one would be tempted to consider bad weather a fairy fable--don't you think so?"
"Certainly."
Miss Helen probably thought the very clever conversation had lasted quite long enough, and as they happened to have come to a place where a narrow flight of steps led down from the wall into the garden, she availed herself of this opportunity to end the scene in her own interest and that of her monosyllabic companion.
"Have you any idea what time it is?"
"Half-past six."
"Already? Then I must make haste to get back to the house before mamma finds out that I am not there."
Miss Helen nodded carelessly with her head, stepped down the steep steps, and went slowly between the flower-beds towards the house.
"The happy know no hour," said Oswald to himself, following the slender youthful figure with his eyes; "my meteorological observations have evidently not made her happy, and she was less anxious to get back to the house than to get away from me. At all events, she seems to have time enough to gather a pretty bouquet. It is no doubt intended for me. I have evidently made a conquest. How she looked at me with her, wonderful eyes, half pitying, half contemptuous, as if she meant to say: I do you a great favor if I leave you alone with your bashfulness! She is proud, says Bruno, but how well that pride becomes her! How can a girl with such a face, such eyes, and such hair, be anything else but proud? It is her atmosphere, in which alone she can live, as the eagle in the highest regions of the air. The eagle is proud, too, and no one blames him for it.... How very beautiful she is! A superb beauty that need not be afraid of broad daylight, and that seems to be the greater the more costly the frame is in which it is set. A weird kind of beauty, too, that enchains us, and transfixes us as that of the deadly beautiful Medusa. Ah! now I know it! It is the very face of the Grenwitz family, of which Albert spoke--divine, and yet not without its trace of the Evil One! Feature by feature! it is Harald's face translated into the other sex; the same demoniac eyes, the same intoxicating feature around the full, almost exuberant lips, the same strength in the luxuriant bluish black hair which curls high up on the broad, firm forehead!--Gracious mamma! You are sorely mistaken if you fancy that forehead will easily bow to your decrees! Excellent Baron Felix, you will have to do great credit to your name as the lucky one, if you wish to succeed here! The morning is really delightful, and one would really be tempted to consider bad weather a fairy tale when one sees the skies so deep blue."
Oswald had of late been so exclusively occupied with his own affairs that he now felt the want, for a change, to interest himself in the affairs of others. The baroness was surprised at the sympathy with which he entered upon her ideas at table, and during a long conversation after dinner. He actually discussed with her several questions which she raised about his instruction: Would it not be expedient during the hot terms to commence the lessons at seven instead of eight? Might not the afternoon lessons be altogether omitted? Did he think the books which Helen had so far used for her studies of History and Literature still suitable for her? Would two lessons a week suffice for her? and did he think the morning or the evening better for the purpose?
The old baron also was pleasantly surprised when Oswald proved an attentive listener to the long history of his complaints. Oswald had always treated him with great courtesy, and he had looked upon him as a good and amiable young man, in spite of the decided opposition of Anna Maria and the somewhat doubtful assent of the Reverend Mr. Jager. He was glad, therefore, to be able to express this opinion today in harmony with Anna Maria. The journey seemed in fact to have produced a most happy influence on the baroness. Mademoiselle Marguerite, who certainly had the means of forming an opinion on that subject, told Albert: "She is changedtotalement, she me has not scolded a single time the whole day;" whereupon the ingenuous Albert said: "Yes; I think myself the old dragon is quite enjoyable to-day." In a word, such peace and harmony reigned to-day at Castle Grenwitz as had not been known there for many a year. Everybody seemed to have forgotten his reasons for being discontented with the others. This might indeed be the result of different causes in each case, but as the effect was very pleasing to all, they took for good coin what everybody offered as such--of course reserving the right to pay him back in the same coin.
Oswald had not forgotten his meeting with Miss Helen in the morning, and, fully conscious of the impression he had then produced on the beautiful, proud young lady, he was pleased to find more than one opportunity during the day to make his natural advantages more prominent. When they asked him at table to tell what had happened to him during the absence of the family, he described his solitary life in the fishermen's village, assuming a half-amusing, half-sentimental part in the little drama, and taking good care to leave the romantic mystery undisturbed, in which he concealed his stay there. Good Mother Carsten became an heroic dame; her red-haired daughters, Stine and Line, were changed into lovely Undines, and the old half-idiotic Father Stephen into a wise Merlin. The chalk cliffs of the coast rose to immeasurable heights, and the breakers thundered amid the rocks with Ossianic majesty. The company, although feeling the exaggeration, listened nevertheless with breathless interest, and Oswald felt, as the fairest reward for his fantastic improvisation, that Helen's large brilliant eyes were immovably fixed upon him during his recitals, half in wonder and half in doubt.
He had become so completely the soul of the company that they seemed almost to resent it when he declared, directly after supper, that he could not join them on their proposed walk through the beech forest, because it was mail-day the next day, and he had to write several important letters. If Oswald meant by this refusal to comply with the well-known rule, that we must retire at the very moment when we have made ourselves necessary to the company, then he could be well satisfied with his success. Miss Helen, at least, condescended to ask him downright to stay, and as he insisted, she turned so abruptly from him that her anger was evident.
But Oswald had in this case other and better motives to keep him from staying any longer. The bright star which had just risen above the horizon, had not blinded him so completely that he should have forgotten the other constellation which had looked down upon him so long, and with such a constant, faithful, loving light. He had hoped to find a letter yesterday already; he was afraid old Baumann might have inquired after him the same evening on which he had left the village with the doctor. He had told Mother Carsten, to be sure, that he was going back to Grenwitz; but old Baumann could of course not bring him Melitta's letter to the château, where it might so easily fall into wrong hands. And yet Oswald longed anxiously for the long-expected letter.
As soon, therefore, as he had left the company he stole away through the garden and the big gate, which led almost immediately into the pine forest between Grenwitz and Berkow. It was dark already under the tall trees, with their broad overhanging branches. The wood, warmed by the heat of the day, gave out a fragrant aroma in the cool evening. The whole forest lay buried in almost painful stillness.
And now in this solemn evening hour, in this imposing forest temple, the memory of Melitta overcame Oswald's heart. Her tall form, so lovely in all its round fulness; her rich brown hair, which flowed so softly in swelling waves from the head down upon the shoulders; her dark affectionate eyes, her lovely playful manner,--and alas! above all, her unspeakable goodness and love,--how clearly her image stood before his soul! how ardently he vowed never, never to be faithless to her, the good, the sweet, the lovely one, not even in thought, and to return infinite love for her love, come what may!
Then he heard the hoofs of a horse on the soft ground of the silent forest, and soon a horseman rose in the twilight, who came up at a rapid trot. Oswald started with joyful surprise when he recognized old Baumann on Brownlock.
"A letter? Do you have a letter?" he cried, with such vehemence that Brownlock started aside.
"Quiet, Brownlock, be quiet!" said the old man, patting the horse's slender neck. "Good evening, sir! I have looked for you down at the village, but whereas I was informed that you had already yesterday gone to Grenwitz, I was on the point of riding over there----"
"But how if you had not found me there? and under what pretext could you gain admittance there?--But never mind--where is the letter?"
"Here," said the old man, who had in the mean time got down from his horse, drawing quite a considerable package from the deep pocket of his long overcoat.
"Hand it here!"
"Be patient, I pray, sir! I have thought of everything. This package, as you may see, is well tied up and sealed, and bears the inscription: 'Herewith the kindly lent books, with many thanks. Baumann will hand you the others as soon as I have read them,' and the signature: 'Your most obedient, B.'--that means, of course, Bemperlein as well as Baumann, eh?"
Old Baumann had, while he was speaking, untied the string, and taken from one of the three books which it contained a letter, which Oswald hastily opened and held towards the light to read. But the darkness was too great already under the trees; he could only decipher the signature: dearest darling.
"I cannot see," he said, sadly.
"If you had remained in the village, as you intended doing the other day, or if you had yesterday sent word to old Baumann, you would have been in possession of my mistress' letter before daylight was gone."
Oswald felt the reproach hid in these calmly spoken words, and he found no difficulty to confess his wrong to Melitta's faithful servant and friend.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "that I have given you all this trouble. I have blamed myself all day long for my thoughtlessness, and now I am severely punished for it, for I hold the dear letter in my hand, and yet I cannot see how Frau von Berkow is, whether she is well, if she has reached the town, and a thousand other things which I should like to know, and which, no doubt, are all mentioned here"--and he tried once more to read the letter.
"Well, well," said old Baumann, "don't trouble yourself about me; ten miles more or less don't matter much to me or to Brownlock; and as for the news you want to hear, I can tell you something about that, considering that Mr. Bemperlein has sent me a letter, in which he tells me at full length all about the journey and what has happened when they arrived there." The old man had hung the reins over his arm and walked by Oswald's side; the latter hastened his steps to get out of the forest, and to reach Grenwitz and his room as soon as possible.
"My mistress--God bless her," said the old man, "accompanied by Mr. Bemperlein, reached her destination on the third day, and without accident Mr. Bemperlein at once communicated with Dr. Birkenhain, and learnt that Baron Berkow was still alive, but not restored to consciousness, and so weak that his dissolution was expected every hour. That continued so till the day when the letter was posted, on which day my mistress, in company with Mr. Bemperlein and----"
The old man paused and coughed.
"Well, and----?" asked Oswald, whose suspicions about Baron Oldenburg were once more aroused.
"Well, and the doctor, of course, who else?" said the old man. "Well, what was I going to say? You have confused me with your question, sir. Ah, yes! In company with Mr. Bemperlein and the doctor went to see the baron for a few minutes. He did not recognize her, and the baron was so changed that he looked to my mistress, as she had said herself, like a perfect stranger. He also spoke a few words, but not one could be understood. Then they went away again, and immediately the baron had fallen once more into a deep sleep, and the doctor said that would probably be his condition till he died--which the Lord may bring about very soon by his mercy, so that the poor man may be relieved of his sufferings and my mistress may at last be able to breathe freely."
"Amen!" said Oswald.
"For you see, sir," continued the old man, "my mistress has not had much happiness all her life long, and that grieves me, for I love her as if she were my own child, and perhaps better. For I have never had any children myself, but I see how other fathers do with their children, and how they are not ashamed to treat them not as fathers, and not even as Christian men. And the father of my mistress--well, he was my master, and I have fought through many a campaign with him, and we ought not to speak evil of the departed--but he was a bad man, and yet not exactly bad either, only wild and reckless, like the youngest officer in the regiment. The madder an undertaking was, the better he liked it, and mad deeds and bad deeds often look so much alike it is hard to distinguish them. He meant no harm with them, however, even when he remained as fond of ladies after his marriage as he had been before, but he broke my mistress' heart nevertheless, and she died when her only child was only two years old. Then there was nobody there to take care of her but old Baumann. I took her and played with her, and afterwards, when she grew up, I learnt to read and write with her, for I did not know it before, and a little French, and whatever else I could get into my old head. And then I taught her how to ride, so that she has not her equal on horseback, and thus I grew once more young with her, and never wanted any children of my own, for she was my precious, darling child, although I was but a poor ignorant cavalryman, and she a great lady of high and mighty family. And I have often thought in my mind, if she would not have had a better life of it if she had really been my child? For to be great and rich is all very well, but I think, nevertheless, those whom God loves are born poor. I should never have dreamt of selling my own blood and flesh for vile Mammon; I should never have been on my knees before my own child, beseeching her to marry such and such a person to save her father from disgrace, when I knew very well she did not love him, but that he had money enough to pay all my debts and to keep enough for her and for him. And matters were not quite so bad yet with Baron Barnewitz. What he had lost at play he might have won again at play, and he did win a good deal back again, so that he often told me afterwards, when he had taken a little too much: 'If I had known, Baumann, that I would have such luck at faro, then the--it is an ugly word and an honest man don't like to use it too often--then I would have given that man Berkow something else, but not my daughter. My only consolation is, he won't live long, and then she can marry to please her heart.' Well, my master did not live long himself, but long enough to see with his own eyes the mischief he had done. Then he would have given his life to undo what he had done, but those who deal with the devil need not wonder if God leaves them to their master. So the beautiful young lady became a widow, and yet she was not a widow. She had money enough now, but I think she would have been happier if she had lived under a thatched roof with a good man, than so miserably alone in a big, lonely house, There was Julius, to be sure; but one swallow does not make a summer, and a child is not a family. You see, sir, that often made my heart bleed, and when I saw my mistress wander so lonely through the garden of an evening, I have often prayed to God to take poor Baron Berkow in mercy up into heaven, and to let my poor mistress be happy for once in her life, like other women who are not worthy to unloose the latchet of her shoes. The man need not be rich, for she has enough for both, if wealth there must be--but he ought to have a head and a heart of the right sort, and he ought to love her better than the apple of his eye. And if I knew such a man, and could get her such a husband, and saw her happy by the side of such a man--then I should pray: Now, Lord, let thy servant depart in peace!--But here we are at the gate. Well, goodnight, sir! If you should have an answer ready to-morrow morning to the letter of my mistress, I will wait for it, between five and six, a little distance down the forest. My mistress would be glad, I am sure, if you were to write soon."
"I shall be there punctually at five," said Oswald.
"Well, half an hour does not matter," said Old Baumann, mounting his horse again. "The mail does not leave before eight o'clock, and till then Brownlock can make the way twice. I wish you once more good-night, sir."
The old man touched his cap, turned Brownlock round, and trotted through the pine-trees back to Berkow.
Oswald hastened to his room without meeting anybody, as the company had not yet returned from their promenade. With trembling hand he opened the letter, and perused it with breathless haste, in order to read it over and over again, as we read letters in which every word touches us like kisses that come from lips we love.
When he sat down late at night to write his answer, he heard the same voice singing which had produced such overflowing enthusiasm in him the preceding night; but to-day he closed the window, for he felt that his admiration for the beautiful girl was, after all, treason against his love of Melitta, although he tried, of course, after the manner of men, to silence the voice of his conscience as well as he could.