The baroness had missed Helen's letter the same evening. This discovery caused her no small dismay. The letter might so easily fall into wrong hands--hands that might return it to the girl, and thus expose her in her own daughter's eyes to sad disgrace! She should then irretrievably lose all the advantage which she had obtained by this insight into Helen's state of mind, and which she thought of rendering profitable to herself by frequent allusions and threatenings. It was unlucky, extremely unlucky!
The baroness remembered very distinctly having put the letter into the pocket of her dress as Felix was coming up the avenue. The probability therefore was, that she had lost it near the chapel. She remembered also having pulled put her handkerchief once during the conversation, in order to play the offended lady with greater effect. But it was too late that night to make any search for it; she had to spend a sleepless night, and wake up next morning with a violent headache. As soon as she could, she went into the garden and to the chapel. There was no letter to be seen, neither there nor in the beech avenue nor in the bower. Very much disconcerted, the baroness returned to the house.
There new trouble awaited her. Oswald sent word that Bruno had passed a sleepless night and was very unwell; would it not be better to send a messenger on horseback for Doctor Braun? He also begged that Malte might be kept down stairs, as he wished Bruno to be alone till the doctor came. The baroness sent back word that she hoped his indisposition would soon be over, and cause no interruption in the regular lessons. As for the doctor, she would let him know when they sent to town.
A few hours afterwards Felix sent his excuses for not coming to breakfast; he was quite unwell, but would be certainly down to dinner.
Felix was indeed rather worsted by his encounter with Bruno. First and foremost, the burning disgrace of having succumbed to a boy, and of having escaped with his life only, thanks to an accident or a sudden fit of generosity. It required the whole power of his frivolity to get over that painful thought. He tried to persuade himself--and after a while he did persuade himself--that the thing had not been so serious, and that, if he had not slipped so unluckily just when Bruno had leaped upon him, and if his "abominable rheumatism" had not paralyzed his arms, he "would have shaken off the boy like a troublesome fly, and treated him, besides, to a sound drubbing." That, however, in the mean time he had received the drubbing, and the fly had taken good hold of him, was clearly shown by the brown and blue spots which Felix had carried off. On neck and shoulders as sure signs of his defeat. His great valet was not a little surprised when he found his master in a condition which reminded him forcibly of former days, when he was still a cadet, and Cognac and Goulard Water formed regularly part of his toilet. The great man, however, quickly proved that he had no more forgotten the art of curing contusions and discolorations than his master had forgotten the art of getting them, and by dinner-time Felix was in a fit state to present himself in the drawing room. Still, he was doubtful whether he ought to appear at table or not. It was extremely painful to him to think of meeting Bruno, to see the boy's dark eyes rest upon him, full of scorn and satisfaction, and perhaps to have read in Oswald's face that he had been fully informed of the events of last night. He felt, therefore, no small relief when Jean told him that the company would be very much reduced at dinner to-day, as Mr. Stein and Bruno would not appear. He only cast a glance at the looking-glass, dropped a little more Ess. Bouquet than usually on his lawn handkerchief, and passed through the door which Jean obsequiously opened as light and free and as irresistible as ever, although burdened with the memory of his recent defeat.
The baroness also felt no small relief when she found that Helen showed no change in her manner or on her face, and in her large eyes. The baroness was more attentive than ever to her daughter.
Nevertheless dinner was duller than usual, although Felix did his best to make conversation. The old baron had gone himself to inquire after Bruno, and was angry that the doctor had not yet been sent for, and said that "if a wagon was going to town in the evening, to bring various things for the ball to-morrow, that was no reason why one of the servants might not have gone in on horseback early in the morning." The baroness did not relish the imputed blame, and replied that it was true she had forgotten that it was for Bruno and not for herself, although she had suffered from a very bad headache, nor for Felix, who had been quite sick during the night and the forenoon. Helen hardly raised her eyes from her plate, and said nothing, while little Marguerite's eyes were even more inflamed from weeping than on the preceding days. Felix and Malte quickly exhausted their topics of conversation, and thus the whole company was soon as silent as if they had been attending a funeral meal in Egypt.
The baroness and Felix were left alone after dinner, as the old baron withdrew to his rooms. Felix had been considering during dinner whether he had not better mention the occurrence of last night--of course in his own way--before Bruno should have an opportunity of speaking of it to any one else beside Oswald. He therefore availed himself of thetête-à-têtewith the baroness for that purpose. Laughing, and begging her not to let the odd story get any farther, he then told her how the beautiful moonlight had tempted him to go into the garden, how he had found Bruno hovering around Helen's room in a very suspicious manner, and how at last the boy, refusing to go to bed as he had ordered him to do, had begun a quarrel, and made him slip and fall. He added, that as soon as he had recovered from the surprise he had inflicted due punishment on Bruno, who was probably still suffering from the consequences.
The baroness was by no means pleased with this humorous account of a very serious matter. Her apprehensions about the letter were excited anew. Bruno late at night near Helen's windows! What could he have to do there? The circumstance looked very suspicious. Could Bruno have found the letter? Could he have wished to restore it to her? The baroness groaned at the thought.
"What is the matter, dear aunt?"
"Oh, nothing! I only sigh at the trouble that man Stein has already brought upon our house. If I regret anything in my life, it is that I did not send him off the very first time I saw him. I had a great mind to do so that evening, for hardly ever has anybody made so unfavorable an impression upon me as that young man."
"But, dear aunt, why don't you do now what you omitted to do then? Turn him out. I really do not understand why you hesitate."
The baroness was not disposed to acknowledge that she would have to pay Oswald a thousand dollars if she broke the contract during the first year. This sum she was by no means willing to sacrifice. But before she could get an answer ready, the Reverend Mr. Jager's voice was heard, inquiring if he would be permitted to see the baroness.
The next moment the reverend gentleman entered the room, accompanied by his wife.
There was no difficulty in seeing that something extraordinary had occurred to the worthy couple. The minister wore his new black dress coat, which he only displayed on the most solemn occasions, and Primula had adorned her bonnet with a most picturesque wreath of wheat-ears, which made her look a shade more yellow than usual. The minister's eyes tried in vain to assume their wonted expression of humility, the very glasses seemed to sparkle with triumph, and as for Primula, her poetic mind had evidently been freed from all earthly shackles; she could show herself now as she really was.
"I come, madam," said the minister, gallantly kissing the baroness' hand, "partly in order to inquire how you and all the dear ones are to-day, and partly to report to you an event which we--I hope I may venture to say we to my noble friend--which we have long looked for, I may add, long hoped for, and which yet has come at last very unexpectedly. I have received an appointment as professor at the University of Grunwald."
"At first only as adjunct professor," added Primula; "but the full professorship will follow soon."
"At the same time I have received a call to the University Chapel."
"Yes," added Primula, "Professor Darkling wrote expressly about that."
"Why, that is capital news," said the baroness. "Permit me to present my nephew, Baron Felix--the Rev. Mr., I meant to say, Professor Jager and Mrs. Jager, dear Felix--capital news indeed! At last, then! Well, I always said it must come sooner or later; it is true we shall be the losers, but then our friends will gain so much, and that ought to be our first consideration. Let me congratulate you most heartily."
"And me too," said Felix.
"Thank you, madam, thank you, baron, very much obliged indeed," said the professor, rubbing his hands with delight; "yes, yes; better late than never. I have been looking for this ever since the reviews spoke so--I may be permitted to say--so very handsomely of my last important work, in which I established beyond all dispute the real text of the long-lost works of Philochrysos, one of the fathers of the church."
"When are you going to leave us?"
"Well, probably in the fall; but possibly sooner. I propose to deliver during the winter session three courses of lectures, and one special course on the lost writings of Philochrysos."
"You attempt too much, Jager, too much!" breathed Primula in tender accents: "oh these men! these men! Every one of them is a Prometheus ready to take Olympus by storm."
"And who has inspired me with such bold hopes, if it is not you yourself?" said the minister, gratefully pressing Primula's hand.
"Do you like pistol-shooting?" asked Felix, to turn the conversation.
"Well, a little, that is, no, I cannot say I like it. I used to be tolerably successful in shooting hares and partridges, but since the higher church authorities have pronounced very energetically against such amusements, 'my irons lie idle in the hall,' as the poet says."
"Perhaps you might take up again the noble sport, now that you are a professor," said Primula. "Ah, I think it must be glorious to meet an enraged boar with a loaded pistol in your hand ..."
"I should advise your husband," said Felix, laughing, "not to venture upon such an encounter without a rifle, and possibly a good stout hunting-knife by his side. But seriously, professor, will you come and let us have a little shooting at a mark?"
"Certainly, certainly!" cried the minister, starting up; "I am at your service, at your service."
The reverend gentleman had turned rather pale; from his excitement one might have imagined he was rushing to fight a duel where his life was in deadly peril.
"Had you not better stay here?" asked Primula, who suddenly took a very dismal view of the matter. "You are not quite as composed to-day as usual. If an accident should happen just now, when you have reached the goal of your wishes, Jager, I should not survive it," and the poetess broke out in tears and clung to her husband, whose efforts to relieve himself of the sweet burden were by no means very energetic.
"Gustava," he whispered, "dearest Gussy, it is not so dangerous as you fancy. Are your pistols provided with hair-triggers, baron?"
"Certainly," replied Felix, not a little amused by this scene. "When they are cocked you must not sneeze, or I will not be responsible for the consequences."
"Stay, oh stay! husband mine!" Primula said imploringly.
"I suppose there is not much danger," said the minister, his lips pale with terror.
"So said a friend of mine the other day," added Felix. "Have a care, said I.--Nonsense said he, and took the pistol by the mouth. The next moment he had lost one of his fingers."
"That is decisive," said Primula, rising; "Jager, you stay, I insist upon it, I command you to stay. Do not meddle with things of which you know nothing. Pistol-shooting is no child's play."
Such strong arguments were irresistible even for a great mind like the Reverend Mr. Jager's. He sank back in his chair and said, wiping the perspiration from his brow:
"You see, baron, married men are not their own masters. When you are married you will see how the brilliant cavalier will change into the prudent father of a family. But how is it, may I not offer you my congratulations?"
And the minister inclined his head on the right shoulder, to smile at the baroness, and then on his left shoulder, to bestow the same favor on Felix.
"You may ask me again a few days hence," replied the baron, evasively. "But, as I was going to say: Your appointment will make up for the loss the university has suffered in Professor Berger. Are the two events perhaps connected with each other?"
"Not directly, at least," said the minister, "although I am not disposed to deny that Professor Berger would have used his influence by no means in my favor, and thus his attack may be looked upon as a favorable event, as far as I am concerned."
"Is there any explanation how this sudden attack has come on?" asked the baroness.
"No, madam, sudden it can hardly be called," replied the new professor, assuming a most grave manner, and drawing down the corners of his mouth; "I confess I was by no means surprised, because I have always looked upon the professor as partially insane. A man who can maintain, as he did, that all so-called arguments in favor of the existence of God, the Almighty Maker of heaven and earth, are but a false conclusion, apetitio principii, such a man is already half insane. A man who can talk frivolously about the sacred institutions of kings, ruling by the grace of God, and of an hereditary nobility, is already mad, although he be a professor and his lectures be attended by hundreds of admiring listeners. I know very well it is written: Judge not, that ye be not judged; but, nevertheless, I cannot but say that I see the hand of God in this punishment."
"How would you like a game of ten-pins?" said Felix, who had been standing in the open door, and who had heard nothing of the conversation.
"With pleasure," replied the professor; "I understand all about those balls. I used to be great at ten-pins when I was a student at Grunwald."
"After coffee, dear Felix," said the baroness; "I have to talk with Mr. Jager about some important business.--Is it not terrible, dear Mr. Jager, that we must have a pupil of this abominable man in our own house? That I should have to leave the innocent soul of my poor child in such hands? For Heaven's sake advise me, what must I do to get rid of the man in a decent way?"
"You cannot send him off unceremoniously?"
"We are mutually bound for four years, and therefore if we----"
"I see, I see," said the professor, who was fully aware of Anna Maria's avarice; "hm, hm! We must find out some good reason! There is a law which requires tutors, who are at the same time candidates for the ministry, to obtain testimonials from the nearest minister, showing their good standing as to morals, etc. We might make it very difficult for Mr. Stein to obtain such a certificate," and the reverend gentleman smiled cunningly.
"Do you know the last news?" cried Felix, holding a note in his hand, which one of the servants had just brought him, as coffee was served in the bower; "Cloten is engaged to little Emily; here he sends me, as his best friend, the first information; others will not hear of it till to-morrow."
"I can beat you there," said the professor; "who do you think, madam, returned last night?"
"Well?"
"Frau von Berkow."
"Impossible!"
"I am quite sure of it. She has, in compliance with her husband's wishes, brought his body to be interred at Berkow. The coffin will arrive to-night, and to-morrow I shall hold the usual services."
"Then we cannot invite the fair lady to our ball to-morrow?" asked Felix.
"But, Felix!" said the baroness, with a reproachful glance.
"Coffee is served," announced the servant.
"Then let us go in," said the baroness.
In the mean time Oswald had spent some sad, anxious hours at Bruno's bedside. He had noticed of late Bruno's excited state of mind, and felt deeply concerned about it. Explosions of violent passion, such as Oswald had witnessed when he first came, but which had then almost entirely disappeared for a time, had now again become more frequent and violent than ever. A contradiction, a failure, a slighting remark at table from the baroness, were sufficient to unchain the demon. In vain had Oswald begged and besought him to control his temper, which exposed him to the attacks of his adversaries and prevented his friends from defending him--"I cannot help it," was his invariable answer; "it is a power I cannot resist. It boils up within me, it gnaws at my heart, it beats in my temples, and then I do not know any longer what I am saying or doing."--If Oswald replied that he was not in earnest with his efforts to control himself, Bruno answered angrily: Well, scold me as the rest of them do; make common cause with them. I do not want lukewarm friends; he who is not for me is against me.--Then, when he saw how he had hurt Oswald's feelings by such speeches, he would throw himself passionately into his arms and beg his pardon amid burning tears.--Have pity on me, he said. You do not know how thoroughly wretched I am.--In vain that Oswald urged him to tell him what it was that oppressed him.--I do not know myself, Bruno replied; I only wish I were far, for away from here, never to return any more; and then, again, I do not want to go, not for anything in the world; I do not know what it is; I believe I should like best to be dead.
Oswald tried his best to find out what could be the cause of this strange state of mind; but, though often on the point of discovery, he never found out the real mystery, which the poor boy concealed in his innermost heart, perhaps from himself as much as from others. It is a well-known fact, that even clever men often commit the strangest blunders in their judgment of those who are nearest to them, while others, at a distance, see clearly and distinctly. Impossible! exclaims a father, who is told what a bad son he has; impossible! cries a brother, when he first hears that his sister has engaged herself to his best friend. At times we are blinded by affection, at other times by antipathy; here it is indifference which makes us ignore a miracle that happens before our eyes; there it is noble shame which makes us cast down our eyes in order not to see a cheek blushing with guilt. No prophet is accepted in his own country, and in most cases the heart of one brother is to the other a book sealed with seven seals.
Thus it was the case here. Oswald consoled himself with the thought that the years of transition from boyhood to manhood were always an age of storms, within and without, and that strong, passionate characters like Bruno's must, of course, suffer more than others. He knew, from frequent conversations on such subjects, that Bruno's mind was a noble one, and that his heart was pure "as the heart of waters." He was, therefore, quite reassured on this score; but he did not suspect that Bruno, noble and pure as he was, loved his beautiful cousin with all the power of his strong heart, with all the fire of youthful passion, with the unbounded happiness of a first attachment, with the silent despair of a first passion which is not returned and cannot be returned.
He had never before seen Helen. When he was brought to the house of his relatives, three years ago, the young girl had already been sent to the boarding-school. They mentioned her very rarely in the family, and when they did so, it was with a few cool words only--a circumstance which probably excited Bruno's attention. With that sympathy which the poor have for the poor, and the forsaken for the forsaken, he felt instinctively that she was, like himself, a sufferer and an outcast. Gradually he formed in his mind a kind of ideal form of the absent beauty, an image of all that his fancy could suggest. The very name of Helen had something intoxicating for him, like the perfume of a hyacinth, and contributed still farther to make this ideal image dear to him. Then there had come a time when Aunt Berkow had for a while usurped the throne in his heart, becoming to him the personification of all that is highest and fairest in woman; when a kind word of Melitta, a simple: You dear boy! or a passing caress from her soft white hand could have sent him to brave every kind of deadly danger. It was just at the time when Oswald first came to Grenwitz, that this enthusiasm for Aunt Berkow had been at its highest. He had treated Melitta's son like a younger brother, as he was in the habit of treating the mother, in her youthful beauty, like an elder sister. Melitta used in those days to come quite frequently to Grenwitz, and to bring Julius, and Bemperlein, always mindful of his pupil's interests and pleasures, did all in his power to foster this intercourse; thus Bruno had constant opportunities of seeing Aunt Berkow, of rendering her a hundred little services, to wait on her like a page, when she mounted her horse or wanted somebody to hold her hat, her gloves, or her riding-whip. Aunt Berkow was in those days incessantly on his lips, and Oswald had had no objection to his telling him countless stories, in which Aunt Berkow invariably played the principal part Melitta had no doubt contributed largely to the rapid development of the boy, who passed in a few months through stages which detain less fiery characters for years. It is a very common error which women commit, to fancy that they can treat boys, who are almost men already, still as children, and permit them certain liberties which, a year hence, would be utterly inadmissible. They do not bear in mind that a young man's heart is, at that age, in a state of morning dawn, which may be disturbed by the slightest touch--a slow fire, glimmering almost unseen in the green wood, which the least puff of wind may fan into a blaze. They would be distressed if they were told that they had, in all innocence, destroyed the innocence of a friend, and yet that is but too often what they are doing.
Melitta saw herself, at last, that she could no longer put Bruno on the same footing with Julius, or even with Malte, as she had done heretofore, and when she now was speaking of the "boys," she meant exclusively the latter two. She had commenced treating Bruno like a friend or a younger brother; like a page who for the present does woman's service, but who at need may be called upon to show his brave heart and his strong arm. And indeed Bruno was so powerfully built that in any personal conflict the odds would have been with him as a matter of course. The classic statue of a Mercury, a Bacchus, or a youthful Faun could not have been more symmetrically formed or more delicately modelled than Bruno's lithe and yet powerful figure. His mere walk was a pleasure to an experienced eye. Oswald, whom nature had endowed with a keen sense of the beautiful, was delighted when he saw Bruno, before taking his bath near the sea-shore, leap lightly from rock to rock, with an accuracy which admitted of no doubt or fear, and then plunge headlong into the waves from the last projecting cliff. Bruno, in fact, knew no danger, and refused to see it where others trembled. Whenever a venture, was to be risked, from which everybody shrank, when a runaway horse was to be checked, a cherry to be reached on the topmost branch of a tree, or a ditch to be leaped which seemed to be impassable--Bruno would undertake it at once; he trembled with eagerness, his cheeks burnt, he cast imploring glances at those he loved, and they could not refuse him. They let him go, for they knew he could do more than others. Such was Bruno: a youth rather than a boy, with a fire in his heart that could have warmed a world.
Thus he saw Helen.
And all the melodies that had been slumbering within him awoke, and all that he dreamt of as most lovely and beautiful, stood bodily before him. The boy hardly trusted his own eyes; he was dazzled, almost intoxicated; he was like a person who awakes from a beautiful dream to a still more beautiful reality, and dares not speak, or breathe, in order not to lose what he thinks may be merely an illusion of his senses. Thus when the family first returned he went about the house as in a dream, mild and kind towards everybody, contrary to his usual manner. But then the blissful dream vanished, and his delight at the glorious reality became almost painful. He had never been at peace with himself, and his heart had ever been heavy; now he became the victim of unceasing restlessness, which deprived him of sleep, and hunger and thirst, which burnt within him like a fierce fever, and his poor heart felt like a man who carries what is dearest to him on earth on his shoulders, trying to escape from the enemy, and dreading every moment to be overtaken and spoilt. He dared not utter Helen's name for fear of betraying himself; he dared not open his eyes before her, and yet he saw everything that happened, and the plan of the baroness was no secret to him. His hatred of Felix was boundless, and he took no pains to conceal his feelings. He defied the roué on every occasion by scornful or satirical remarks, always hoping Felix would at last take up the gauntlet; but the ex-lieutenant, like most people who despise the world and themselves, submitted to much, and replied to the boy's sarcasm with more or less clever witticisms, so that he always kept the laugh on his side. And then he had, on the other hand, far too good an opinion of himself to enter into a serious contest with an adversary whom he thought so far beneath himself. Matters would not have come to a point, even on the preceding night, if he had not been so very angry with Bruno, or if Bruno had expressed himself a little less violently.
And Felix might have congratulated himself that he had escaped so well from the encounter. He had been nearer to death than he thought. Bruno had been maddened by the events of the last days, and Felix's brutal treatment made the vessel of his indignation and hatred to overflow. And now that the lava stream had once broken through the crater, what could stop it on its destructive course? While Bruno was for a moment contending with Felix, and as he knelt on his breast, there was but one bloody red thought in the darkness of his soul: that Felix must die by his hand; that God had delivered him into his hand so that he might, at any cost, free the woman he worshipped from the monster he abhorred. A few minutes, a few seconds, perhaps, and Felix would never have risen again.
Just then Bruno had been startled in his terrible thoughts by a cry close by him. Looking up, he had caught a glimpse of a female figure, which he had at first taken for Helen. He had released his victim and risen. The person had moved away; he had followed her till she had vanished in the direction of the offices, and he had found out his mistake. To fall once more upon his enemy, after having abandoned him, seemed to be unmanly to him; he saw how Felix rose at last, after several painful efforts. That had contented him; he had stolen away to his chamber and his bed, his soul free from the guilt of murder. And yet he was as much excited as if he had shed blood. His heart was beating, his pulse went quick, and burning heat and cold chills alternated with each other. The confused image of the scene of his conflict ever presented itself to his mind, and the triumph of having conquered his deadly enemy was sadly embittered by the recollection that, after all, Helen was not free yet. This caused him far more suffering than the violent pains he felt in his side as soon as he became quiet again; they would not cease; on the contrary, they grew worse and worse, and seemed to spread from the small point where they had first commenced in all directions.
It was a long, painful night for the unfortunate boy, this short summer night. Towards morning his exhaustion made him fall into a state which only differed from waking by the increased horrors that filled his brain. He started up, aroused by pain; he tried to rise in order to wake Oswald, who slept next door (Malte had been sleeping down stairs for some weeks), but he could not. At last--his pride resisted for a long time--he called Oswald's name. A few moments more and Oswald was by his bedside.
He started as he saw the boy, whose face was sadly disfigured by his sufferings. His black hair hung in dishevelled locks over his pale face; his dark eyes had sunk deep into the head and were burning with fever.
"Give me some water!" said Bruno, as soon as he saw Oswald.
"For heaven's sake, what does this mean, Bruno?" cried Oswald, while the boy was eagerly draining the glass he had handed him. "Why did you not call me before? you never yet have had so bad an attack."
"It is not one of my usual attacks," said Bruno; "but it will soon pass; I am better already. Don't trouble yourself, Oswald; when I am lying on my side I feel it much less, hardly at all. It was only so bad during the night; now that you are here, and the sun shines, it will be better directly."
"Somebody must go for Doctor Braun directly," said Oswald, starting up.
"No, no!" Bruno begged; "don't do that. You know how I dislike that. Nobody is up yet in the house, I am sure; you would only have your trouble for nothing, and then--I want to ask you something. Come, sit down again on the bed. I feel I shall not be able to get up, and this letter must reach Helen at once."
Oswald thought Bruno was delirious; he felt his pulse instinctively.
Bruno smiled. It was a sad smile.
"No, no!" he said. "Don't fear; I am perfectly conscious; just listen, and you will see that what I say is quite clear and coherent."
Bruno then reminded Oswald that he had said from the beginning Felix had come to win Helen. Until yesterday he had had no absolute proof of this, but since yesterday he was sure of it. He told him then how he had in the afternoon sauntered down to his favorite place in the garden, the old chapel, where he was wont to indulge in his reveries, and how voices near by had roused him from the slumber into which he had fallen during the heat of the day. He explained to him the manner in which he had obtained possession of the letter, and how his desire to return it at night to Helen, when she was, as usual, playing near the open window, had brought about his encounter with Felix.
These passionate but clear and convincing words made naturally a profound impression on Oswald. To-morrow, then, the fearful sacrifice was to be made, and yet she herself knew probably nothing of it. They evidently wished to take her by surprise--to force her to make a promise which she would afterwards be too proud to take back again. And what could this letter mean, which was evidently directed in Helen's handwriting, and had been sealed with her signet ring--how could the baroness lose her daughter's letter? It was not difficult to see that there was treason in this, and that it was absolutely necessary to return the letter to Helen, so that she might know the weapons with which she was to be attacked, and might be enabled to prepare herself for the impending crisis. The only question was, how the letter could reach Helen? Bruno wanted Oswald to carry it himself to her, and to tell her at the same time what Bruno had heard during the conversation of the baroness with Felix. But Oswald declared such a thing utterly out of question; Bruno, as a near relative and acknowledged favorite, might risk such an indiscretion, but he, a stranger, could not possibly venture to allude to such delicate matters.
"But," cried Bruno, "I thought you were her friend, I thought you were fond of her? And yet here her whole life and happiness are at stake, and you refuse to help her because it is not etiquette to do this and that! Just think of it--if they make her say yes! It will drive me mad; I shall not survive it."
"And yet, Bruno, I cannot speak about such a matter,--not I."
"Why not you?"
"Because--I told you, because I am a stranger; because she might say to me: Sir, what is that to you? I will give her the letter; it is her property, and she has a right to expect that the finder should restore it to her as soon as possible. Don't you see, too, that this one fact speaks volumes? She will know at once what she may expect from the other side, and the attack will find her forewarned."
"Then you will give her the letter?"
"Yes, I will, and at once. I presume she will come down to take her usual morning walk. But how are you?"
"Better, much better!" said Bruno, suffering agonizing pain, but fearing Oswald might lose his opportunity to see Helen, "much better! If I press my hand to my side thus, I hardly feel any pain. Make haste and go into the garden and listen! Give her my love and don't tell her I am sick! Say I am a little unwell--you know I am not really sick."
The boy sank back on his bed and tried to smile at Oswald. But it was a smile full of pain, and when the door had closed behind Oswald, Bruno hid his face in the pillows to smother his deep groans, the effect of his heart's anguish as much as of his bodily pain.
Oswald had in vain waited for Helen long after the hour at which she usually came down into the garden. To-day she came not. He went repeatedly past her window, but without seeing her. At last, when the house began to be astir, he went back to Bruno, who was looking for him impatiently. Bruno was beside himself when he heard of Oswald's failure, and Oswald tried in vain to convince him that the baroness and Felix would, in all probability, postpone the execution of their plan to the last moment, and that therefore to-morrow morning would be time enough for the letter to reach Helen.
"And now," said Oswald, "I must make arrangements to have the doctor sent for; I cannot bear the suspense about your condition any longer."
Unfortunately, Oswald's efforts remained fruitless. The baroness had sent a servant to tell him that "a wagon would go to town any way in the course of forenoon;" but the man had not dared to carry him such a message, and had told him a messenger would be sent at once. Thus he waited patiently till noon. Then the old baron came to inquire after Bruno. He had not heard whether anybody had yet gone to town, but he promised to send at once. The old gentleman had been quite angry at this "remissness." Oswald thought that now, surely, efforts would be made to get a physician. But one hour after another passed, the evening came, and no Doctor Braun appeared. He went down stairs to inquire himself what was the matter. "The wagon that had gone to town had just returned, but the doctor had been called away and would not return for twenty-four hours. Another physician had been recommended, but as the servant had received no orders for such a case, he had not dared to bring him." Oswald was incensed at such neglect. He went at once to the baron, whom he found with the rest of the company in the garden, and asked for a horse to ride himself to town, so that something might at last be done in the matter.
"I dislike leaving Bruno," he said, "but I see no other way."
"The sickness, I presume, is not so very serious," said Anna Maria.
"I can judge of that as little as you," replied Oswald, sharply; "it seems to me that Bruno is in a critical condition, and I consider it my duty to act accordingly, until somebody who understands such matters has taken his case in hand."
"Come," said the old baron, "we will send old Jake. You need not leave Bruno. Jake is an intelligent person. You can rely upon him."
Oswald bowed formally to the company and left with the baron.
"It is nice when a young man has such decided, self-assured manners," said the Reverend Mr. Jager, ironically.
"The Apollo of Belvedere," said Primula, ironically, or under the inspiration of poetic ecstasy.
"I fancy His Highness will shortly come down from his pedestal," said Felix.
"Strict masters do not rule long," said the baroness, with a look of intelligence at the professor, which the latter answered with a cunning wink of his right eye over his spectacles.
"Bruno has all the time something the matter with him," said Malte, powdering his strawberries with sugar.
Helen said nothing. She sat quiet, fixing her eyes upon the ground. Then she rose and went, without saying a word out of the bower and towards the castle.
"You are coming back, Helen?" Anna Maria called after her.
"I hardly think I shall," replied Helen, turning round; "I feel rather cool out here."
She went on. The baroness and Felix exchanged significative glances.
Jake went to town and came promptly back to say that he had been unable to secure the other town physician also, who had been sent for to a great distance to set a broken arm. They had, however, promised to let the doctor know as soon as he returned, and thought he would certainly come out as soon as he possibly could.
Oswald found it hard to rest contented, but what could he do? Bruno's condition was much the same. The pain was perhaps less acute, but it had spread over a larger surface. He tried his best to calm Oswald, whose anxiety increased as hour after hour passed and no medical assistance came to his relief. "It is nothing; I'll be better to-morrow. I am much more troubled about the letter than about my sickness. Could you not try, Oswald, to throw it through the open window into her room? That is what I wanted to do yesterday. If you should meet Felix, you can tell him to remember last night, and you'll see how he will run; or rather, say nothing, but do what I ought to have done, and kill him at once."
At last, when all hope was abandoned, a doctor came. It was an old man, whom the repeated calls of the day had made impatient, and who murmured something about "trifling complaints, not worth troubling old men with," through his teeth. He scarcely looked at Bruno, said it was nothing, and promised to come again next day, when he would bring a lotion.
"Now we are as wise as before," said Oswald, when the doctor had left them again.
"I told you there was nothing the matter with me. Go to bed, Oswald, you need sleep as much as I do."
But neither of them found any rest that night. Oswald had had his sofa moved by the side of Bruno's bed, and did not undress, so as to be ready at any moment. Bruno's condition remained the same; only his restlessness increased and he wanted continually to drink. Towards morning Oswald had fallen asleep; Bruno waked him when the sun was about an hour above the horizon.
"Oswald, I cannot let you sleep any longer, sorry as I am for it. You must go into the garden; it is high time. If you cannot find Helen to-day I shall have to get up myself to give her back her letter, and if it should be my death."
"How do you feel?"
"Better."
"You always say so!"
"Make haste!"
Oswald went into the garden and up the wall where he had met the beautiful girl so many mornings when his heart was light. But he had never felt sadder than he did this morning. Bruno's sickness, the impending catastrophe in the family drama, whose gradual progress he had watched with such painful interest, and in which he saw himself now compelled to play the unpleasant part of go-between--all this weighed heavily on his soul and kept him from enjoying the beautiful morning. He saw neither the warm sunlight nor the bluish shadows of the morning; the perfume of countless flowers, the whirling and dancing of myriads of merry insects, and the jubilees of joyous birds in the trees, all left him untouched. The flowers would not restore his beloved to health, and the birds could not attract Helen!
But see there! Her dress was shining through the trees and the shrubs on the other side. It must be she. She was walking more rapidly, now she had noticed him; she evidently wished to speak to him.
"God be thanked that I find you at last," she said, from a distance, already; "I have not closed my eyes all night long from care and anxiety. He is better--is he not? You would not have left him if he were not, I am sure!"
"He is better, at least Bruno says so. But I fear he is anything but well. You know he is a hero in endurance."
"Yes, indeed," said Helen. "I love him as I love my brother, no--much more than my brother. I cannot bear the thought of losing him. You cannot imagine how it troubles me to know that he is suffering."
"He is not less troubled about you," said Oswald.
"How so?" asked Helen, fixing her large eyes interrogatively on Oswald's face.
"I do not wish to lose the precious moments of this interview by a long introduction," said Oswald "This letter which I hold in my hand, evidently directed in your handwriting, was found night before last by Bruno near the old chapel, directly after a conversation between the baroness and Felix. Bruno, who happened to be in the chapel, had not well been able to avoid hearing it all. He has requested me to return your property to you. I need not tell you that it has been held sacred from the moment it fell into Bruno's hands."
Helen's embarrassment had increased with every word spoken by Oswald. Her beautiful face now blazed up crimson, and now turned ghastly pale. Her bosom rose, her hand trembled as she took the letter from the young man's hand, recognizing it at the first glance as her own letter written to Mary Burton. Horror at the treachery by which she had been victimized; maidenly shame at seeing her innermost feelings thus profaned, and indignation at the consciousness that somebody, whoever it might be, had been made aware how disgracefully she was treated by her family, by her own mother--all these feelings rushed at once upon her like a hurricane, that threatened utterly to overwhelm her.
And it was this last sense of insulted pride which first found expression.
"I thank you," she said, rising to her full stately height, "for your zeal to serve me. But you and Bruno have probably attached greater importance to the matter than it deserves. I have on purpose kept this letter, because it contained several things which mature reflection made me desirous should not be made known; I have probably dropped it unawares. I remember I was near the chapel night before last; I----"
She could not continue; the tears she had repressed so long gushed forth irresistibly and rolled down her cheeks. She turned aside, as if she felt she could no longer control herself, and beckoned Oswald to leave her alone.
Oswald was probably not less indignant than Helen. His whole love for the proud, beautiful girl, for whom he would have cheerfully given his life, and by whom he was in danger now of being so entirely misjudged, rose within him like a well of boiling water, and filled his bosom to overflowing. He would have liked to fall at her feet, to confess all he had so long concealed from her; but he controlled himself by a supernatural effort, and said, as calmly as he could:
"I assure you, Miss Helen, that this scene cannot be more painful to you than it is to me, and that I should not have given occasion for it, if Bruno's feverish impatience had allowed me any choice. I am grieved, deeply grieved at appearing in a false light before you; I apprehended at once, that it would be impossible for you to distinguish between the message and the messenger."
He bowed before the weeping girl and turned to go away.
"No, no!" she cried, stretching out her hand as if to retain him. "You must not leave me thus. Let those who have driven me to extremities answer for it if I am forced to expose the honor of my own family. Yes, you have rendered me a service, a very great service. This letter has fallen by treachery into the hands of those who have been so little able to preserve their booty. This letter separates me forever from them. But it shall not cut me off also from Bruno, whom I love dearly, nor from you, who have always been so kind and friendly. I have always looked upon you as a friend; always esteemed and honored you--how much so, you may learn from this letter. Read it if the whole world knows what I think of you, you may surely know it too."
And the young girl handed Oswald the letter. Her face was crimson, but not with anger or shame. Her dark eyes shone, but like the eyes of a heroine who is about to sacrifice herself for a holy cause.
"Read it, I tell you!" she said, with a peculiar smile, as Oswald stood gazing at her. "Fear not that I shall afterwards repent of it. I know your heart belongs to a friend who has returned yesterday. I do not ask you for anything but what I have already--your friendship. Read the letter, and when you have read it, burn it!"
Before Oswald could sufficiently recover from his boundless amazement at these strange words, to utter a single word, the young girl had already reached the courtyard below and was hurriedly walking through the rich parterres towards the château.
"What was that?" Oswald asked, trembling; "am I in a dream? Melitta has returned? And just now?--now? ha, ha, ha!"
It was a fearful laugh. Oswald started and looked around to see if anybody else had laughed, perhaps some grim demon enjoying his sufferings.
The letter was still in his hand. He felt as if to read it meant to lose Melitta entirely, and to cut the last tie that bound him to her. For a moment Helen appeared to him like a beautiful witch, who had come to tempt him.... If he should burn the letter without reading it? Might not then all come right? Might not Melitta remain his after all?
And while he was thinking this over, he had mechanically opened the letter and commenced reading it....
He had finished it.... he sat, his head resting in his hand, on the corner of the bench upon which he had sunk down unconsciously. Before him, on the green turf, bright lights and shadows were playing to and fro; in the thick foliage overhead the morning breeze was whispering, and birds were singing in subdued tones.... he saw it all, he heard it all, but he felt nothing, nothing but the one great fact, that if there ever had been a paradise for him on earth, he had been driven from that paradise forever.