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Castle Hohenwald: A Romance

by Adolf Streckfuss · English · Gutenberg #34892 · 668,237 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Castle Hohenwald: A Romance

Author: Adolf Streckfuss

Translator: A. L. Wister


        
Release date: January 9, 2011 [eBook #34892]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34892

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CASTLE HOHENWALD: A ROMANCE ***




Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive





Transcriber's Notes:
   1. Page scan source:
      http://www.archive.org/details/3429917

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].




                            CASTLE HOHENWALD


                               A ROMANCE


                            AFTER THE GERMAN
                                   OF
                           ADOLPH STRECKFUSS
                       AUTHOR OF "TOO RICH," ETC.




                          BY MRS. A. L. WISTER
    TRANSLATOR OF "THE OLD MAM'SELLE'S SECRET," "THE SECOND WIFE,"
             "TOO RICH," "MARGARETHE," "ONLY A GIRL," ETC.




                              PHILADELPHIA
                        J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
                                  1906






                           *   *   *   *   *
               Copyright, 1879, by J. B. Lippincott & Co.
                           *   *   *   *   *
                   Copyright, 1906, by A. L. Wister.






                           CASTLE HOHENWALD.




                               CHAPTER I.


The music ceased. The gentlemen led their partners to their various
chaperones, and then crowded out upon the balcony to enjoy the cool
spring breeze, giving no attention to the remonstrances of their host,
the President, who, when he found how little heed was paid to his
warning against imprudence, turned away, declaring to his friend the
colonel that there really was nothing to be done with the heedless
young people of the present day. "They trifle with their health as if
their nerves were of iron and illness impossible," he added, a little
out of humour, perhaps, at the neglect of his advice.

"Why then, old friend, do you give a ball in April?" the colonel asked,
laughing.

"Could I help being born on the 20th of April? My son and daughter
insist upon my keeping up the old custom and celebrating the occasion
by a ball. This year it is perfect folly, but then no one could
foretell this early warm spring."

"Come, never trouble yourself about those young people; my officers
have often braved more sudden changes of temperature in the field
without being any the worse."

"But the Assessor? His constitution is none of the strongest."

"And suppose he does take cold; 'twill do him no harm. Come, come, let
the young people alone. We were once not a whit more prudent
ourselves."

And as he spoke the colonel took his old friend's arm and led him back
into the ball-room, while the young officers upon the balcony, who had
overheard all that had been said, laughingly grouped themselves about
the Assessor, rallying him upon the anxiety with regard to his health
manifested by the President.

"The President is right," said a black-bearded cuirassier, inclining
his tall figure towards the slightly-built Assessor. "You ought to take
care of yourself, my dear Assessor; the sensitive nature of which you
so often tell us can never endure what our coarser constitutions brave
with impunity. Put an end to the anxiety of your future father-in-law
and leave the balcony, I beseech you."

"Herr von Saldern, I beg----"

"Do not make the fair Adele a widow before she is a wife," chimed in
another officer.

"Herr von Arnim, such remarks are very much out of place. It is true
that I am peacefully disposed. I make no boast of it, for the gifts of
nature----"

"Are variously distributed," Herr von Arnim interrupted the Assessor by
completing his sentence. "Do we not frequently hear from your own lips
how lavishly mother nature has endowed you, denying you the gift of a
robust constitution alone? Spare your precious health,--preserve
yourself for the fair Adele, and for us, your tenderly attached
friends; follow the kind President's advice."

The Assessor gazed helplessly at the laughing faces about him; he was
the only civilian among these reckless young fellows, and he knew that
any serious remonstrance would but provoke anew Arnim's love of chaff.
The more prudent part was to laugh too and yield the field. This he
did, leaving the balcony and re-entering the ball-room.

To his astonishment he here recognized an acquaintance whom he had not
met for a long time, and he hastened across the room to greet him,
doubly pleased, since, if Arnim should chance to rally him upon his
flight, he could now declare that he had left the balcony to welcome
the arrival of Count Styrum.

The Count, a man of about the age of thirty years, was standing in the
background of the ball-room, in the doorway of one of the antechambers,
thoughtfully contemplating the brilliant scene. The elite of the large
provincial town was assembled in the President's rooms to-night, men
high in office, with their wives and daughters, the officers of the
garrison, and the most aristocratic of the county gentry.

The President enjoyed giving splendid entertainments, and his wealth
and position entirely justified him in gratifying his taste in this
direction. The hospitalities of his house were quite famous,--his balls
had been mentioned with favour by royalty itself,--had not the Prince,
upon a visit to the town, accepted an invitation to one of these
birthday fetes, and declared afterwards that he had never attended a
more brilliant entertainment or seen a more charming collection of
lovely women?

Count Styrum, too, thought that he had rarely seen so many lovely faces
assembled in one room, and he gazed with delight at the charming groups
laughing and jesting on all sides, wondering while he gazed whom he
should pronounce fairest among so many that were fair. His doubt on
this head vanished, however, as his eye fell upon a young girl seated
upon a low divan near him.

He was quite lost for a moment in admiration of her beauty; the
features might, it is true, have been more regular, but the face was
indescribably lovely and attractive. The slightly pouting lips could
surely smile charmingly, although now there were pensive lines about
the mouth which accorded well with the melancholy expression of the
large and eloquent brown eyes.

The Count felt an immediate and lively interest in this lovely girl; he
had never seen her before, and yet he longed to know why she, the
fairest among this gay throng, should look so sad and take apparently
so little interest in what was going on around her.

She could hardly number twenty years; could she be preyed upon by any
secret grief? What was she thinking of at this moment? Scarcely of the
whispered words of the man on the low seat beside her, for she never
looked at him, and even turned away from him with a gesture betokening
that his conversation was anything but agreeable to her.

"I see I am right! It is really yourself, my dear Count. I thought you
were in Rome or Naples, and am most heartily delighted to welcome you
here!"

It was thus that the Assessor addressed the Count, who, in
contemplation of the beautiful girl on the divan, had not noticed his
approach. Now, however, he held out his hand, saying, not unkindly, and
with a smile, "You here in the provinces, my dear Hahn? I had not
expected to meet the lion of the metropolis here; how does it happen?"

The Assessor, greatly flattered by the question, conceitedly twirled
his light moustache and tried to look as much as possible like a
flaxen-haired lion of the metropolis; not very successfully, however.
His face would look boyish in spite of the moustache, and his head
barely reached to his distinguished friend's shoulder, as he replied,
"I have been here two years. Just after your departure, when I had
passed my third examination, I was appointed to the post of assessor
here. It is true that we forego much in the provinces, where however
the heart finds truer contentment than amid the whirl of the capital,
and therefore I am abundantly satisfied with my present life, which,
unfortunately, I must shortly resign, for I am ordered to Altstadt. It
is difficult to tear one's self away from loved surroundings and
companionship. I am endowed with more than my share of sensibility, I
know; not that I would make a boast of it, for it is mine from the hand
of nature, and her gifts are variously bestowed."

A smile hovered upon the Count's lips as he replied, "I am glad to find
you unchanged, my dear Hahn. Of course you are entirely at home in this
society, where I am a total stranger. Not a soul in the room do I know
except my uncle Guntram and my cousins Adele and Heinrich. You will
tell me who all these delightful people are."

"With pleasure. I know all your uncle's guests. You know the poetry of
my nature. I make no boast; nature's gifts are various, but as a poet
nothing interests me more than the study of human feeling and
aspiration. You have applied to the right quarter for information with
regard to the character and circumstances of all these people."

"I am sure of it. I have always admired your obliging amiability no
less than your profound study of character."

"You do me honour. I am obliging by nature, but I make no boast of it.
Question me; I am quite at your service."

"To put you instantly to the test, tell me who is the charming girl
dressed simply but elegantly in white, there, on the divan to my left,
with brown hair and the wreath of snow-drops; the beautiful creature
who evidently cares not one whit for all that the fellow with the black
beard, leaning over her, is pouring so eagerly into her ear."

The Assessor listened with a smile to this enthusiastic description.
"Evidently hit, my dear Count," he said.

"Not at all; but the melancholy on that charming face interests me
excessively."

"Poor Frau von Sorr! She may well be melancholy."

"Frau? Impossible! You do not know whom I mean."

"Ah! yes I do. No one could fail to know from your description, and it
is not to be wondered at that you take Frau von Sorr for a young
girl: it is the same with every one who first sees her. She is just
twenty-two and looks much younger."

"And the man talking to her is, I suppose, her husband."

"Not at all. That is Count Repuin, an enormously wealthy Russian, a
bosom-friend of Herr von Sorr, and a gambler and spendthrift, who
throws away his money by thousands. They say Herr von Sorr knows how to
pick it up, and that is the secret of the friendship between them, and
also why Sorr allows Repuin to pay such court to his wife."

"And does she encourage it?" Count Styrum asked. "How deceived one may
be by a face! I thought hers so innocent and refined in expression."

"And the expression does not belie her," the Assessor rejoined. "Herr
von Sorr is a despicable fellow enough, and bears the worst possible
reputation; but scandal itself could not touch his charming wife. It is
only on her account that he is endured in society in spite of his
notorious past and his more than doubtful present. Your uncle would
never have invited him here to-night except for the sake of his wife,
who is the dearest friend of Fraeulein Adele."

"But the Russian----"

"Is desperately in love with her. He throws away incredible sums upon
her worthless husband, while she sternly refuses to accept any of his
attentions. My observation is naturally very keen. I make no boast of
it, but it is; and I am convinced that at this moment that poor woman
is suffering agonies because, without exciting observation, and for the
sake of her good-for-nothing husband, she cannot repulse that fellow
indignantly."

The Assessor's words increased the interest with which the beautiful
Frau von Sorr had inspired the Count, and it was still further
heightened by a little scene that passed unobserved by any eyes in the
ball-room except his own and the Assessor's.

Frau von Sorr, who had hitherto endured, rather than heard, in perfect
silence what her neighbour was saying to her, never even varying by a
look the cold indifference of her bearing, suddenly turned upon him
eyes flashing with indignation. The delicate colour in her cheek
deepened to crimson, the beautiful lips unclosed as if to speak, when
suddenly second thoughts seemed to assert their sway, and rising, with
a look of inexpressible contempt at Repuin, she turned from him and
walked slowly across the ball-room to join a group of young girls
gathered about the daughter of the house, Adele von Guntram.

"What does that mean, do you think?" Count Styrum asked the Assessor.

"It means that the fellow went too far, and she turned her back upon
him."

"Poor young creature! she interests me, and I must hear more of her;
pray tell me, my dear Hahn, what you know of her husband."

"Certainly. What I know everybody knows, and there can be no
indiscretion in relating it; for the world I would not be indiscreet.
In fact, I am discretion itself. I make no boast of it, but I am. Of
course I may tell you what all the world knows. Well, then, Herr von
Sorr is utterly worthless. In the last few years he has squandered his
own considerable property and his wife's fortune upon all sorts of
follies, and worse, in the capital. What he now lives upon no one
knows. All sorts of strange stories are told about that. They may not
all be true, of course, but there must be some foundation for them,
since Lieutenant von Arnim lately declared that he would not play when
Herr von Sorr kept the bank, and that he did not like to have him for
next neighbour when he kept it himself, for it was so disagreeable to
have to keep a sharp eye upon the pile of money before him."

"Rather strong, I should say."

"It was indeed; but no one expressed any surprise at Arnim's
declaration; indeed, I heard it whispered that one night when he sat
next Sorr at play a hundred-thaler note had unaccountably disappeared;
as I said, the man's character, or want of it, is such that were it not
for his lovely wife every respectable house in the town would be closed
against him."

"But how did the fellow come to have so lovely a wife?"

"Six years ago, when he married Fraeulein Lucie Ahlborn, his reputation
was good; he was held to be a wealthy man of rank, and such he was,
although even then he had squandered a large part of his property. Herr
Ahlborn, his wife's father, was a rich manufacturer; he never thought
of saying 'no' when Sorr applied for his daughter's hand,--he was
probably flattered by the proposal,--and if he thought the young man
rather wild, supposed that marriage would cure all that. Fraeulein
Ahlborn brought her husband a fine estate, which she had inherited from
her mother."

"Was she forced into the marriage by her father?"

"Not at all. I do not know that she was very devoted to her bridegroom,
but possibly she was, for he was a handsome enough young fellow,--his
wild life has told upon him now,--but then he might easily have
captivated the fancy of a girl of sixteen. This I grant, although I was
a student then, visiting very frequently at Herr Ahlborn's, and a
little in love with the fair Lucie myself, which did not prepossess me
in favour of my fortunate rival. Neither I nor any one else dreamed
that Sorr would ever sink so low as he has done. Everybody thought the
match an excellent one, and regretted that the charming couple withdrew
to the retirement of Frau von Sorr's estate to enjoy their conjugal
felicity. Their seclusion, however, did not last longer than a few
months. They then returned to town, where Sorr played like a madman,
kept a costly racing stud, and spent huge sums upon a notorious
ballet-girl, scandalously neglecting his poor wife, who, however, bore
her sad fate with divine patience. Fortune dealt her its heaviest
blows, for she lost her father, with whom she might have sought a
refuge from her husband. Herr Ahlborn was ruined by the bankruptcy of a
large business firm, and failed. There might have been some composition
with his creditors, but being a man of an even exaggerated sense of
honour, he gave up everything. Not one of his creditors lost a penny,
but he forfeited his entire fortune. His business friends offered him
money and credit wherewith to re-open his manufactory, but he could not
endure the thought of beginning life again in a place where he had
occupied so high a position. He became gloomy and misanthropic, even
refusing to accept assistance from his daughter, who would gladly have
given it to him. Taking with him but a small sum of money, the remnant
of his large fortune, he left the scene of his former activity,
ostensibly to sail for America. They say he never took leave of one of
his old friends, but went, without even bidding good-bye to his
daughter. This was more than four years ago, and nothing has since been
heard of him; he has never written to his daughter, and she does not
even know the name of the vessel in which he sailed from Germany.
Shortly before his departure he declared that he would either return as
a wealthy man or not at all. If he really went to America, which is
doubtful, he may not have been successful; perhaps he is dead,--no one
knows anything about him. His daughter mourned him deeply; but she soon
needed to mourn still more deeply for herself for her miserable
husband, after spending all his own fortune, did the same by hers,
mortgaging her estate until it had to be sold. Since that took place,
how he lives is a mystery. I have told you some of the current
explanations of it, and I am sure you must now find it very natural
that there should be an expression of melancholy upon Frau von Sorr's
lovely face."

The doors of the adjoining supper-room were here opened, and the
Assessor broke off his long narrative, saying, "Excuse me, my dear
Count, for leaving you, but duty calls. Your charming cousin, Fraeulein
Adele, has promised to allow me to take her to supper."

And bowing, he hurried towards the group of ladies, of which Adele was
the centre. He need not have been in any haste, however, for she
herself, accompanied by Frau von Sorr, advanced to meet him, saying,
with an enchanting smile that transported the little man to the seventh
heaven, "I have a request to make of you, Herr von Hahn, and I am sure
you will grant it."

"Ask what you will, Fraeulein Adele. You cannot ask what I shall not be
proud to grant."

"I will not put your amiability to any severe test," she rejoined; "the
fulfilment of my request brings with it its own reward. Pray take my
dear Lucie, instead of myself, in to supper."

The Assessor was not altogether charmed, since he had engaged his fair
partner for supper a week previously; but he was too courteous to allow
a shade of disappointment to appear in his countenance, and his
momentary annoyance vanished when Adele continued, "We must be
neighbours at supper, however; keep two places for me at your table,
and I will follow you with my cousin, Count Styrum, who, not knowing
the customs of our house, has, I fear, engaged no one to go with him to
supper."

The Assessor was made supremely happy by her words and manner. Never
had this charming creature, to whom for the time he was devoted heart
and soul, treated him with such a degree of amiable confidence. He knew
better than any one else how far he was from the attainment of his
hopes, and therefore the badinage of his military friends had for him a
peculiar sting; but now on a sudden his fair one's manner was such as
seemed to him to justify his aspirations.

It was the custom at the President's to have the supper-room arranged
with many small tables, accommodating each from four to eight persons,
at which the guests seated themselves in groups selected among
themselves beforehand. This obviated the necessity for caution lest the
rules of precedence should be infringed,--a very important
consideration in a provincial town,--and greatly promoted the ease and
comfort of the guests.

With his head proudly erect, the Assessor conducted Frau von Sorr into
the adjoining room, into which other couples were thronging. He soon
found an unoccupied table, and was looking round for Count Styrum and
Adele, when Count Repuin approached, and, without according him any
salute or attention, addressed Frau von Sorr. "Surely, madame, you
cannot have forgotten that you promised me the honour of your society
at supper?"

The Count uttered these words in a tone almost of menace, scarcely
consistent with the rules of polite society. He was, as was evident
from his flashing eyes and his dark frown, controlling himself with
difficulty, and the Assessor was very much embarrassed. He was
perfectly conscious of the obligation laid upon him to assert his right
to escort to supper Frau von Sorr, whose hand still rested upon his
arm, but such assertion was by no means easy,--the Russian's gleaming
black eyes were so wrathful, and just at the moment the Assessor could
not but remember the man's reputation as an unerring pistol-shot, and
his great readiness to send a challenge.

Poor Herr von Hahn! He had a most uncomfortable sensation about the
throat, somewhat as if his cravat had been suddenly tightened. He
cleared it, but could scarcely utter a word; nevertheless something
must be ventured, else what would Fraeulein Adele, what would all his
acquaintances say? "Count Repuin, excuse me, but I have the honour of
being this lady's escort----"

Count Repuin looked down upon him with undisguised contempt as he
rather stammered than uttered these words, and then haughtily replied,
with a coldness that was almost insulting, "I did not address you, sir.
It was not of your mistake that I spoke, but of Frau von Sorr's. Of
course you will yield me the right I desire as soon as madame accords
it to me."

"Which I shall not do," Frau von Sorr interposed.

She had relinquished the support of the Assessor's arm, and stood tall
and stately before the Count, meeting his eye with calm resolve,
evidently ready to brave his anger.

Repuin's face flushed crimson,--he bit his lip, and said, with forced
calmness, "Have you forgotten, madame, that by your husband's
permission I this morning requested to be allowed to conduct you to
supper to-night, and that you consented to my request?"

"I have forgotten nothing. Count Repuin, not even the words you
addressed to me a few moments ago; let me beg you to leave me."

"I refuse to yield my right," the Count angrily retorted. "If you deny
me thus, I must appeal to Herr von Sorr to support my claim."

"I think not, Count Repuin. My friend Frau von Sorr is, I trust, secure
from all insult beneath my father's roof."

The words were Adele von Guntram's. She had arrived, leaning upon Count
Styrum's arm, just in time to hear Repuin's angry threat, and now,
stepping to her friend's side, she turned to Count Repuin with a degree
of dignity and resolution that added much to the Assessor's already
great astonishment at such a manifestation on the part of so gentle and
amiable a girl, and said, "You have permitted yourself to be carried
away by your annoyance, Count, to the extent of addressing a lady in
terms inconsistent with our German ideas of courtesy. I must beg you to
apologise to my friend."

Count Repuin angrily compressed his lips, but he perfectly understood
that he had gone too far, and that upon this antagonist he had not
reckoned. If he would not entirely lose the game he was playing he must
control himself, and, difficult although it might be, comply with
Adele's demand. He therefore smothered his rage, and, taking Adele's
hand and kissing it with respectful humility, he said, "You shame me,
Fraeulein von Guntram, yet I cannot but be grateful to you for recalling
me to a sense of the duty which, according not only to German ideas,
but also to those entertained in Russia and throughout the world, every
gentleman owes to a lady whom he has been so unfortunate as to offend.
I beg Frau von Sorr's pardon from my soul, and venture to hope for her
forgiveness, the more confidently as my irritation was the consequence
of my great disappointment at losing a pleasure which she will admit I
had some right to anticipate."

Frau von Sorr heeded his apology no more than his threat, but turned to
Adele, who replied to his words and farewell bow by a cool and
dignified curtsey.

As soon as he was out of hearing the young girl gave a sigh of relief
"Thank Heaven, he is gone! He actually terrifies me, and I had to
muster up all my courage to become my poor Lucie's defender. The man is
indescribably odious,--Russian from head to foot,--rough, coarse, and
brutally passionate one moment, courteous, smooth, and smiling the
next, but always false and untrustworthy. However, he has gone, and we
will not spoil our pleasure by thinking of him an instant longer.
Cousin Karl, let me present you to my dearest friend, Frau von Sorr. My
cousin, Count Karl Styrum, Lucie dear; and now let us enjoy our supper
together."




                              CHAPTER II.


Count Karl Styrum had never been very fond of large entertainment, and
had accepted his uncle the President's invitation on this evening only
because he did not wish to be rude to a relative whom he had not seen
for years. The ball had hitherto been rather a bore; he did not dance,
and, stranger as he was in this society, he took little interest in
watching others dance. The only figure that his eyes followed with any
pleasure in the waltz was his cousin Adele's, and he had intended to
slip from the room unobserved, when her gracious and cousinly
invitation to him to conduct her to supper frustrated his unsocial
plan.

He could not refuse so amiable a proposal, but he promised himself but
little entertainment in her society, since, although cousins, they were
now almost entire strangers to each other. He had last visited his
uncle, his mother's brother, ten years before, when Adele was a pretty
little girl with fair curls, whom he had made a pet of and called his
little sweetheart. In the busy years that ensued he had almost
forgotten her; indeed, he had hardly remembered her name. Now he had
come to M---- to arrange a personal adjustment with his uncle of a
lawsuit between them concerning an inherited estate. It had been the
cause of a not quite friendly correspondence, and the Count had not
looked forward to a renewal of intercourse with his relatives without
some misgivings. He was all the more pleased, therefore, by the
cordiality with which his uncle received him, and begged him to forget
the odious lawsuit entirely, except when it absolutely demanded
attention as a matter of business.

"I think, my dear Karl," the President said, when the Count first
presented himself at his house a few days before the birthday ball, "we
can manage to leave all quarrelling over mine and thine to our lawyers;
let us do all we can to aid in the settlement of the question, but if
this settlement be delayed, do not, for Heaven's sake, let it disturb
the friendliness of our relations with each other any more than should
our difference in politics, which latter, most unfortunately,
embittered your father towards me during the last years of his life; to
the day of his death he could not forgive me because we Prussians were
victorious in 1866. I trust that you, Saxon soldier though you be, are
more placable, and will reflect, as I do, that your dear mother was my
favourite sister, and that we loved each other faithfully as long
as she lived. It was not our fault, as we both thought, that our
grand-uncle involved us in a lawsuit by an ambiguous will."

Count Styrum could not possibly fail to reciprocate so kind an
expression of good will on his uncle's part. He did not, it is true,
accept the pressing invitation extended to him to leave the hotel and
make the President's house his home while in M----, but he promised to
spend every spare hour beneath his roof. He did this the more readily
since his cousins welcomed him as cordially as their father had done.
On Adele's part this amiability was certainly sincere, while Heinrich,
who was an assessor in his father's office, probably acted in mere
compliance with his father's wish in the matter. Adele was thoroughly
pleased with her cousin,--she knew nothing of the lawsuit, and cared
nothing for politics,--Karl was to her simply the son of an aunt whom
she had dearly loved, and with whom she could remember passing happy
weeks, in Dresden, in her childhood, when "Cousin Karl" had always been
so kind to her. During all the long years of absence she had never
forgotten him, and she treated him now with a degree of sisterly
familiarity which greatly pleased him. He would gladly have availed
himself of his uncle's kindness to pay frequent visits to his
relatives, but his stay in M---- was very short, and most of his time
was occupied in interviews with his lawyers, who would not listen to a
friendly adjustment of the matter in hand, so that until this evening
he had scarcely done more than exchange a few cursory remarks with
Adele. He had been favourably impressed by her frank and easy gayety of
manner, but she had not aroused in him any deeper interest, and he had
accepted with some reluctance her invitation to be her escort to
supper, since this would of necessity detain him longer than he had
proposed to stay at the ball. Suddenly, however, his feeling with
regard to her changed entirely, upon witnessing her spirited opposition
to Count Repuin. How beautiful she was as she confronted the Count with
indignation flashing from her eyes! and how lovely was the change in
her expression when she turned to her friend with such tender
affection! Involuntarily he compared the two young creatures before
him.

A few minutes previously he would have pronounced Frau von Sorr the
more beautiful of the two,--the most beautiful woman, indeed, whom he
had ever seen; but now there was no doubt that the golden-haired Adele,
with her earnest eyes sparkling with anger and then melting with
tenderness, was, if not the more beautiful, by far the more attractive.
It was strange that never until this instant had he been impressed by
this exquisite development of the pretty child into the lovely woman.

And now, when, after Count Repuin's departure, she gayly entreated her
friends to forget the unpleasant scene they had witnessed, and when,
seated at the supper-table, she did all that she could to dissipate
Frau von Sort's melancholy and win a smile from her, she seemed to her
cousin more enchanting than ever. She so managed the conversation that
neither Frau von Sorr, who could not soon forget what had just
occurred, nor the Assessor, who was rather ashamed of the part he had
played, was obliged to talk much, while Count Styrum was drawn on to
speak of his travels, and this all the more willingly as he felt he was
seconding Adele's efforts in so doing.

The Count had resigned from the army at the close of the war, and, that
he might be prepared for the management of the large estates to which
he was heir, had spent a year in attending the lectures at Tharandt.
Then, in company with a former comrade in the army, who had been his
fellow-student also, Baron Arno von Hohenwald, he had travelled for a
year in Belgium, Holland, England, and Italy, being finally called home
by the death of his father.

The Count was an admirable narrator as well as observer: no one could
throw more interest than he into the details of his travels, and on
this occasion he surpassed himself. Not only did Adele listen with
sparkling eyes, now and then asking an eager question, but Frau von
Sorr was gradually aroused to attention and interest. The Assessor
alone was very silent and not at all comfortable. In addition to the
mortifying consciousness that he had failed entirely to undertake the
defence of Frau von Sorr against Count Repuin, he could not help
experiencing a decided envy of Count Styrum, who was thus monopolizing
the conversation, and evidently making a favourable impression upon
Adele.

Although he enjoyed the proud consciousness that among the gifts with
which kind nature had endowed him, and of which he would not boast, a
talent for conversation which had frequently stood him in stead was
most conspicuous, here he was undeniably thrown into the background,
and this, too, in the presence of his adored Adele. He several times
attempted to divert the talk from these overrated adventures of travel,
but without success, until at last, upon the frequent mention by the
Count of the name of his companion, Arno von Hohenwald, he broke into
the conversation with, "Do I understand you, Count? Are you really
speaking of Baron Arno von Hohenwald? I can scarcely credit that you
travelled for a year with that gloomy misanthrope, that inveterate
woman-hater. And yet it must be so, for to my knowledge there is but
one family of Hohenwalds in Saxony, and I ought to know, for I am
distantly connected with them myself. I never judge others with
severity,--it is not my nature,--but I cannot help pronouncing the
Hohenwalds, that is, the old Baron and his son Arno, haughty,
disagreeable, inaccessible people, who have very little intercourse
with any one, not even their nearest relatives. The best of them all is
Arno's brother Werner, the Finanzrath;[1] it is possible to get along
with him; but my cousin Arno?---- Really, I cannot understand how you
managed to travel with him for a whole year."

"Your judgment of my friend is very harsh and unjust," Count Styrum
replied, gravely. "And yet I cannot blame you for it, for there are few
who know how to value Arno von Hohenwald, or who, indeed, have any
knowledge at all of him."

"Of course; he is absolutely inaccessible. Can you deny that he is a
perfect misanthrope, refusing to mingle in any society, and repulsing
discourteously every advance made to him?"

"Arno is no misanthrope, but the warmest-hearted fellow and the truest
and most loyal of friends. I grant that it is not easy to win his
confidence, and that to the superficial observer he may seem to shun
intercourse with others; he has no small change of conversation for
that society where you, my dear Assessor, are in your element. In the
army he had but few intimates, And took no part in our card-parties and
the like entertainments. Nevertheless he was a good comrade whom every
one liked, for all knew that when there was need of a friend's
assistance it was sure to be found at the hands of Arno von Hohenwald,
and we forgave his burying himself among his books while we pursued our
pleasures. I alone of all his comrades could boast of any real intimacy
with him, and I am proud to think that he considered me worthy of his
friendship--his confidence."

"Oh, then he has certainly told you the story of his notorious
love-affair with the rope-maker's pretty daughter, which ended in his
being the furious woman-hater that he is! You must ask the Count to
tell you that story, madame. I assure you it made quite a noise at the
time at the Court of Saxony, where the Hohenwalds stood very high."

"I am not curious," Frau von Sorr observed.

"But I am!" Adele interposed. "I confess, Karl, that I take great
interest in your friend. I have heard much of him. Madame von Kleist is
a cousin of the late Frau von Hohenwald, and the other day, at an
afternoon party, she had such wonderful things to tell of the
eccentricities of the old Baron and his son Arno, that the entire
conversation finally turned upon the Hohenwalds, their lives and their
peculiarities. Several of the ladies present were distantly connected
with them, and they not only confirmed all that Madame von Kleist said,
but contributed various anecdotes to show that the old Baron was no
better than an ogre, and that the son Arno was following worthily in
his father's footsteps. The old Baron, they said, lives in perfect
solitude in Castle Hohenwald, never seeing a visitor, nor indeed any
one beside his two sons and his daughter, except, perhaps, the village
priest, who is the young girl's tutor. All sorts of tales are told of
the way in which the old man has repelled his relatives' advances, as
well as of his quarrel with his son Arno, whom he threatened to
disinherit because he had betrothed himself to a pretty girl of the
bourgeoisie. When the engagement was broken off Arno was reconciled to
his father, having become a more terrible misanthrope and woman-hater
than the old man himself. So you may readily imagine, Cousin Karl, how
I should like, after all these stories, to hear as much of your friend
as you can tell us without indiscretion."

Count Styrum looked annoyed. The gossiping Assessor had given a turn to
the conversation that necessitated explanations which he would gladly
have avoided. Since this turn had been given, however, he felt it due
to his friend to disprove the false reports current with regard to the
Hohenwalds. "There can be no indiscretion," he said, "in relating facts
known to many, although I certainly would rather avoid doing so since I
know my friend Arno's dislike of any discussion of his private affairs.
However, the truth had better be told about them, that it may
counteract these silly rumours with regard to the family, rumours which
some of their connections, indeed, are not ashamed to circulate."

The Assessor turned red, feeling that the Count's words might well
apply to himself, but he judged it wisest to take no notice of the
reproof conveyed in them.

"The Hohenwalds," Karl began, "have furnished food for gossip to the
Saxon aristocracy for many years. They are a singular race; their
peculiarities have been inherited for generations, but the haughty
Barons troubled themselves little as to what the world might say of
them, and lived out their convictions with unshaken fidelity. It was a
Hohenwald who, in Augustus the Strong's time, stood forth at the Saxon
Court as the champion of good old German morality in social life,
scourging with bitter words the wanton frivolity of the lovely court
dames, and denouncing the extravagant luxury that ruined poor Saxony.
All that saved him from persecution and perhaps imprisonment in
Koenigstein was Augustus the Strong's own declaration that the
Hohenwalds had always been fools--it was best to let them wag their
tongues and pay them no heed. So Werner von Hohenwald was not sent to
Koenigstein, but to his own castle, which he never left for many years,
leading much the same hermit-life there as is led by his great-grandson
to-day. Another Hohenwald, the father of the present Baron,
distinguished himself in the early part of this century as a warm
friend of Prussia and a bitter opponent of the Franco-Saxon alliance
and of the first Napoleon, who would have had him shot but for the
interposition of the king, who declared, as Augustus the Strong had
done, that the Hohenwalds were fools, not to be too severely dealt
with. He, too, was sent to live in undisturbed retirement in his own
castle. The present lord, Baron Werner, resembles his forbears; like
them he is unyielding, keen in word and in action, a steadfast, severe
man, living according to his own convictions, and holding himself aloof
from a world that does not share them. I do not know him personally,
but I have heard so much of him from my friend Arno and from my own
father, who was intimate with him many years ago, that I have a very
vivid idea of him, I can see him in my mind's eye,--a tall, stout old
man, his stern face framed in beard and hair of silver, from which the
black eyes can flash terribly when he is angry, although they beam
mildly enough when their gaze rests upon his darling, his daughter. It
is said that in his youth, departing from the traditions of his family,
he was a gay and genial man of fashion. As a wealthy landed proprietor,
he passed his summers at Hohenwald, his winters in Dresden. At that
time my father knew him well, and their friendship lasted for a number
of years after the Baron married a Countess Harrangow. He seemed to
live very happily with his beautiful wife, keeping open house, as well
in Dresden in the winter as in summer upon his estate of Hohenwald,
which is not far from the Prussian boundary. His wife's relatives
visited him frequently, and often spent weeks beneath his roof, where
they were upon the best of terms with the lord of the castle, although
they were Prussians, and he a bitter enemy of Prussia and a great
friend of Austria, never hesitating to declare his anti-Prussian
sentiments in the presence of his Prussian guests.

"A few months after the birth of his youngest child--a daughter--there
was a sudden and complete transformation in the Baron's manner of life,
the cause of which was entirely unknown. He separated from his wife,
who returned to her paternal home, where she received from the Baron a
large yearly income, but whither she was not permitted to take her
children, two sons and the baby daughter, who remained in Hohenwald. No
one knows the reason for this separation; the Baron has never by so
much as a word alluded to it, and all the reports concerning it
circulated in Dresden society, where the affair of course made a great
deal of noise, are utterly without foundation. Even the Baroness, who
died within a year after the separation, without seeing either husband
or children again, never assigned to her parents any reason for her
expulsion--for that is the only term to be applied to it--from
Hohenwald. The relatives of the Baroness, who had hitherto always found
a welcome at the castle, did all they could to effect a reconciliation
between husband and wife, but they were repulsed by the Baron with such
harshness and severity that they never renewed their efforts. My
father, too, fared no better. Relying upon the claims of long
friendship, he complied with the wishes of the king, who regretted that
the Baron should have so treated his wife's relatives, and expressed a
wish that my father would use his influence with his friend, so that if
no thorough reconciliation could be brought about, at least the public
scandal of a separation without a divorce might be avoided. With some
reluctance my father undertook the task thus assigned him. He could
hardly refuse to do so, although he had but small hope of any good
result. He went to Castle Hohenwald, where the manner of his reception
showed him the hopelessness of his mission.

"The Baron met him with a dark frown. 'What is your business with me,
Count?' he asked, without offering his hand. My father, embarrassed by
a reception in such marked contrast to the terms of friendship upon
which he had felt himself with the Baron, could not, of course,
immediately explain the real cause of his appearance at Hohenwald, and
spoke courteously of his desire to see a friend from whom he had been
separated for some time; but the Baron interrupted him with, 'Pray take
no unnecessary pains, Count. I am not fond of idle phrases, and declare
to you once for all that I will suffer no one to meddle in my affairs.
If you have been sent hither, repeat this to whoever sent you; if you
are here of your own free will, take my words to heart. If in
consideration of our former friendship you are inclined to do me a
kindness, pray shield me from any further attempt to influence me. Say
in Dresden that the gates of Castle Hohenwald are in future closed to
all visitors; that I have irrevocably and forever broken with all my
former acquaintances and friends!'

"It may easily be imagined that my father after this made no attempt to
speak with the Baron, but left Castle Hohenwald immediately, never to
return to it. From that day the gates of the castle have been closed to
every one. One or two attempts were made by near relatives to see the
Baron, but they were entirely unsuccessful,--the servants denied him to
every one. So completely did he isolate himself from his former world
that he answered no letters addressed to him except those relating
solely to business. From that time he has led the life of a hermit in
his castle, never leaving his estate, seeing no one except the pastor
and the doctor. In spite of all this, his servants and the labourers
employed upon the estate, as well as the poor of the neighbouring
villages, will stoutly deny that he is a misanthrope; they represent
him as the kindest of masters, the best of landlords. Therefore I would
advise you, Herr von Hahn, to lay stress upon this fact in your future
narratives with regard to the life of the Baron von Hohenwald."

"I shall most assuredly do so, my dear Count," said the Assessor;
adding, "Justice demands it, and I could not do otherwise, for a love
of justice is one of my characteristics. I make no boast of it, for the
gifts of nature are various; but so it is, and I am indebted to you for
your information with regard to the old Baron von Hohenwald, while I
await with eagerness what you have to tell of the son, Baron Arno."

"You will have occasion to modify your judgment of him also, for, in
spite of some eccentricities, Arno is one of the best and noblest of
men. You have already laid perhaps more than sufficient stress upon the
faults which prevent mere acquaintances from rightly estimating his
excellence. There is nothing, therefore, for me to do but to explain
how he came to share his father's eccentricity and to withdraw himself
from society."

"He is a woman-hater, then?" Adele asked, curiously.

"I cannot exactly contradict you. He shuns the sex for the fault of an
individual, but I am sure you will judge him gently when you hear his
story. I told you just now that he was a silent and reserved officer.
One of our regiment who had been with him at school described him to me
as the merriest of lads, always ready for any school-boy prank. But the
separation of his parents seems to have made a profound impression upon
him, destroying in him all the joyousness and geniality of youth. After
his mother's return to her father, Baron von Hohenwald recalled Arno to
Hohenwald from school in Dresden, and engaged as tutor for him the
pastor of the village, a very earnest and learned man. Thus the boy
grew up sharing his father's solitude; perhaps his father confided to
him the cause of his lonely life; certain it is that never during our
years of intimacy has Arno mentioned to me his mother's name. His
relations with his father were most intimate and affectionate. Whatever
cause the old Baron had for repudiating his wife, his anger was never
visited upon her children. To them he has always been the most kind and
indulgent of parents,--even to Arno's elder brother, who was much more
of a stranger to him than the others, since he, Werner, was already a
student in the university when Arno was recalled from school. The
visits to Castle Hohenwald of the elder son, who embraced a diplomatic
career, have been of necessity infrequent, so that naturally his
father's heart does not cling to him as to the constant inmates of his
household.

"His solitary life at Hohenwald fostered in Arno a love of retirement,
which was manifest during his military life in Dresden, whither he went
to join the army, by his father's desire, at the conclusion of his
studies. He would have preferred to embrace one of the learned
professions, but his father's wish was his law in this respect; and he
made a capital officer, gaining both the respect and the esteem of
his comrades and his superiors. He took lodgings in the house of a
rope-maker, and, as he spent all his evenings at home, only leaving it
to fulfil his military duties, he saw more of his hostess and her
pretty daughter than would otherwise have been the case. The daughter,
Rosalie, a young girl of sixteen, had been educated for a teacher, and
her associates at school had taught her the air and bearing of a higher
social rank than her own. How could a young man, who knew nothing of
society and the world, fail to be attracted by a girl of extraordinary
beauty and a fair degree of culture, and with manners far above those
of her class? How could he suspect the utter want of moral training
beneath so fair an exterior, or dream of the arts that were practised
to attract him? You spoke, Herr von Hahn, of a 'love-affair with the
pretty daughter of a rope-maker;' a very grave 'love-affair' it was for
Arno, for he asked the girl in marriage of her parents, and of course
received from them a glad consent to his wishes. Not only this, but, to
the extreme surprise of Rosalie's parents, the old Baron von Hohenwald
did not refuse to sanction the marriage. When Arno went to Hohenwald to
tell his father of his betrothal, the old man was naturally enough
dismayed at the prospect of such a misalliance. He represented to his
son all the consequences of so fatal a step, the disapproval it would
meet with in all quarters, the annihilation of all prospect of
advancement in his profession, the scandal it would cause in
aristocratic circles. But when Arno declared that his word was pledged,
and that nothing would induce him to recall it, his father withdrew all
opposition. He consented to the union, though he refused point-blank to
repair to Dresden to see his son's betrothed, declaring that he should
have time enough to make her acquaintance after the marriage.

"In Dresden the betrothal made a most disagreeable talk; Arno's
comrades were beside themselves; they adjured him to resign all
thoughts of the girl, hinting that she was quite unworthy of the
sacrifice he was making for her. All that they said was to no purpose,
however; and in several cases Arno was with difficulty prevented from
calling to a bloody account those who dared to remonstrate with him.
The colonel of our regiment, by advice from very high quarters, called
upon Lieutenant von Hohenwald, but his representations availed nothing
against my friend's obstinacy. Arno professed himself ready to request
his dismissal from the army, but not to break his plighted faith. This
offer on his part would doubtless have been accepted but that war with
Prussia was imminent, and the services of so brave an officer as Arno
von Hohenwald could not be spared. It was therefore intimated that the
royal consent to his marriage would be accorded him provided he would
accede to the king's wish that it should be postponed for a year. To
this condition he consented, although the pretty Rosalie pouted and
sighed, and her father and mother were quite indignant at the delay.

"During the short campaign that now took him from Dresden, Arno wrote
frequently to his betrothed, without, however, receiving a word in
reply, a circumstance for which his trusting nature found abundant
explanation in the irregularity of the Bohemian postal arrangements. At
Koeniggratz he was severely wounded; indeed, the newspapers reported him
killed, and as such they mourned him for weeks at Castle Hohenwald.
Meanwhile, he was lying unconscious in the hospital. I was in the same
ward with him, only slightly wounded, however; I was soon sufficiently
recovered to go to Dresden, on leave, to regain my strength there. When
I left Arno his condition was still very critical; in one of his
intervals of consciousness he sent a message by me to his betrothed,
which I of course made it my duty to deliver as soon as possible. I
found only the mother at home when I paid my visit to the rope-maker's,
and she shocked and disgusted me by the want of feeling she displayed
upon hearing that Arno was not dead, as had been supposed, but only
dangerously wounded. She even appeared glad to learn that, in the event
of his recovery, it must be months at least before he could come to
Dresden. On the same day, however, all that was strange in her
behaviour was fully explained to me by the physician whom I consulted
with regard to my wound, and who had been a fellow-lodger of Arno's and
his warm friend. As such he felt it his duty to acquaint me, the poor
fellow's most intimate friend, with the wretched story that so closely
concerned him, and that filled me with consternation and disgust. Arno
had been infamously deceived both by his betrothed and by her parents,
whose sole thought had been how to enrich themselves at whatever
expense of honour and honesty. Some time before her betrothal to Arno,
Rosalie had been secretly under the protection of a wealthy
manufacturer in Dresden, her connection with whom, when the report of
Arno's death seemed to her to free her from the necessity for
concealment, became a day's theme for public gossip. She flaunted her
disgrace abroad, meeting with no opposition from her parents in her
downward career. There is no need to dwell upon the details of this
miserable business; the investigations I felt it my duty to my friend
to prosecute fully confirmed the physician's story. This being the
case, what was I to do? Of course, I ought to acquaint Arno with the
facts I had learned, and yet the knowledge of them might kill him in
his present precarious state. I needed advice in the matter, and I
turned for it to my friend's father. I wrote to him telling him all,
begging him to come to Dresden to receive personal confirmation of the
truth of what I wrote, and offering, if he desired it, to go
immediately to Arno and inform him of his betrothed's worthlessness. I
supposed that the Baron would reply to my letter in person, but he did
not come to Dresden; by return of post I received a letter from him,
expressing heart-felt gratitude to me. 'I need,' he wrote, 'no further
confirmation: it is for my son to investigate this matter. Of course he
will not condemn his betrothed without hearing her in her own defence.
I suffer greatly from the gout, and cannot come to Dresden; besides, I
do not think myself justified in forestalling my son in this matter.'
He then begged me to fulfil my promise to go to Arno as soon as
possible and tell him all. 'Do not be afraid,' he said, in conclusion,
'that you will retard my son's recovery in thus performing your duty as
his friend. We Hohenwalds come of a tough stock, and know how to bear
pain; it may perhaps bend, but it will not break us. Believe me when I
tell you this.'

"He was right, as I found when a few days later, sitting at Arno's
bedside, and finding him quite himself again, I tried to prepare him
gently for what I had to say. He perceived instantly that I was the
messenger of evil tidings, and briefly and firmly bade me speak out and
tell him all that was to be told. I did so, and he listened in gloomy
silence, with downcast eyes, asking no question, giving no sign, except
the convulsive clinching of the hand that lay on the coverlet, of the
storm of emotion raging within him. When I had finished, he looked up
with eyes that seemed to read my very soul. 'I do not thank you,' he
said. 'I cannot tell, before I have seen and learned for myself,
whether you have rendered me the greatest service that one friend can
render to another, or whether I must call you to account as my mortal
foe. Until then we must part. Leave me now. I shall soon seek you out
in Dresden, either to thank or----'

"I tried to soothe him, but he repulsed me sternly, and I returned to
Dresden without seeing him again. His surgeon informed me that he
considered his condition very alarming, that he feared the worst, and
that at all events it must be months before he could leave the
hospital. So I left him, filled with remorse for having followed the
old Baron's advice; but scarcely four weeks had passed when one day
Arno entered my room in Dresden. He looked terribly,--his dark eyes
gleamed with unnatural brilliancy in his wasted countenance, his right
arm was in a sling, while, although he supported himself upon a stout
cane, he could scarcely stand. When I hurried towards him he sank, half
fainting, into my arms, and I carried rather than led him to a lounge.
He pressed my hand, and, as soon as he could speak, said, 'I thank you;
you told me nothing but the truth, and yet not all the truth. You have
saved me from a horrible fate, and I never will forget it. Add still
further to my obligations to you by granting me one request: I entreat
you never, never again to make the faintest allusion to that wretched
girl.' I promised, and since that day not one word with regard to her
has passed Arno's lips. How he parted from her I never knew. He had
spent two days in ascertaining the truth of the story I had told him,
and then came to my room, which it was long before he left again. His
strength of will had sustained him until his purpose was fulfilled, and
then he was utterly prostrated. For many a night I watched by his bed,
hopeless as to his recovery, but in the end his vigorous constitution
conquered. The old Baron was right.

"During his convalescence we often discussed our plans for the future.
We both resolved to send in our resignations. I spare you our reasons
for this course of action, for I know that you, my dear Assessor, are
one of Prince Bismarck's most enthusiastic supporters, and that my
lovely cousin Adele, as the daughter of a Prussian official high in
rank, could hardly appreciate the feeling that made it impossible for
us to continue in the army after peace was concluded. Arno's political
opinions so closely coincided with my own that our plans for the future
were the same. For him, as for me, it was simply impossible to accept
office under government, and so we determined to withdraw altogether
from public life, to study the management of estates and to find our
calling in the future in administering our own.

"I wrote to my father, and received his speedy approval of my
resolution. Arno, as soon as he was strong enough, set out for
Hohenwald. I proposed to accompany him, but to this he objected,
telling me frankly that he could not invite even his dearest friend to
Hohenwald; that his father's seclusion must be invaded by no stranger.
He attained his wish, however; his father had no objection to make to
his plans; and so we both went to Tharandt to study, and later
travelled through Europe together, until my father's death called me
home. Since then Arno has been living in Hohenwald, where, as he writes
me, he has undertaken the management of his estates. I have not seen
him, for Hohenwald is closed to every one; but we correspond
constantly, and he has promised to pay me a visit shortly."




                              CHAPTER III.


The ladies had listened eagerly to Count Styrum's narrative. Frau von
Sorr, indeed, was so impressed and interested by all that she heard of
the Freiherr that she forgot for the moment the late disagreeable
encounter with Count Repuin.

Adele was no less interested. So absorbed was she in her cousin's
account that she did not notice a certain restlessness that had begun
to pervade the guests seated at the numerous small supper-tables. It
was the invariable custom at the President's balls for the daughter of
the house to give the signal for the renewal of dancing, by leaving the
supper-room escorted by her cavalier. This duty the young girl, usually
so attentive a hostess, had wellnigh forgotten, and she would have
continued to question her cousin upon the subject that so interested
her, had not her brother Heinrich reminded her that their guests were
awaiting with some impatience the return to the ball-room. He left the
table where he had been playing the part of host, and, standing behind
his sister's chair, whispered in her ear, "You seem to have forgotten,
Adele, that it is high time the dancing began again."

"Why are you in such a hurry? You are not used to be so eager to
dance," Adele replied, in a tone of some annoyance.

"I speak for our guests, who have been looking impatiently for your
leaving the supper-room, as you would have seen yourself had not
interest in your conversation with our cousin made you blind and deaf
to everything else. Let me beg you now to bestow a little attention
upon others."

Although her brother's reproof might have been more amiably
administered, Adele felt the justice of what he said, and, rising
instantly, begged Count Styrum to conduct her to the ball-room. The
other couples followed her immediately, and the supper-room was soon
emptied of all the guests with the exception of the elderly gentlemen,
for whom the President now produced his choicest Havanas, and whose
enjoyment of the evening only rightly began when, supper finished, they
could linger over their wine with closed doors.

For those younger men who were not enthusiastic dancers, but who were
fond of high play, Heinrich von Guntram had his own sanctum prepared.
The gaming-table was set out, the champagne duly iced, and he only
waited until the dancing should have begun to assemble there the chosen
few. His father discountenanced gaming, and therefore there had been no
mention of play before supper, but now that the President was occupied
with his special friends, Heinrich dutifully danced once with his
partner at supper, and then led the way to his room, followed by all
those for whom gaming always formed part of an evening's entertainment.

"Are you tired of dancing, Count Repuin?" he asked the Russian, who
stood in a doorway, gloomily watching Frau von Sorr as she was waltzing
with the Assessor. "Come to my room and you will find a cigar."

"And cards?"

"Of course."

"Have you asked Sorr?"

"No; you know----"

"Yes, I know; but you will do me a great favour if you will ask him to
join us."

This request embarrassed Heinrich; he did not like to spare the Russian
from the card-table, for he always lost, when he did lose, with great
equanimity, but he was naturally disinclined to extend his invitation
to Sorr. "I have already asked Arnim," he said, hesitating, "and I am
afraid----"

"Of his making a scene with Sorr," the Russian completed his sentence.
"You need not be afraid. Whatever Arnim might say at the club with
regard to Sorr, be sure that beneath your roof he will respect him as
your guest. Indeed, you will greatly oblige me, Herr von Guntram, by
asking Sorr."

"If you really wish it, of course I will do so," Heinrich replied; "but
I would far rather that the invitation should come from you than from
me. I could then excuse myself to Arnim, upon the plea that not I, but
you, introduced him."

"Be it so," said the Count. "I will bring him with me, with your
permission. All that Herr von Arnim said was that he would not play
when Sorr kept the bank, and we can easily arrange that. I will not
follow you with Sorr until half an hour has elapsed, and your game will
have been begun when we arrive."

Heinrich assented; he left the Russian, and, as he passed through the
ball-room, observed that Count Styrum was standing alone, looking on at
the dancers. "You are no dancer, Count," he said, addressing him. "I
think you did not dance before supper either."

"No, I never dance much; and just now, as you know, I am in mourning."

"It must bore you to look on at all this spinning and whirling. If you
have not forsworn cards, cousin, you will find in my room a good cigar,
excellent champagne, and a few very clever fellows."

"Do you play high?"

"Not at all, not at all. Count Repuin stakes rather large sums
sometimes, but no one else among us does so, except perhaps Herr von
Sorr, when he has any money, which is not often. The rest of us stake
but little; we play merely to kill time."

Count Styrum cared very little for play. He had now and then won and
lost small sums at a public gaming-table, but it had been more out of
compliance with the wish of some friend who desired his companionship
than from any interest in the game. He would have refused his cousin's
invitation but that he was curious to know more of Herr von Sorr, and
thought that no better opportunity could offer for meeting the man who
was husband to the beautiful woman who had so interested him. He
therefore followed Heinrich, who led the way to the room which he
called his study, and presented him to the young men, mostly officers,
there assembled. Count Repuin and Herr von Sorr were not yet present.

"Who is to keep the bank?" asked Herr von Saldern, who, impatient to
begin, was already shuffling the cards.

"Let us take turns; each put in twenty-five thalers."

"Twenty-five thalers is too little. There are but ten of us, and that
would only make two hundred and fifty thalers,' Herr von Saldern
objected.

"Come, come, Saldern, you shall not insist upon high play," said Herr
von Arnim. "Let us have a comfortable evening, and not dip too deep in
one another's pockets. I agree to Guntram's proposal, but upon
condition that the bank is kept only by one of those now present."

"But why?"

"Because I suspect that Sorr will find his way here before long; he has
a wonderful scent for cards. I have declared that I will not play when
he keeps the bank, and I will run no risks."

"You ought to be more careful in speaking of Herr von Sorr, my dear
Arnim," Heinrich von Guntram remonstrated.

"Bah! I don't care that whether or not he hears what I say," said
Arnim, snapping his fingers. "Besides, he ought to feel flattered by my
fear of him. At all events, I am superstitious, and feel sure I shall
lose my money if Sorr keeps the bank; so I repeat my condition, and
will not take part in the game unless it be accepted."

"Well, well, it is accepted. Let us begin, and let Guntram be banker
first!" the rest cried, impatiently, as they seated themselves at the
table; and Guntram, after receiving twenty-five thalers from each of
the players, began the game as banker. He had hardly drawn the first
card when Count Repuin and Herr von Sorr made their appearance.

"I knew it!" Herr von Arnim whispered to Count Styrum. "Sorr scents
cards ten miles off; no vulture could be keener. Pray, Herr von Sorr,"
he added, aloud, as the latter seemed inclined to take a seat between
Arnim and Count Styrum, "be good enough to find a place the other side
of the Count. I do not like to lose so agreeable a neighbour, and there
really is no room on this side."

All eyes were turned upon Sorr, and every one looked for some hasty
reply to Arnim's words, which were almost insulting from their tone and
the manner in which they were uttered; but Sorr either did not or would
not perceive intentional offence in them, and, merely saying, "You are
right; there is more room here," placed a chair on the right of Count
Styrum and took his seat in it.

This propinquity was not undesirable to the Count, who now had the best
possible opportunity for observing the man of whom he had heard so much
from the Assessor. As he did so he could not help saying to himself,
"How could this man ever have won the affection of that charming
woman?" Never had he been more disagreeably impressed by any one, and
yet he could hardly tell why this was so. Herr von Sorr's features were
regular; his fair full beard and curling light hair became him well;
his blue eyes were fine in form and colour; but the expression of both
features and eyes was to the Count most repulsive. An artificial smile
constantly played about his finely-chiselled lips. His eyes never
looked fairly into those of the man whom he addressed; there was an air
of utter weakness and want of character about him; defects which,
beyond all others, Count Styrum despised.

The game began, and was very moderately conducted. Count Repuin, who
was seated opposite Sorr, beside Heinrich von Guntram, now and then
staked a large sum, which he usually lost. Sorr staked but little;
between him and Count Styrum on the table there was a little heap of
silver and paper money, from which he took his stakes and to which he
added his winnings; beside it lay the pocket-book of the Count, who,
for want of small notes, had one of larger amount changed by the
banker. The game interested him but slightly, and he had abundant
opportunity to watch the players, who, in spite of the small stakes,
gradually displayed an eagerness which was by no means allayed by the
champagne with which the servant in attendance plied them.

The company began to grow noisy. Heinrich von Guntram, who had handed
over the bank to Herr von Arnim, and who began to stake larger sums,
cursed his luck loudly, and was laughed at by Arnim, who had a ready
word of ridicule for all, and bidden to imitate the composure of Herr
von Sorr, who won or lost with equal grace.

Herr von Sorr did not seem to hear Arnim's persiflage; his attention
all appeared to be given to the game, and he showed a moderation in
drinking which contrasted strikingly with the conduct of his friend
Count Repuin, who emptied glass after glass of the champagne, which
Sorr refused, confining himself to a few glasses of seltzer water. The
wine, however, appeared to produce no effect upon the Russian; he
seemed not at all excited and observant only of the game. But Styrum,
who watched him narrowly, perceived that this was only seeming; that in
reality Repuin's whole attention was given to Styrum's neighbour, Sorr.

Thus the game lasted for about an hour, when Repuin rose from the
table. "I have had enough for to-night," he said, gathering up his
money; "and you too, Count Styrum, seem but little interested. Shall we
not, without disturbing the others, take a quiet cigar together in the
next room and discuss--our Italian experiences, for example? I think we
were at Naples at the same time."

Count Styrum was greatly surprised at being thus addressed. He did not
know the Russian, to whom he had been but formally introduced. What
could be his reason for desiring to converse privately with an entire
stranger in the next room? He must have some special aim in view,
although what this was Styrum could not divine. He hesitated to accept
the invitation of the man whose behaviour towards Frau von Sorr had so
disgusted him, but curiosity to know what the Russian contemplated
conquered his reluctance, and, taking his offered arm, he accompanied
him into the adjoining room, the door of which Repuin closed behind
them.

"I thank you for accepting my invitation, Count," said the Russian,
from whose face the courteous smile vanished as soon as they were
alone. "You guess, of course, that I have sought this interview with
you for a graver object than any discussion of Italian experiences. I
shall therefore, without circumlocution, come to the point at once with
a question which will doubtless strike you as very strange. Do you know
how much money there was in the pocket-book which lay before you on the
table, and which you have just put into your pocket?"

"Your question is indeed a strange one!"

"I will explain it immediately, if you will be so kind as to give me an
answer."

"I cannot see what possible interest the amount of money that I carry
in my pocket-book can have for you, Count Repuin, but, since you wish
it, I can tell you about how much there was. When I sat down to
play I had five one-hundred-thaler notes in my pocket-book; one of
these I exchanged for two fifties; one of these again I put into my
pocket-book, using the other for the game, so that, besides some small
notes, the amount of which I cannot tell you, since I do not know how
much I won or lost, my pocket-book must contain four hundred-thaler
notes and one fifty."

"Thank you. I pray your patience for a moment, and you shall understand
my apparently indiscreet question. Be so obliging as to take out your
pocket-book and see whether it contains the sum you have mentioned."

"Count Repuin, this is a most extraordinary request!"

"It is; and if you insist, I will instantly explain it to you, but you
would greatly oblige me by first glancing at the contents of your
pocket-book; my demand can easily be complied with."

Styrum could not avoid granting a request couched in terms so
courteous; he opened his pocket-book and counted his notes, finding, to
his great astonishment, that they numbered only three hundred-thaler
notes in addition to the fifty and the smaller sums.

"Well, is your money all right?" asked Repuin, who was watching him
with eager interest.

"No; a hundred-thaler note is missing. It must have dropped on the
floor when I changed the other. I will go look for it."

"Do not trouble yourself, Count; you will find nothing," the Russian
calmly rejoined. "I will find it for you, and, in doing so, will
entirely explain my apparently unjustifiable curiosity."

He awaited no reply from Styrum. Opening the door leading into the next
room, he called, in an imperious tone, "Herr von Sorr, one word with
you. Count Styrum wishes to speak to you."

A livid pallor overspread Sorr's countenance. Did he suspect what was
coming? He started, and one hand sought his breast-pocket, but before
it could reach it it was seized by Count Repuin and held as if in a
vice. "Leave the contents of your pocket untouched," the Russian
whispered in his ear. "Follow me instantly,--I command you!"

Sorr obeyed, following the Russian like a trembling slave.

"What is the matter?" was the question that hovered upon the lips of
all, and that was uttered aloud by one of the young men at the table.
Although Repuin's last words had been spoken in a tone so low as to
reach Sorr's ears alone, all had heard his first authoritative summons
and had seen Sorr's confusion as the Count had seized his hand, and all
wondered what was the matter, although only one uttered the question.

"Something very disagreeable, most certainly," Heinrich von Guntram
made reply. "In my opinion, gentlemen, we had better finish the game
and go back to the ball-room as soon as possible. Let those three end
their business as seems to them best; the less we know of it the
better."

"But our bank!" Herr von Saldern exclaimed.

"Arnim, who is banker, will attend to all that, and see that each one
receives his due proportion; will you not, Herr von Arnim?"

"'Tis already done, my dear fellow. You will take charge of Count
Styrum's share," replied Arnim. "Be quick, gentlemen; here is your
money. I agree with Guntram that the less we hear of what is going on
in the next room the better. Let us go back to the ball-room. This
scandalous scene will at all events convince our friend Guntram how
unfit Sorr is to be admitted to the society of gentlemen, and we shall,
I hope, be spared any association with him in future."

Count Repuin closed the door of the next room after Sorr, and then,
turning to Count Styrum, said, "I will now give you the solution of the
riddle I have just read you, Count." As he spoke he leaned against the
closed door, and looked with disdainful contempt at the miserable
wretch before him, who would evidently have fled from the room had not
the Russian's tall form barred his egress.

Styrum had already taken a thorough dislike to Count Repuin, from
witnessing his behaviour towards Fran von Sorr. Now, as he marked the
triumphant malice that mingled with the contempt expressed in his face,
this dislike deepened to what was almost a horror. He divined what
would be the solution of the riddle of the lost money; he remembered
all that the Assessor had said of Sorr, and, recalling the keen
scrutiny that Repuin had bestowed upon Sorr's movements at the
gaming-table, he could not doubt why the Russian had summoned the pale,
trembling wretch before him. Still, he could not understand the triumph
with which Repuin was regarding the detected thief. Was he not,
according to the Assessor's report, the man's intimate friend? What
reason could he have for sacrificing him merely to restore some lost
money to a stranger? This riddle Styrum could not solve, for it was
incredible that Repuin should act thus, simply from indignation at
Sorr's dishonesty.

After a moment's pause the Russian turned to Styrum: "Do you now
guess, Count, where your hundred-thaler note will be found? You do not
reply? Well, I will tell you; it is at present in Herr von Sorr's
breast-pocket, whither it was conveyed from your pocket-book, with
immense dexterity it is true, but not dexterously enough to elude my
vigilance. He is the thief,--does he dare to deny it?"

He did not dare. Repuin's words seemed to annihilate him, all the more
that they were uttered by a man whom he had thought his friend. Pale
and trembling, unable to articulate a word in self-defence, he bowed
before the terrible fate that had thus overtaken him. All power of
resistance seemed crushed out of him. In silence he awaited his
sentence.

"Give back the stolen note to Count Styrum," the Russian ordered.

Again he obeyed; he was incapable of thought,--Repuin's iron will ruled
him irresistibly. Automatically be put his hand into his breast-pocket,
took out the note, and handed it to Count Styrum.

"I have kept my word," Repuin continued. "You are again in possession
of the missing note. We must now consider what is to be done with this
scoundrel. It is your part, as the sufferer by his theft, to decide
this. Shall we deliver him over to justice and a jail? He is ripe for
it; this is not his first crime of the kind, as his skill in committing
it testifies. Let us take the gentlemen in the next room into council,
and send for the police. What say you, Count?"

"For God's sake, have mercy upon me!" With this cry Sorr threw himself
at the Russian's feet. But Repuin thrust him from him. "Hands off,
scoundrel! To me you appeal in vain. There stands your judge!"

He pointed as he spoke to Count Styrum, and to him the wretched Sorr
turned with clasped hands. "Spare me, Count!" he implored. "I have
given you back the note. Have pity!"

Pity for the worthless creature who crawled thus in the dust after his
detection Count Styrum could not feel. Why should he have any
compassion upon the miserable worldling who had squandered his means in
every kind of low dissipation and was now nothing more nor less than a
common thief? He deserved mercy less than did the criminal whom want
and misery had driven to steal. It was his duty to banish him from the
society of honest men and deliver him over to a just punishment.

And yet, just at this moment, there presented itself to Count Styrum's
mind a vision of the lovely young creature who, without a suspicion of
the horrible fate impending over her, had but a short time before
listened to his words with such interest. Would not a just sentence
pronounced upon her husband crush her also? And Adele,--Frau von Sorr
was her dearest friend. What a blow her misery would inflict upon
Adele!

Thus Styrum was still undecided between the consideration he felt for
Frau von Sorr and for his cousin's peace of mind and the evident duty
of delivering over a thief to justice, when suddenly an idea occurred
to him that caused him to waver no longer. What reason had Count Repuin
for convicting his friend of a theft? Was he weary of a friendship
which, as the Assessor reported, cost him so much money? Had the
disdainful repulse he had but now received from Frau von Sorr incited
him to revenge? Or did he hope by ruining the husband to plunge the
wife into such misery that she would in the end be accessible to his
degrading advances? He looked quite capable of so devilish a scheme.

"Decide, Count!" Repuin said, hastily. "What is done must be done
quickly!"

"I have decided," Count Styrum replied. "We owe it to the hospitality
extended to us beneath this roof to avoid a scandal which would be most
painful to my uncle and to my cousin Adele."

"And you will let the fellow go scot-free?" Repuin asked, gloomily.

"If we allow him to escape the legal penalty of his villainy, his sole
punishment must be the memory of this hour, which, I trust, may serve
him as a warning."

"Oh, Count Styrum, how shall I thank you!" exclaimed Sorr, to whose
cheeks the colour began to return, as he attempted, but vainly, to take
Styrum's hand.

"Spare me your acknowledgments," said Styrum, turning from him with
disgust. "It is owing to no sympathy for you, but to consideration for
the society in which I find you, that you are spared the punishment you
deserve. Go,--take my advice, and leave my uncle's house on the
instant. I trust I shall never meet you again beneath his roof."

Sorr would immediately have followed this counsel, but it was
impossible, for Repuin, who was still leaning with folded arms against
the closed door, did not stir. The Russian's eyes were gloomily fixed
on the ground; evidently he was dissatisfied with Styrum's decision,
and was considering whether or how he should combat it. As Sorr
approached him he looked up. "You are in too great a hurry," he said,
disdainfully. "You and I are not yet quits; we have a few points to
discuss that would hardly interest Count Styrum. I left the decision in
this matter to you, Count, since you were the injured party, and I bow
to it, but I cannot suffer this man longer to frequent a society in
which he is regarded as my friend, and where I must continually
encounter him. The means that I shall use to prevent this will depend
upon the result of a private conversation, which I must insist upon
having with Herr von Sorr."

There was in these words so direct a request to be left alone with Sorr
that Count Styrum could not but comply; he had no right to remain,
although an imploring look from Sorr seemed to entreat him to do so.
With a slight inclination to Repuin, who instantly made way, and even
opened the door, he left the room.

Scarcely was he gone when Sorr raised his head. The degradation of the
moment when his villainy had been unmasked in the presence of a
stranger had robbed him of all power of self-defence; now that he found
himself alone with the Russian he was once more able to speak; his
wrath he might hope to appease. Although Repuin's savagely passionate
nature had always impressed him with a kind of terror, he thought he
could devise a means to pacify him, difficult as it might be. Extreme
caution was necessary,--in Count Styrum's presence this means could not
be mentioned, but now, let him but soothe his antagonist with hopes of
the fulfilment of his wild desires and all might yet be well.

"How could you--you of all men--act as you have just done, Count?" Sorr
began. "How have I deserved such treatment at your hands? You know how
devoted I am to your interests, how grateful for all you have done for
me,--that I should think no sacrifice too great to testify this
gratitude to you, and yet you--you it is who would ruin me!"

Repuin looked down with haughty contempt upon the cringing figure
before him. He had spent months in studying this man, and his servile,
degraded soul was as an open book before him; he knew the precise value
of all these asseverations.

"Spare me your protestations, Herr von Sorr," he replied, "they will
avail you nothing. I did not detain you here to listen to your
assurances of friendship and gratitude, but to put a stop to any such.
I have lost my interest in the game which you and your beautiful wife
have been playing with me. I must be done with it. Understand me,--I
refuse to be any longer either your dupe or your wife's."

"I do not understand you. I----"

"You shall learn to do so. I know you. I have scrutinized your every
action for months past; your very thoughts are laid bare to me; I knew,
when I brought you to Guntram's room to-night, that you would deliver
yourself into my hands, either by cheating or, as has been the case, by
theft. I knew when Count Styrum left his pocket-book open before you
how it would all end."

There was an expression of absolute horror on Sorr's face as he
listened to these words. That Repuin's treatment of him was due to no
sudden impulse, no outbreak of passion, but was the result of a cool,
well-considered scheme, robbed him of all hope, and he stood before his
savage persecutor and judge an image of despairing guilt.

A cruel smile hovered upon Repuin's lips; he was satisfied with the
effect his words had produced; without awaiting a reply, he continued:
"You thought to play with me, Herr von Sorr; you were but a tool in my
hands,--a tool to be thrown away whenever it pleased me. I should have
done so long since, but for certain considerations. I might have
unmasked the thief in the little affair with that other lost note of
Herr von Saldern's, which I see you remember, but the fruit was not
quite ripe, and I disdained to shake the tree. I am not fond of violent
measures. I prepare them for my use, but I use them only in cases of
absolute necessity. So long as I hoped to win your wife to listen to my
suit, and to purchase her husband's easy compliance with money and a
show of friendship, I allowed you to go your way. I thought you wise
enough to use your influence with your wife in my favour. I paid you
well for such service; but to-day she has shown me that it is vain to
attempt to proceed upon a friendly footing. She has offended, insulted
me; the consequences be upon her head. For what has happened to-night
you may thank your beautiful wife."

"What--what has happened?" Sorr exclaimed, marking with terror the
savage gleam in the Russian's eyes.

"Your wife repulsed me with scorn and left me, when, after the dance
to-night, I whispered a few passionate words in her ear; and although
by agreement with you she was engaged to me for supper, she refused my
escort, and took the arm of that fool, Von Hahn!"

"Impossible!" exclaimed Sorr. "When she promised me so faithfully! She
shall atone for it; she shall make you ample reparation!"

"If your influence with your wife is so powerful, you should have
exerted it earlier," Repuin said, with cruel scorn.

"How was I to know that Lucie would break her word? But you shall have
satisfaction; I swear you shall. I do not deserve that you should
punish me thus for Lucie's actions. I am your most devoted friend; ask
of me what you will, and you shall be obeyed."

"I look for no less from you," Repuin replied, "though I certainly do
not reckon upon your friendship or gratitude, but upon your fear. That
you may know clearly what you have to expect, I will tell you plainly
what I meant, and still mean to do. Entire frankness is the best policy
between us. I love your wife passionately, madly; I have sworn that she
shall be mine at all hazards. Though I should commit murder in pursuit
of her, she shall be mine. You must separate from your wife. She must
be left to me."

Sorr fairly staggered. He had, indeed, long known that Count Repuin
loved his beautiful wife; he had built upon this love his hopes of
mollifying the Count; but for this infamous demand he was not prepared.
He had often made shameful capital of his wife's exquisite beauty
when young men of fortune were to be decoyed to his house and to the
gaming-table; his dissipated life had long since destroyed in him all
ennobling affection for her; he felt no jealousy upon seeing her
surrounded by admirers; he had even exulted when the wealthy Russian
had been evidently conquered by her charms. And yet he was horrified by
Repuin's demand; to comply with it would banish him from the world in
which he had hitherto lived; who would take the slightest notice of him
if Lucie were no longer his wife?

"What you ask is impossible!" he gasped, at last.

"Do not dare to talk of 'impossible' to me!" the Russian angrily
exclaimed. "I require obedience of you, and if you refuse I will hand
you over to justice. Count Styrum, if summoned to court as a witness,
must tell what he knows, however unwilling he may be to do so. Your
fate in such a case is certain. Your only alternative would be to send
a bullet through your brains before you were arrested. If, however, you
consent to my will, I will not only be silent, and engage that Count
Styrum shall be silent, but I will also pay you ten thousand thalers
down. You shall receive the money on the day when your wife becomes
mine and we start for the Italian tour. You see I am magnanimous.
I buy your wife of you when I might force you to give her up to me.
Choose,--your fate is in your own hands!"

As Sorr looked up at the Count's face filled with savage resolve, he
felt that all hope was lost. "My wife will never consent to it," he
said, with hesitation.

"That would be unfortunate for you; but I am sure she will yield if you
tell her the true state of the case. Describe to her her future as the
wife of a convict. How will she live when her present support is
closely confined behind bolts and bars? Upon the other hand paint to
her the delights of a life by my side. There is no wish that she can
frame that it will not be my joy to gratify. If the fair Lucie is not
insane, I think that a just representation of the state of affairs--and
this must be your task--will soon convince her of what choice she had
best make."

"You do not know my wife," Sorr said, still hesitatingly,--he was
afraid of arousing the Count's anger, and yet he dared not keep back
the truth: "her pride transcends belief; she would prefer the most
fearful fate, even death itself, to a life with you."

"Exert all your eloquence, Herr von Sorr, and I am convinced you will
succeed. Remember the sword that is suspended above your head, and that
you alone can avert its fall. But enough for the present; you will now
return to the ball-room, only to leave it immediately with your wife
upon whatever pretext you may devise,--a sudden indisposition or
something of the kind. I owe it to Count Styrum that you spend not an
instant longer than is absolutely necessary beneath this roof. You will
inform your wife this very night of what has been agreed upon between
us. I will wait no longer than to-morrow morning for the result. Come
to me early and let me know what it is, and I will decide what is next
to be done."

"Count----"

"Not another word! Your part is to obey; woe upon you if you fail! I
shall expect you to-morrow morning by eight o'clock at the latest!"

With a haughty, scarcely perceptible nod, the Russian withdrew,
and finding Heinrich's room--whence the gamblers had long since
departed--empty, returned to the ball-room.




                               CHAPTER IV.


After supper there had not been the amount of gayety that was wont
to distinguish the President's balls. The young people had begun to
dance, and the elderly folk to enjoy the delights of card-room and
smoking-room, when there was whispered through the assemblage a rumour
that interfered greatly with the merriment of the evening. It was first
heard in the ball-room; whence it originated no one could exactly tell,
but there it was, flying from lip to lip. The younger men were seen to
crowd around Guntram and the officers from Heinrich's room, whom they
plied with questions, and although it had been agreed that no mention
was to be made of the disagreeable circumstance that had occurred
there, the dark rumour was not long in taking shape.

How it came about that first the elder ladies and then the younger
portion of the assemblage learned it no one could tell, but it
circulated everywhere in the ball-room, and finally penetrated to the
smoking-room, where the older men left their cigars and cards and
returned to the ball-room to ascertain what had happened.

They found the greatest excitement prevailing there; the band was still
playing, it is true, but there were only a few couples on the floor,
and these danced without enthusiasm, and apparently merely for form's
sake.

And what was it all about? No one could precisely say. Had Count Repuin
actually boxed Herr von Sorr's ears in Heinrich's room and called him a
cheat and thief? Oh, no! it was not Count Repuin. He had interfered
when Count Styrum, who had been robbed by Sorr, would have chastised
the thief, and high words had passed between the two Counts. It would
certainly end in a duel. This was the tale told to Adele by the wife of
Major Gansauge; but Frau von Rose, who stood by, declared that she had
it from the best authority--her informant had begged that his name
might not be mentioned--that there was not a word of truth in the whole
story. It all came from Herr von Arnim's recklessly accusing Herr von
Sorr of playing unfairly. Poor Herr von Sorr was very likely not so
much to blame; he played high, to be sure, but, good heavens! plenty of
people did that nowadays, and Arnim was probably irritated because
Sorr's luck was better than his own. He had lost his temper, accused
Sorr of cheating; Sorr had naturally resented it; a duel was impending;
Count Styrum was to be Arnim's second, while Count Repuin was to act as
poor Herr von Sorr's friend. It was outrageous that such an affair
should disturb the gayety of one of the dear President's charming
balls. Poor dear Lucie von Sorr was most to be pitied, for every one
knew that Arnim was the best shot in the world and always killed his
man. But there was Count Styrum just come back to the ball-room; he
could tell all about it, if he only would.

Adele listened with impatience to the contradictory statements of the
two ladies. They were both noted gossips, and equally untrustworthy,
but there must be something wrong, else how could the report of some
kind of scene in Heinrich's room have circulated everywhere, even
reaching the ears of Frau von Sorr, who, in some agitation, had begged
her friend to discover the truth of the matter for her?

Heinrich, to whom his sister had first turned for information, had
refused, somewhat roughly, to give her any satisfaction. "Old women's
gossip," was his only reply, as he turned his back upon her. His manner
only served to convince Adele that there was some truth in the rumours
she had heard, and anxiety for her friend Lucie induced her to pay some
heed to the talk of the two old ladies in hopes of learning some fact
of consequence. Her only satisfaction had been in hearing that her
cousin, Count Styrum, could give her the information she desired. It
was not easy, however, to enter into conversation with him, for
immediately upon his return to the ball-room he was surrounded by eager
questioners, each curious to know all that he could tell. In her
friend's interest, however, Adele was brave. She walked towards the
group of gentlemen, who instantly made way for the lovely daughter of
their host, and, accosting Styrum, said, "Cousin Karl, let me beg you
to conduct me to a seat."

The Count instantly offered her his arm, and, while conducting her
through the room, quietly remarked, "I suspect why you have sought me.
You want to know the truth with regard to the occurrence in Heinrich's
room, concerning which such wild rumours have got abroad with
inconceivable rapidity. Am I not right?"

"Yes, cousin; I implore you to tell me the whole truth. My poor Lucie
is quite beside herself with anxiety. Only see how pale she is! Never
was there a woman so self-controlled as she. Look, she is smiling now,
as she must so often when her heart is almost breaking; but she cannot
quite conceal her torturing fear that something terrible has occurred.
Take me to a seat beside her, that you may tell us both what has
happened."

"That I cannot do," the Count replied, gravely. "I will willingly tell
you all that I know, but I cannot describe to that most unfortunate
woman the disgraceful scene which I was forced to witness. You are her
most intimate friend, and yet I doubt if even you will be able to tell
her the whole truth. With this I can acquaint only yourself, your
father, and your brother."

Adele looked around; she noted the curious eyes fixed upon the Count
and herself; she knew that it would create gossip if she indulged in a
longer _tete-a-tete_ with her cousin, if she withdrew with him from the
throng; but she would brave it all for the sake of her poor Lucie. "Let
us go out upon the balcony," she said; "there is no one there at
present; the gentlemen are all gathered about Heinrich and his
friends."

It excited no little observation in the ball-room when Styrum led his
cousin out upon the balcony.

"Look, look!" the major's wife whispered to her crony, Frau von Rose.
"That is a little too strong. I know they are relatives and all that,
but it is possible to presume too much upon such relationships. Out
alone on the balcony with him! Who would ever have thought it of the
little prude!"

"What are you thinking of, my dear?" Frau von Rose whispered in her
turn. "Adele is as good as betrothed to the Assessor von Hahn. I have
it from a trustworthy source."

"Indeed! So much the more reason why she should not be out on the
balcony alone with her handsome cousin. It is scandalous! Who would
have thought of such things happening here at the President's! First
this terrible Sorr story, and then such conduct on Adele's part."

"But, my dear, we advised her to ask information of the Count."

"We?---- I beg pardon; I never should have advised any such thing; and
if I remember rightly, you only mentioned that the Count could tell all
about the matter if he would; you never hinted a word of advice. But of
course Fraeulein Adele will blame you if her father scolds her for such
behaviour, and very unseemly behaviour it is for a young girl to talk
to a gentleman alone in a dark night upon a balcony."

"I myself do not think it exactly the thing, but there's no great harm
in it. The balcony is as light as day from the lights in this room. You
can see them both quite plainly. Look, Adele is leaning against the
iron balustrade, and the Count is standing at a respectful distance
talking to her. He is telling her all about Herr von Sorr, it is plain
to be seen; and at any rate, my dear, what affair is it of ours if
Fraeulein Adele finds it convenient to talk more confidentially to her
cousin on the balcony than she could here in the ballroom? She will
know the particulars of the affair when she comes back, and we will
make her tell us all about it."

While the elderly ladies in the ball-room were thus unfavourably
discussing the interview on the balcony, Adele was listening with
painful interest to her cousin's story. She had long known of the evil
reports circulated with regard to Sorr; they had been matter of
discussion in the President's family circle, and her father had often
declared that he could not ask to his house a man whose reputation was
so bad. It was only in compliance with Adele's entreaty that Sorr had
been invited to this birthday ball, and this only when Heinrich, upon
being consulted, had insisted that the silly stories concerning Sorr
were false, that they were all inventions of Lieutenant von Arnim, who
hated Sorr.

Adele, too, had hitherto given little credit to what was said of Sorr;
she knew that her friend led a very unhappy life with her husband, that
his habits were extremely dissipated, and that he neglected his wife
shamefully, but that he had ever been engaged in any dishonourable
transaction she did not believe. Nevertheless, at times, when Lucie
seemed oppressed with a sadness which no words of hers could relieve or
lighten, doubts had occurred to her; doubts which, however, since Lucie
never accused her husband, nor even alluded to him, the young girl had
resolutely banished, defending Sorr against her father's suspicions,
and treating all evil rumour concerning him as idle gossip.

Now she knew the truth; and her heart seemed to stand still as she
learned that all that had been hitherto whispered of evil against Sorr
was exceeded by the facts,--her Lucie's husband was a detected thief!

"My poor, poor Lucie!" she said, with infinite sadness, when Styrum had
finished his narrative. "What will be done now? What does that dreadful
Repuin mean to do?"

"I am not sufficiently familiar with the relations which have existed
hitherto between Sorr and Count Repuin to answer that question," Styrum
replied, "but I must confess that my first thought was that Repuin had
brought about this catastrophe intentionally. I may do the Count
injustice, for he acted as any man of honour would have done in his
place. He could not suppress his knowledge of Sorr's theft, but he
acquainted me with it with great tact, leaving it to me to spare the
thief or to bring him to justice, and he acquiesced in my decision,
that out of consideration for your father the fellow must be let alone.
And no one can blame him for wishing to adjust without my assistance
his own relations with Sorr, who has hitherto passed in society for his
friend. He has only done his duty, and that in the most honourable
manner. All this I admit, and yet I cannot help suspecting that he
acted in accordance with a deep-laid scheme and in furtherance of his
own evil designs. I can never forget the look the man cast upon Frau
von Sorr when you took your friend's part so bravely, and the memory of
it fills me with distrust of him. Therefore I had intended to tell you
as soon as possible all that happened, and am especially grateful to
you for this opportunity to do so, since you are in a position to judge
whether any danger threatens your friend. She certainly must have told
you much that will enable you to know this."

"Oh, if she only had!" said Adele. "Unfortunately, it is not so. I love
Lucie like a sister. When we were at school together she confided
everything, even her very thoughts, to me: we had no secrets from each
other; but I no longer possess her confidence. I know she loves me as
well as ever, and if she could confide in any one, she would confide in
me and let me share and soothe her sorrow. Therefore I cannot but hope
for a return of the old intimacy. After her marriage I had not seen her
for a long time, and our correspondence had flagged, when something
more than a year ago she suddenly came here with her husband to live.
Her first visit was to me, and I was indescribably happy to see her
once more. She showed me all her old affection, but not her old
confidence. I soon perceived that she was very unhappy,--she could not
prevent my seeing that,--but to all my questions she returned evasive
answers, and I only judged from common report that her marriage was an
unhappy one, she has never spoken of it to me. And of her relations
with Count Repuin I know only what my own observation has taught me. He
has been for months Sorr's most intimate friend; they seemed
inseparable. Sorr lives very quietly, he never gives large parties, but
he frequently entertains a few friends, among whom, Heinrich has told
me, Repuin is always to be found. He has paid assiduous court to my
poor Lucie, never heeding the almost offensive coldness of her manner
to him. I know how abhorrent his attentions are to her, although she
has never mentioned him to me: I can read it in her eyes. This is all I
know; you were a witness of the odious scene at supper to-night, it
aroused in you the suspicion that troubles me also. My poor, dear
Lucie! I am in despair at not knowing how to advise or assist her. I
entreat you, dear Karl, to help me; my Lucie deserves to find faithful
friends in her terrible misery. Tell me, what will happen,--what can we
do?"

As she spoke, Adele looked up at her cousin, her large, dark eyes
glowing with entreaty and filled with tears. How beautiful her eyes
were!--almost more beautiful now when their brilliancy was dimmed by
those "kindly drops" than when sparkling with youthful gayety.

Count Styrum was wonderfully impressed,--Adele's cordial confidence
enchanted him. Frau von Sorr had already interested him; he was now
resolved to do everything in his power to aid her in her misery.
Adele's friend could not be the accomplice of her unworthy husband.

But what could he do? He pondered this question in vain. "What will
happen?" To this he could make no reply; he could not imagine what
Repuin contemplated doing.

"You do not reply, Karl?" Adele asked. "Will you not help me to protect
my poor Lucie from that horrible Count Repuin, to stand by her in her
misery?"

"With all my heart I will, my dear Adele," he replied, taking her hand
and kissing it so fervently that the girl withdrew it with a blush.

"I accept your promise," she said; "we are now allies, and I am
convinced that you will be a help indeed. How we can aid my friend I do
not yet know, but I am sure that in her great need she will accord me
her full confidence, and appeal to me for help; then, Karl, I will
summon you and remind you of your promise."

"And I will come. Ask of me what you will, you shall not ask in vain."

"I thank you from my soul; you inspire me with courage and hope. But
look, cousin, there comes Repuin, followed by Sorr. Take me to Lucie
quickly,--I cannot leave her alone!"

Repuin, as he entered the ball-room, looked around for Heinrich von
Guntram. To reach him he was obliged to traverse the entire length of
the room, and he waited several minutes to do this, since he did not
wish to disturb the dancers. He paused in the doorway and let Sorr pass
him, saying as he did so, "Good-night, my dear fellow," in a tone
evidently intended to be heard by all about him. "I hope," he added,
"that your terrible headache will be gone by tomorrow. Indeed, you
ought to consult a physician. Pray give my regards to your wife."

He held out his hand to Sorr with a friendly nod, and then, turning to
Assessor von Hahn, he forestalled the question which that worthy was
about to address to him, by saying, "I am sorry for poor Sorr; he seems
to me in a very bad way. See, Herr von Hahn, how pale he is! He only
drank a couple of glasses of champagne, and they have given him a
racking headache."

"Is his present ghastly appearance entirely the effect of champagne?"
the Assessor asked, with a slight laugh.

"What else could it be? Do you think he can be seriously ill? I trust
not."

"It seems, Count, that your great kindness of heart prompts you to
endeavour to hush up this ugly story. I admire your amiability. I am
naturally kind-hearted myself. I make no boast of it,--the gifts of
nature are variously distributed; but it enables me to understand you,
Count, and it makes it all the more painful for me to tell you that you
never will succeed in crushing this scandal,--nothing else if talked of
throughout the room. See how every one looks at Sorr, how his most
intimate acquaintances avoid him, turning away as he passes them. Your
kindness can avail that man nothing, Count; he is lost, branded, and he
knows it; a guilty conscience speaks in every feature of his face."

Repuin had observed the same thing, and exulted to see the contempt
with which Sorr was treated by those of his acquaintance whom he was
obliged to pass in gaining his wife's side. What had taken place in
Heinrich's room was already known here, then. The young officers had
blabbed; they could not have told all, for they did not know all, but
enough had been said to affect greatly Sorr's reputation.

This was just what he had intended, that Heinrich and his companions
should suspect Sorr's guilt without being sure of it. He had hoped to
find the ball-room filled with dark rumours, and his wishes were
gratified. Sorr would now be convinced that it needed but a word from
Repuin to annihilate him, and that his only hope for the future lay in
implicit obedience to the Russian's commands.

He, however, feigned to be greatly amazed. "I do not understand you,
Herr von Hahn," he said. "What ugly story is it that my discretion is
to crush? Why should poor Sorr have a guilty conscience in addition to
a bad headache? What has he done?"

"That you know best, Count."

"I am but a poor hand at guessing riddles, and must beg you not to
propound them to me, but to tell me plainly what has happened. I must
request an explanation in the interest of my friend Sorr."

The Assessor looked at the Count with a very puzzled air. He really did
not know what to think. Arnim had given him a succinct account of what
had taken place in Heinrich's study, and had added his opinion that
"Sorr was now done for," since Repuin had doubtless detected him in
cheating at the game. Arnim's trustworthiness was not to be questioned,
but how did his story tally with the Count's behaviour? Surely Repuin
would not call a detected cheat his friend?

The Assessor did not know what to believe; he was in a very
disagreeable position. The only way out of it for him was to tell the
Count what reports were current in the ballroom, and thus justify his
over-hasty expressions.

"A most annoying misunderstanding," was the Russian's comment upon his
communication. "I cannot, Herr von Hahn, explain the occurrence to you,
since it concerns a private matter of Count Styrum's, to whom I have
promised silence, but this rumour must be contradicted. Pray come with
me, we will make use of this pause in the dance to seek out Herr
Heinrich von Guntram, and I will explain matters as far as I may in his
presence."

Repuin then walked directly across the room to Heinrich, the Assessor
following him, joined by several of the gentlemen, who guessed Repuin's
intention and were curious to know more of the scene in Heinrich's
study. Thus the Russian was surrounded by quite an audience when he
reached Heinrich, who was standing near the door of the balcony talking
earnestly with Arnim and Herr von Saldern.

Heinrich replied but coldly to the Count's friendly address. He was
very indignant that Repuin should have been the cause of so unpleasant
a scandal beneath his father's roof upon this special evening; a
scandal that had called forth a decided rebuke from the President with
regard to the gaming in his son's apartment. He was also annoyed at the
indiscretion that had given rise to such disagreeable rumours, and he
visited this annoyance upon the Count, although he had but just entered
the room and could not possibly have originated any of them.

Repuin took no notice of his cool reception. "I am sorry to disturb
you, Herr von Guntram," he said, in a loud voice, "but I am forced to
do so by a very unfortunate misunderstanding, which appears to be
wide-spread. It concerns a conversation which took place between your
cousin, Count Styrum, Herr von Sorr, and myself. May I beg you to ask
Count Styrum to step here for one moment, that I may have his
ratification of a declaration which I wish to make in your presence?"

Heinrich was surprised at the conciliatory tone adopted by the Russian,
and he could not refuse to accede to his request. He beckoned to Count
Styrum, who had returned from conducting Adele to Frau von Sorr, and
was standing near the balcony quietly surveying the assemblage.

"I have to my regret learned from Herr von Hahn." Repuin began when
Count Styrum had drawn near, "that the aforesaid conversation between
the Count, Herr von Sorr, and myself has given rise to various
groundless reports, which I feel it my duty to contradict, in order
that the serenity of this charming entertainment may not be disturbed
by any silly gossip. I therefore declare, and beg all the gentlemen who
hear me to take notice of what I say, that the conversation between
Count Styrum, Herr von Sorr, and myself, which has given rise to all
this talk, related solely to private personal matters, and ended, I
trust, entirely to Count Styrum's satisfaction, so that we agreed to
forget the whole affair, and not to speak of it again. I beg Count
Styrum kindly to confirm this statement."

Styrum did not immediately reply. Could he confirm Repuin's words? They
contained no falsehood, and yet they were calculated to deceive the
hearers, who would infer from them that the question was of a personal
disagreement, which, after a friendly adjustment, was to be forgotten.
Did they not imply a justification of Sorr which Styrum neither could
nor would ratify? What was Repuin's motive in thus gently treating the
thief whom so short a time before he had seemed unwilling to allow to
escape?

"May I ask for the confirmation of my words, Count?" Repuin asked
again, on noticing Styrum's hesitation. "Have I not spoken truly?"

"What you have said is true," said Styrum, who could hesitate no
longer, "but it might give rise to a further misunderstanding, which is
under all circumstances to be avoided. I therefore add that there was
no question of any quarrel."

"I did not mean to imply that there was, and state expressly that there
was no talk of a quarrel between Count Styrum and Herr von Sorr. I
believe this affair may now be considered as dismissed."

"Not quite, Count," Lieutenant von Arnim here interposed. "The affair
has unfortunately acquired such publicity that it must be pursued a
little farther. If you desire to re-establish as a man of honour Herr
von Sorr, whom in the presence of many witnesses you treated as no
gentleman should be treated by another, you must do it rather more
formally. Your conduct towards Herr von Sorr exposed him to suspicions
which nothing that either Count Styrum or you have said suffices to
allay. I have no desire, Count, to meddle in your private affairs; I do
not care to know what was the nature of the conversation to which you
summoned Herr von Sorr after so unceremonious a fashion. I shall be
quite content--so shall we all--if you and Count Styrum will simply
declare 'We consider Herr von Sorr a man of honour.' Let me beg you to
make this declaration, Count Styrum."

"I do not feel justified in making such a declaration," Styrum replied.

"Nor do I," Repuin added, "since I do not admit that any one has a
right to demand of me a statement as to the honour of a gentleman."

"Your opinion is made sufficiently plain by your refusal," Arnim said,
very gravely. Then, turning to Heinrich von Guntram, he added, "I
think, Guntram, that you now owe it to yourself, to your family, and to
all of us to require this Herr von Sorr to leave a society where there
is no place for him."

"I protest against such a construction of my words!" exclaimed Repuin,
with a dark glance at the lieutenant.

"No quarrelling, gentlemen, let me entreat," Heinrich von Guntram
interposed. "We have had enough, and more than enough, annoyance for
to-night. Have some regard for my father and my sister, Arnim, and
recall your demand, compliance with which would only provoke a fresh
scandal."

"There is no occasion for farther discussion," said Repuin. "Herr and
Frau von Sorr are just leaving the room. I advised Sorr to go, he
complained of a headache."

"A very prudent proceeding on Herr von Sorr's part," sneered Arnim. "He
relieves our friend Guntram of a disagreeable duty. For the present the
matter is settled. You must decide for yourself, Guntram, how to act in
future with regard to this precious Herr von Sorr. Do not, gentlemen,
allow this miserable affair to disturb our enjoyment any longer. The
music is just beginning; let us at least have one more dance."

To this all were agreed, even Count Repuin, who was not sorry to be
relieved from duty as Sorr's champion. Everything was taking the course
he desired; his victim could no longer frequent this society; he was
delivered over into the hands of his enemy.

Herr and Frau von Sorr had indeed left the ball-room before Arnim's
last words. Their suburban dwelling was not far from the President's,
it took scarcely a quarter of an hour to drive thither, but to Lucie
the time appeared an eternity.

She leaned back among the cushions, whilst her husband looked out of
the carriage window. Not a word did he address to his wife during the
drive, nor did she once break the silence. She did not wish to question
him to provoke an explanation, she would fain have avoided any such
altogether. She knew nothing decided with regard to what had occurred
at the President's. A few remarks, not intended for her ear, had hinted
at a most disagreeable scene, in which her husband had been implicated,
and in her anxiety she had applied to Adele for information. Her
friend, however, had no time to impart this, for scarcely had Count
Styrum conducted her to Lucie when Sorr made his appearance, stating
that he was not well, and that he wished to leave immediately, without
any formal adieux.

A few words only Adele had contrived to whisper into her friend's ear,
few but significant. "Courage, dearest Lucie; remember, I am your
devoted friend; trust me; whatever happens, I will stand by you."

What did these words mean? Lucie ran over in her mind the events of the
evening, but found no explanation of them. Adele could not know how
insulting had been Count Repuin's presumption, or how sharply he had
been reproved. But if she did not know, she perhaps suspected it, and
therefore had her championship of her friend been so eager.

Had the Count perhaps had a quarrel with her husband? They had returned
to the ball-room together, the Count with his head carried haughtily,
Sorr, on the contrary, with an air that seemed to Lucie to express
profound despair. Just so pale and downcast had he looked on the day
when he told her that the last remnant of his property had been lost at
the gaming-table, and that not his money only, but also his honour
would be sacrificed if he could not quickly find means to pay his
gambling debts. He threatened to put a bullet through his head if Lucie
did not sign a power of attorney that placed her maternal inheritance,
her whole fortune, at his disposal. He had promised then never to play
again, and to alter his whole manner of life.

Lucie had long known that he had broken his word, that he had played
away her property also, and she only called this scene to mind now
because he had the same air of utter despair that had characterized him
on this evening when he had followed Repuin into the ball-room.

What had happened? Should she ask him? No! Whither could such questions
lead? He had long ceased to tell her the truth; and even were he to do
so, she might well wish it untold. Even to guess at the dark ways by
which he maintained his position in society was misery enough. Why
should she wish to know the terrible truth? He must have been playing
again; Repuin had probably lost, and some quarrel had ensued,
which---- No, she would pursue such thoughts no further. She trembled
to think that her husband might have revelations to make to her that
would rob her of the last remnant of her peace of mind.

The carriage stopped; Sorr got out, and, without troubling himself
about his wife, unlocked the door and entered the house. She followed
him, and they ascended the stairs in silence. In the anteroom he
lighted the two candles left in readiness for them. When they returned
from an evening entertainment it was his custom, after lighting the
candles, to retire to his room with a curt "good-night," but this he
did not do. "I have something to say to you," he said, handing Lucie
one of the candles. "I will go with you into the drawing-room."

She made no reply; her hand trembled as she took the light. She had a
foreboding that a crisis in her destiny was at hand; that the
communication which Sorr was about to make to her would be momentous
both for her and for him.

He went first. In the drawing-room he placed the light upon the table,
and then sank upon the sofa as if exhausted. He sat for a long time in
silence, his head resting on his hand, his looks bent on the ground.

Lucie did not disturb him, but remained standing by the table in front
of the sofa, silently watching him, marking the convulsive twitching of
his lips, the terrible change in his countenance. She saw the struggle
going on within him.

At last he seemed to have come to a determination. He looked up, but
when he saw Lucie's dark eyes fixed searchingly upon him he instantly
averted his own. He sprang up from the sofa and paced the room with
hurried, irregular strides, pausing at last before his wife. He tried
to look at her, but he could not meet her eye. It was inexpressibly
difficult to speak the first word. He longed to have her question him,
that he might reply, but Lucie was silent. He felt her keen glance
watching his every movement, and at last he could endure it no longer.

This must end,--this terrible silence was not to be borne; he must
break it by some word, no matter what. "I am ruined!" he said.

"I know it; we have been so for a long while," was Lucie's reply, given
with forced calmness.

"You deceive yourself. I am far worse off than you think. I have lost
all,--everything! More than we ever possessed! I am overwhelmed with
debt; we are on the brink of an abyss from which there is but one means
of escape."

"We should have adopted it long since."

Sorr looked up in astonishment. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"That we must at last resign the life we have led hitherto. I have
often, but always in vain, begged you to do so. Now necessity will
force you to it, and if you really see this at last I shall bless this
hour. By honest labour we can regain what we have lost. We have
influential friends, by whose aid we can easily begin life anew in
another city. You can procure some official position, and I will give
lessons in music and drawing, or in French and English. With courage
and determination we can easily achieve a secure independence."

"You are mad!"

This was all the reply that Sorr had for Lucie's words. Then he laughed
aloud. "It is incredible," he said, more to himself than to her, "the
wild ideas that will fill a woman's brain! An official post with a few
hundred thalers of salary--too much to starve upon, too little to
procure enough to eat! Tiresome work, from morning until night, and
hectored by a superior officer, to whom one must cringe. Regarded
askance by gentlemen. A pretty position! No, rather a bullet through my
brains and the whole mummery at an end. No need to waste a word upon
such nonsense. If I cannot live as I have been accustomed to live, I
had rather not live at all. This is not the means of escape which I
have to propose to you." He paused a moment; it was difficult to say
what he had to, but he could delay no longer, and he continued, "We
must separate, Lucie!"

"You forget that this is impossible," Lucie replied, forcing herself to
speak calmly; "a Catholic marriage cannot be dissolved, or ours would
have been so long ago."

"Nonsense! I am not talking of a divorce, which is of course
impossible, but of a separation. I have a proposal to make to you; I
know that at first it will seem odious to you; I do not like it myself,
but upon calm reflection you will see that in it lies our only means of
salvation. You must first know how matters stand with me, and this I
will tell you in as few words as possible. Our need is such that in
my despair I was induced to--to--it must out, there is no help for
it--Count Styrum's pocket-book lay open before me, and I took from it a
hundred-thaler note."

Lucie recoiled; incapable of uttering a word, she stared at her
husband. A thief! No; for this she had not been prepared; this exceeded
her worst forebodings,--a thief! And he could confess his shameful deed
thus with cynical frankness; he did not even repent it; he was not
crushed and despairing. Had he not just expressed his contempt for
honest labour? A thief! And to this man she was bound by an
indissoluble tie!

Sorr expected no answer; he had now gained the courage to speak; after
the confession of the theft nothing was difficult, and he continued,
"Well, yes, I could not resist the temptation; the pocket-book lay open
before me; the opportunity was too tempting. I thought no one saw me,
but I was wrong; Repuin saw it all. Our fate lies in his hand; if he
speaks I shall be condemned as a thief, and you will share my
dishonour. The wife of the thief who has escaped punishment only by
voluntary death is an outcast from society. Your plan of honest labour
would prove futile, for none would intrust their children's instruction
to a woman at whom the world points the finger of scorn. You will sink
into utter misery; that will be your fate, as mine will be to die by my
own hand, if you refuse to accede to the proposal in which alone lies
safety for us. It is in your power," the wretch continued, speaking
rapidly and in a firmer tone, "to secure yourself a gay and joyous
existence, free from care, and provided with every luxury that wealth
can give, while you keep your conscience clear of the guilt of my
death, for it will be your act that drives me to suicide if you refuse
to accede to my proposal."

"And what do you ask of me?" Lucie inquired, in a low monotone.

"Count Repuin," Sorr began again, "is madly in love with you. You have
hitherto treated him very badly, although you owed it to me to smile
upon him, as I have often begged you to do. His love, however, has been
only increased by your reserve. He is ready to make any sacrifice for
you now. But if he is again repulsed he is resolved upon revenge; he
will then be our deadly foe; he will ruin both you and me. You see what
is before us. If, however, you consent to our separation. Count Repuin
will take you to Italy, or whithersoever you wish to go. He will load
you with the costliest gifts, every wish that you can frame will be
fulfilled. You will insure yourself a most brilliant position and save
my life. It would be worse than madness to say 'no.'"

Lucie's gaze was bent upon the ground. When her husband first began to
speak such shameful words, she thought she could not endure life until
he should have ended, but she summoned up all her strength of mind and
succeeded in conquering the terrible pain that tortured her; she
preserved an outward calm, while her heart seemed breaking with horror
and indignation.

Sorr patiently awaited her answer. He thought she was considering his
proposal, and that was a good sign. He had feared that she would
indignantly reject it, give utterance to her detestation of the
Russian, and overwhelm him with reproaches for having dared to suggest
such a scheme, but nothing of all this had occurred; she had listened
quietly. He had prepared himself to overpower her resistance with
threats and entreaties, but there seemed to be no need for these. Since
she was so calmly considering the matter she would certainly be
reasonable in the end. He exulted in so easy and unlooked-for a
victory.

At last she spoke: "You then desire that we should part? You yourself
would now declare me released for life from every obligation that a
wife owes to her husband? You distinctly consent to our separation, and
declare that you have no longer any claim upon either my life or my
fidelity. Answer me with a simple 'yes,' and I will consider whether to
accept your proposal, but before I decide I must be free."

"If you accept my plan, it follows as a matter of course that you are
entirely free by my desire," Sorr replied, who could not help thinking
her demand rather ambiguous.

"I asked for a simple 'yes' or 'no,' without any 'if.' I must be free
before I decide. Unless you say 'yes' unconditionally, I swear to you I
will die before I yield to your wishes and part from you."

"Well, then, 'yes,'--you are free. But now be reasonable, Lucie; tell
me what to say to Repuin; he expects me tomorrow morning by eight
o'clock. I dare not go one minute later."

"I will consider; you shall have my reply before eight to-morrow."

"But, Lucie----"

"You must wait. I will not decide to-night."

"Well, then, as you will. To-morrow morning early. Good-night, Lucie."

He held out his hand, but she turned from him with loathing, and,
without even looking at him, took up a candle and left the room. Sorr
heard the door of her own room bolted behind her.




                               CHAPTER V.


The Hohenwalds by no means belong to the old German imperial nobility.
It is said that in the forest-depths of the domain of a Saxon Prince
his trusty huntsman saved the life of his lord from the furious
onslaught of a wild boar, and that in gratitude the Prince bestowed
upon him the hunting castle where he had previously been overseer, and
in memory of his bravery gave him the name of Hohenwald,[2] which
gradually came to belong to the castle and the neighbouring village on
the estate. The title of Freiherr, or Baron, was bestowed much later by
the Emperor. Baron Werner von Hohenwald, who distinguished himself as a
colonel during the Thirty Years' War, was probably the first thus
honoured, and the founder of the family of _von_ Hohenwalds.

This old colonel, who added much to the estate, not a large one
originally, was passionately devoted to the chase; he took up his abode
in the old castle, surrounded on all sides by the forest, and his
example was followed by all his successors, although such a residence
by no means lightened the cares of the management of the extended
estates of Hohenwald. The solitude of the forest had an irresistible
attraction for the Hohenwalds, and although they had erected a
comfortable grange near the village, they always occupied the castle.
Around the comparatively new grange were gathered the farm buildings
and the dwellings for inspectors and other officials. The Hohenwalds
thought nothing of the inconvenience of riding a couple of miles to
reach the grange; they thought themselves amply compensated by the
wonderful beauty of the site of the castle, buried in the depths of a
magnificent forest. The love of solitude seemed inherrent in the
Hohenwalds. If some among them had in their youth frequented the Court,
of Dresden, they were sure to return finally to Castle Hohenwald, and
none of them ever left it in summer. They had lavished so much money
and taste in fitting it up for a home, that it would indeed have been
difficult to find one more charming and desirable. The imperial colonel
had first begun to improve and add to the old hunting-nest, and each of
his successors had done his part in giving fresh beauty and grace to
castle, to gardens, and even to the forest, a portion of which had been
converted into a magnificent park. If they loved solitude, they were
all the more determined to surround themselves in their solitude with
every luxury that wealth could procure. Some of the rooms of the castle
were furnished with princely splendour, especially those on the lower
story, in which the present Freiherr Werner had been wont to assemble
frequent guests before his separation from his wife. The walls were
hung with paintings by illustrious masters;--the collection of pictures
at Hohenwald, although for years it had been seen by none save the
inmates of the castle, was accounted one of the best and largest in the
country,--and the castle library exceeded many a public one in its
treasures of literature.

The ground-floor of the castle was less gorgeously fitted up than was
the first story. The present possessor, Freiherr Werner, had arranged
it for himself, and he thought more of solid comfort than of
superficial splendour. Nothing had been spared to make the rooms
pleasant and comfortable, but the hangings and furniture-covers were
not of silken damask, but of substantial woollen fabric, subdued in
colour, suiting well with the dark oak wainscoting and furniture.

The Freiherr's favourite retreat was a large apartment, at one end of
which lofty folding-doors of glass opened upon a terrace, whence a
flight of steps led into the garden. As the castle crowned an eminence,
from this terrace almost all the garden could be overlooked, as well as
part of the road leading to the castle from the village of Hohenwald.

The garden-room, as it was called, was the dwelling-room of Freiherr
Werner; he spent most of his time here, even in winter, and in summer,
when the tall doors were thrown wide open, the view from them partly
indemnified him for the loss of open-air exercise, from which he had
now been debarred for some years.

Every morning he was pushed into this room in his rolling-chair from
his bedroom, for his right foot was so lame from the gout that he could
not walk. Here he assembled his family about him, here the daily meals
were eaten, and only late in the evening was he rolled back again to
his bedroom by his servant or by his son Arno. Every day he sat at the
open doors, gazing out into the garden. In former years he had devoted
much time to his garden; he was enthusiastically fond of flowers, but
since the gout had confined him to his rolling-chair he had been forced
to content himself with merely superintending the gardeners, to whom
from time to time he would shout down his orders. It was but seldom
that he could be taken out into the garden among his flowers, for the
slightest motion occasioned him great pain.

On the afternoon of a lovely day in May the Freiherr was seated in his
favourite spot, looking abroad into the garden, where his beloved
flowers were budding gloriously, and delighting in their beauty and the
mild air of spring. He was in the most contented of moods; his book was
laid aside; he could read at any time; storms did not interfere with
that. His keen gaze wandered with intense enjoyment from shrub to
shrub; most of them he had planted himself, and his interest was
unflagging in watching their daily development from bud to blossom.

If the Assessor von Hahn could have seen the Freiherr at this moment he
would hardly have recognized the gloomy misanthrope in this kindly old
man with genial smile and gentle eyes; but the next moment the
expression of the mobile features changed, the genial smile vanished,
the brow was contracted in a frown, the dark eyes sparkled with
irritation.

It was the sound of a distant post-horn that caused this sudden change
in the Baron's expression. The old man listened. An extra post! He had
not heard the signal for a long time, but in former years his ears had
been familiar enough with it; he could not be deceived. A visit was
impending, for the road led only to Castle Hohenwald and ended there;
any traveller upon it must have the castle for his goal. Again the
signal sounded, rather nearer; the postilion was evidently determined
that the castle should be thoroughly apprised of the visitor at hand.

The Freiherr picked up a bell from the table beside him and rang it
loudly. A servant instantly appeared at the door leading into the hall.
"Did you hear that, Franz?" his master angrily exclaimed. "Did you hear
that? An extra post!"

"It cannot be, sir," old Franz calmly replied. "Who is there to come to
us?"

"That's just it. Who can have the insolence? But there; hear it for
yourself. The cursed postilion is blowing with all the force of his
lungs just to vex me."

"Can it be possible?" old Franz exclaimed, in the greatest
astonishment, as he hearkened to the postilion's horn now sounding much
nearer.

"No doubt of it! A visit! Such insolence is insufferable! Do they think
me old and childish? Whoever it may be will find himself mistaken.
Hurry, Franz, to the castle gate; you know what to say. I receive no
one; I'm sick,--I cannot see anybody. The carriage must turn round and
go back; whoever it may be, don't let them get out. Call the gardener
and old John to help you, if you need them. Go; be quick. In a few
minutes that carriage will be here."

The old man looked very angry as he shouted out these orders; his dark
eyes flashed from beneath the bushy snow-white eyebrows. With one hand
he stroked, as was his habit when vexed, his full silver beard, with
the other he rapped upon the small table beside him. "Well, what are
you waiting for?" he growled to the man, who still stood hesitating at
the door.

"What if it should be the Herr Finanzrath?"

"Werner? I positively never thought of him," replied the Freiherr,
mollified on the instant. "Of course he is an exception; but now to
your post. Go!"

Old Franz vanished, and the Freiherr leaned forward in his chair,
disregarding the pain the movement caused him, that he might better
overlook the road leading up the hill, for in a few moments the extra
post would emerge from the forest and be visible upon the road.

On came the horses and the vehicle, a light chaise, in which sat an
elegantly-dressed man leaning back among the cushions, and talking to a
horseman who was riding beside the carriage.

"Of course it is Werner!" muttered the Freiherr, relieved, sinking back
into his chair. And yet he did not seem particularly rejoiced at the
unexpected arrival of his eldest son, for the frown did not quite leave
his brow. He looked annoyed. "What does he want, coming thus without
letting us know? But perhaps he did announce his visit to Arno; he is
riding beside him. Well, well, we shall see."

The old man had not long to wait,--the post-chaise soon rattled
over the stones of the court-yard, and a few minutes later the
Finanzrath von Hohenwald, accompanied by his brother Arno, entered the
garden-room.

The Finanzrath was a tall, handsome man, something over thirty years
old; he, as well as his brother Arno, bore a decided resemblance
to the old Baron,--they had the same dark, fiery eyes, and the same
finely-chiselled mouth, which, when tightly closed, lent an almost hard
expression to the face. And yet, despite their likeness to their
father, the brothers were so unlike that it was only after long
familiarity with them, and a careful comparison of their features, that
any resemblance between them could be detected. Both were handsome men,
tall and shapely, but their air and bearing were entirely dissimilar,
Arno having preserved the erect military carriage of the soldier, while
the Finanzrath was distinguished by an easy, negligent grace of
movement. Although he was the elder of the two, he looked much younger
than Arno; his fresh-coloured, smooth-shaven face had a very youthful
expression, while Arno's grave, earnest eyes made him appear older than
he really was.

The old Baron's face cleared somewhat as the Finanzrath drew a chair up
beside his father's and greeted him most cordially. "I am delighted to
see you looking so well, father," he said, kindly. "I trust that
terrible gout will soon be so much better that you can get out among
your flowers. But where is Celia?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes, where is she? Who can tell the whereabouts of that
will-o'-the-wisp? In the forest, in the park, in her boat on the lake,
in the village,--everywhere at once!" the old man answered, with a
smile.

A slight shade flitted across the Finanzrath's countenance. "Just the
same as ever," he said. "I thought so; and perhaps it is as well that
Celia is not here at the moment, as it gives me an opportunity to speak
to you and Arno, father, of a matter that lies very near my heart, and
that I should like to have settled before I see her. I hope, sir, you
will not be angry with me if I speak frankly with you in regard to your
darling, whom you have just designated so justly a will-o'-the-wisp?"

"What do you want with the child? Have you any fault to find again with
Celia?" the Freiherr asked, crossly.

"Yes, father; I feel it my fraternal duty towards Celia to speak very
seriously to you and to Arno in regard to her. You both spoil the girl
so completely that a stop must be put to it. Celia is now fifteen years
old, she is almost grown up."

"She is grown up," Arno interposed.

"So much the worse. Then it is certainly high time that something were
done about her education, if she is not to run quite wild. She is a
charming, sweet-tempered creature, and I can hardly blame you, living
with her here in this lonely forest, for being content with her as she
is, nor can I wonder that you, my dear father, can scarcely grasp the
idea of allowing her to leave you."

"What do you mean?" the Freiherr exclaimed, angrily. "What are you
thinking of? I let Celia leave me? Never!"

"I knew what you would say, father," the Finanzrath replied; "but I
hope, nevertheless, that after calm consideration you will agree to a
plan that I have to propose to you. Celia has grown up here in the
castle without feminine companionship, for you will hardly call our old
Kaselitz, who has always spoiled the child to her heart's content, a
fit associate for a Fraeulein von Hohenwald. The only person of
education with whom Celia comes in contact, with the exception of
yourself and Arno, is her tutor our good old pastor, Quandt, who, as
Arno wrote me, has taught her well in various branches of science and
literature, but can of course teach her nothing of what a young girl of
rank should know when she goes out into the world."

"She never shall go out into the world!" the Freiherr indignantly
exclaimed.

"Do you wish Celia to pass her entire life here in the solitude of
Castle Hohenwald? Will you run the risk of hearing her one day say to
you, 'You have robbed me of the joys of life, father! I might have been
a happy wife and mother, but since you chose to keep me by your side, I
am become a weary, unhappy old maid!' You cannot be so selfish as to
wish that your darling should sacrifice to you her entire youth?"

"Nonsense! What would you have?" growled the Freiherr. "But go on. I
should like to know what you really want."

"You shall soon learn. I spoke of Celia's education; she is well
grounded in science and literature; she rides like an Amazon,--not
badly perhaps; she handles a fowling-piece with the skill of a
gamekeeper. So far so good; but does she understand how to conduct
herself in society? does she possess the talent for social
intercourse,--a knowledge of those forms which, worthless in
themselves, are nevertheless indispensable accomplishments for a young
lady of rank?"

"I have not brought her up to be a fine lady!" the Freiherr said,
peevishly.

"I think, sir, if you will pardon me, that you have not brought her up
at all. I detest a fine lady and modern artificial culture, but a
Baroness von Hohenwald should not be utterly ignorant of the forms of
society. Celia must learn to conform to the rules that govern the
society of to-day, and it is high time that she began to do so. Arno
will admit that I am right."

"I cannot deny it," said Arno, who had been an attentive listener as he
paced the room to and fro, and who now paused before his brother and
nodded assent. "I, too, have pondered upon what was to be done for
Celia. Something must be arranged for her further culture, but I have
vainly tried to devise what it shall be."

"And yet the matter is simple enough. Two methods are open to you. Let
my father choose which he prefers. The first, which I myself think the
best and would therefore most strongly recommend, is perhaps the one
that will prove least pleasing to my father. Frau von Adelung's school
in Dresden has the best of reputations, and Frau von Adelung herself is
a woman of refinement and culture, who moves in the first society. I
made an excursion to Dresden before I came hither, saw Frau von Adelung
myself, and spoke with her regarding Celia, whom she is quite willing
to receive among her pupils."

"Deuce take you for your pains!" cried the Freiherr, with a burst of
anger. "I know without being told that if I choose to pay for it the
best boarding-school in the country will be thankful to have my Celia,
but I tell you, once for all, I will not hear of it. I cannot part with
the child. Celia is my sunshine in this gloomy house. My heart rejoices
at the sight of her. The pain that tortures me is forgotten when I look
into her laughing eyes. I am a sick old man. You ought not to be so
cruel, Werner; leave me my jewel for the few years that I have to
live."

The Freiherr's tone from one of angry reproach had become that of
almost humble entreaty.

The Finanzrath nodded and smiled. "I hope you will rejoice for many
years in your jewel, and one day see her a happy wife and mother," he
said; and then continued: "If you will not part with Celia, she must
have the training here in Hohenwald which she could indeed procure more
easily at school; all that remains to be done is to engage a good
governess for her."

Arno suddenly paused in his pacing to and fro in the room.
"Impossible!" he exclaimed. "What are you thinking of, Werner? A
governess here in the house! Live with the pedantic, insufferable
creature day after day, week after week, and always have her
interfering between our Celia and ourselves! Our entire life would have
to be changed. If so pretentious a person were to come here she would
require to be amused; we should have visitors, and would be forced to
pay visits in return. The peaceful repose that has hitherto reigned in
Hohenwald would be gone if a strange inmate were introduced among us."

"Would you rather send Celia to school? I confess I should prefer it
myself."

"But I should not!" the old Freiherr exclaimed, with decision. "I do
not like womenfolk, but sooner than part with Celia I will endure a
governess in the house. After all, she will be only a superior sort of
servant. We get along with Frau Kaselitz, and we can get along with her
too!"

"Frau Kaselitz does not pretend to sit at table with us, nor to join
our family circle," said Arno.

"That would be insufferable," the Freiherr said, reflectively.

"Then let us have recourse to the school."

"Don't say another word about that cursed school," growled the
Freiherr; "let us have the governess and be done with it!"

Arno would have made some further objection, but his father cut it
short by declaring that not a word more should be said upon the subject
until Celia was by; the girl was old enough to have an opinion
concerning her own affairs.

To this decision the Finanzrath assented, rather unwillingly, to be
sure, since he would have preferred to have the matter settled on the
instant. He saw, however, that his father was coming round, and he
feared to injure his cause by any insistance. And Celia herself
prevented the possibility of continuing the conversation in her
absence.

A shower of syringa blossoms suddenly rained down upon the Finanzrath,
who was seated near the open door leading to the garden, and a
charming young girl appeared upon the threshold. It was Celia,--the
will-o'-the-wisp, as her father loved to call her,--who always appeared
when least expected.

With a merry laugh she flew to the Finanzrath, sealing her
flower-greeting with a light kiss upon his cheek, and then turning to
the old Baron, she threw her arms around his neck. "You are a dear,
darling old papa!" she cried, gayly. "You will not let your Celia be
sent to school like a little child; you will not let me be disposed of
without consulting me! Thank you, my own dear papa; but as for you,
Werner, I shall not forget that you would have banished me from
Hohenwald."

The Finanzrath shook off the syringa blossoms, and, leaning back in his
chair, contemplated his sister with increasing satisfaction. He had not
seen her for nearly a year; he had not been at Hohenwald since the
Freiherr's last birthday, and during this time Celia had changed
wonderfully. He had left a child, he found a maiden; the tall, lithe
figure had gained a certain roundness and grace.

Celia was developed physically far beyond her years; mentally, she was
still the gay, careless child; the happy spirit of childhood laughed in
her large brown eyes, was mirrored in the bright smile that lit up her
lovely features, and in the gay defiance with which, after having
fairly smothered her father with kisses, she confronted the Finanzrath
with folded arms. "Well, my sage brother," she said, laughing, "here I
am, in my own proper person, prepared to listen to your highly valuable
advice with regard to my future training."

"Have you been listening, Celia?" the Finanzrath asked.

"Of course I have. I saw you arrive, and by way of welcome plucked a
whole apronful of syringa flowers to surprise you after a sisterly
fashion, and then crept up to the door on tiptoe. There, to my horror,
I heard how the redoubtable Finanzrath had the impudence to tell my
darling old papa that he had not brought me up. Was it not my duty to
listen? You are a detestable monster, Werner! Look at me and tell me
what fault you have to find with me."

At this moment the Finanzrath certainly had no fault whatever to find
with his charming sister; he thought her lovely, and owned to himself
that if no one had brought Celia up, mother Nature had done the best
that was possible for her. Her every movement was graceful, her bearing
that of a lady, and even in the stormy embrace she had bestowed upon
her father there had been nothing rude or unfeminine, but only an
impulsive warmth that became her admirably.

"Why do you not speak?" Celia went on, as the Finanzrath continued to
look at her with a smile but without replying. "You were ready enough
just now to prate about my want of social elegance, and Herr Arno, in
the character of a dignified echo, added his 'I cannot deny it.' Only
wait, Arno; you shall atone to me for that!"

"That's right!" the Freiherr cried in high glee. "The little witch has
you both on the hip."

"And, papa, I am a little angry with you, too. You were nearly talked
over by that odious Werner. Now let me tell you, if you ever send me to
boarding-school I will run away immediately. Even if I have to beg my
way back to Hohenwald I never will stay in Dresden with that horrid
Frau von Adelung, to whom Werner would sell me like a slave."

"You would not talk so, child, if you had ever seen Frau von Adelung,"
the Finanzrath observed.

"I am not a child, and I will not let you treat me as such. Remember
that, Werner. I will never consent to be sent to school."

"Assure yourself on that point, little one. You heard me say that I
never will permit such an arrangement: that I cannot and will not be
parted from you," said the old man.

"Yes, I heard that, you dear old papa, and I could have shouted for joy
when you refused to listen to Werner's odious plan. You cannot live
without me, nor can I without you. So let Arno talk as he pleases. You
and I know that I am very well brought up. Neither you nor Arno has
ever found any fault with my manners, and as for what Werner has to say
about marriage, it is all nonsense. I shall never marry, but live here
with you two at Hohenwald. Upon that I am resolved."

"Ah, indeed?" the Finanzrath asked, smiling. "So elevated a resolve
adopted by a girl of fifteen of course alters the case."

"You are detestable! In two months I shall be sixteen."

"A most venerable age, I admit; fortunately, however, not so advanced
but that you may still have something to learn. How, for example, does
your music come on?"

Celia blushed, and replied, rather dejectedly, "I have not practised
much lately. Our good old pastor is so deaf that he never hears my
mistakes."

"And therefore you prefer not to practise at all, but to forget the
little you have learned, although you have considerable talent, and
might give my father a great deal of pleasure if you had a good
teacher. Think, father, how you would enjoy having Celia give you an
hour or so of delicious music every evening."

The old man looked fondly at his darling: "Yes, yes, I should like it
very well, but if it tires the child to practise, I can do very well
without it."

"Oh, no, papa; I will turn over a new leaf, and practise well, if it
really will please you."

"Practice is not enough," said the Finanzrath; "you never will improve
without a teacher. I consulted Frau von Adelung upon the subject, for I
foresaw that my plan of sending you to school would meet with
invincible opposition from you and my father. Therefore I asked Frau
von Adelung if she knew of any one whom she could recommend as a
governess for Celia."

"Ah, now we are coming to the governess!" cried Celia, laughing. "You
are a born diplomatist, Werner. This is why you praised my 'talent' and
talked about my music. But no, my cunning brother, I am not to be
caught in your net. Am I, grown up as I am, to be ordered about by an
ugly old governess in green spectacles? I can hear her now: 'Fraeulein
Celia, sit up; you are stooping again! Fraeulein Celia, no young lady
should climb a chestnut-tree. Fraeulein Celia here, Fraeulein Celia
there! You must not do this, and you must not do that.' Oh, a governess
is always a horror! and I tell you, Werner, that if you send one here,
I will contrive that she is tired of her post in a week."

"We will see about that," the Finanzrath rejoined, coolly. "Frau von
Adelung has recommended to me very highly an accomplished young person,
who, so far as I know, neither wears green spectacles nor is a horror.
She is very musical, plays the piano charmingly, and speaks French as
well as English."

"She must be a prodigy, indeed!" Arno said. "Is it possible that such a
combination of the arts and sciences can condescend to come to Castle
Hohenwald? Celia is right; the lady could not stay here a week. Our
lonely castle is no place for such a wonder, nor is Celia any pupil for
her. Neither my father nor I could alter our mode of life for a
governess. Women, in fact, are so little to my mind, that it is only by
an effort that I can bring myself to speak to them."

"Pray let me thank you in the name of the sex," Celia said, with a low
courtesy to her brother.

"Nonsense! you are an exception, you little will-o'-the-wisp. No need
to talk artificial nonsense to you; you are not greedy for admiration,
and do not expect to be flattered."

"And how do you know that Fraeulein Mueller, the lady recommended by Frau
von Adelung, expects it?" asked the Finanzrath.

"All these modern governesses expect it. Most of them are pedantic, and
all of them are greedy for admiration."

"You are certainly mistaken in this case. I described exactly to Frau
von Adelung the life that is led at Castle Hohenwald; I expressly told
her that no guest is admitted within its walls, that the governess
would have no companionship save Celia's, that my father was ill, and
therefore unfit for social intercourse, that Arno was a woman-hater,
who would never, probably, exchange three words with her, and that
therefore the position of governess here would not suit any one with
any social pretensions."

"And what was Frau von Adelung's reply?" Arno asked.

"That it was just the kind of situation that Fraeulein Mueller wanted."

"That seems to me a rather suspicious circumstance. Why should such a
woman as you describe, talented and accomplished, desire to bury
herself in the solitude of Castle Hohenwald?" Arno objected, and his
father, too, shook his head doubtfully.

But the Finanzrath was prepared for this objection; he said, "Frau von
Adelung, in whose sincerity and truth I place perfect reliance,
explained what seemed to me, too, an anomaly. Fraeulein Mueller has had
much to endure in her life; her father was a wealthy merchant, and she
was brought up in the greatest luxury. But all the young girl's hopes
in life were disappointed: her father lost his entire fortune. Frau von
Adelung hinted that he had committed suicide, probably in despair at
his losses, and gave me to suppose, although for the young lady's sake
she did not say so directly, that the poor girl was betrothed, and that
the loss of her money broke her engagement. Alone, and dependent
entirely upon her own exertions, the unfortunate girl is anxious to
earn an honourable livelihood. The solitude of Castle Hohenwald, Frau
von Adelung maintains, would make the situation here peculiarly
desirable to Fraeulein Mueller. I expressly stated, also, that my father
would be quite ready to indemnify her by an unusually high salary for
the disadvantages of her position here; and I have so arranged matters
that it only needs a note from me to Frau von Adelung to secure
Fraeulein Mueller for Celia. She might be here in a few days. It is for
you to decide, father, whether we shall embrace the opportunity thus
offered us of procuring a suitable companion and teacher for Celia, or
whether we shall let it slip."

The Freiherr was convinced by his son's representations. There was
still a conflict going on within him between his distaste for having
his quiet life disturbed by the intrusion of a stranger and his desire
that Celia's education might be complete. But he was so far won over to
the Finanzrath's views that he would not say 'no' to his plan. Celia
must decide. "Well, little one," he said, "what do you think now of
Werner's scheme? Shall he write to Frau von Adelung to send us this
Fraeulein Mueller, or do you still declare that you will not have her?"

Celia looked thoughtful. She must decide, then. She thought of the
delicious liberty she had hitherto enjoyed, of the restraint that would
be laid upon her in the future. But she thought also of her father's
pleasure in her progress in music, and more than all, it quite broke
her heart to think that her "no" would destroy the hopes of an
unfortunate girl who was seeking a position as governess.

Her brother's account had excited her profound sympathy. She could not
say "no." "You are an odious fellow, Werner!" she said, after a short
pause for reflection. "You do just what you please with us; but you
shall have a kiss, and you may write to Fraeulein Mueller to come, and I
will try not to tease her."

So the Finanzrath had his kiss, but he could not keep her by his side.
She had been serious long enough, and she ran laughing into the garden,
leaving her father and brothers to farther consultation.




                              CHAPTER VI.


The Prussian-Saxon boundary defines also the bounds between the
Hohenwald estates, that lie entirely on Saxon territory, and the
Prussian domain of Gruenhagen. The boundary-line here makes a great
curve into Saxony, so that the Gruenhagen lands are almost shut in by
the Hohenwald forests and fields. The Gruenhagen forest indeed forms a
continuation of the magnificent woods of beech and oak that surround
Castle Hohenwald, the boundary-line between them being only marked out
by a narrow path, so overgrown with moss and underbrush that only
careful observation can detect its course.

The vicinity of the two estates has always been, since the memory of
man, a fruitful cause of quarrel between the respective proprietors of
Hohenwald and Gruenhagen, each being strictly jealous lest his neighbour
should infringe upon his rights. At times some of the Hohenwald cattle,
when the herd-boy was not sufficiently on the alert, would stray into
the Gruenhagen fields and be taken into custody by Herr von Poseneck's
people, and on one occasion the Hohenwald forester had actually
sequestrated the fowling-piece of Herr von Poseneck, when that
gentleman, who was devoted to the chase, had in his hunting attempted
to make a short cut through the Hohenwald forest. There had also been
various trespasses upon the rights of the chase which were hardly to be
distinguished from poaching committed on both sides of the boundary by
enthusiastic Posenecks and Hohenwalds.

These innumerable quarrels had begotten a hostility between the Barons
of Hohenwald and Poseneck, which had been handed down from generation
to generation, and which was by no means lessened by the fact that,
since the annexation of Saxony with Prussia, the Posenecks had become
Prussian noblemen. No Hohenwald ever visited Gruenhagen, and even in the
days when Hohenwald had been renowned for its brilliant entertainments,
at which were assembled all the country gentry and many families from
beyond the border, no Poseneck was ever invited within its gates.

The hatred of the Hohenwalds for the Posenecks was so great that
Freiherr Werner, although he was not wanting in a certain amiability,
could not suppress a sentiment of exultation when, in 1849, Kurt von
Poseneck, who had allied himself with great enthusiasm to the
revolutionists, was forced to sell Gruenhagen to his brother-in-law, the
Amtsrath Friese, and emigrate to America with his family to escape the
trial for high treason that threatened him as a member of the extreme
left of the Frankfort National Assembly.

Since then, however, the animosity between Gruenhagen and Poseneck had
slumbered, for the new possessor of Gruenhagen was a man who detested
litigation, and who did all that he could to avoid giving cause for
offence to the Hohenwalds, while he overlooked any slight trespass on
their part. Thus open strife was avoided, but the old dislike only
smouldered. Freiherr Werner had transferred it to the Poseneck's near
relative, the Amtsrath, whom he detested for his Prussian extraction.

Like master like man! All the inmates of the castle and the inhabitants
of the village of Hohenwald hated everything relating to Gruenhagen. The
Hohenwald servants, from the steward and inspector to the commonest
stable-boy, held the "Gruenhagen Prussians" for an odious race of men,
and, as they had received strict orders from the Freiherr not to be led
into any disputes, avoided all association with the Gruenhagen people.

Thus the road from Gruenhagen to the village of Hohenwald wellnigh
disappeared beneath weeds and grass, for there was not the slightest
intercourse between the two places. Was it to be wondered at, then,
that a Hohenwald plough boy, driving his team in the meadow bordering
upon the Gruenhagen lands, stopped his horses and stared in surprise at
a young, well-dressed man sauntering slowly along the disused road,
crossing the boundary, and then, when near the village of Hohenwald,
striking into a by-path leading directly to the Hohenwald oak-forest?
The fellow looked after the stranger until he was lost to sight in the
forest, and then whipped up his horses, resolving to acquaint the
inspector that very evening with the remarkable occurrence.

The stranger noticed the ploughboy's wonder, but it merely provoked a
smile as he slowly loitered along the meadow-path. Now and then he
paused and looked around, surveying with evident pleasure the lovely
landscape spread before him, the fertile fields and meadows, girdled by
the glorious oaken forest, now clothed in the delicious green of early
spring. As he reached its borders he paused again to look back at the
charming village of Hohenwald, nestled on the edge of the forest, and
at the stately mansion of Gruenhagen, overtopping the farm-buildings,
granaries, stables, and cottages about it.

How near the two estates were to each other and yet how wide apart! A
smile hovered upon the young man's handsome face as he called to mind
the strange hatred of the two proprietors for each other. He had
laughed aloud when the Amtsrath Friese had told him of it at Gruenhagen,
and he could not now suppress a smile, for such an inherited aversion
was entirely inconceivable to him; it was a folly for which there was
no possible explanation.

Entering the wood, he pursued the narrow path through the thick
underbrush, and gazed about him with intense admiration. Nowhere else
in Europe had he seen such magnificent old oaks; they belonged
exclusively to the Hohenwald domain, whose proprietor cared for them
most tenderly, and never allowed any of the giant trunks to be felled
except those which nature had decreed should yield to time. The Baron
could well afford to cultivate his love for his oaks; and whatever
might be done in distant parts of the forest, no axe was ever allowed
to work havoc near the castle among his old oaks and beeches in his
dear "forest depths." The narrow foot-path crossed a broad road through
the wood; here the stranger paused irresolute and looked about him
searchingly. To the right the road wound through the forest, in whose
depths it vanished; to the left it led through rows of trees up a
gentle incline to Castle Hohenwald, one of the wings of which the
stranger could discern in the distance. He had not thought himself so
near the castle; the foot-path must have led him astray. According to
the directions of the Gruenhagen inspector, he should be upon the path
which, cutting off a corner, was a more direct road to the Gruenhagen
woods than the one leading from the mansion; but if this were so, it
ought not to have brought him so near to Castle Hohenwald. He
hesitated, pondering whether to follow the path on the other side of
the road or to turn round, when his attention was arrested by a
charming sight. Galloping upon a magnificent and spirited horse, there
suddenly appeared upon the road from the castle a girl scarcely more
than a child. She managed her steed with wondrous case and security;
the mad gallop gave her no fear; she sat as firmly and even carelessly
in the saddle as though the horse were going at an ordinary pace;
indeed, she even incited him to greater speed with a light touch of her
riding-whip.

How lovely she was! A young girl, judging by her slender, well-rounded
figure, and yet only a child. There was a bright smile upon her
charming face, her eyes beamed with happiness, and her dark curls,
blown backwards by the breeze, escaped from beneath her light straw
hat.

She was very near the stranger when the horse suddenly started and
shied, probably frightened by the young man's light summer coat among
the trees.

A practised horseman might well have lost his stirrup through such an
interruption of the swift gallop, but the young Amazon kept her seat
perfectly, punished her horse by a smart cut with her whip, as she
exclaimed, "What are you about, Pluto?" and then, as with a strong
steady hand she reined him in, looked to see what had caused his
terror.

A stranger in the Hohenwald forest! Celia had reason enough for
astonishment, for she could scarcely remember ever having seen any save
the people of Hohenwald upon her father's estate. And this was an
elegantly-dressed stranger, no forester or peasant, but a young man
evidently from the higher walks of society. Now a well-educated young
lady would certainly have found it becoming in such an unexpected
encounter with a stranger in the lonely forest to display a certain
amount of embarrassment, perhaps of timidity. Not so Celia. She scanned
the intruder upon her father's domain with a long, searching look,--the
sensation of fear she knew only by name, and there was no cause for
embarrassment. She was at home here, upon her native soil. She had a
perfect right to ask the stranger bluntly, "How came you here? Who are
you?"

The stranger bowed very respectfully. "I think," he replied, "that I
have the honour of addressing Fraeulein von Hohenwald."

He was evidently a very polite and agreeable young man,--"the honour of
addressing Fraeulein von Hohenwald." Celia suddenly felt very much grown
up. Hitherto she had been only Celia. Even the servants, who had known
her from infancy, called her nothing but Fraeulein Celia. Fraeulein von
Hohenwald sounded delightful. She quite forgot to pursue her inquiries,
and answered, "Yes, I am Cecilia von Hohenwald."

Again the stranger bowed low, and taking a little card-case from his
breast-pocket, produced a visiting-card, which he handed to her,
saying, "I must pray your forgiveness for presenting myself in this
informal manner as your nearest neighbour."

Celia read the card. "Kurt von Poseneck!" she exclaimed, and the tone
of her voice as well as the expression of her eyes manifested such
surprise and even terror, that for Kurt all the inherited hatred of the
Hohenwalds for the Posenecks found utterance in this brief mention of
his name.

When the Amtsrath Friese, his uncle, had told him of the fierce hatred
between the Hohenwalds and the Posenecks that had been handed down
through generations, Kurt had laughed heartily, but now when he thought
he saw that this insensate hate had taken root in the heart of this
lovely child, he was filled with a sense of painful regret. "What have
I done to you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald," he said, sadly, "that my name
should so startle you?"

"It does not startle, it only surprises me," Celia replied, quickly, as
she looked with increased interest and a greater degree of attention at
this young man, who did not in the least resemble the picture she had
formed from the tales of Frau Kaselitz of a member of the evil-minded,
cross-grained quarrelsome Poseneck family.

Certainly Kurt von Poseneck looked neither cross-grained nor
quarrelsome as his frank eyes met her own kindly and yet sadly.

Her first inspection had inclined her in the stranger's favour, and
Celia now decided that he was a very fine-looking man, almost as tall
as her brother Arno and far handsomer, for Arno looked stern and
gloomy, while Kurt smiled kindly. His full brown beard and moustache
became him admirably. Celia thought his expression exceedingly
pleasing; she had never supposed that a Poseneck could have so frank
and honest a smile.

The girl was quite incapable of dissimulation,--her thoughts and
sentiments were mirrored in her eyes,--and Kurt perceived to his great
satisfaction the first startled expression vanish from her face as she
looked at him with a very friendly air.

"I thank you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald," he said, "for those simple
words. I was afraid you shared the melancholy prejudice that has been
the cause of so many terrible disputes between our families in former
times, and this would have specially pained me in you."

"Why specially in me?"

The question was simple and natural, but yet not easy to answer.
"Because--because--well, then, honestly and frankly, Fraeulein von
Hohenwald, because as soon as I saw you I said to myself, 'Let the
Hohenwalds and the Posenecks quarrel and hate one another as they
choose, Fraeulein Cecilia von Hohenwald and Kurt von Poseneck never
shall be enemies!' Forget the mutual dislike that has divided our
families. Will you not promise me this? I know it is a strange request
to make of you, but you must forgive my bluntness. I returned to Europe
only a few months ago, and cannot forget the fashion learned upon our
Western farm in America. I hope you will not blame me for it."

"Oh, no; on the contrary, I like frankness. Werner always scolds me for
having my heart upon my lips; he is odious, but papa and Arno take my
part."

"Who is Werner?"

"My brother, the Finanzrath. I thought you knew; but indeed you cannot
know much about us if you are only lately come from America."

"More than you think. My father used often to tell me of Gruenhagen and
Hohenwald, and my uncle Friese has talked of you to me also. I knew and
admired you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald, from his description, and I am
doubly rejoiced that chance has brought us together. But you have not
yet answered me. Will you grant my request and promise me that for us
the old family feud shall not exist?"

"With all my heart!" said Celia; and in ratification of her promise she
held out her hand to Kurt, although her horse seemed to take the
stranger's approach very ill, and grew restless.

Kurt took the little proffered hand. "Peace is formally concluded,
then," he said, gayly. "We are to be good friends, and I trust,
Fraeulein von Hohenwald, that if you should meet me again in the
Hohenwald forest, bound for the Gruenhagen wood by the shortest way, you
will permit me to exchange a few friendly words with you."

This Celia promised readily; but at the same time she pointed out to
Kurt that he never would reach the Gruenhagen wood by pursuing a path
leading directly to the lake in the Hohenwald park, and offering to
show him the path he was seeking, she walked her horse beside him.

She never dreamed that there could be anything unbecoming in her
readiness to show him the right way through the lonely wood; she
thought it very natural that she who was at home here should direct a
stranger aright, and quite at her ease, she chatted on to Kurt as to an
old acquaintance.

He told her of his life in America, and spoke with such affection of
his parents, who had been dead now for some years, and with such loving
tenderness of his sisters, who were married in America, that Celia
could not but be interested and attracted by him. He told her how he
had served in the Northern army in the war with the South, attaining
the rank of major before it was over. He had then resigned, and, after
his father's death, had disposed of the American property, and had now
returned to Germany to assist in the management of the Gruenhagen
estates, which, as his uncle's declared heir, would one day be his. He
had spent a few months in travelling in England, France, and Italy, and
had arrived only three days before in Gruenhagen, where his uncle had
given him the warmest of welcomes.

All this Kurt detailed to his guide on their way through the forest,
and he also expressed to her his sincere regret that, as his uncle had
told him, there was no possibility of establishing friendly relations
between Hohenwald and Gruenhagen, and that he himself could not even
venture to pay a visit to Hohenwald to show that he had inherited
nothing of the old family hatred.

"Oh, no, it would never do," Celia said, sadly. "Papa would be terribly
angry; his orders are positive that no visitor shall ever be admitted
to the castle. Arno would have liked so much to ask his dearest friend,
a Count Styrum, to stay with us; but, although papa thinks very highly
of the Count, and says himself that he must be an excellent man and a
worthy son of his father, who was once papa's dear friend, he could not
be induced to let Arno send him an invitation."

"Of course, then, I cannot venture to come, but I hope at least to make
your brother Arno's acquaintance; this will surely be facilitated by
his being an intimate friend of my cousin, Karl Styrum."

Celia shook her head dubiously. Arno was just as dear and good as papa,
but just as disinclined to come in contact with strangers. He never
left Castle Hohenwald except when some inspection of the estate was
necessary; he spent all his time in studying learned books.

"Are you, then, quite alone in the lonely castle?" Kurt asked,
compassionately, but Celia laughed aloud at his question. "I alone and
lonely!" she cried. "What can you be thinking of? I have my own darling
papa, and Arno, who is so kind; you cannot conceive how kind he is.
Then I have my tutor, dear old Pastor Quandt, to whom I go every
morning from nine to eleven; that is, I always have gone to him until
now,--how I shall do in the future I cannot tell, for only think, now
in my old age I am to have a governess."

Kurt laughed, and Celia laughed too, but the laugh did not come from
her heart. "You must not laugh at me," she said, with some irritation.
"I am afraid I have said something that I ought not. Tell me frankly
and honestly, are my manners so odd that I really need a governess?"

"What a very strange question, Fraeulein von Hohenwald!"

"Answer it by a simple 'yes' or 'no.' Ought I to have a governess or
not?"

Kurt looked at her, with a smile. "Do you really want a frank answer?"
he replied.

"Of course I do; it would provoke me very much not to have it!"

"I am afraid you will be provoked with me for giving it, but I will do
as you ask. In truth, I think you might learn much of a really good
governess, and that she would do you no harm in spite of your 'old
age.'"

"How odious of you!"

"Did I not say that I should provoke you by my frankness?"

"No; I am not provoked with you, quite the contrary. I see now that
Werner was right. If you, who have only known me a quarter of an hour,
see that I need a governess, it must be so. But here we are on the
borders of Gruenhagen, and there is the path that will lead you back to
the house."

She stopped her horse, and pointed out to Kurt with her riding-whip a
narrow path, so grass-grown that it could have been detected only by
some one very familiar with the locality.

"And you really are not angry?" Kurt asked, unpleasantly surprised by
his abrupt dismissal.

Celia looked thoughtful, and after an instant's pause held out her hand
to Kurt. "No, I am certainly not angry with you," she said, cordially.
"I was provoked, I do not deny it, that you should have thought Werner
right; but you meant no unkindness, I am sure, or you would not have
been so frank."

"I assuredly meant nothing but kindness!"

"I am sure of it, and it makes me all the more sorry that you cannot
come to Hohenwald. It would be so pleasant to have you tell me more
about America and your adventures there. But that cannot be, and it
will be long before we see each other again, unless we should meet by
chance in the forest."

"I trust in my good fortune."

"Well, we may possibly chance to meet again soon, since I take my ride
almost every afternoon about this hour, and am very fond of the broad
road leading towards the Gruenhagen woods. Adieu, Herr Kurt von
Poseneck."

"Au revoir, Fraeulein von Hohenwald."

She gave him a friendly little nod, touched her horse with the whip,
and vanished in a minute along the road leading to Castle Hohenwald.

Kurt looked after her vanishing figure, and then resigned himself to
delightful reflections. Was it not something more than chance that had
decreed that he, who had found his way so often in American forests,
should lose it here, and thus make the acquaintance of this charming
girl?

The next day about four o'clock Kurt was seized with an irresistible
desire to inspect the forests; he could not stay in the house; it drove
him forth, much to his uncle's surprise, who, however, ascribed it to
the love of nature engendered by his life in the open air in America.
Kurt did not this time, however, pursue the path he had taken on the
previous day; he remembered the ploughboy's gaping wonder, and did not
choose to become a theme for gossip to the Hohenwald servants; he
followed, instead, the more direct course across the Gruenhagen fields
to the woods, but scarcely had he reached it, when chance guided him to
the very spot upon the broad road leading from Castle Hohenwald where
he had been so unfortunate as to frighten Celia's horse. The same
chance that led Kurt to this place arranged that Celia also, who had
hitherto been very careless about the time at which she took her
afternoon ride, suddenly required her horse to be saddled on the stroke
of four. Old John, the groom, could not imagine why Fraeulein Celia
should all at once be "so very particular." She never had seemed to
care whether the horse were brought to the door a quarter of an hour
sooner or later, and now she insisted sharply upon punctuality,
although it was the Baron's birthday, and the old servant had had a
great deal to do, as Fraeulein Celia knew. She could scarcely restrain
her impatience to be gone, and as she galloped off down the road, the
old man looked after her with a thoughtful shake of the head.

"We may possibly chance to meet again soon," Celia had said to Kurt as
she took leave of him, and chance conducted her to the very spot where
she had met him yesterday, and where she now met him again. From afar
she espied his light coat among the trees, and her lovely face was lit
up with a happy smile.

Had she expected him? Impossible! She had made no appointment with him.
She knew enough of social rules to understand that a young lady could
not appoint a rendezvous with a young man whom she had seen but once,
and then only for a short time. Of course it was chance that had
brought them both to this spot at the same time, but she was very glad
of it, and greeted Kurt with a charming smile.

It was quite natural that she should now walk her horse that Kurt might
walk beside her, although it cost her a struggle with Pluto to induce
him to agree to this new order of things. Kurt walked beside her,
looking up at her with admiration. How graceful was her every movement
as she reined in and controlled her impatient horse! She held the curb
in a firm grasp, but there was nothing unfeminine in the strength thus
put forth. For a while her whole attention was given to her horse, but
when she had reduced him to a state of obedient quiescence she replied
kindly to Kurt's greeting, and when he expressed his pleasure that a
fortunate chance had again brought them together, she answered, with
perfect freedom from embarrassment, that she also was much pleased. As
she spoke, her smile was so arch that he could not but laugh. And then
they laughed together like two children. They knew well what made them
laugh, although they said no more about it.

It sounded almost like an excuse when Celia said that she had come from
home nearly a quarter of an hour later than usual this afternoon, old
John had been so long saddling Pluto, but that she could not scold him,
for he was very old now, almost seventy, and he had been up half the
night helping her to hang oaken garlands all about her father's beloved
garden-room, that he might be surprised by their beauty when Franz
rolled him in from his bedroom at five o'clock on his birthday morning.
And her father had been very much delighted,--he so loved his
oaks,--and he had been specially pleased with a tobacco-bag that she
had embroidered for him as a birthday gift. He was not very fond of
embroidery, but he knew how hard it was for her to sit still at any
kind of work, and he had been touched by the trouble she had taken for
him.

Thus Celia talked on, and Kurt listened with rapt attention, as if she
were imparting to him the most important secrets. Her delight in the
garlands of oak-leaves and in the completion of her gift for her father
charmed him. He thought her almost more lovely now than when, a few
moments before, her eyes had sparkled and flashed in her struggle with
her horse. He did not know which to admire more, the blooming girl or
the lovely child; he only knew that both were adorable.

On the day previous, Kurt had told of his adventures in the war and his
life in America; to-day he begged Celia to describe to him her life in
Castle Hohenwald, and she did so willingly. She was glad that Kurt
should have in his mind a true picture of her dear old father, whom
strangers could never portray truly, for no one knew how dear and good
he was. Arno too, Frau Kaselitz and Pastor Quandt had often told her,
was just as little known or appreciated as his father. She had seen
yesterday, from the compassionate way in which Kurt had spoken of her
solitude at Castle Hohenwald, how false was his conception of the life
there; now, strangers might think what they pleased of it, but Kurt von
Poseneck must know what happy days she led there with her kind papa and
her dear Arno.

And so she described it to him, beginning with her father, so truly
kind, although a little hasty perhaps now and then, bearing pain so
patiently, never requiring any sacrifice of his people, but always
ready to befriend them. All who knew him loved him. The old servants
declared that there never was a better master; even the Herr Pastor had
a great respect for him, and only regretted that he had withdrawn from
the world, and was in consequence so misjudged. Arno, too, was as
kind as he could be. He might look stern and gloomy, but he was not
so,--only very sad,--and for this he had good cause. He had been
betrothed, and had lost his love, of whom he was inexpressibly fond.
Celia did not know how it had happened. Frau Kaselitz would not tell
her anything about it, and she could not ask Arno, for when the
engagement had been broken some years before, her father had forbidden
her ever mentioning the subject to her brother. He had travelled for a
long time, but travel could not make him forget his grief; that was why
he seemed so stern and gloomy, although he was always gentle and kind
to his father, to her, and to the servants and villagers. If any of
them were in trouble they always came to Arno for help; and even when
it was impossible to help them he always had a kind word for them.

Celia's praise of her eldest brother was by no means so enthusiastic.
He was a very good fellow, but then he was not Arno; still, he was very
wise, and could always persuade his father to do as he chose. She had
been told that in his boyhood Werner was very irritable and passionate,
but he had quite conquered this fault. Now he rarely allowed himself to
be carried away by anger; his self-control was so great that even when
he was deeply irritated he could preserve a perfect calmness of manner,
and this was why he had such influence with his father, that whatever
he wished to have done at Hohenwald was done. If he did not succeed in
one way he tried another. Thus he had contrived that in spite of his
father's dislike of having a stranger in the house he had consented to
the engagement of a governess.

As she said this Celia could not suppress a little sigh, although she
instantly laughed, and added, "Well, it may be best,--you think so, and
I will do what I can, and receive Fraeulein Mueller as kindly as
possible."

Werner, she went on to say, came but seldom to Hohenwald, usually only
once a year, to be present on his father's birthday, when he stayed
only two, or at most three weeks. He was always very good and kind, but
she could not love him as she did papa and Arno; she could not tell
why, but so it was, and she could not deny that she was always a little
glad when he went away again. She was quite sure that papa and Arno
felt just as she did, although neither of them had ever said one word
to that effect, but she had observed that papa breathed more freely
after the carriage had rolled away with Werner.

Then Celia described the few people, not her relatives, with whom she
had daily intercourse--Pastor Quandt, her tutor, an old bachelor nearly
eighty years of age, but still hale and hearty, and dear and good, and
Dr. Bruhn, the village physician, also an amiable old bachelor, and
Frau Kaselitz, the housekeeper, who could not do enough to show her
love for her darling Fraeulein Celia. She, Frau Kaselitz, was the
childless widow of one of the former stewards of Hohenwald, and had
passed her entire life either in the village or at the castle. She was
as good as gold; far too kind; she, Celia, knew that Frau Kaselitz
spoiled her and made a governess so desirable--as he had thought it,
the girl added, with an arch glance at her companion. She could not
deny herself the pleasure of this little thrust.

Celia's lively description soon made it possible for Kurt to have in
his mind a vivid picture of the simple life at Castle Hohenwald, and
his admiration for the lovely speaker was increased tenfold. What a
treasure of simple content she must possess, to preserve such a
cheerful gayety of mind with so little in her surroundings to induce
it!

A long conversation followed upon Celia's narrative; she required, in
her turn, to be told of Gruenhagen and its inmates. She asked about his
uncle Friese, and was amazed to learn that he was an amiable, kindly
old man, who only desired to live at peace with all men. According to
Frau Kaselitz and the Hohenwald servants, he was a cross, quarrelsome,
purse-proud old person.

In such mutual explanations the time sped rapidly, and Celia, as well
as Kurt, was surprised to find that they had reached the Gruenhagen
woods and the end of the broad road that led through the Hohenwald
estate.

"It is time for me to turn back," said Celia, with a slight sigh.

Kurt did not venture to remonstrate, although he felt as if he should
have liked to talk on with her forever, and although in Celia's manner
there was an indirect appeal to him to ask for a prolongation of the
conversation.

"Indeed I must turn round," Celia added, with an interrogatory glance.

"I am afraid you must," Kurt replied, suppressing his desire, and
yielding to more prudent suggestions. Then, holding out his hand to
Celia, he continued: "Chance has been so kind to-day that I trust it
will prove no less so in the future, and so I do not say 'farewell' to
you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald, but 'till we meet,' and may that be
speedily!"

Celia smiled as she nodded her farewell to him, and rode back along the
forest road; and on the following day chance was again so amiable as to
bring about a meeting between the young people at the same spot in the
woods. Yes, chance here proved steadfast and true, and day after day
the pair passed slowly along the forest road to the Gruenhagen woods,
deep in innocent but profoundly interesting conversation. Kurt was on
the spot with unfailing punctuality at four o'clock, and a few minutes
later Celia would appear on Pluto, who now greeted Kurt with a neigh,
and was no longer impatient at the slow walk along the road to the
Gruenhagen woods. For ten days the skies smiled upon Kurt's forest
walks, but then May, which had hitherto shown him such favour,
justified the reputation for variability which she shares with April.

At Gruenhagen a cold rain pelted against the window-panes, through which
Kurt disconsolately watched the skies, covered with dull gray clouds
that gave no hope that the weather would clear that day, nor perhaps
for several days to come.

The Amtsrath had just finished his after-dinner nap and lighted his
long pipe. Sitting in his arm-chair and comfortably sipping his coffee,
he was not in the least incommoded by the rain that so interfered with
Kurt's good humour; on the contrary, he thought it good growing
weather, for


           "Whenever May is wet and cool,
            The farmer's store-house will be full."


He had often lately looked up to the sky in hopes of rain, and he was
glad that it had come at last to scatter abroad its blessings over
field and fell.

"A fine soaking rain," the old man said, with a smile, to Kurt, who, he
felt sure, must agree with him.

"Soaking indeed," Kurt replied, not by any means so pleased as his
uncle had expected; but then the old man was thinking of his meadows
and Kurt of Celia, whom the soaking rain would surely prevent from
taking her daily ride.

The clock in the Gruenhagen church-tower struck four; Kurt took his hat.

"Where are you going?" asked his uncle.

"To take a walk in the woods."

"In such weather?"

"A few drops of rain will do me no harm."

The Amtsrath shook his head, for the few drops of rain were, as Kurt
himself had admitted, a steady, soaking downpour. Still there is no
accounting for tastes, and if forest walks in a pelting rain were among
Kurt's American habits, his uncle had no objection to make.

As Kurt stepped out into the open air, and the huge drops were driven
into his face by the wind, he hesitated a moment. There was no
possibility of meeting Celia in the forest in such a storm. Still,
suppose she should persist in taking her ride? It was possible; no, it
was impossible; nevertheless, Kurt would not fail to be upon the
appointed--no, it had never been appointed--spot in the forest; he
could then tell her the next day that he had been there in spite of the
storm and rain, that he had not, indeed, expected her, but that he had
thought of her. He knew that she would laugh at him and tease him about
his walk in the rain, but he so liked to hear her laugh, she was so
wonderfully charming in her gayety.

In spite of the increasing rain that soon penetrated his light summer
dress, the way did not seem long; he thought of her, and perhaps
because he had no hope of seeing her that day her image was all the
more present to his mind. During the past ten days a very peculiar
relation had been developed between Kurt and Celia. While Kurt
sauntered along the forest road beside Pluto they talked together like
brother and sister. Celia was never tired of hearing all that Kurt
could tell her of America and the life he had led there, and his
conversation had opened to her an entire new world of thought and
emotion. Brought up in a narrow home-circle, whence all strangers were
excluded, the girl had had no idea that people of culture could
entertain any views and opinions save those shared by her father, by
Arno, and by the old pastor her tutor. It was, for example, one of her
articles of faith that across the boundary, just beyond that strip of
meadow in Prussia, evil reigned triumphant. Prussian! The word stood
for all that was contemptible,--rapacity, low ambition, greed of gain,
and arrogant conceit. Like a good Saxon, Celia hated the Prussians from
her very soul, and worst and most to be hated among them all was
Bismarck, whose name her father never uttered without coupling it with
some opprobrious epithet. Kurt was the first to present to her mind
other views with regard to the state of affairs in Germany, and she
listened to him with profound interest. It was exquisite enjoyment to
Kurt to talk with Celia, and to note her rapt attention to all that he
said, her quick espousal of any cause advocated by him. He loved her,
and he knew that he loved her, but not for the world would he have
addressed to her one word of love; it would have been a sin against her
childlike innocence. His experience of life, spite of his youth, had
been so wide and varied that he could not but be aware what risk there
was for Celia in these daily interviews with a young man in the
solitude of the forest; and could he have seen her anywhere else, could
he but have sought her at Hohenwald, he would have abstained from his
daily walks for Celia's sake. But they offered him his only opportunity
for meeting the girl, and he had not the strength to refuse to embrace
it. He could not but yield to the spell that lured him daily to the
forest road, but he pledged his honour to himself that he would be
nothing to Celia save a friend and brother, that he never would betray
the childlike trust she reposed in him.

Now first he felt what an absolute necessity for him the daily meeting
with Celia had become,--now, as he walked on in the wind and rain,
constantly repeating to himself that she certainly could not leave the
house to-day. In spite of this repetition, a yearning desire for a
sight of her spurred him on along the accustomed path. He never heeded
that in pushing through the trees and bushes he had become fairly
drenched with rain. He reached the broad castle road: the distant wing
of the castle, a glimpse of which could be had from here in fine
weather, was veiled in mist. Sadly he leaned against the trunk of a
giant oak, conscious that until this moment he had cherished a hope
that perhaps in spite of the rain Celia might take her afternoon ride;
she was no city-bred fine lady, but a strong, healthy child of nature,
who was not afraid of the rain. Now, however, as he looked forth into
the comfortless, white, impenetrable fog, his last hope vanished.

But what sound was that? Surely something like the distant neighing of
a horse. And now--yes, there was no mistaking Pluto's loud neigh, close
at hand, as a tall figure emerged from the fog, and the next moment
Celia reined in her horse beside Kurt.

"I thought so!" she cried, triumphantly. "I knew you would not mind the
rain!" Then, as she looked at him, she burst into a merry laugh. "Good
heavens! how you look, poor fellow! You could not be wetter if you had
fallen into the lake!"

Kurt laughed with her. How odd it was that the huge waterproof that she
wore detracted not a whit from her beauty and grace! A gray waterproof
can scarcely be called an elegant garment, but Celia looked lovely in
this one. Her fresh rosy face smiled enchantingly from out of the hood
that she had drawn over her head, and from beneath which tiny curls
were rebelliously fluttering out into the wind and rain.

"It certainly is a 'fine, soaking rain,' as my uncle says," Kurt
rejoined, laughing. "It has drenched me, but I have many a time tramped
through a wood in worse weather than this, and even slept soundly on a
hill-side in just such a pour, with only a soldier's blanket over me.
The rain can do me no harm, but you, Fraeulein von Hohenwald, are very
wrong to come abroad in such weather."

"And yet you expected me to do it."

"No; I was sure you would prudently stay at home. It is no weather for
you to ride in."

"No? Still, here I am, you see. Neither Pluto nor I ever mind the rain;
but then we are neither of us at all prudent. And besides, you do not
tell the truth. Why are you here if you thought I should not come? I
had more confidence in you. I knew I should find you here, and I should
have been terribly angry if you had stayed away for the rain. For
indeed I had to see you to-day. I have so much to tell you. Only think,
the new governess is really coming this evening!"

"Indeed? Then the Finanzrath has carried his point."

"Of course; just as he always does. He wrote to Fraeulein Mueller, and
sent the letter to Frau von Adelung in Dresden. I could not help hoping
that the Fraeulein would decline to come, for papa consented to Werner's
plan only upon condition that he should truthfully describe the life
she would have to lead at Castle Hohenwald. Werner did so. He read his
letter aloud to papa, Arno, and me, and I must confess he did not
flatter any one of us. If I had been Fraeulein Mueller I never would have
said 'yes' to such a letter."

"Did he give so terrible a description of the castle and its inmates?"

"The castle and all of us. He made Arno out a gloomy woman-hater, and
called me a spoiled child. Was it not odious of him?"

"He meant no wrong."

"Oh, I know you agree with him! Now, confess honestly that you think me
a spoiled child, or rather do not confess it, or we shall be sure to
quarrel. Let me tell you more. Werner told Fraeulein Mueller that at
Castle Hohenwald she would be cut off from all social intercourse, that
she could neither receive nor pay visits, and that the family circle
there could not indemnify her for such seclusion, since neither papa
nor Arno was an agreeable companion. In short, he painted existence
here in such gloomy colours that papa said Fraeulein Mueller must be a
very extraordinary person if she accepted such a situation. But she has
accepted it. Her answer came to-day,--a very odd reply. Papa and Arno,
as well as Werner, shook their heads over it. They could not make it
out. So it is no wonder that I cannot comprehend it either. I have
brought it to you to read, that you may tell me what you think of it."

"You have brought me the letter?" Kurt asked, in surprise.

"Why, yes; I know you always tell me the truth when I ask you for it,
and when Werner gave me the letter I thought to myself, 'Herr Kurt von
Poseneck shall read it;' so I kept it and brought it with me. There,
read it; but be careful not to let it get wet. Wait a moment; I will
hold my waterproof out so as to shield it from the rain."

Celia handed Kurt the letter and protected it with her cloak while he
read it.

"An excellent hand," he said, as he opened it: "firm and clear. They
say that the handwriting shows the character of the writer; if that be
true, this letter should impress one greatly in Fraeulein Mueller's
favour."

"That is just what Arno said; only he added, 'Only to be the more
bitterly undeceived afterwards.' But read, read, I beg you,--I am so
anxious to know what you think of the letter."

Kurt read the short note, which ran as follows:


"Dear Sir,--Your description of the life at Castle Hohenwald so
perfectly accords with my wishes and inclinations that I accept with
pleasure the honourable position offered me of companion and teacher
to Fraeulein Cecilia von Hohenwald. I shall arrive at the station at
A---- by the afternoon train, at a quarter-past eight on the
seventeenth, hoping to meet the carriage which you tell me will be sent
for me from Hohenwald.

                             "With much respect,

                                               "Anna Mueller."


"Well, what do you think of it?" Cecilia asked, eagerly. "It does not
seem odd to me at all. I think it simple, clear, and decided."

"But what does she mean by saying that Werner's ugly description of the
life here accords with her views and inclinations? Arno says that must
be a falsehood; that no girl could like such a place, and that Fraeulein
Mueller must be a false, exaggerated person to say that she accepts such
a position with pleasure. Papa thought the same; and even Werner said
that the brevity of the note impressed him disagreeably, while Arno
insist

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