Front matter (continued 3)

"Your badinage might have had unpleasant consequences for you, my child," said her mother. "Fortunately, they were gentlemen."

"Gentlemen?" interrupted her daughter, with surprise. "There was only one."

"Look around," said her father; "you can see for yourself."

And certainly just where the path began to descend into the valley, two hats were plainly to be seen.

"So you see, mother dear," said Elizabeth, "what an entirely harmless encounter it was. One never stepped out from behind the bushes, and there was certainly not an atom of the brigand to be seen in the kind old face of the other."

When she went to her room she carefully took the wreath from her head, laid it in fresh water, and placed it before the bust of Beethoven, then she kissed the forehead of the sleeping Ernst, and said good-night to her father and mother.

CHAPTER IX.

"Hallo, Elsie, do not run so!" shouted the forester, the next day at three o'clock in the afternoon, as he came out of the forest with his rifle on his shoulder and crossed the meadow towards the Lodge.

Elizabeth was running down the mountain, her round hat hanging upon her arm instead of resting upon the braids that glanced in the sunlight, and as she reached the house she flew laughing into her uncle's arms, which he extended to receive her.

She put her hand into her pocket, and stepped back a few paces. "Guess what I have in my pocket, uncle," she said, smiling.

"Well, what can it be? No need to puzzle one's brains long about it. Probably a little sentimental hay,—a few dried flowers, kept for the sake of the melancholy associations that they recall,—or some printed sighs over the woes of the world, bound in gilt pasteboard?"

"Wrong, indeed; twice wrong, Herr Forester, for, in the first place, your wit glances harmlessly aside from me, and in the next—look here!"

She drew a little box from her pocket, and lifted the cover. There, upon green leaves, was comfortably lying a large lemon-coloured caterpillar, with black spots, broad bluish-green stripes upon its back, and a crooked horn upon its tail.

"By all that is wonderful, Sphinx Atropos!" cried the delighted forester. "Ah, my sunbeam, where did you find that exquisite specimen?"

"Over at Lindhof, in a potato-field. Isn't it beautiful? There, let us shut the box carefully, and put it back in my pocket."

"What! am I not to have it?"

"Oh yes; you can have it,—that is if you are inclined to pay for it."

"Zounds! What a girl you have become! Come, give it to me,—here are four groschen."

"Not for the world. You can't have it for one farthing less than twelve. When many a ragged, yellow old bit of parchment,—that one can hardly bear to touch,—is paid for with its weight in gold, certainly such a perfect piece of Nature's workmanship is worth twelve groschen."

"Yellow old parchment! never breathe such a word into scientific ears, if you value your reputation."

"Ah, there are none such to be breathed into here in the forest."

"Take care; Herr von Walde——"

"Is hiding in the Pyramids."

"But he might suddenly return and take a certain self-conceited young person to strict account. He is cock-of-the-walk among learned men."

"Well, for aught I care, they may raise monuments in his honour, and strew laurels in his path, as much as they choose. I cannot forgive him for forgetting, in the midst of all that dead lumber, the claims that the living have upon him. While he is engaged in an enthusiastic search, perhaps, for some wonderfully preserved receipt by Lucullus, or lost in investigations as to whether the Romans did actually feed their fish upon the flesh of slaves, the poor employed upon his estate starve under the baroness' rule—actually crushed beneath the yoke of modern slavery."

"Hallo! how his left ear must burn! What a pity that he cannot hear this confession of faith! Here are your twelve groschen, if you must have them. You want to buy some trinket or other, a feather, or ribbons for your hat, hey?" he said, smiling.

She held her hat out at arm's length before her, and contemplated with admiration the two fresh roses which she had stuck into the simple band of black velvet that encircled it. "Does not that look lovely?" she asked. "Do you think I would voluntarily hide my head beneath nodding plumes when I can have roses, fresh roses? And there is your caterpillar, and now you shall know why I want to black-mail you. This morning the poor widow of a weaver in Lindhof came to my mother, begging a little assistance. Her husband had had a fall, which injured his arm and his foot, so that he has not been able to earn anything for weeks. My mother gave her some old linen and a large loaf of bread. She could do nothing more, as you know. See, here I have fifteen groschen,—from my money-box,—there is not another farthing in it just now, and three from little Ernst, who would gladly have sold his tin soldiers to help the poor woman, and with the price for the caterpillar I shall have a whole thaler, which I shall carry to the poor thing immediately."

"Let me see. Here is another thaler; and, Sabina," he called into the house, "bring out a piece of meat from your pickling-tub, and wrap it up in green leaves. You shall take that too," he said, turning again to Elizabeth.

"Oh, you dearest of splendid uncles!" cried the girl, taking his large hand between her slender palms and pressing it tenderly.

"But take care," he continued, "that the piece of good salt meat does not turn into roses. It would be a sad change for the poor weaver's wife. You seem to be following in the steps of your saintly namesake."

"Yes; but fortunately I have here no cruel Landgrave to fear. And if I had, I would tell the truth in spite of him."

"Gracious gods, what a heroic soul it is!"

"But I think the courage to tell a lie would be far greater, even though it were a pious one."

"True, true, my daughter. I think I could hardly have done it either. Ah, here comes Sabina!"

The old housekeeper issued from the door, and whilst she wrapped up the meat for Elizabeth, in accordance with the forester's directions, she whispered to him that Herr von Walde, who had yesterday arrived from abroad, had been waiting for him for some time.

"Where?" he asked.

"Here in the dwelling-room."

Now they had been standing directly beneath the open windows of this room. Elizabeth turned quickly round, blushing scarlet, but could see no one. Her uncle, without turning, shrugged his shoulders with an infinitely comical gesture, stroked his long moustache, and whispered, with a suppressed laugh: "Here's a nice state of things! You have settled matters finely,—he has heard every word.7"

"So much the better," replied his niece, throwing her head back with an air of defiance. "He does not hear the truth very often, perhaps." Then bidding farewell to her uncle and Sabina, she walked slowly away through the forest in the direction of Lindhof.

At first she was annoyed at the thought that Herr von Walde had been obliged, entirely against his will, to listen to the judgment which had been passed upon him. Then she was sure that she should have told him just the same truth to his face. And as it was scarcely to be supposed that he would ever trouble himself about her estimate of him, it certainly could do him no harm that he had been involuntarily the auditor of a frank, impartial sentence passed upon him, even although such sentence came from the lips of a young girl. But how had it happened that he had returned so suddenly and unexpectedly? Fräulein von Walde had always spoken of her brother's absence as likely to continue for several years, and the day before she had had not the slightest expectation of his return. And then her encounter of the previous evening flashed into her mind. The old gentleman had said that he was a traveller returning home; but it was impossible that he, with his smiling, good-humoured face, could be the grave, haughty proprietor of Lindhof, who, perhaps, was the person that had remained concealed beneath the trees while his companion was getting an answer to his inquiries. But what could Herr von Walde want with her uncle, who, as she knew, had never stood in any relation to him whatever?

These and similar thoughts occupied her mind upon her way to the weaver's. Husband and wife were delighted by the unhoped-for assistance, and heaped Elizabeth with profuse professions of gratitude as she left the house.

She passed through the village, and directed her steps to Lindhof, where she had promised to practice as usual. The lesson had not been postponed, notwithstanding the return of Herr von Walde. The proprietor's return had worked a great change in the whole look of the castle. All the windows of the lower story on the south side, which had so long been dark and closed behind their white shutters, now reflected the sunlight in a long, shining row. The apartments within were undergoing a thorough airing and dusting. A glass door stood wide open, revealing the interior of a large saloon. Upon one of the steps which led down to the garden at the back lay a snow-white greyhound, with his slender body stretched out upon the hot stone and his head resting upon his forepaws; he blinked at Elizabeth as though she had been an old acquaintance. At an open window the gardener was arranging a stand of flowers, and the old steward Lorenz was walking through the rooms, superintending everything.

It was remarkable that all the people whom the young girl met had, as if by magic, entirely altered their whole expression. Had a tempest swept through the sultry atmosphere and a fresh breeze filled all the rooms, so that voices sounded clearer, and bent forms grew straight and elastic? Even old Lorenz, whose face had always worn so grim and depressed a look, as though there were a weight of lead upon his shoulders, shot real sunshine from his eyes, although he was scolding one of the maids; Elizabeth looked on in surprise. She had only seen him before gliding about upon the tips of his toes, and in low, suppressed tones announcing guests to the ladies in the drawing-room.

In amazement at this sudden bursting into bloom of new life and activity, Elizabeth turned towards the wing appropriated to the ladies. Here the deepest silence still reigned. In the apartments of the baroness the curtains were closely drawn. No noise penetrated through the doors by which Elizabeth passed. The air of the passages was heavy with the odour of valerian, and when at the lower end of one of the halls, Elizabeth saw through an open door one human face, what a change met her eye! It was the baroness' old waiting-maid who looked out, probably to see who was so bold as to invade the solemn repose of the corridor. Her cap was set upon her false curls all awry, and the curls themselves were but loosely put on. Her countenance wore a troubled expression, and a round, red spot on each cheek, betokened either high fever or some violent, mental agitation. She returned Elizabeth's salute shortly and sullenly, and disappeared into the room, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

When Elizabeth reached Fräulein von Walde's apartment, she thought that she had arrived at the last act in the mysterious drama which had begun in the baroness' rooms, for no "come in" answered her repeated knock. Not only were the curtains here drawn, but the shutters also were closed as she saw when she gently opened the door. The profound quiet and the darkness deterred her from entering, and she was about to shut the door again when Helene, in a weak voice, called to her to enter. The little lady lay on a couch at the farther end of the room, her head resting on a white pillow, and Elizabeth could hear that her teeth were chattering as if with cold.

"Ah, dear child," she said, and laid her cold, damp hand upon her young friend's arm, "I have had a nervous attack. None of my people have observed that I am lying here so ill, and it has been terribly lonely in this dark room. Pray open the windows wide,—I need air, the warm air of heaven."

Elizabeth immediately did as she desired, and when the daylight streamed in upon the pale face of the invalid, it revealed traces of violent weeping.

The sunshine aroused more life and motion in the room than Elizabeth had anticipated; she was startled by a loud scream which proceeded from one corner. There she discovered a cockatoo, with snow-white plumage and a brilliant yellow crest, swinging to and fro upon a ring.

"Heavens! what a fearful noise!" sighed Helene, pressing her little hands upon her ears. "That terrible bird will tear my nerves to pieces!"

Elizabeth's glance rested amazed upon the little stranger, and then explored the rest of the apartment, which looked like a bazaar. Upon tables and chairs were lying costly stuffs, shawls, richly-bound books, and all kinds of toilet articles. Fräulein von Walde noticed Elizabeth's look, and said briefly, with averted face: "All presents from my brother, who returned home quite unexpectedly yesterday."

How cold her voice was as she said it! And there was not the slightest hint of pleasure to be discovered in her features, swollen with weeping; the large eyes, usually so soft and gentle, expressed only vexation and annoyance.

Elizabeth stooped silently and picked up a gorgeous bouquet of camellias, that was lying half faded upon the floor.

"Oh yes," said Helene, sitting up, while a slight flush appeared on her cheeks, "that is my brother's good-morning to me; it fell down from the table, and I forgot it. Pray put it in that vase there."

"Poor flowers," said Elizabeth, half aloud, as she looked at the brown edges of the white petals, "they never dreamed when they opened their tender buds, that they were to bloom in such a cold atmosphere!"

Helene looked up into her friend's face with a searching, troubled glance, and for an instant her eyes expressed regret. "Put the flowers on the sill of the open window," she whispered quickly, "the air there will do them good. Oh, heavens!" she cried, sinking back among her cushions. "He is certainly a most excellent man, but his sudden return has destroyed the harmony of our delightful home life."

Elizabeth looked almost incredulously at the little lady who lay there, her clasped hands raised, and her eyes lifted to heaven, as if fate had decreed her a most bitter trial. If she had failed yesterday to find the key to Helene's conduct, she was certainly more puzzled than ever to-day by this incomprehensible character. What had become of all those sentiments of fervent gratitude that had breathed from every word whenever Helene had spoken of her absent brother? Had all the sisterly tenderness which had seemed to fill her heart vanished in a single moment, so that she now lamented what, according to her own words, she had so lately regarded as the most delightful thing that could happen? Even supposing that the returned brother did not sympathize with the circle in which alone she felt happy, if he should oppose her dearest wishes, was it possible that coldness and anger could exist between two beings whom fate had bound together by so close a tie, a tie which must bring them all the nearer to each other, since one was so helpless, and the other so alone in the world? Elizabeth suddenly felt profound pity for the man who had sailed on distant seas and wandered through strange lands so long, only to be greeted as a disturbing element when he once more appeared at his own fireside. Apparently there was one tender spot in his proud heart, love for his sister; how deeply wounded he must be that she had no loving welcome for him, and that her heart was cold and hard towards him!

Occupied with these thoughts, Elizabeth arranged the flowers in the vase. She returned not a syllable to Helene's outbreak, which had so maligned her brother to stranger ears. And Helene herself, shamed probably by Elizabeth's silence, seemed to be conscious that she had lost her self-control, for she suddenly, in an altered voice, begged her to take a chair and stay with her for awhile.

At this moment the door was violently flung open, and a female figure appeared upon the threshold. Elizabeth was at some trouble to recognize in this apparition in its neglected, careless dress, betraying every sign of great agitation, the Baroness Lessen. Her scanty locks, usually so carefully arranged, were streaming from under a morning-cap across her forehead, no longer white and smooth as ivory, but flushing scarlet. The stereotyped self-satisfaction had vanished from her eyes, and she presented a most insignificant appearance as she looked shyly into the room!

"Ah, Helene!" she cried anxiously, without noticing Elizabeth, and her corpulent figure advanced with unwonted rapidity. "Rudolph has just sent for the unfortunate Linke to come to his room, and he abused the poor man so violently and loudly that I heard him in my bed-room on the other side of the court—Heavens! how wretched I am! The morning has agitated me so that I can scarcely stand, but I could not listen to such injustice any longer, and sought refuge here. And those servile wretches, the other servants, who, while Rudolph was away, scarcely dared to wink their eyes,—there they stand now boldly beneath the windows, taking a malicious pleasure in the misfortunes that are befalling a faithful servant. Everything is destroyed that I had arranged so carefully and with such pains for the salvation of this household. And Emil is at Odenberg! How miserable and forlorn we are, dearest Helene!"

She threw her arms around the neck of the little lady, who started up pale as ashes. Elizabeth took advantage of this moment to slip out of the room.

As she passed along the corridor leading to the vestibule she heard some one speaking loudly. It was a deep, sonorous, manly voice, which grew louder now and then under the influence of excitement, but there was no sharpness in its tones even when they were loudest. Although she could not distinguish a word, the tone thrilled through her,—there was something inexorable in the intonation of the emphasized sentences.

The echo in the long corridor was deceptive. Elizabeth did not know whence the voice proceeded, and she therefore ran forwards quickly that she might the sooner reach the open air. But after a few steps she heard, as though the speaker were directly beside her, the words, "To-morrow evening you will leave Lindhof."

"But, most gracious Herr!"—was the answer.

"I have nothing else to say to you! now go!" was uttered in a commanding tone; and just then Elizabeth, to her terror, found herself opposite a wide-open folding door. The tall figure of a man stood in the middle of the room, his left hand behind him, and his right pointing to the door. A pair of flashing, dark eyes met her own as she passed hastily through the vestibule and into the garden. It seemed as if that look, in which there glowed an indignant soul, pursued her and drove her onward.

As the Ferber family were sitting at supper, her father told with expressions of pleasure how he had made the acquaintance of Herr von Walde that day at the Lodge.

"Well, and how does he please you?" asked his wife.

"That is a question, dear child, that I might be able to answer if I should happen to have daily intercourse with him for a year or so, although even then I cannot tell whether I should be able to give a satisfactory reply. The man is very interesting to me—as one is continually tempted to try to discover whether he really is what he appears,—a perfectly cold, passionless nature. He came to my brother to learn the particulars concerning the affair between his superintendent and the poor labourer's widow, because he had been informed that Sabina had been an eye-witness of the ill treatment she had received. Sabina was obliged to tell how she discovered the poor woman. He asked about everything, even the smallest circumstance, but in a very short, decided manner. What impression Sabina's account made upon him no one could tell; his looks were utterly impenetrable, not the smallest change of countenance betrayed his thoughts. He comes directly from Spain. From the few remarks that he let fall, I judge that his sudden return to Thuringia is owing to a letter from some one of his friends here, telling him of the mismanagement of affairs upon his estate and the unhappiness among his tenantry."

"And his exterior?" asked Frau Ferber.

"Is pleasing, although I have never seen so much reserve and inaccessibility expressed in a man's bearing I entirely understand how he has the reputation of boundless haughtiness; and yet I cannot, on the other hand, convince myself that such exceeding folly can lurk behind such remarkably intellectual features. His face always wears the look of cold repose of which I have spoken; but, between the eyebrows, there is what I might call an involuntary, unguarded expression of what a superficial observer might think sternness; to me it seems settled melancholy."

Elizabeth listened thoughtfully to this description. She had already learned how that cold repose could be entirely laid aside for a time, and she told her father of the scene which she had witnessed.

"Then sentence has been passed sooner than I anticipated," said Ferber. "Possibly your uncle may have done his part towards this end by his strong language,—he does not hesitate when asked for an opinion. He was so frank with Herr von Walde, that he felt quite relieved and retained not an iota in his heart of all that had been vexing him in the course of the past year."

CHAPTER X.

Scarcely a week had passed since the evening mentioned in the last chapter, but these few days had brought about great changes in the household at the castle of Lindhof. The dismissed superintendent had already been replaced by a new man, whose power, however, was very limited, as Herr von Walde had undertaken the chief oversight of affairs himself. Several day-labourers who had been summarily dismissed, either because they were warm adherents of the village pastor, and had, on account of their work, been frequently absent from prayers at the castle, or because they did not care to listen to the chaplain's sermons, were again working on the estate.

The day before, Sunday, Herr von Walde, accompanied by the Baroness Lessen and little Bella, had attended service in the village church at Lindhof. To the surprise of all, the chaplain, Herr Möhring, had appeared in the organ-loft as one of the audience, and at noon the worthy pastor had taken dinner with the family at Castle Lindhof. Doctor Fels paid daily visits there, for Fräulein von Walde was sick. That was the reason why Elizabeth had not been requested to give her another lesson, and also, as the forester said, why the Baroness Lessen "had not been banished to Siberia, for," said he, "Herr von Walde would not be such a savage as to make his ailing sister still more ailing, by depriving her of the society which was dearest to her. He knew that if his mother left, Herr von Hollfeld's visits would also cease." It was malicious to say so, but, as he added, "incontrovertibly just."

In the village it was well known that it had required several terrible tempests to clear the air at Castle Lindhof. For the first three days after his arrival Herr von Walde had taken his meals alone in his private apartments, and the letters which the baroness' waiting-maid had delivered to him, at all times of the day, from her mistress, were returned unopened, until at last the violent illness of his sister had brought about a meeting between her brother and her cousin by her bedside. Since that day intercourse had again been apparently established between the two, although the servants declared that they exchanged scarcely a word at table. Herr von Hollfeld had been over once to greet the returned traveller, but it was observed that he rode away with a perceptibly lengthened face, after a very short stay.

On a melancholy, rainy day in August, Elizabeth was again requested by Fräulein von Walde to spend half an hour with her at the castle. The lady was not alone when she entered the room. Herr von Walde sat in the recess by the window. His tall figure was leaning back on a couch, his head nearly touching the light-coloured wall behind him, so that his dark-brown hair stood out in strong relief against it. His right hand, which carelessly held a cigar, was resting upon the window-sill, while his left was raised as if he had just been speaking. His neighbour, the Baroness Lessen, was bending towards him, and, with a most winning smile upon her face, seemed to be listening intently to his words, although, as it appeared, they were not addressed to her, but to Helene. She was sitting tolerably near him, and had some crochet work in her hand. Fräulein von Walde was lying upon a lounge. A full dressing-gown entirely enveloped her small figure, and her beautiful brown curls escaped from beneath a morning-cap, trimmed with pink ribbons, which heightened, by force of contrast, the pallor of her countenance. The cockatoo was perched upon her hand, and from time to time she held him caressingly to her cheek. "The terrible bird" was now called "darling," and might scream as loud as it liked,—it was only soothed by a tender "What's the matter with my pet?" Here, then, all was peace and reconciliation.

Upon Elizabeth's entrance Helene beckoned to her kindly, but it did not escape her that there was a slight embarrassment in the little lady's manner.

"Dear Rudolph," she said, as she took Elizabeth's hand, "let me present you to the delightful artiste to whom I owe so many pleasant hours,—Fräulein Ferber, called by her uncle, and in all the country around, Gold Elsie. She plays so deliciously that I entreat her to make us forget the gray and gloomy skies above us this afternoon. You see, dear child," she continued, turning to Elizabeth, "that I am still too weak to assist you at the piano; will you have the great kindness to play something alone for us?"

"With all my heart," replied Elizabeth. "But I shall play timidly, for there are two formidable powers to oppose me,—the gloomy heavens, and the favourable expectations that you have awakened of my performance."

"Pray allow me to excuse myself for an hour," said the baroness, as she collected her working materials and arose; "I should like to drive out with Bella,—it is so long since the poor child has taken the air."

"Really, I should suppose that she could easily take it here at any time, by simply putting her head out of the window," said Herr von Walde dryly, knocking the ashes from his cigar as he spoke.

"Heavens! are you unwilling, Rudolph, that I should take a drive? I will instantly remain at home, if——"

"I can conceive of no reason why I should be unwilling. Drive as often and as much as you like," was the indifferent reply.

The baroness compressed her lips, and turned to Helene: "We have decided, then, to take coffee in my room. I shall not stay out long, on account of the mist. I shall be back punctually in an hour, and shall depend upon the pleasure of conducting you to my room myself, dearest Helene."

"That pleasure you must resign," said Herr von Walde. "It has been my office for many years, and I hope my sister does not think me grown too awkward during my absence to discharge it."

"Most certainly not, dear Rudolph; I shall be greatly obliged, if you will be so kind," cried Helene, quickly, looking anxiously from one to the other.

The baroness conquered her vexation bravely. She held out her hand to Herr von Walde, with a smile of great sweetness, kissed Helene upon the cheek, and rustled out of the room with an "au revoir."

During this conversation, Elizabeth observed more closely the features of the man, whose glance and voice had impressed her so profoundly. It is true, her terror, for really the emotion caused by her first meeting with him was nothing less, had been renewed for a moment, as on entering she caught sight of Herr von Walde. How quiet the eyes were now, which had seemed before to flash fire; his look, as it rested upon the baroness, was icy cold. With this expression in his eyes, the upper part of his face, which bore the stamp of great sternness, grew to iron. A carefully arranged chestnut-brown moustache covered his upper lip, and his beard; which was unusually fine and silky, fell in soft waves upon his chest. Herr von Walde did not look young, and although his well-knit figure had preserved all its elasticity, there was that indescribable composure and self-possession in his whole manner and heaping peculiar to the man of riper age, and which inspires involuntary respect.

When the baroness had left the room, Elizabeth opened the piano.

"No, no! no notes!" Helene cried to her, as she saw her turning over the music-sheets. "We want to hear your own fancies; pray extemporize."

Elizabeth seated herself immediately, and soon the outer world was all forgotten by her. A wealth of melody welled up in her soul, which carried it far aloft. At such moments she knew that she was gifted beyond thousands of her fellow-mortals, for she had the power of giving expression to the most hidden emotions of her heart. The purity of her whole inner world was mirrored in sound; she had never been obliged to seek for a melody which should embody her feeling, it lay ready in her soul,—ready as the feeling itself. But to-day there was something blended with the tones that she could not herself comprehend; she could not possibly pursue and analyze it, for it breathed almost imperceptibly across the waves of sound. It seemed as though joy and woe no longer moved side by side, but melted together into one. As she was herself impressed by this strange presence, she penetrated still deeper into her world of feeling,—gradually the clear depths of her pure, maidenly soul were revealed to the listeners; they stood, as it were, by some transparent, magic fountain, and saw within its quiet waters the lovely form of the young girl reflected, with twofold distinctness, for there was a perfect harmony between her exterior and her interior being.

The last faint chord died away. Large tear-drops hung from Helene's lashes, and her pallor was almost supernatural. She glanced towards her brother, but he had turned his face away, and was gazing out into the garden. When at last he looked towards her, his features were as calm as ever, only a slight flush coloured his brow; the cigar had dropped from his fingers and lay upon the ground. He said not one word concerning her playing to Elizabeth, as she rose from the piano. Helene, whom this silence distressed, exhausted herself in flattering expressions, that she might induce her young friend to forget, or, at least, not to notice the coldness and indifference which her brother displayed.

"Was it not delicious?" she cried. "The people in B—— could have had no idea of the golden fountain of music bubbling up in Elsie's heart, or they would never have allowed her to wander into the Thuringian forest."

"Have you lived until now in B——?" asked Herr von Walde, fixing his eyes upon Elizabeth. She met his gaze for an instant; the ice had all melted, and was replaced by a wondrous radiance.

"Yes," she answered, simply.

"It was a sad experience to come suddenly from a large beautiful city, which offers every imaginable diversion and enjoyment, to the silent forest, and live upon a lonely mountain. You were, of coarse, inconsolable at the exchange?"

"I regarded it as a piece of undeserved good fortune," was the unembarrassed reply.

"Indeed? Most strange! It seems to me that one would hardly choose the thistle when the rose might be had."

"Of course, I cannot presume to pass judgment upon your opinions."

"True, because you do not know me; but my idea is almost universal."

"Yet surely it is very one-sided."

"Well, then, I will not combat further your peculiar taste, with which you would scarcely find any one to sympathize among companions of your own age. I will rather believe, for your credit, that it was not so easy to leave your friends."

"But it was very easy, for I had none."

"Is that possible?" cried Fräulein von Walde. "Did you have no intercourse with any one?"

"Oh, yes, with the people who paid me."

"You gave lessons?" asked Herr von Walde.

"Yes."

"But did you never feel the want of a female friend?" cried Helene quickly.

"Never, for I have a mother," replied Elizabeth in a tone of deep feeling.

"Happy child!" she murmured, and drooped her head.

Elizabeth felt that she had unwittingly touched a sore place in Helene's heart. She was sorry, and longed to efface the impression. Herr von Walde seemed to read her thoughts in her face, for, without noticing Helene's emotion, he asked: "And did you desire to live in the Thuringian forest especially?"

"Yes."

"And why?"

"Because I had been told from my earliest childhood that my family had its origin in the Thuringian forest."

"Ah, yes, you belong to the Gnadewitzes."

"My mother's name was Gnadewitz. I am a Ferber," answered Elizabeth, with decision.

"You say that as if you were thankful that you did not bear the name of Gnadewitz."

"I am thankful for it."

"Hm!—in its time it has made a fine noise in the world."

"None pleasant to hear."

"Why, what would you have? At every court it was pure gold, for it was very old, and the last of those who bore it were heaped with dignities and honours, on account of the antiquity of their name."

"Pardon me, but I cannot possibly understand how—" she blushed, and was silent.

"Go on; you have begun the sentence, and I depend upon hearing the end."

"Well, then, how sin can be honoured, because it is old," she rejoined, with hesitation.

"Softly! they say that several of the Gnadewitz lineage were brave and true."

"That may be; but is there not great injustice in the idea of rewarding their merit, centuries after, by honouring those who are neither good nor true?"

"Should not noble deeds live forever?"

"Most certainly; but, if we refuse to emulate them, we certainly are not worthy to share in their rewards," was Elizabeth's prompt answer.

A carriage rolled up the avenue. Herr von Walde frowned, and passed his hand across his eyes as if he had been rudely awakened from a dream. In a moment the door opened, and the baroness entered. She, as well as Bella, who was walking by her mother's side to-day with quite an air of grown-up dignity, had not yet laid aside her bonnet and mantle.

"I am glad to be at home again," she cried. "The air to-day is horrible. I repented a hundred times having left the house, and shall probably atone for my maternal solicitude by a heavy cold. Bella was so anxious to see for herself how you are, dear Helene, that I allowed her to come in with me."

The child went directly up to the lounge. She did not appear to notice Elizabeth, who was sitting close by, and brushed past her so rudely, as she bent to kiss Helene's hand, that a button upon her sack caught in the delicate trimming of Elizabeth's dress and tore it. Bella lifted her head and glanced at the mischief she had done; then she turned and went across to Herr von Walde to give him her hand.

"Well," said he, withholding his hand, "have you no apology to make for your awkwardness?"

She made no reply, and retired to the side of her mother, upon whose cheeks the ominous red spots appeared. The look which she cast upon Elizabeth showed that her daughter was not the cause of her irritation.

"Well, child, can't you speak?" asked Herr von Walde, rising.

"Fräulein Ferber sat so close," said the baroness in a tone of excuse, as Bella continued obstinately silent.

"Indeed, I should have moved aside. There is no great harm done," said Elizabeth, and she held out her hand to Bella with an enchanting smile. But the child took no notice of it, and hid both her hands in her dress.

Without a word, Herr von Walde approached her, took her by the arm, and led her directly to the door, which he opened. "Go instantly to your room," he said, "and do not come where I am again unless I particularly desire you to do so."

The baroness was raging inwardly. Her countenance worked for a moment, but what could she do? She was powerless to contend with the violence and barbarism of this man, who was master here, and who now took his seat again with a composure that betrayed an utter unconsciousness of the cruelty of his behaviour. Her prudence obtained the upper hand.

"I hope, dear Rudolph," said she, and her voice trembled a little, "that you will not reckon this slight misdemeanour against Bella. Pray, make some allowance,—it is all the fault of her governess."

"Miss Mertens? Indeed, it must have cost her, with her innate gentleness and refinement, infinite pains to train Bella to conduct herself as she has just done."

The baroness blushed scarlet; but she controlled herself. "Heavens!" she cried, determined to change the subject; "this stupid circumstance has made me forget to tell you that Emil has ridden over from Odenberg. He got wet through on horseback, and is just changing his dress. May he pay his respects?"

Helene's cheeks glowed, and a ray of happiness shot from her eyes; but she said not a word, only drooping her face so as to conceal every sign of her inward agitation.

"Certainly," replied Herr von Walde. "Does he intend to make some stay here?"

"He will be here for a few days, with your permission."

"By all means. Then we shall see him in your room when we come to take coffee."

"He will be most happy. Will you not come immediately? My maid tells me that all is in readiness there to receive you."

Elizabeth arose, and prepared to take her leave. Herr von Walde, as soon as he saw this, looked inquiringly at the baroness. Doubtless he expected that she would extend an invitation to the young girl, but just at this moment the lady discovered that the gardener's arrangement of the flower-stand in the window was "too charming," and in enraptured contemplation of a bunch of azaleas she turned her back upon Elizabeth.

Fräulein Ferber courtesied profoundly and left the room, after Helene had repeated, in a trembling voice, her expressions of gratitude. Without, in the corridor, she met Herr von Hollfeld. At sight of her he quickened his pace, casting a lightning glance around to assure himself that no listener was near. Before she was aware of it, he had seized Elizabeth's hand, imprinted a glowing kiss upon it, and whispered: "How rejoiced I am to see you once more!"

Her astonishment was so great that she could not at first find a word to say. She drew back her hand as though she had been stung, and he accepted her repulse, because at that very moment the door of Helene's room opened, and Herr von Walde appeared. Hollfeld raised his hat to Elizabeth as if he had just seen her, and his features subsided instantly into an expression of utter indifference as he walked towards his relative.

Elizabeth was disgusted with his farce,—first, at the insulting familiarity, which made her blood boil with indignation, and then, at the denial of any acquaintance before a third person. Her maidenly pride was deeply wounded. She reproached herself that she had not rebuked his impertinence boldly upon the spot. A crimson flush glowed in her cheeks with shame that she should have been treated so by any man; it seemed as if the spot upon her hand, where his hot lips had rested, still burned, and she hastily held it beneath the stream of a fountain in the park, that the imaginary stain might be washed away.

Much agitated, she reached her home, and complained with tears to her mother of the insult that she had received. Frau Ferber was a sensible woman, possessed of clear, calm insight. She was convinced by Elizabeth's resentment that her child's heart was not in the least danger, and her fears were laid to rest. It was easy to defend her from attacks from without; but who could guard her from the grief that a misplaced attachment would entail upon her?

"You know now what manner of man Herr von Hollfeld is," she said. "It will not be difficult strictly to avoid all future contact with him, and if he should presume in spite of your efforts, he must be sternly repulsed. His conduct seems to be the result of aristocratic conceit and cowardice, two qualities which will probably deter him from any further advances, when he discovers how disagreeable they are to you. But at all events, familiarize yourself with the thought that your behaviour towards him must of necessity create an enemy who will, at some future day, put a stop to your intercourse with Fräulein von Walde. Of course such a consideration cannot for one instant lead you to hesitate as to your line of conduct. Go on your way then, my child, quietly and with self-possession. I should certainly not advise you to give up your visits to Castle Lindhof."

"Assuredly not! no, that I will not do!" cried Elizabeth, quickly. "What would my uncle say if the chicken should actually come flying back to creep beneath the shelter of home?" she added, smiling through her tears. "It would be wretched indeed, if with all the strength of which I have boasted, I am not strong enough to repulse an impertinent man so effectually that he shall desist from all future advances."

She recalled her conversation with Herr von Walde, and found, to her great satisfaction, that she must certainly be exceedingly brave, for assuredly it had required no small exercise of courage, while confronting that stern countenance, to declare her own convictions, which attacked so decidedly the proud edifice of his ancestral pride. She had expected every moment to see his glance sheathe itself in ice again, as it had done in conversation with the baroness; but the singular glow and expression which had so struck her when first he addressed her, had not faded from his eyes,—she could almost, in fact, believe that she detected beneath his moustache a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he had determined to-day to enact the part of the lion towards the mouse. He had magnanimously permitted a little girl to pour out her naive ideas at his feet, where they might remain lying, since to bend his aristocratic back to pick them up and examine them was not to be thought of,—they probably amused him as exemplifying the saying of the dog "baying the moon." She repeated all this continually to herself, that she might stamp afresh upon her treacherous memory his general reputation for boundless arrogance.

She could not tell how she became conscious of it, but she was now perfectly aware that she should suffer unspeakably if Herr von Walde's arrogance was ever exercised towards her; so she must be doubly on her guard and not allow herself to be misled by his observance of the usual forms of common politeness, of his high regard for which the next day brought her a most convincing proof.

CHAPTER XI.

She had just gotten ready, the next afternoon, to go into the garden with her work-basket, when the bell rang at the gate in the wall. In consideration of the scene of the day before, her surprise was certainly justifiable, when, as the gate was opened, she saw Bella standing before her. Behind the child stood Miss Mertens and the elderly gentleman with whom Elizabeth had lately had an evening encounter. As she entered Bella extended her hand, but looked shy and confused and said not a word. Elizabeth, much amazed, at once guessed the reason of her coming, and tried to help her in her embarrassment by saying how glad she was to have a visit from a little girl, and by asking her to come into the garden. But Miss Mertens stepped forward.

"Do not make it all so pleasant for Bella, Fräulein Ferber," said she, "she has been expressly ordered to make an apology to you for her misconduct yesterday. I must insist upon her speaking."

These words, spoken with much firmness, and still more, perhaps, the sheltering darkness of the hall through which Elizabeth was leading her by the hand, at last loosened Bella's tongue, and she softly begged pardon for her fault, and promised never to be so naughty again.

"And now that is happily settled," cried the gentleman, as he advanced to Miss Mertens' side, and with an arch smile made a low bow to Elizabeth.

"It may, perhaps, strike you as very odd," he said, "that I should attach myself to this reconciliation deputation, with which I have no concern; but I have an idea that on such occasions people are rather inclined to overlook all slight transgressions, and so,—there can be no more favourable moment for the smuggling in of a stranger.

"My name is Ernst Reinhard; I am the secretary and travelling companion of Herr von Walde, and I have had no more earnest desire for a week past than to become acquainted with the interesting family at Castle Gnadeck."

Elizabeth kindly extended her hand. "These old walls have witnessed so many of the misdeeds of the robber knights of old, that we have no right to condemn smuggling; you will be cordially welcomed by my parents."

She led the way, and opened the huge oaken door leading into the garden.

Her parents and uncle, who, with little Ernst, were sitting under the lindens, arose as the strangers entered, and came towards them. Elizabeth introduced them all round, and then, at a sign from her mother, returned to the house to order some refreshments for the guests. When she came back again, Bella had already laid aside her sack and parasol, and with a joyous face was sitting in a swing, which had been hung between two trees. Ernst was swinging her, and seemed not a little proud of his new playmate.

"Indeed," said Reinhard, pointing to Bella as she flew up in the swing, shouting with delight, "no one who had seen that child this morning and her sullen bearing, as she went into Herr von Walde's apartment to ask forgiveness for yesterday's misconduct, or her defiant and angry expression, when he told her that he could not receive her again until she had personally begged pardon of Fräulein Ferber,"—here Elizabeth reddened, and became absorbed in the preparation of some bread and honey for the two children,—"would recognize her for the same being, whose face is now beaming with the innocent joy of childhood."

The hour passed very pleasantly. Miss Mertens was both refined and cultivated, and Reinhard told many delightful stories of his travels and researches.

"Probably we should not have thought of returning home for some time," he said in concluding an interesting account of adventures in Spain, "had we not received unfavourable accounts from Thuringia, which, following fast upon each other, induced Herr von Walde to give up new plans for travel. The ambition of power often makes its possessor blind. The incautious request from a feminine pen that Herr von Walde would pension off the good old village pastor at Lindhof, because he had grown prosy and was incapable of training the souls under his care, capped the climax of our unwelcome hews, and we set out for home immediately.

"When, late in the evening, as we approached Lindhof, we left the highroad and our carriage, that we might go the rest of the way on foot, we met with a most charming adventure. How odd! look, Reinhard, what do you suppose is the meaning of that light in the ruins of Castle Gnadeck?' asked Herr von Walde. 'It means that there is a lamp there,' was my reply. 'We must investigate this,' said he, and we ascended the hill. The light grew brighter, and at last, to our astonishment, we saw that it streamed from two high illuminated windows. And then, light steps were heard behind us, something white fluttered among the bushes, and suddenly, what I took for a being of ethereal mould hovered before us upon the moonlit sward. I took heart and approached, expecting every moment that the airy form would vanish before the breath of my lips; but alas! its own lips opened, and told of two well-trained goats and a canary bird."

All laughed at this account.

"While we were descending the mountain," Reinhard continued, "my master said not a word; but from certain signs I judged that he was quite as ready to laugh at me as you were; it would have been a fine thing if you could have accompanied us as a good fairy, for we left all the moonlight and beauty behind us upon the mountain, and had to walk on through the dim valley, where the mists were rising, and where there was nothing, not even a wandering zephyr to bid us welcome home. At Castle Lindhof numberless lights were flitting to and fro like will-o'-the-wisps. The carriage, with our luggage, had already arrived, and seemed to have produced the same effect by the sound of its rolling wheels, as that ascribed to the thunder at the day of judgment, for there was such hurry, confusion, and disorder reigning there when we arrived, that, for my part, I should have been thankful to retrace my steps, and lay my weary head upon the first quiet, mossy spot that I could find in the forest. The only person who, in the midst of the universal agitation, presented an appearance of placid self possession was the chaplain, Möhring. He had put on a white cravat with great despatch, and welcomed the master of the house at the foot of the grand staircase in a speech full of unction."

"The reign of that stern gentleman is at an end now, is it not?" asked the forester.

"Yes, indeed, thank God!" replied Miss Mertens. "He will leave Lindhof in a short time. Baroness Lessen's influence has procured him a good parish. He could not endure to sink back into insignificance where he had so lately held sway. I can readily understand it, for he had ruled with all the persecuting zeal of a tyrant who seeks to tread every one beneath his feet. He would not allow a thought in his kingdom without his permission, and even the baroness, his mistress, upon whom he smiled so servilely, felt his iron rule. Every one in the household, without exception, was obliged to write down, in the evening, the thoughts and sentiments that had occurred to them during the avocations of the day. I can see before me now the poor housemaids, to whom even a short letter to their friends at home is a greater task than a long ironing-day, sitting in that cold room on the winter evenings, holding the pen in their tired clumsy fingers, and beating their poor brains for something to say.

"'Yes, if the chaplain had worked as hard as I have done the whole day,' one would whisper softly but angrily to another, 'he would not relish writing much.'"

"Indeed, I think so," cried the forester. "What a shameful system of torture and oppression has been carried on there under the cloak of service to the Lord!"

"The worst of it all is," said Ferber, "that unless a man is possessed of great culture, or of a special fund of good humour, he ends by detesting not only his tormentors but the whole subject of religion that causes him such suffering. Thus, he is led more and more astray from all faith, while his outward observance of forms must be stricter than ever, his subsistence depending upon his wearing the mask well. All this gives the death-blow to true religion among the people."

"Well, we are fortunate in at least having one among us who has force of character enough and sufficient strength of will, to say, 'Thus far shalt thou go and no farther!' Zounds! it came upon us like a second deluge!" said the forester.

"True, Herr von Walde is possessed of an energy and force of character such as falls to the lot of but few," replied Miss Mertens, quickly. "His mouth is closed, but his eyes are wide open, and servility, malice, and hypocrisy quail before them and drop their masks."

In the mean while Reinhard had been attentively examining the walls of the ruinous wing of the old castle which bounded the garden on the south. Three large, pointed, arched windows, faultless in shape, extended upward to the height of the second story from about six feet from the ground. Close beside them a curious jutty projected far into the garden, forming a deep corner, where grew a giant oak, which stretched some of its boughs through the two nearest sashless windows far into the airy, cool apartment within, which must once have been the chapel of the castle, intended to accommodate a large number of worshippers, for it extended through the entire depth of the wing. Opposite these windows were three others of like dimensions; they had been less exposed to wind and weather, and had preserved some fragments of coloured glass in their delicately carved stone rosettes. Through them could be seen the dark court-yard, with its crumbling, ghostly walls like a picture painted in gray. The garden side of this wing looked gay and odd enough. The most extravagant caprice had here heaped together all styles of windows and decorations; judging by the exterior, the old building must have been a perfect labyrinth of rooms, passages, and staircases. The jutty alone seemed to be in a most dangerous state of decay. It inclined perceptibly to one side, and appeared to be awaiting the moment when it should bury the blooming life of the oak beneath its masses of stone. It had thrown a green mantle coquettishly over its falling form,—an impenetrable garment of ivy wreathed it all over from the ground to the ruinous roof, and effectually concealed every crack and aperture in the masonry. Some sprays of the ivy had crept across the oak and climbed up to the sculptured arms on the principal front of the chapel, which looked forth grimly enough from beneath its intrusive decoration.

"I attempted," said Ferber, "to explore this wing as far as I could, shortly after my arrival here, for its peculiar style of architecture interests me greatly; but I could not get farther than the chapel, where, indeed, it seemed dangerous to stay long. You see the whole upper story has fallen in, and the weight of the ruins has caused the ceiling of the chapel to sink considerably, so that it seems ready to tumble at the slightest breath of wind. The jutty has only lately looked so threatening in consequence of several severe storms. It must be taken away, for it makes a part of the garden inaccessible to us. If I could have engaged any workmen, it should have been pulled down before now."

After this explanation, Reinhard had no further relish, as he expressed it, for wandering about in the old ruins. But he was all the more interested in the connecting building, and Ferber arose to show his guests his dwelling. And first, they ascended the rampart behind them. Ferber was very capable and skilful, and employed every moment of his leisure in improving his new possession. With his own hands he had mended the steps which led to the top of the rampart, and they arose now smooth and white from the close-shaven turf which clothed its sloping side. On top, the tolerably wide plateau was strewn with fresh gravel, and in the centre of it, embowered in the linden boughs which overshadowed the basin below, stood a group of home-made garden chairs and a table. While they leaned against the breastwork and enjoyed the confined but lovely view from the steep mountain over the valley beneath, Elizabeth told the story of Sabina's ancestress, for doubtless this rampart had been the scene of her narrative.

"Br-rr!" said Reinhard, shuddering. "What a leap it would have been! The wall is high, and when I imagine below there, instead of that mossy carpet, the sluggish, slimy waters of a castle-ditch full of frogs and lizards, I cannot possibly understand the resolution required to throw one's self over."

"But," said Miss Mertens, "despair has led many a one to seek a death even more horrible."

At this moment Elizabeth saw with her mind's eye the glowing, passionate expression with which Hollfeld had hastened towards her on the preceding evening. She remembered the disgust that she had experienced at his touch, and she thought to herself that it was not very difficult to imagine the position of the persecuted girl.

"Come in, child," said her uncle, rousing her from her reverie. "Are you listening to hear the grass grow that you stand there so silent?"

Beneath his clear gaze, and at the sound of his strong, honest voice, the terrible vision vanished in an instant. "No, uncle," she replied, laughing, "that I shall not attempt, even though I do boast that I have wonderfully keen eyes and ears for the processes of nature."

He took her hand, and led her after the others, who were just entering the house. At the top of the steps, Bella came running to Miss Mertens. She had several picture-books in one hand, and with the other she drew her governess into Elizabeth's room.

"Only think, Miss Mertens, you can see our castle from here!" she cried. That they were the owners of Lindhof she seemed firmly to believe, and no wonder. The way in which the baroness had, until now, wielded her sceptre, had left no doubt in the child's mind that her mother was the indisputable mistress of Lindhof. "Look," she continued gaily, "do you see the path down there? Uncle Rudolph has just ridden past. He saw me, and waved his hand to me. Mamma will be glad that he is kind to me again."

Miss Mertens admonished her to be a good little girl, and get her hat and sack, for it was time to go.

Elizabeth and Ernst accompanied them out into the park.

"We have stayed too long," said Miss Mertens anxiously, as she took leave of the Ferbers and stepped out into the forest-clearing. "I must be prepared for a tempest this evening."

"You think the baroness will be vexed at your remaining here so long?"

"Without doubt."

"Never mind,—you must not repent it. We have spent such a delightful afternoon," said Reinhard.

The children had wandered on before them, hand in hand, and disappeared now and then among the trees on either side of the path, plucking flowers. Hector, who had forsaken his master to accompany them, leaped joyously hither and thither, never forgetting to return now and then to be stroked and patted by the gentle hand of Elizabeth, the lady of his love, as her uncle said.

Suddenly he stopped, and stood still in the centre of the path. They had nearly reached the borders of the park. Through the forest they could see the vivid green of the lawn, and the plashing of the nearest fountain was audible. Hector had discovered a female figure hastily approaching. Elizabeth recognized her instantly as silent Bertha, although her whole appearance seemed strangely altered.

She could have had no idea that any one was near, for, as she walked, she gesticulated violently with her arms. Her cheeks were crimson, her eyebrows contracted as though in the greatest agony of mind, and her lips moved as though she were talking to herself. Her white hat, which she had decked with flowers, had slipped from her dark braids, and was hanging upon her neck by its loose red strings, which, as her motions grew still more earnest, became wholly untied, and the hat fell on the ground without the knowledge of its owner.

She came rapidly forward, and did not raise her eyes until just as she stood close to Elizabeth. Then she started as though stung by an adder. In a moment the expression of anguish upon her countenance was changed to one of the bitterest anger. Hate flashed from her eyes, her hands clenched convulsively, and while something like a low hiss escaped her lips, she seemed as if about to spring, raging, upon the young girl. Reinhard instantly placed himself by Elizabeth's side, and drew her slightly back. When Bertha saw him, she uttered a low cry, and rushed madly into the thicket, through which she forced a path, although her clothes were torn by the thorns, and she struck her forehead against the drooping boughs. In a few moments she was lost to sight.

"That was Bertha, from the Lodge!" cried Miss Mertens, with surprise. "What can have happened to her?"

"Yes,—what can have happened?" repeated Reinhard. "The young creature was in a state of terrible excitement, and seemed to grow actually furious at sight of you," turning to Elizabeth. "Is she related to you?"

"No indeed," she replied. "She is only distantly connected with my uncle, and I do not even know her. She has avoided me from the beginning most resolutely, although I wished much to be on friendly terms with her. It is clear that she hates me, but I cannot tell why. Of course it troubles me, but her character is not sufficiently pleasing to induce me to attach much importance to her dislike."

"Good Heavens, my child, there is no question of dislike here! The little fury would have gladly torn you to pieces with her teeth."

"I am not afraid of her," replied Elizabeth, smiling.

"But I would advise you to be careful," said Miss Mertens. "There was something actually demoniac in her looks. Where could she have been?"

"Probably at the castle," remarked Elizabeth, as she picked up Bertha's hat, and brushed the moss and dried leaves from it.

"I think not," rejoined Miss Mertens. "Since she has been dumb she has, very strangely, ceased visiting Lindhof. Before then she came every day, attended the Bible Class, and was a great protegée of the baroness, but suddenly it all came to an end, to the surprise of all. Only now and then, in my solitary rambles in the park, I have seen her gliding through the bushes like a snake,—indeed she seems to me to bear an affinity to that reptile."

They had already reached one of the gravelled paths leading through the park, and it was time to take leave of each other. They separated with mutual cordiality.

"Now, Elsie," said Ernst, as the other three vanished behind a group of trees, "we'll see which of us will reach the corner first." The corner was the entrance to a narrow forest-path which led directly to the foot of the mountain.

"Agreed, my darling," laughed Elizabeth, and began to run. At first she kept even step with the little boy who was beside her; but just before the goal was reached, she flew forward lightly as a feather, and stood in the entrance of the path, and, to her terror, close to the head of a horse which snorted violently. Hector, who was by her side, barked loudly. The horse leaped aside and stood erect upon his hind legs.

"Back!" cried a powerful voice. Elizabeth snatched op the little boy and sprang with him out of the way, while the horse rushed out of the forest, and, scarcely touching the ground with his hoofs, galloped madly across the meadow. Herr von Walde was seated upon the frightened animal, which did its best to throw its rider. He, however, sat firm as a rock; only once he leaned from his saddle and struck with his riding-whip at Hector, who was leaping and barking about the horse, greatly increasing its fright. For awhile it bounded wildly over the meadow, then suddenly turned away and disappeared into the forest.

Elizabeth's teeth fairly chattered with fright at the horrible accident which she had no doubt would shortly occur. She took Ernst by the hand and was about to run to the castle for assistance, when, before she had gone many steps, she saw the horseman returning. The animal was much more quiet, his bit was covered with foam, and his legs trembled. Herr von Walde patted his neck caressingly, sprang off, tied him to a tree, and then approached Elizabeth.

"Pray forgive me," she said in a trembling voice, as soon as he stood beside her.

"What for, my child?" he rejoined gently. "You have done nothing. Come, sit down upon this bank, you are deadly pale."

He moved as if to take her hand and lead her to the spot which he had designated, but his arm dropped instantly by his side. Elizabeth mechanically obeyed him, and without another word he seated himself beside her. Little Ernst leaned against his sister and fixed his large beautiful full eyes upon Herr von Walde's face. The boy had been frightened for one moment when the horse had first appeared, but the gallop around the meadow had amused him, for he had no suspicion of danger.

"What did you intend to do when you came running so hastily into the forest?" Herr von Walde asked Elizabeth after a short silence.

An arch smile played about the still pale lips of the young girl. "I was pursued," she replied.

"By whom?"

"By this boy," pointing to Ernst, "We were running a race."

"Is the little one your brother?"

"Yes;" she looked lovingly in the boy's face and passed her hand over his dark curls.

"And she is my only sister," said the little fellow with great emphasis.

"Indeed! Well, you seem quite fond of this only sister," said Herr von Walde.

"Oh yes; I love her dearly. She plays with me just like a boy."

"Is it possible?"

"Oh yes; if I want to play soldiers she puts on just the same kind of paper hat that she makes for me, and marches, drumming up and down the garden, just as long as I choose. And before I go to bed she tells me lovely stories while I am eating my supper."

A bright smile broke over Herr von Walde's face. Elizabeth had never seen it before, and she found that it gave an indescribable charm to features which she had thought immovably stern; it seemed to her like a clear sunbeam breaking through a thick, cloudy sky.

"You are quite right, my boy," he said, drawing the child towards him; "those are most valuable talents to possess; but is she never angry?" he asked, pointing to Elizabeth, who was enjoying like a child, Ernst's revelations, which seemed comical enough to her.

"No, never angry," replied the boy, "only serious sometimes, and then she always plays on the piano."

"But, Ernst——"

"Oh yes, Elsie," he interrupted her eagerly; "don't you remember when we were so poor in B——?"

"Ah, there you are right," she replied with composure; "but it was only when papa and mamma had to work so hard that we might have bread to eat; it was much better afterwards."

"But you still play on the piano?"

"Yes," answered Elizabeth laughing, "but no longer for the reason which Ernst gives. My father and mother are now provided for."

"And you?" Herr von Walde persisted.

"Oh, I? I am quite brave enough to fight life's battle and win my own independence in the struggle?"

"How do you propose to do it?"

"Next year I shall go somewhere as a governess."

"Does not Miss Mertens' example deter you?"

"Not at all. I am not so weak as to wish for a luxurious life while so many others in my circumstances take upon themselves so bravely the yoke of service."

"But here there is question not only of service but of endurance. You are proud. It is not only your look at this moment which tells me so, but every sentiment which you uttered yesterday."

"Indeed, it may, perhaps, be pride that induces me to rank real dignity of character far above any mere exterior advantages which egotism has invented and maintains, and for that very reason I believe that one human being can humble another only by setting before him an example of moral and intellectual greatness which it is impossible for him to imitate,—never by insulting treatment."

"And you think that these views will steel you against all the mortifications great and little which a heartless, capricious mistress might heap upon you?"

"Oh no, but I need never bow before her."

A short pause ensued, during which Ernst approached the horse, examining him attentively.

"From what you said yesterday, I gathered that you are attached to your present home," Herr von Walde began again.

"Yes, more than I can tell."

"Ah! I can understand that, for this is the loveliest spot in Thuringia. How then can you so easily endure the thought of leaving it again?"

"On the contrary, I shall not find it at all easy; but my father has taught me that our pleasures must yield to our necessities, and I understand perfectly that it must be so. I confess that I cannot easily comprehend how one can give up what is so pleasant except at the command of necessity."

"Ah! that was aimed at me. You cannot conceive how a man can voluntarily hide himself in the pyramids when he might breathe the cool, sunny air of Thuringia."

Elizabeth felt a burning blush suffuse her cheeks. Herr von Walde had humourously alluded here to the jesting conversation that she had had with her uncle, to which he had been an involuntary listener.

"If I should attempt to explain this to you I should fail, for you seem to me to find all that you look for in your home circle," he said after a moment's silence. He had leaned forward and was mechanically drawing figures with his riding-whip upon the ground at his feet. He spoke in those deep tones which always appealed powerfully to Elizabeth's mind. "But there is a time for some of us," he continued, "when we rush out into the world, to forget in its whirl and novelty that we cannot find happiness at home. If a man cannot fill up a painful void in his existence, he can at least ignore it by devoting himself to science."

This, then, was the sore spot in his heart. He had not found the affection in his own home that he longed for, and that he had a right to claim and expect from a sister for whom he manifested always the purest and most self-sacrificing tenderness.

Elizabeth had comprehended this pain, even before she had seen Herr von Walde, and, at this moment, when he alluded to it so openly, she longed most fervently to console him. Words of sympathy hovered upon her lips, but she was possessed suddenly by an unconquerable shyness which prevented her from speaking; and as she glanced up at him and marked the firm lines of his profile and his brow which was so proud and commanding, while his voice sounded so gentle and melancholy, the embarrassing suspicion flashed upon her that he had forgotten for a moment who was sitting beside him; his aristocratic ideas would cause him bitterly to repent the moment when, under the influence of a sudden self-forgetfulness, he had revealed a glimpse of his sternly guarded consciousness to an insignificant girl. This thought dyed her cheeks again; she arose quickly and called Ernst. Herr von Walde turned in surprise, and for an instant his eyes rested searchingly upon her face; then he also arose, and, as if to confirm her suspicion, stood at once proudly calm and composed before her,—but she noticed for the first time that sad, gloomy expression between the eyebrows, which her father had spoken of, and which impressed her just as his voice had done.

"You are usually very quick to think,"—he said, evidently trying to give the conversation a gayer turn, and slowly walking along by Elizabeth's side,—she was going for Ernst who had not heard her call. "Before one has quite finished a sentence the answer is plainly ready on your lips. Your silence, therefore, at this moment, tells me that I was quite right when I said that you would not understand me, because you have found all the happiness that you look for."

"The idea of happiness is so different with different people, that indeed I hardly know."

"We all have the same idea," he interrupted her; "it may still slumber in you."

"Oh, no!" she cried, forgetting her reserve and with enthusiasm,—"I love my friends with my whole heart, and am most happily conscious that I am loved in return!"

"Ah, then you did not quite misunderstand me! Well,—and your friends,—there must be a large circle to whom you open your heart?"

"No," she cried, laughing,—"their tale is soon told! My parents, my uncle, and this little fellow here," and she took Ernst by the hand as he came running to her, "who grows larger and makes more demands upon me every year. But now we must go, my darling," she said to the child, "or mamma will be anxious."

She bowed courteously to Herr von Walde,—it seemed to her that the shade upon his brow had disappeared. He raised his hat to her and shook hands with Ernst,—then he walked slowly towards the horse that was pawing impatiently, untied it, and led it away by the bridle.

"Do you know, Elsie," said Ernst, as they were ascending the mountain, "whom Herr von Walde looks like?"

"Whom?"

"The brave knight of St. George, just when he has killed the dragon."

"Aha!" she laughed. "But you have never seen any picture of the brave knight."

"I know that. Still I think he looks like him."

And she too had thought of the resemblance when she had seen him controlling his unruly steed. At this moment she remembered the pang she had suffered at the thought of a probable accident, and her unspeakable delight at seeing him return from the thicket unharmed. She stood still, and with a smile of wonder laid her hand upon her throbbing heart.

"Now see," said Ernst, "you have been running too quickly up the mountain. I could not keep up with you. What would uncle say if he knew it?"

She walked slowly on, like one in a dream. She scarcely heard the child's reproof. What then was this strange half-consciousness which had yesterday mingled itself with her melodies, causing them to mourn and to rejoice at the same moment? Again she felt it take possession of her soul more mightily and intoxicatingly than before, but it was just as mysterious and incomprehensible.

"But, Elsie," cried Ernst, impatiently, "what is the matter with you? You are walking so slowly that it will be dark before we reach home."

He took hold of her dress, and tried to pull her on. This call from the outer world was too energetic to be any longer withstood,—Elizabeth roused herself and walked on quickly, to the child's entire content.

When they reached the castle Elizabeth laid Bertha's hat, which was still hanging upon her arm, upon the table. She was unwilling to mention her meeting with the girl to her parents, for she rightly judged that it would make them anxious, and that they would relate the occurrence to her uncle, who had been so angry and bitter of late whenever Bertha was alluded to, that Elizabeth feared that if he heard of the meeting in the wood he would put a stop to the annoyance by immediately dismissing the cause of it from the Lodge. Ernst had noticed neither the hat nor her desire to conceal it, so there was no danger that he would betray her.

After supper Elizabeth walked down to the Lodge. She met Sabina in the garden, and heard to her satisfaction that her uncle had gone to Lindhof. She gave the hat to the old housekeeper, and told her of Bertha's extraordinary behaviour, asking in conclusion whether she were at home yet. Sabina was indignant.

"Indeed I think, child, that if you had been alone she would have scratched your eyes out. I don't know what will become of her. These last few days she has been worse than ever. She does not sleep at nights, but walks up and down in her room, talking again—but only to herself. If I had but the courage to open her door just when she is at the worst,—but I could not do it though you would give me heaps of gold. You will laugh at me, I know; but she's not right. Look at her eyes—they sparkle and glow as though all the fire of the Blocksberg were burning in them. No, I shall hold my tongue; the Herr Forester sleeps soundly, and so do the rest,—but I wake at the slightest noise, and I know perfectly well that Bertha is up and away many a night, and when she goes the great watch-dog is gone too from his kennel. He is the only one in the house that loves her; and, fierce as he is, he never touches her."

"Does my uncle know this?" asked Elizabeth with surprise.

"Not for the world! I wouldn't for my life tell him, for who knows what mischief would come of it?"

"But, Sabina, only think. You may do great harm to my uncle by remaining silent. The house is so lonely if there is no dog in the yard——"

"But I stand at the window of my room and watch until she comes from the mountain and chains up the dog again."

"What a tremendous sacrifice to make to your superstition! Why not tell Bertha——"

"Hush! not so loud, there she sits!" Sabina pointed through the fence to the pear tree in the court-yard. Upon the stone bench under the tree Bertha was sitting, apparently quite composed, trimming carrots. The crimson of excitement had passed away from cheek and brow, and given place to a livid pallor. Elizabeth could see now that the girl had lately grown much thinner. Her delicate nose looked pinched, and her cheeks had lost their lovely oval. There were dark ridges around her eyes, and between her eyebrows there were two deep wrinkles in the delicate skin which gave a sullen expression to the face, but, in connection with certain lines around the mouth, lent an air of deep melancholy to her look. The sight cut Elizabeth to the heart. Some misery was burdening the soul of that lonely creature, misery all the harder to endure because it was borne in silence. She forgot all the dislike of her which Bertha had always shown, and took several quick steps towards her, that she might lay that weary head upon her breast and say, "Rest here, poor child! Tell me of the grief that you are struggling with in such loneliness, and I promise to aid you to endure——" but Sabina seized her arm and detained her.

"You must not go," she whispered in terror; "I will not let you. She is just in a condition to stick that knife into you."

"But she is so terribly unhappy. Perhaps I can convince her that only the kindliest sympathy moves me."

"No, no! I'll soon show you whether anything can be done with her."

Sabina descended the steps into the court-yard. Bertha let her approach without raising her eyes.

"Fräulein, Elizabeth found it," said Sabina, holding the hat towards her; then she laid her hand upon the girl's shoulder, and continued kindly: "She would like to say a few words to you."

Bertha started up as if she had received a deadly insult. She angrily shook off Sabina's hand, and darted a furious glance towards the spot where Elizabeth was standing,—a proof that she had known before that she was there. She threw her knife upon the table, and by a hasty gesture overset the basket at her feet, so that the carrots were scattered around upon the pavement. She ran into the house. They heard her through the open window shut the door of her own room and bolt it behind her.

Elizabeth was stupefied with surprise mingled with much pain. She would have so liked to console the wretched girl, but she now perceived that it was not to be thought of.

For a week past she had been daily to the castle. Fräulein von Walde had been steadily improving in health since the afternoon when, as the baroness tenderly expressed it, she had found a cure in the coffee which she herself had prepared, and in Herr von Hollfeld's arrival. She was diligently practising several duets, and at last confided to Elizabeth that she wished to celebrate her brother's birthday fête the last of August. It was to be a very splendid celebration, for she intended to make it also a welcome home to the long absent traveller. On that day he should first hear her play again after so many years, and she knew what a pleasant surprise it would be to him.

Elizabeth always looked forward with a mixture of pleasure and dread to these practisings. She did not know why herself; but the castle and park had suddenly become dear and attractive to her; she even had a kind of tender regard for the bank where she had sat with Herr von Walde, as if it were an old friend; she made a little circuit in order to pass by it. Herr von Hollfeld's behaviour inspired her, on the contrary, with very different feelings. After she had several times foiled his attempts to meet her by a hasty avoidance of him, he came to Fräulein von Walde's room, one day, and begged permission to remain there during the lesson. To Elizabeth's terror, Helene, with delight beaming in her eyes, assured him that he was doubly welcome as a convert who had hitherto had no taste whatever for music. He now made his appearance regularly, silently laying some fresh flowers upon the piano before Helene as he entered, in consequence of which she invariably struck several false chords. Then he retired to a deep window-seat whence he could look the players directly in the face. As long as the practising continued he covered his eyes with his hand, as if he wished to shut out the world that he might resign himself entirely to the charms of music. But, to Elizabeth's vexation, she soon observed that he only covered his face so as to conceal it from Helene; from behind his hand he stared the whole time fixedly at Elizabeth, following her every motion. She shuddered beneath those eyes which, usually so dull and expressionless, always burned with a peculiar fire when he looked at her. Under this hateful ordeal she often had to exercise great self-control in order to play correctly.

Helene apparently had no suspicion of the cunning which Hollfeld had employed to attain his end. She often stopped playing for awhile and conversed with him, that is, she talked herself, and, usually, very well. She listened to his monosyllabic replies,—which were empty and foolish enough,—as if they were the words of an oracle wherein more meaning than met the ear was to be found.

He always departed a few minutes before the end of the lesson. The first time that he did so, Elizabeth discovered him from one of the hall windows that commanded an extensive view of the park, standing waiting at the entrance of the forest-path, by which she must pass. She defeated his intention, not without secret self-gratulation, by paying a visit of an hour to Miss Mertens, who received her with open arms; and she grew so fond of the governess that she never passed the door of her room without entering for an hour's quiet talk.

Miss Mertens was almost always depressed and sad. She saw that her stay at Lindhof was becoming impossible. The baroness, suddenly deprived of her sovereign authority and its consequent manifold occupations, was often bored nearly to death. She was obliged to wear her mask of gentleness and content while she was with her relatives, which was hard enough, and therefore all her ill humour had to be pent up within the locked doors of her own apartment. But she never vented it upon Bella, for, looking upon her child more as a born baroness than as a daughter, she restrained herself; nor upon her old waiting-maid, for whom she had, no one knew why, what the old steward Lorenz called "an ungodly sort of respect." Nor could she scold the lower servants without offending the master of the house, and therefore all her malice was wreaked upon the unfortunate and defenceless governess.

In order to torment her victim most thoroughly, the lady ordered the lessons to be daily conducted beneath her own most illustrious eyes. In presence of the pupil, the methods of the teacher were perpetually analyzed and criticised. It was no wonder that Bella did not improve under such instructions, and her nerves, too, were sure to be ruined, for Miss Mertens had the most disagreeable voice in teaching in the world,—how, too, could the child be expected to be graceful while she had constantly before her eyes the angular, clumsy manner in which her governess held her book and turned over the leaves, etc.? In history, Miss Mertens' reflections were quite too sentimental, or too plebeian, and, besides, she was so outrageously impertinent "as to have opinions of her own." In some cases the lesson was deliberately interrupted; the baroness placed herself in the teacher's chair, and the governess was obliged to listen reverentially to a lecture full of supercilious scorn and aristocratic arrogance. If the lady needed support, the chaplain, Herr Möhring, was sent for. And then, the nettle-stings of her discourse vanished into insignificance by the side of the cruelty with which the unappreciated martyr invoked upon the head of the wretched governess all the gall of his suppressed sermons. The baroness must have known that the chaplain's French was execrable,—but she requested him to be present during the French hour that he might correct Miss Mertens' accent. Bella's improvement was forgotten in the overflow of her mother's petty malice.

Sometimes Miss Mertens would declare, with tears, that only love for her mother, who looked to her for support, induced her to submit to this martyrdom. The old lady was almost entirely dependent upon the exertions of her daughter, and therefore any change of situation was very undesirable in view of the pecuniary loss which must attend it But however depressed her spirits might be, her gentle face brightened whenever Elizabeth knocked at the door, and asked, in her sweet, fresh accents, if she might come in. At sight of the young girl all her care and anxiety took flight, and as they sat together on the little sofa by the window they had many a happy hour, and the poor governess seemed to live over again her own youthful days, and Elizabeth gained not a little from the fund of knowledge and riper experience of her more mature friend.

These brief afternoon visits had also a secret charm for Elizabeth, which she would not for the world have confessed, and which, nevertheless, caused her heart to throb quickly, and an undefined sensation of mingled joy and anxiety to possess her as she knocked at the door.

The windows of Miss Mertens' room looked out upon a large court-yard, which Elizabeth used to call the convent garden,—it lay so retired and quiet, encircled by its four high walls. Some spreading lindens cast their green shade upon the rich grassy soil, only intersected here and there by narrow paved paths. In the centre of the space was a fountain, which supplied the house with delicious water, and upon the edge of the large basin several marble figures were reposing their white limbs, bathed in the green light that broke through the overhanging trees. When the sun poured his fierce rays, like melted lead, upon the open parts of the park and garden, this spot was always refreshingly cool. A door upon the ground-floor, leading from the court-yard directly into Herr von Walde's library, almost always stood open. Now and then he himself would issue from it, and pace to and fro with folded arms. What thoughts lay hidden behind that fine white forehead, when, after walking thus for awhile, with his head sunk upon his breast, he suddenly raised it, as if roused from some delightful dream! Miss Mertens often remarked that he seemed to have returned from his travels much altered.

Before his departure, she said, Herr von Walde's face had seemed to her like that of a statue, so serious and immovable; and although she had always known him to be a man of genuine nobility of character, she had been oppressed when near him by the icy coldness of his manner. Now it seemed to her as if some revivifying hand had passed over his nature; even his step was lighter and more elastic, and she would maintain that, in his pacings to and fro in the court yard, a smile frequently broke over his face, as if he saw, in imagination, some vision that delighted him. While she talked thus, Miss Mertens would smile and declare mysteriously that he must certainly have brought home some very agreeable memories with him, and that she could not refrain from suspecting that matters at Lindhof would soon wear a different aspect. She never noticed the involuntary start of her young friend when she arrived at this conclusion, and Elizabeth was equally unaware of it, for the pang that she felt at such an idea, made her utterly incapable of controlling her external behaviour.

The quiet pacing to and fro beneath the lindens was, however, often interrupted, not only by Herr von Walde's workmen and men upon business, but by the needy and unfortunate, who would come timidly down the steps, ushered by a servant, and stand with bowed heads before the commanding figure that confronted them, until they were encouraged by the gentle tones of his voice to speak, as he kindly bent down to catch their whispered words. They always left him greatly cheered, for those who were not worthy of his assistance did not dare to present themselves before him.

One day Elizabeth set out for Castle Lindhof a half hour earlier than usual. The fact was that her father, in returning at noon from the Lodge, had met Miss Mertens in the forest. She had evidently been weeping, and was unable to speak at the moment; she had merely bowed and passed hurriedly on. This intelligence made Elizabeth very anxious. She would not for the world have postponed her visit to the governess until the end of her lesson,—the lonely woman was certainly in need of love and friendly sympathy.

Just across the large meadow which bordered upon the forest was a charming pavilion. A dark grove surrounded the graceful structure upon three sides, so that its white front stood out in shining contrast with the green shade. It had hitherto been kept closed, although the outside shutters to the windows were thrown back and Elizabeth had seen that the room within was furnished most luxuriously. But to-day, as she issued from the forest, she saw that the doors of the pavilion were wide open. A servant, with a waiter in his hand, stepped out and requested her to enter. As she approached she could see that Fräulein von Walde, the baroness, and Hollfeld were drinking coffee in the pretty room which constituted the whole interior of the building.

"You are a little too early to-day, my child," said Helene, as her young friend appeared upon the threshold. Elizabeth replied that she wished to pay a visit to Miss Mertens before the practising.

"Ah! pray let that go to-day," said Helene, quickly, but evidently confused, while the baroness looked up from her crotchet-work with a malicious smile. "Do you know that a large package of new music has just come from Leipzig?" continued Fräulein von Walde; "I have looked over it slightly, the pieces are beautiful. Perhaps we can find among them just the thing that we want for our concert. Sit down, we will go to the castle together."

She offered Elizabeth a basket of cake, and put a magnificent pear upon her plate.

At this moment, Herr von Walde's dog came bounding into the room; instantly both ladies were on the alert and expectant; Helene looked towards the door with a manifest effort to seem quiet and unconstrained, but the baroness threw her work into a basket, examined the coffee-pot to see whether the coffee was still hot, placed a cup near the sugar basin, and drew a chair up to the table. The malicious smile was replaced by an air of grave reserve, and she was apparently resolved to make as dignified and imposing an appearance as possible. At sight of the dog, Hollfeld hastened into the garden, and came back in a few moments with Herr von Walde, who had evidently just returned from a drive, for he wore a gray dust coat and a round felt hat.

"We were afraid, dear Rudolph," Helene cried out to him as soon as he appeared, while she half arose and held out her hand,—"that we should not see you at all to day."

"I found more business awaiting me at L—— than I had anticipated," he replied, seating himself, not upon the chair which had been placed for him, but upon the sofa by the side of his sister, so that when Elizabeth raised her eyes she looked him full in the face, for he sat directly opposite to her. "Besides," he continued, "I have been at home full half an hour, but Reinhard wished to speak with me upon private business which required immediate action, and so I nearly lost the pleasure of taking coffee with you, my dear Helene."