Front matter (continued 6)

A competent eye-witness was just passing beneath the windows. It was Reinhard, who was returning from the mountain. He smiled as his attendance upon Fräulein von Walde was immediately required; for, from the curious looks of the servant, he guessed that the story of the discovery at Gnadeck had reached the castle, and that information from him upon the subject was what the ladies desired.

At his entrance he was immediately assailed by Helene with questions. He answered them in his usual calm manner, and took a malicious pleasure in detecting the keenest curiosity and the greatest irritation behind the apparently careless and indifferent remarks and questions of the baroness.

"And will the Ferbers venture to lay claim to the old name on the strength of that scrap of parchment?" she asked; taking a large dahlia from the vase of flowers, and smelling it.

"I should like to know who could dispute their claim," replied Reinhard. "It only remains to be proved that they are the descendants of Jost von Gnadewitz, and that can be done at any moment."

The lady leaned back in her large arm-chair, and dropped her eyelids, as if she were weary or bored.

"Indeed! and those treasures of Golconda, are they really as priceless as Dame Rumour reports them to be?" The tone of voice was meant to be contemptuous, but Reinhard's practised ear detected with great satisfaction that it betrayed great eagerness, and something like secret anxiety.

He smiled.

"Priceless?" he repeated. "Well, in such cases so much depends upon the estimation in which such things are held by their possessors, that I can hardly judge."

He might, we know, have told their value, but he thought, rather ungallantly, that a little uncertainty would prove a healthy excitement for the lady.

The examination would probably not have concluded here, if Bella had not suddenly burst into the room with her usual violence.

"Mamma, the new governess has come," she cried, out of breath, shaking back, with a toss of her head, the sandy locks that had fallen over her forehead; "why, she is uglier than Miss Mertens!" she went on, without taking the least notice of Reinhard's presence. "She has a bright red ribbon on her bonnet, and her mantilla is even more old-fashioned than Frau von Lehr's. I won't go to walk with her, you need not tell me to, mamma!"

The baroness put both hands to her ears.

"My child, I pray you, for Heaven's sake, do not speak so loud," she gasped; "your voice goes through and through me; and what nonsense you talk! you will have to walk out with Mademoiselle Jamin whenever I bid you."

This reproof, uttered with considerable emphasis, causing Bella to pout angrily while she secretly tore a piece of the fringe from one of her mother's cushions, was the result of what might have been called the period of martyrdom that had followed Miss Mertens' departure. The baroness had been forced to take upon herself the care of Bella, and it was, as she declared, death to her nerves. To Fräulein von Walde she always maintained that all her trouble was in consequence of the defects of Miss Mertens' educational system; but in the depths of her soul she acknowledged, that her daughter strikingly resembled in disposition the deceased Lessen,—among whose characteristics an indomitable obstinacy and a determined proclivity to a perpetual dolce far niente, were the most prominent. She was, however, far from admitting that any injustice had been done to Miss Mertens; that person had been paid to educate her daughter, and consequently should have known, without ever acting in opposition to the mother's views, or reproving the child, how to correct all her faults. Therefore, the glimpse that she had just had perforce of Bella's character, was of no advantage for the new governess; the unfortunate French woman, with the gay ribbons on her bonnet, had no presentiment of the joyless days that awaited her. Just now, her arrival removed a weight from the mind of the baroness, to whom nothing could have been less desirable than a dispute at present between teacher and pupil, and hence her rebuke of Bella's impertinent remarks.

The baroness arose and went to her apartments, accompanied by her sullen daughter, to receive the stranger. At the same time, Reinhard departed.

"Do you wish me to go on reading, Helene?" asked Hollfeld, after the three had left the room. As he took up the newspaper his manner was almost caressing.

"By and by," she replied with hesitation, looking at him searchingly, with a kind of timid anxiety in her eyes. "I should like to ask you, now that we are once more alone together, to tell me what has changed you so during these last few days. You know, Emil, that it pains me deeply when you refuse to let me share in what delights or troubles you. You know that it is not idle curiosity which leads me to pry into your affairs, but a sincere and heartfelt interest in your weal or woe. You see how I suffer from your reserve. Tell me frankly if I have done anything to make you think me unworthy of your confidence."

She stretched out her hands towards him as if in entreaty. The gentle melancholy in the tones of her voice would have melted a stone.

Hollfeld crushed and twisted the rustling newspaper uneasily in his hands. He held down his head, and avoided meeting the pure, frank gaze of the poor girl. Any one with any knowledge of the world could not have failed to perceive in his attitude, and in the restless eyes that sought the ground, the crafty plotter endeavouring to hit upon some device by which to deceive. To Helene's innocent, loving eyes, the lofty figure, slightly leaning forward, the face beneath the thick, light curls, rather suggested a thoughtful Apollo.

"You will always have my confidence, Helene," he broke silence at last. "You are indeed the only being in the world in whom I can confide,"—Helene's eyes sparkled at these words, the poor child was so proud of the distinction,—"but there are obligations in life whose existence we can hardly acknowledge to ourselves, far less have the courage to confess to others."

Fräulein von Walde sat upright, in eager expectation.

"I am forced," Hollfeld continued, with a stammer, "to adopt a certain resolution, and it has been weighing heavily upon me for days."

He looked up to see what impression his words had made.

Helene seemed to have no suspicion of what he was about to say, for she never changed her attitude, and looked as if she would have read the words upon his lips. He was therefore compelled to proceed without any assistance from her.

"You know, Helene," he slowly continued, "that for the last year I have had constant trouble with my housekeepers. They are continually leaving me, often without warning even, and I have no way of ordering my domestic affairs. The day before yesterday, the last one, who only entered my house two weeks ago, declared she would not stay. I cannot tell what to do about it; my house is nothing but an annoyance to me under these circumstances—"

"Ah, you want to sell Odenberg?" Helene interrupted him eagerly.

"No, that would be folly, for it is one of the finest estates in Thuringia; but I am forced to find some other way out of my troubles, and nothing is left for me but—to marry."

If some unseen and mysterious agency had suddenly opened a yawning abyss at Helene's feet, her face certainly could not have expressed more horror and amazement than at this moment. She opened her white, quivering lips, but no sound issued from them, and, entirely incapable of concealing her pain, she covered her face with her hands, and sank back among the cushions with a low cry.

Hollfeld hastened to her side, and took both her hands in his.

"Helene," he whispered, in a low, tender tone,—his manner was perfect,—"will you let me speak and show you how sore my heart is? You know only too well that I love, and that this love will be my first and only one as long as I live."

His tongue did not stammer over this odious lie; on the contrary, it aided his plans with such insinuating tones that the poor girl's heart was torn by a wild conflict of emotions. If some good angel would only have whispered to her to lift her eyes for one moment, she could not but have been undeceived, for the look that accompanied his protestations was utterly contemptuous as it glanced at her crippled figure; and perhaps, in the first moments of her indignation, she might have found strength enough to have extricated herself from the snares of the wily egotist. But her eyes were closed as if she would shut out all the world, and revel only in the sound of the voice which for the first time spoke of love to her.

"Would to Heaven," he continued, "that I might follow the dictates of my heart, and live for this love only, for I desire nothing beyond the pleasure of constant intercourse with you, Helene. But you know I am the last of the Hollfelds and must marry. My sacrifice can be lessened only in one way,—I must choose a wife who knows you, and——"

"O tell me quickly!" cried Helene, giving way to her grief, while the tears burst from her eyes. "Your choice is already made! I know it,—it is Cornelie!"

"The Quittelsdorf?" he cried, with a laugh. "That will-o'-the-wisp? No, I would far rather leave the administration of my domestic affairs to the most repulsive of housekeepers! What should I do without an enormous income with such an extravagant, frivolous wife! Besides, let me tell you most emphatically, my sweet Helene, my choice is not yet made,—hear me, and do not weep so violently, you break my heart; I must have a wife who knows and loves you; a simple-hearted woman, of genuine understanding, to whom I can say: my heart belongs to another who never can be mine, be my friend and here."

"And do you imagine that any one could understand you?"

"Most certainly, if she loved me."

"No, I could not,—never, never!" She buried her face in the cushions, sobbing convulsively.

And now an ugly frown appeared on Hollfeld's smooth forehead. His lips were compressed, and for an instant the colour left his cheeks. He was evidently very angry. An expression of hatred lighted up the eyes that rested upon the young creature who was unexpectedly rendering his part so difficult to play. But he controlled himself, and lifted her face with a light, caressing touch. The poor thing trembled beneath his hypocritical contact, and let her delicate head rest passively upon his hand.

"And would you then forsake me, Helene," he asked sadly, "if I were compelled to fulfil so hard a duty? Would you turn away and leave me lonely, with a wife whom I did not love?"

She raised her swollen eyelids, and from beneath them broke a ray of inexpressible love. He had played his part admirably, and that glance told him that the game was in his own hands.

"You are now fighting the same battle," he continued, "which I have struggled through during the last few days, before I could arrive at any fixed determination. At first the thought that any third person may interfere with our relations to each other may well appall you, but I give you my word that shall not be. Think, Helene, how much more I can do for you; how much more truly I can live for you then than now. You can come to me at Odenberg. I will guard your every footstep, and cherish you as the apple of my eye."

Hollfeld possessed very little intellect, but he had a vast amount of cunning, which, as we see, served his turn better than intellect could have done. His poor victim flew into the net, her heart torn and bleeding, her force of will utterly annihilated.

"I will try to endure the thought," Helene at last whispered almost inaudibly. "But what a being that woman must be who could bear with me, and whom I might at last learn to love like a sister! Do you know any such lofty-minded, self-sacrificing creature?"

"I have an idea,—it occurred to me just now quite suddenly,—at present it is vague and unformed. After due consideration I shall certainly unfold it to you. But you must first be more composed, dear Helene. Think for a moment. I place the choice of my future wife solely and entirely in your hands. It depends upon you to approve or condemn what I propose."

"And are you strong enough to pass your life with a woman to whom you cannot give your love?"

He suppressed a contemptuous smile, for Helene's eyes were riveted upon his lips.

"I can do all that I resolve to do," he answered; "and to have you near me will give me strength.—But let me entreat one favour of you,—say nothing as yet to my mother of this important matter, as you know she wishes to control everything and everybody, and I could not now endure her interference. She will learn all soon enough when I present my future wife to her."

At any other time, this heartless, unfilial speech would have disgusted Helene; but, at this moment, she scarcely heard it, for every thought and feeling had been thrown into the wildest uproar by the words, "future wife," which suggested, in spite of the multitude of unhappy wives, the idea of supreme contentment and bliss.

"Oh, my God!" she cried, wringing in an agony of grief the little hands that lay in her lap. "I always hoped to die before this; I was not, indeed I was not so selfish as to think you could lead a lonely life for my sake; but I hoped that the necessarily short period of my life might induce you to let this cup pass from me,—to wait until my eyes should be closed upon my misery."

"But, Helene, what do you mean?" cried Hollfeld, still controlling his temper with difficulty. "At your age, who would think of dying? We will live—live, and in time be, as I confidently hope, happy indeed. Think of the matter, and you will see it all as I do."

He pressed her hand affectionately to his lips, imprinted a kiss upon her brow, for the first time,—took his hat, and left the room.

Outside, as the door closed upon the suffering girl, he gave full play to the expression of contempt that he had so long suppressed, and which gave place only to a look of self-satisfaction still more detestable. One hour before, his heart had been filled with rage. His passion for Elizabeth, fanned into a flame by her rejection of his advances, had been a consuming fire, and had robbed him of all his boasted self-control. But the idea of marriage with the daughter of the forester's clerk had never occurred to him,—such a thought would have seemed to him insane. He had exhausted his ingenuity in contriving plans to procure a return of affection from the object of his passion. The late occurrence at Gnadeck had given his thoughts another direction. Elizabeth was now a most desirable match, noble and wealthy. No wonder, then, that he exulted at the news, and immediately formed the magnanimous resolution of honouring the fair flower of Castle Gnadeck with an offer of marriage. There was, of course, no doubt that she would accept the offer, for although coquetry had led her to reject his advances hitherto, she could not possibly pursue such a line of conduct, in view of the brilliant prospect of becoming the envied wife of Herr von Hollfeld. He was so secure upon this point that not a cloud of distrust darkened the horizon of his future. It was not only his intense desire to possess Elizabeth that urged him on to act as quickly as possible,—the thought, that as soon as the discovery in the ruins became known, other suitors would present themselves for the hand of Gold Elsie, already so famous for her beauty,—this thought made his blood boil in his veins.

Only one obstacle stood between him and the fulfilment of his determination, and that was Helene. It was not that he hesitated, through sympathy, at the thought of how the fondly-loving girl would suffer,—he knew no pity with regard to her,—but he was in dread lest too hasty a marriage might cost him the inheritance which he looked for from her. It was a case for prudence and forethought. We have seen how, in cold blood, he made use of the unhappy girl's deep and blind affection, and, while pretending to submit to her decision the weightiest questions concerning his future life, riveted the chain that bound her to him.

As soon as he had left the room Helene tottered to the door, and bolted it after him. And then she resigned herself to utter despair.

They who have never known the hours of torture that ensue upon the sudden hearing of some unexpected misfortune,—hours when we would fain shriek out our misery into the ears of the universe, and when, needing the sympathy and support of others as never before, we are driven, as by some evil spirit, to darkness and loneliness, as though light and sound were deadly poison to our wound,—they, we say, who have never known the pangs that threaten to efface all the landmarks of a previously harmonious inner life, will scarcely be able to conceive that Helene sank down upon the floor, with her little hands plucking wildly at her fair curls, and her frail, diminutive form shivering as from a fever fit. She had lived and breathed only in her absorbing affection for this man. If a few gloomy looks, some slight neglect of his, had sufficed to plunge her into the deepest melancholy, and make her utterly careless of an event that would once have wrung her sisterly affection to the very soul, how much greater must her agony now be in the conviction that she was about to lose him forever!

In the wild chaos of thought filling her brain, she was entirely incapable of one clear, decided conclusion. The humiliating consciousness of her physical infirmities, which caused her to be thrust out of an earthly paradise; Hollfeld's confession of love to which she had just listened, and which brought such infinite joy and woe; a frantic jealousy of the woman, whoever she might be, who was to stand beside him as a wife,—all these emotions were seething in her mind, threatening to sever the frail thread that bound together soul and body.

It was late, and night had already fallen, when she admitted her anxious maid, and yielded to her entreaties to retire to rest. She emphatically refused to see the physician, sent word to the baroness, who asked to come in to say good-night, that she could not be disturbed, her need of rest was so great,—and then passed the most wretched night of her life.

She grew a little more quiet, that is, the fearful tension of her nerves relaxed somewhat, when the first beam of morning light pierced the curtains of her room. The thin golden ray seemed to glide into her darkened soul, and illumine thoughts which had hitherto been hidden in the wild tumult of her mind. She began to believe that Hollfeld's course was one of the purest self-sacrifice. She had never been able to disguise or thrust from her the haunting conviction that his marriage might one day become an imperative necessity, and she could not fail to be conscious that her idea of his waiting until she should be no more had never occurred to him. Was not his sacrifice great? Loving her, and her only, he must belong to another; ought she to make the performance of a sacred duty difficult for him by her grief? He had asked her to tread a thorny path with him. Should she draw back like a coward when he set her such an example of strength and endurance? And if another woman could be found content with friendship instead of love, should she allow herself to be outdone in self-renunciation?

In feverish haste she rang the bell by her bedside, and summoned her maid. Yes, she would be strong; but she was conscious that only entire certainty could give her courage and the power of endurance; she must know, as soon as possible, the name of the woman whom Hollfeld thought capable of undertaking so hard a part in life. She had passed before her, in review, every unmarried woman of her acquaintance, but had rejected on the instant each and all.

The hour had not yet arrived at which she was accustomed to take breakfast with the baroness and Hollfeld; her brother always avoided this early meeting of his household, but she could not remain in her lonely room, and, as she was greatly exhausted, was pushed in her wheeled chair into the dining-room. To her surprise, she heard from one of the servants that the baroness had gone to walk half an hour previously,—a very strange piece of news, but one that she was most glad to learn, for just as she was wheeled into a recess of one of the windows she discovered Hollfeld pacing to and fro upon the lawn without. He seemed to have no suspicion that he was observed. His fine, manly figure moved with elastic grace. Now and then he put a cigar to his lips with evident enjoyment, and the delicate aroma floating through the air reached Helene at her window. At first the little lady was painfully impressed by his unusually gay and cheerful expression; she could not but confess to herself that youthful exuberance of spirits, love of life, and an unwonted exhilaration of mind were manifest in his every look and motion, even in the half-unconscious smile that now and then parted his lips, discovering his wonderfully white teeth. There was no trace there of those struggles which she had passed through during the night; he certainly did not look much like the victim of an inexorable combination of circumstances. But was not his self-possession the result of great mental force and a strong manly will? He must have reached a height almost too lofty for human nature to attain.

The little lady's brow contracted in a frown.

"Emil!" she cried loudly, almost harshly.

Hollfeld was evidently startled, but in a second he stood beneath her window, and waved a "good-morning" to her.

"What!" he cried, "are you there already? May I come up?"

"Yes," she replied more gently.

And in a few moments he entered the room. Helene had reason to be better pleased with his present air and manner; there was an expression of great gravity upon his countenance as he threw his hat upon the table and pushed a chair close to her side. Taking both her hands tenderly within his own, he gazed into her face, and really seemed struck by her ashy cheeks and the lustreless eyes that met his.

"You look ill, Helene," he said pityingly.

"Do you wonder at it?" she asked, with a bitterness that she was unable to conceal. "Unfortunately I am denied the gift of such perfect self control as could enable me in a few hours after a crushing experience to look forward with content and gaiety to the future. I envy you."

"You are unjust, Helene," he replied quickly, "if you judge me from my exterior. Is it the part of a man to whine and cry when he submits to the inevitable?"

"You certainly do not seem inclined to any such course."

He was provoked beyond measure. The puny, little creature at his side, who, with her crippled figure, ought to be thankful to God if a man could so far control himself as not to treat her with absolute rudeness and aversion, and who had previously been so grateful for the smallest attention, had suddenly taken upon herself to reprove him! Although he had done all he could to inspire her with faith in his ardent love for her, in his soul he thought it showed a measureless vanity in the child to imagine herself capable of inspiring any man with such a passion, and with great irritation he acknowledged to himself that in her case he had to contend with most determined obstinacy and disgusting sentimentality. It cost him great pains to control himself, but he even accomplished a melancholy smile, which became him infinitely.

"When I tell you of the cause of my cheerful looks you will repent your reproaches," he said. "I was just picturing to myself the moment when I could go to your brother and say, 'Helene has decided to live in my family for the future,' and I cannot deny that the thought gave me satisfaction, for he has always regarded my love for you with an eye of disfavour."

They say Love is blind, but in most cases he closes his eyes voluntarily; knowing that perfect vision would kill him, he fights desperately against annihilation.

Helene did her best to reconcile what he said with his previous appearance, and succeeded excellently. With a deep sigh she held out her hand to him.

"I believe and have faith in you," she said fervently. "The loss of this faith would be my death-blow. Ah, Emil, you must never, never deceive me, not even although you think it would be for my good. I would rather learn the harshest truth than harbour the faintest suspicion that you were not perfectly true to me. I have had a terrible night, but now I am composed, and I beg you to tell me more of what you spoke of yesterday. I am but too sure that I shall not regain entire self-command until I know with certainty who it is that is to stand between us. At present she is a phantom, and in her unreality lies the cause of the tormenting anxiety that is consuming me. Tell me the name, Emil, I entreat you."

Hollfeld's eyes sought the ground. Affairs just then did not look very promising.

"Do you know, Helene," he began at last, "that I hesitate to discuss this subject with you to-day? You are greatly agitated. I am afraid that such a conversation will make you ill. And, as I must say that the project which I spoke of yesterday seems more and more feasible to me the more I ponder it, I fear much lest in your agitation you should overlook its great advantages."

"Indeed I will not!" cried Helene, as, sitting upright she riveted her unnaturally bright eyes full upon him. "I have overcome myself, and am ready to submit to the inevitable. I promise you I will be thoroughly impartial; as impartial as if I—did not love." She blushed as the confession escaped her for the first time.

"Well, then," said Hollfeld, with hesitation,—he could not quite master his emotion,—"what do you think of the young girl of Castle Gnadeck?"

"Elizabeth Ferber?" cried Helene, in the greatest astonishment.

"Elizabeth von Gnadewitz," he hastily corrected her. "The sudden change in her social position first suggested the girl to me. Hitherto I have scarcely noticed her, except that her modest demeanour and the repose of her countenance impressed me favourably."

"What! did you see nothing to admire in that lovely, wondrously-gifted creature, except repose and a modest demeanour?"

"Well, yes," he replied, with an air of indifference, "I remember that several times, when you were provoked at some mistake that you had made, she never altered a muscle, but patiently went over the passage with you again and again, until you were perfect in it. That pleased me. I believe her to possess great equanimity of mind, and that is the characteristic that my wife will need above all others. I know, too, that she fairly adores you, and that is the chief consideration. Besides, she has been educated in the strictest economy, her requirements will be few, and she will readily assume her right position with regard to you and me. I believe that she has a certain amount of tact, and she has been notably brought up,—a great advantage to——"

Helene had sunk back upon her pillows, and covered her eyes with her hand.

"No, no," she cried, sitting up once more, and interrupting his eager flow of panegyric,—"not that poor, darling child! Elizabeth deserves to be truly loved."

A loud and sudden howl here caused her to give a little cry of fright. Hollfeld had just stepped upon the paw of his pointer, Diana, who had accompanied him into the room, and was lying stretched out at her master's feet. The interruption was most welcome to him,—for Helene's last words sounded to him so comical, in connection with his own vehement desires, that he could hardly restrain his laughter. He opened the door and sent the limping brute from the room. When he returned to the young girl he was all grave composure again.

"Well, we will both love the girl, Helene," he said with apparent indifference, as he resumed his seat. Helene was in a state of too great excitement to notice the flippancy of his tone and manner. "Let her only leave you the first place in my affections. She must do that. She certainly has enough coolness and presence of mind; she testified those qualities abundantly the day she saved Rudolph's life."

"Oh, how?" cried Helene, opening wide her eyes in amazement.

The servant, who had on the previous day involuntarily let slip some mention of the occurrence in the forest, had, in terror at his oversight, instantly refrained from all further particulars relating to it, simply asserting that the bullet intended for Herr von Walde had fortunately fallen wide of its mark. Hollfeld had heard the exact account of the murderous attempt only an hour before from the gardener. Elizabeth's fearless conduct naturally lent her a new charm in his eyes, and goaded afresh his desire to win her as soon as possible. He related the story, which he had just heard, to Helene, concluding his account by saying: "You now have one more reason to love the girl, and her conduct strengthens my conviction that she is the only one whom I should select."

This was his last round of ammunition. He stroked back the hair from his brow with his delicate white hand, and from beneath it narrowly and eagerly watched the little lady, whose head was so sunk amid the pillows that only her profile was visible. The tears were gushing from her closed eyelids; she said not a word; perhaps she was struggling with herself for the last time.

But why did it never occur to her that Elizabeth might fail to accede to Hollfeld's wishes? Any loving woman can answer this question for herself, if she will only reflect that the loving heart believes the object of its passion irresistible, and learns with difficulty that all the world does not share its conviction.

The silence, which began to be painful, was interrupted by the return of the baroness from her walk. Helene started, and quickly dried her tears. With evident impatience she submitted to the caresses with which the lady overwhelmed her, replying in monosyllables to the tender inquiries with regard to her health.

"Ah!" cried the baroness, as she shook the scarf from her shoulders and left it in her son's hands, while she sank clumsily into an arm-chair. "How very warm I am! That path up the mountain is terrible! No power upon earth shall take me over it again!"

"Did you go up the mountain, mother?" asked Hollfeld incredulously.

"Why, yes; you know the physician prescribed an early morning walk for me."

"Oh yes; but that was so many years ago, and I thought you always maintained that the trouble with your heart made any such exercise impossible."

"Still, everything ought to have a fair trial," replied his mother, a little embarrassed, "and as I could not sleep last night, I determined to try once more; but it will do no good,—I have just had fresh cause for vexation. Only think, Helene, just outside in the gravel walk I met Bella with her new governess,—would you believe it, the woman had the impertinence to let the child walk by her left side! And she looks, too, like a perfect simpleton. I was really angry, and defined her position to her as clearly as I could. But tell me yourself, is it not hard that I cannot even attempt to refresh myself with a walk without encountering what makes me miserable and ill?"

Just as she leaned her forehead in a melancholy manner upon her hand, she discovered that the false curls upon her temples had been pushed considerably awry by her bonnet. She arose hastily, and begged for a little time before breakfast that she might arrange her dress.

"By the way," she said carelessly, turning round to her son and cousin as she reached the door, while she set her bonnet firmly upon the rebellious front, "that fellow, Reinhard, imposed upon us finely yesterday. I accidentally encountered the forester's clerk, Ferber, up there near the ruins,—I congratulated him——"

"Ah! now I understand the ascent of the mountain!" Hollfeld interrupted his mother ironically. "And you actually spoke to the man, mother?"

"Oh! now there is no reason why I should not. The jewels principally interested me."

"Did you wish to buy them?" asked her son contemptuously, remembering the constant ebb in her finances.

"Hardly," she replied with an angry glance; "but I have always had a perfect passion for precious stones; and if your father had not died so suddenly, I should now have had a charming set of diamonds, which he had promised me, and you would have been six thousand thalers the poorer. But to return to the discovered jewels. Ferber told me just what they were, and, when I asked him, frankly replied that they would bring about eight thousand thalers,—that is what that fellow, Reinhard, calls inestimable wealth. Once more adieu for a few minutes."

The contemptuous smile disappeared from Hollfeld's face, as he listened to his mother's words, and gave place to a decided expression of disappointment; he had suddenly experienced a sensation like the shock of a shower-bath.

Scarcely was the door closed behind the baroness, when Helene aroused herself from her apparent apathy, and stretched out both hands to Hollfeld.

"Emil," she said quickly, in a low voice, with trembling lips, "if you succeed in gaining Elizabeth's love, and I cannot doubt that you will, I agree to your plan, but I must always live with you at Odenberg."

"Of course," he replied, although with some hesitation; his voice had lost its former decision of tone, "but let me warn you that you will have to resign many luxuries. My income is not large, and as you have just heard, Elizabeth has nothing."

"She shall not come to you poor, Emil,—rely upon that," the little lady rejoined in a tender voice, and with eyes unnaturally bright. "From the moment she promises to be yours I regard her in the light of a sister; I will share faithfully with her, and will instantly make over to her the rents of my estate of Neuborn, in Saxony; I will talk to Rudolph about it as soon as he returns, and when death closes my eyes, all that I possess will be hers and yours. Are you content with me?"

"You are an angel, Helene," he cried; "you shall never repent your magnanimity,—your generous devotion."

And this time there was no dissimulation in his delight, for the rents of Neuborn made Elizabeth a very wealthy bride.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Two days had passed since the morning upon which Helene had, as she thought, won such a victory over herself, and had been convinced that the conflict within her would be quieted by absolute certainty. But she had been far from fathoming the depths of her sentiments; she had snatched at a straw in the whirling flood, and it had afforded her not one instant's support. Only two days!—but they outweighed in suffering her whole previous life. She constantly repeated to herself that the long desired repose that she had dreamed of was close at hand, and yet she shuddered at the thought of the time that must intervene before death should bring her release, with the same horror with which the sceptic looks forward to the moment of dissolution. She became distinctly aware that her promise to pass her days at Odenberg converted her remaining years into a period of superhuman self-sacrifice, and yet, for worlds, she would not have retracted one iota of all that she had vowed to Hollfeld. She would be worthy of his love. No sacrifice was too great that was rewarded by his esteem. Poor dupe!

Her nerves suffered intensely during this protracted mental conflict. She had constant fever, and could scarcely sleep at all. The subject that occupied her whole mind was constantly hovering upon her lips, but she refrained from all mention of it in accordance with Hollfeld's request. He had also entreated her to forego Elizabeth's society for a few days; he feared that, in her agitation, she might stand in the way of his wishes. He himself had already taken the first steps towards a continuation of his pursuit of Elizabeth. He had twice presented himself at Gnadeck at the gate in the wall, to make inquiries after the health of the "von Gnadewitzes," but although he had nearly pulled off the bell-handle the door had not been opened. The first time no one had been in the house, and upon the last occasion Elizabeth had observed him coming. Her parents had gone with little Ernst to the Lodge, and Miss Mertens had agreed to Elizabeth's idea of not admitting the unwelcome visitor. They sat together in the dwelling-room, laughing, while the little bell rang till it was quite hoarse. Of the conspiracy against his admission the visitor of course had no suspicion.

It was seven o'clock in the morning; Helene was already lying dressed upon her lounge, she had passed a restless, sleepless night. The baroness was still in bed, and Hollfeld had not yet made his appearance; but the little lady could not be alone, and therefore her maid was sitting sewing in the room. Her replies to Helena's remarks were unheard by the poor sufferer, but there was something soothing in the mere sound of a human voice after her wretched, lonely night.

The noise of an approaching carriage was heard. Helene opened the window and leaned out. Her brother's travelling carriage was just driving up the sweep, its wheels sinking deep in the smooth gravel; but it was empty.

"Where is your master?" Helene cried out to the coachman, as the vehicle passed beneath her window.

"My master got out at the entrance of the park road," the old man replied, taking off his hat, "and is coming home on foot over the mountain, past Castle Gnadeck."

The little lady shut the window, and shivered as though she were cold; the single word "Gnadeck" had acted upon her nerves like an electric shock. Every word that brought Elizabeth to her mind produced the same effect upon her that one's imagination would experience from some sudden apparition.

She arose, and leaning upon the arm of her maid, went down to her brother's apartments. She ordered breakfast to be served in the room opening with glass doors upon the grand staircase, and seated herself in an armchair to await the traveller's return. She took up one of the gorgeously bound books that were lying about, and mechanically turned over the leaves; but, although her eyes rested upon the engravings that filled its pages, she could not have told whether it were portrait or landscape that lay open before her.

After she had waited half an hour, her brother's tall form appeared behind the glass door. The book slipped from her lap as she held out her hands to welcome him. He seemed surprised at this reception; but he was evidently much pleased at finding his sister alone and glad to see him. He hurried towards her, but started in alarm at a nearer view of her face.

"Do you feel worse, Helene?" he asked with anxious tenderness, as he seated himself beside her. He put his arm around her and raised her head a little, that he might see her face more closely. There was so much kindness and caressing sympathy in his accent and manner that suddenly it was as if the warm air of spring breathed over her heart, that had been as it were congealed with pain. Two large tears rolled down her cheeks as she leaned her head upon her brother's shoulder.

"Has not Fels been to see you while I have been away?" he asked anxiously. The little lady's aspect evidently caused him great alarm.

"No. I gave express orders that he should not be sent for. I am taking the drops that he prescribed for my nervous attacks, and he can do nothing more for me. Don't be concerned, Rudolph, I shall be better soon. You have had a sad time at Thalleben?"

"Yes," he answered, but his eyes still rested anxiously upon his sister's altered features. "Poor Hartwig died before I arrived; he suffered fearfully. He was buried yesterday afternoon. You would scarcely know his unfortunate wife, Helene; this blow has added twenty years to her life!"

He imparted to her some further particulars concerning the sad event, and then passed his hand across his eyes, as though desirous of banishing from his mind all the trouble and sorrow that he had witnessed during the last few days.

"Well, and is all going on here as usual?" he asked after a short pause.

"Not quite," Helene replied with some hesitation. "Möhring left us yesterday."

"Ah, Heaven speed him! I am glad that I escaped a final interview with him. Well, I have one more enemy in the world, but I cannot help it; he belongs to a class of men whom I despise."

"And at Gnadeck a piece of good fortune has befallen the Ferbers," Helene continued in an unnaturally quiet voice, averting her face.

The arm-chair in which she was sitting was suddenly pushed aside by the arm upon which her brother had been leaning. She did not look up, and therefore could not see the livid pallor that overspread his face for a moment, while his quivering lips essayed twice to frame the simple monosyllable "Well?"

Helene related the story of the ruins, to which her brother listened breathlessly. Every word that she spoke seemed to lift a weight from his heart, but he never dreamed how it cut into the very soul of the narrator like a two-edged sword, and that all this was only the prelude to her announcement of the terrible sacrifice that she was about to make.

"This is, indeed, a most wonderful solution of an old riddle," he said, when Helene had finished. "But I question whether the family will think it great good fortune to belong to the von Gnadewitz race."

"Ah! you think so," Helene interrupted him quickly, "because Elizabeth has always spoken so slightingly of the name. I cannot help, however, in such cases, thinking of the fable of the fox and the grapes." She spoke these last words with cutting severity. Her passionate excitement and agitation had brought her to the point of denying her nobler nature and of attributing mean motives to one who had never injured her, and whom, in cooler moments, she knew to be all purity and honour.

An expression of intense amazement appeared upon Herr von Walde's countenance. He stooped and looked keenly into his sister's averted face, as if to convince himself that her lips had actually spoken such harsh words.

Just at this moment Hollfeld's large hound rushed up the staircase and into the room, where he made two or three playful bounds, and then vanished again at the sound of a shrill whistle from the lawn without. His master was passing by, who apparently did not know of Herr von Walde's return, or he would certainly have appeared to welcome him. He walked on quickly, and turned into the path that led up the mountain to Gnadeck. Helene's gaze followed the retreating form until it was lost to sight, and then, clasping her hands convulsively, she sank back in her chair. It seemed as if for a moment all strength failed her.

Herr von Waldo poured a little wine into a glass, and held it to her lips. She looked up gratefully, and tried to smile.

"I am not yet at the end of all I have to tell," she began again, rising from her half-reclining position. "I am like all novelists,—I reserve my most interesting facts until the last." She could not hide her struggle for firmness and composure beneath the mask of playfulness which she attempted to assume in these words. Her gaze was riveted upon the trees outside the window, as she said: "A happy event is about to take place among us,—Emil's betrothal."

She had certainly expected some instant expression of astonishment from her auditor, for, after a moment's silence, she turned around to him in surprise. His brow and eyes were covered by his hand, and the uncovered portion of his face was deadly pale. At Helene's touch he dropped his hand, arose hastily, and went to the open window, as if for a breath of fresh air.

"Are you ill, Rudolph?" she cried, with anxiety.

"A passing faintness, nothing more," he replied, again approaching her. His face looked strangely altered as he walked several times up and down the room, and then resumed his seat.

"I told you of Emil's approaching betrothal, Rudolph," Helene began again, emphasizing each word.

"I heard you," he replied mechanically.

"Do you approve this step on his part?"

"It is no affair of mine. Hollfeld is his own master, and can do as he pleases."

"I believe his choice is made. If I dared, I would tell you the young girl's name."

"There is no need to do so. It will be time enough to hear it when the banns are published in church."

His expression was icy; the tone of his voice sounded rough and harsh; the blood seemed to have forsaken his cheeks.

"Rudolph, I implore you not to be so rough," Helene begged, in a tone of entreaty; "I know that you are no friend to much speaking, and I am accustomed to your laconic replies; but now you are too cold and silent, just, too, when I have a request to make of you."

"Tell me what it is; am I to have the honour of playing the part of groomsman to Herr von Hollfeld?"

Helene recoiled at the bitter contempt expressed in these words.

"You do not like poor Emil, it is more evident to-day than ever before," she said reproachfully, after a little pause, during which Herr von Walde had arisen and traversed the room with hasty steps; "I entreat you earnestly, dear Rudolph, listen to me patiently; I must talk over this matter with you to-day."

He folded his arms and stood still, leaning against a window-frame, whilst he said briefly: "You see I am ready to listen."

"The young girl," she began, with a hesitation which was the result less of her own internal agitation than of her brother's icy demeanour, "the young girl whom Emil has selected is poor."

"Very disinterested on his part; proceed."

"Emil's income is not large."

"The poor man has only ten thousand a year; starvation in his case seems unavoidable."

She paused, evidently surprised. Her brother never exaggerated; the sum, then, which he had mentioned, must be correct to a farthing.

"Well, he may be wealthier than I thought," she went on after a short pause; "that is not the question at present; his choice is a girl who is very dear to me, very dear." What effort this cost her! "She has done what must forever fill my sisterly heart with gratitude." Herr von Walde unfolded his arms, and drummed with such force upon the window-pane with the fingers of his left hand, that Helene thought the glass would be broken.

"She will be as a sister to me," she continued, "and I do not wish that she should come into Hollfeld's house without a dowry. I desire to make over to her the rents of Neuborn. May I?"

"The estate belongs to you,—you are of age. I have no right either to consent or refuse."

"Oh yes, Rudolph, you are my next of kin, and should inherit all that I have. Then I may be sure of your consent?"

"Perfectly so, if you really think it necessary——"

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" she interrupted him, extending to him her hand. But he did not seem to notice it, although he was looking fixedly at her. "You are not angry with me for this?" she asked, anxiously, after a few moments.

"I am never angry when you are striving to make others happy. You must remember how I have always encouraged and assisted you in such efforts. But here I do think you are in too great haste. You seem to me very ready to plunge that young creature into misery."

She started up as though a viper had stung her. "That is a cruel accusation!" she cried. "Your prejudice against poor Emil, which is founded, Heaven only knows upon what, leads you beyond all bounds. You know the man far too slightly."

"I know him far too well to wish to know him any better. He is a dishonourable villain, a miserable fellow of no character, by whose side a woman, let her claims for honour and uprightness in a man be ever so small, must be wretched. Woe to the poor creature when she finds him out!" His voice trembled with suppressed pain; but Helene heard in it only anger and violence.

"Oh Heavens! how unjust!" she cried, raising her tearful eyes to the ceiling. "Rudolph, you are committing a great sin. What has poor Emil done to you, that you should persecute him so unrelentingly?"

"Must a man be personally aggrieved in order to estimate correctly another's character?" he asked, angrily. "My child, you have been grossly deceived; but your eyes are blinded. The time will come when you will acknowledge it with shame. If I should try to remove this cup of suffering from your lips, it would avail nothing; you would repulse me, seeing in me only a barbarian treading under foot all your holiest affections. You force me to leave you to pursue your path alone, until the moment when you will fly to me for consolation and succour. My heart will always be open to you; but what will become of that other, bound irrevocably to her dreadful fate?"

He went into the next room, and locked the door after him. For awhile Helene sat as if paralyzed,—then she arose with difficulty, and supporting herself by the walls and the furniture, left the apartment.

Her soul was filled with bitterness, almost with hatred, towards her brother, who had to-day roughly and ruthlessly handled all that she had tenderly encircled with the most delicate fibres of her heart. That heart was well nigh broken as she called vividly to mind the self-sacrifice which her lover proposed. She seemed to herself to have already wronged him deeply in allowing such terrible abuse of him to fall upon her ears. He should never, never learn how her brother's prejudices had carried him away. No sacrifice, not the greatest, would now be sufficient to atone for the injustice which he was forced unconsciously to endure. And since her brother had so openly declared his opinion of Hollfeld, she would not allow that he should longer share the hospitality of Lindhof. She would herself request him to return to Odenberg, of course suppressing her reason for such a request. But first his engagement to Elizabeth should be concluded.

Occupied with these thoughts, she entered the dining-room, and when Hollfeld appeared shortly afterward, she received him with a quiet smile, and announced to him that her brother, without even hearing the name of the future bride, had approved of her resolution with regard to her dowry. She desired to see Elizabeth now as soon as possible, and Hollfeld, greatly rejoiced to observe her repose of manner, assented. It was agreed that the interview should take place at four o'clock that afternoon, in the pavilion. Hollfeld left the room to despatch a servant to Gnadeck with a request, in Helene's name, to that effect. How surprised the little lady would have been, could she have heard it expressly enjoined upon the servant to name three, as the appointed hour, while the butler was ordered to have everything arranged in the pavilion at that time!

CHAPTER XIX.

When the servant from Lindhof rang the bell at the gate in the wall, Elizabeth was sitting in the hall. She was weaving a long garland of evergreens and ivy, and Miss Mertens, sitting beside her, had in her hand a half-finished wreath of asters. The grave had been made ready in the Lindhof church-yard, and in the afternoon, between five and six o'clock, the leaden coffin containing the mortal remains of the beautiful Lila was to be consigned to the earth. If Jost's dreaded eyes could have gazed upon his lovely descendant, they would certainly have beamed with a mild and tender light to see her engaged in preparing an offering of fresh flowers and green vines with which to adorn the bier of his idolized love.

After consulting her mother, Elizabeth accepted the invitation, all the more willingly as it referred only to "an hour's talk." Soon after the servant's departure, Reinhard appeared. He looked very grave, and told Miss Mertens that his master had returned from Thalleben in the strangest state of mind.

"He must have been greatly shocked by the misery that he witnessed in the desolate home," he remarked, "for I really do not recognize my kind master. I had several unavoidable communications to make to him, but I saw that I spoke in vain; he did not listen, but sat opposite me, looking utterly crushed, evidently lost in the most painful reflections. He started up hastily when I began at last to tell him of our discovery up here in the ruins, and interrupted me angrily with 'I have heard all about that matter already; I pray you leave me alone.'"

Miss Mertens plainly perceived that Reinhard was really wounded by Herr von Walde's manner towards him.

"Dear friend," she said soothingly, "in moments of great mental suffering we either are not aware of the external world, or the consciousness of it increases our pain; we cannot endure that all around us should pursue its customary course while all within has received such a shock, a shock that we cannot recover from. Herr von Walde was doubtless warmly attached to his unfortunate friend, and—but, good Heavens! Elizabeth, what are you doing?" she interrupted herself, "do you really think that looks well?"

She pointed to the garland. In fact, whilst Reinhard had been speaking Elizabeth had, with trembling hands, picked up two or three large dahlias and woven them into her graceful green wreath. She now looked down, and was aware for the first time of what she had been doing. The poor flowers were instantly torn from the soft green pillow where they had laid their heavy heads so comfortably, and treated with as much severity as if they had insisted on going where they were not wanted.

Three o'clock had long since struck in the Lindhof church-tower when Elizabeth hurried down the mountain. Her uncle had detained her in conversation; he was provoked that she had accepted the invitation. "For," he said, and with some justice, "surely the poor creature whom we consign to her resting-place to-day deserves that we should consecrate at least one day to her memory." He had no idea of what was passing in the heart of his niece. He did not dream that for the last few days his darling had counted the hours which must pass before she could think, "He is at home again;" and, to his vexation, his usually obedient child slipped from him and vanished through the garden gate.

Her feet scarcely touched the ground. She hoped by walking quickly to overtake the time which she had lost, and could have cried, when her thin dress caught upon a bramble, and could only be extricated by patience and skill. At last, almost out of breath, she reached the pavilion. Both of the folding-doors were open; the room was still empty. Upon the table stood a salver of refreshments, and Helene's corner of the sofa was arranged for her.

Much relieved, Elizabeth entered, and was leaning against one of the opposite windows which looked out upon some tall shrubbery, when she heard, a slight noise behind her. Hollfeld had hitherto been concealed by one of the open folding-doors, and he now approached her. She turned to leave the apartment without even honouring the object of her aversion by a look; but he placed himself in her path, although his manner was no longer insolent,—on the contrary, it was respectful and even submissive, as he assured her that the ladies would appear directly. Elizabeth looked up surprised; there was not in his voice the faintest trace of that impertinent tone that had so irritated and outraged her.

"I give you my word that Fräulein von Walde will be here in one moment!" he repeated, as she again attempted to reach the door. "Is my presence, then, so disagreeable to you?" he added more gently, with a tinge of sadness.

"Most assuredly it is," Elizabeth replied coldly and decidedly; "if you will remember your late conduct towards me, you will know that to be left one moment alone with you must be odious to me."

"How stern and implacable that sounds! Must, then, my punishment for my thoughtless jest be so severe?"

"I advise you, in future, to be more prudent in your choice of those with whom you wish to jest."

"Good Heavens! I see now that it was a mistake; I regret my impetuosity, but how could I dream——"

"That any respect was due to me?" Elizabeth interrupted him, with flashing eyes.

"No, no!——, I never doubted that!—Heavens! how angry you can be! But I could not possibly know that you possessed the right to claim more, far more, than mere respect."

Elizabeth looked at him inquiringly; she evidently did not understand him.

"Can I do more than sue on my knees for pardon?" he continued.

"It shall be granted upon condition that you leave me instantly."

"What cruel obstinacy! I should be a fool indeed to lose this precious moment. Elizabeth, I have told you already that I love you ardently,—that I am dying of love for you!"

"And I am quite aware of having distinctly told you that it is a matter of utter indifference to me." She began to tremble, but her glance was, nevertheless, firm and composed.

"Elizabeth, do not drive me to extremities!" he cried in great agitation.

"I would especially request you to remember the common rules of politeness, which require us not to address strangers by their Christian names."

"You are a very imp of coldness and malice!" he cried, now trembling with rage. "Well, I grant that there is some show of reason for your irritation with me," he added, controlling himself by an effort; "my conduct towards you has not been what it should be, but I will atone for it abundantly. Listen to me quietly for one moment, and you will relax your severity. I offer you my hand. You must know that I can give a brilliant position, as far as rank and wealth are concerned, to my future wife."

He looked down at her with a smile of triumph. It was so natural that his lovely opponent should be paralyzed with joyful surprise at this unexpected disclosure of his intentions; yet, strange to say, the result that he anticipated did not ensue. Elizabeth stood proudly erect, and retreated a pace or two.

"I regret this, Herr von Hollfeld," she said with quiet dignity. "You might have spared yourself this humiliating moment. After all that I have hitherto said to you, I scarcely comprehend what you have just declared. Since you force me to it, I must tell you most emphatically that our paths in life lie in opposite directions; and——"

"What!"

"And that nothing could induce me to connect my lot with yours."

He stared at her for a moment vaguely, as though perfectly incapable of understanding her words. His face grew livid, and his white teeth were buried in his underlip.

"And would you really carry the farce so far as to give me such an answer?" he asked at last in a hoarse voice.

Elizabeth smiled contemptuously, and turned away. Her behaviour transported him with rage.

"Your reasons? I will know your reasons!" he ejaculated, stepping between Elizabeth and the door which she was trying to reach. He caught at her dress to detain her. She shrunk from him, and retired a few steps farther into the room.

"Leave me!" she cried, gasping for breath. Terror almost choked her utterance; hut, nevertheless, she once more took courage, and raised her head proudly, with an air of command. "If there is no spark of honour in you to which I can appeal, you force me to use the only weapons at my command, by declaring to you that I thoroughly despise you; I detest the sight of you; the hiss of a poisonous viper could not inspire me with the aversion and disgust with which I listen to the words by which you would awaken my affection. I have never harboured one sentiment of regard for you; but, if I had, it must have been instantly annihilated by your despicable conduct towards me. Let me go now in peace, and——"

He did not allow her to finish her sentence. "That I shall certainly not do," he hissed between his teeth; his face that had hitherto been so pale, flushed crimson, and his eyes flashed as he darted towards her, like some raging wild beast. She fled to the window, as she saw it was impossible to reach the door, and tried to lift the sash, hoping to be able to leap from the low sill to the ground without. But she stood still, transfixed with horror. A terrible face was looking into the room from the shrubbery outside. The features were deadly pale, and distorted by a fiendish grin, while the fire of madness gleamed in the eyes that were riveted upon Elizabeth's face. She hardly recognized in the dreadful apparition dumb Bertha; shivering with terror, she recoiled; Hollfeld's extended arms encircled her form,—blinded by passion, he did not perceive the ghastly face at the window. Elizabeth pressed her ice-cold fingers upon her closed eyes to shut out the horrible sight; she felt her persecutor's hot breath upon her hands; his hair brushed her cheek; she shuddered, but her physical force failed her; she succumbed beneath the twofold horror,—no sound escaped her lips. At sight of Hollfeld, Bertha raised her clenched fists as though to dash them through the window panes,—then, suddenly she paused as if listening to some noise near, dropped her hands, and with a shrill laugh, vanished among the shrubbery.

All this was the work of a few seconds. The sound of the shrill laughter startled Hollfeld, and he looked up. For one moment, his gaze sought to penetrate the bushes, behind which Bertha had disappeared, and then it returned to the form which lay in his arms, and which he clasped to his heart. His cunning foresight, his prudent hypocrisy, that had always enabled him to conceal his baseness from the eyes of the world, were all forgotten. He did not remember that the time that Helene had appointed had arrived,—that through the wide open door the gardener, or any of the servants, might enter the room; his passion had mastered him, and he never observed that, in fact, Fräulein von Walde was standing upon the threshold of the door, leaning on her brother's arm, while, behind them, the baroness was stretching out her long neck, with an unmistakable air of great displeasure.

"Emil!" she cried, her voice vibrating with anger. He started, and looked wildly around; involuntarily he opened his arms; Elizabeth's hands dropped from her eyes, and she staggered towards the nearest couch. The harsh, rude voice of the baroness sounded like sweet music in her ears, for it brought her succour. There too stood the tall, manly form, at sight of which her failing pulses throbbed wildly again. She could have thrown herself at his feet, and prayed him,—"Save me from that man, whom I detest and flee from, as I would from sin itself." But what a look met hers! Did that annihilating glance really come from the same eyes that a few days previously had so tenderly sought her own? Was this man, with the stern, erect head, and the pale, cold brow, the same who had bent over her, saying with such unutterable gentleness,—"may my good angel whisper in your ear the word that will unlock that fairy realm for me?" He stood there now like an evil angel, whose mission is to avenge and to crush to the dust some poor, quivering, human heart.

Helene, who had stood as though lifeless or rooted to the ground during the scene in the interior of the apartment, now withdrew her arm from her brother's and approached Elizabeth; she did not for one instant doubt that Hollfeld had prospered in his wooing, and that the matter had been happily concluded.

"A thousand welcomes to you, dearest Elizabeth!" she cried in great agitation, and, while tears broke from her eyes, she took the young girl's trembling hands between her own. "Emil brings me a dear sister,—love me as a sister, and I shall be grateful to you as long as I live. Do not look so stern, Amalie," she turned beseechingly to the baroness, who was standing like a pillar of stone just outside the pavilion; "Emil's future happiness is at stake. Look at Elizabeth! Does she not satisfy every desire that you can have with regard to the one who will occupy such a close relation to you? Young, richly endowed by nature, of an ancient family and distinguished name."

She stopped, startled. At last the life seemed to return to Elizabeth's stiffened limbs, and she was capable of understanding what was said. By a hasty movement she released her hands from Helene's, and stood erect before her.

"You are mistaken, gracious lady," she said in a clear ringing voice; "I have no claim to such distinction."

"What! have you not an undeniable claim to the name of von Gnadewitz?"

"Doubtless; but that claim will never be asserted."

"Would you really reject such happiness?"

"I cannot see that true happiness has anything to do with an empty sound." Her endeavour to lend firmness to her faithless voice was distinctly perceptible.

Meanwhile the baroness had drawn near. She was inwardly furious that her son had made his choice without in the faintest degree consulting her, or asking her maternal consent; besides, the object of his choice was detestable to her. But she knew well that her interference would accomplish nothing,—her son would shrug his shoulders, perhaps smile contemptuously, and be confirmed in his resolve. It was most fortunate, too, for her and her interests, that Helene had taken up the matter as she had, determined, as it seemed, to carry it through with an enthusiastic degree of self-sacrifice. Although she was thoroughly in the dark as to the little lady's motives for such a line of conduct, she could not fail to perceive that she was in earnest, and therefore, however discontented at heart, she resolved to put a good face upon the matter, and to play the part of a forgiving and blessing parent. Elizabeth's replies suddenly closed her lips. She conceived a hope that Elizabeth might put a stop to the matter by her own obstinacy; if so, she would pour oil on the flames.

"We have to contend here with a plebeian prejudice, my love," she said to Helene, who had listened in amazement to Elizabeth's answers. "You may, however, have most excellent reasons for shunning the light of loftier realms," the lady continued, in a cutting tone, turning to Elizabeth.

"I have no reason to shun that light," the young girl replied, "even should it suddenly reveal faults hitherto unsuspected, as it sheds a brilliant glare on the stains upon the crest of the Gnadewitzes. But we love our name because it is true and honest, and we would not exchange this stainless inheritance for a title made famous by the tears and toil of others!"

"Heavens, what exalted sentiments!" cried the baroness with a sneer.

"You cannot be serious, Elizabeth," said Helene. "Do not forget that the earthly happiness of two human beings hangs upon your decision." She cast a meaning glance at Elizabeth, which of course was utterly incomprehensible to her. "You must bring a noble name with you into the sphere to which you will now belong, and you certainly would not destroy your own hopes and those of others?"

"I am utterly at a loss to understand you,"' said Elizabeth with some irritation. "It never occurred to me to connect the name of von Gnadewitz with any hopes whatever; least of all can I conceive how the wishes or happiness of others can depend upon the resolution of such a poor, insignificant girl as I."

"You are not poor, dear child," rejoined Helene. "Come," she continued, with emotion, "let us from to-day be sisters indeed! You too, dear Rudolph," and she turned with some embarrassment to her brother; "you will welcome Emil's bride into our family, and permit me to share everything with her like a sister?"

"Yes," was the reply, spoken sternly, but firmly.

Elizabeth put her hand to her forehead; what she had heard sounded so incredible. "Emil's bride" was what Fräulein von Walde had said; was she speaking of her?—impossible! Had these people conspired to terrify her thus? And he,—he who knew how she detested Hollfeld, had sided with them; he was standing there with folded arms, the perfect image of implacable sternness and reserve. He had been, hitherto, quite silent, and had opened his lips only to utter the "yes," which had so crushed her. Had he not, previously, endeavoured almost rudely to prevent his cousin's advances? At thought of that, it suddenly flashed upon her that she was now of noble rank,—that explained everything. Hollfeld's nobility could not be dishonoured now by an alliance with her; his relatives were, therefore, all quite willing to accede to his suit, and Helene's surprise at her announcement that she despised the name which they thought noble, was perfectly natural; still, how they could possibly imagine an understanding, upon her part, with the man whom she detested, was utterly beyond her comprehension, for her brain reeled with the wild uproar of her thoughts. One thing only was quite clear, she must immediately convince them of their error.

"I find myself the object of a misunderstanding, the origin of which I cannot possibly comprehend," she said hastily. "It is Herr von Hollfeld's duty to make an explanation here; but as he prefers to be silent, I am forced to declare that he has had no encouragement whatever from me."

"But, dear child," said Helene, in great confusion, "did we not see with our own eyes as we entered that——" she did not proceed.

These words sounded like a thunder clap in Elizabeth's ears. The idea that that moment of helpless terror could be misunderstood by any one, had never entered her pure and innocent mind. And now she found, to her unutterable pain, that it had placed her in a hatefully false light. She turned, for an instant, toward Hollfeld, but one glance convinced her that she had no satisfaction,—no concern for her honour, to look for from him. With his back turned to the rest, he was standing at the window like a detected school-boy. If the ladies only had been present, he would doubtless have extricated himself by some bold and cunning lie; but Herr von Walde was there, and he was utterly at a loss. He contented himself by preserving an ambiguous silence, which gave unlimited scope for conjecture.

"God in heaven, how terrible!" cried the young girl, wringing her hands. "As you entered you saw," she continued, averting her face, and drawing a deep breath, "a defenceless girl striving vainly to repel the insolence of a man lost to all sense of honour. The reiterated declaration on my part that I thoroughly despise and utterly detest him was of no avail in freeing me from his presence. I have never concealed these sentiments from Herr von Hollfeld,—on the contrary——"

Here she was interrupted by a loud noise. Helene had sunk back upon the couch, and her right hand clutched the table near her, shaking it so that the china and glass upon it rattled. The little lady's face was ashy-pale,—her despairing glance sought Hollfeld. In vain she endeavoured to conquer her agitation. The light that suddenly revealed such a hateful web of intrigue was too lurid,—its glare had the annihilating effect upon her hitherto unsuspicious mind of a flash of lightning.

Elizabeth, although she was herself much agitated, and prepared to give further expression to her indignation, felt her heart melt with sympathy at sight of the little lady. In vindicating her own honour she had torn the bandage from Helene's eyes, and she was filled with sorrow for her, although she knew that she must have been undeceived sooner or later. She hastily approached her, and took the icy little hands, which had dropped from the table, between her own.

"Forgive me if I have terrified you by my hasty words," she said beseechingly, but firmly. "You can readily understand my position. A few explanatory words from Herr von Hollfeld would have sufficed to clear me from every degrading suspicion. I should not then have been forced to declare so emphatically what I thought of his character and conduct. I regret what has happened, but I cannot retract one word that I have said."

She kissed Helene's hand, and silently left the pavilion. She fancied that Herr von Walde extended his hand to her as she passed him, but she did not look up.

Outside, she followed the narrow, winding way that led through a grove to the pond. She passed by the castle, along the broad gravel-walk, and entered the little forest-path leading to the convent tower, without knowing whither she was going, or remembering that every step took her farther from her home.

She was in a state of fearful excitement. A wild chaos was seething in her brain. Hollfeld's offer of marriage,—his insolent passion,—Bertha's sudden appearance at the window of the pavilion,—the inconceivable fact that Helene had received her with joy as the bride of the man whom she herself loved,—all these things passed through her mind, and in the midst of the confusion she distinctly heard Herr von Walde's "yes." He too, then, would have welcomed her as Herr von Hollfeld's bride! It would have cost him nothing to see her his cousin's wife. This marriage had doubtless been decided upon in family conclave. Herr von Walde had weighed the for and against with his usual cool judgment, and had finally agreed with Helene that Emil's choice would not prove a blot upon the von Hollfeld escutcheon. She could be graciously received, and they would themselves provide the dowry which the bride was deficient in.

At these thoughts Elizabeth set her teeth, as if she were enduring physical agony. She was filled with unutterable bitterness; her sincere and ardent sentiments had been misunderstood and crushed under foot by that cold-blooded, calculating aristocrat. How could she ever have imagined that he could sympathize in the least with a young, earnest heart, enamoured of freedom, and giving no heed to the belittling, often ridiculous institutions of the world,—he who found the pride and glory of woman only in the ruins and ashes of a long ancestral line?

Several times she paused, lost in thought, and then she walked on quickly, heedless that she was traversing the same path along which she had gone in such confusion by his side a few days before. The overhanging boughs and branches brushed her forehead; she forgot how he had bent them aside, lest they should annoy her. The underbrush was still trodden down, and the stripped leaves were not quite withered upon the spot where Fräulein von Quittelsdorf and Hollfeld had broken through the bushes to reach the two lonely wanderers. Here was the place where the unfinished birthday greeting had been whispered; Elizabeth passed unheeding by, and it was well that she did so, for there were no tears in her burning eyes; here where she could have wept her very heart out.

At last she looked around her with surprise. She stood before the convent tower. Hers was perhaps the first human foot that had pressed this turf since the place had been deserted by the latest guests or the weary servants on the night of the fête.

It looked sadly out of order; the grass had been trodden down by the dancers, whose tread had not been fairy-like. The two hemlocks, which had sustained the refreshment tent, lay prostrate upon the ground in the midst of fragments of broken bottles and the remains of the fireworks. Above, the shrivelled garlands were still hanging between the tower and the oaks, while a gentle breeze swept whispering among the poor flowers, which hung crushed together in the air, their short season of triumph long since ended.

It was already twilight beneath the oaks, although a golden light illumined their topmost boughs, and played upon the gray roof of the tower.

It was with a slight shudder that Elizabeth became aware of her loneliness in the heart of the dim, silent forest; nevertheless she was irresistibly drawn towards the spot where Herr von Walde had taken leave of her. She stepped across the trampled sward,—then stood for an instant as if rooted to the earth,—for the evening breeze brought to her ear single broken tones of a human voice. At first she seemed to hear something like a distant ejaculatory cry for help; then gradually the sounds grew more connected, and rapidly drew near. It was a shrill, piercing, female voice, shouting, rather than singing, a hymn. Elizabeth could hear that the singer, whoever she might be, was running quickly as she sang.

All at once the melody ceased, or rather it was interrupted by a burst of horrid laughter, and then by a shriek, which ran through a perfect scale of scorn, triumph, and bitter agony.

A foreboding of evil filled Elizabeth's mind. She looked anxiously in the direction, in the dark wood, whence the noise was approaching. It was hushed for a moment, and then the hymn began again, while the singer came rushing on like the wind.

Elizabeth stepped within the open door of the tower, for she did not wish to encounter the strange singer; scarcely had she crossed the threshold, when the laughter was repeated close at hand.

On the opposite side of the open sward Bertha rushed out of the thicket, and by her side ran Wolf, the forester's savage watch-dog.

"Wolf, seize her!" she shrieked, pointing with both hands to Elizabeth. The animal came tearing, barking, across the open space.

Elizabeth shut the door behind her, and ran up the tower stairs. She thus gained a moment's advantage; but before she had reached the roof of the tower the door below was opened. The growling dog rushed up the stairs followed by the maniac cheering him on.

The terrified and hunted girl reached the topmost stair,—she heard the growl of the savage brute behind her,—he was just at her heels,—with one last effort she stepped out upon the roof, closed the oaken door, and leaned her whole weight against it.

For a few moments Bertha rattled at the latch upon the other side,—it did not yield. She raved, and threw herself against the oaken panels, while Wolf, barking and growling, scratched at the threshold.

"Amber witch out there!" she shrieked. "I'll throttle you! I'll drag you through the thicket by your long, yellow hair! You have stolen his heart from me, with your moonshine face,—vile hypocrite that you are! Seize her, Wolf, seize her!"

The dog whined, and tore at the door with his paws.

"Tear her in pieces, Wolf; bury your teeth in her white fingers that have bewitched him with their devilish music! curse her! cursed be the tones that come from her fingers! may they turn to poisonous arrows, and bury themselves in her own heart and destroy it!"

Again she threw herself against the door; the old oaken planks creaked and groaned, but it did not yield to the little powerless feet.

Elizabeth meanwhile leaned against the door on the other side, with lips tightly closed and a face pale as death. She had seized a piece of wood that lay at her feet that she might defend herself, if need should be, against the dog. Her whole frame shuddered at the curses which Bertha shrieked out, but she nerved herself with new resolution.

Had she only glanced at the latch of the door, she would have seen that any effort upon her part to keep it closed was wholly needless,—a huge bolt had slipped forward, against which the maniac's utmost strength could avail nothing.

"Open the door!" Bertha shouted again. "Transparent, brittle creature! Ha! ha! Old Bruin, whom I hate, calls her Gold Elsie. The old fellow despises heaven, and may go to hell for all I care, for I shall be blessed, eternally blessed. He calls her Gold Elsie because she has hair of amber. Fie! how ugly you are! my hair is black as the raven's wing. I am a thousand times the fairer. Do you hear me, moonlight face?"

She paused exhausted, and Wolf, too, ceased his whining and scratching at the threshold.

At the same moment the tolling of a distant bell broke the evening silence of the forest. Elizabeth well knew what it signified,—a funeral train was descending the mountain from the ruins of old Castle Gnadeck. Lila's mortal remains were leaving the walls which had once echoed the sighs and groans of the lovely gypsy girl. She was borne through the forest, in longing for which her heart had broken two centuries before.

Bertha, too, seemed to listen to the sound of the bell; for a moment she did not stir.

"They are ringing," she cried suddenly; "come, Wolf, let us go to church; let her stay up here with the clouds that will fall upon her in the night,—the tempest will tear her hair, and the ravens will come and pick out her eyes, for she is accursed, accursed!"

And then she began the hymn again. Her terrible voice echoed eerily against the narrow walls of the tower. She ran down and out of the door below, then rushed singing across the open space, and disappeared in the thicket whence she had issued at first,—the dog following her. She never once turned round towards the tower. As soon as she turned her back upon it she seemed to forget entirely that the object of her hatred was standing up there upon the gray stone platform. Elizabeth caught a last glimpse of her scarlet jacket among the dark bushes, and then, with her savage companion, she was seen no more. Gradually her song died away, and soon the gentle breeze wafted only the tolling of the bell to the ears of the lonely girl upon the roof of the tower.

With a deep-drawn breath of relief she relinquished her constrained position, which she had until now retained mechanically, and tried to lift the latch of the door. It was rusty and resisted her efforts as it had Bertha's. She now discovered with alarm that the bolt had sprung,—it had, indeed, defended and protected her, but it was also her jailer,—for she could not possibly stir it; worn out at last with her fruitless attempts to withdraw it, she dropped her hands at her sides.

What was to be done? She thought with distress of her parents who had probably been made anxious by her prolonged absence,—for they knew that she fully intended to be present at the interment of her ancestress.

Around her were grouped the mighty monarchs of the forest, their topmost boughs still tipped here and there by the fading western light. Far in the distance gleamed a strip of light,—there lay L—— with its lofty castle, whose long rows of windows glittered for a few moments, and then disappeared in gloom. And there towered the mountain crowned by the ruin of Gnadeck; but the forest hid from her her dear home, she could not even see the lofty flagstaff.

Elizabeth soon relinquished all hope of being seen by passers-by,—and she knew that her feeble cry for help must die away unheard, for the tower lay hidden in the depths of the forest; no frequented road passed near it; and who would be likely to be walking at nightfall in the quiet path which led nowhere except to the convent tower?

Nevertheless she made one attempt, and uttered a loud cry. But how weak it sounded! It seemed to her that the boughs of the nearest tree absorbed it entirely; it only startled some ravens in the vicinity, and they flew croaking away overhead; then all was still again,—fearfully still. The Lindhof church bells were silent. A faint red yet glimmered in the west, tinging a few little floating clouds,—the forest lay in deep shadow.

Utterly at a loss, Elizabeth walked to and fro upon the flat roof. Sometimes she stood still at the corner looking toward Castle Lindhof, which was the nearest inhabited mansion, and raised her voice in a vain cry for help. At last she ceased all such efforts, and seated herself upon the bench which was set into the outer wall of the small landing, at the top of the stairs, and which was tolerably protected by the projecting roof from wind and weather.

She was not afraid of passing the night here, for she did not doubt that search would be made for her in the forest; but how many anxious hours her friends must pass before she could be found!

This thought troubled her greatly and increased her nervous agitation. She had passed through so much during the day, and had had no assistance, nothing but her own force of character to sustain her. She was still trembling from the terror of the last shock. What could have caused poor Bertha's outbreak of insanity? She had spoken of a heart which Elizabeth had stolen from her,—was it possible that Hollfeld had played some part in this sad story, as Frau Ferber had lately so often insisted?

Such a suspicion revived all the painful sensations that had before possessed her. But now, sitting motionless against the old wall, while the darkening heavens seemed to draw near her, and nothing spoke of life around save the damp night air that swept soothingly across her hot cheek,—now her moistened eyes bore witness that the stern stoicism with which her crushed heart had armed itself, had vanished. All, all was over; she had broken with the inmates of Lindhof forever. She had shattered Helene's ideal, and she had thrown back to Herr von Walde the gift of his consent to her marriage which he had offered her; doubtless his pride had been mortally wounded. Most probably she should never see him again. He would soon set out upon his travels, glad to efface the impression made upon him by the ingratitude of the poor music-teacher.

She covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled through the slender white fingers.

In the mean time the night had fallen, still it was not quite dark. The crescent moon was reigning in the skies, where all the other shining wanderers appeared and went their way, never heeding that their sister planet, the earth, careering in space with them, contained millions of little worlds, each inclosing in its sphere heights and depths, tossing waves with their ebb and flow, mighty storms, and only too rarely a sacred repose.

And now life began to stir in the old tower. There was a low murmur and moaning upon the stairs; slight blows were struck from within upon the oaken door, and wings brushed the inner wall; the owls and bats were longing to be abroad, and could not find their accustomed place of egress. And in the forest below there arose a rustling and crackling,—the deer broke through the thicket and roamed about in entire security. From the distant east, where the forest almost in its primeval luxuriance descended into the valley and then again climbed an opposing range of mountains, a faint shot was occasionally heard. Every time Elizabeth heard the sound she nestled closer against the wall beneath the protecting roof, as if in fear lest she should be discerned by some unfriendly eye gazing thence;—those hunting there were outlaws.

Still no succour came. Her fear, then, lest her parents should be anxious, had been unfounded. Of course, they supposed her to be yet at the castle,—perhaps they were displeased at her long absence from home; but they would possibly wait until ten o'clock for her return. It might be midnight before she was released.

It grew quite cold. With a shiver, she drew her thin shawl close about her, and tied a handkerchief around her throat. She was obliged to leave her seat, and walk to and fro on the roof, to prevent herself from becoming chilled. Occasionally she leaned over the balustrade and looked down.

White cloud-like phantoms were hovering hither and thither over the open space beneath,—the mists rising from the damp ground. Elizabeth no longer thought of the motley spectacle,—the ostentation and vanity that had filled this place a few days before. She forgot the countless idle words that had filled the air, causing such a confusion of tongues that the old tower, instead of standing upon honest Thuringian soil, might have challenged the skies upon the banks of the Euphrates. Forth from the billows of mist floated the shadowy forms of the nuns buried under these walls, their features pale and passionless, their desolate hearts stilled within their long-flowing robes, and their waxen brows, beneath their white bands, haunted no longer by restless doubts and longings. They would fain have trodden the path leading from the world to heaven, had they not been so often dragged down to earth again.

Elizabeth thought of those dark times, when these gloomy walls were erected in expiation of the crime of a knightly assassin,—cold stone walls to appease Him from whom has come the Word made life,—who is the source of Eternal Love. Could all the prayers, breathed by the inmates of that living tomb,—all the masses,—the organs rolling thunder, blot out the stain of blood which the criminal carried to the foot of the eternal throne? No, a thousand times no! He heeds no incense wafted before the shrine of Baal. His eternal edicts are not reversed by the creatures whom He has made.

What a terrible episode in the family history of the Gnadewitzes those crumbling ruins commemorated! And could it be possible that a being, conscious of a fervent desire for moral elevation and spiritual growth, should be duly respected only when permitted to bear that name? Must she learn that a spotless life was nought, laid in the balance with a human device, which was, in fact, a phantom of the brain,—an absolute nothing?

Was the superstition that committed witches to the flames darker than this delusion of the privileges of birth, by which many a true and richly-gifted human life is as ruthlessly destroyed as by the faggot of the executioner,—the delusion, that flatly contradicts the Almighty decree, which declares all God's children to come alike from His creating hand,—alike in outward form, in physical structure, in the possession of senses, whereby both king and beggar enjoy and suffer, alike in the possession of that vital spark that animates these outward shapes? Where is there a soul, even although it has attained the summit of human perfection, that is not conscious of some weakness, or a human being so depraved, that one good quality at least does not glimmer forth from the slough of vice into which he has sunk?—And can he be influenced by such narrow prejudice,—he, whose brow bears the impress of high intelligence, whose glance and voice can melt with a tenderness that reveals a soul alive to the best and deepest emotions of our nature? Could he rank the hollow form above the immortal rights of humanity, which accord freedom of thought and action to all? Did not that false system continually crush out the highest and holiest sentiment of the human heart, love? If Elizabeth had loved Hollfeld, what would her lot have been without the discovery in the ruins? And if,—here a sarcastic smile hovered upon her quivering lips,—if one thought of affection for her had ever stirred Herr von Walde's heart, and he should come now and offer his hand?——Never, never would she consent to give herself to him, with the consciousness that her unutterable love had only been returned when such return was no longer forbidden by the old worn-out laws of society. The pain of renunciation lost much of its torture, contrasted with the torment that would be the result of such a life.

With looks full of gloom, Elizabeth once more walked to the corner of the balustrade looking towards Castle Lindhof, and stood gazing in that direction. One and the same star rose above that graceful pile and the poorest hut in the neighbouring village, casting its mild light impartially upon each,—or was there really a stronger gleam upon the spot where the park opened into the forest? No; that light came from below, and penetrating quickly farther and farther into the forest, faintly tinged the boughs above with its rays. It was most certainly a torch borne along the narrow path by which Elizabeth had reached the convent tower.

Once the light was, for an instant, immovable, and a faint shout reached her ears. She felt convinced now that help was at hand,—that search was made for her,—and she raised her voice in reply, although she knew that the faint sound could not reach the bearer of the torch. The light hesitated but for a moment, and then quickly came nearer and nearer. She could soon plainly distinguish the flame of the torch, and see the shower of sparks that fell from it to the ground.