Front matter (continued 7)

"Elizabeth!" suddenly resounded through the forest.

The voice thrilled through her every nerve,—for it was his voice. Herr von Walde was calling her in tones of unutterable anxiety.

"Here," she called down to him; "I am here, upon the convent tower."

The torch-bearer plunged through the thickets and hurried across the open sward. In a few moments he stood upon the landing without, shaking the door with a powerful hand. Several stout blows followed, and the old planks were burst open.

Herr von Walde stepped out upon the roof. In his left hand he held the torch, while with his right he drew Elizabeth within the circle of its light. His head was uncovered, his dark hair lay in dishevelled locks upon his forehead, and his face was very pale. He hastily scanned her figure, as if to convince himself that she was unhurt. He was evidently in a state of great agitation, the hand which grasped her arm trembled violently, and for a moment he could not speak.

"Elizabeth, poor child!" he ejaculated at last, with a gasping sigh, "did the insult that you received in my house to-day drive you hither to this dreary ruin, and the gloomy night?"

Elizabeth explained to him that her stay here had not been voluntary on her part, as the bolted door testified, and related in a few words, as she descended the stairs, all that had occurred. He went before and offered her his hand to support her, but she took hold of the rope which served for a hand-rail, and turned away her eyes that she might ignore his proffered aid.

At this moment a strong draught of air extinguished the torch, which had burnt only dimly, and all was enveloped in darkness.

"Now give me your hand!" he said, in the tone of command which she knew so well.

"I can take hold of the rope, I need no other support," she replied.

The last word had scarcely left her lips when she felt herself lifted from the ground like a feather by two strong arms and carried down the steps.

"Foolish child!" he said, as he set her down upon the grass outside. "I will not have you dashed to pieces upon the stone pavement of that dreary tower."

She entered the path which led directly to Castle Lindhof,—it was the shortest. Herr von Walde walked silently by her side.

"Do you intend to leave me to-night without saying one kind word to me?" he suddenly asked, standing still. Pain and suppressed auger strove in his voice for the mastery. "Have I had the misfortune to offend you?"

"Yes, you have wounded me grievously."

"Because I did not instantly chastise my cousin?"

"You could not,—his suit had your entire approbation. You, as well as the others, would have forced me to accept Herr von Hollfeld."

"I force you? Oh, child, how little you understand a man's heart? I was the victim of a terrible error when I uttered that 'yes.' I longed to try if it were a delusion, and to free myself from it. Now you shall learn that I will banish everything that can remind you of to-day's terror. You like Lindhof?"

"Yes."

"The Baroness Lessen is about to leave the castle. Let me entreat you to be my sister's stay and support when I leave her again, when I begin my wanderings anew. Will you consent?"

"I cannot promise to do so."

"And why not?"

"Fräulein von Walde will not desire my society, and even if——. I have already declared once to-day that I shall not bear the new name."

"What a strange reply! What has that to do with the matter? Ah, now I understand. At last I begin to see clearly. Then you think that I agreed to Hollfeld's suit because you suddenly had a right to an ancient name? Speak, is not this the fact?"

"Yes, I believe this to be the fact."

"And you suppose further, that the same reason leads me to desire your companionship for my sister. You are convinced that aristocratic pride prompts all my thoughts and actions?"

"Yes, yes."

"Pray let me inquire of you what name you bore when I asked you for a birthday greeting, when we last walked together here in this path?"

"Then we did not know of the secret hidden in the ruins," said Elizabeth, in an almost inaudible tone.

"Have you forgotten the words which I dictated to you that afternoon?"

"No,—I remember every syllable of them with the greatest distinctness," she replied quickly.

"And do you think it possible that such words can end with, 'I hope the coming year will prove a happy one,' or the like?"

The girl did not speak, but looked up at him with a crimson blush.

"Listen to me quietly for one moment, Elizabeth," he continued, but he himself was so far from quiet that his voice sounded faint and faltering, as though half stifled by the throbbing of his heart, "a man who might have been regarded as fortune's favourite, so richly did she endow him in his cradle with rank and wealth, mistrusted these advantages when he arrived at years of discretion. He feared that they would stand in the way of what he considered the true happiness of his life. He had created for himself an ideal of her by whose side alone he could find real peace,—not that he required extraordinary physical beauty or intellectual power,—he sought a pure, true heart, that should be influenced by no consideration of worldly advantages, but should give herself to him for his own sake alone. He gradually arrived at the conviction that his ideal must remain an ideal, for in his search for its realization, he came to be thirty-seven years old. When hope has folded her wings, and night is falling around us, there is something overpowering in the sudden flushing of a morning light, at the eleventh hour. The mind is unhinged, the long, weary waiting has rendered it almost incapable of believing in great, unexpected happiness. At last, Elizabeth, he found the heart he had sought,—a heart accompanied by a clear, well-balanced intellect that was infinitely superior to all narrow, sordid considerations,—but this heart throbbed in a youthful form adorned with every imaginable grace. Was it to be wondered at that the man of riper years, possessing, as he knew, no personal advantages, regarded with mistrust another who could lay in the balance youth and a fine person? Was it to be wondered at that he allowed himself to be carried away one moment, inspired by the boldest hopes, by some word, some act on the young girl's part, only to be cast down utterly the next, when he saw that other in her society? Was it not natural that he should fear that youth only could attract youth? Never did heart of man long more wildly than his for the accomplishment of his desire,—never was there a man more possessed, in moments of despair, by a cowardly doubt as to its fulfilment. And when they told him that his little idolized darling belonged to that other, he emptied the bitter cup to the dregs, and said 'yes' because he imagined that she had already said it. Elizabeth, I stood on the threshold of the pavilion to-day in a state of utter despair. You do not know what it is, when a merchant heaps all his treasure, every jewel that he possesses, in a single ship, and sees it sink before his eyes. Shall I try to tell you what I felt when you so decidedly rejected the rank which you might have claimed, and so made an alliance with Hollfeld impossible? Shall I tell you that my sister's condition, and consideration for you yourself, alone prevented me from chastising that scoundrel upon the spot? He has already left Lindhof, and will never cross your path again. Will you forget the insult that you received in my house to-day?"

He had taken her hands in his, and held them pressed close to his breast. Without withdrawing them she assented to his question with trembling lips.

"And shall we not forget everything, my darling little Gold Elsie, that has occurred between the beginning and the conclusion of the birthday wish? My golden darling, the delight of my eyes, my own Elizabeth Ferber stands again before me, and will repeat after me what I say, will she not? The last sentence which was so cruelly interrupted—tell me what it was."

"Here is my hand as the pledge of an unutterable bliss," faltered Elizabeth.

"In life, in death, and for all eternity, I will be your own."

But she opened her lips in vain to repeat after him the words which he uttered so solemnly, with the most profound emotion. She burst into tears and threw her arms around the neck of her lover, who clasped her to his heart.

"This divine dream must not fade," he said with a sigh, as Elizabeth gently extricated herself from his embrace. "Leave me your hand at least, Elizabeth, I must learn to believe in my bliss. If you leave me now, I shall be crushed by doubt again to-night. You are thoroughly conscious that you are irrevocably mine? Do you know that you must leave father and mother, and the dear home upon the mountain, for my sake?"

"I know it, and will do so gladly, Rudolph," she said smiling, but firm.

"God bless you, my darling, for those words! But you must know the depths of my doubt. Is it not pity for my boundless love that induces you to yield your consent to my suit?"

"No, Rudolph, it is love,—a love which first awoke in my heart,—does not this sound strangely,—when I saw in your angry eyes, and heard in the tones of your voice, how you detested cruelty and injustice! And since that moment it has never left me; on the contrary, it has increased and grown stronger, in spite of all my efforts to destroy it, notwithstanding all the harsh words that have so often wounded it sorely."

"Who spoke such words?"

"You, yourself; you were harsh and unkind to me."

"Oh, child, those were the outbreaks of insane jealousy! I have struggled for and exercised self-control all my life long, but I could not conceal how I was tortured then. And would you, on that account, have closed upon me the heaven that is opening before me?"

"Not on that account,—for one kind look from you made me happy again; but another obstinate opponent entered the lists,—my reason. It had grown well aware of everything that report declared concerning your incredible aristocratic arrogance, and, at every wild throb of my heart, dinned into my ears your reasons for refusing the alliance which the prince proposed to you."

"Ah! those sixteen quarterings!" cried Herr von Walde, smiling, "But see, my little Gold Elsie, what a Nemesis that was!" he continued more gravely. "To avoid annoyance, I seized upon the first means at hand, and, as I now know, it almost cost me the happiness of my life. I like the Prince of L——, but any residence at his court was rendered, for a time, utterly odious to me, by the matrimonial alliances proposed for me, principally by the Princess Catharine. She had taken it into her head that I must marry one of the ladies of her court. No one could believe that the girl was entirely indifferent to me, for she passed for a brilliant beauty, and had broken many a heart. All that I could say was of no avail; they continued to plot and intrigue, and so one day I cut the whole matter short by declaring to her Highness that her plan for me would cost me one of my estates, since, as is true, by my uncle's will it was devised to the State if I should marry a wife who could not show sixteen quarterings in her escutcheon. This declaration put an end to my torment; no such person was to be found in the length and breadth of the little kingdom, and all thought it natural that I should wish to retain my estate."

"And will you suffer this loss for my sake?" cried Elizabeth, in surprise.

"It is no loss, Elizabeth; it is an exchange,—an exchange by which I gain a priceless treasure,—the happiness of an entire existence."

A torch glimmered through the thicket.

"Halt! this way!" cried Herr von Walde.

In a few moments one of the servants appeared, and was ordered to hasten as quickly as possible to Gnadeck and announce Fräulein Ferber's safety.

The servant hurried away.

"I have been very selfish, Elizabeth," said Herr von Walde, putting her hand within his arm, and no longer loitering. "I knew that your family was most anxious about you; that your father and uncle were ranging the forest in search of you, while my people, and many of the Lindhof peasants, were traversing the country in all directions upon the same errand, and yet I forgot everything when I found you."

"My poor father and mother!" sighed Elizabeth, not without a slight twinge of conscience; the whole world had ceased to exist for her when he appeared.

"Friedrich runs quickly," von Walde said, soothingly; "he will reach the summit of the mountain long before us, and tell them you are safe."

They entered the park and passed by the castle. It lay in darkness and silence. Only from Helena's chamber window gleamed a faint light.

"There is a life-and-death struggle going on there," murmured Herr von Walde, looking up. "She loved that wretch devotedly; how fearful her awakening must be!"

"Go and comfort her," begged Elizabeth.

"Comfort her? At such a moment? My child, who could have come to me with comfort when I thought I had lost you? Helene shut herself in her room when I ordered Herr von Hollfeld's horse to be brought to the door; her maid is near her. A long time must elapse before she wishes to see me; when we have been grossly deceived we do not immediately turn to those who warned us of the deceit. Besides, I will not enter my house again until I am sure that your parents will not snatch you from me."

The path branched aside to the well-known bank in the forest.

"Do you remember?" asked Elizabeth, smiling, as she pointed to it.

"Yes, yes. There you told me so bravely of your determination to go out into the world as a governess, and I took the liberty of declaring to myself that I never would permit it. I had to exert all my self-control to prevent myself from then and there clasping my little bird in my arms and pressing its golden head, filled with such bold resolve, to my breast. And there I drew from you the unconscious naive confession that your parents still held the first place in your heart. But you adopted a cold, repellant demeanour, as soon as I attempted to be confidential."

"It was shyness,—and I am not yet quite sure that to-morrow, when I see your stern face by daylight, I shall not fall into the same embarrassment."

"It will never be stern again, my child; joy has touched it with its gentle finger."

Soon afterwards, the old beeches which look in at the windows of the Ferber's dwelling-room saw a strange sight. A man of fine presence, his face pale with profound emotion, conducted the daughter to her parents, and then asked them to give her back to him as his future wife,—his other self. The old beeches saw him take his young love in his arms, and receive the blessing of her agitated parents. They saw the mother's face, smiling through tears, raised gratefully to Heaven, and little Ernst shaking the canary's cage, that he might awaken that sleepy songster and announce to him, with great solemnity, that Elsie was betrothed.

CHAPTER XX.

While happiness was reigning in the home upon old Gnadeck, a sad event occurred in the valley.

Two peasants from Lindhof, who, provided with torches, had been looking for Elizabeth, heard, as they were proceeding from their village to the forest, a loud growling at a little distance,—it sounded like an angry dog. Not far from them lay stretched across the road a human form, while a large dog lying beside it, as if to defend it, had placed both his forepaws upon its breast. The animal became infuriated at the approach of the men, and, gnashing its teeth, threatened to fly at them. They were afraid, and ran back to the village, where they met a party bearing torches, and among them the forester, who had just heard from Herr von Walde's servant of Elizabeth's safety.

Instantly all hastened to the spot which the frightened peasants described. This time the dog did not growl. He whined, and crept to the forester's feet; it was Wolf, his watch-dog, and there lay Bertha, apparently lifeless. She was bleeding profusely from a wound in her head, and her face was as pale as death.

The forester did not speak, he shunned the sympathetic glances of the by-standers; anger and pain strove for the mastery in his features. He raised Bertha from the ground, and carried her into the first house in the village; it was the poor weaver's. Then he sent a messenger for Sabina. Fortunately, the Waldheim physician was with one of his patients in the village. He was sent for, and soon brought the poor girl to herself. She recognized him, and asked for water. Her wound was not dangerous, but the physician shook his head and looked meaningly at the forester, who was anxiously watching him.

The doctor was a blunt man, with rather rude manners. He suddenly approached the forester, and said a few words to him in a slight undertone. The old man staggered back as though from a mortal blow, stared absently at the doctor without replying a word,—and then left the house without looking at the sick girl.

"Uncle, uncle, forgive me!" she cried after him in heart-breaking tones, but he had already vanished into the dark night.

And now Sabina made her appearance in the doorway. A maid followed her, bearing a huge bundle of linen upon her head, and a basket upon her arm, containing bandages, provisions, and all manner of necessary articles.

"Gracious Powers! what have you been doing with yourself, Bertha?" cried the old woman with tears in her eyes, as she saw the pale face, and the bandaged head lying upon the pillow. "And to-day, too, when I thought you went out looking so much better,—you had such beautiful red cheeks!"

The girl buried her face in the bedclothes, and began to sob convulsively.

The physician told Sabina what was to be done, and strictly forbade the invalid to converse or even to speak.

"Must I be silent?" cried Bertha, raising herself in bed. "Ah! silence may be easy for such an old man, whose blood runs cool and calm in his veins. But I must speak, Sabina, and if it kills me,—so much the better!"

She drew the old housekeeper towards her upon the bed, and, weeping bitterly, confessed all to her.

She had had a love affair with Hollfeld, who had promised to marry her, and had induced her to swear solemnly that she would keep silent concerning their relations to each other, and not claim her rights until he should authorize her to do so; for, as he told her, he must first influence his mother and his relatives at Lindhof to accede to his wishes. The unthinking girl promised all that he asked,—and in addition vowed solemnly that no human being should hear one word from her lips until she could proclaim her proud secret to the world. The meetings of the pair usually took place in the convent-tower or in the pavilion in the park. No one discovered them. The baroness' suspicions were aroused by some slight circumstance,—she fell into a violent rage, and forbade Bertha ever to show her face at Lindhof Castle.

Still Bertha's lofty hopes were unshaken, for Hollfeld consoled her, and referred to the future. But then came Elizabeth Ferber, and he was an altered man from that moment. He avoided Bertha, and when she compelled him by threats to an interview, he treated her with a coldness and contempt that excited the girl's passionate nature to frenzy.

When at last she became convinced that she had to do with a man utterly devoid of honour, the whole horror of her situation was laid bare before her. She fell into a state of the wildest despair, and then began her nightly escapades. Sleep scarcely visited her eyes, and she grew more composed only when she could shriek out her agony and woe in the lonely forest.

At last came the end to the tragedy,—the same end that has befallen such tragedies hundreds of times before, and that will continue to befall them,—for the warning example convinces the understanding but never touches an unsuspecting, loving heart. Hollfeld offered the poor girl a sum of money if she would relinquish her claims and leave that part of the country. He pretended that his mother and his Lindhof relatives forced him to marry the newly-made Fräulein von Gnadewitz. Bertha denounced him as an unprincipled liar, and rushed from his presence. In a frenzy of rage she presented herself before his mother and told her all.

Thus far Bertha continued her sad tale connectedly, only interrupted by her violent gestures, sobs, and tears. She paused for a moment, and an expression of inextinguishable hatred distorted her countenance.

"That horrible woman," she cried at last, gasping for breath, "has the Bible always upon her lips. She knits and sews night and day for missionaries, who are to carry the word of God to the heathen, that they may be converted; but they cannot in their ignorance be more inhuman and cruel than this Christian in her pride. She wishes to root out idol-worship, and sets up herself for an idol, surrounding herself by a crowd of fawning, flattering hypocrites, who declare that she is one of the elect,—not as other people are. Woe to the upright, honest man who refuses to consider her as such,—his crime is blasphemy! She thrust me from her doors, and threatened to have the dogs hunt me from the park, if I ever showed my face there again. From that time I do not know what became of me," she said, sinking back exhausted among the pillows, and pressing her hands upon her aching forehead. "I only know that I awaked and saw the doctor's face bending over me. He told my uncle of my disgrace,—I heard him. What will become of me!"

Sabina had listened to this confession with horror and grief. She had always advocated the strictest purity and decorum, and had been, as Bertha well knew, a stern and inflexible judge in such unhappy cases as that of the wretched girl. But her heart was full of love and pity. She looked down upon the crushed sinner before her with tears of compassion, and soothed the weary head upon her kind old breast. She was rewarded by seeing the poor girl fall asleep in her arms, like a child worn out with weeping.

Soon nothing was heard in the little room but the quiet breathing of the sick girl and the ticking of the clock. Sabina put on her spectacles, drew an old worn copy of the New Testament from her basket, and watched faithfully by the bedside until the bright dawn looked in at the windows.

Bertha did not die, as she had hoped to do in consequence of her agitating confession. On the contrary, she recovered very quickly, nursed and tended by Sabina and Frau Ferber. There was no return of her insanity. The wound in her head, which had been caused by a fall upon a sharp stone, had produced a most beneficial result in the copious loss of blood which had ensued.

The forester was beside himself at the disgrace which Bertha had brought beneath his honest roof. For some days he would not even listen to his brother's calm, soothing words. After Sabina had communicated to him Bertha's confession, he rode to Odenberg to call "the worthless scoundrel to account;" but the servants there informed him, shrugging their shoulders, that their master had started upon a journey; they could not tell whither, or when he would return. Herr von Walde's search for him was also without result.

Bertha herself declared that she would never again hear of her betrayer, whom she now regarded with a hate as fervent as had been her love. A few weeks after her recovery she left the weaver's hut,—she never again entered the Lodge,—to go to America. But she did not go alone. One of her uncle's assistants, a fine young fellow, begged for his dismissal, because he had always loved Bertha in silence, and could not find it in his heart to let her go alone into the wide world. She had promised to be his. They were to be married in Bremen, and sail thence for the New World, where he would lead a farmer's life. Herr von Walde provided the pair with a considerable sum of money; and, at Frau Ferber's and Elizabeth's request, the forester silently consented that Sabina should rob the overflowing store of linen that his deceased wife had accumulated, to furnish the household of the emigrants.

* * * * *

Upon a gloomy autumn day a well-packed travelling carriage left Castle Lindhof and slowly rolled towards L——. Her haughty arrogance all vanished, the baroness sat huddled together in one corner of it. Her brilliant part at Lindhof was played; she was reluctantly returning to her small rooms and reduced circumstances.

"Mamma," said Bella, in her shrill, childish accents, as she opened and shut the carriage window and drummed against the seat with her feet, "does the castle belong now to Elizabeth Ferber? Will she drive in our beautiful carriage with the white damask cushions? Can she go into your room whenever she pleases and sit in the embroidered arm-chairs? Old Lorenz says that she will be the mistress there now, and that all her orders must be obeyed."

"Child, do not torment me so with your chatter," groaned the baroness, burying her face in her pocket-handkerchief.

"It is very unkind of Uncle Rudolph to send us away," the child continued, without heeding what her mother said. "You know we have no silver dishes to eat from in B——, have we, mamma? Shall we dine at a restaurant, mamma? and will you dress your own hair while Caroline washes and irons? Why——"

"Silence!" her mother interrupted the flood of speech that so tormented her.

Bella cowered terrified in a corner, and did not look up until the carriage was rolling over the stone pavement of L——. The baroness cast a hasty glance at the Princely castle, then drew her veil over her face and burst into tears.

In consequence of Bertha's confession there had been a stormy interview between Herr von Walde and the baroness, which had ended in the departure of the latter. Helene repulsed her with aversion when she appealed to her, and she was forced to enter the travelling carriage, which appeared punctually before the castle at the hour appointed by its master. There was one consoling drop in her cup of misfortune,—Herr von Walde had provided the means for Bella's education, upon condition that it should be more sensibly conducted than heretofore.

Almost at the same hour in which the Baroness Lessen was leaving Lindhof forever, the Countess von Falkenberg presented herself in the boudoir of the princess, who had returned with her husband a few days before from the baths.

The countess made as profound an obeisance as her uncertain limbs would permit, but showed a degree of haste that she would have stigmatized in another as contrary to all rules of etiquette. She held an open letter in her hand, which had been somewhat crushed by her trembling fingers.

"I am most unhappy," she began in an unnatural tone of voice, "to be obliged to impart to your highnesses a most scandalous piece of news. Oh, mon Dieu, who would have thought it! Well, if even in our own sphere all sense of shame, all dignified self-consciousness, is at an end,—if every one is to heed the dictates of low and vulgar impulses,—no wonder that the halo surrounding us is dimmed, and the mob ventures to attack the throne itself!"

"Calm yourself, my dear Falkenberg," said the prince, who was present, with evident amusement. "Your preface is somewhat after the magnificent style of a Cassandra. But as yet I see no signs of earthquake; and to my great satisfaction I observe,"—and he glanced out of the window at the quiet market-square with a smile,—"that my faithful subjects are quite composed. What have you to tell us?"

She looked up surprised,—his sarcastic tone made her falter.

"Oh, if your highness only knew!" she cried at last. "That man, upon whose pride of birth I so relied, Herr von Walde, informs me that he is betrothed. And to whom? to whom?"

"To Fräulein Ferber, the niece of my brave, old forester," the prince, smiling, replied. "Yes, yes, I have heard something of this; Walde knows what he is about, I see. The little girl is a miracle of beauty and loveliness they say. Well, I hope he will not keep us waiting long to make her acquaintance, but will present her to us soon."

"Your highness," cried the paralyzed countess, "she is the daughter of your highness' forester's clerk!"

"Yes, yes, my good Falkenberg," chimed in the princess, "we know that. But be calm; she is I assure you of noble rank."

"Will your highness graciously permit me," rejoined the old lady, her face crimson, as she pointed to the crumpled letter, "here it stands in black and white,—his betrothal with a person of low birth,—here is the name, Ferber, and no other, and just so it will be written upon von Walde's genealogical tree forever. It actually seems as if the man paraded it with a sort of ostentation. The inconceivable indifference of these people in refusing to assume the name of von Gnadewitz shows plainly enough that they have nothing in common with that aristocratic family. Their noble blood has utterly degenerated in the course of years, and, according to my notions of nobility, the girl is and always will be of low birth. I sincerely pity poor Hollfeld, who is, as your highness knows, of stainless descent; by this misalliance he will lose at least half a million,—and the poor Lessen, too, from whom I have just had a few sad lines,—she leaves Lindhof to-day, of course to escape from such scandalous proceedings."

"Those are matters affecting your own personal feeling, and of course I say nothing with regard to them," rejoined the prince, not without severity. "But I herewith request you to announce to the princess and myself the fact, as soon as Herr von Walde wishes to present his bride to us."

In the next room, the door of which was open, Cornelie was merrily turning upon her heels and snapping her fingers.

"Aha! and that was why Sir Bruin wished to escape the tongues of certain eloquent ladies!" she cried, with a stifled laugh. "Cornelie, where was your usual penetration with regard to the masculine heart? Oh, the thing delights me for old Falkenberg's sake," she said, in a whisper, to another young lady who sat at the window embroidering. "Now for at least two weeks we shall have the pleasure of seeing how the loyal creature will look daggers at their highnesses whenever their backs are turned, while all the honey of the promised land will overflow her withered lips as soon as the sun of their royal smile shines upon her. I could wish that every man whom we know would follow Herr von Walde's silly example!"

"Good Heavens! Cornelie, are you insane?" cried her companion at the window, dropping her needle from her fingers.

At the same time that every drop of blood in the Falkenberg's aristocratic veins was so outraged, Doctor Fels returned to his home, and went to the nursery, where his wife was bathing her baby and superintending the knitting fingers of her two little daughters.

"Rejoice with me, dear love!" he cried, with sparkling eyes, as he stood upon the threshold of the door. "Lindhof will have a mistress, and such a mistress! Gold Elsie, our beautiful Gold Elsie! Do you hear, my darling? Now the sun will shine brightly there. The healthy atmosphere has conquered, and the evil spirit that actually dropped mildew upon poor human souls has fled. I have just seen it drive past in Herr von Walde's travelling carriage. The announcement of the betrothal has fallen upon our worthy town like a bomb-shell. I tell you it is wonderful to see the long, incredulous faces! But the news has not surprised me at all. I have known what must happen ever since Linke's murderous attempt. Since I drove that evening to Lindhof by Herr von Walde's side, to see whether the excitement had produced no ill effects upon the brave child, I have known well that his hour had struck, that he had a heart indeed, a heart full of fervent, passionate love."

* * * * *

Let us pass over a space of two years, and once more enter the old Gnadeck ruins. We shall ascend the mountain by a broad well-kept road, leading to the castle gate, which has exchanged its rusty bolts and bars for more convenient fastenings.

We remember with a shiver the cold, damp court-yard behind this gate, shut in by gloomy colonnades on three sides, while the crumbling buildings threatened to bury us beneath their ruins. We remember the lonely basin in the centre, that, surrounded by the lions of stone, has waited in vain during so many years for the silver stream that should fill it.

Remembering all this, we ring the bell. At its clear sound, a fresh, trim maiden opens the massive gate, and invites us to enter. But we start back almost dazzled, for from the open gate what a flood of light and colour greets us! The ruins have vanished, the high wall that surrounded them alone remains, and we are for the first time aware how extensive is the space which it encloses.

We do not tread upon the echoing pavement of a courtyard, a smooth gravel-walk is beneath our feet; before us stretches a level, well-kept lawn. In its centre stands the granite basin, and from the threatening jaws of the lions are pouring four powerful streams of water. The chestnuts still remain the faithful guardians of the fountain, but since their boughs have been bathed in heaven's air and light they have grown strong and young again, and are now covered with a wealth of fan-like blossoms. We wind among the gravel paths that intersect the lawn, delight our eyes with the groups of shrubbery, still very young, that are so tastefully scattered here and there, and with the gay beds of carefully tended flowers.

Before us lies the home. Its four walls are free now to the air and light, and have put on a fresh bright garment; but its front is far more stately than it used to be. New windows are seen on every side. Ferber has had four rooms added to it; for when the forester retires to private life, he and Sabina are to live there also. In the family dwelling-room,—from whose two high windows can now be seen the same view formerly seen only from Elizabeth's room above,—Herr von Walde has had the trees thinned so that her parents might always have the home of their darling before their eyes,—stands the young Frau von Walde. She has been kept in the house for several weeks, and her first expedition has been to carry her first-born to her parents' home. There he lies in her arms. Miss Mertens, or rather the happily married Frau Reinhard, has just removed the veil from the little thing. The minute, plump, red face shows, in the eyes of the mother, an unmistakable resemblance to Herr von Walde. Ernst is laughing loudly at the vague movements of the fat little fists, which are stretching out in all directions. But the forester stands with his own powerful hands behind him, and an expression of great anxiety, as if he feared that if he moved he might do the frail atom an injury. He is no less delighted with his grand-nephew than are Elizabeth's parents with their grandchild. He has outlived his distress concerning Bertha, and basks in Elizabeth's happiness, which was a great surprise to him at first, and which he maintained he was obliged to become accustomed to anew every morning. Not, indeed, that he thought such good fortune one whit too great for his darling,—he would have thought the richest of earthly crowns well placed upon Elizabeth's head; but it was so strange to him to see his sunny Gold Elsie by the side of her grave, thoughtful husband.

Elizabeth is happy in the fullest sense of the word. Her husband adores her, and his words have proved true,—the expression of stern melancholy has faded forever from his brow.

Just now the young wife is looking tenderly at the little creature in her arms, and then down into the valley, whence Herr von Walde will soon appear to conduct her to her home. Her glance grows sad for a moment, and tears fill her eyes, as they rest upon a lofty gilded cross, glimmering among the trees upon the shore of the lake,—beneath those rustling boughs Helene has slept for a year. She died in Elizabeth's arms, praying God to bless the dear sister who had so helped her to bear her burden of woe until her spirit could soar away from its frail mortal tenement.

Hollfeld has sold Odenberg, and no one knows in what corner of the earth he hides his discontent at the overthrow of all his plots.

THE END.

* * * * * * * *

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