CHAPTER VI.
The Prussian-Saxon boundary defines also the bounds between the Hohenwald estates, that lie entirely on Saxon territory, and the Prussian domain of Grünhagen. The boundary-line here makes a great curve into Saxony, so that the Grünhagen lands are almost shut in by the Hohenwald forests and fields. The Grünhagen forest indeed forms a continuation of the magnificent woods of beech and oak that surround Castle Hohenwald, the boundary-line between them being only marked out by a narrow path, so overgrown with moss and underbrush that only careful observation can detect its course.
The vicinity of the two estates has always been, since the memory of man, a fruitful cause of quarrel between the respective proprietors of Hohenwald and Grünhagen, each being strictly jealous lest his neighbour should infringe upon his rights. At times some of the Hohenwald cattle, when the herd-boy was not sufficiently on the alert, would stray into the Grünhagen fields and be taken into custody by Herr von Poseneck's people, and on one occasion the Hohenwald forester had actually sequestrated the fowling-piece of Herr von Poseneck, when that gentleman, who was devoted to the chase, had in his hunting attempted to make a short cut through the Hohenwald forest. There had also been various trespasses upon the rights of the chase which were hardly to be distinguished from poaching committed on both sides of the boundary by enthusiastic Posenecks and Hohenwalds.
These innumerable quarrels had begotten a hostility between the Barons of Hohenwald and Poseneck, which had been handed down from generation to generation, and which was by no means lessened by the fact that, since the annexation of Saxony with Prussia, the Posenecks had become Prussian noblemen. No Hohenwald ever visited Grünhagen, and even in the days when Hohenwald had been renowned for its brilliant entertainments, at which were assembled all the country gentry and many families from beyond the border, no Poseneck was ever invited within its gates.
The hatred of the Hohenwalds for the Posenecks was so great that Freiherr Werner, although he was not wanting in a certain amiability, could not suppress a sentiment of exultation when, in 1849, Kurt von Poseneck, who had allied himself with great enthusiasm to the revolutionists, was forced to sell Grünhagen to his brother-in-law, the Amtsrath Friese, and emigrate to America with his family to escape the trial for high treason that threatened him as a member of the extreme left of the Frankfort National Assembly.
Since then, however, the animosity between Grünhagen and Poseneck had slumbered, for the new possessor of Grünhagen was a man who detested litigation, and who did all that he could to avoid giving cause for offence to the Hohenwalds, while he overlooked any slight trespass on their part. Thus open strife was avoided, but the old dislike only smouldered. Freiherr Werner had transferred it to the Poseneck's near relative, the Amtsrath, whom he detested for his Prussian extraction.
Like master like man! All the inmates of the castle and the inhabitants of the village of Hohenwald hated everything relating to Grünhagen. The Hohenwald servants, from the steward and inspector to the commonest stable-boy, held the "Grünhagen Prussians" for an odious race of men, and, as they had received strict orders from the Freiherr not to be led into any disputes, avoided all association with the Grünhagen people.
Thus the road from Grünhagen to the village of Hohenwald wellnigh disappeared beneath weeds and grass, for there was not the slightest intercourse between the two places. Was it to be wondered at, then, that a Hohenwald plough boy, driving his team in the meadow bordering upon the Grünhagen lands, stopped his horses and stared in surprise at a young, well-dressed man sauntering slowly along the disused road, crossing the boundary, and then, when near the village of Hohenwald, striking into a by-path leading directly to the Hohenwald oak-forest? The fellow looked after the stranger until he was lost to sight in the forest, and then whipped up his horses, resolving to acquaint the inspector that very evening with the remarkable occurrence.
The stranger noticed the ploughboy's wonder, but it merely provoked a smile as he slowly loitered along the meadow-path. Now and then he paused and looked around, surveying with evident pleasure the lovely landscape spread before him, the fertile fields and meadows, girdled by the glorious oaken forest, now clothed in the delicious green of early spring. As he reached its borders he paused again to look back at the charming village of Hohenwald, nestled on the edge of the forest, and at the stately mansion of Grünhagen, overtopping the farm-buildings, granaries, stables, and cottages about it.
How near the two estates were to each other and yet how wide apart! A smile hovered upon the young man's handsome face as he called to mind the strange hatred of the two proprietors for each other. He had laughed aloud when the Amtsrath Friese had told him of it at Grünhagen, and he could not now suppress a smile, for such an inherited aversion was entirely inconceivable to him; it was a folly for which there was no possible explanation.
Entering the wood, he pursued the narrow path through the thick underbrush, and gazed about him with intense admiration. Nowhere else in Europe had he seen such magnificent old oaks; they belonged exclusively to the Hohenwald domain, whose proprietor cared for them most tenderly, and never allowed any of the giant trunks to be felled except those which nature had decreed should yield to time. The Baron could well afford to cultivate his love for his oaks; and whatever might be done in distant parts of the forest, no axe was ever allowed to work havoc near the castle among his old oaks and beeches in his dear "forest depths." The narrow foot-path crossed a broad road through the wood; here the stranger paused irresolute and looked about him searchingly. To the right the road wound through the forest, in whose depths it vanished; to the left it led through rows of trees up a gentle incline to Castle Hohenwald, one of the wings of which the stranger could discern in the distance. He had not thought himself so near the castle; the foot-path must have led him astray. According to the directions of the Grünhagen inspector, he should be upon the path which, cutting off a corner, was a more direct road to the Grünhagen woods than the one leading from the mansion; but if this were so, it ought not to have brought him so near to Castle Hohenwald. He hesitated, pondering whether to follow the path on the other side of the road or to turn round, when his attention was arrested by a charming sight. Galloping upon a magnificent and spirited horse, there suddenly appeared upon the road from the castle a girl scarcely more than a child. She managed her steed with wondrous case and security; the mad gallop gave her no fear; she sat as firmly and even carelessly in the saddle as though the horse were going at an ordinary pace; indeed, she even incited him to greater speed with a light touch of her riding-whip.
How lovely she was! A young girl, judging by her slender, well-rounded figure, and yet only a child. There was a bright smile upon her charming face, her eyes beamed with happiness, and her dark curls, blown backwards by the breeze, escaped from beneath her light straw hat.
She was very near the stranger when the horse suddenly started and shied, probably frightened by the young man's light summer coat among the trees.
A practised horseman might well have lost his stirrup through such an interruption of the swift gallop, but the young Amazon kept her seat perfectly, punished her horse by a smart cut with her whip, as she exclaimed, "What are you about, Pluto?" and then, as with a strong steady hand she reined him in, looked to see what had caused his terror.
A stranger in the Hohenwald forest! Celia had reason enough for astonishment, for she could scarcely remember ever having seen any save the people of Hohenwald upon her father's estate. And this was an elegantly-dressed stranger, no forester or peasant, but a young man evidently from the higher walks of society. Now a well-educated young lady would certainly have found it becoming in such an unexpected encounter with a stranger in the lonely forest to display a certain amount of embarrassment, perhaps of timidity. Not so Celia. She scanned the intruder upon her father's domain with a long, searching look,--the sensation of fear she knew only by name, and there was no cause for embarrassment. She was at home here, upon her native soil. She had a perfect right to ask the stranger bluntly, "How came you here? Who are you?"
The stranger bowed very respectfully. "I think," he replied, "that I have the honour of addressing Fräulein von Hohenwald."
He was evidently a very polite and agreeable young man,--"the honour of addressing Fräulein von Hohenwald." Celia suddenly felt very much grown up. Hitherto she had been only Celia. Even the servants, who had known her from infancy, called her nothing but Fräulein Celia. Fräulein von Hohenwald sounded delightful. She quite forgot to pursue her inquiries, and answered, "Yes, I am Cecilia von Hohenwald."
Again the stranger bowed low, and taking a little card-case from his breast-pocket, produced a visiting-card, which he handed to her, saying, "I must pray your forgiveness for presenting myself in this informal manner as your nearest neighbour."
Celia read the card. "Kurt von Poseneck!" she exclaimed, and the tone of her voice as well as the expression of her eyes manifested such surprise and even terror, that for Kurt all the inherited hatred of the Hohenwalds for the Posenecks found utterance in this brief mention of his name.
When the Amtsrath Friese, his uncle, had told him of the fierce hatred between the Hohenwalds and the Posenecks that had been handed down through generations, Kurt had laughed heartily, but now when he thought he saw that this insensate hate had taken root in the heart of this lovely child, he was filled with a sense of painful regret. "What have I done to you, Fräulein von Hohenwald," he said, sadly, "that my name should so startle you?"
"It does not startle, it only surprises me," Celia replied, quickly, as she looked with increased interest and a greater degree of attention at this young man, who did not in the least resemble the picture she had formed from the tales of Frau Kaselitz of a member of the evil-minded, cross-grained quarrelsome Poseneck family.
Certainly Kurt von Poseneck looked neither cross-grained nor quarrelsome as his frank eyes met her own kindly and yet sadly.
Her first inspection had inclined her in the stranger's favour, and Celia now decided that he was a very fine-looking man, almost as tall as her brother Arno and far handsomer, for Arno looked stern and gloomy, while Kurt smiled kindly. His full brown beard and moustache became him admirably. Celia thought his expression exceedingly pleasing; she had never supposed that a Poseneck could have so frank and honest a smile.
The girl was quite incapable of dissimulation,--her thoughts and sentiments were mirrored in her eyes,--and Kurt perceived to his great satisfaction the first startled expression vanish from her face as she looked at him with a very friendly air.
"I thank you, Fräulein von Hohenwald," he said, "for those simple words. I was afraid you shared the melancholy prejudice that has been the cause of so many terrible disputes between our families in former times, and this would have specially pained me in you."
"Why specially in me?"
The question was simple and natural, but yet not easy to answer. "Because--because--well, then, honestly and frankly, Fräulein von Hohenwald, because as soon as I saw you I said to myself, 'Let the Hohenwalds and the Posenecks quarrel and hate one another as they choose, Fräulein Cecilia von Hohenwald and Kurt von Poseneck never shall be enemies!' Forget the mutual dislike that has divided our families. Will you not promise me this? I know it is a strange request to make of you, but you must forgive my bluntness. I returned to Europe only a few months ago, and cannot forget the fashion learned upon our Western farm in America. I hope you will not blame me for it."
"Oh, no; on the contrary, I like frankness. Werner always scolds me for having my heart upon my lips; he is odious, but papa and Arno take my part."
"Who is Werner?"
"My brother, the Finanzrath. I thought you knew; but indeed you cannot know much about us if you are only lately come from America."
"More than you think. My father used often to tell me of Grünhagen and Hohenwald, and my uncle Friese has talked of you to me also. I knew and admired you, Fräulein von Hohenwald, from his description, and I am doubly rejoiced that chance has brought us together. But you have not yet answered me. Will you grant my request and promise me that for us the old family feud shall not exist?"
"With all my heart!" said Celia; and in ratification of her promise she held out her hand to Kurt, although her horse seemed to take the stranger's approach very ill, and grew restless.
Kurt took the little proffered hand. "Peace is formally concluded, then," he said, gayly. "We are to be good friends, and I trust, Fräulein von Hohenwald, that if you should meet me again in the Hohenwald forest, bound for the Grünhagen wood by the shortest way, you will permit me to exchange a few friendly words with you."
This Celia promised readily; but at the same time she pointed out to Kurt that he never would reach the Grünhagen wood by pursuing a path leading directly to the lake in the Hohenwald park, and offering to show him the path he was seeking, she walked her horse beside him.
She never dreamed that there could be anything unbecoming in her readiness to show him the right way through the lonely wood; she thought it very natural that she who was at home here should direct a stranger aright, and quite at her ease, she chatted on to Kurt as to an old acquaintance.
He told her of his life in America, and spoke with such affection of his parents, who had been dead now for some years, and with such loving tenderness of his sisters, who were married in America, that Celia could not but be interested and attracted by him. He told her how he had served in the Northern army in the war with the South, attaining the rank of major before it was over. He had then resigned, and, after his father's death, had disposed of the American property, and had now returned to Germany to assist in the management of the Grünhagen estates, which, as his uncle's declared heir, would one day be his. He had spent a few months in travelling in England, France, and Italy, and had arrived only three days before in Grünhagen, where his uncle had given him the warmest of welcomes.
All this Kurt detailed to his guide on their way through the forest, and he also expressed to her his sincere regret that, as his uncle had told him, there was no possibility of establishing friendly relations between Hohenwald and Grünhagen, and that he himself could not even venture to pay a visit to Hohenwald to show that he had inherited nothing of the old family hatred.
"Oh, no, it would never do," Celia said, sadly. "Papa would be terribly angry; his orders are positive that no visitor shall ever be admitted to the castle. Arno would have liked so much to ask his dearest friend, a Count Styrum, to stay with us; but, although papa thinks very highly of the Count, and says himself that he must be an excellent man and a worthy son of his father, who was once papa's dear friend, he could not be induced to let Arno send him an invitation."
"Of course, then, I cannot venture to come, but I hope at least to make your brother Arno's acquaintance; this will surely be facilitated by his being an intimate friend of my cousin, Karl Styrum."
Celia shook her head dubiously. Arno was just as dear and good as papa, but just as disinclined to come in contact with strangers. He never left Castle Hohenwald except when some inspection of the estate was necessary; he spent all his time in studying learned books.
"Are you, then, quite alone in the lonely castle?" Kurt asked, compassionately, but Celia laughed aloud at his question. "I alone and lonely!" she cried. "What can you be thinking of? I have my own darling papa, and Arno, who is so kind; you cannot conceive how kind he is. Then I have my tutor, dear old Pastor Quandt, to whom I go every morning from nine to eleven; that is, I always have gone to him until now,--how I shall do in the future I cannot tell, for only think, now in my old age I am to have a governess."
Kurt laughed, and Celia laughed too, but the laugh did not come from her heart. "You must not laugh at me," she said, with some irritation. "I am afraid I have said something that I ought not. Tell me frankly and honestly, are my manners so odd that I really need a governess?"
"What a very strange question, Fräulein von Hohenwald!"
"Answer it by a simple 'yes' or 'no.' Ought I to have a governess or not?"
Kurt looked at her, with a smile. "Do you really want a frank answer?" he replied.
"Of course I do; it would provoke me very much not to have it!"
"I am afraid you will be provoked with me for giving it, but I will do as you ask. In truth, I think you might learn much of a really good governess, and that she would do you no harm in spite of your 'old age.'"
"How odious of you!"
"Did I not say that I should provoke you by my frankness?"
"No; I am not provoked with you, quite the contrary. I see now that Werner was right. If you, who have only known me a quarter of an hour, see that I need a governess, it must be so. But here we are on the borders of Grünhagen, and there is the path that will lead you back to the house."
She stopped her horse, and pointed out to Kurt with her riding-whip a narrow path, so grass-grown that it could have been detected only by some one very familiar with the locality.
"And you really are not angry?" Kurt asked, unpleasantly surprised by his abrupt dismissal.
Celia looked thoughtful, and after an instant's pause held out her hand to Kurt. "No, I am certainly not angry with you," she said, cordially. "I was provoked, I do not deny it, that you should have thought Werner right; but you meant no unkindness, I am sure, or you would not have been so frank."
"I assuredly meant nothing but kindness!"
"I am sure of it, and it makes me all the more sorry that you cannot come to Hohenwald. It would be so pleasant to have you tell me more about America and your adventures there. But that cannot be, and it will be long before we see each other again, unless we should meet by chance in the forest."
"I trust in my good fortune."
"Well, we may possibly chance to meet again soon, since I take my ride almost every afternoon about this hour, and am very fond of the broad road leading towards the Grünhagen woods. Adieu, Herr Kurt von Poseneck."
"Au revoir, Fräulein von Hohenwald."
She gave him a friendly little nod, touched her horse with the whip, and vanished in a minute along the road leading to Castle Hohenwald.
Kurt looked after her vanishing figure, and then resigned himself to delightful reflections. Was it not something more than chance that had decreed that he, who had found his way so often in American forests, should lose it here, and thus make the acquaintance of this charming girl?
The next day about four o'clock Kurt was seized with an irresistible desire to inspect the forests; he could not stay in the house; it drove him forth, much to his uncle's surprise, who, however, ascribed it to the love of nature engendered by his life in the open air in America. Kurt did not this time, however, pursue the path he had taken on the previous day; he remembered the ploughboy's gaping wonder, and did not choose to become a theme for gossip to the Hohenwald servants; he followed, instead, the more direct course across the Grünhagen fields to the woods, but scarcely had he reached it, when chance guided him to the very spot upon the broad road leading from Castle Hohenwald where he had been so unfortunate as to frighten Celia's horse. The same chance that led Kurt to this place arranged that Celia also, who had hitherto been very careless about the time at which she took her afternoon ride, suddenly required her horse to be saddled on the stroke of four. Old John, the groom, could not imagine why Fräulein Celia should all at once be "so very particular." She never had seemed to care whether the horse were brought to the door a quarter of an hour sooner or later, and now she insisted sharply upon punctuality, although it was the Baron's birthday, and the old servant had had a great deal to do, as Fräulein Celia knew. She could scarcely restrain her impatience to be gone, and as she galloped off down the road, the old man looked after her with a thoughtful shake of the head.
"We may possibly chance to meet again soon," Celia had said to Kurt as she took leave of him, and chance conducted her to the very spot where she had met him yesterday, and where she now met him again. From afar she espied his light coat among the trees, and her lovely face was lit up with a happy smile.
Had she expected him? Impossible! She had made no appointment with him. She knew enough of social rules to understand that a young lady could not appoint a rendezvous with a young man whom she had seen but once, and then only for a short time. Of course it was chance that had brought them both to this spot at the same time, but she was very glad of it, and greeted Kurt with a charming smile.
It was quite natural that she should now walk her horse that Kurt might walk beside her, although it cost her a struggle with Pluto to induce him to agree to this new order of things. Kurt walked beside her, looking up at her with admiration. How graceful was her every movement as she reined in and controlled her impatient horse! She held the curb in a firm grasp, but there was nothing unfeminine in the strength thus put forth. For a while her whole attention was given to her horse, but when she had reduced him to a state of obedient quiescence she replied kindly to Kurt's greeting, and when he expressed his pleasure that a fortunate chance had again brought them together, she answered, with perfect freedom from embarrassment, that she also was much pleased. As she spoke, her smile was so arch that he could not but laugh. And then they laughed together like two children. They knew well what made them laugh, although they said no more about it.
It sounded almost like an excuse when Celia said that she had come from home nearly a quarter of an hour later than usual this afternoon, old John had been so long saddling Pluto, but that she could not scold him, for he was very old now, almost seventy, and he had been up half the night helping her to hang oaken garlands all about her father's beloved garden-room, that he might be surprised by their beauty when Franz rolled him in from his bedroom at five o'clock on his birthday morning. And her father had been very much delighted,--he so loved his oaks,--and he had been specially pleased with a tobacco-bag that she had embroidered for him as a birthday gift. He was not very fond of embroidery, but he knew how hard it was for her to sit still at any kind of work, and he had been touched by the trouble she had taken for him.
Thus Celia talked on, and Kurt listened with rapt attention, as if she were imparting to him the most important secrets. Her delight in the garlands of oak-leaves and in the completion of her gift for her father charmed him. He thought her almost more lovely now than when, a few moments before, her eyes had sparkled and flashed in her struggle with her horse. He did not know which to admire more, the blooming girl or the lovely child; he only knew that both were adorable.
On the day previous, Kurt had told of his adventures in the war and his life in America; to-day he begged Celia to describe to him her life in Castle Hohenwald, and she did so willingly. She was glad that Kurt should have in his mind a true picture of her dear old father, whom strangers could never portray truly, for no one knew how dear and good he was. Arno too, Frau Kaselitz and Pastor Quandt had often told her, was just as little known or appreciated as his father. She had seen yesterday, from the compassionate way in which Kurt had spoken of her solitude at Castle Hohenwald, how false was his conception of the life there; now, strangers might think what they pleased of it, but Kurt von Poseneck must know what happy days she led there with her kind papa and her dear Arno.
And so she described it to him, beginning with her father, so truly kind, although a little hasty perhaps now and then, bearing pain so patiently, never requiring any sacrifice of his people, but always ready to befriend them. All who knew him loved him. The old servants declared that there never was a better master; even the Herr Pastor had a great respect for him, and only regretted that he had withdrawn from the world, and was in consequence so misjudged. Arno, too, was as kind as he could be. He might look stern and gloomy, but he was not so,--only very sad,--and for this he had good cause. He had been betrothed, and had lost his love, of whom he was inexpressibly fond. Celia did not know how it had happened. Frau Kaselitz would not tell her anything about it, and she could not ask Arno, for when the engagement had been broken some years before, her father had forbidden her ever mentioning the subject to her brother. He had travelled for a long time, but travel could not make him forget his grief; that was why he seemed so stern and gloomy, although he was always gentle and kind to his father, to her, and to the servants and villagers. If any of them were in trouble they always came to Arno for help; and even when it was impossible to help them he always had a kind word for them.
Celia's praise of her eldest brother was by no means so enthusiastic. He was a very good fellow, but then he was not Arno; still, he was very wise, and could always persuade his father to do as he chose. She had been told that in his boyhood Werner was very irritable and passionate, but he had quite conquered this fault. Now he rarely allowed himself to be carried away by anger; his self-control was so great that even when he was deeply irritated he could preserve a perfect calmness of manner, and this was why he had such influence with his father, that whatever he wished to have done at Hohenwald was done. If he did not succeed in one way he tried another. Thus he had contrived that in spite of his father's dislike of having a stranger in the house he had consented to the engagement of a governess.
As she said this Celia could not suppress a little sigh, although she instantly laughed, and added, "Well, it may be best,--you think so, and I will do what I can, and receive Fräulein Müller as kindly as possible."
Werner, she went on to say, came but seldom to Hohenwald, usually only once a year, to be present on his father's birthday, when he stayed only two, or at most three weeks. He was always very good and kind, but she could not love him as she did papa and Arno; she could not tell why, but so it was, and she could not deny that she was always a little glad when he went away again. She was quite sure that papa and Arno felt just as she did, although neither of them had ever said one word to that effect, but she had observed that papa breathed more freely after the carriage had rolled away with Werner.
Then Celia described the few people, not her relatives, with whom she had daily intercourse--Pastor Quandt, her tutor, an old bachelor nearly eighty years of age, but still hale and hearty, and dear and good, and Dr. Bruhn, the village physician, also an amiable old bachelor, and Frau Kaselitz, the housekeeper, who could not do enough to show her love for her darling Fräulein Celia. She, Frau Kaselitz, was the childless widow of one of the former stewards of Hohenwald, and had passed her entire life either in the village or at the castle. She was as good as gold; far too kind; she, Celia, knew that Frau Kaselitz spoiled her and made a governess so desirable--as he had thought it, the girl added, with an arch glance at her companion. She could not deny herself the pleasure of this little thrust.
Celia's lively description soon made it possible for Kurt to have in his mind a vivid picture of the simple life at Castle Hohenwald, and his admiration for the lovely speaker was increased tenfold. What a treasure of simple content she must possess, to preserve such a cheerful gayety of mind with so little in her surroundings to induce it!
A long conversation followed upon Celia's narrative; she required, in her turn, to be told of Grünhagen and its inmates. She asked about his uncle Friese, and was amazed to learn that he was an amiable, kindly old man, who only desired to live at peace with all men. According to Frau Kaselitz and the Hohenwald servants, he was a cross, quarrelsome, purse-proud old person.
In such mutual explanations the time sped rapidly, and Celia, as well as Kurt, was surprised to find that they had reached the Grünhagen woods and the end of the broad road that led through the Hohenwald estate.
"It is time for me to turn back," said Celia, with a slight sigh.
Kurt did not venture to remonstrate, although he felt as if he should have liked to talk on with her forever, and although in Celia's manner there was an indirect appeal to him to ask for a prolongation of the conversation.
"Indeed I must turn round," Celia added, with an interrogatory glance.
"I am afraid you must," Kurt replied, suppressing his desire, and yielding to more prudent suggestions. Then, holding out his hand to Celia, he continued: "Chance has been so kind to-day that I trust it will prove no less so in the future, and so I do not say 'farewell' to you, Fräulein von Hohenwald, but 'till we meet,' and may that be speedily!"
Celia smiled as she nodded her farewell to him, and rode back along the forest road; and on the following day chance was again so amiable as to bring about a meeting between the young people at the same spot in the woods. Yes, chance here proved steadfast and true, and day after day the pair passed slowly along the forest road to the Grünhagen woods, deep in innocent but profoundly interesting conversation. Kurt was on the spot with unfailing punctuality at four o'clock, and a few minutes later Celia would appear on Pluto, who now greeted Kurt with a neigh, and was no longer impatient at the slow walk along the road to the Grünhagen woods. For ten days the skies smiled upon Kurt's forest walks, but then May, which had hitherto shown him such favour, justified the reputation for variability which she shares with April.
At Grünhagen a cold rain pelted against the window-panes, through which Kurt disconsolately watched the skies, covered with dull gray clouds that gave no hope that the weather would clear that day, nor perhaps for several days to come.
The Amtsrath had just finished his after-dinner nap and lighted his long pipe. Sitting in his arm-chair and comfortably sipping his coffee, he was not in the least incommoded by the rain that so interfered with Kurt's good humour; on the contrary, he thought it good growing weather, for
"Whenever May is wet and cool,
The farmer's store-house will be full."
He had often lately looked up to the sky in hopes of rain, and he was glad that it had come at last to scatter abroad its blessings over field and fell.
"A fine soaking rain," the old man said, with a smile, to Kurt, who, he felt sure, must agree with him.
"Soaking indeed," Kurt replied, not by any means so pleased as his uncle had expected; but then the old man was thinking of his meadows and Kurt of Celia, whom the soaking rain would surely prevent from taking her daily ride.
The clock in the Grünhagen church-tower struck four; Kurt took his hat.
"Where are you going?" asked his uncle.
"To take a walk in the woods."
"In such weather?"
"A few drops of rain will do me no harm."
The Amtsrath shook his head, for the few drops of rain were, as Kurt himself had admitted, a steady, soaking downpour. Still there is no accounting for tastes, and if forest walks in a pelting rain were among Kurt's American habits, his uncle had no objection to make.
As Kurt stepped out into the open air, and the huge drops were driven into his face by the wind, he hesitated a moment. There was no possibility of meeting Celia in the forest in such a storm. Still, suppose she should persist in taking her ride? It was possible; no, it was impossible; nevertheless, Kurt would not fail to be upon the appointed--no, it had never been appointed--spot in the forest; he could then tell her the next day that he had been there in spite of the storm and rain, that he had not, indeed, expected her, but that he had thought of her. He knew that she would laugh at him and tease him about his walk in the rain, but he so liked to hear her laugh, she was so wonderfully charming in her gayety.
In spite of the increasing rain that soon penetrated his light summer dress, the way did not seem long; he thought of her, and perhaps because he had no hope of seeing her that day her image was all the more present to his mind. During the past ten days a very peculiar relation had been developed between Kurt and Celia. While Kurt sauntered along the forest road beside Pluto they talked together like brother and sister. Celia was never tired of hearing all that Kurt could tell her of America and the life he had led there, and his conversation had opened to her an entire new world of thought and emotion. Brought up in a narrow home-circle, whence all strangers were excluded, the girl had had no idea that people of culture could entertain any views and opinions save those shared by her father, by Arno, and by the old pastor her tutor. It was, for example, one of her articles of faith that across the boundary, just beyond that strip of meadow in Prussia, evil reigned triumphant. Prussian! The word stood for all that was contemptible,--rapacity, low ambition, greed of gain, and arrogant conceit. Like a good Saxon, Celia hated the Prussians from her very soul, and worst and most to be hated among them all was Bismarck, whose name her father never uttered without coupling it with some opprobrious epithet. Kurt was the first to present to her mind other views with regard to the state of affairs in Germany, and she listened to him with profound interest. It was exquisite enjoyment to Kurt to talk with Celia, and to note her rapt attention to all that he said, her quick espousal of any cause advocated by him. He loved her, and he knew that he loved her, but not for the world would he have addressed to her one word of love; it would have been a sin against her childlike innocence. His experience of life, spite of his youth, had been so wide and varied that he could not but be aware what risk there was for Celia in these daily interviews with a young man in the solitude of the forest; and could he have seen her anywhere else, could he but have sought her at Hohenwald, he would have abstained from his daily walks for Celia's sake. But they offered him his only opportunity for meeting the girl, and he had not the strength to refuse to embrace it. He could not but yield to the spell that lured him daily to the forest road, but he pledged his honour to himself that he would be nothing to Celia save a friend and brother, that he never would betray the childlike trust she reposed in him.
Now first he felt what an absolute necessity for him the daily meeting with Celia had become,--now, as he walked on in the wind and rain, constantly repeating to himself that she certainly could not leave the house to-day. In spite of this repetition, a yearning desire for a sight of her spurred him on along the accustomed path. He never heeded that in pushing through the trees and bushes he had become fairly drenched with rain. He reached the broad castle road: the distant wing of the castle, a glimpse of which could be had from here in fine weather, was veiled in mist. Sadly he leaned against the trunk of a giant oak, conscious that until this moment he had cherished a hope that perhaps in spite of the rain Celia might take her afternoon ride; she was no city-bred fine lady, but a strong, healthy child of nature, who was not afraid of the rain. Now, however, as he looked forth into the comfortless, white, impenetrable fog, his last hope vanished.
But what sound was that? Surely something like the distant neighing of a horse. And now--yes, there was no mistaking Pluto's loud neigh, close at hand, as a tall figure emerged from the fog, and the next moment Celia reined in her horse beside Kurt.
"I thought so!" she cried, triumphantly. "I knew you would not mind the rain!" Then, as she looked at him, she burst into a merry laugh. "Good heavens! how you look, poor fellow! You could not be wetter if you had fallen into the lake!"
Kurt laughed with her. How odd it was that the huge waterproof that she wore detracted not a whit from her beauty and grace! A gray waterproof can scarcely be called an elegant garment, but Celia looked lovely in this one. Her fresh rosy face smiled enchantingly from out of the hood that she had drawn over her head, and from beneath which tiny curls were rebelliously fluttering out into the wind and rain.
"It certainly is a 'fine, soaking rain,' as my uncle says," Kurt rejoined, laughing. "It has drenched me, but I have many a time tramped through a wood in worse weather than this, and even slept soundly on a hill-side in just such a pour, with only a soldier's blanket over me. The rain can do me no harm, but you, Fräulein von Hohenwald, are very wrong to come abroad in such weather."
"And yet you expected me to do it."
"No; I was sure you would prudently stay at home. It is no weather for you to ride in."
"No? Still, here I am, you see. Neither Pluto nor I ever mind the rain; but then we are neither of us at all prudent. And besides, you do not tell the truth. Why are you here if you thought I should not come? I had more confidence in you. I knew I should find you here, and I should have been terribly angry if you had stayed away for the rain. For indeed I had to see you to-day. I have so much to tell you. Only think, the new governess is really coming this evening!"
"Indeed? Then the Finanzrath has carried his point."
"Of course; just as he always does. He wrote to Fräulein Müller, and sent the letter to Frau von Adelung in Dresden. I could not help hoping that the Fräulein would decline to come, for papa consented to Werner's plan only upon condition that he should truthfully describe the life she would have to lead at Castle Hohenwald. Werner did so. He read his letter aloud to papa, Arno, and me, and I must confess he did not flatter any one of us. If I had been Fräulein Müller I never would have said 'yes' to such a letter."
"Did he give so terrible a description of the castle and its inmates?"
"The castle and all of us. He made Arno out a gloomy woman-hater, and called me a spoiled child. Was it not odious of him?"
"He meant no wrong."
"Oh, I know you agree with him! Now, confess honestly that you think me a spoiled child, or rather do not confess it, or we shall be sure to quarrel. Let me tell you more. Werner told Fräulein Müller that at Castle Hohenwald she would be cut off from all social intercourse, that she could neither receive nor pay visits, and that the family circle there could not indemnify her for such seclusion, since neither papa nor Arno was an agreeable companion. In short, he painted existence here in such gloomy colours that papa said Fräulein Müller must be a very extraordinary person if she accepted such a situation. But she has accepted it. Her answer came to-day,--a very odd reply. Papa and Arno, as well as Werner, shook their heads over it. They could not make it out. So it is no wonder that I cannot comprehend it either. I have brought it to you to read, that you may tell me what you think of it."
"You have brought me the letter?" Kurt asked, in surprise.
"Why, yes; I know you always tell me the truth when I ask you for it, and when Werner gave me the letter I thought to myself, 'Herr Kurt von Poseneck shall read it;' so I kept it and brought it with me. There, read it; but be careful not to let it get wet. Wait a moment; I will hold my waterproof out so as to shield it from the rain."
Celia handed Kurt the letter and protected it with her cloak while he read it.
"An excellent hand," he said, as he opened it: "firm and clear. They say that the handwriting shows the character of the writer; if that be true, this letter should impress one greatly in Fräulein Müller's favour."
"That is just what Arno said; only he added, 'Only to be the more bitterly undeceived afterwards.' But read, read, I beg you,--I am so anxious to know what you think of the letter."
Kurt read the short note, which ran as follows:
"Dear Sir,--Your description of the life at Castle Hohenwald so perfectly accords with my wishes and inclinations that I accept with pleasure the honourable position offered me of companion and teacher to Fräulein Cecilia von Hohenwald. I shall arrive at the station at A---- by the afternoon train, at a quarter-past eight on the seventeenth, hoping to meet the carriage which you tell me will be sent for me from Hohenwald.
"With much respect,
"Anna Müller."
"Well, what do you think of it?" Cecilia asked, eagerly. "It does not seem odd to me at all. I think it simple, clear, and decided."
"But what does she mean by saying that Werner's ugly description of the life here accords with her views and inclinations? Arno says that must be a falsehood; that no girl could like such a place, and that Fräulein Müller must be a false, exaggerated person to say that she accepts such a position with pleasure. Papa thought the same; and even Werner said that the brevity of the note impressed him disagreeably, while Arno insisted that its short, decided tone, its want of all conventional courtesy, was the only thing in it to recommend it. What do you think?"
"I think we should be overhasty in adopting a prejudice against the lady upon reading her short note, which to my mind contains nothing to inspire it. Why should we distrust her declaration that the life in Castle Hohenwald is to her taste? If it were not so, could she not decline the position offered her? It certainly speaks well for her that she makes use of no stupid conventional phrases, and she shows a correct appreciation of her duties towards you, Fräulein von Hohenwald, in calling herself not your governess, but your companion and teacher. I really cannot see any reason why you should form an unfavourable opinion of Fräulein Müller. Take my advice and receive her after your own frank, cordial fashion. Do not be swayed by your brother Arno's (pardon me) unjustifiable prejudice, but see and judge for yourself, and you will be sure to judge rightly."
"Yes, I will," Celia said, cheerfully. "I knew you would give me good counsel, and I shall follow it. But now," she continued, with a sudden gravity, "we must discuss one point which I have never ceased to think of since the letter arrived to-day. What will become of my beloved liberty? Is it not lost from the moment that Fräulein Müller arrives at Castle Hohenwald?"
"It may be somewhat restricted, and is it not perhaps best that it should be so, Fräulein von Hohenwald?"
"Ah, you are thinking again that I need a governess. You will make me seriously angry. I am not a child, and I will not have my liberty restricted! I am willing to learn. I will sit still for hours and play the piano every day, but I will not be put into leading-strings. It is not kind of you to wish it for me, Herr von Poseneck. What will become of my afternoon rides if Fräulein Müller thinks it unbecoming for a young lady to roam about the forest alone?"
Celia's words told a joint in Kurt's armour; had he not often reflected that the propriety of these rides was questionable? It was hard for him to carry out his resolve of always being frank and true towards Celia, but he did it. With a sigh, he replied, "Fräulein Müller would not be far wrong if she did think so."
Celia suddenly reined in her horse, and looking down at Kurt with eyes large with wonder, she said, in a tone expressing painful regret, "And you tell me this?"
"Yes, Fräulein Celia," and for the first time he avoided the formal Von Hohenwald; "yes, I tell you so, because I always will be honest and true to you."
Celia made no reply; she urged Pluto into a walk again, and rode beside Kurt in silence. She had never reflected whether these meetings in the forest were becoming. She had made no appointments with Kurt, but chance--no, it had not been chance entirely after the first meeting; she knew that she should meet him, but she could not reproach herself with having made any appointments. She was quite blameless. Quite? Why, then, had she never mentioned these daily meetings at home in Castle Hohenwald? Why had she never uttered the name of Kurt von Poseneck to her father or Arno, and never even said a word when Arno had casually mentioned the fact that a son of the Poseneck who had emigrated to America had returned, and was living at Grünhagen with the Amtsrath, whose heir report said he was to be? Her father, Arno, and Werner had discussed the Posenecks at some length; why had she never said a word, although she could easily have set them right upon several points? Hitherto she had simply followed her impulse to see Kurt, whom she liked so much, daily; but now, suddenly, she became aware that something about these meetings was not just as it should be.
After a long pause, she said, dejectedly, "I think you are right, Herr Kurt; I have acted very unbecomingly; but then we never made any appointments, and it was so pleasant to meet by chance. You have told me so much to interest me, I could always listen to you for hours; but if you think it improper, I will not ride on the forest road again. It will be hard, for lately I have looked forward all the forenoon to this hour of talk with you."
The girl's childlike, innocent frankness enchanted Kurt; he yielded to an irresistible impulse to seize and kiss the hand that hung down near him. Then, startled at what he had done, he instantly dropped it, while Celia, not in the least startled, looked at him with a happy smile.
"Is it really so wrong for us to spend one short hour here every day talking together?" she asked, looking down kindly into his face.
He could not withstand the magic of her look; all the wise rules that he had laid down for himself melted in the light of her eyes like snow before the sun. "No, dearest Celia! A thousand times no!" he cried, rapturously. "I swear to you by my honour that you never shall have any cause to regret your confidence in me. I will not ask you to continue your rides,--you shall not promise me to do so,--but I will be here awaiting you every day; nothing shall prevent me. Although you should stay away for weeks, you will find me here whenever you come at this hour."
"And you shall not await me in vain," Celia replied; and as she leaned down towards him their lips met for one instant in a fleeting kiss. Then she suddenly wheeled her horse about and was gone.
Kurt stood for a while motionless. Long after the lovely rider had vanished in the gloom he still saw her in spirit, and felt her kiss upon his lips. He hardly noticed that the rain, which had ceased for a few minutes, was pouring down with renewed violence; that a sharp wind was blowing, colder than before. He stood like one entranced in the lonely forest, and, when unconsciously he turned towards home, he never heard the howling of the tempest. Not until the bough of an oak-tree, torn off by the wind, fell directly across his path did he waken from his revery.