Through Night to Light: A Novel

by Friedrich Spielhagen

CHAPTER IV.

Felix had changed sadly in these days, and it looked almost as if his last appearance as a star in Grenwitz, which had been such a lamentable failure, should also be his last performance in the salons where he had so often shone brilliantly. The wound which he had received in his duel with Oswald, though in itself not dangerous, had thoroughly undermined his whole system, already weakened by a wild, profligate life, just as a house in which the timber is affected with dry rot will be in danger of tumbling down at any time, if but one of the joists be removed. The ball had not injured any of the vital parts, and he had had the best of medical advice, and yet the wound would not heal. And when it began at last to look a little better, very grave symptoms of pulmonary disease in an advanced stage had suddenly shown themselves. The physicians who were called in shook their heads, spoke of the necessity of a change of air, and a longer residence in a southern climate.

But Felix refused to see what was very clear to all others. Those little scars?--why, I have been spotted very differently before. That little fever?--ridiculous; I have felt worse many a morning after a wild night. My lungs?--nonsense! What does that old wig, Balthasar, know of my lungs? I don't believe in wise wigs. Felix Grenwitz wont die so easily!

Perhaps it was a desire to confirm himself in this conviction which made the bon vivant attempt to succeed in the part of a lover as soon as he was allowed to leave his room again after several weeks' confinement with a diet of medicine and mucilage. He had looked upon neat, pretty, blue-eyed Madeline, as soon as he had seen her, as a rose-bud which it might be worth his while to gather, and he would have made some efforts in that direction long since if Albert had not, for very good reasons, dissuaded him earnestly. Besides, he had then not given up the hope of winning the fair Helen, and his eyes had been captivated for a time by her exceedingly pretty maid, Louisa. Now, when those hopes were gone, he found in the monotony of his convalescence the necessary leisure and ample opportunity to turn his attention towards little Marguerite. Felix Grenwitz knew only two classes of women: pretty women and ugly women; any other division, virtuous women and others, he did not admit. He did not believe in female virtue; he had never met with it; at most, caprice, coquettish cunning, and the art to enhance the value of the merchandise so as to induce the buyer to pay the highest price. Hence Felix Grenwitz did not believe that Marguerite was virtuous, and this all the less as this experienced man soon discovered that "Mamselle" had carried on a love affair with Mr. Surveyor Timm while the masters were at the watering place. Timm thought about women just as he did himself, as Felix knew perfectly well; he had therefore won the game even before beginning it. Could Felix Grenwitz fail where Albert Timm had succeeded? Nevertheless, there was another item in the bill which he had overlooked, and the Don Giovanni was not a little surprised, therefore, when he failed after all. Little Marguerite had a soft heart, thirsting after love, and she had so small a share of love alloted her in life! Hence Albert Timm had been able to overcome the heart of the girl, but not her virtue. For little Marguerite was proud--proud as poor beings are who have been enslaved and ill-treated from childhood up without losing their native nobility, and whose only defence against the contempt of the world lies in their self-respect. She would have sacrificed for her lover the whole of her hard-earned little fortune, but nothing else. If Albert could not succeed who really loved her, Felix must of course fail, for she detested him. And yet he was not fastidious in the means he employed. He presented Albert to her in the darkest colors; he laughed at the poor girl for having allowed herself to be cheated by a man who wanted nothing but her few hundred dollars; a man who would do anything for money, and who would yet gamble away in a single night all the money he might have secured by fair means or foul. He effected by this description, which was unfortunately not untrue in its main features, nothing but that the little one said with flaming eyes and deep-red cheeks in her broken German: "And if Monsieur Albert is really a bad man, you are not any better by a hair, Monsieur le Baron!" Poor child! she was soon to become fully aware that Monsieur Albert and Monsieur le Baron were really of precisely the same value! She had been in the adjoining room when Felix and Albert Timm had been holding their conversation, and she had felt as if she ought to sink into the ground for shame and indignation when she heard how the two gentlemen bargained so unceremoniously for her virtue, as if they had bargained for a horse. To dispel every doubt as to what she had only half understood, she had managed to meet Mr. Timm when he left the baron in the ante-room. Here she had asked him, hot-blooded as she was, about the matter, and received an answer which caused her to be bathed in tears, when Mr. Bemperlein came in a few minutes later.

Felix, however, was content to have driven off his most dangerous rival, and did not pursue his advantage for the present. The whole affair had become too serious for his taste for one thing, and then another business was just now claiming his whole attention. His health had become so much worse during the last days that even his frivolity could no longer make him blind to the imminence of actual danger. The wounds, but half healed, opened once more; a slow fever undermined his nervous system by day and by night, and he had hardly fallen asleep when a hacking cough waked him from dreams so fearful that even sleeplessness seemed a benefit in comparison. The anxiety about his health was increased by other cares which he had formerly treated very lightly, but which now had a sad effect upon his hypochondriac temper, and confused and troubled him sorely. People would crowd into his bed-chamber who would not be refused admittance by his servants--people with odd faces and remarkably soiled linen, who had no sooner succeeded in making their way to his bed-side than they opened large pocketbooks and presented the baron with a little bit of a note "for two hundred or three hundred dollars--a mere trifle for the baron."

Perhaps the baron would have been able to redeem these ominous papers if he had been what he had hoped to be when he adorned them with his signature: the acknowledged affianced of Helen, and the son-in-law of the richest landowner of the province. But unfortunately he was neither the one nor the other, had no prospect of becoming such, and could therefore not be very much astonished if the baroness was less gracious every time she met one of these suspicious personages. It had been different a few weeks ago, when the sun of his invincible power of charming was still in the zenith. Felix knew perfectly well that his aunt was so liberal only, in spite of her natural disposition, because she knew him to be in possession of a grave family secret. But even this last tie, which could be replaced by no other, was hanging on a single thread.

For he could not doubt that it was only the fear of "the stupid honesty of the baron"--the identical words of his amiable wife--which kept her from bringing matters to a crisis in her conflict with Albert Timm, and Felix was by no means quite sure whether even this fear was likely to induce her to assent to the bargain which he had made with Albert in her name. He had, therefore, not dared yet to tell her the full amount for which he had purchased Albert's silence.

His timidity in the whole business had a very good motive in his critical situation. He had to keep his aunt in the best possible humor in order to obtain from her the sums he required for his personal wants. It would be time enough hereafter to enlighten her on the subject of Timm's demand. Felix hated Oswald intensely, and it would have been intolerable to him to see the hated man obtain possession of the large fortune with Albert's aid, and perhaps after awhile also of Helen's hand; but all that had to give way for the present to the imperative necessities of his position.

This was the condition of things when the baroness came on the morning after the party, where Felix of course had not been able to be present, to pay the patient a visit, after having been ceremoniously announced. Felix was wrapped up in a large dressing gown, and sat shivering close to the stove. His big eyes, once so supercilious, and now glassy and staring, and the sickly, well-defined red spot on his lean cheeks, bore witness to the rapid progress which the disease had made during the last days. Somewhat astonished at such a visit at so unusual an hour, he half rose from his chair, and offered his aunt his thin feverish hand.

"Bon jour, ma tante! must I say, so early or so late? for you have been dancing till very recently. I heard the bass viol all the way down to my room here: brm! brm! brm! until it nearly made me crazy; and if you had not cured me of cursing, my dear aunt, I could have wished the accursed creature who made all the tantrum down to the deepest place in----"

"I hope your health is not worse to-day than your cursing," said Anna Maria, smiling. She settled down in an arm-chair before the patient, and took out some work as an evidence that she intended to pay a long visit. "But seriously speaking, dear Felix, I have been sorry for you, and I have come to ask your pardon for the interruption."

"Why, you are prodigiously gracious to-day, ma tante?"

"I thought I always was so," replied Anna Maria; "only there are people who will never be persuaded of it."

"I am not one of them, dear aunt."

"I know it, Felix; and I trust you will acknowledge that I have always done for you whatever was in my power."

"Yes indeed; yes indeed!" murmured Felix, reflecting whether this was a favorable moment to mention to his aunt a little affair in which he was involved--now nearly three months--with a certain Mr. Wolfson, of the firm of Wolfson, Reinike & Co., and which had to be settled in a few days.

"The company--who, however, broke up punctually at a quarter past two, dear Felix--seemed to enjoy themselves very much," continued the baroness, "and I was heartily sorry that you could not be there. It is really high time you should report yourself well again."

"God knows!" sighed the patient, impatiently tossing about in his arm-chair, "I am turning a perfect hypochondriac in this hole. But tell me something about yesterday. Who was there?"

"Oh, not a great many; you know I do not like very large parties: Grieben, Nadlitz, Bamewitz, Cloten----"

"That is not a bad arrangement of names," said Felix. "Did not Hortense and Clotilde scratch each other's eyes out?"

"Oh, no! they are the best friends in the world; and besides, yesterday they had no reason to dispute each other the palm, as that had been decided before by the unanimous judgment of the whole company."

"Oh, indeed! And who was this bird Phœnix?"

"Your cousin, dear Felix," said the baroness, counting the stitches in her work; "she looked really magnificent last night. I was quite surprised myself; but she was universally admired."

Felix listened attentively. To hear Helen praised by her mother was such a new air that he did not trust his ears.

"It looks as if the last weeks--five, six, seven--had, after all, had a very happy effect upon her. She has eight, nine, ten--lost a good deal of her haughtiness; the Countess Grieben congratulated me on her modest, truly womanly manners."

"Pardon me, dear aunt," said Felix, most bitterly; "but I can hardly rejoice as much as you at this favorable change. I wish it had taken place a few weeks before. Perhaps I should then not be lying here helpless, like a horse who has been hamstrung;" and he struck the arm of his chair violently with his sound hand.

"I know you have some reason to complain of Helen," said the baroness; "but hatred and revenge are very unchristian feelings, especially between relatives, whom nature has ordained for mutual love."

"Oh, certainly," interrupted Felix. "You are perfectly right, dear aunt! Our whole plan was built upon that supposition. What a pity, though, that Miss Helen did not care at all for this Christian love for our relatives!"

"You are bitter, Felix; and, as I said before, I admit that you may complain. But let us talk now of the matter that brought me here so early in the morning. The state of your health, dear Felix, causes me such great concern that I have been thinking of it all last night, and now I have formed a plan. You must start, and as soon as possible, on your trip to Italy."

Felix was destined to-day to pass from one astonishment into another. The physicians had advised this trip urgently for a fortnight; Anna Maria had opposed it as strenuously, because neither Felix, as she thought, nor she herself could at that moment afford to provide the necessary means. All of a sudden these means were forthcoming! All who knew the consistency of the baroness must have known that only a very extraordinary reason could have produced so sudden a change in her views.

What this reason was Felix did not learn in the further course of the conversation. He did not care particularly to know it. The last days and nights, full of pain, had broken his spirit; the frivolous haughtiness which he had so far boastingly exhibited had given way to mournful nervousness, in which but one thought remained uppermost--the desire to be well again at any cost. For this great purpose any means were welcome. If his aunt was willing to furnish the means for his travels, which he knew were indispensable for his recovery, well!--and all the better, the more she gave! Why she gave--why she gave now, after having declared it only a few days before utterly impossible to raise the means--what did he care for that? No more than a man who is in danger of drowning inquires from whence the saving log comes swimming down to which he clings at the very last moment.

When the baroness rose an hour later and folded up her work, the Italian journey was a settled matter. Felix was, if his condition did not grow worse, to start in a few days. "You know, dear Felix," said Anna Maria, "I am in favor of doing promptly what has to be done. And here there is danger in delay; besides, I should forever reproach myself bitterly if I had not done whatever was in my feeble power to avert this threatening danger from you."

She offered him kindly her bony hand, and Felix kissed it reverently. Anna Maria then left the room.

"The old dragon," grumbled Felix, sinking back exhausted; "what can have gotten into her head to make her all of a sudden so liberal? How lucky I did not tell her how much that rascal Timm is asking for! She will have to hear it one of these days; but not before I am down in Italy. Oh! my arm! I must submit to a regular cure; and, after all, every man is his own nearest neighbor."

"The foolish fellow," thought Anna Maria, as she slowly walked back to her room through the long passages; "it is hard that I have to go to such fearful expense after having paid so much for him already. But it cannot be helped. He must leave the house, and this is the most respectable and the least noisy way to get rid of him."

The explanation of the generosity of the baroness was very simple. The ambitious thought that her daughter had at least as much prospect to become the wife of the prince as any other lady, had been so much encouraged last night during the party that it had grown up into a well-built plan. The prince had distinguished Helen in the most flattering manner. He had not only against all rules, danced twice with her, but he had, besides, borrowed her from her regular partner as often as an opportunity offered; he had led her to supper, and during the whole evening not lost sight of her for a moment; he had, finally, spoken in the most exalted terms of the incomparable beauty of the young baroness to the Countess Grieben, who had reported his words five minutes later to the baroness. All this was the more striking as the cool reserve with which that grand seigneur generally received all the homage offered him by the provincial nobility had already become proverbial. What was poor Felix in comparison with this proud eagle? A poor crow, plucked bare by misfortune and countless creditors. And especially now since the physicians began to shake their heads ominously, and when the baroness asked them upon their consciences, answered: they would give the young baron six months, unless a miracle took place! What was Felix when he ceased to be the presumptive heir to the entailed estates? Nothing!--less than nothing; a very expensive pensioner on the bounty of the family, whose only merit was that he would in all probability not draw that pension long! No, no! That sun had set in mist and fogs; now a more brilliant, a more powerful sun must give its light. It was worth while to become the mother-in-law of His Highness Prince Waldenberg. Then the obstinate, intolerably obstinate old husband might die today or to-morrow, and the executors were welcome to add the revenues from the estates, which now belonged to her, to the principal. She had laid aside enough, thanks to her wise economy; and then there was the very respectable sum of Harald's legacy, which that impudent fellow, Timm, would no longer dare to trouble her about. And suppose even that the baron should leave Helen the greater part of his fortune, which seemed very probable, the gratitude of a princely son-in-law to whom she had given so beautiful a wife, and of a daughter to whom she had given a princely husband, was in itself a capital that must bring ample interest.

Strange! from the moment in which this brilliant perspective had opened for Helen she had no longer felt any resentment against the rebellious child. Even her pride, of which she had so bitterly complained, now appeared to her eyes as a merit in the girl. Was not this very haughtiness, together with the beauty which it served to bring out more strikingly, that feature which had evidently decided the prince to give the preference to her daughter over other young ladies like that very beautiful but blond and sentimental Miss Nadelitz, and even over pretty, coquettish Emily Cloten, and graceful, intriguing Hortense Barnewitz? For the past two days the baroness had actually felt some affection for her daughter--her beautiful, brilliant daughter--who, by her prudent management had secured the bright dazzling prospect of becoming Princess Waldenberg-Malikowsky, Countess of Letbus!

The first step towards this lofty goal was of course a full reconciliation with Helen. The catastrophe at Grenwitz had taught her to respect an adversary who was able to act with so much firmness in spite of her youth. Henceforth she would see if she could not succeed better with love and kindness; and how could she better prove this love and kindness than by recalling the disobedient and yet cherished child from her banishment back again (if only Felix would go quickly!) to the paternal house, to the dear parents who impatiently expected their beloved daughter! She had immediately begun this great work of reconciliation; this very day she hoped to finish the preliminaries.

It was a late hour on that day. The windows in Miss Bear's boarding-school had been darkened for two hours, except one which looked upon the garden in the rear. He who could have watched this window from the garden, or from the public park which adjoined the garden--and there was really a young man leaning against the trunk of a beech-tree whose eyes were incessantly directed through the dense darkness towards the lighted window--might have seen that the light came from a lamp which was standing quite near it on an escritoire, and that the occupant of the room was sitting at the escritoire writing or reading; it could not be distinguished.

The occupant of the room was Helen Grenwitz. She was writing eagerly, with burning cheeks, as young ladies who have no confidant but a friend hundreds of miles away are apt to write:

"You quiet, prudent girl, with your quiet, prudent blue eyes! Ah, who could pass through life as you do, ever true to one's self! Who could have your peace of soul, in which everything is reflected, as in a deep still lake, in clear colors and sharp outlines! Whatever you think right to-day, you think so to-morrow; what you like to-day, you will not dislike to-morrow. The standard by which you measure men is, though severe, unchangeably the same; he who does not come up to it is, to your mind, not your equal, and you treat him accordingly, to-morrow as to-day, and every other day, with that mild kindness for which I have so often envied you. With me, alas! everything is different--so very different! My heart is a storm-tossed ocean, and the images of life tremble in it, changing and restless, and troubling me like so many spectres. On the surface, to be sure--well, there all is apparently calm; at least people say so, and I feel so; but down below!--there it seethes and boils; there are wishes growing up which I dare scarcely confess to myself; there thoughts are rising that frighten me; there a longing is forever blooming--a longing of which I have often told you, and alas! never in words equal to what I really feel, and which you always sent back into the realm of dreams. Is it possible that you were right? that the passion which is glowing within me is never to be cooled? that the voice which often calls from the depth of my soul in every still night, as just now, full of complaint, of yearning, of despair--that this voice is never to find an echo? My brow is burning, my eyes are blinded, my heart beats impatiently! What do you want, restless, wild heart!--Love? Yes! Power, and honor, and distinction? Yes! But how, if you cannot have all at once; if you must sacrifice the one or the other!--how then? Which are you willing to give up? Love? No! High rank? No! Oh no!... Well then! beat on restless and unsatisfied, and trouble me without pity, till this hand and this head shall be tired of counting your feverish pulsations!

"I see you looking at me expectantly, with your soft, blue eyes; I see your lips trembling with the question: What is the matter, dearest? Oh, dearest darling, you are to tell me! For some time now, I have not known myself any longer.

"I wrote you that I saw Mr. S. accidentally from my window, and that I wished very much to see him alone. My wish was to be fulfilled the same day. I met him at Miss R's, and as my servant did not come for me, he accompanied me home. We had a conversation on the way which affected me deeply, as it turned on Bruno, and I had, at last, an opportunity of thanking Mr. S., as I had so long desired to do. I was deeply moved when he took leave of me at the door. The charm which this man has always had for me, and which I can only shake off when I do not see or hear anything of him, had become once more all-powerful in his presence. I felt it; and yet, just on that account--you know me--I did not avoid seeing him again, although I might easily have done so.

"Two evenings later I met him again, also at Miss R's. This time the servant was behind us as we went home, but as we spoke French--Mr. S. speaks it beautifully; he told me he was half French by descent--our conversation was as free as if we had been alone. What the two days' absence had set right, two hours' intercourse destroyed again, and I found out to my great humiliation--and I write it with blushing cheeks--that the feeling which overcomes me when he is near is stronger than my pride. Not that he is so imposing by his lofty mind or by his male strength! Far from it. He does not resemble the ideal which I bear in my heart of the hero whom I might love; but there is something in the tone of his voice, in the glance of his large blue eyes, in his whole manner, which touches me unspeakably. And then--I mean to be candid with you--I know that he loves me, and, as it cannot be otherwise under the circumstances, loves me without hope, and that makes him dear to me, like the dagger with the bright Damascus blade and the golden handle which I, a girl of twelve, found in the armory at Grenwitz, and which I then took as a precious treasure to my room, and never have allowed to pass away again into other hands. I know--Oswald and the dagger--both belong to me; to me alone. It is so exquisitely sweet to be able to call something one's own of which nobody else knows anything, nobody suspects anything, and which is still sure to stand by us, and to assist us in extremity, when all others shall have abandoned us. Whenever I see Oswald's eyes fixed upon me I feel as if I were drawing the dagger half-way from the sheath and saw the blade glitter in the sunlight.

"But there is danger in this glittering. How often have I drawn out the weapon entirely, and, placing the sharp point upon my heart, said to myself: a slight pressure and you are no more! And there is danger in the presence of this man; a word from him, and he has ceased to live for me; and if I were weak enough to reply--I dare not think of it; I dare not think how near I have already been standing to the abyss.

"I have determined not to go any more to Miss R's, and I have carried out my determination. Day before yesterday, towards evening, when I was alone in the garden--the others were walking out as usually with Miss Bear as leader--I heard the roaring of the sea so distinctly that I felt an invincible desire to see my favorite element once more eye to eye. Our garden adjoins a public park which extends down to the sea-shore. It belongs to the city, and is, I am told, a popular promenade in the summer. In autumn, however, and especially in the evening, when it is damp and cool, I had never seen anybody in the wide avenues under the tall trees. I therefore, opened, the gate, which was not locked, and went into the park. It was darker there than in the garden; the evening breeze was sighing in the bare branches of the mighty beech-trees; the sea roared grandly. Beneath my feet the dry leaves were rustling; overhead two crows were cawing, unable to find rest on the storm-tossed branches. I wrapped myself closer in my shawl and went on. The darkness was coming on apace, and the cool, damp breath of the woods and the sea brought their old charm to bear upon me, as I had felt it so often in early childhood. I felt no fear; the happiness to be for once perfectly alone with myself and my thoughts--alone amid such surroundings, which entirely harmonized with my state of mind--did not allow such feelings to rise in me. I went on and on, as in a dream, till I came to the end of the avenue. There a small open square, almost entirely overshadowed by tall trees, looks in one direction towards the sea, which breaks almost directly upon the moderately high but steep shore. An iron railing runs along the edge. There are benches here for the tired visitor, and for all who wish to enjoy the coolness of the place and the view over the sea. I was leaning on the railing and looking out upon the dark waste of waters, bright in its way amid the darkness, and I saw wave follow wave without rest and breaking into foam upon the smooth pebbles of the narrow beach. The thunder, which drowned every other noise, was like a nursery song for my stormy heart, and lulled me to dream wonderfully of happiness deep and boundless, like the deep, boundless sea, on whose fading horizon my eyes were hanging, and--would happiness else have any charms for me?--of fearful mysteries and unforeseen dangers.

"Suddenly a voice fell upon my ear from quite near by. I rose from my stooping position, and Mr. S. was standing before me.

"'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'if I interrupt you in pleasant dreams; but the accident which made me find you here at this hour is too remarkable to be looked upon as nothing more than a mere accident.'

"I was so surprised and frightened by this sudden meeting--and I suddenly saw how very improper the step was--that I replied coldly and sharply:

"'How do you mean, sir? I hope it is really an accident only which procures me at this moment the pleasure of your company?'

"He stepped back a step.

"'Pardon me, Miss Helen,' he said, 'I did not know you objected to my presence.'

"He bowed, and went away.

"The tone in which he had uttered these words cut me to the heart. When he was a few yards off, I could not bear it any longer. I called his name. The next moment he was again by my side.

"'Mr. S.,' I said, 'I beg your pardon. I was frightened I did not know what I was saying.'

"'No, no!' he replied. 'You were quite right. It is not an accident which has made us meet here. At least not on my side. I saw you enter the park; I followed you; I did not lose sight of you for an instant.'

"'And do you often come here?' I inquired, as we began to walk back the dark avenue.

"'Yes,' he replied; 'the unhappy find in darkness and solitude their most suitable companions.'

"I did not have the courage to ask him why he was unhappy; we went on side by side in deep silence. I hastened my steps, for the old charm was creeping over me and I was determined to escape. A few minutes brought us to the iron gate which leads from the garden into the park. Among the shrubbery and under the tall trees it was quite dark. My heart beat as if it would burst. I was determined, should it cost me my life, to reject his love, if he should begin to speak of love; and still I wished him to speak; I was angry because he did not speak. The few seconds seemed to be an eternity--an eternity of fear and hope. We were standing at the gate. Oswald opened it. I thanked him, and wished him good-night. He only answered by a silent bow. When the gate fell behind me into the latch I started like a prisoner who hears close behind him the door of the cell which parts him forever from life. At first I felt like stretching my hand after him through the grating and telling him--I know not what; but I checked myself and went, without looking back, rapidly up to the house; and when I had reached my room I threw myself on the sofa, and wept bitterly, bitterly--as I had never wept before in my life--as I did not think Helen Grenwitz would ever be able to weep!

"But then I rose and swore I would overcome this weakness, which was so humiliating, at any risk and sacrifice. My pride, I felt it, is my only property--the bright weapon which makes me, when I hold it in my hand, the equal of any adversary, even of my mother! I thought with trembling of the moment when I should feel humiliated before myself after having humiliated myself before others; when I should no longer be able to look boldly into her cold, stern eyes. I knew--I knew with absolute certainty--that that moment would be the last of my life.

"And thus I went to bed; but sleep would not come. I was lying there, my hands crossed on my bosom, and I repeated to myself over and over again what I had sworn; and whenever my heart became heavy--ah, so heavy! from an unspeakable sense of wretchedness--then I put the point of my dagger upon my disobedient, rebellious heart, and it became quiet again and humble! It felt, so to say, that it had no hope of victory in a battle between pride and love. At last I fell asleep and dreamed I was reconciled to my mother. She covered me with kisses and with jewels; but the kisses were icy, and the jewels chilled me to the marrow of my bones. Yet I suffered it to be done, and she took me by the hand and led me through dark passages into the brilliantly-lighted interior of a church which was full of people. The eyes of all these people were fixed upon me. Then it was suddenly no longer my mother who held my hand, but a tall, strange man in a uniform dazzling with gold and diamonds. I could not see his face, for he held it always aside. Thus we approached the altar; a priest was standing on the steps. The organ sounded, and song filled the high vaults. Above the priest hung a large wooden crucifix, such as we have hanging in the chapel at Grenwitz, which always filled me with horror when I was a child. The same horror overcame me now; for while the priest was speaking, the image was continually shaking its head; and when I examined it more accurately it bore Oswald's features, but disfigured and deadly pale, and in the side of the body my dagger was sticking up to the hilt, and black drops of blood were trickling down one by one. Then it opened its lips and cried aloud--a fearful, yelling cry--and the cry scattered the crowd, the vaults came down with a crash, and the man by my side changed into a skeleton. I tried in vain to escape from its hold. It seized me with its bony arms and went down with me into dark depths--faster, faster, till I awoke with horror! The dismal autumn morning was looking into my room, but I thought I still heard the trumpets, and it took me some time before I could make out that they were the melancholy strains of a military band which escorted a funeral past our house to the graveyard near by.

"I tried to smile at my ridiculous dream, and I succeeded; because I willed it; because I was determined not to allow empty fancies of an excited imagination to influence my decision. Besides, I could now, when I was calm again, readily explain how the dream had come about. The night before I had seen Oswald take leave of me, suffering greatly; on this very day I was to meet my mother once more after a long, long interval. My father had brought about this interview. He wished me to be at a party which they proposed to give, and I could not refuse my good father this request.

"I went there in the morning at the time for visiting. The meeting was less painful than I had expected, I found fortunately a crowd of visitors there--the Clotens, Barnewitz, etc.; also an officer--a Prince Waldenberg--a remarkably stately, proud man, but not handsome. He had, of course, introduced himself to me, and asked me to give him a waltz for the next night. Soon afterwards the visitors left, and I also. Emily Cloten--I have often written to you about her--congratulated me, as she drove me back to my boarding-school in her carriage, on my 'conquest.' I told her I had no fondness for conquests which were so easily made. 'Chacun a son goût,' she answered, laughing. 'I, for my part, think that what we do not catch on the wing is not worth catching. My motto is always: l'amour ou la vie. It is true I am a swallow, and live on midges. Royal eagles, like yourself, must have nobler prey: a prey which at need can defend itself. The princely quarry is too proud for me, I confess. But for you--e'est autre chose. Like and like, you know.'

"The frivolous words of the talkative woman had roused my curiosity. I resolved to examine the prince more closely during the party. In the humor in which I was I liked the idea of measuring my pride against the pride of another. Had I not sworn never again to admit softer feelings to my heart? Thus it was a kind of comfort to me that there were other people in the world who thought about it as I did.

"My mother received me on the evening of the next day with a kindness which, to say the least, I had not deserved. It was evidently her intention to show me that she intended a genuine reconciliation. She kissed my forehead, took me by the hand and led me to the ladies, who likewise overwhelmed me with civility. It looked as if the whole festivity was arranged only for my sake, as if I was the centre of the whole. Wherever I sat or stood I had a circle of gentlemen and ladies around me, like a queen.

"It was the first time since I had left Grenwitz that I could again move among my equals in fine, well-lighted rooms. I felt, more clearly than I had ever felt it before, that this was the only sphere in which I could move freely, that this was the only air I could breathe with comfort; in fine, that I was born to rule and not to serve. It seemed to me all of a sudden not so very difficult after all to keep the vow which I had burnt in that night into my heart with glowing tears. I only smiled at the fancies of a girl at boarding-school. And with a smile I received the homage which was profusely laid at my feet.

"Among those around me was also Prince Waldenberg. I did not need to inquire after his family and circumstances. Everybody was eager to furnish me with information. He is a native of Russia, and immensely rich. His mother's estates--she is Princess Letbus--lie in various parts of Russia; he is Prince Waldenberg through his mother, who comes of that family. Since he has succeeded to the estates, he has left the Russian service for our service. His father is a Count Malikowsky. Both parents are still alive, and he is their only child. You see, dear Mary, here appears in my letters for the first time a real grandee, who is the equal of your dukes and marquises; and while the prince's black eyes, however far he was from me, were all the time looking at me, I was thinking of you, whether I would see an encouraging smile in your eyes if you were here, and you would say, 'He is worthy of you!' I hoped you would, for the appearance and the manner of the prince is as lofty as his rank. I noticed with heartfelt shame how sorry our own young men looked by his side, and how they all tried in vain to copy his way of walking and his carriage. He spoke several times very eagerly with me. One of his sayings I remember, because it came from my own heart. I asked him why he, who has thousands and thousands of serfs, was serving in the army like our young noblemen, who had nothing in the world but their swords? 'Because I am too proud,' he replied, 'to wish to rule where I am not fully entitled to rule.' 'How so, highness?' I am not sovereign; my ancestors were sovereign; I have to pay for the weakness of my ancestors.' 'Would you not have given up the sovereignty?' 'Never,' he said, and this was the only time that I saw a kind of genuine emotion in his cold, proud face; 'never! a thousand times rather my life. But,' he added after a short pause, 'I know somebody who also would rather die than be humbled.' 'And who can that be?' 'You yourself, Miss Helen.'

"The party did not end till late at night. Papa sent me home in our carriage. Mamma promised to return my visit the next day; that was to-day. She really came this forenoon. She was again exceedingly kind, paid me many compliments about my conduct last night, and expressed her desire to have me back again at the house, just as my father also wishes it. However, she left it entirely to me, whether I would come back at all, and when. 'You did not exactly have your free will when you went away,' she said; 'I want, therefore, at least to be perfectly sure that your coming back is quite voluntary.'

"'And cousin Felix?' 'He leaves in a few days for Italy. I shall of course not expect you to stay with him under the same roof.'

"Certainly, even if my mother does not mean it honestly, she has at least found the right way to my heart. I am half decided to do what she and papa want me to do."

The young girl had, as it will happen, felt all the changes of her own heart which she described in her letter, once more in their full strength. The tormenting conflict between love and ambition, the desire to read clearly her own heart, had put the pen into her hand, and she had at last obtained in the process of writing that peace which had been so far from her when she began her letter.

She was leaning back in her chair with folded arms, and was looking fixedly before her as in a dream. She listened mechanically to the modulations of the night-wind in the poplar-trees before the window, through which she heard occasionally the low thunder of the ocean as it dashed against the shore. This music recalled to her the earliest recollections of her childhood, and with them very different sensations from those of which she had been writing. Suddenly she started and listened breathlessly towards the window. Through the mournful sounds of the wind she heard the singing of a soft, deep voice. At first she fancied it was a trick of her excited imagination, but as she listened more attentively, she distinguished the words. The voice sang:

"Thy face, alas! so fair and dear,
I saw it in my dreams quite near.
It was so angel-like, so sweet,
And yet with pain and grief replete,
The lips alone, they are still red,
But soon they will be pale and dead."

Then the wind became louder again and silenced the voice; then it began once more distinctly:

"The lips alone, they are still red,
But soon they will be pale and dead."

Helen trembled in all her limbs. She knew the singer could not look up into the lighted room; but she felt as if his eyes--his blue dreamy eyes--were resting on her. She dared not move, she hardly dared to breathe. Once more, but at a greater distance now, scarcely to be distinguished, he sang:

"The lips alone, they are still red, But soon they will be pale and dead."

Helen thought of the image in her dream, the pale crucified one, who shook his head so sadly when the priest was saying the blessing; and she thought of the dagger which had been thrust into his side up to the golden hilt, and of the drops of blood which slowly trickled down, and shuddering, she pressed, her face in her hands.