CHAPTER XII.
The baroness had with her own tenacity held on to her plan to make her daughter Princess Waldenberg. She had spared no trouble, nay--what was much more in her case--no expense, and had spent an immense amount of hypocritical friendship and love, many smooth words, and still smoother compliments, in order to fulfil the duty of an affectionate mother towards her daughter.
She had conquered the ground foot by foot. In the first place, Felix, who had once enjoyed all her favor, and who was now fallen so low, had been compelled to leave the field, and to take his trip to Nice, according to the directions of the physicians. Felix had gone quite willingly. He had nothing more to gain in Grunwald, and nothing to lose but the last faint hope of recovery. His existence in Italy had been secured for several years by his generous aunt, who knew perfectly well that he had only a few months more to live. He had arranged all his affairs, and spoken candidly to his aunt about everything except that one unpleasant story about Timm. He left Anna Maria under the pleasant impression that the impertinent young man had been intimidated by him, and that he had been satisfied with a few hundred dollars. Felix, of course, did not desire to spoil his aunt's good humor by touching this sore point, and thus to ruin his own prospects. He thought he could arrange such matters much better in writing, and "when she sees that the thing cannot be helped, she will submit to it." Thus he left the house, followed by the sincere good wishes of his uncle, and bedewed with the tears of his aunt.
"Heaven be thanked, he is gone!" thought the baroness, as she returned to her room through the assembled servants, pressing her handkerchief upon her eyes; "now for Helen to come back, and--the rest will follow."
On the same day she paid a visit to the boarding school, and had first a long conversation with Miss Bear. The baroness was very tender to-day. She had just said farewell to a beloved relative whose fate oppressed her heart, and who went probably for a long time, perhaps forever--here the handkerchief performed its duty once more. Her heart was consequently deeply distressed. "Ah, believe me, my dear Miss Bear," she said; "it is hard to have to part in such a way with a young man whom I have loved as my own son; to have to see his youthful vigor cruelly broken, and with it all the fond hopes which had been cherished for his future. And poor Helen, also, will feel the blow sadly; for, if I am not altogether mistaken, a tender attachment had begun to bud between the two relatives, whom Heaven itself seemed to have formed for each other. An attachment which was at first concealed, as happens often enough, by an apparent aversion, and that so successfully that I myself was deceived for a time, and--quite entre nous, dear Miss Bear--felt quite angry against the poor child. Now"--and the handkerchief goes once more to the eyes--"now, I know better. But all the greater is my desire to have my dear child back again. Would you take it amiss, my dear Miss Bear, if I were to carry off the precious jewel so soon again, after having entrusted it to your kind and prudent hands?"
The She Bear had too much sense not to perceive the contradiction in the former and the present manner of the baroness. She received, therefore, the confidence of the great lady with great reserve, and only asked whether Helen was to return to the paternal home at once, or only at a later time.
"I think we had better leave that to the dear child," replied Anna Maria, still afraid of a possible refusal on Helen's part. "I know she likes to be here; and, besides, I should not like to interfere in any way with her studies, her plans, and even her fancies. Helen knows my wishes. For the present, therefore, I would only ask you, dear Miss Bear, to use your influence over my child in my favor--in favor of a poor woman who is sorely afflicted by a grievous loss."
Anna Maria had scarcely left the institute when Miss Bear went up to Helen to communicate to her the conversation she had just had. She had taken off her gold spectacles for that purpose; she had smoothed down the official wrinkles on her brow, and carried up with her as much kindly feeling as a sober, pedantic She Bear can possibly feel for a fair young girl who, in her opinion, has been badly treated by her mother.
"Let us be candid with each other, dear Helen," said Miss Bear, taking the slender white hand of the young lady familiarly into her own bony hands. "My dear Sophie, who has just written to me, and who sends you much love, informed me at the beginning of our acquaintance of certain facts which helped me to understand what would otherwise be inexplicable in the conduct of your mother. You need not blush, my dear child; not a word has been said that could injure you in my eyes; on the contrary, Sophie and myself have only pitied you heartily, that you should have so much to suffer while you are still so young. We looked upon your removal from your father's house as upon a kind of banishment, and we thought at the same time you might find a desirable asylum here. If this is so, and if you still look upon it in that light, pray say so. It is not my way to create discord, especially between mother and daughter, but as matters are, I do not think it can be wrong in me to choose the side I like best."
The She Bear paused. Helen seemed to be more affected than she generally showed, but her self-control did not fail her even now. Almost cheerfully she said,
"You are very kind. Miss Bear; kinder indeed than I deserve; but your friendly interest in me has probably made my mother's conduct appear in too unfavorable a light to you. We have, for a time, stood in somewhat decided opposition to each other; but I hope mamma has forgotten it all as completely as I have. You know how fond I am of your house, and how much I like to be here; but if my mother really wishes me to return, as it seems she does, I should consider it my duty to obey her wishes, without asking whether it agrees with my own wishes or not."
The She Bear was by no means particularly pleased with this answer. She had opened her heart to the young girl; she had, to a certain extent, committed herself in order to win Helen's confidence; and now, instead of confidence, instead of frankness, she met nothing but reserve and diplomatic prudence! The good old lady felt deeply hurt, and left the room with pain at her heart, after having skilfully led the conversation into another channel.
The baroness had shown by her conduct to-day that she knew the heart of her daughter, at least in one direction. It flattered Helen's pride that her mother should not even venture to come with her request directly to her, but prefer hiding behind Miss Bear. She had decided, on the evening on which she wrote to Mary Burton, that she would return to her father's house. While she was describing the triumphs she had enjoyed in the salons of her mother, and the homage that had been offered her on all sides, she had felt a delight which, to call it by its proper name, was nothing else but the sweet sense of gratified vanity after deep humiliation. Helen's friendship for Mary Burton by no means excluded envy--for such are the friendships of girls; and Miss Burton had, it must be confessed, done all she could do to fan the fire of this evil passion in her friend's heart. The young English girl had no sooner returned to her country from the boarding-school in Hamburg than she had made a great match, marrying one of the most eligible men in all England. Helen recollected very well how the romance which had come so suddenly to a happy end had first commenced. She and Mary, then girls of fourteen, had made a trip to Heligoland in company with the principal of the school and half a dozen other girls from Hamburg, and on this occasion they had gone on board a British man-of-war, lying at anchor there. The officers had, of course, received their charming visitors with the greatest courtesy and after refreshments had been offered, they had wound up with an exceedingly pleasant little ball on the main deck. The captain of the frigate, a handsome young man, with a dark sunburnt complexion, had especially attracted the attention of the young ladies, and would have been still more popular with them all if he had not so signally distinguished his countrywoman, Mary Burton. The consequence was that Miss Mary Burton was henceforth incessantly teased about the handsome captain, until at last the trip to Heligoland and all that belonged to it was forgotten amid new and more stirring events. But two persons had never forgotten it, and these two were the captain and Miss Mary Burton. When the young lady returned to England, three years later, one of the first persons she met at the house of a relative, a great lady in town, was Captain Crawley, who now, since his father and elder brother had died, was Lord Crawley and the owner of a magnificent property. A week later the fashionable world was surprised by the marriage of his lordship with Miss Mary Burton, a young lady utterly unknown before. But no one was more painfully struck by this news than Helen Grenwitz. She had been Mary's most intimate friend; she had always been seen with her, spoken of with her; but, and this was the bitter thing, she had always been considered the prettier by far and the more striking, and nobody had acquiesced more readily in this decision than Mary in her modesty. Mary worshipped her brilliant friend; Helen Grenwitz was in her eyes an inapproachable beau ideal; she invariably submitted to her better judgment; and when the two girls built their castles in the air for the future, Mary built magnificent palaces for Helen, and contented herself with a thatched cottage by the side of a purling brook. Helen had accepted this worship as a princess accepts the attentions of her ladies in waiting. Mary had told her so often that she was the more beautiful, the more charming of the two--Helen would have been a marvel of nature if, with her pride and self-sufficiency, she had been able to resist the effects of this affectionate worship.
And now it was this humble friend who made such a brilliant match, which raised her at once to the very highest rank in society, and actually brought her in connection with more than one sovereign family, while she--Helen dared not think it out. But now, when an opportunity offered to escape from this humiliating position; now, when even her proud mother condescended to proffer a request which she did not dare present in person; now there could be no doubt any longer as to what she ought to do; and Miss Bear, who offered her with troublesome kindness an asylum at her institute, simply did not know how matters stood at that moment.
When Miss Bear had left her, Helen walked up and down in her room with folded arms. At last she stepped to the window and gazed into the autumnal evening. On the sky, heavy dark clouds were drifting slowly; below them light-gray little clouds passed with the swiftness of arrows. The almost bare branches of the slender poplar-trees rocked to and fro in the sharp wind which hissed and whistled through the few leaves, while a crow came flapping her wings, sat for a few moments on the topmost branch of one of the trees, rocking restlessly to and fro, cawed as if the inhospitable treatment was too provoking, and flew away again. Helen opened the window. The cool, damp breath of evening brought her the sharp odor of mouldering leaves. The poplars in the garden rustled louder, and the tall beeches in the park waved ghastly, and every now and then the low roar of the waves of the sea came in monotonous intervals far inland.
She looked out; she did not mind the damp air which in an instant covered her black hair with a dewy veil; she only stared more perseveringly into the evening as it grew darker every moment. Strange visions passed through her mind. Proud palaces rose by the side of blue lakes, in which dark forests were reflected; and from the palace came a merry hunting train with horn and bugle; and at the head of the long procession rode a lady on a small horse by the side of a man who negligently curbed his fiery black horse and never turned his dark face from the young lady by his side; and all, as far as the eye could reach--castle and lake and forests and fields, which spread down, down along the lake, and far, far into the country--all belonged to the young lady and her husband, the knight on the proud horse And then castle and forests and fields sank into the lake, and the lake grew into a sea which beat high up against the white chalk-cliffs with their crown of lofty beech forests; and up there on the high bank, in the glow of the setting sun, stood the same young lady who had been riding on the small graceful horse by the side of a man who was not the cavalier on the black horse, and they looked both out upon the glorious sight as the sun sank in the swelling masses of waves; and as they stood and looked, they folded their hands like praying children, and looked at each other with eyes full of love and overflowing with tears.
The wind rushed wildly through the poplars, and the young girl started up from her reveries. She cast a glance at the dim twilight that was hovering over the park. Two figures--a man and a woman--were passing the open space between the bosquets, walking arm in arm. It was only an instant, but the sharp eye of the young girl had recognized them both; at least she thought she had recognized them. A feeling such as she had never yet experienced overcame her. She must be sure that she had seen correctly--that Oswald Stein had really met Emily Cloten at this hour here in this place. The next moment she had wrapped herself up in a shawl, put on a hat with a close veil, and had hurried down the stairs which led into the garden, and was now standing at the gate that led from the garden into the park. All of a sudden her courage left her. She was ashamed of an impulse that had misled her, and made her take so unwomanly a step, of which she heartily repented. She was just about to turn back again, when the two figures once more came up the avenue which led past the garden gate. She hid behind one of the pillars of the gate, so as not to be seen; but a single glance at the two had convinced her that she had not been mistaken before. There was no doubt: it was Oswald and Emily who were passing her, lost in secret, anxious conversation. Helen's heart beat as if it would burst. She understood now why Emily asked her the other day if she had any news of Oswald Stein; she understood now Emily's anxiety at the ball at Grenwitz, when Cloten and the other young noblemen were loudly threatening Oswald ... Fooled then! and fooled by whom? By a man who could not resist Emily Cloten. Helen crept back to her room, threw aside hat and shawl, and now it was settled that she would return to her parents.