CHAPTER XVII.
The baron carried on his undertaking with the greatest possible spirit. He superintended the burning of the bricks; he himself marked the trees destined to be cut down for the building. Ehrenthal had recommended a builder, and the baron had found out a manager for the concern. He had made careful inquiries as to this man's past career, and congratulated himself upon the amount of his theoretical knowledge. Possibly this was not wholly an advantage, for plain practical men declared that he could never let a factory go quietly on, but was always interrupting the daily work with new inventions and contrivances, and was therefore both expensive and unsafe. But the baron, naturally enough, considered his probity and intelligence to be the main point, and valued the theoretical skill of the manager in proportion to his own ignorance.
Pleasant as his prospects were, there were yet many drawbacks. Order and comfort had flown away with the storks, who had for years been accustomed to make their nests on the great barn. Every body suffered from the new undertaking. The baroness lost a corner of the park, and had the grief of seeing a dozen noble old trees felled. The gardener wrung his hands over the thefts committed by the strange laborers that swarmed in all directions. The bailiff was in perfect despair at the disorders in his jurisdiction. His horses and oxen were taken from him to carry timber when he wanted them to plow. The wants of the household increased; the returns from the property became less and less. Lenore had much to do to comfort him, and brought him many pounds of tobacco from the town, that he might smoke off his annoyance. But the heaviest burden of course pressed upon the baron himself. His study was now become a place of public resort, like any tradesman's shop. He had to give advice, to come to a decision, to overcome difficulties in a dozen directions at once. He went almost daily to town, and when he returned he was absent and morose in the midst of his family. His was a fair hope indeed, but it was one very difficult to realize.
The baron found some comfort, however, in Ehrenthal's cheerful devotedness. He was always useful, and fertile in expedient, and never appeared doubtful as to the result of the undertaking. He was now a frequent visitor, welcome to the master of the house, but less so to the ladies, who suspected him of having been the prompter of the factory scheme.
One sunny day, Ehrenthal, with shirt-frill and diamond pin, made his appearance in his son's room. "Will you drive with me to-day to the Rothsattel's Castle, my Bernhard? I told the baron that I should bring you with me to introduce you to the family."
Bernhard sprang up from his seat. "But, father, I am an utter stranger to them all."
"When you have seen and spoken to them, you will no longer be a stranger," replied his father. "They are good people—good people," added he, benevolently.
Bernhard had still some modest scruples, but they were overruled, and the two set out together—the pale student in much excitement at the novelty of the drive, and the prospect of seeing a renowned beauty like Lenore.
Meanwhile, his father overflowed with the praises of the family. "Noble people," said he; "if you could only see the baroness as she is in her lace cap, so delicate and so refined! Too refined for this world as it is! Every thing so elegant! To be sure, the pieces of sugar are too large, and the wine is too dear, but it all seems of a piece with their rank."
"Is Fräulein Lenore a great beauty?" inquired Bernhard. "Is she very proud?"
"She is proud, but she is a beauty indeed. Between ourselves, I admire her more than Rosalie."
"Is she a blonde?"
Ehrenthal took some time to consider. "Blonde? what should she be but a blonde or a brunette? One thing I know, she has blue eyes. You can look over the farm, and do not forget to walk round the park. See whether you can find a spot where you would like to sit with your book."
The guileless Bernhard heard in silence.
The carriage stopped at the castle door. The servants announced that the baron was in his room—the baroness not visible, but that the young lady was walking in the garden. Ehrenthal and his son went round the house, and saw Lenore's tall figure slowly crossing the grass-plot. Ehrenthal threw himself into a deferential attitude, and presented his son, who bowed low. Lenore bestowed a cool sort of salutation upon the student, and said, "If you want my father, he is up stairs in his room."
"I will go to him, then. Bernhard, you may, I am sure, remain with the young lady."
Arrived in the baron's room, the trader placed some thousand dollars on the table, saying, "Here is the first sum. And now, what does the baron wish as to the security?"
"According to our agreement, I must give you a mortgage on the property," was the reply.
"Do you know what, baron? It would never do for you to grant a fresh mortgage for every thousand dollars that I might happen to pay in; it would be very expensive, and would bring the property into disrepute. Rather have a deed of mortgage drawn up for some considerable sum, say twenty thousand dollars, and let it stand in the name of the baroness; you will then have a security that you may sell any day. And every time I pay you, give me a simple note of hand, pledging your word of honor that I have a claim to that amount on the mortgage. That is a simple plan, and remains a secret between you and me. And when you need no further advances, we can settle the matter finally before an attorney. You can make over the mortgage to me, and I return you the notes of hand, and repay you whatever may be wanted to make up the twenty thousand. I only ask your word of honor on a slip of paper no longer than my finger, and when the deed is ready, I should wish to have it executed in my house. You can not object to that. Any lawyer would tell you that I am not dealing in a business-like way. A man's word is often broken, but if there is one thing sure and steadfast in the world, I believe it is your word of honor, baron."
Ehrenthal said this with an expression of sincerity, which was not altogether assumed. This plan of his was the result of many a consultation with Itzig. He knew that the baron would require far more than twenty thousand dollars, and it was to his advantage that he should procure them easily; besides which, he, the thorough rogue, had firm trust in the nobleman's integrity.
Meanwhile, Lenore had asked Bernhard whether he would like to walk in the park. He followed her in silence, looking timidly at the fair young aristocrat, who carried her head high, and troubled herself but little about her companion. When she reached the grass-plot station that had once so enchanted Anton, she stood still, and pointed to the gravel-walk, saying, "That way leads to the lake, and this to the garden again."
Bernhard looked up in amazement at the castle and its turrets, its balcony and creeping plants, and exclaimed, "I have seen all this before, and yet I have never been here."
"And certainly," said Lenore, "the castle has never been to the town; there may be others like it."
"No," replied Bernhard, trying to collect his ideas, "no; I have seen a drawing of it in a friend's room. He must know you," cried he, with delight; "and yet he never told me so."
"What is your friend's name?"
"Anton Wohlfart."
The lady turned round at once with sudden animation. "Wohlfart? a clerk in T. O. Schröter's house? Is it he? And this gentleman is your friend? How did you become acquainted with him?" And she stood before Bernhard with her hands behind her back, like a severe schoolmistress cross-examining a little thief about a stolen apple.
Bernhard told her how he had learned to know and love Anton; and in doing so, he lost some of his embarrassment, while the young lady lost some of her haughty indifference.
She asked him many questions about his friend, and Bernhard grew eloquent as he replied.
Then she led him through the park, as once she had led Anton. Bernhard was a son of the city. It was not the lofty, wide-spreading trees, nor the gay flower-beds, nor the turreted castle which made an impression on him; his eyes were riveted on Lenore alone. It was a bright September evening; the sunlight fell through the branches, and whenever Lenore's hair caught its rays, it shone like gold. The proud eye, the delicate mouth, the slender limbs of the noble girl took his fancy prisoner. She laughed, and showed her little white teeth—he was enraptured; she broke off a twig, and struck the shrubs with it as she passed—it seemed to him that they bent before her in homage to the ground.
They came to the bridge between the park and the fields, where a few little girls ran to Lenore and kissed her hands; she received the tribute of respect as a queen might have done. Two other children had made a long chain of dandelion stalks, and with it barred Bernhard's way.
"Away with you, rude little things," cried Lenore; "how can you think of barring our way? The gentleman comes from the castle."
And Bernhard felt with pride that, for the moment, he belonged to her. He put his hand in his purse, and soon got rid of the children. "It is long," said he, "since I have seen a dandelion chain. I have an indistinct recollection of sitting as a little boy in a green nook, and trying to make one;" and, gathering a few dandelion stalks, he began the childish task.
"If you are so expert in such childish play," said Lenore, "here is something for you," and she pointed to a great burdock near the road-side. "Have you ever seen a cap of burs?"
"No," answered Bernhard, with some slight misgiving.
"You shall have one immediately," said Lenore. She went to the burdock; Bernhard gathered her some handfuls of burs. She fitted one into the other, and made a cap with two little horns. "You may put it on," said she, graciously.
"I dare not; the very birds would be frightened. If you too would—"
"You can not expect me to wear burs," replied she; "but you shall have your wish." She led him back to a group of sunflowers in the shrubbery, and, gathering a few of them, she made a kind of helmet, which she laughingly put on. "Now for your cap," commanded she. Bernhard obeyed, and his thoughtful, deeply-marked features, black coat, and white cravat looked so strange and incongruous beneath the cap of burs, that Lenore could not help laughing. "Come with me," said she; "you shall look at yourself in the lake." And she led him past the site of the factory—a rough place, with heaps of earth, tiles, beams, in utmost confusion. It was a holiday; all the laborers had left, but some village children were playing about and collecting chips. A few steps farther on they came to a little bay, covered with water-lilies and surrounded by brushwood. "How desolate it looks!" said Lenore; "the bushes half pulled away—even the trees injured: all the result of this building. We seldom come here on account of the strange workmen. The village children, too, are become so bold, they make this their play-ground, and there is no keeping them away."
That moment a boat came in sight. A little village girl, a red-faced chubby thing, stood up tottering in it, while her older brother tried to get as far from shore as with one oar he could. "Look!" cried Lenore, angrily, "the little wretches have actually taken our boat. Come back instantly to the shore." The children were startled, the boy dropped the oar, the little girl tottered more than before, and, in the terror of a guilty conscience, lost her balance and fell into the water. Her brother drifted helplessly into the bay. "Save the child!" screamed Lenore. Bernhard ran into the lake forgetting that he could not swim, waded in a few steps, and then stood up to the breast in mud and water. He stretched out his arms to the spot where the child had sunk, but could not reach it. Meanwhile Lenore had sprung, quick as lightning, behind a bush. After a few seconds she returned and ran to a projecting bank.
Bernhard looked with rapture and terror at her tall figure. She still wore her fantastic coronal, her light garments floated round her, her eyes were fixed upon the spot where the child would reappear. Raising her arms above her head, she leaped in and swam toward it, seized its frock, struck out with her free arm, and soon reached the boat. Exerting all her strength, she lifted the child in, and then drew the boat to land. Bernhard, who, pale as death, had stood watching her efforts, fought his way back to the land, gave her his hand, and drew in the boat. Lenore carried the unconscious child. Bernhard lifted out the boy, and both hurried to the gardener's house, while the little lad ran screaming behind them. Lenore's soaked garments clung closely to her beautiful form, and every movement of her fair limbs was seen almost unveiled by her companion. She did not heed it. Bernhard went with her into the room, but she hastily sent him out again; while, with the help of the gardener's wife, she undressed, and sought by friction and other means to restore the child to life. Meanwhile Bernhard stood without, his teeth chattering with cold, but in a state of excitement which made his eyes glow like fire. "Is the child alive?" he called through the door.
"She is," answered Lenore from within.
"Thank God!" cried Bernhard; but his thoughts rose no higher than the fair being within. Long he stood there shuddering and dreaming, till at length a tall figure in woolen garments came out of the door. It was Lenore in the clothes of the gardener's wife, still agitated by all she had gone through, but with a happy smile on her lips. Bernhard, beside himself, kissed her hand more than once.
"You look very well," said Lenore, cheerfully; "but you will catch cold."
He stood before her, wet and dripping, covered with weeds and mud. "I do not feel cold," cried he, but his limbs shook.
"Go in at once," urged Lenore; and, opening the door, she called to the good woman, "Give this gentleman your husband's clothes."
Bernhard obeyed, and when he came out metamorphosed into a rustic, he found Lenore rapidly walking up and down.
"Come to the castle," said she, with all her former dignity.
"I should like once more to see the child," replied he.
They went to the bed on which the little girl lay. She looked up dreamingly at Bernhard, who bent over her and kissed her forehead. "She is the child of a laborer in the village," said the gardener's wife. Unobserved by Lenore, Bernhard laid his purse on the bed.
On their return they found Ehrenthal impatient to depart. His amazement at recognizing his Bernhard in the rustic before him was boundless.
"Give the gentleman a cloak," said Lenore to the servants; "he is benumbed with cold. Wrap yourself up well, or you may long have cause to remember your march among the water-lilies."
And Bernhard did remember it. He wrapped the cloak about him, and squeezed himself up into a corner of the carriage. A burning heat had succeeded to the chill, and his blood rushed wildly through his veins. He had seen the fairest woman on the earth; he had experienced realities more transporting, more absorbing, than any of his favorite poet's dreams. He could hardly answer his father's questions. There they sat side by side, cold cunning and burning passion personified. This excursion had been propitious to both; the father had got the long-desired hold on the Rothsattel property, the son had had an adventure which gave a new coloring to his whole existence.
On the baron's estate the factory slowly rose; in Ehrenthal's coffers the baron's casket was filled by notes of hand and the new deed of mortgage; and while Bernhard's tender frame drooped under the effects of the cold bath above described, he gave his spirit up to the intoxication of the sweetest fancies.