"Karl Styrum."
Arno laid the letter aside, after he had read it, with a sigh. He had found it with his other letters by the day's post upon his table after he had left the garden-room, as we have seen, long after midnight. "He, too!" he muttered to himself, with another sigh, and then he read the letter for the second and third time, his face darkening as he read. After the third perusal he sat for a long time lost in thought, and finally took up a pen and wrote:
"My Dear Karl,--You expect congratulations from your friend; it is indeed an ancient custom to offer kind wishes to the newly betrothed, and I follow it all the more readily as in my case I employ no empty, idle phrase when I wish you happiness with all my heart. We have always agreed to be frank and true in our dealings with each other, and never to shun entire openness through fear of giving offence. I now fulfil my share of our compact. Indeed, after reading your letter three times I cannot but reply to you, my only intimate friend, as my heart dictates upon the impulse of the moment, not as I might after long and cool consideration. Therefore this is no formal letter of congratulation, but the true and faithful reply of a friend. Yes, I wish you all happiness, but I do so with a heavy heart, for I know how much I lose by your betrothal,--I, who have hitherto held the foremost place in your regard, must content myself with the second, and I shall shortly, as mournful experience teaches, lose this also, for love is the mortal foe of friendship. Both cannot exist together in the same heart. Thus I know that I have already half lost you, and shall soon lose you entirely, for I shall never be content with the cold modicum of regard which is all that the bridegroom and husband has for an every-day acquaintance. This pains me profoundly. You were the only man in whom I could thoroughly confide,--the only one to whom I could look for entire comprehension and sympathy. Nevertheless, I wish you happiness, and my wish is all the more fervent since I dread its non-fulfilment. Yes, my pain in losing you is augmented by my fears for your future. I know you, and I know that you never can content yourself as can so many unless your marriage brings you full sympathy of heart and mind. You are in love, and I know from sad experience that love drugs the intellect and bewilders the judgment. You will, therefore, doubtless regard my doubts as to your future as a positive crime against your betrothed, but I must be frank with you, my regard for you demands it. I repeat, I wish you joy; you need all good wishes, and if I could I would close this letter with mine, for my head and heart are so full of your betrothal that there is hardly room in them for another thought, but you have made a request of me to which I must reply.
"Fraulein Müller, your betrothed's friend, has been for several hours in Castle Hohenwald, to which I myself introduced her after a most extraordinary fashion. Of this I will write you shortly. I will only tell you now that I have already had abundant opportunity to admire the lady's rare courage. She has by her beauty and her frank attractive bearing already taken Celia's heart by storm and conquered my father's prejudice against her. I received your letter after her arrival here, and therefore could not comply with your request as to her reception, but rest assured that the lady herself insured its cordiality far better than I could have done. I could not have believed it possible that my father should treat a stranger with such urbanity, although a few hours before Fraulein Müller's arrival he had scouted the idea of any friendly familiar intercourse with the new governess, and had declared that while Celia's companion and teacher was entitled to a courteous and respectful reception in Castle Hohenwald, she could lay no claim to admission within our family circle. Fraulein Müller can have no cause to complain of any want of the cordiality you desire in my father's or Celia's welcome, but the requirement of such from me is, unfortunately, a demand with which I cannot comply. You know how I value your opinion, how highly I rate your recommendation; it is a warrant to me that the lady is deserving of all regard. I promise you that she shall be annoyed by no curiosity as to her past, and that I will do all that I can to conceal from her the discomfort that her stay among us causes me. More I cannot promise. You would not ask me to be false to my nature, and I tell you frankly that I have an invincible repugnance to all intercourse with this young person, which is rather increased by the fact that she is beautiful, cultured, and amiable, and that I cannot refuse to accord her a certain degree of esteem in view of the admirable courage she displayed this evening under exceedingly trying circumstances.
"To treat her with cordiality is impossible for me; I will keep out of her way as far as I can. I will always observe every rule of conventional courtesy in my unavoidable intercourse with her, and, in deference to your request, will endeavour to make her position in the household as pleasant as it can be under the circumstances; you will not ask more of me. Enough for to-night. In a few days I will write you a detailed account of my adventures in bringing Fraulein Müller to Castle Hohenwald, and of my encounter with your cousin Kurt von Poseneck, whom I saw for a moment upon the same occasion. Farewell, and do not be angry with me for perhaps mingling one bitter drop in your cup of happiness,--I could not help it. I must always be utterly frank and true with you.
"Always and all ways your faithful friend,
"Arno von Hohenwald."
The letter was finished; but when Arno read it over he was not satisfied with its contents. He had meant to tell his friend in heartsome words how he feared for his future; but now that they were there on the paper in black and white they seemed cold and insulting. It was but a poor reply to Karl's warm-hearted letter. And he was no better pleased either with what he had written about Fräulein Müller. He had meant to be perfectly candid and true to his friend. Had he not promised always to be so? and this surely justified all he had said. But was what he had written quite true? Did he feel an invincible repugnance to any familiar intercourse with Fräulein Müller? Had she not, on the contrary, inspired him with an inexplicable interest which he vainly tried to suppress? While he was writing she was perpetually in his mind. He had been obliged once to lay down his pen because her image so flitted before him; he saw her walking beside him through the night and the tempest, braving the storm so boldly, and yet without doing violence to a true feminine nature. Even on the road to the village of Hohenwald he had tried to resist the impression that the first sight of this charming girl had made upon him, but in vain, although he conjured to his aid the ghosts of a vanished past. He would gladly have detested this stranger thus thrust into his life; he heaped her with all kinds of accusations, and yet confessed to himself that they were all unjust. What reason had he for crediting her with a desire for admiration? had she sought by look or by gesture to attract him? Would Styrum have commended her so warmly if she had not been worthy of all praise? Still, why should she alone of all women be careless of admiration? No; Styrum was in love; he saw with his betrothed's eyes. He was credulous, and had not purchased with his heart's blood the sad experience that the most innocent of smiles upon lovely lips is but a prearranged means to some desired end. Poor Karl! he had not seen through the game they were playing with him, or he would not have fallen into their toils so easily. The rich Count, belonging as he did to the foremost of the Saxon nobility, would at any time have been considered by the President Guntram as an excellent parti for his daughter; but the prospect of a happy conclusion to the lawsuit had doubtless made the match doubly desirable. Therefore it was that the engagement between the fair Adèle and the Assessor had been dissolved, and no means had been neglected to bring the Count to a declaration. Interest for her friend had afforded Adèle an excellent opportunity to treat her cousin with flattering confidence, and she had won the game. Poor Karl! in his noble trust in innocence and purity he had fallen a victim to an excellently-laid plan, and was now made use of by Adèle to insure her friend a firm footing in Castle Hohenwald. Arno could not but laugh at himself. Had he really been in danger of proving false to his principles? He had seen through the game at the right moment, however,--the suspicion that had been aroused on the road to Hohenwald now became a certainty, and what he had written to his friend was the truth. Yes, he now felt an invincible repugnance to any closer intercourse with this intriguing stranger, who had selected Castle Hohenwald as the theatre for her schemes. The letter should be despatched just as it was. He folded and sealed it, and then betook himself to rest. The day's exertions had wearied him, and he soon slept, but the image of the lovely stranger mingled in his dreams.
The stranger herself stood at the window of the room to which Celia had shown her, and gazed out into the gloomy night; she heard the howling of the wind and the beating of the rain against the panes, but she did not heed them, for before her mind's eye rose a form that made her oblivious of the present. She shuddered as she looked back to that last terrible night spent beneath the same roof with the wretch who would have bartered his wife's honour for a release from poverty and detection. She had clung to him faithfully, had always conscientiously fulfilled her duty to him, hoping that she might perhaps in the end influence him for good. She had forgiven him for squandering her property, for plunging her into poverty, although she no longer loved him, and was bound to him only by a sense of duty; but that he could so dishonour her as actually to wish to sell her to the Russian was a sin never to be forgiven,--it separated her from him forever.
He had spoken the decisive word himself, he had restored to her her freedom, lured by false hopes perhaps, but he had done so unconditionally, and she was now her own mistress; she no longer felt the chains that had bound her to her wretched husband; they might exist for the world, but no longer for herself, for her own conscience. When on that dreadful night she had bolted herself into her bedroom, her resolution was already taken. Without hesitation she proceeded to carry it out. She exchanged her ball-dress for a simple stuff gown; she packed a few necessary articles of clothing in a travelling-bag, and hastily wrote these lines: "You have given back to me my freedom; I accept it. It is your desire that we should part; it shall be fulfilled: you will never see me again. Should you dare to persecute me, you will force me to denounce you publicly and to give to the world the reasons that justify my conduct. The detected thief, who would barter his wife's honour, has forfeited the right to control her destiny.--Lucie."