If the Councillor's amazement at all that he had seen and heard on this day could have been increased, it would have been so by the alteration visible in his son's features as he road this note. "What now?" he exclaimed. "You are absolutely incomprehensible! When you could have had Bertha von Massenburg for a wife by simply saying 'yes,' you ran away to be rid of her, and now you look as if the lady's betrothal to another man were an immense disappointment to you. You have never seen her; it can make no possible difference to you whether you have her or somebody else for a wife, since you are resolved to marry and settle down as a country squire."
"True, sir, it can make no possible difference to me," Egon said, slowly, his eyes still fixed upon the note in his hand.
"Besides," the Councillor continued, "betrothed is not married. If your heart is so set upon this girl, which I never should have suspected, I will speak to Werner Massenburg about it. He consented to the present betrothal only to put a stop to disagreeable gossip. It will be easy to retract his consent, especially since your appearance gives him a reason for declaring the engagement to Wangen null and void. He will be glad, and so shall I, to have matters take the course we decided upon two months ago. Since you wish it, Egon, I will speak to him."
Lost in thought, Egon had not understood a word his father had uttered. The syllables had struck upon his ear without conveying any impression to his mental sense. When he heard his name spoken he started from his revery and rose. "I must now leave you, sir," he said.
"But you cannot possibly have eaten enough. Sit down and let us consult what is to be done."
"I really am unfit for discussion at present. I will go to my room. You can employ the afternoon in acquainting your friends with my return. To-morrow I will pay the requisite visits, and then try to evoke some order out of the chaos that now reigns in my mind."
He left the room, and slowly walked through the familiar rooms and corridors until he reached his own apartments. Here nothing had been changed during his absence, and it seemed to him that he had been away but for a few hours. His lot appeared as empty and forlorn as when he had decided to put an end to his tedious existence: life was as comfortless and devoid of interest now as then. He threw himself upon a lounge, and buried his face among the cushions. He wished neither to see, to hear, nor to think. He sank into a half-unconscious state between waking and dreaming. Pictures from the past arose, mistily indistinct, before his mental vision. He saw himself as a little lonely child in his luxurious nursery, longing for affection, filled with childish envy of other children who might kiss and caress their father or mother; then he saw himself a youth among the throng of his fellow-students, all ready to flatter and fawn upon him so long as he lavished money upon them; then in society among women whom he despised and men who wearied him; then came the scene on the shore of the lake,--Pigglewitch's confession, and his own sudden impulse that led him into so wild an adventure. All these pictures were cloudy and vague, when suddenly there emerged from among them, in startling distinctness, Lieschen's image. He saw her as she looked upon the afternoon when she had asked counsel of him as she turned to him trustfully. How could he ever have forgotten for a moment that pure, confiding look?
And as once the reality, so now the remembrance affected him profoundly. He felt suddenly invigorated, strengthened for the further conflict of life; the dull despair that had assailed him when he saw all his plans crumble to ruins vanished; he was ashamed that the thought of Bertha should so have moved him, and that he should have again blindly followed the impulse of the moment. "Lieschen's pure memory shall be my guiding star," he said to himself, "in all the conflicts to come!"
He arose from the lounge, and just in time, for steps were heard in the corridor, his door was flung open, and there appeared on the threshold a man, tall and still handsome in spite of his years, followed by the Councillor. Egon recognized his visitor instantly, although he had never seen him before, so decided was his resemblance to his daughter.
"My son Egon, Herr von Massenburg," the Councillor said, introducing the young man to the stranger. But Werner von Massenburg put aside all formality, and, offering Egon his hand, said, with the greatest cordiality, "Pardon the informality of my visit, Herr von Ernau; its excuse is my great pleasure when I heard from my friend, your father, that our mourning for you is at an end, that you are restored to life. I could not but come to you immediately to express my joy."