"Hector! Hector! here, good dog!" she called; and the forester's huge hound burst through the thicket and fawned upon her.
"My uncle is not far off," she turned coldly and quietly to her discomfited companion; "he will be here in a moment. As you can hardly desire that I should request him to rid me of your society, I advise you to return immediately to the castle."
And, in fact, he stood still like a coward, while she, accompanied by the dog, proceeded towards her home. Hollfeld stamped his feet in his rage, and cursed the blind passion that had robbed him of all prudence. He did not for one instant imagine that he could really be disagreeable to Elizabeth,—he, the pet of society, whose slightest word, were it only an invitation to dance, made such a sensation in the little world of L——, and was so often an occasion of envy and discord among the ladies! The idea was absurd. It was far more likely that the daughter of the forester's clerk was a coquette, who intended to make conquest as difficult as possible for him. He had no faith in the existence of that virgin purity of soul which made Elizabeth thus insensible, and the magic of which affected even him most powerfully, although he did not understand its influence. He had no faith in the sacred reserve of a young girl's inner life, and therefore could not possibly conceive of the instinctive aversion which his selfish, unprincipled nature inspired. He reproached himself angrily for having been too sudden and violent, thus defeating his own ends, and deferring indefinitely the accomplishment of his hopes. He wandered about in the forest for an hour before he could master his emotions; for the guests, who were still dancing on the green before the convent tower whence the gay music reached his ears, must not suspect the volcano seething beneath that cold and interesting exterior.
Elizabeth had apparently walked away with a firm, decided step, but she took care to look neither to the right nor the left, lest she should suddenly see his hated face beside her. At last she ventured to stand still and look around her. He had disappeared. With a sigh of relief, she leaned against the trunk of a tree to collect her thoughts, while Hector stood beside her sagely wagging his tail, seeming thoroughly to understand that he was playing the part of her protector. Doubtless he had been taking a forest walk for his own amusement, for there were no signs of his master. Elizabeth felt her knees tremble beneath her. Her terror, when Hollfeld had clasped her waist, had been extreme. In her innocence she had never imagined such rudeness, and hence his sudden touch had made her for one moment rigid with horror. She shed bitter tears of shame as she recalled Herr von Walde's image, not clothed in the gentleness of the last few hours, but stern and reserved. She thought she should scarcely dare ever to look up at him again since that wretch had touched her. All her happy visions lay shattered at her feet. This unhappy encounter with Hollfeld had ruthlessly brought her back to reality. What he had said of Herr von Walde, coarse and slanderous as it was, had revived much in her mind which she had once believed, and considered as a bar to her growing interest in him. She thought of his invincible pride of descent, of his self-renouncing love for his sister, and of the universal opinion that his heart was cold as ice where women were concerned. All the gay brilliant dreams which had hovered around her path through the forest now folded their wings and vanished beneath the searching gaze of her awakened consciousness. She could hardly tell what it was that formerly made her so happy. Was it not most likely that only a strong sense of justice had induced him to show her such gentle kindness and consideration to-day,—to protect her from the insolent annoyance of his relatives? Had he not in like manner protected Miss Mertens, and endeavoured to indemnify her for the injustice that she had encountered beneath his roof? And the birthday greeting! Ah, she must not think of that, or its unfinished conclusion, for then all her dead visions would instantly celebrate a blissful resurrection!
As she entered the Lodge Sabina came towards her, pale as ashes, in great distress. She pointed mutely to the door of the dwelling-room. Within the apartment her uncle was speaking loudly, while he was pacing heavily to and fro.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" whispered Sabina, "everything is going wrong in there. Bertha has kept out of your uncle's way most carefully for the last few weeks, but a little while ago she was standing at the great door and did not see that he was coming into the yard. He gave her no time to run off, but took her by the hand and led her instantly into the room there. She was as white as the wall, in her fear of him,—but that didn't help her,—go she must. Ah, Lord have mercy upon me! I should not like to have the Herr Forester for a father confessor——"
A loud burst of sobbing, that sounded almost like a stifled shriek, interrupted Sabina's whispering.
"Better so!" they now heard the forester say in a far gentler tone of voice; "at least that is a sign that you are not quite hardened. And now speak out! Remember that I stand here in place of your good parents. If you have a sorrow confide it to me; be sure that if it has befallen you without fault on your part, I will faithfully assist you to bear it."
Only stifled sobs ensued.
"You cannot speak?" asked the forester after a short pause. "I know of a certainty that there is no physical obstacle in the way of your speaking, for you talk to yourself continually when you believe yourself unobserved; you must be putting some force upon yourself,—have you made a vow against the use of your tongue?"