The old baron loved his beautiful daughter with all the love of which his good heart was capable; he loved her all the better, as he had always had great doubts about the justice of the law which excluded the young girl from the entailed property. Besides, he felt the indifference with which his wife had so far treated their daughter, although he had been too weak to take measures to counteract it, and especially to make an end to the exile in Hamburg. He had, likewise, consented to the proposed match only because Anna Maria had persuaded him that thus the inequality in the fortunes of the two children could best be remedied, since Helen, as Felix's wife, would obtain possession of the whole estate, if Malte should die without heirs. But here also he had stipulated that Helen must give her free consent, and in return he had pledged himself to leave the whole management of this delicate affair in the hands of his wife, and especially not to divulge the project before the time.
Recent events, however, had seriously shaken his resolution. In the first place, he had thought of it while lying ill with fever in Hamburg, that he might die soon, and Helen would then stand quite alone, without his counsel, without his veto, which he was determined to interpose between her and her mother's plans if it should come to the worst. He had always loved his child, but now he almost worshipped her. She was so beautiful, so proud, and yet so kind and modest with him, that his heart was filled with anguish and sadness at the thought of leaving this world without having secured her fate. If Felix had been such a man as he desired for her, it would have been easier. But Felix was far from pleasing him. The old baron had been a soldier in his time, like Felix. He knew perfectly well to what temptations a rich young man of good family is exposed in the army; he had himself not always escaped from such temptations, and now, when his naturally serious mind had developed itself fully, he repented bitterly of the sins of his reckless youth. He had seen in his cousin Harald a fearful illustration of the terrible effects which unbridled passions have even on a superior man, and his experience in these cases made him see at a glance that his nephew Felix had been a slave to similar passions, and probably was so still. He had seen the young man a few years ago, when he first entered the army. Then he recollected him as a slender, well-built youth, with a fresh, handsome face, and bright, clear eyes; now he found nothing but a sad shadow of the pleasing form of those days. A ghastly leanness, deep furrows in the precociously old face, the large blue eyes looking glassy, or shining in feverish glow, and always with that impertinent, fixed gaze which speaks more eloquently than a whole biography--his gestures sudden and short, evidently in order to hide the weariness within; loud and quick in speech, and judging all things with the same superficial arrogance--his whole being eaten up with a diseased vanity--this was what the concerned father saw in Felix, in spite of his good-natured efforts to cover up the worst parts of the picture.
He regretted now having promised his wife not to interfere with her in this matter. It seemed to him as if he had been too hasty, and at all events he did not think he was breaking his promise if he tried to sound Helen, how she felt herself on the subject. After they had been walking for some time in silence, he said, therefore, taking her arm in his:
"How is your health, my child?"
"Thank you, papa, pretty good; why?" replied Miss Helen, rather surprised at the question.
"I thought you looked a little pale."
"That is the unfavorable light here under the green trees," replied the young girl, merrily; "but I am really perfectly well."
"I was always afraid the sudden change of air, of diet, and even of friends, might injure you. You have been a long time away from home."
"That was not my fault, dear papa."
"I know--I know! Nor was it my fault; I always advocated your return from school, but----"