This care seemed to be unnecessary. Sophie found an explanation for the clouds which darkened Franz's brow when he thought himself unobserved, in the overwhelming burden of his professional duties; and for his frequent and long interviews with her father, in the nature of his practice. Since the condition of her father no longer filled her with apprehensions, the happy cheerfulness of Sophie had fully reappeared. She worked hard at her trousseau, and complained to Franz of the confusion which the care for so many and so varied things produced in her head. How much would a knowledge of the transactions that took place between Franz and her father have interfered with the happiness which she enjoyed in these days, as she labored to build her little nest like a merry bird full of song and playful flutterings, if she had known that the money with which she paid her long bills so cheerfully had come from the purse of her betrothed? She had easily consoled herself as to the grief arising from her inability to get ready by the day on which Franz insisted with very unusual pertinacity; she had even openly confessed that she had never looked upon it as such a very great misfortune to have to begin her housekeeping with a few dozen napkins, towels, etc., which were not yet hemmed, or marked in full.
Nothing, therefore, was more painful to Sophie in these days of excitement and great pressure than that the familiar circle could not, as usually, assemble at night around the fire-place in the sitting-room. The father, although able to sit up daily a little longer, had yet to retire quite early; Franz was often down town till far in the night, or he had to study in his rooms; even "the third in the league," the old student, as he called himself, Bemperlein, alias Bemperly, did not show himself nowadays, and Sophie had at last deemed it her duty to inquire for him at his lodging, thinking that he might be sick, and that Franz had kept it secret from her so as to cause her no apprehension. But she found the old student in his laboratory, in the midst of phials, retorts, boxes, and instruments--looking, if not like Faust, at least like Faust's famulus--at all events very busy and industrious, but evidently not in danger of death from sickness. Bemperlein excused himself on the score of his work--a very complicated chemical analysis, which must not be interrupted. How could Sophie think he had taken anything amiss?--he, and take amiss! and from Sophie!--really, the analysis alone was to blame, and as an evidence of it he promised to come that very night and stay as long as ever.
Sophie's eyes, though a little near-sighted, were yet very well able to see things near by, and thus she had not failed to notice a certain veil of embarrassment which hung over Bemperlein's honest face, while he blamed the troublesome analysis. As the young lady was slowly walking homeward, and thought what might be the real reason why Bemperlein had stayed away, she came, just as she was turning around a corner, upon a gentleman who came hurriedly from the opposite direction.
"Pardon!" said the gentleman, lifting his hat and hurrying on.
It was Oswald Stein. He had evidently not recognized Sophie.
This unexpected meeting gave a new direction to Sophie's thoughts. She remembered now that Bemperlein had not been at her house since he had met Oswald there, who was just about to leave with Helen; that the meeting of the two gentlemen had been very cold, strangely cold, and that Bemperlein had given evasive answers to all their questions about the relations in which he stood to Oswald. Was it Oswald, who had since spent several evenings there, once in company with Helen Grenwitz, who had frightened away Bemperlein? Was Bemperlein jealous?
As Sophie knew nothing of Bemperlein's former relations to Oswald, she could of course hardly expect to guess rightly. The truth lay somewhere else.
When Anastasius Bemperlein was no longer willing to shake hands with a man whom he had once esteemed highly and loved heartily, one might rest assured that a goodly portion of strong poison must have been mixed with his milk of human kindness. Anastasius Bemperlein had fully trusted Oswald Stein. He had seen the life and happiness of those he loved best in his hand without fear, and he had overcome all his apprehensions about a union formed so suddenly and resting on the unsafe basis of entirely different social positions. He had said to himself, "All this is idle nonsense in comparison with the invaluable price of true love. Is not love stronger than faith and hope; how can it fail to be stronger than foolish prejudices?" He had reached a point where he had seen in the union of Melitta and Oswald a triumph of pure humanity over the barbarism of civilization, and victory of truth over falsehood.
But only upon such a lofty basis was such a union justifiable and possible. If one or the other sank below the level, both were lost. Bemperlein had known Fran von Berkow for seven years; he knew that her heart was true and good. Bemperlein had known Oswald for as many weeks, and he thought Oswald was worthy of her. He thought so because he had no choice; because to doubt would have seemed to him to insult his much-beloved friend.
And yet such doubts had made their way to his heart, slowly, silently, as in our dreams a fearful monster drags itself towards us and we try in vain to escape. He had struggled against these doubts until he could struggle no longer.