The gardener went away appeased; Ilse looked at the flowers.
"Even he who sent you has become to me an object of dread. Yet he was the only one here who showed me uniform kindness and treated me with respect. Felix is right: there is no reason for us to be disturbed on his account. Who knows whether he is much to blame for the disagreeable reports about this house. I must not be unjust towards him; but when I look at his flowers, it seems as if an adder lay within them, for I do not know whether his soul is pure or impure. I do not understand his ways, and that makes me uncertain and fearful."
She pushed the basket away, and turned from it.
The maid who waited upon her came into the room, with a troubled countenance, and begged permission to go away for the day, as her mother was very ill in a neighboring village. Ilse asked kindly about the woman, and gave the girl the desired permission, with good wishes and advice. The maid went slowly out of the room; Ilse looked sorrowfully after her.
"Her heart, too, is heavy. It is well that Felix is not at home, for I can now be alone with my sorrow. It will be a quiet day, and this will be welcome after yesterday's storm."
Again there was a knocking at the door; the Castellan brought the letters that the postman had given him for the Pavilion. There were letters from her brothers and sisters who kept up a regular correspondence with their distant Ilse. A ray of joy passed over her serious face.
"This is a pleasant morning greeting," she said. "I will to-day answer my little band in detail. Who knows whether I may have time for it next week."
She hastened to the writing-table, read, laughed, and wrote. Her uneasiness had passed away; she chatted like a lively child in the language and thoughts of the nursery. Hours flew in this occupation. Gabriel brought up and carried away the dinner. When in the afternoon he found her still bending over the letters, he lingered by her and hesitated whether he should speak to her; but as Ilse was so deeply engrossed in her work, he nodded and closed the door.
Finally, Ilse wrote to her father. Again her thoughts became sad, anguish rose from the depth of her heart, and lay like a burning weight on her bosom. She left her writing-table, and paced hastily about the room. When she came to the window, she saw the lord of the castle coming slowly along the gravel path towards the Pavilion.
Ilse stepped back quickly. She was not unaccustomed to the short visits of the Sovereign; but to-day she felt fearful, the blood rushed to her heart, she pressed her hands over her bosom, and struggled for composure.