A pleasant bluish twilight reigned in the room as he entered it, caused by the heavy blue damask curtains that draped the high bow-windows. It was a spacious octagon apartment, in the style of the tower chambers of the Middle Ages, opening on to a balcony, which was likewise separated from the room by blue damask curtains. The Æolian harp, of which the peasant had spoken, hung in the balcony, and some loosened tendrils of a wild grapevine, growing outside, stirred by the breeze, touched the strings and called forth from them broken stray notes, which a stronger breeze would blend in harmony, as the fingers of a child, guided by its teacher, plays vaguely upon an instrument until the practised hand of its master produces a full, clear chord. In the dark boughs that overshadowed the balcony, birds were singing, and now and then hopping confidingly upon the rose-bushes with which it was decorated.
"She loves beauty," thought the stranger with a pleased glance around the cool, quiet apartment, which breathed only contentment and peace. And it must be true peace of mind that the inhabitant of this room possessed,--wherever the eyes were turned, they fell upon the immortal works of the great thinkers of modern times,--a costly library was ranged upon shelves, in richly-carved oaken bookcases.
The stranger began to read the titles of the books, but the more he read the more thoughtful he became. If the contents of these books were, or were to be, crammed into one woman's brain, there could dwell there not peace, but only torturing unrest, strife. At last his eye rested upon a writing-table of dark oak, richly carved, as was all the rest of the furniture of the room. Around the edge of the table, cut in raised letters, he read the sentence, "Our life lasts seventy--perhaps eighty--years, and the delight of it is labour and trouble!" He gazed long and thoughtfully at this motto, so strangely grave for so young a girl. A shade of melancholy passed over his handsome face as he turned away and noticed the scores of sheets of paper scattered here and there on the table, all containing either a few figures or written sentences, evidently hurried beginnings of scientific labour of all kinds, tossed aside, as it appeared, hastily and impatiently. Partly on the table, partly on a desk, and partly on the floor, were piles of open books, their margins filled with annotations, pamphlets, &c. Names like Helmholtz, du Bois, Ludwig, Darwin, &c. showed what massive material this bold aspiring mind was calling to its aid, over what mountains of labour it was pursuing the path to its ambitious aims. "So much vital force wasted in fruitless energy--so much noble zeal expended upon a blunder. What a pity!" said the stranger with an involuntary sigh. Then he noticed just in front of the writing-table a small open drawer, in which Ernestine apparently kept her most precious and valuable books. One of them was Möllner's latest work on Physiology; another, du Bois' Eulogy upon Johannes Müller; and the third, Andersen's Fairy Tales.
The grave man's features showed signs of deep emotion at this sight. Only a strong, true nature could so preserve the memories of its childhood. He could not help taking the book in his hand to examine it more closely. As he did so, he noticed a little marker of paper yellowed with age. It was placed in the last pages of the story of the Ugly Duckling, just where the children stand by the pond and cry, "Look! there comes a new swan!" Was it this, then, that had made the story so precious to her--the prophecy that the duckling would one day be a swan, and not the memory of what had been dear to her childhood? He put the book back in its place with a look that showed that the question he had put to himself grieved him. Then he became so lost in thought that he was almost startled when a door behind him opened, and Ernestine approached him. As he saw the tall form, with its air of royal dignity, standing there calm and silent in the noble consciousness of mental superiority, he repeated involuntarily in thought the words, "Here is a new swan!" Yes,--the ugly duckling had unfolded its wings! For one moment his heart throbbed violently. It cost him an effort to preserve his composure.
"I crave forgiveness, Fräulein Hartwich," he began, "for venturing to offer my medical skill in place of his for whom you sent."
"If you come from Dr. Heim, you are welcome. Is he ill, that he sends me a substitute, or is he angry with me?" And Ernestine looked gravely and fixedly at the stranger.
"Neither the one nor the other, Fräulein Hartwich," was the reply. "He has merely permitted me to use his name as the talisman to unlock this enchanted castle."
"And why so?" asked Ernestine, regarding him still more attentively.
"Because I am convinced that I understand the treatment of your case better than Dr. Heim."
Ernestine started, and turned away from the arrogant speaker. Her face darkened with momentary displeasure,--but not long. She raised her large eyes to him again and said frankly, "No, you are not in earnest. Heim would not have sent me a physician as vain and conceited as these words make you appear!"