THE FIRST VIOLIN

 _A NOVEL. _

 BY JESSIE FOTHERGILL, _Author of "A March in the Ranks, " Etc. _

 * * * * *

 NEW YORK THE FEDERAL BOOK COMPANY PUBLISHERS

THE FIRST VIOLIN. 

CHAPTER I. 

MISS HALLAM. 

"Wonderful weather for April!" Yes, it certainty was wonderful. I fullyagreed with the sentiment expressed at different periods of the day bydifferent members of my family; but I did not follow their example andseek enjoyment out-of-doors--pleasure in that balmy spring air. Trouble--the first trouble of my life--had laid her hand heavily uponme. The world felt disjointed and all upside-down; I very helpless andlonely in it. I had two sisters, I had a father and a mother; but nonethe less was I unable to share my grief with any one of them; nay, ithad been an absolute relief to me when first one and then another ofthem had left the house, on business or pleasure intent, and I, afterwatching my father go down the garden-walk, and seeing the gate closeafter him, knew that, save for Jane, our domestic, who was carolinglustily to herself in the kitchen regions, I was alone in the house. 

I was in the drawing-room. Once secure of solitude, I put down thesewing with which I had been pretending to employ myself, and went tothe window--a pleasant, sunny bay. In that window stood a smallwork-table, with a flower-pot upon it containing a lilac primula. Iremember it distinctly to this day, and I am likely to carry therecollection with me so long as I live. I leaned my elbows upon thistable, and gazed across the fields, green with spring grass, tenderlylighted by an April sun, to where the river--the Skern--shone with apleasant, homely, silvery glitter, twining through the smiling meadowstill he bent round the solemn overhanging cliff crowned with mournfulfirs, which went by the name of the Rifted or Riven Scaur. 

In some such delightful mead might the white-armed Nausicaa havetossed her cowslip balls among the other maids; perhaps by some suchriver might Persephone have paused to gather the daffodil--"the fatefulflower beside the rill. " Light clouds flitted across the sky, a waft ofwind danced in at the open window, ruffling my hair mockingly, andbearing with it the deep sound of a church clock striking four. 

As if the striking of the hour had been a signal for the breaking of aspell, the silence that had prevailed came to an end. Wheels camerolling along the road up to the door, which, however, was at the otherside of the house. "A visitor for my father, no doubt, " I thoughtindifferently; "and he has gone out to read the funeral service for adead parishioner. How strange! I wonder how clergymen and doctors canever get accustomed to the grim contrasts amid which they live!"

I suffered my thoughts to wander off in some such track as this, butthey were all through dominated by a heavy sense of oppression--thethreatening hand of a calamity which I feared was about to overtake me, and I had again forgotten the outside world. 

The door was opened. Jane held it open and said nothing (a triflinghabit of hers, which used to cause me much annoyance), and a tall womanwalked slowly into the room. I rose and looked earnestly at her, surprised and somewhat nervous when I saw who she was--Miss Hallam, ofHallam Grange, our near neighbor, but a great stranger to us, nevertheless, so far, that is, as personal intercourse went. 

"Your servant told me that every one was out except Miss May, " sheremarked, in a harsh, decided voice, as she looked not so much at me astoward me, and I perceived that there was something strange about hereyes. 

"Yes; I am sorry, " I began, doubtfully. 

She had sallow, strongly marked, but proud and aristocratic features, and a manner with more than a tinge of imperiousness. Her face, herfigure, her voice were familiar, yet strange to me--familiar because Ihad heard of her, and been in the habit of occasionally seeing her frommy very earliest childhood; strange, because she was reserved and notgiven to seeing her neighbors' houses for purposes either of gossip orhospitality. I was aware that about once in two years she made a call atour house, the vicarage, whether as a mark of politeness to us, or toshow that, though she never entered a church, she still chose to lendher countenance and approval to the Establishment, or whether merely outof old use and habit, I knew not. I only knew that she came, and thatuntil now it had never fallen to my lot to be present upon any of thosemomentous occasions. 

Feeling it a little hard that my coveted solitude should thus beinterrupted, and not quite knowing what to say to her, I sat down andthere was a moment's pause. 

"Is your mother well?" she inquired. 

"Yes, thank you, very well. She has gone with my sister to Darton. "

"Your father?"

"He is well too, thank you. He has a funeral this afternoon. "

"I think you have two sisters, have you not?"

"Yes; Adelaide and Stella. "

"And which are you?"

"May; I am the second one. "

All her questions were put in an almost severe tone, and not as if shetook very much interest in me or mine. I felt my timidity increase, andyet--I liked her. Yes, I felt most distinctly that I liked her. 

"May, " she remarked, meditatively; "May Wedderburn. Are you aware thatyou have a very pretty north-country sounding name?"

"I have not thought about it. "

"How old are you?"

"I am a little over seventeen. "

"Ah! And what do you do all day?"

"Oh!" I began, doubtfully, "not much, I am afraid, that is useful orvaluable. "

"You are young enough yet. Don't begin to do things with a purpose forsome time to come. Be happy while you can. "

"I am not at all happy, " I replied, not thinking of what I was saying, and then feeling that I could have bitten my tongue out with vexation. What could it possibly matter to Miss Hallam whether I were happy ornot? She was asking me all these questions to pass the time, and inorder to talk about something while she sat in our house. 

"What makes you unhappy? Are your sisters disagreeable?"

"Oh, no!"

"Are your parents unkind?"

"Unkind!" I echoed, thinking what a very extraordinary woman she was andwondering what kind of experience hers could have been in the past. 

"Then I can not imagine what cause for unhappiness you can have, " shesaid, composedly. 

I made no answer. I repented me of having uttered the words, and MissHallam went on:

"I should advise you to forget that there is such a thing asunhappiness. You will soon succeed. "

"Yes--I will try, " said I, in a low voice, as the cause of myunhappiness rose up, gaunt, grim and forbidding, with thin lips curvedin a mocking smile, and glittering, snake-like eyes fixed upon my face. I shivered faintly; and she, though looking quickly at me, seemed tothink she had said enough about my unhappiness. Her next questionsurprised me much. 

"Are you fair in complexion?" she inquired. 

"Yes, " said I. "I am very fair--fairer than either of my sisters. Butare you near-sighted?"

"Near sight_less_, " she replied, with a bitter little laugh. "Cataract. I have so many joys in my life that Providence has thought fit to temperthe sunshine of my lot. I am to content myself with the store ofpleasant remembrances with which my mind is crowded, when I can seenothing outside. A delightful arrangement. It is what pious people calla 'cross, ' or a 'visitation, ' or something of that kind. I am not pious, and I call it the destruction of what little happiness I had. "

"Oh, I am very, very sorry for you, " I answered, feeling what I spoke, for it had always been my idea of misery to be blind--shut away from thesunlight upon the fields, from the hue of the river, from all that "lustof the eye" which meets us on every side. 

"But are you quite alone?" I continued. "Have you no one to--"

I stopped; I was about to add, "to be kind to you--to take care of you?"but I suddenly remembered that it would not do for me to ask suchquestions. 

"No, I live quite alone, " said she, abruptly. "Did you think of offeringto relieve my solitude?"

I felt myself burning with a hot blush all over my face as I stammeredout:

"I am sure I never thought of anything so impertinent, but--but--ifthere was anything I could do--read or--"

I stopped again. Never very confident in myself, I felt a miserablesense that I might have been going too far. I wished most ardently thatmy mother or Adelaide had been there to take the weight of such aconversation from my shoulders. What was my surprise to hear Miss Hallamsay, in a tone quite smooth, polished, and polite:

"Come and drink tea with me to-morrow afternoon--afternoon tea I mean. You can go away again as soon as you like. Will you?"

"Oh, thank you. Yes, I will. "

"Very well. I shall expect you between four and five. Good-afternoon. "

"Let me come with you to your carriage, " said I, hastily. "Jane--ourservant is so clumsy. "

I preceded her with care, saw her seated in her carriage and driventoward the Grange, which was but a few hundred yards from our own gates, and then I returned to the house. And as I went in again, mycompanion-shadow glided once more to my side with soft, insinuating, irresistible importunity, and I knew that it would be my faithfulattendant for--who could say how long?

CHAPTER II. 

"Traversons gravement cette méchante mascarade qu'on appelle le monde"

The houses in Skernford--the houses of "the gentry, " that is to say--layalmost all on one side an old-fashioned, sleepy-looking "green" towardwhich their entrances lay; but their real front, their pleasantestaspect, was on their other side, facing the river which ran below, anddown to which their gardens sloped in terraces. Our house, the vicarage, lay nearest the church; Miss Hallam's house, the Grange, furthest fromthe church. Between these, larger and more imposing, in grounds besidewhich ours seemed to dwindle down to a few flower-beds, lay DeeplishHall, whose owner, Sir Peter Le Marchant, had lately come to live there, at least for a time. 

It was many years since Sir Peter Le Marchant, whose image at this timewas fated to enter so largely and so much against my will into all mycalculations, had lived at or even visited his estate at Skernford. Hewas a man of immense property, and report said that Deeplish Hall, whichwe innocent villagers looked upon as such an imposing mansion, was butone and not the grandest of his several country houses. All that I knewof his history--or rather, all that I had heard of it, whether truly ornot, I was in no position to say--was but a vague and misty account; yetthat little had given me a dislike to him before I ever met him. 

Miss Hallam, our neighbor, who lived in such solitude and retirement, was credited with having a history--if report had only been able to fixupon what it was. She was popularly supposed to be of a grim anddecidedly eccentric disposition. Eccentric she was, as I afterwardfound--as I thought when I first saw her. She seldom appeared either inchurch or upon any other public occasion, and was said to be the deadlyenemy of Sir Peter Le Marchant and all pertaining to him. There was someold, far-back romance connected with it--a romance which I did notunderstand, for up to now I had never known either her or Sir Petersufficiently to take any interest in the story, but the report ran thatin days gone by--how far gone by, too, they must have been!--MissHallam, a young and handsome heiress, loved very devotedly her onesister, and that sister--so much was known as a fact--had become Lady LeMarchant: was not her monument in the church between the Deeplish Halland the Hallam Grange pews? Was not the tale of her virtues and heryears--seven-and-twenty only did she count of the latter--thererecorded? That Barbara Hallam had been married to Sir Peter was matterof history: what was not matter of history, but of tradition which wasbelieved in quite as firmly, was that the baronet had ill-treated hiswife--in what way was not distinctly specified, but I have since learnedthat it was true; she was a gentle creature, and he made her lifemiserable unto her. She was idolized by her elder sister, who, burningwith indignation at the treatment to which her darling had beensubjected, had become, even in disposition, an altered woman. From acheerful, open-hearted, generous, somewhat brusque young person, she hadgrown into a prematurely old, soured, revengeful woman. It was to herthat the weak and injured sister had fled; it was in her arms that shehad died. Since her sister's death, Miss Hallam had withdrawn entirelyfrom society, cherishing a perpetual grudge against Sir Peter LeMarchant. Whether she had relations or none, friends or acquaintanceoutside the small village in which she lived, none knew. If so, theylimited their intercourse with her to correspondence, for no visitorever penetrated to her damp old Grange, nor had she ever been known toleave it with the purpose of making any journey abroad. If perfectsilence and perfect retirement could hush the tongues of tradition andreport, then Miss Hallam's story should have been forgotten. But it wasnot forgotten. Such things never do become forgotten. 

It was only since Sir Peter had appeared suddenly some six weeks ago atDeeplish Hall, that these dry bones of tradition had for me quickenedinto something like life, and had acquired a kind of interest for me. 

Our father, as vicar of the parish, had naturally called upon Sir Peter, and as naturally invited him to his house. His visits had begun by hiscoming to lunch one day, and we had speculated about him a little inadvance, half jestingly, raking up old stories, and attributing to himvarious evil qualities of a hard and loveless old age. But after he hadgone, the verdict of Stella and myself was, "Much worse than weexpected. " He was different from what we had expected. Perhaps thatannoyed us. Instead of being able to laugh at him, we found somethingoppressive, chilling, to me frightful, in the cold, sneering smile whichseemed perpetually hovering about his thin lips--in the fixed, snakyglitter of his still, intent gray eyes. His face was pale, his mannerswere polished, but to meet his eye was a thing I hated, and the touch ofhis hand made me shudder. While speaking in the politest possiblemanner, he had eyed over Adelaide and me in a manner which I do notthink either of us had ever experienced before. I hated him from themoment in which I saw him looking at me with expression of approval. Tobe approved by Sir Peter Le Marchant, could fate devise anything morehorrible? Yes, I knew now that it could; one might have to submit to theapproval, to live in the approval. I had expressed my opinion on thesubject with freedom to Adelaide, who to my surprise had not agreedwith me, and had told me coldly that I had no business to speakdisrespectfully of my father's visitors. I was silenced, but unhappy. From the first moment of seeing Sir Peter, I had felt an uncomfortable, uneasy feeling, which, had I been sentimental, I might have called apresentiment, but I was not sentimental. I was a healthy young girl ofseventeen, believing in true love, and goodness, and gentleness veryearnestly; "fancy free, " having read few novels, and heard no gossip--avery baby in many respects. Our home might be a quiet one, a poor one, adull one--our circle of acquaintance small, our distractions of the mostlimited description imaginable, but at least we knew no evil, and--Ispeak for Stella and myself--thought none. Our father and mother werepersons with nothing whatever remarkable about them. Both had beenhandsome. My mother was pretty, my father good-looking yet. I loved themboth dearly. It had never entered my head to do otherwise than lovethem, but the love which made the star and the poetry of my quiet andunromantic life was that I bore to Adelaide, my eldest sister. Ibelieved in her devotedly, and accepted her judgment, given in her ownpeculiar proud, decided way, upon every topic on which she chose toexpress it. She was one-and-twenty, and I used to think I could lay downmy life for her. 

It was consequently a shock to me to hear her speak in praise--yes, inpraise of Sir Peter Le Marchant. My first impulse was to distrust my ownjudgment, but no; I could not long do so. He was repulsive; he wasstealthy, hard, cruel, in appearance. I could not account for Adelaide'sperversity in liking him, and passed puzzled days and racked my brain inconjecture as to why when Sir Peter came Adelaide should be always athome, always neat and fresh--not like me. Why was Adelaide, who found ittoo much trouble to join Stella and me in our homely concerts, alwaysready to indulge Sir Peter's taste for music, to entertain him withconversation?--and she _could_ talk. She was unlike me in that respect. I never had a brilliant gift of conversation. She was witty about thethings she did know, and never committed the fatal mistake of pretendingto be up in the things she did not know. These gifts of mind, thesesocial powers, were always ready for the edification of Sir Peter. Bydegrees the truth forced itself upon me. Some one said--I overheardit--that "that handsome Miss Wedderburn was undoubtedly setting her capat Sir Peter Le Marchant. " Never shall I forget the fury which at firstpossessed me, the conviction which gradually stole over me that it wastrue. My sister Adelaide, beautiful, proud, clever--and, I had alwaysthought, good, --had distinctly in view the purpose of becoming Lady LeMarchant. I shed countless tears over the miserable discovery, and darednot speak to her of it. But that was not the worst. My horizon darkened. One horrible day I discovered that it was I, and not Adelaide, who hadattracted Sir Peter's attentions. It was not a scene, not a setdeclaration. It was a word in that smooth voice, a glance from thathated and chilling eye, which suddenly aroused me to the truth. 

Shuddering, dismayed, I locked the matter up within my own breast, andwished with a longing that sometimes made me quite wretched that I couldquit Skernford, my home, my life, which had lost zest for me, and wasbecome a burden to me. The knowledge that Sir Peter admired meabsolutely degraded me in my own eyes. I felt as if I could not hold upmy head. I had spoken to no one of what had passed within me, and Itrusted it had not been noticed; but all my joy was gone. It was as if Istood helpless while a noisome reptile coiled its folds around me. 

To-day, after Miss Hallam's departure, I dropped into my now chronicstate of listlessness and sadness. They all came back; my father fromthe church; my mother and Adelaide from Darton, whither they had been ona shopping expedition; Stella from a stroll by the river. We had tea, and they dispersed quite cheerfully to their various occupations. I, seeing the gloaming gently and dim falling over the earth, walked out ofthe house into the garden, and took my way toward the river. I passed anarbor in which Stella and I had loved to sit and watch the stream, andtalk and read Miss Austen's novels. Stella was there now, with awell-thumbed copy of "Pride and Prejudice" in her hand. 

"Come and sit down, May, " she apostrophized me. "Do listen to this aboutBingley and Wickham. "

"No, thank you, " said I, abstractedly, and feeling that Stella was notthe person to whom I could confide my woe. Indeed, on scanning mentallythe list of my acquaintance, I found that there was not one in whom Icould confide. It gave me a strange sense of loneliness and aloofness, and hardened me more than the reading of a hundred satires on themeannesses of society. 

I went along the terrace by the river-side, and looked up to theleft--traces of Sir Peter again. There was the terrace of Deeplish Hall, which stood on a height just above a bend in the river. It was a fineold place. The sheen of the glass houses caught the rays of the sun andglanced in them. It looked rich, old, and peaceful. I had been many atime through its gardens, and thought them beautiful, and wished theybelonged to me. Now I felt that they lay in a manner at my feet, and mystrongest feeling respecting them was an earnest wish that I might neversee them again. 

Thus agreeably meditating, I insensibly left our own garden and wanderedon in the now quickly falling twilight into a narrow path leading acrossa sort of No-Man's-Land into the demesne of Sir Peter Le Marchant. In mytrouble I scarcely remarked where I was going, and with my eyes castupon the ground was wishing that I could feel again as I once had felt, when

 "I nothing had, and yet enough;"

and was sadly wondering what I could do to escape from the net in whichI felt myself caught, when a shadow darkened the twilight in which Istood, and looking up I saw Sir Peter, and heard these words:

"Good-evening, Miss Wedderburn. Are you enjoying a little stroll?"

By, as it seemed to me, some strange miracle all my inward fears andtremblings vanished. I did not feel afraid of Sir Peter in the least. Ifelt that here was a crisis. This meeting would show me whether my fearshad been groundless, and my own vanity and self-consciousness ofunparalleled proportions, or whether I had judged truly, and had goodreason for my qualms and anticipations. 

It came. The alarm had not been a false one. Sir Peter, after conversingwith me for a short time, did, in clear and unmistakable terms, informme that he loved me, and asked me to marry him. 

"I thank you, " said I, mastering my impulse to cover my face with myhands, and run shuddering away from him. "I thank you for the honor youoffer me, and beg to decline it. "

He looked surprised, and still continued to urge me in a manner whichroused a deep inner feeling of indignation within me, for it seemed tosay that he understood me to be overwhelmed with the honor he proposedto confer upon me, and humored my timidity about accepting it. There wasno doubt in his manner; not the shadow of a suspicion that I could be inearnest. There was something that turned my heart cold within me--acool, sneering tone, which not all his professions of affection coulddisguise. Since that time I have heard Sir Peter explicitly state hisconception of the sphere of woman in the world; it was not an exaltedone. He could not even now quite conceal that while he told me he wishedto make me his wife and the partner of his heart and possessions, yet heknew that such professions were but words--that he did not sue for mylove (poor Sir Peter! I doubt if ever in his long life he was blessedwith even a momentary glimpse of the divine countenance of pure Love), but offered to buy my youth, and such poor beauty as I might have, withhis money and his other worldly advantages. 

Sir Peter was a blank, utter skeptic with regard to the worth of woman. He did not believe in their virtue nor their self-respect; he believedthem to be clever actresses, and, taken all in all, the best kind ofamusement to be had for money. The kind of opinion was then new to me;the effect of it upon my mind such as might be expected. I wasseventeen, and an ardent believer in all things pure and of good report. 

Nevertheless, I remained composed, sedate, even courteous to thelast--till I had fairly made Sir Peter understand that no earthly powershould induce me to marry him; till I had let him see that I fullycomprehended the advantages of the position he offered me, and declinedthem. 

"Miss Wedderburn, " said he, at last--and his voice was as unruffled asmy own; had it been more angry I should have feared it less--"do youfear opposition? I do not think your parents would refuse their consentto our union. "

I closed my eyes for a moment, and a hand seemed to tighten about myheart. Then I said:

"I speak without reference to my parents. In such a matter I judge formyself. "

"Always the same answer?"

"Always the same, Sir Peter. "

"It would be most ungentlemanly to press the subject any further. " Hiseyes were fixed upon me with the same cold, snake-like smile. "I willnot be guilty of such a solecism. Your family affections, my dear younglady, are strong, I should suppose. Which--whom do you love best?"

Surprised at the blunt straightforwardness of the question, as comingfrom him, I replied thoughtlessly, "Oh, my sister Adelaide. "

"Indeed! I should imagine she was in every way worthy the esteem of sodisinterested a person as yourself. A different disposition, though--quite. Will you allow me to touch your hand before I retire?"

Trembling with uneasy forebodings roused by his continual sneeringsmile, and the peculiar evil light in his eyes, I yet went through withmy duty to the end. He took the hand I extended, and raised it to hislips with a low bow. 

"Good-evening, Miss Wedderburn. "

Faintly returning his valediction, I saw him go away, and then in adream, a maze, a bewilderment, I too turned slowly away and walked tothe house again. I felt, I knew I had behaved well and discreetly, but Ihad no confidence whatever that the matter was at an end. 

CHAPTER III. 

"Lucifer, Star of the Morning! How art thou fallen!"

I found myself, without having met any one of my family, in my own room, in the semi-darkness, seated on a chair by my bedside, unnerved, faint, miserable with a misery such as I had never felt before. The window wasopen, and there came up a faint scent of sweetbrier and wall-flowers insoft, balmy gusts, driven into the room by the April night wind. Thererose a moon and flooded the earth with radiance. Then came a sound offootsteps; the door of the next room, that belonging to Adelaide, wasopened. I heard her come in, strike a match, and light her candle; theclick of the catch as the blind rolled down. There was a door betweenher room and mine, and presently she passed it, and bearing a candle inher hand, stood in my presence. My sister was very beautiful, veryproud. She was cleverer, stronger, more decided than I, or rather, whileshe had those qualities very strongly developed, I was almost withoutthem. She always held her head up, and had one of those majestic figureswhich require no back-boards to teach them uprightness, no master ofdeportment to instill grace into their movements. Her toilet and minewere not, as may be supposed, of very rich materials or variedcharacter; but while my things always looked as bad of their kind asthey could--fitted badly, sat badly, were creased and crumpled--hersalways had a look of freshness; she wore the merest old black merino asif it were velvet, and a muslin frill like a point-lace collar. Thereare such people in the world. I have always admired them, envied them, wondered at them from afar; it has never been my fate in the smallestdegree to approach or emulate them. 

Her pale face, with its perfect outlines, was just illumined by thecandle she held, and the light also caught the crown of massive plaitswhich she wore around her head. She set the candle down. I sat still andlooked at her. 

"You are there, May, " she remarked. 

"Yes, " was my subdued response. 

"Where have you been all evening?"

"It does not matter to any one. "

"Indeed it does. You were talking to Sir Peter Le Marchant. I saw youmeet him from my bedroom window. "

"Did you?"

"Did he propose to you?" she inquired, with a composure which seemed tome frightful. "Worldly, " I thought, was a weak word to apply to her, andI was suffering acutely. 

"He did. "

"Well, I suppose it would be a little difficult to accept him. "

"I did not accept him. "

"What?" she inquired, as if she had not quite caught what I said. 

"I refused him, " said I, slightly raising my voice. 

"What are you telling me?"

"The truth. "

"Sir Peter has fif--"

"Don't mention Sir Peter to me again, " said I, nervously, and feeling asif my heart would break. I had never quarreled with Adelaide before. Noreconciliation afterward could ever make up for the anguish which I wasgoing through now. 

"Just listen to me, " she said, bending over me, her lips drawn together. "I ought to have spoken to you before. I don't know whether you haveever given any thought to our position and circumstances. If not, itwould be as well that you should do so now. Papa is fifty-five yearsold, and has three hundred a year. In the course of time he will die, and as his life is not insured, and he has regularly spent every pennyof his income--naturally it would have been strange if he hadn't--whatis to become of us when he is dead?"

"We can work. "

"Work!" said she, with inexpressible scorn. "Work! Pray what can we doin the way of work? What kind of education have we had? The villageschool-mistress could make us look very small in the matter of geographyand history. We have not been trained to work, and, let me tell you, May, unskilled labor does not pay in these days. "

"I am sure you can do anything, Adelaide, and I will teach singing. Ican sing. "

"Pooh! Do you suppose that because you can take C in alt. You arecompetent to teach singing? You don't know how to sing yourself yet. Your face is your fortune. So is mine my fortune. So is Stella's herfortune. You have enjoyed yourself all your life; you have had seventeenyears of play and amusement, and now you behave like a baby. You refuseto endure a little discomfort, as the price of placing yourself and yourfamily forever out of the reach of trouble and trial. Why, if you wereSir Peter's wife, you could do what you liked with him. I don't sayanything about myself; but oh! May, I am ashamed of you, I am ashamed ofyou! I thought you had more in you. Is it possible that you are nothingbut a romp--nothing but a vulgar tomboy? Good Heaven! If the chance hadbeen mine!"

"What would you have done?" I whispered, subdued for the moment, butobstinate in my heart as ever. 

"I am nobody now; no one knows me. But if I had had the chance that youhave had to-night, in another year I would have been known and envied byhalf the women in England. Bah! Circumstances are too disgusting, toounkind!"

"Oh! Adelaide, nothing could have made up for being tied to that man, "said I, in a small voice; "and I am not ambitious. "

"Ambitious! You are selfish--downright, grossly, inordinately selfish. Do you suppose no one else ever had to do what they did not like? Whydid you not stop to think instead of rushing away from the thing likesome unreasoning animal?"

"Adelaide! Sir Peter! To marry him?" I implored in tears. "How could I?I should die of shame at the very thought. Who could help seeing that Ihad sold myself to him?"

"And who would think any the worse of you? And what if they did? Withfifteen thousand a year you may defy public opinion. "

"Oh, don't! don't!" I cried, covering my face with my hands. "Adelaide, you will break my heart!"

Burying my face in the bed-quilt, I sobbed irrepressibly. Adelaide'sapparent unconsciousness of, or callousness to, the stabs she was givingme, and the anguish they caused me, almost distracted me. 

She loosed my arm, remarking, with bitter vexation:

"I feel as if I could shake you!"

She left the room. I was left to my meditations. My head--my hearttoo--ached distractingly; my arm was sore where Adelaide had grasped it;I felt as if she had taken my mind by the shoulders and shaken itroughly. I fastened both doors of my room, resolving that neither shenor any one else should penetrate to my presence again that night. 

What was I to do? Where to turn? I began now to realize that the _Resdom_, which had always seemed to me so abundant for all occasions, werereally _Res Angusta_, and that circumstances might occur in which theywould be miserably inadequate. 

CHAPTER IV. 

"Zu Rathe gehen, und vom Rath zur That. " _Briefe_ BEETHOVEN'S. 

There was surely not much in Miss Hallam to encourage confidences; yetwithin half an hour of the time of entering her house I had told her allthat oppressed my heart, and had gained a feeling of greater securitythan I had yet felt. I was sure that she would befriend me. True, shedid not say so. When I told her about Sir Peter Le Marchant's proposalto me, about Adelaide's behavior; when, in halting and stammering tones, and interrupted by tears, I confessed that I had not spoken to my fatheror mother upon the subject, and that I was not quite sure of theirapproval of what I had done, she even laughed a little, but not in whatcould be called an amused manner. When I had finished my tale, she said:

"If I understand you, the case stands thus: You have refused Sir PeterLe Marchant, but you do not feel at all sure that he will not propose toyou again. Is it not so?"

"Yes, " I admitted. 

"And you dread and shrink from the idea of a repetition of thisbusiness?"

"I feel as if it would kill me. "

"It would not kill you. People are not so easily killed as all that; butit is highly unfit that you should be subjected to a recurrence of it. Iwill think about it. Will you have the goodness to read me a page ofthis book?"

Much surprised at this very abrupt change of the subject, but not daringto make any observation upon it, I took the book--the current number ofa magazine--and read a page to her. 

"That will do, " said she. "Now, will you read this letter, also aloud?"

She put a letter into my hand, and I read:

 "DEAR MADAME, --In answer to your letter of last week, I write to say that I could find the rooms you require, and that by me you will have many good agreements which would make your stay in Germany pleasanter. My house is a large one in the Alléestrasse. Dr. Mittendorf, the oculist, lives not far from here, and the Städtische Augenklinik--that is, the eye hospital--is quite near. The rooms you would have are upstairs--suite of salon and two bedrooms, with room for your maid in another part of the house. I have other boarders here at the time, but you would do as you pleased about mixing with them. 

 "With all highest esteem, "Your devoted, "'CLARA STEINMANN. '"

"You don't understand it all, I suppose?" said she, when I had finished. 

"No. "

"That lady writes from Elberthal. You have heard of Elberthal on theRhine, I presume?"

"Oh, yes! A large town. There used to be a fine picture-gallery there;but in the war between the--"

"There, thank you! I studied Guy's geography myself in my youth. I seeyou know the place I mean. There is an eye hospital there, and acelebrated oculist--Mittendorf. I am going there. I don't suppose itwill be of the least use; but I am going. Drowning men catch at straws. Well, what else can you do? You don't read badly. "

"I can sing--not very well, but I can sing. "

"You can sing, " said she, reflectively. "Just go to the piano and let mehear a specimen. I was once a judge in these matters. "

I opened the piano and sung, as well as I could, an English version of"Die Lotus-blume. "

My performance was greeted with silence, which Miss Hallam at lengthbroke, remarking:

"I suppose you have not had much training?"

"Scarcely any. "

"Humph! Well, it is to be had, even if not in Skernford. Would you likesome lessons?"

"I should like a good many things that I am not likely ever to have. "

"At Elberthal there are all kinds of advantages with regard to thosethings--music and singing, and so on. Will you come there with me as mycompanion?"

I heard, but did not fairly understand. My head was in a whirl. Go toGermany with Miss Hallam; leave Skernford, Sir Peter, all that had grownso weary to me; see new places, live with new people; learn something!No, I did not grasp it in the least. I made no reply, but satbreathlessly staring. 

"But I shall expect you to make yourself useful to me in many ways, "proceeded Miss Hallam. 

At this touch of reality I began to waken up again. 

"Oh, Miss Hallam, is it really true? Do you think they will let me go?"

"You haven't answered me yet. "

"About being useful? I would do anything you like--anything in theworld. "

"Do not suppose your life will be all roses, or you will be woefullydisappointed. I do not go out at all; my health is bad--so is my tempervery often. I am what people who never had any trouble are fond ofcalling peculiar. Still, if you are in earnest, and not merelysentimentalizing, you will take your courage in your hands and come withme. "

"Miss Hallam, " said I, with tragic earnestness, as I took her hand, "Iwill come. I see you half mistrust me; but if I had to go to Siberia toget out of Sir Peter's way, I would go gladly and stay there. I hope Ishall not be very clumsy. They say at home that I am, very, but I willdo my best. "

"They call you clumsy at home, do they?"

"Yes. My sisters are so much cleverer than I, and can do everything somuch better than I can. I am rather stupid, I know. "

"Very well, if you like to call yourself so, do. It is decided that youcome with me. I will see your father about it to-morrow. I always get myown way when I wish it. I leave in about a week. "

I sat with clasped hands, my heart so full that I could not speak. Sadness and gladness struggled hard within me. The idea of getting awayfrom Skernford was almost too delightful; the remembrance of Adelaidemade my heart ache. 

CHAPTER V. 

 "Ade nun ihr Berge, ihr väterlich Haus! Es treibt in die Ferne mich mächtig hinaus. " VOLKSLIED. 

Consent was given. Sir Peter was not mentioned to me by my parents, orby Adelaide. The days of that week flew rapidly by. 

I was almost afraid to mention my prospects to Adelaide. I feared shewould resent my good fortune in going abroad, and that her anger athaving spoiled those other prospects would remain unabated. Moreover, adeeper feeling separated me from her now--the knowledge that there lay agreat gulf of feeling, sentiment, opinion between us, which nothingcould bridge over or do away with. Outwardly we might be amiable andfriendly to each other, but confidence, union, was fled over. Once againin the future, I was destined, when our respective principles had beentried to the utmost, to have her confidence--to see her heart of hearts;but for the present we were effectually divided. I had mortally offendedher, and it was not a case in which I could with decency even humblemyself to her. Once, however, she mentioned the future. 

When the day of our departure had been fixed, and was only two daysdistant; when I was breathless with hurried repairing of old clothes, and the equally hurried laying in of a small stock of new ones; while Iwas contemplating with awe the prospect of a first journey to London, toOstend, to Brussels, she said to me, as I sat feverishly hemming afrill:

"So you are going to Germany?"

"Yes, Adelaide. "

"What are you going to do there?"

"My duty, I hope. "

"Charity, my dear, and duty too, begins at home. I should say you weregoing away leaving your duty undone. "

I was silent, and she went on:

"I suppose you wish to go abroad, May?"

"You know I have always wished to go. "

"So do I. "

"I wish you were going too, " said I, timidly. 

"Thank you. My views upon the subject are quite different. When I goabroad I shall go in a different capacity to that you are going toassume. I will let you know all about it in due time. "

"Very well, " said I, almost inaudibly, having a vague idea as to whatshe meant, but determined not to speak about it. 

 * * * * *

The following day the curtain rose upon the first act of the play--callit drama, comedy, tragedy, what you will--which was to be played in myabsence. I had been up the village to the post-office, and wasreturning, when I saw advancing toward me two figures which I had causeto remember--my sister's queenly height, her white hat over her eyes, and her sunshade in her hand, and beside her the pale face, with itsragged eyebrows and hateful sneer, of Sir Peter Le Marchant. 

Adelaide, not at all embarrassed by his company, was smiling slightly, and her eyes with drooped lids glanced downward toward the baronet. Ishrunk into a cottage to avoid them as they came past, and waited. Adelaide was saying:

"Proud--yes, I am proud, I suppose. Too proud, at least, to--"

There! Out of hearing. They had passed. I hurried out of the cottage, and home. 

The next day I met Miss Hallam and her maid (we three traveled alone)at the station, and soon we were whirling smoothly along our southwardway--to York first, then to London, and so out into the world, thoughtI. 

CHAPTER VI. 

"Ein Held aus der Fremde, gar kühn. "

We had left Brussels and Belgium behind, had departed from the regionsof _Chemins de fer_, and entered those of _Eisenbahnen_. We were atCologne, where we had to change and wait half an hour before we could goon to Elberthal. We sat in the wartesaal, and I had committed to mycharge two bundles, with strict injunctions not to lose them. 

Then the doors were opened, and the people made a mad rush to a trainstanding somewhere in the dim distance. Merrick, Miss Hallam's maid, hadto give her whole attention to her mistress. I followed close in theirwake, until, as we had almost come to the train, I cast my eyes downwardand perceived that there was missing from my arm a gray shawl of MissHallam's, which had been committed to my charge, and upon which she seta fidgety kind of value, as being particularly warm or particularlysoft. 

Dismayed, I neither hesitated nor thought, but turned, fought my waythrough the throng of people to the waiting-room again, hunted everycorner, but in vain, for the shawl. Either it was completely lost, orMerrick had, without my observing it, taken it under her own protection. It was not in the waiting-room. Giving up the search I hurried to thedoor: it was fast. No one more, it would seem, was to be let out thatway; I must go round, through the passages into the open hall of thestation, and so on to the platform again. More easily said than done. Always, from my earliest youth up, I have had a peculiar fancy forlosing myself. On this eventful day I lost myself. I ran through thepassages, came into the great open place surrounded on every side bydoors leading to the platforms, offices, or booking offices. Glancinghastily round, I selected the door which appeared to my imperfectlydeveloped "locality" to promise egress upon the platform, pushed itopen, and going along a covered passage, and through another door, foundmyself, after the loss of a good five minutes, in a lofty deserted wingof the station, gazing wildly at an empty platform, and feverishlyscanning all the long row of doors to my right, in a mad effort to guesswhich would take me from this delightful _terra incognito_ back to myfriends. 

_Gepäck-Expedition_, I read, and thought it did not sound promising. Telegraphs bureau. Impossible! _Ausgang. _ There was the magic word, andI, not knowing it, stared at it and was none the wiser for its friendlysign. I heard a hollow whistle in the distance. No doubt it was theElberthal train going away, and my heart sunk deep, deep within mybreast. I knew no German word. All I could say was "Elberthal;" and mynearest approach to "first-class" was to point to the carriage doors andsay "Ein, " which might or might not be understood--probably not, whenthe universal stupidity of the German railway official is taken intoconsideration, together with his chronic state of gratuitous suspicionthat a bad motive lurks under every question which is put to him. Iheard a subdued bustle coming from the right hand in the distance, and Iran hastily to the other end of the great empty place, seeing, as Ithought, an opening. Vain delusion! Deceptive dream of the fancy! Therewas a glass window through which I looked and saw a street thronged withpassengers and vehicles. I hurried back again to find my way to theentrance of the station and there try another door, when I heard a bellring violently--a loud groaning and shrieking, and then the sound, as itwere, of a train departing. A porter--at least a person in uniform, appeared in a door-way. How I rushed up to him! How I seized his arm, and dropping my rugs gesticulated excitedly and panted forth the word"Elberthal!"

"Elberthal?" said he in a guttural bass; "_Wollt ihr nach Elberthal, fräuleinchen!_"

There was an impudent twinkle in his eye, as it were impertinence tryingto get the better of beer, and I reiterated "Elberthal, " growing veryred, and cursing all foreign speeches by my gods--a process oftenemployed, I believe, by cleverer persons than I, with reference tothings they do not understand. 

"_Schon fort, Fräulein_, " he continued, with a grin. 

"But where--what--Elberthal!"

He was about to make some further reply, when, turning, he seemed to seesome one, and assumed a more respectful demeanor. I too turned, and sawat some little distance from us a gentleman sauntering along, who, though coming toward us, did not seem to observe us. Would he understandme if I spoke to him? Desperate as I was, I felt some timidity abouttrying it. Never had I felt so miserable, so helpless, so utterlyashamed as I did then. My lips trembled as the new-comer drew nearer, and the porter, taking the opportunity of quitting a scene which beganto bore him, slipped away. I was left alone on the platform, nervouslysnatching short glances at the person slowly, very slowly approachingme. He did not look up as if he beheld me or in any way remarked mypresence. His eyes were bent toward the ground: his fingers drummed atune upon his chest. As he approached, I heard that he was hummingsomething. I even heard the air; it has been impressed upon my memoryfirmly enough since, though I did not know it then--the air of themarch from Raff's Fifth Symphonie, the "Lenore. " I heard the tune softlyhummed in a mellow voice, as with face burning and glowing, I placedmyself before him. Then he looked suddenly up as if startled, fixed uponme a pair of eyes which gave me a kind of shock; so keen, so commandingwere they, with a kind of tameless freedom in their glance such as I hadnever seen before. 

Arrested (no doubt by my wild and excited appearance), he stood stilland looked at me, and as he looked a slight smile began to dawn upon hislips. Not an Englishman. I should have known him for an outlanderanywhere. I remarked no details of his appearance; only that he was talland had, as it seemed to me, a commanding bearing. I stood hesitatingand blushing. (To this very day the blood comes to my face as I think ofmy agony of blushes in that immemorial moment. ) I saw a handsome--a veryhandsome face, quite different from any I had ever seen before: thestartling eyes before spoken of, and which surveyed me with a look sokeen, so cool, and so bright, which seemed to penetrate through andthrough me; while a slight smile curled the light mustache upward--ageneral aspect which gave me the impression that he was not only apersonage, but a very great personage--with a flavor of something elsepermeating it all which puzzled me and made me feel embarrassed as tohow to address him. While I stood inanely trying to gather my sensestogether, he took off the little cloth cap he wore, and bowing, asked:

"_Mein Fräulein_, in what can I assist you?"

His English was excellent--his bow like nothing I had seen before. Convinced that I had met a genuine, thorough fine gentleman (in which Iwas right for once in my life), I began:

"I have lost my way, " and my voice trembled in spite of all my effortsto steady it. "In a crowd I lost my friends, and--I was going toElberthal, and I turned the wrong way--and--"

"Have come to destruction, _nicht wahr_?" He looked at his watch, raisedhis eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. "The Elberthal train is alreadyaway. "

"Gone!" I dropped my rugs and began a tremulous search for mypocket-handkerchief. "What shall I do?"

"There is another--let me see--in one hour--two--_will 'mal nachsehen. _Will you come with me, Fräulein, and we will see about the trains. "

"If you would show me the platform, " said I. "Perhaps some of them maystill be there. Oh, what will they think of me?"

"We must go to the wartesaal, " said he. "Then you can look out and seeif you see any of them. "

I had no choice but to comply. 

My benefactor picked up my two bundles, and, in spite of myexpostulations, carried them with him. He took me through the doorinscribed _Ausgang_, and the whole thing seemed so extremely simple now, that my astonishment as to how I could have lost myself increased everyminute. He went before me to the waiting-room, put my bundles upon oneof the sofas, and we went to the door. The platform was almost as emptyas the one we had left. 

I looked round, and though it was only what I had expected, yet my facefell when I saw how utterly and entirely my party had disappeared. 

"You see them not?" he inquired. 

"No--they are gone, " said I, turning away from the window and chokingdown a sob, not very effectually. Turning my damp and sorrowful eyes tomy companion, I found that he was still smiling to himself as if quietlyamused at the whole adventure. 

"I will go and see at what time the trains go to Elberthal. Suppose yousit down--yes?"

Passively obeying, I sat down and turned my situation over in my mind, in which kind of agreeable mental legerdemain I was still occupied whenhe returned. 

"It is now half past three, and there is a train to Elberthal at seven. "

"Seven!"

"Seven: a very pleasant time to travel, _nicht wahr_? Then it is stillquite light. "

"So long! Three hours and a half, " I murmured, dejectedly, and bit mylips and hung my head. Then I said, "I am sure I am much obliged to you. If I might ask you a favor?"

"_Bitte, mein Fräulein!_"

"If you could show me exactly where the train starts from, and--could Iget a ticket now, do you think?"

"I'm afraid not, so long before, " he answered, twisting his mustache, asI could not help seeing, to hide a smile. 

"Then, " said I, with stoic calmness, "I shall never get toElberthal--never, for I don't know a word of German, not one, " I satmore firmly down upon the sofa, and tried to contemplate the future withfortitude. 

"I can tell you what to say, " said he, removing with great deliberationthe bundles which divided us, and sitting down beside me. He leaned hischin upon his hand and looked at me, ever, as it seemed to me, withamusement tempered with kindness, and I felt like a very little girlindeed. 

"You are exceedingly good, " I replied, "but it would be of no use. I amso frightened of those men in blue coats and big mustaches. I should notbe able to say a word to any of them. "

"German is sometimes not unlike English. "

"It is like nothing to me, except a great mystery. "

"_Billet_, is 'ticket, '" said he persuasively. 

"Oh, is it?" said I, with a gleam of hope. "Perhaps I could rememberthat. _Billet_, " I repeated reflectively. 

"Bil_let_, " he amended; "not _Bil_lit. "

"Bill-yet--Bill-_yet_, " I repeated. 

"And 'to Elberthal' may be said in one word, 'Elberthal. ' '_EinBillet--Elberthal--erster Classe. _'"

"_Ein Bill-yet_, " I repeated, automatically, for my thoughts weredwelling more upon the charming quandary in which I found myself thanupon his half-good-natured half-mocking instructions: "_Ein Bill-yet, firste--erste_--it is of no use. I can't say it. But"--here a brilliantidea struck me--"if you could write it out for me on a paper, and then Icould give it to the man: he would surely know what it meant. "

"A very interesting idea, but a _viva voce_ interview is so muchbetter. "

"I wonder how long it takes to walk to Elberthal!" I suggested darkly. 

"Oh, a mere trifle of a walk. You might do it in four or five hours, Idare say. "

I bit my lips, trying not to cry. 

"Perhaps we might make some other arrangement, " he remarked. "I am goingto Elberthal too. "

"You! Thank Heaven!" was my first remark. Then as a doubt came over me:"Then why--why--"

Here I stuck fast, unable to ask why he had said so many tormentingthings to me, pretended to teach me German phrases, and so on. The wordswould not come out. Meanwhile he, without apparently feeling itnecessary to explain himself upon these points, went on:

"Yes. I have been at a probe" (not having the faintest idea as to what aprobe might be, and not liking to ask, I held my peace and bowedassentingly). He went on, "And I was delayed a little. I had intended togo by the train you have lost, so if you are not afraid to trustyourself to my care we can travel together. "

"You--you are very kind. "

"Then you are not afraid?"

"I--oh, no! I should like it very much. I mean I am sure it would bevery nice. "

Feeling that my social powers were as yet in a very undevelopedcondition, I subsided into silence, as he went on:

"I hope your friends will not be very uneasy?"

"Oh, dear no!" I assured him, with a pious conviction that I wasspeaking the truth. 

"We shall arrive at Elberthal about half past eight. "

I scarcely heard. I had plunged my hand into my pocket, and found--ahideous conviction crossed my mind--I had no money! I had until thismoment totally forgotten having given my purse to Merrick to keep; andshe, as pioneer of the party, naturally had all our tickets under hercharge. My heart almost stopped beating. It was unheard of, horrible, this possibility of falling into the power of a total, utter stranger--aforeigner--a--Heaven only knew what! Engrossed with this painful anddistressing problem, I sat silent, and with eyes gloomily cast down. 

"One thing is certain, " he remarked. "We do not want to spend threehours and a half in the station. I want some dinner. A four hours' probeis apt to make one a little hungry. Come, we will go and have somethingto eat. "

The idea had evidently come to him as a species of inspiration, and heopenly rejoiced in it. 

"I am not hungry, " said I; but I was, very. I knew it now that the idea"dinner" had made itself conspicuous in my consciousness. 

"Perhaps you think not; but you are, all the same, " he said. "Come withme, Fräulein. You have put yourself into my hands; you must do what Itell you. "

I followed him mechanically out of the station and down the street, andI tried to realize that instead of being with Miss Hallam and Merrick, my natural and respectable protectors, safely and conventionallyplodding the slow way in the slow continental train to the slowcontinental town, I was parading about the streets of Köln with a man ofwhose very existence I had half an hour ago been ignorant; I wasdependent, too, upon him, and him alone, for my safe arrival atElberthal. And I followed him unquestioningly, now and then tellingmyself, by way of feeble consolation, that he was a gentleman--hecertainly was a gentleman--and wishing now and then, or trying to wish, with my usual proper feeling, that it had been some nice old lady withwhom I had fallen in: it would have made the whole adventure blameless, and, comparatively speaking, agreeable. 

We went along a street and came to a hotel, a large building, into whichmy conductor walked, spoke to a waiter, and we were shown into therestaurant, full of round tables, and containing some half dozen partiesof people. I followed with stony resignation. It was the severest trialof all, this coming to a hotel alone with a gentleman in broad daylight. I caught sight of a reflection in a mirror of a tall, pale girl, withheavy, tumbled auburn hair, a brown hat which suited her, and a severelysimple traveling-dress. I did not realize until I had gone past that itwas my own reflection which I had seen. 

"Suppose we sit here, " said he, going to a table in a comparativelysecluded window recess, partially overhung with curtains. 

"How very kind and considerate of him!" thought I. 

"Would you rather have wine or coffee, Fräulein?"

Pulled up from the impulse to satisfy my really keen hunger by therecollection of my "lack of gold, " I answered hastily. 

"Nothing, thank you--really nothing. "

"_O doch!_ You must have something, " said he, smiling. "I will ordersomething. Don't trouble about it. "

"Don't order anything for me, " said I, my cheeks burning. "I shall noteat anything. "

"If you do not eat, you will be ill. Remember, we do not get toElberthal before eight, " said he. "Is it perhaps disagreeable to you toeat in the saal? If you like we can have a private room. "

"It is not that at all, " I replied; and seeing that he looked surprised, I blurted out the truth. "I have no money. I gave my purse to MissHallam's maid to keep and she has taken it with her. "

With a laugh, in which, infectious though it was, I was too wretched tojoin:

"Is that all? Kellner!" cried he. 

An obsequious waiter came up, smiled sweetly and meaningly at us, received some orders from my companion, and disappeared. 

He seated himself beside me at the little round table. 

"He will bring something at once, " said he, smiling. 

I sat still. I was not happy, and yet I could not feel all theunhappiness which I considered appropriate to the circumstances. 

My companion took up a "Kölnische Zeitung, " and glanced over theadvertisements, while I looked a little stealthily at him, and for thefirst time took in more exactly what he was like, and grew more puzzledwith him each moment. As he leaned upon the table, one slight, long, brown hand propping his head, and half lost in the thick, fine brownhair which waved in large, ample waves over his head, there was anindescribable grace, ease, and negligent beauty in the attitude. Move ashe would, let him assume any possible or impossible attitude, there wasstill in the same grace, half careless, yet very dignified in theposition he took. 

All his lines were lines of beauty, but beauty which had power and muchmasculine strength; nowhere did it degenerate into flaccidity, nowherelose strength in grace. His hair was long, and I wondered at it. Mysmall experience in our delightful home and village circle had notacquainted me with that flowing style; the young men of my acquaintancecropped their hair close to the scalp, and called it the modern style ofhair-dressing. It had always looked to me more like hair-undressing. This hair fell in a heavy wave over his forehead, and he had the habit, common to people whose hair does so, of lifting his head suddenly andshaking back the offending lock. His forehead was broad, open, pleasant, yet grave. Eyes, as I had seen, very dark, and with lashes andbrows which enhanced the contrast to a complexion at once fair and pale. A light mustache, curving almost straight across the face, gave asmiling expression to lips which were otherwise grave, calm, almost sad. In fact, looking nearer, I thought he did look sad; and though when helooked at me his eyes were so piercing, yet in repose they had a certaindistant, abstracted expression not far removed from absolutemournfulness. Broad-shouldered, long-armed, with a physique in everyrespect splendid, he was yet very distinctly removed from the merehandsome animal which I believe enjoys a distinguished popularity in thelatter-day romance. 

Now, as his eyes were cast upon the paper, I perceived lines upon hisforehead, signs about the mouth and eyes telling of a firm, not to sayimperious, disposition; a certain curve of the lips, and of the full, yet delicate nostril, told of pride both strong and high. He was olderthan I had thought, his face sparer; there were certain hollows in thecheeks, two lines between the eyebrows, a sharpness, or rather somewhatworn appearance of the features, which told of a mental life, keen andconsuming. Altogether, an older, more intellectual, more imposing facethan I had at first thought; less that of a young and handsome man, morethat of a thinker and student. Lastly, a cool ease, deliberation, andleisureliness about all he said and did, hinted at his being a person inauthority, accustomed to give orders and see them obeyed withoutquestion. I decided that he was, in our graceful home phrase, "master inhis own house. "

His clothing was unremarkable--gray summer clothes, such as anygentleman or any shop-keeper might wear; only in scanning him no thoughtof shop-keeper came into my mind. His cap lay upon the table beside us, one of the little gray Studentenmutzen with which Elberthal soon made mefamiliar, but which struck me then as odd and outlandish. I grew everymoment more interested in my scrutiny of this, to me, fascinating andremarkable face, and had forgotten to try to look as if I were notlooking, when he looked up suddenly, without warning, with those bright, formidable eyes, which had already made me feel somewhat shy as I caughtthem fixed upon me. 

"_Nun_, have you decided?" he asked, with a humorous look in his eyes, which he was too polite to allow to develop itself into a smile. 

"I--oh, I beg your pardon!"

"You do not want to, " he answered, in imperfect idiom. "But have youdecided?"

"Decided what?"

"Whether I am to be trusted?"

"I have not been thinking about that, " I said, uncomfortably, when to myrelief the appearance of the waiter with preparations for a meal savedme further reply. 

"What shall we call this meal?" he asked, as the waiter disappeared tobring the repast to the table. "It is too late for the _Mittagessen_, and too early for the _Abendbrod_. Can you suggest a name?"

"At home it would be just the time for afternoon tea. "

"Ah, yes! Your English afternoon tea is very--" He stopped suddenly. 

"Have you been in England?"

"This is just the time at which we drink our afternoon coffee inGermany, " said he, looking at me with his impenetrably bright eyes, justas if he had never heard me. "When the ladies all meet together to talkscan--_O, behüte!_ What am I saying?--to consult seriously uponimportant topics, you know. There are some low-minded persons who callthe whole ceremony a Klatsch--Kaffeeklatsch. I am sure you and I shalltalk seriously upon important subjects, so suppose we call this ourKaffeeklatsch, although we have no coffee to it. "

"Oh, yes, if you like. "

He put a piece of cutlet upon my plate, and poured yellow wine into myglass. Endeavoring to conduct myself with the dignity of a grown-upperson and to show that I did know something, I inquired if the winewere hock. 

He smiled. "It is not Hochheimer--not Rheinwein at all--he--no, it, yousay--it is Moselle wine--'Doctor. '"

"Doctor?"

"Doctorberger; I do not know why so called. And a very good fellowtoo--so say all his friends, of whom I am a warm one. Try him. "

I complied with the admonition, and was able to say that I likedDoctorberger. We ate and drank in silence for some little time, and Ifound that I was very hungry. I also found that I could not conjure upany real feeling of discomfort or uneasiness, and that the prospectivescolding from Miss Hallam had no terrors in it for me. Never had I feltso serene in mind, never more at ease in every way, than now. I feltthat this was wrong--bohemian, irregular, and not respectable, and triedto get up a little unhappiness about something. The only thing that Icould think of was:

"I am afraid I am taking up your time. Perhaps you had some businesswhich you were going to when you met me. "

"My business, when I met you, was to catch the train to Elberthal, whichwas already gone, as you know. I shall not be able to fulfill myengagements for to-night, so it really does not matter. I am enjoyingmyself very much. "

"I am very glad I did meet you, " said I, growing more reassured as Ifound that my companion, though exceedingly polite and attentive to me, did not ask a question as to my business, my traveling companions, myintended stay or object in Elberthal--that he behaved as a perfectgentleman--one who is a gentleman throughout, in thought as well as indeed. He did not even ask me how it was that my friends had not waited alittle for me, though he must have wondered why two people left a younggirl, moneyless and ignorant, to find her way after them as well as shecould. He took me as he found me, and treated me as if I had been themost distinguished and important of persons. But at my last remark hesaid, with the same odd smile which took me by surprise every time I sawit:

"The pleasure is certainly not all on your side, _mein Fräulein_. Isuppose from that you have decided that I am to be trusted?"

I stammered out something to the effect that "I should be veryungrateful were I not satisfied with--with such a--" I stopped, lookingat him in some confusion. I saw a sudden look flash into his eyes andover his face. It was gone again in a moment--so fleeting that I hadscarce time to mark it, but it opened up a crowd of strange newimpressions to me, and while I could no more have said what it was likethe moment it was gone, yet it left two desires almost equally strong inme--I wished in one and the same moment that I had for my own peace ofmind never seen him--and that I might never lose sight of him again: tofly from that look, to remain and encounter it. The tell-tale mirror inthe corner caught my eye. At home they used sometimes to call me, partlyin mockery, partly in earnest, "Bonny May. " The sobriquet had hithertobeen a mere shadow, a meaningless thing, to me. I liked to hear it, buthad never paused to consider whether it were appropriate or not. In mybrief intercourse with my venerable suitor, Sir Peter, I had come alittle nearer to being actively aware that I was good-looking, only toanathematize the fact. Now, catching sight of my reflection in themirror, I wondered eagerly whether I really were fair, and wished I hadsome higher authority to think so than the casual jokes of my sisters. It did not add to my presence of mind to find that my involuntary glanceto the mirror had been intercepted--perhaps even my motive guessedat--he appeared to have a frightfully keen instinct. 

"Have you seen the Dom?" was all he said; but it seemed somehow to givea point to what had passed. 

"The Dom--what is the Dom?"

"The _Kölner Dom_; the cathedral. "

"Oh, no! Oh, should we have time to see it?" I exclaimed. "How I shouldlike it!"

"Certainly. It is close at hand. Suppose we go now. "

Gladly I rose, as he did. One of my most ardent desires was about to befulfilled--not so properly and correctly as might have been desired, but--yes, certainly more pleasantly than under the escort of MissHallam, grumbling at every groschen she had to unearth in payment. 

Before we could leave our seclusion there came up to us a young man whohad looked at us through the door and paused. I had seen him; had seenhow he said something to a companion, and how the companion shook hishead dissentingly. The first speaker came up to us, eyed me with a lookof curiosity, and turning to my protector with a benevolent smile, said:

"Eugen Courvoisier! _Also hatte ich doch Recht!_"

I caught the name. The rest was of course lost upon me. EugenCourvoisier? I liked it, as I liked him, and in my young enthusiasmdecided that it was a very good name. The new-comer, who seemed as ifmuch pleased with some discovery, and entertained at the same time, addressed some questions to Courvoisier, who answered him tranquillybut in a tone of voice which was very freezing; and then the other, witha few words and an unbelieving kind of laugh, said something about a_schöne Geschichte_, and, with another look at me, went out of thecoffee-room again. 

We went out of the hotel, up the street to the cathedral. It was thefirst cathedral I had ever been in. The shock and the wonder of itsgrandeur took my breath away. When I had found courage to look round, and up at those awful vaults the roofs, I could not help crying alittle. The vastness, coolness, stillness, and splendor crushed me--thegreat solemn rays of sunlight coming in slanting glory through thewindows--the huge height--the impression it gave of greatness, and of areligious devotion to which we shall never again attain; of pure, noblehearts, and patient, skillful hands, toiling, but in a spirit that madethe toil a holy prayer--carrying out the builder's thought--greatthought greatly executed--all was too much for me, the more so in thatwhile I felt it all I could not analyze it. It was a dim, indefinitewonder. I tried stealthily and in shame to conceal my tears, lookingsurreptitiously at him in fear lest he should be laughing at me again. But he was not. He held his cap in his hand--was looking with thosestrange, brilliant eyes fixedly toward the high altar, and there wassome expression upon his face which I could not analyze--not theexpression of a person for whom such a scene has grown or can growcommon by custom--not the expression of a sight-seer who feels that hemust admire; not my own first astonishment. At least he felt it--thewhole grand scene, and I instinctively and instantly felt more at homewith him than I had done before. 

"Oh!" said I, at last, "if one could stay here forever, what would onegrow to?"

He smiled a little. 

"You find it beautiful?"

"It is the first I have seen. It is much more than beautiful. "

"The first you have seen? Ah, well, I might have guessed that. "

"Why? Do I look so countrified?" I inquired, with real interest, as Ilet him lead me to a little side bench, and place himself beside me. Iasked in all good faith. About him there seemed such a cosmopolitanease, that I felt sure he could tell me correctly how I struck otherpeople--if he would. 

"Countrified--what is that?"

"Oh, we say it when people are like me--have never seen anything buttheir own little village, and never had any adventures, and--"

"Get lost at railway stations, _und so weiter_. I don't know enough ofthe meaning of 'countrified' to be able to say if you are so, but it iseasy to see that you--have not had much contention with the powers thatbe. "

"Oh, I shall not be stupid long, " said I, comfortably. "I am not goingback home again. "

"So!" He did not ask more, but I saw that he listened, and proceededcommunicatively:

"Never. I have--not quarreled with them exactly, but had a disagreement, because--because--"

"Because?"

"They wanted me to--I mean, an old gentleman--no, I mean--"

"An old gentleman wanted you to marry him, and you would not, " said he, with an odd twinkle in his eyes. 

"Why, how can you know?"

"I think, because you told me. But I will forget it if you wish. "

"Oh, no! It is quite true. Perhaps I ought to have married him. "

"Ought!" He looked startled. 

"Yes. Adelaide--my eldest sister--said so. But it was no use. I was veryunhappy, and Miss Hallam, who is Sir Peter's deadly enemy--he is the oldgentleman, you know--was very kind to me. She invited me to come withher to Germany, and promised to let me have singing lessons. "

"Singing lessons?"

I nodded. "Yes; and then when I know a good deal more about singing, Ishall go back again and give lessons. I shall support myself, and thenno one will have the right to want to make me marry Sir Peter. "

"_Du lieber Himmel!_" he ejaculated, half to himself. "Are you verymusical, then?"

"I can sing, " said I. "Only I want some more training. "

"And you will go back all alone and try to give lessons?"

"I shall not only try, I shall do it, " I corrected him. 

"And do you like the prospect?"

"If I can get enough money to live upon, I shall like it very much. Itwill be better than living at home and being bothered. "

"I will tell you what you should do before you begin your career, " saidhe, looking at me with an expression half wondering, half pitying. 

"What? If you could tell me anything. "

"Preserve your voice, by all means, and get as much instruction as youcan; but change all that waving hair, and make it into unobjectionablesmooth bands of no particular color. Get a mask to wear over your face, which is too expressive; do something to your eyes to alter their--"

The expression then visible in the said eyes seemed to strike him, forhe suddenly stopped, and with a slight laugh, said:

"_Ach, was rede ich für dummes Zeug!_ Excuse me, _mein Fräulein_. "

"But, " I interrupted, earnestly, "what do you mean? Do you think myappearance will be a disadvantage to me?"

Scarcely had I said the words than I knew how intensely stupid theywere, how very much they must appear as if I were openly and impudentlyfishing for compliments. How grateful I felt when he answered, with agrave directness, which had nothing but the highest compliment init--that of crediting me with right motives:

"_Mein Fräulein_, how can I tell? It is only that I knew some one, rather older than you, and very beautiful, who had such a pursuit. Hername was Corona Heidelberger, and her story was a sad one. "

"Tell it me, " I besought. 

"Well, no, I think not. But--sometimes I have a little gift offoresight, and that tells me that you will not become what you atpresent think. You will be much happier and more fortunate. "

"I wonder if it would be nice to be a great operatic singer, " Ispeculated. 

"_O, behüte!_ don't think of it!" he exclaimed, starting up and movingrestlessly. "You do not know--you an opera singer--"

He was interrupted. There suddenly filled the air a sound of deep, heavenly melody, which swept solemnly adown the aisles, and filled withits melodious thunder every corner of the great building. I listenedwith my face upraised, my lips parted. It was the organ, and presently, after a wonderful melody, which set my heart beating--a melody full ofthe most witchingly sweet high notes, and a breadth and grandeur of lowones such as only two composers have ever attained to, a voice--a singlewoman's voice--was upraised. She was invisible, and she sung till thevery sunshine seemed turned to melody, and all the world was music--thegreatest, most glorious of earthly things. 

 "Blute nur, liebes Herz! Ach, ein Kind das du erzogen, Das an deiner Brust gesogen, Drohet den Pfleger zu ermorden Denn es ist zur Schlange worden. "

"What is it?" I asked below my breath, as it ceased. 

He had shaded his face with his hand, but turned to me as I spoke, acertain half-suppressed enthusiasm in his eyes. 

"Be thankful for your first introduction to German music, " said he, "andthat it was grand old Johann Sebastian Bach whom you heard. That is oneof the soprano solos in the _Passions-musik_--that is music. "

There was more music. A tenor voice was singing a recitative now, andthat exquisite accompaniment, with a sort of joyful solemnity, stillcontinued. Every now and then, shrill, high, and clear, penetrated achorus of boys' voices. I, outer barbarian that I was, barely knew thename of Bach and his "Matthaus Passion, " so in the pauses my companiontold me by snatches what it was about. There was not much of it. After afew solos and recitatives, they tried one or two of the choruses. I satin silence, feeling a new world breaking in glory around me, till thattremendous chorus came; the organ notes swelled out, the tenor voicesung "Whom will ye that I give unto you?" and the answer came, crashingdown in one tremendous clap, "Barrabam!" And such music was in theworld, had been sung for years, and I had not heard it. Verily, theremay be revelations and things new under the sun every day. 

I had forgotten everything outside the cathedral--every person but theone at my side. It was he who roused first, looking at his watch andexclaiming. 

"_Herrgott!_ We must go to the station, Fräulein, if we wish to catchthe train. "

And yet I did not think he seemed very eager to catch it, as we wentthrough the busy streets in the warmth of the evening, for it was hot, as it sometimes is in pleasant April, before the withering east winds ofthe "merry month" have come to devastate the land and sweep sicklypeople off the face of the earth. We went slowly through the movingcrowds to the station, into the wartesaal, where he left me while hewent to take my ticket. I sat in the same corner of the same sofa asbefore, and to this day I could enumerate every object in thatwartesaal. 

It was after seven o'clock. The outside sky was still bright, but it wasdusk in the waiting-room and under the shadow of the station. When"Eugen Courvoisier" came in again, I did not see his features sodistinctly as lately in the cathedral. Again he sat down beside me, silently this time. I glanced at his face, and a strange, sharp, pungentthrill shot through me. The companion of a few hours--was he only that?

"Are you very tired?" he asked, gently, after a long pause. "I think thetrain will not be very long now. "

Even as he spoke, clang, clang, went the bell, and for the second timethat day I went toward the train for Elberthal. This time no wrongturning, no mistake. Courvoisier put me into an empty compartment, andfollowed me, said something to a guard who went past, of which I couldonly distinguish the word _allein_; but as no one disturbed our privacy, I concluded that German railway guards, like English ones, are mortal. 

After debating within myself for some time, I screwed up my courage andbegan:

"Mr. Courvoisier--your name is Courvoisier, is it not?"

"Yes. "

"Will you please tell me how much money you have spent for me to-day?"

"How much money?" he asked, looking at me with a provoking smile. 

The train was rumbling slowly along, the night darkening down. We sat byan open window, and I looked through it at the gray, Dutch-likelandscape, the falling dusk, the poplars that seemed sedately marchingalong with us. 

"Why do you want to know how much?" he demanded. 

"Because I shall want to pay you, of course, when I get my purse, " saidI. "And if you will kindly tell me your address, too--but how much moneydid you spend?"

He looked at me, seemed about to laugh off the question, and then said:

"I believe it was about three thalers ten groschen, but I am not at allsure. I can not tell till I do my accounts. "

"Oh, dear!" said I. 

"Suppose I let you know how much it was, " he went on, with a gravitywhich forced conviction upon me. 

"Perhaps that would be the best, " I agreed. "But I hope you will makeout your accounts soon. "

"Oh, very soon. And where shall I send my bill to?"

Feeling as if there were something not quite as it should be in thewhole proceeding, I looked very earnestly at him, but could find nothingbut the most perfect gravity in his expression. I repeated my addressand name slowly and distinctly, as befitted so business-like atransaction, and he wrote them down in a little book. 

"And you will not forget, " said I, "to give me your address when you letme know what I owe you. "

"Certainly--when I let you know what you owe me, " he replied, puttingthe little book into his pocket again. 

"I wonder if any one will come to meet me, " I speculated, my mind moreat ease in consequence of the business-like demeanor of my companion. 

"Possibly, " said he, with an ambiguous half smile, which I did notunderstand. 

"Miss Hallam--the lady I came with--is almost blind. Her maid had tolook after her, and I suppose that is why they did not wait for me, "said I. 

"It must have been a very strong reason, at any rate, " he said, gravely. 

Now the train rolled into the Elberthal station. There were lights, movement, a storm of people all gabbling away in a foreign tongue. Ilooked out. No face of any one I knew. Courvoisier sprung down andhelped me out. 

"Now I will put you into a drosky, " said he, leading the way to wherethey stood outside the station. 

"Alléestrasse, thirty-nine, " he said to the man. 

"Stop one moment, " cried I, leaning eagerly out. At that moment a tall, dark girl passed us, going slowly toward the gates. She almost paused asshe saw us. She was looking at my companion; I did not see her face, andwas only conscious of her as coming between me and him, and so annoyingme. 

"Please let me thank you, " I continued. "You have been so kind, so verykind--"

"_O, bitte sehr!_ It was so kind in you to get lost exactly when andwhere you did, " said he, smiling. "_Adieu, mein Fräulein_, " he added, making a sign to the coachman, who drove off. 

I saw him no more. "Eugen Courvoisier"--I kept repeating the name tomyself, as if I were in the very least danger of forgetting it--"EugenCourvoisier. " Now that I had parted from him I was quite clear as to myown feelings. I would have given all I was worth--not much, truly--tosee him for one moment again. 

Along a lighted street with houses on one side, a gleaming shine ofwater on the other, and trees on both, down a cross-way, then intoanother street, very wide, and gayly lighted, in the midst of which wasan avenue. 

We stopped with a rattle before a house door, and I read, by the lightof the lamp that hung over it, "39. "

CHAPTER VII. 

ANNA SARTORIUS. 

I was expected. That was very evident. An excited-looking_Dienstmädchen_ opened the door, and on seeing me, greeted me as if Ihad been an old friend. I was presently rescued by Merrick, also lookingagitated. 

"Ho, Miss Wedderburn, at last you are here! How Miss Hallam hasworried, to be sure. "

"I could not help it, I'm very sorry, " said I, following herupstairs--up a great many flights of stairs, as it seemed to me, tillshe ushered me into a sitting-room where I found Miss Hallam. 

"Thank Heaven, child! you are here at last. I was beginning to thinkthat if you did not come by this train, I must send some one to Köln tolook after you. "

"By this train!" I repeated, blankly. "Miss Hallam--what--do you mean?There has been no other train. "

"Two; there was one at four and one at six. I can not tell you howuneasy I have been at your non-appearance. "

"Then--then--" I stammered, growing hot all over. "Oh, how horrible!"

"What is horrible?" she demanded. "And you must be starving. Merrick, goand see about something to eat for Miss Wedderburn. Now, " she added, asher maid left the room, "tell me what you have been doing. "

I told her everything, concealing nothing. 

"Most annoying!" she remarked. "A gentleman, you say. My dear child, nogentleman would have done anything of the kind. I am very sorry for itall. "

"Miss Hallam, " I implored, almost in tears, "please do not tell any onewhat has happened to me. I will never be such a fool again. I knownow--and you may trust me. But do not let any one know how--stupid Ihave been. I told you I was stupid--I told you several times. I am sureyou must remember. "

"Oh, yes, I remember. We will say no more about it. "

"And the gray shawl, " said I. 

"Merrick had it. "

I lifted my hands and shrugged my shoulders. "Just my luck, " I murmured, resignedly, as Merrick came in with a tray. 

Miss Hallam, I noticed, continued to regard me now and then as I atewith but small appetite. I was too excited by what had passed, and bywhat I had just heard, to be hungry. I thought it kind, merciful, humanein her to promise to keep my secret and not expose my ignorance andstupidity to strangers. 

"It is evident, " she remarked, "that you must at once begin to learnGerman, and then if you do get lost at a railway station again, you willbe able to ask your way. "

Merrick shook her head with an inexpressibly bitter smile. 

"I'd defy any one to learn this 'ere language, ma'am. They call anaccident a _Unglück_; if any one could tell me what that means, I'dthank them, that's all. "

"Don't express your opinions, Merrick, unless you wish to seemdeficient in understanding; but go and see that Miss Wedderburn haseverything she wants--or rather everything that can be got--in her room. She is tired, and shall go to bed. "

I was only too glad to comply with this mandate, but it was long ere Islept. I kept hearing the organ in the cathedral, and that voice of theinvisible singer--seeing the face beside me, and hearing the words, "Then you have decided that I am to be trusted?"

"And he was deceiving me all the time!" I thought, mournfully. 

I breakfasted by myself the following morning, in a room called thespeisesaal. I found I was late. When I came into the room, about nineo'clock, there was no one but myself to be seen. There was a long tablewith a white cloth upon it, and rows of the thickest cups and saucers ithad ever been my fate to see, with distinct evidences that the chiefpart of the company had already breakfasted. Baskets full of _Brödchen_and pots of butter, a long India-rubber pipe coming from the gas tolight a theemaschine--lots of cane-bottomed chairs, an open piano, twocages with canaries in them; the kettle gently simmering above thegas-flame; for the rest, silence and solitude. 

I sat down, having found a clean cup and plate, and glanced timidly atthe theemaschine, not daring to cope with its mysteries, until my doubtswere relieved by the entrance of a young person with a trim littlefigure, a coquettishly cut and elaborately braided apron, and a whitefrilled morgenhaube upon her hair, surmounting her round, heavenward-aspiring visage. 

"_Guten morgen, Fräulein_, " she said, as she marched up to the darklymysterious theemaschine and began deftly to prepare coffee for me, andto push the Brödchen toward me. She began to talk to me in brokenEnglish, which was very pretty, and while I ate and drank, sheindustriously scraped little white roots at the same table. She told meshe was Clara, the niece of Frau Steinmann, and that she was very gladto see me, but was very sorry I had had so long to wait in Kölnyesterday. She liked my dress, and was it _echt Englisch_--also, howmuch did it cost?

She was a cheery little person, and I liked her. She seemed to like metoo, and repeatedly said she was glad I had come. She liked dancing shesaid. Did I? And she had lately danced at a ball with some one whodanced so well--_aber_, quite indescribably well. His name was KarlLinders, and he was, _ach!_ really a remarkable person. A bright blush, and a little sigh accompanied the remark. Our eyes met, and from thatmoment Clara and I were very good friends. 

I went upstairs again, and found that Miss Hallam proposed, during theforenoon, to go and find the Eye Hospital, where she was to see theoculist, and arrange for him to visit her, and shortly after eleven weset out. 

The street that I had so dimly seen the night before, showed itself bydaylight to be a fair, broad way. Down the middle, after the pleasantfashion of continental towns, was a broad walk, planted with two doublerows of lindens, and on either side this lindenallee was the carriageroad, private houses, shops, exhibitions, boarding-houses. In themiddle, exactly opposite our dwelling, was the New Theater, just drawingto the close of its first season. I looked at it without thinking muchabout it. I had never been in a theater in my life, and the name was buta name to me. 

Turning off from the pretty allee, and from the green Hofgarten whichbounded it at one end, we entered a narrow, ill-paved street, the aspectof whose gutters and inhabitants alike excited my liveliest disgust. Inthis street was the Eye Hospital, as was presently testified to us by aboard bearing the inscription, "Städtische Augenklinik. "

We were taken to a dimly lighted room in which many people were waiting, some with bandages over their eyes, others with all kinds ofextraordinary spectacles on, which made them look like phantoms out of abad dream--nearly all more or less blind, and the effect wassurprisingly depressing. 

Presently Miss Hallam and Merrick were admitted to an inner room, and Iwas left to await their return. My eye strayed over the different faces, and I felt a sensation of relief when I saw some one come in withouteither bandage or spectacles. The new-comer was a young man of middleheight, and of proportions slight without being thin. There was nothingthe matter with his eyes, unless perhaps a slight short-sightedness; hehad, I thought, one of the gentlest, most attractive faces I had everseen; boyishly open and innocent at the first glance; at the second, indued with a certain reticent calm and intellectual radiance which tookaway from the first youthfulness of his appearance. Soft, yet luminousbrown eyes, loose brown hair hanging round his face, a certain mannerwhich for me at least had a charm, were the characteristics of thisyoung man. He carried a violin-case, removed his hat as he came in, andbeing seen by one of the young men who sat at desks, took names down, and attended to people in general, was called by him:

"Herr Helfen--Herr Friedhelm Helfen!"

"_Ja--hier!_" he answered, going up to the desk, upon which there ensueda lively conversation, though carried on in a low tone, after which theyoung man at the desk presented a white card to "Herr Friedhelm Helfen, "and the latter, with a pleasant "Adieu, " went out of the room again. 

Miss Hallam and Merrick presently returned from the consulting-room, andwe went out of the dark room into the street, which was filled withspring sunshine and warmth; a contrast something like that between MissHallam's life and my own, I have thought since. Far before us, hurryingon, I saw the young man with the violin-case; he turned off by thetheater, and went in at a side door. 

An hour's wandering in the Hofgarten--my first view of the Rhine--adull, flat stream it looked, too. I have seen it since then in mightierflow. Then we came home, and it was decided that we should dine togetherwith the rest of the company at one o'clock. 

A bell rang at a few minutes past one. We went down-stairs, into theroom in which I had already breakfasted, which, in general, was known asthe saal. As I entered with Miss Hallam I was conscious that a knot oflads or young men stood aside to let us pass, and then giggled andscuffled behind the door before following us into the saal. 

Two or three ladies were already seated, and an exceedingly stout ladyladled out soup at a side table, while Clara and a servant-woman carriedthe plates round to the different places. The stout lady turned as shesaw us, and greeted us. She was Frau Steinmann, our hostess. She waiteduntil the youths before spoken of had come in, and with a great deal ofnoise had seated themselves, when she began, aided by the soup-ladle, to introduce us all to each other. 

We, it seemed, were to have the honor and privilege of being the onlyEnglish ladies of the company. We were introduced to one or two others, and I was assigned a place by a lady introduced as Fräulein AnnaSartorius, a brunette, rather stout, with large dark eyes which lookedat me in a way I did not like, a head of curly black hair cropped short, an odd, brusque manner, and a something peculiar, or, as she said, _selten_ in her dress. This young lady sustained the introduction withself-possession and calm. It was otherwise with the young gentlemen, whoappeared decidedly mixed. There were some half dozen of them in all--acouple of English, the rest German, Dutch, and Swedish. I had never beenin company with so many nationalities before, and was impressed with mysituation--needlessly so. 

All these young gentlemen made bows which were, in their respectiveways, triumphs of awkwardness, with the exception of one of ourcompatriots, who appeared to believe that himself and his manners wereformed to charm and subdue the opposite sex. We then sat down, andFräulein Sartorius immediately opened a conversation with me. 

"_Sprechen Sie Deutsch, Fräulein?_" was her first venture, and havingreceived my admission that I did not speak a word of it, she continued, in good English:

"Now I can talk to you without offending you. It is so dreadful whenEnglish people who don't know German persist in thinking that they do. There was an English-woman here who always said _wer_ when she meantwhere, and _wo_ when she meant who. She said the sounds confused her. "

The boys giggled at this, but the joke was lost upon me. 

"What is your name?" she continued; "I didn't catch what Frau Steinmannsaid. "

"May Wedderburn, " I replied, angry with myself for blushing soexcessively as I saw that all the boys held their spoons suspended, listening for my answer. 

"May--_das heisst Mai_, " said she, turning to the assembled youths, whotestified that they were aware of it, and the Dutch boy, Brinks, inquired, gutturally:

"You haf one zong in your language what calls itself, 'Not always Mai, 'haf you not?"

"Yes, " said I, and all the boys began to giggle as if something cleverhad been said. Taken all in all, what tortures have I not suffered fromthose dreadful boys. Shy when they ought to have been bold, and boldwhere a modest retiringness would better have become them. Gigglinginanely at everything and nothing. Noisy and vociferous among themselvesor with inferiors; shy, awkward and blushing with ladies or in refinedsociety--distressing my feeble efforts to talk to them by their sillyexplosions of laughter when one of them was addressed. They formed thebane of my life for some time. 

"Will you let me paint you?" said Fräulein Sartorius, whose big eyes hadbeen surveying me in a manner that made me nervous. 

"Paint me?"

"Your likeness, I mean. You are very pretty, and we never see that colorof hair here. "

"Are you a painter?"

"No, I'm only a _Studentin_ yet; but I paint from models. Well, will yousit to me?"

"Oh, I don't know. If I have time, perhaps. "

"What will you do to make you not have time?"

I did not feel disposed to gratify her curiosity, and said I did notknow yet what I should do. 

For a short time she asked no more questions, then

"Do you like town or country best?"

"I don't know. I have never lived in a town. "

"Do you like amusements--concerts, and theater, and opera?"

"I don't know, " I was reluctantly obliged to confess, for I saw that theassembled youths, though not looking at me openly, and apparentlyentirely engrossed with their dinners, were listening attentively towhat passed. 

"You don't know, " repeated Fräulein Sartorius, quickly seeing through mythin assumption of indifference, and proceeding to draw me out as muchas possible. I wished Adelaide had been there to beat her from thefield. She would have done it better than I could. 

"No; because I have never been to any. "

"Haven't you? How odd! How very odd! Isn't it strange?" she added, appealing to the boys. "Fräulein has never been to a theater or aconcert. "

I disdained to remark that my words were being perverted, but the gameinstinct rose in me. Raising my voice a little, I remarked:

"It is evident that I have not enjoyed your advantages, but I trust thatthe gentlemen" (with a bow to the listening boys) "will make allowancesfor the difference between us. "

The young gentlemen burst into a chorus of delighted giggles, and Anna, shooting a rapid glance at me, made a slight grimace, but looked not atall displeased. I was, though, mightily; but, elate with victory, Iturned to my compatriot at the other end of the table, and asked him atwhat time of the year Elberthal was pleasantest. 

"Oh, " said he, "it's always pleasant to me, but that's owing to myself. I make it so. "

Just then, several of the other lads rose, pushing their chairs backwith a great clatter, bowing to the assembled company, and saying"Gesegnete Mahlzeit!" as they went out. 

"Why are they going, and what do they say?" I inquired of MissSartorius, who replied, quite amiably:

"They are students at the Realschule. They have to be there at twoo'clock, and they say, 'Blessed be the meal-time, ' as they go out. "

"Do they? How nice!" I could not help saying. 

"Would you like to go for a walk this afternoon?" said she. 

"Oh, very much!" I had exclaimed, before I remembered that I did notlike her, and did not intend to like her. "If Miss Hallam can spare me, "I added. 

"Oh, I think she will. I shall be ready at half past two; then we shallreturn for coffee at four. I will knock at your door at the time. "

On consulting Miss Hallam after dinner, I found she was quite willingfor me to go out with Anna, and at the time appointed we set out. 

Anna took me a tour round the town, showed me the lions, and gave metopographical details. She showed me the big, plain barrack, and thedesert waste of the Exerzierplatz spreading before it. She did her bestto entertain me, and I, with a childish prejudice against her abruptmanner, and the free, somewhat challenging look of her black eyes, wasreserved, unresponsive, stupid. I took a prejudice against her--I ownit--and for that and other sins committed against a woman who would havebeen my friend if I would have let her, I say humbly, _Mea culpa!_

"It seems a dull kind of a place, " said I. 

"It need not be. You have advantages here which you can't geteverywhere. I have been here several years, and as I have no other homeI rather think I shall live here. "

"Oh, indeed. "

"You have a home, I suppose?"

"Of course. "

"Brothers and sisters?"

"Two sisters, " I replied, mightily ruffled by what I chose to considerher curiosity and impertinence; though, when I looked at her, I saw whatI could not but confess to be a real, and not unkind, interest in herplain face and big eyes. 

"Ah! I have no brothers and sisters. I have only a little house in thecountry, and as I have always lived in a town, I don't care for thecountry. It is so lonely. The people are so stupid too--not alwaysthough. You were offended with me at dinner, _nicht wahr_?"

"Oh, dear, no!" said I, very awkwardly and very untruly. The truth was, I did not like her, and was too young, too ignorant and _gauche_ to tryto smooth over my dislike. I did not know the pain I was giving, and ifI had, should perhaps not have behaved differently. 

"_Doch!_" she said, smiling. "But I did not know what a child you were, or I should have let you alone. "

More offended than ever, I maintained silence. If I were certainlytouchy and ill to please, Fräulein Sartorius, it must be owned, did notknow how to apologize gracefully. I have since, with wider knowledge ofher country and its men and women, got to see that what made her soinharmonious was, that she had a woman's form and a man's dispositionand love of freedom. As her countrywomen taken in the gross are the mostutterly "in bonds" of any women in Europe, this spoiled her life in amanner which can not be understood here, where women in comparison arefree as air, and gave no little of the brusqueness and roughness to hermanner. In an enlightened English home she would have been anadmirable, firm, clever woman; here she was that most dreadful of allabnormal growths--a woman with a will of her own. 

"What do they do here?" I inquired, indifferently. 

"Oh, many things. Though it is not a large town there is a School ofArt, which brings many painters here. There are a hundred andfifty--besides students. "

"And you are a student?"

"Yes. One must have something to do--some _carrière_--though mycountrywomen say not. I shall go away for a few months soon, but I amwaiting for the last great concert. It will be the 'Paradise Lost' ofRubinstein. "

"Ah, yes!" said I, politely, but without interest. I had never heard ofRubinstein and the "Verlorenes Paradies. " Before the furor of 1876, howmany scores of provincial English had?

"There is very much music here, " she continued. "Are you fond of it?"

"Ye-es. I can't play much, but I can sing. I have come here partly totake singing lessons. "

"So!"

"Who is the best teacher?" was my next ingenuous question. 

She laughed. 

"That depends upon what you want to learn. There are so many: violin, _Clavier_, that is piano, flute, 'cello, everything. "

"Oh!" I replied, and asked no more questions about music; but inquiredif it were pleasant at Frau Steinmann's. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"Is it pleasant anywhere? I don't find many places pleasant, because Ican not be a humbug, so others do not like me. But I believe some peoplelike Elberthal very well. There is the theater--that makes anotherelement. And there are the soldiers and _Kaufleute_--merchants, I mean, so you see there is variety, though it is a small place. "

"Ah, yes!" said I, looking about me as we passed down a very busystreet, and I glanced to right and left with the image of EugenCourvoisier ever distinctly if unconfessedly present to my mental view. Did he live at Elberthal? and if so, did he belong to any of thosevarious callings? What was he? An artist who painted pictures for hisbread? I thought that very probable. There was something free andartist-like in his manner, in his loose waving hair and in his keensusceptibility to beauty. I thought of his emotion at hearing thatglorious Bach music. Or was he a musician--what Anna Sartorius called_ein Musiker_? But no. My ideas of musicians were somewhat hazy, not tosay utterly chaotic; they embraced only two classes: those who performedor gave lessons, and those who composed. I had never formed to myselfthe faintest idea of a composer, and my experience of teachers andperformers was limited to one specimen--Mr. Smythe, of Darton, whosemethod and performances would, as I have since learned, have made thehair of a musician stand horrent on end. No--I did not think he was amusician. An actor? Perish the thought, was my inevitable mental answer. How should I be able to make any better one? A soldier, then? At thatmoment we met a mounted captain of Uhlans, harness clanking, accouterments rattling. He was apparently an acquaintance of mycompanion, for he saluted with a grave politeness which sat well uponhim. Decidedly Eugen Courvoisier had the air of a soldier. Thataccounted for all. No doubt he was a soldier. In my ignorance of thestrictness of German military regulations as regards the wearing ofuniform, I overlooked the fact that he had been in civilian's dress, andremained delighted with my new idea; Captain Courvoisier. "What is theGerman for captain?" I inquired, abruptly. 

"_Hauptmann. _"

"Thank you. " Hauptmann Eugen Courvoisier--a noble and a gallant title, and one which became him. "How much is a thaler?" was my next question. 

"It is as much as three shillings in your money. "

"Oh, thank you, " said I, and did a little sum in my own mind. At thatrate then, I owed Herr Courvoisier the sum of ten shillings. How glad Iwas to find it came within my means. 

As I took off my things, I wondered when Herr Courvoisier would "makeout his accounts. " I trusted soon. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

"Probe zum verlorenen Paradiese. "

Miss Hallam fulfilled her promise with regard to my singing lessons. Shehad a conversation with Fräulein Sartorius, to whom, unpopular as shewas, I noticed people constantly and almost instinctively went when inneed of precise information or a slight dose of common sense andclear-headedness. 

Miss Hallam inquired who was the best master. 

"For singing, the Herr Direktor, " replied Anna, very promptly. "And thenhe directs the best of the musical vereins--the clubs--societies, whatever you name them. At least he might try Miss Wedderburn's voice. "

"Who is he?"

"The head of anything belonging to music in the town--königlichermusik-direktor. He conducts all the great concerts, and though he doesnot sing himself, yet he is one of the best teachers in the province. Lots of people come and stay here on purpose to learn from him. "

"And what are these vereins?"

"Every season there are six great concerts given, and a seventh for thebenefit of the direktor. The orchestra and chorus together are called averein--musik-verein. The chorus is chiefly composed of ladies andgentlemen--amateurs, you know--_Dilettanten_. The Herr Direktor is veryparticular about voices. You pay so much for admission, and receive acard for the season. Then you have all the good teaching--the _Proben_. "

"What is a _Probe_?" I demanded, hastily, remembering that Courvoisierhad used the word. 

"What you call a rehearsal. "

Ah! then he was musical. At last I had found it out. Perhaps he was oneof the amateurs who sung at these concerts, and if so, I might see himagain, and if so--But Anna went on:

"It is a very good thing for any one, particularly with such a teacheras von Francius. "

"You must join, " said Miss Hallam to me. 

"There is a probe to-night to Rubinstein's 'Paradise Lost, '" said Anna. "I shall go, not to sing, but to listen. I can take Miss Wedderburn, ifyou like, and introduce her to Herr von Francius, whom I know. "

"Very nice! very much obliged to you. Certainly, " said Miss Hallam. 

The probe was fixed for seven, and shortly after that time we set offfor the Tonhalle, or concert-hall, in which it was held. 

"We shall be much too early, " said she. "But the people are shamefullylate. Most of them only come to _klatsch_, and flirt, or try to flirt, with the Herr Direktor. "

This threw upon my mind a new light as to the Herr Direktor, and Iwalked by her side much impressed. She told me that if I accepted Imight even sing in the concert itself, as there had only been fourproben so far, and there were still several before the haupt-probe. 

"What is the haupt-probe?" I inquired. 

"General rehearsal--when Herr von Francius is most unmerciful to hisstupid pupils. I always attend that. I like to hear him make sport ofthem, and then the instrumentalists laugh at them. Von Francius neverflatters. "

Inspired with nightmare-like ideas as to this terrible haupt-probe, Ifound myself, with Anna, turning into a low-fronted building inscribed"Städtische Tonhalle, " the concert-hall of the good town of Elberthal. 

"This way, " said she. "It is in the rittersaal. We don't go to the largesaal till the haupt-probe. "

I followed her into a long, rather shabby-looking room, at one end ofwhich was a low orchestra, about which were dotted the desks of theabsent instrumentalists, and some stiff-looking Celli and Contrabassikept watch from a wall. On the orchestra was already assembled a goodlynumber of young men and women, all in lively conversation, loudlaughter, and apparently high good-humor with themselves and everythingin the world. 

A young man with a fuzz of hair standing off about a sad anddepressed-looking countenance was stealing "in and out and round about, "and distributing sheets of score to the company. In the conductor'splace was a tall man in gray clothes, who leaned negligently against therail, and held a conversation with a pretty young lady who seemed muchpleased with his attention. It did not strike me at first that this wasthe terrible direktor of whom I had been hearing. He was young, had aslender, graceful figure, and an exceedingly handsome, though (Ithought at first) an unpleasing face. There was something in hisattitude and manner which at first I did not quite like. Anna walked upthe room, and pausing before the estrade, said:

"Herr Direktor!"

He turned: his eyes fell upon her face, and left it instantly to look atmine. Gathering himself together into a more ceremonious attitude, hedescended from his estrade, and stood beside us, a little to one side, looking at us with a leisurely calmness which made me feel, I knew notwhy, uncomfortable. Meanwhile, Anna took up her parable. 

"May I introduce the young lady? Miss Wedderburn, Herr Musik-Direktorvon Francius. Miss Wedderburn wishes to join the verein, if you thinkher voice will pass. Perhaps you will allow her to sing to-night?"

"Certainly, _mein Fräulein_, " said he to me, not to Anna. He had a long, rather Jewish-looking face, black hair, eyes, and mustache. The featureswere thin, fine, and pointed. The thing which most struck me then, atany rate, was a certain expression which, conquering all others, dominated them--at once a hardness and a hardihood which impressed medisagreeably then, though I afterward learned, in knowing the man, toknow much more truly the real meaning of that unflinching gaze and ironlook. 

"Your voice is what, _mein Fräulein_?" he asked. 

"Soprano. "

"Sopran? We will see. The soprani sit over there, if you will have thegoodness. "

He pointed to the left of the orchestra, and called out to themelancholy-looking young man, "Herr Schonfeld, a chair for the younglady!"

Herr von Francius then ascended the orchestra himself, went to thepiano, and, after a few directions, gave us the signal to begin. Tillthat day--I confess it with shame--I had never heard of the "VerlorenesParadies. " It came upon me like a revelation. I sung my best, substituting _do_, _re_, _mi_, etc. , for the German words. Once ortwice, as Herr von Francius's forefinger beat time, I thought I saw hishead turn a little in our direction, but I scarcely heeded it. When thefirst chorus was over, he turned to me:

"You have not sung in a chorus before?"

"No. "

"So! I should like to hear you sing something _sola_. " He pushed towardme a pile of music, and while the others stood looking on and whisperingamong themselves, he went on, "Those are all sopran songs. Select one, if you please, and try it. "

Not at all aware that the incident was considered unprecedented, and wascreating a sensation, I turned over the music, seeking something I knew, but could find nothing. All in German, and all strange. Suddenly I cameupon one entitled "Blute nur, liebes Herz, " the sopran solo which I hadheard as I sat with Courvoisier in the cathedral. It seemed almost likean old friend. I opened it, and found it had also English words. Thatdecided me. 

"I will try this, " said I, showing it to him. 

He smiled. "_'S ist gut!_" Then he read the title off the song aloud, and there was a general titter, as if some very great joke were inagitation, and were much appreciated. Indeed I found that in generalthe jokes of the Herr Direktor, when he condescended to make any, werevery keenly relished by at least the lady part of his pupils. 

Not understanding the reason of the titter I took the music in my hand, and waiting for a moment until he gave me the signal, sung it after thebest wise I could--not very brilliantly, I dare say, but with at leastall my heart poured into it. I had one requisite at least of an artistnature--I could abstract myself upon occasion completely from mysurroundings. I did so now. It was too beautiful, too grand. Iremembered that afternoon at Köln--the golden sunshine streaming throughthe painted windows, the flood of melody poured forth by the invisiblesinger; above all, I remembered who had been by my side, and I felt asif again beside him--again influenced by the unusual beauty of his faceand mien, and by his clear, strange, commanding eyes. It all came backto me--the strangest, happiest day of my life. I sung as I had neversung before--as I had not known I could sing. 

When I stopped, the tittering had ceased; silence saluted me. The youngladies were all looking at me; some of them had put on theireye-glasses; others stared at me as if I were some strange animal from amenagerie. The young gentlemen were whispering among themselves andtaking sidelong glances at me. I scarcely heeded anything of it. I fixedmy eyes upon the judge who had been listening to my performance--uponvon Francius. He was pulling his mustache and at first made no remark. 

"You have sung that song before, _gnädiges Fräulein_?"

"No. I have heard it once. I have not seen the music before. "

"So!" He bowed slightly, and turning once more to the others, said:

"We will begin the next chorus. 'Chorus of the Damned, ' Now, _meineHerrschaften_, I would wish to impress upon you one thing, if I can, that is--Silence, _meine Herren_!" he called sharply toward the tenors, who were giggling inanely among themselves. "A chorus of damned souls, "he proceeded, composedly, "would not sing in the same unruffled manneras a young lady who warbles, 'Spring is come--tra, la, la! Spring iscome--lira, lira!' in her mamma's drawing-room. Try to imagine yourselfstruggling in the tortures of hell"--(a delighted giggle and a sort of"Oh, you dear, wicked man!" expression on the part of the young ladies;a nudging of each other on that of the young gentlemen), "and sing as ifyou were damned. "

Scarcely any one seemed to take the matter the least earnestly. Theyoung ladies continued to giggle, and the young gentlemen to nudge eachother. Little enough of expression, if plenty of noise, was there inthat magnificent and truly difficult passage, the changing choruses ofthe condemned and the blessed ones--with its crowning "WEH!" thunderingdown from highest soprano to deepest bass. 

"Lots of noise, and no meaning, " observed the conductor, leaning himselfagainst the rail of the estrade, face to his audience, folding his armsand surveying them all one after the other with cold self-possession. Itstruck me that he despised them while he condescended to instruct them. The power of the man struck me again. I began to like him better. Atleast I venerated his thorough understanding of what was to me asplendid mystery. No softening appeared in the master's eyes in answerto the rows of pretty appealing faces turned to him; no smile upon hiscontemptuous lips responded to the eyes--black, brown, gray, blue, yellow--all turned with such affecting devotion to his own. Composinghimself to an insouciant attitude, he began in a cool, indifferentvoice, which had, however, certain caustic tones in it which stung meat least to the quick:

"I never heard anything worse, even from you. My honored Fräulein, my_gnädigen Herren_, just try once to imagine what you are singing about!It is not an exercise--it is not a love song, either of which you wouldno doubt perform excellently. Conceive what is happening! Put yourselfback into those mythical times. Believe, for this evening, in the storyof the forfeited Paradise. There is strife between the Blessed and theDamned; the obedient and the disobedient. There are thick clouds in theheavens--smoke, fire, and sulphur--a clashing of swords in the serriedranks of the angels: can not you see Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, leadingthe heavenly host? Can not some of you sympathize a little with Satanand his struggle?"

Looking at him, I thought they must indeed be an unimaginative set! Inthat dark face before them was Mephistopheles at least--_der Geist derstets verneint_--if nothing more violent. His cool, scornful featureswere lighted up with some of the excitement which he could not drillinto the assemblage before him. Had he been gifted with the requisiteorgan he would have acted and sung the chief character in "Faust" _conamore_. 

"_Ach, um Gotteswillen!_" he went on, shrugging his shoulders, "try toforget what you are! Try to forget that none of you ever had a wickedthought or an unholy aspiration--"

("Don't they see how he is laughing at them?" I wondered. )

"You, Chorus of the Condemned, try to conjure up every wicked thoughtyou can, and let it come out in your voices--you who sing the strains ofthe blessed ones, think of what blessedness is. Surely each of you hashis own idea! Some of you may agree with Lenore:

 "'Bei ihm, bei ihm ist Seligkeit, Und ohne Wilhelm Holle!'

"If so, think of him; think of her--only sing it, whatever it is. Remember the strongest of feelings:

 "'Die Engel nennen es Himmelsfreude Die Teufel nennen es Höllenqual, Die Menschen nennen es--LIEBE!'

"And sing it!"

He had not become loud or excited in voice or gesticulation, but hiswords, flung at them like so many scornful little bullets, theindifferent resignation of his attitude, had their effect upon the crewof giggling, simpering girls and awkward, self-conscious young men. Someidea seemed vouchsafed to them that perhaps their performance had notbeen quite all that it might have been; they began in a little moreearnest, and the chorus went better. 

For my own part, I was deeply moved. A vague excitement, a wild, and notaltogether a holy one, had stolen over me. I understood now how the manmight have influence. I bent to the power of his will, which reached mewhere I stood in the background, from his dark eyes, which turned for amoment to me now and then. It was that will of his which put me as itwere suddenly into the spirit of the music, and revealed me depths in myown heart at which I had never even guessed. Excited, with cheeksburning and my heart hot within me, I followed his words and hisgestures, and grew so impatient of the dull stupidity of the others thattears came to my eyes. How could that young woman, in the midst of asublime chorus, deliberately pause, arrange the knot of her neck-tie, and then, after a smile and a side glance at the conductor, go on againwith a more self-satisfied simper than ever upon her lips? What mightnot the thing be with a whole chorus of sympathetic singers? The verydullness which in face prevailed revealed to me great regions ofpossible splendor, almost too vast to think of. 

At last it was over. I turned to the direktor, who was still near thepiano, and asked timidly:

"Do you think I may join? Will my voice do?"

An odd expression crossed his face; he answered, dryly:

"You may join the verein, _mein Fräulein_--yes. Please come this waywith me. Pardon, Fräulein Stockhausen--another time. I am sorry to say Ihave business at present. "

A black look from a pretty brunette, who had advanced with an engagingsmile and an open score to ask him some question, greeted this verycomposed rebuff of her advance. The black look was directed atme--guiltless. 

Without taking any notice of the other, he led Anna and me to a smallinner room, where there was a desk and writing materials. 

"Your name, if you will be good enough?"

"Wedderburn. "

"Your _Vorname_, though--your first name. "

"My Christian name--oh, May. "

"M--a--_na_! Perhaps you will be so good as to write it yourself, andthe street and number of the house in which you live. "

I complied. 

"Have you been here long?"

"Not quite a week. "

"Do you intend to make any stay?"

"Some months, probably. "

"Humph! If you wish to make any progress in music, you must stay muchlonger. "

"It--I--it depends upon other people how long I remain. "

He smiled slightly, and his smile was not unpleasant; it lighted up thedarkness of his face in an agreeable manner. 

"So I should suppose. I will call upon you to-morrow at four in theafternoon. I should like to have a little conversation with you aboutyour voice. Adieu, _meine Damen_. "

With a slight bow which sufficiently dismissed us, he turned to the deskagain, and we went away. 

Our homeward walk was a somewhat silent one. Anna certainly asked mesuddenly where I had learned to sing. 

"I have not learned properly. I can't help singing. "

"I did not know you had a voice like that, " said she again. 

"Like what?"

"Herr von Francius will tell you all about it to-morrow, " said she, abruptly. 

"What a strange man Herr von Francius is!" said I. "Is he clever?"

"Oh, very clever. "

"At first I did not like him. Now I think I do, though. "

She made no answer for a few minutes; then said:

"He is an excellent teacher. "

CHAPTER IX. 

HERR VON FRANCIUS. 

When Miss Hallam heard from Anna Sartorius that my singing had evidentlystruck Herr von Francius, and of his intended visit, she lookedpleased--so pleased that I was surprised. 

He came the following afternoon, at the time he had specified. Now, inthe broad daylight, and apart from his official, professional manner, Ifound the Herr Direktor still different from the man of last night, andyet the same. He looked even younger now than on the estrade last night, and quiet though his demeanor was, attuned to a gentlemanly calm andevenness, there was still the one thing, the cool, hard glance left, tounite him with the dark, somewhat sinister-looking personage who hadcast his eyes round our circle last night, and told us to sing as if wewere damned. 

"Miss Hallam, this is Herr von Francius, " said I. "He speaks English, " Iadded. 

Von Francius glanced from her to me with a somewhat inquiringexpression. 

Miss Hallam received him graciously, and they talked about all sorts oftrifles, while I sat by in seemly silence, till at last Miss Hallamsaid:

"Can you give me any opinion upon Miss Wedderburn's voice?"

"Scarcely, until I have given it another trial. She seems to have had notraining. "

"No, that is true, " she said, and proceeded to inform him casually thatshe wished me to have every advantage I could get from my stay inElberthal, and must put the matter into his hands. Von Francius lookedpleased. 

For my part, I was deeply moved. Miss Hallam's generosity to one sostupid and ignorant touched me nearly. 

Von Francius, pausing a short time, at last said:

"I must try her voice again, as I remarked. Last night I was struck withher sense of the dramatic point of what we were singing--a quality whichI do not too often find in my pupils. I think, _mein Fräulein_, thatwith care and study you might take a place on the stage. "

"The stage!" I repeated, startled, and thinking of Courvoisier's words. 

But von Francius had been reckoning without his host. When Miss Hallamspoke of "putting the matter into his hands, " she understood the wordsin her own sense. 

"The stage!" said she, with a slight shiver. "That is quite out of thequestion. Miss Wedderburn is a young lady--not an actress. "

"So! Then it is impossible to be both in your country?" said he, withpolite sarcasm. "I spoke as simple _Künstler_--artist--I was notthinking of anything else. I do not think the _gnädiges Fräulein_ willever make a good singer of mere songs. She requires emotion to bring outher best powers--a little passion--a little scope for acting and abandonbefore she can attain the full extent of her talent. "

He spoke in the most perfectly matter-of-fact way, and I trembled. Ifeared lest this display of what Miss Hallam would consider little shortof indecent laxity and Bohemianism, would shock her so much that Ishould lose everything by it. It was not so, however. 

"Passion--abandon! I think you can not understand what you are talkingabout!" said she. "My dear sir, you must understand that those kind ofthings may be all very well for one set of people, but not for thatclass to which Miss Wedderburn belongs. Her father is a clergyman"--vonFraucius bowed, as if he did not quite see what that had to do withit--"in short, that idea is impossible. I tell you plainly. She maylearn as much as she likes, but she will never be allowed to go upon thestage. "

"Then she may teach?" said he, inquiringly. 

"Certainly. I believe that is what she wishes to do, in case--ifnecessary. "

"She may teach, but she may not act, " said he, reflectively. "So be it, then! Only, " he added as if making a last effort, "I would just mentionthat, apart from artistic considerations, while a lady may wear herselfout as a poorly paid teacher, a _prima donna_--"

Miss Hallam smiled with calm disdain. 

"It is not of the least use to speak of such a thing. You and I look atthe matter from quite different points of view, and to argue about itwould only be to waste time. "

Von Francius, with a sarcastic, ambiguous smile, turned to me:

"And you, _mein Fräulein_?"

"I--no. I agree with Miss Hallam, " I murmured, not really having foundmyself able to think about it at all, but conscious that opposition wasuseless. And, besides, I did shrink away from the ideas conjured up bythat word, the "stage. "

"So!" said he, with a little bow and a half smile. "Also, I must try tomake the round man fit into the square hole. The first thing will beanother trial of your voice; then I must see how many lessons a week youwill require, and must give you instructions about practicing. You mustunderstand that it is not pleasure or child's play which you areundertaking. It is a work in order to accomplish which you must strainevery nerve, and give up everything which in any way interferes withit. "

"I don't know whether I shall have time for it, " I murmured, lookingdoubtfully toward Miss Hallam. 

"Yes, May; you will have time for it, " was all she said. 

"Is there a piano in the house?" said von Francius. "But, yes, certainly. Fräulein Sartorius has one; she will lend it to us for halfan hour. If you were at liberty, _mein Fräulein_, just now--"

"Certainly, " said I, following him, as he told Miss Hallam that he wouldsee her again. 

As he knocked at the door of Anna's sitting-room she came out, dressedfor walking. 

"_Ach, Fräulein!_ will you allow us the use of your piano for a fewminutes?"

"_Bitte!_" said she, motioning us into the room. "I am sorry I have anengagement, and must leave you. "

"Do not let us keep you on any account, " said he, with touchingpoliteness; and she went out. 

"_Desto besser!_" he observed, shrugging his shoulders. 

He pulled off his gloves with rather an impatient gesture, seatedhimself at the piano, and struck some chords, in an annoyed manner. 

"Who is that old lady?" he inquired, looking up at me. "Any relation ofyours?"

"No--oh, no! I am her companion. "

"So! And you mean to let her prevent you from following the career youhave a talent for?"

"If I do not do as she wishes, I shall have no chance of following anycareer at all, " said I. "And, besides, how does any one know that I havea talent--for--for--what you say?"

"I know it; that is why I said it. I wish I could persuade that old ladyto my way of thinking!" he added. "I wish you were out of her hands andin mine. _Na!_ we shall see!"

It was not a very long "trial" that he gave me; we soon rose from thepiano. 

"To-morrow at eleven I come to give you a lesson, " said he. "I am goingto talk to Miss Hallam now. You please not come. I wish to see heralone; and I can manage her better by myself, _nicht wahr_!"

"Thank you, " said I in a subdued tone. 

"You must have a piano, too, " he added; "and we must have the room toourselves. I allow no third person to be present in my private lessons, but go on the principle of Paul Heyse's hero, Edwin, either in openlecture, or _unter vier Augen_. "

With that he held the door open for me, and as I turned into my room, shook hands with me in a friendly manner, bidding me expect him on themorrow. 

Certainly, I decided, Herr von Francius was quite unlike any one I hadever seen before; and how awfully cool he was and self-possessed. Iliked him well, though. 

The next morning Herr von Francius gave me my first lesson, and afterthat I had one from him nearly every day. As teacher and as acquaintancehe was, as it were, two different men. As teacher he was strict, severe, gave much blame and little praise; but when he did once praise me, Iremember, I carried the remembrance of it with me for days as a ray ofsunshine. He seemed never surprised to find how much work had beenprepared for him, although he would express displeasure sometimes at itsquality. He was a teacher whom it was impossible not to respect, whomone obeyed by instinct. As man, as acquaintance, I knew little of him, though I heard much--idle tales, which it would be as idle to repeat. They chiefly related to his domineering disposition and determination togo his own way and disregard that of others. In this fashion my lifebecame busy enough. 

CHAPTER X. 

"LOHENGRIN. "

As time went on, the image of Eugen Courvoisier, my unspoken of, unguessed at, friend, did not fade from my memory. It grew stronger. Ithought of him every day--never went out without a distinct hope that Imight see him; never came in without vivid disappointment that I had notseen him. I carried three thalers ten groschen so arranged in my pursethat I could lay my hand upon them at a moment's notice, for as the dayswent on it appeared that Herr Courvoisier had not made up his accounts, or if he had, had not chosen to claim that part of them owed by me. 

I did not see him. I began dismally to think that after all the wholething was at an end. He did not live at Elberthal--he had certainlynever told me that he did, I reminded myself. He had gone about hisbusiness and interests--had forgotten the waif he had helped one springafternoon, and I should never see him again. My heart fell and sunk witha reasonless, aimless pang. What did it, could it, ought it to matter tome whether I ever saw him again or not? Nothing, certainly, and yet Itroubled myself about it a great deal. I made little dramas in my mindof how he and I were to meet, and how I would exert my will and make himto take the money. Whenever I saw an unusually large or handsome house, I instantly fell to wondering if it were his, and sometimes madeinquiries as to the owner of any particularly eligible residence. Iheard of Brauns, Müllers, Piepers, Schmidts, and the like, as owners ofthe same--never the name Courvoisier. He had disappeared--I fearedforever. 

Coming in weary one day from the town, where I had been striving to makemyself understood in shops, I was met by Anna Sartorius on the stairs. She had not yet ceased to be civil to me--civil, that is, in herway--and my unreasoning aversion to her was as great as ever. 

"This is the last opera of the season, " said she, displaying a pinkticket. "I am glad you will get to see one, as the theater closes afterto-night. "

"But I am not going. "

"Yes, you are. Miss Hallam has a ticket for you. I am going to chaperonyou. "

"I must go and see about that, " said I, hastily rushing upstairs. 

The news, incredible though it seemed, was quite true. The ticket laythere. I picked it up and gazed at it fondly. Stadttheater zu Elberthal. Parquet, No. 16. As I had never been in a theater in my life, thisconveyed no distinct idea to my mind, but it was quite enough for methat I was going. The rest of the party, I found, were to consist ofVincent, the Englishman, Anna Sartorius, and the Dutch boy, Brinks. 

It was Friday evening, and the opera was "Lohengrin. " I knew nothing, then, about different operatic styles, and my ideas of operatic musicwere based upon duets upon selected airs from "La Traviata, " "LaSomnambula, " and "Lucia. " I thought the story of "Lohengrin, " as relatedby Vincent, interesting. I was not in the least aware that my firstopera was to be a different one from that of most English girls. Since, I have wondered sometimes what would be the result upon the musicaltaste of a person who was put through a course of Wagnerian opera first, and then turned over to the Italian school--leaving Mozart, Beethoven, Gluck, to take care of themselves, as they may very well do--thusexactly reversing the usual (English) process. 

Anna was very quiet that evening. Afterward I knew that she must havebeen observing me. We were in the first row of the parquet, with theorchestra alone between us and the stage. I was fully occupied inlooking about me--now at the curtain hiding the great mystery, nowbehind and above me at the boxes, in a youthful state of ever-increasinghope and expectation. 

"We are very early, " said Vincent, who was next to me, "very early, andvery near, " he added, but he did not seem much distressed at eithercircumstance. 

Then the gas was suddenly turned up quite high. The bustle increasedcheerfully. The old, young, and middle-aged ladies who filled the_Logen_ in the _Erster Rang_--hardened theater-goers, who came asregularly every night in the week during the eight months of the seasonas they ate their breakfasts and went to their beds, were gossiping withthe utmost violence, exchanging nods and odd little old-fashioned bowswith other ladies in all parts of the house, leaning over to lookwhether the parquet was well filled, and remarking that there weremore people in the _Balcon_ than usual. The musicians were droppinginto the orchestra. I was startled to see a fair face I knew--thatpleasant-looking young violinist with the brown eyes, whose name I hadheard called out at the eye hospital. They all seemed very fond of him, particularly a man who struggled about with a violoncello, and whoseemed to have a series of jokes to relate to Herr Helfen, explodingwith laughter, and every now and then shaking the loose thick hair fromhis handsome, genial face. Helfen listened to him with a half smile, screwing up his violin and giving him a quiet look now and then. Theinspiring noise of tuning up had begun, and I was on the very tiptoe ofexpectation. 

As I turned once more and looked round, Vincent said, laughing, "MissWedderburn, your hat has hit me three times in the face. " It was, by theby, the brown hat which had graced my head that day at Köln. 

"Oh, has it? I beg your pardon!" said I, laughing too, as I brought myeyes again to bear on the stage. "The seats are too near toge--"

Further words were upon my lips, but they were never uttered. In rovingacross the orchestra to the foot-lights my eyes were arrested. In thewell of the orchestra immediately before my eyes was one empty chair, that by right belonging to the leader of the first violins. FriedhelmHelfen sat in the one next below it. All the rest of the musicians wereassembled. The conductor was in his place, and looked a littleimpatiently toward that empty chair. Through a door to the left of theorchestra there came a man, carrying a violin, and made his way, witha nod here, a half smile there, a tap on the shoulder in anotherdirection. Arrived at the empty chair, he laid his hand upon Helfen'sshoulder, and bending over him, spoke to him as he seated himself. Hekept his hand on that shoulder, as if he liked it to be there. Helfen'seyes said as plainly as possibly that he liked it. Fast friends, on theface of it, were these two men. In this moment, though I sat still, motionless, and quiet, I certainly realized as nearly as possible thatimpossible sensation, the turning upside down of the world. I did notbreathe. I waited, spell-bound, in the vague idea that my eyes mightopen and I find that I had been dreaming. After an earnest speech toHelfen the new-comer raised his head. As he shouldered his violin hiseyes traveled carelessly along the first row of the parquet--our row. Idid not awake; things did not melt away in a mist before my eyes. Hewas Eugen Courvoisier, and he looked braver, handsomer, gallanter, andmore apart from the crowd of men now, in this moment, than even mysentimental dreams had pictured him. I felt it all: I also know nowthat it was partly the very strength of the feeling that I had--the veryintensity of the admiration which took from me the reflection and reasonfor the moment. I felt as if every one must see how I felt. I rememberedthat no one knew what had happened; I dreaded lest they should. I didthe most cowardly and treacherous thing that circumstances permitted tome--displayed to what an extent my power of folly and stupidity couldcarry me. I saw these strange bright eyes, whose power I felt, comingtoward me. In one second they would be upon me. I felt myself white withanxiety. His eyes were coming--coming--slowly, surely. They had fallenupon Vincent, and he nodded to him. They fell upon me. It was for thetenth of a second only. I saw a look of recognition flash into hiseyes--upon his face. I saw that he was going to bow to me. With (as itseemed to me) all the blood in my veins rushing to my face, my headswimming, my heart beating, I dropped my eyes to the play-bill upon mylap, and stared at the crabbed German characters--the names of theplayers, the characters they took. "Elsa--Lohengrin. " I read them againand again, while my ears were singing, my heart beating so, and Ithought every one in the theater knew and was looking at me. 

"Mind you listen to the overture, Miss Wedderburn, " said Vincent, hastily, in my ear, as the first liquid, yearning, long-drawn notessounded from the violins. 

"Yes, " said I, raising my face at last, looking or rather feeling alook compelled from me, to the place where he sat. This time our eyesmet fully. I do not know what I felt when I saw him look at me asunrecognizingly as if I had been a wooden doll in a shop window. Was helooking past me? No. His eyes met mine direct--glance for glance; not asign, not a quiver of the mouth, not a waver of the eyelids. I heard nomore of the overture. When he was playing, and so occupied with hismusic, I surveyed him surreptitiously; when he was not playing, I keptmy eyes fixed firmly upon my play-bill. I did not know whether to bemost distressed at my own disloyalty to a kind friend, or most appalledto find that the man with whom I had spent a whole afternoon in the firmconviction that he was outwardly, as well as inwardly, my equal and agentleman--(how the tears, half of shame, half of joy, rise to my eyesnow as I think of my poor, pedantic little scruples then!) the man ofwhom I had assuredly thought and dreamed many and many a time and oftwas--a professional musician, a man in a band, a German band, playing inthe public orchestra of a provincial town. Well! well!

In our village at home, where the population consisted of clergymen'swidows, daughters of deceased naval officers, and old women in general, and those old women ladies of the genteelest description--the Army andthe Church (for which I had been brought up to have the deepestveneration and esteem, as the two head powers in our land--for we didnot take Manchester, Birmingham, and Liverpool into account atSkernford)--the Army and the Church, I say, look down a little uponMedicine and the Law, as being perhaps more necessary, but less selectfactors in that great sum--the Nation, Medicine and the Law looked downvery decidedly upon commercial wealth, and Commerce in her turn turnedup her nose at retail establishments, while one and all--Church andArmy, Law and Medicine, Commerce in the gross and Commerce in thelittle--united in pointing the finger at artists, musicians, literati, _et id omne genus_, considering them, with some few well-known andorthodox exceptions, as bohemians, and calling them "persons. " They werea class with whom we had and could have nothing in common; so utterlyoutside our life that we scarcely ever gave a thought to theirexistence. We read of pictures, and wished to see them; heard of musicalwonders, and desired to hear them--as pictures, as compositions. I donot think it ever entered our heads to remember that a man with a quicklife throbbing in his veins, with feelings, hopes, and fears andthoughts, painted the picture, and that in seeing it we also sawhim--that a consciousness, if possible, yet more keen and vivid producedthe combinations of sound which brought tears to our eyes when we heard"the band"--beautiful abstraction--play them! Certainly we neverconsidered the performers as anything more than people who couldplay--one who blew his breath into a brass tube; another into a woodenpipe; one who scraped a small fiddle with fine strings, another whoscraped a big one with coarse strings. 

I was seventeen, and not having an original mind, had up to now judgedthings from earlier teachings and impressions. I do not ask to beexcused. I only say that I was ignorant as ever even a girl of seventeenwas. I did not know the amount of art and culture which lay among thoserather shabby-looking members of the Elberthal _städtische Kapelle_--didnot know that that little cherubic-faced man, who drew his bowso lovingly across his violin, had played under Mendelssohn'sconductorship, and could tell tales about how the master had drilled hisband, and what he had said about the first performance of the"Lobgesang. " The young man to whom I had seen Courvoisier speakingwas--I learned it later--a performer to ravish the senses, a conductorin the true sense--not a mere man who waves the stick up and down, butone who can put some of the meaning of the music into his gestures anddominate his players. I did not know that the musicians before me werenearly all true artists, and some of them undoubted gentlemen to boot, even if their income averaged something under that of a skilledLancashire operative. But even if I had known it as well as possible, and had been aware that there could be nothing derogatory in my knowingor being known by one of them, I could not have been more wretched thanI was in having been, as it were, false to a friend. The dreadful thingwas, or ought to be--I could not quite decide which--that such a personshould have been my friend. 

"How he must despise me!" I thought, my cheeks burning, my eyes fastenedupon the play-bill. "I owe him ten shillings. If he likes he canpoint me out to them all and say, 'That is an English girl--lady Ican not call her. I found her quite alone and lost at Köln, and I didall I could to help her. I saved her a great deal of anxiety andinconvenience. She was not above accepting my assistance; she confidedher story very freely to me; she is nothing very particular--has nothingto boast of--no money, no knowledge, nothing superior; in fact, she issimple and ignorant to quite a surprising extent; but she has just cutme dead. What do you think of her?'"

Until the curtain went up, I sat in torture. When the play began, however, even my discomfort vanished in my wonder at the spectacle. Itwas the first I had seen. Try to picture it, oh, worn-out and _blasé_frequenter of play and opera! Try to realize the feelings of animpressionable young person of seventeen when "Lohengrin" was revealedto her for the first time--Lohengrin, the mystic knight, with theglamour of eld upon him--Lohengrin, sailing in blue and silver like adream, in his swan-drawn boat, stepping majestic forth, and speaking ina voice of purest melody, as he thanks the bird and dismisses it:

 "Dahin, woher mich trug dein Kahn Kehr wieder mir zu unserm Glück! Drum sei getreu dein Dienst gethan, Leb wohl, leb wohl, mein lieber Schwan. "

Elsa, with the wonder, the gratitude, the love, and alas! the weaknessin her eyes! The astonished Brabantine men and women. They could nothave been more astonished than I was. It was all perfectly real to me. What did I know about the stage? To me, yonder figure in blue mantle andglittering armor was Lohengrin, the son of Percivale, not Herr Siegel, the first tenor of the company, who acted stiffly, and did not know whatto do with his legs. The lady in black velvet and spangles, whogesticulated in a corner, was an "Edelfrau" to me, as the programmecalled her, not the chorus leader, with two front teeth missing, aninartistically made-up countenance, and large feet. I sat through thefirst act with my eyes riveted upon the stage. What a thrill shotthrough me as the tenor embraced the soprano, and warbled melodiously, "_Elsa, ich liebe Dich!_" My mouth and eyes were wide open, I have nodoubt, till at last the curtain fell. With a long sigh I slowly broughtmy eyes down and "Lohengrin" vanished like a dream. There was EugenCourvoisier standing up--he had resumed the old attitude--was twirlinghis mustache and surveying the company. Some of the other performerswere leaving the orchestra by two little doors. If only he would go too!As I nervously contemplated a graceful indifferent remark to HerrBrinks, who sat next to me, I saw Courvoisier step forward. Was he, could he be going to speak to me? I should have deserved it, I knew, butI felt as if I should die under the ordeal. I sat preternaturally still, and watched, as if mesmerized, the approach of the musician. He spokeagain to the young man whom I had seen before, and they both laughed. Perhaps he had confided the whole story to him, and was telling him toobserve what he was going to do. Then Herr Courvoisier tapped the youngman on the shoulder and laughed again, and then he came on. He was notlooking at me; he came up to the boarding, leaned his elbow upon it, andsaid to Eustace Vincent:

"Good-evening: _wie geht's Ihnen?_"

Vincent held out his hand. "Very well, thanks. And you? I haven't seenyou lately. "

"Then you haven't been at the theater lately, " he laughed. He nevertestified to me by word or look that he had ever seen me before. At lastI got to understand as his eyes repeatedly fell upon me without theslightest sign of recognition, that he did not intend to claim myacquaintance. I do not know whether I was most wretched or most relievedat the discovery. It spared me a great deal of embarrassment; it filledme, too, with inward shame beyond all description. And then, too, Iwas dismayed to find how totally I had mistaken the position of themusician. Vincent was talking eagerly to him. They had moved a littlenearer the other end of the orchestra. The young man, Helfen, had comeup, others had joined them. I, meanwhile, sat still--heard every tone ofhis voice, and took in every gesture of his head or his hand, and I feltas I trust never to feel again--and yet I lived in some such feeling asthat for what at least seemed to me a long time. What was the feelingthat clutched me--held me fast--seemed to burn me? And what was that Iheard? Vincent speaking:

"Last Thursday week, Courvoisier--why didn't you come? We were waitingfor you?"

"I missed the train. "

Until now he had been speaking German, but he said this distinctly inEnglish and I heard every word. 

"Missed the train?" cried Vincent in his cracked voice. 

"Nonsense, man! Helfen, here, and Alekotte were in time and they hadbeen at the probe as much as you. "

"I was detained in Köln and couldn't get back till evening, " said he. "Come along, Friedel; there's the call-bell. "

I raised my eyes--met his. I do not know what expression was in mine. His never wavered, though he looked at me long and steadily--no glanceof recognition--no sign still. I would have risked the astonishment ofevery one of them now, for a sign that he remembered me. None was given. 

"Lohengrin" had no more attraction for me. I felt in pain that wasalmost physical, and weak with excitement as at last the curtain felland we left our places. 

"You were very quiet, " said Vincent, as we walked home. "Did you notenjoy it?"

"Very much, thank you. It was very beautiful, " said I, faintly. 

"So Herr Courvoisier was not at the _soirée_, " said the loud, roughvoice of Anna Sartorius. 

"No, " was all Vincent said. 

"Did you have anything new? Was Herr von Francius there too?"

"Yes; he was there too. "

I pondered. Brinks whistled loudly the air of Elsa's "Brautzug, " as wepaced across the Lindenallée. We had not many paces to go. The lampswere lighted, the people were thronging thick as in the daytime. The airwas full of laughter, talk, whistling and humming of the airs from theopera. My ear strained eagerly through the confusion. I could havecaught the faintest sound of Courvoisier's voice had it been there, but it was not. And we came home; Vincent opened the door with hislatch-key, said, "It has not been very brilliant, has it? That tenor isa stick, " and we all went to our different rooms. It was in such wisethat I met Eugen Courvoisier for the second time. 

CHAPTER XI. 

"Will you sing?"

The theater season closed with that evening on which "Lohengrin" wasperformed. I ran no risk of meeting Courvoisier face to face again inthat alarming, sudden manner. But the subject had assumed diseasedproportions in my mind. I found myself confronted with him yet, and weekafter week. My business in Elberthal was music--to learn as much musicand hear as much music as I could: wherever there was music there wasalso Eugen Courvoisier--naturally. There was only one _städtischeKapelle_ in Elberthal. Once a week at least--each Saturday--I saw him, and he saw me at the unfailing instrumental concert to which every onein the house went, and to absent myself from which would instantly setevery one wondering what could be my motive for it. My usual companionswere Clara Steinmann, Vincent, the Englishman, and often Frau Steinmannherself. Anna Sartorius and some other girl students of art usuallybrought sketch-books, and were far too much occupied in making studiesor caricatures of the audience to pay much attention to the music. Theaudience were, however, hardened; they were used to it. Anna and herfriends were not alone in the practice. There were a dozen or moreartists or _soi-disant_ artists busily engaged with their sketch-books. The concert-room offered a rich field to them. One could at least besure of one thing--that they were not taking off the persons at whomthey looked most intently. There must be quite a gallery hidden away insome old sketch-books--of portraits or wicked caricatures of theaudience that frequented the concerts of the Instrumental Musik Verein. I wonder where they all are? Who has them? What has become of thelight-hearted sketchers? I often recall those homely Saturday eveningconcerts; the long, shabby saal with its faded out-of-date decorations;its rows of small tables with the well-known groups around them; themixed and motley audience. How easy, after a little while, to pick outthe English, by their look of complacent pleasure at the delightful easeand unceremoniousness of the whole affair; their gladness at finding apublic entertainment where one's clothes were not obliged to be selectedwith a view to outshining those of every one else in the room; thestudents shrouded in a mystery, secret and impenetrable, of tobaccosmoke. The spruce-looking school-boys from the Gymnasium and Realschule, the old captains and generals, the Fräulein their daughters, the_gnädigen Frauen_ their wives; dressed in the disastrous plaids, checks, and stripes, which somehow none but German women ever got hold of. Shades of Le Follet! What costumes there were on young and old for anobserving eye! What bonnets, what boots, what stupendously daringaccumulation of colors and styles and periods of dress crammed and piledon the person of one substantial Frau Generalin, or Doctorin orProfessorin! The low orchestra--the tall, slight, yet commanding figureof von Francius on the estrade; his dark face with its indescribablemixture of pride, impenetrability and insouciance; the musicians behindhim--every face of them well known to the audience as those of theaudience to them: it was not a mere "concert, " which in England isanother word for so much expense and so much vanity--it was a gatheringof friends. We knew the music in which the Kapelle was most at home; weknew their strong points and their weak ones; the passage in thePastoral Symphony where the second violins were a little weak; thatoverture where the blaseninstrumente came out so well--the symphoniesone heard--the divine wealth of undying art and beauty! Those days arepast: despite what I suffered in them they had their joys for me. Yes; Isuffered at those concerts. I must ever see the one face which for meblotted out all others in the room, and endure the silent contempt whichI believed I saw upon it. Probably it was my own feeling of inwardself-contempt which made me believe I saw that expression there. Hisface had for me a miserable, basilisk-like attraction. When I was therehe was there, I must look at him and endure the silent, smiling disdainwhich I at least believed he bestowed upon me. How did he contrive to doit? How often our eyes met, and every time it happened he looked me fullin the face, and never would give me the faintest gleam of recognition!It was as though I looked at two diamonds, which returned my stareunwinkingly and unseeingly. I managed to make myself thoroughlymiserable--pale and thin with anxiety and self-reproach I let this man, and the speculation concerning him, take up my whole thoughts, and Ikept silence, because I dreaded so intensely lest any question shouldbring out the truth. I smiled drearily when I thought that therecertainly was no danger of any one but Miss Hallam ever knowing it, forthe only person who could have betrayed me chose now, of deliberatepurpose, to cut me as completely as I had once cut him. 

As if to show very decidedly that he did intend to cut me, I met him oneday, not in the street, but in the house, on the stairs. He sprung upthe steps, two at a time, came to a momentary pause on the landing, andlooked at me. No look of surprise, none of recognition. He raised hishat; that was nothing; in ordinary politeness he would have done it hadhe never seen me in his life before. The same cold, bright, hard glancefell upon me, keen as an eagle's, and as devoid of every gentleinfluence as the same. 

I silently held out my hand. 

He looked at it for a moment, then with a grave coolness which chilledme to the soul, murmured something about "not having the honor, " bowedslightly, and stepping forward, walked into Vincent's room. 

I was going to the room in which my piano stood, where I had my musiclessons, for they had told me that Herr von Francius was waiting. Ilooked at him as I went into the room. How different he was from thatother man; darker, more secret, more scornful-looking, with not lesspower, but so much less benevolence. 

I was _distrait_, and sung exceedingly ill. We had been going throughthe solo soprano parts of the "Paradise Lost. " I believe I sung vilelythat morning. I was not thinking of Eva's sin and the serpent, but ofother things, which, despite the story related in the Book of Genesis, touched me more nearly. Several times already had he made me singthrough Eva's stammering answer to her God's question:

 "Ah, Lord!. .. The Serpent! The beautiful, glittering Serpent, With his beautiful, glittering words, He, Lord, did lead astray The weak Woman!"

"Bah!" exclaimed von Francius, when I had sung it some three or fourtimes, each time worse, each time more distractedly. He flung the musicupon the floor, and his eyes flashed, startling me from my uneasythoughts back to the present. He was looking at me with a dark cloudupon his face. I stared, stooped meekly, and picked up the music. 

"Fräulein, what are you dreaming about?" he asked, impatiently. "You arenot singing Eva's shame and dawning terror as she feels herself undone. You are singing--and badly, too--a mere sentimental song, such as anyschool-girl might stumble through. I am ashamed of you. "

"I--I, " stammered I, crimsoning, and ashamed for myself too. 

"You were thinking of something else, " he said, his brow clearing alittle. "_Na!_ it comes so sometimes. Something has happened to distractyour attention. The amiable Miss Hallam has been a little _more_ amiablethan usual. "

"No. "

"Well, well. _'S ist mir egal. _ But now, as you have wasted half an hourin vanity and vexation, will you be good enough to let your thoughtsreturn here to me and to your duty? or else--I must go, and leave thelesson till you are in the right voice again. "

"I am all right--try me, " said I, my pride rising in arms as I thoughtof Courvoisier's behavior a short time ago. 

"Very well. Now. You are Eva, please remember, the first woman, and youhave gone wrong. Think of who is questioning you, and--"

"Oh, yes, yes, I know. Please begin. "

He began the accompaniment, and I sung for the fifth time Eva'sscattered notes of shame and excuse. 

"Brava!" said he, when I had finished, and I was the more startled as hehad never before given me the faintest sign of approval, but had foundsuch constant fault with me that I usually had a fit of weeping after mylesson; weeping with rage and disappointment at my own shortcomings. 

"At last you know what it means, " said he. "I always told you your fortewas dramatic singing. "

"Dramatic! But this is an oratorio. "

"It may be called an oratorio, but it is a drama all the same. What moredramatic, for instance, than what you have just sung, and all that goesbefore? Now suppose we go on. I will take Adam. "

Having given myself up to the music, I sung my best with earnestness. When we had finished von Francius closed the book, looked at me, andsaid:

"Will you sing the 'Eva' music at the concert?"

"I?"

He bowed silently, and still kept his eyes fixed upon my face, as if tosay, "Refuse if you dare. "

"I--I'm afraid I should make such a mess of it, " I murmured at last. 

"Why any more than to-day?"

"Oh! but all the people!" said I, expostulating; "it is so different. "

He gave a little laugh of some amusement. 

"How odd! and yet how like you!" said he. "Do you suppose that thepeople who will be at the concert will be half as much alive to yourdefects as I am? If you can sing before me, surely you can sing beforeso many rows of--"

"Cabbages? I wish I could think they were. "

"Nonsense! What would be the use, where the pleasure, in singing tocabbages? I mean simply inhabitants of Elberthal. What can there be soformidable about them?"

I murmured something. 

"Well, will you do it?"

"I am sure I should break down, " said I, trying to find some sign ofrelenting in his eyes. I discovered none. He was not waiting to hearwhether I said "yes" or "no, " he was waiting until I said "yes. "

"If you did, " he replied, with a friendly smile, "I should never teachyou another note. "

"Why not?"

"Because you would be a coward, and not worth teaching. "

"But Miss Hallam?"

"Leave her to me. "

I still hesitated. 

"It is the _premier pas qui coûte_, " said he, keeping a friendly butdetermined gaze upon my undecided face. 

"I want to accustom you to appearing in public, " he added. "By degrees, you know. There is nothing unusual in Germany for one in your positionto sing in such a concert. "

"I was not thinking of that; but that it is impossible that I can singwell enough--"

"You sing well enough for my purpose. You will be amazed to find what animpetus to your studies, and what a filip to your industry will be givenby once singing before a number of other people. And then, on thestage--"

"But I am not going on the stage. "

"I think you are. At least, if you do otherwise you will do wrong. Youhave gifts which are in themselves a responsibility. "

"I--gifts--what gifts?" I asked, incredulously. "I am as stupid as adonkey. My sisters always said so, and sisters are sure to know; you maytrust them for that. "

"Then you will take the soprano solos?"

"Do you think I can?"

"I don't think you can; I say you must. I will call upon Miss Hallamthis afternoon. And the _gage_--fee--what you call it?--is fiftythalers. "

"What!" I cried, my whole attitude changing to one of greedyexpectation. "Shall I be paid?"

"Why, _natürlich_, " said he, turning over sheets of music, and avertinghis face to hide a smile. 

"Oh! then I will sing. "

"Good! Only please to remember that it is my concert, and I amresponsible for the soloists; and pray think rather more about thebeautiful glittering serpent than about the beautiful glitteringthalers. "

"I can think about both, " was my unholy, time-serving reply. 

Fifty thalers. Untold gold!

CHAPTER XII. 

"Prinz Eugen, der edle Ritter. "

It was the evening of the haupt-probe, a fine moonlight night in themiddle of May--a month since I had come to Elberthal, and it seemed somuch, so very much more. 

To my astonishment--and far from agreeable astonishment--Anna Sartoriusinformed me of her intention to accompany me to the probe. I putobjections in her way as well as I knew how, and said I did not thinkoutsiders were admitted. She laughed, and said:

"That is too funny, that you should instruct me in such things. Why, Ihave a ticket for all the proben, as any one can have who chooses to paytwo thalers at the _sasse_. I have a mind to hear this. They say theorchestra are going to rebel against von Francius. And I am going to theconcert to-morrow, too. One can not hear too much of such fine music;and when one's friend sings, too--"

"What friend of yours is going to sing?" I inquired, coldly. 

"Why, you, you _allerliebster kleiner Engel_, " said she, in a tone offamiliarity, to which I strongly objected. 

I could say no more against her going, but certainly displayed noenthusiastic desire for her company. 

The probe, we found, was to be in the great saal; it was half lighted, and there were perhaps some fifty people, holders of probe-tickets, seated in the parquet. 

"You are going to sing well to-night, " said von Francius, as he handedme up the steps--"for my sake and your own, _nicht wahr_?"

"I will try, " said, I, looking round the great orchestra, and seeing howfull it was--so many fresh faces, both in chorus and orchestra. 

And as I looked, I saw Courvoisier come in by the little door at the topof the orchestra steps and descend to his place. His face wasclouded--very clouded; I had never seen him look thus before. He had nosmile for those who greeted him. As he took his place beside Helfen, andthe latter asked him some question, he stared absently at him, thenanswered with a look of absence and weariness. 

"Herr Courvoisier, " said von Francius--and I, being near, heard thewhole dialogue--"you always allow yourself to be waited for. "

Courvoisier glanced up. I with a new, sudden interest, watched thebehavior of the two men. In the face of von Francius I thought todiscover dislike, contempt. 

"I beg your pardon; I was detained, " answered Courvoisier, composedly. 

"It is unfortunate that you should be so often detained at the time whenyour work should be beginning. "

Unmoved and unchanging, Courvoisier heard and submitted to the words, and to the tone in which they were spoken--sarcastic, sneering, andunbelieving. 

"Now we will begin, " pursued von Francius, with a disagreeable smile, ashe rapped with his baton upon the rail. I looked at Courvoisier--lookedat his friend, Friedhelm Helfen. The former was sitting as quietly aspossible, rather pale, and with the same clouded look, but not deeperthan before; the latter was flushed, and eyed von Francius with nofriendly glance. 

There seemed a kind of slumbering storm in the air. There was none ofthe lively discussion usual at the proben. Courvoisier, first of thefirst violins, and from whom all the others seemed to take their tone, sat silent, grave and still. Von Francius, though quiet, was biting. Ifelt afraid of him. Something must have happened to put him into thatevil mood. 

My part did not come until late in the second part of the oratorio. Ihad almost forgotten that I was to sing at all, and was watching vonFrancius and listening to his sharp speeches. I remembered what AnnaSartorius had said in describing this haupt-probe to me. It was all justas she had said. He was severe; his speeches roused the phlegmaticblood, set the professional instrumentalists laughing at their amateurco-operators, but provoked no reply or resentment. It was extraordinary, the effect of this man's will upon those he had to do with--upon womenin particular. 

There was one haughty-looking blonde--a Swede--tall, majestic, with longyellow curls, and a face full of pride and high temper, who gave herselfdecided airs, and trusted to her beauty and insolence to carry offcertain radical defects of harshness of voice and want of ear. I neverforgot how she stared me down from head to foot on the occasion of myfirst appearance alone, as if to say, "What do you want here?"

It was in vain that she looked haughty and handsome. Addressing her asFräulein Hulstrom, von Francius gave her a sharp lecture, and imitatedthe effect of her voice in a particularly soft passage with ludicrousaccuracy. The rest of the chorus was tittering audibly, the musicians, with the exception of Courvoisier and his friend, nudging each other andsmiling. She bridled haughtily, flashed a furious glance at her mentor, grew crimson, received a sarcastic smile which baffled her, and subsidedagain. 

So it was with them all. His blame was plentiful; his praise so rare asto be almost an unknown quantity. His chorus and orchestra were famedfor the minute perfection and precision of their play and singing. Perhaps the performance lacked something else--passion, color. VonFrancius, at that time at least, was no genius, though his talent, hispower, and his method were undeniably great. He was, however, notpopular--not the Harold, the "beloved leader" of his people. 

It was to-night that I was first shown how all was not smooth for him;that in this art union there were splits--"little rifts within thelute, " which, should they extend, might literally in the end "make themusic mute. " I heard whispers around me. "Herr von Francius isangry. "--"_Nicht wahr_?"--"Herr Courvoisier looks angry too. "--"Yes, hedoes. "--"There will be an open quarrel there soon. "--"I thinkso. "--"They are both clever; one should be less clever than theother. "--"They are so opposed. "--"Yes. They say Courvoisier has a partyof his own, and that all the orchestra are on his side. "--"So!" inaccents of curiosity and astonishment--"_Ja wohl!_ And that if vonFrancius does not mind, he will see Herr Courvoisier in his place, "etc. , etc. , without end. All which excited me much, as the first glimpseinto the affairs of those about whom we think much and know little (aform of life well known to women in general) always does interest us. 

These things made me forget to be nervous or anxious. I saw myself nowas part of the whole, a unit in the sum of a life which interested me. Von Francius gave me a sign of approval when I had finished, but it wasa mechanical one. He was thinking of other things. 

The probe was over. I walked slowly down the room looking for AnnaSartorius, more out of politeness than because I wished for her company. I was relieved to find that she had already gone, probably not findingall the entertainment she expected, and I was able, with a goodconscience, to take my way home alone. 

My way home! not yet. I was to live through something before I couldtake my way home. 

I went out of the large saal through the long veranda into the street. Aflood of moonlight silvered it. There was a laughing, chattering crowdabout me--all the chorus; men and girls, going to their homes or theirlodgings, in ones or twos, or in large cheerful groups. Almost oppositethe Tonhalle was a tall house, one of a row, and of this house thelowest floor was used as a shop for antiquities, curiosities, and athousand odds and ends useful or beautiful to artists, costumes, suitsof armor, old china, anything and everything. The window was yetlighted. As I paused for a moment before taking my homeward way, I sawtwo men cross the moonlit street and go in at the open door of the shop. One was Courvoisier; in the other I thought to recognize FriedhelmHelfen, but was not quite sure about it. They did not go into the shop, as I saw by the bright large lamp that burned within, but along thepassage and up the stairs. I followed them, resolutely beating downshyness, unwillingness, timidity. My reluctant steps took me to thewindow of the antiquity shop, and I stood looking in before I could makeup my mind to enter. Bits of rococo ware stood in the window, majolicajugs, chased metal dishes and bowls, bits of Renaissance work, tapestry, carpet, a helm with the vizor up, gaping at me as if tired of beingthere. I slowly drew my purse from my pocket, put together threethalers and a ten groschen piece, and with lingering, unwilling steps, entered the shop. A pretty young woman in a quaint dress, which somehowharmonized with the place, came forward. She looked at me as ifwondering what I could possibly want. My very agitation gave calmness tomy voice as I inquired, "Does Herr Courvoisier, a musiker, live here?"

"_Ja wohl!_" answered the young woman, with a look of still greatersurprise. "On the third _étage_, straight upstairs. The name is on thedoor. "

I turned away, and went slowly up the steep wooden uncarpeted staircase. On the first landing a door opened at the sound of my footsteps, and ahead was popped out--a rough, fuzzy head, with a pale, eager-lookingface under the bush of hair. 

"Ugh!" said the owner of this amiable visage, and shut the door with abang. I looked at the plate upon it; it bore the legend, "HermannDuntze, Maler. " To the second _étage_. Another door--another plate:"Bernhardt Knoop, Maler. " The house seemed to be a resort of artists. There was a lamp burning on each landing; and now, at last, with breathand heart alike failing, I ascended the last flight of stairs, and foundmyself upon the highest _étage_ before another door, on which wasroughly painted up, "Eugen Courvoisier. " I looked at it with my heartbeating suffocatingly. Some one had scribbled in red chalk beneath theChristian name, "Prinz Eugen, der edle Ritter. " Had it been done in jestor earnest? I wondered, and then knocked. Such a knock!

"_Herein!_"

I opened the door, and stepped into a large, long, low room. On thetable, in the center, burned a lamp, and sitting there, with the lightfalling upon his earnest young face, was Helfen, the violinist, and nearto him sat Courvoisier, with a child upon his knee, a little lad withimmense dark eyes, tumbled black hair, and flushed, just awakened face. He was clad in his night-dress and a little red dressing-gown, andlooked like a spot of almost feverish, quite tropic brightness incontrast with the grave, pale face which bent over him. Courvoisier heldthe two delicate little hands in one of his own, and was looking downwith love unutterable upon the beautiful, dazzling child-face. Despitethe different complexion and a different style of feature too, therewas so great a likeness in the two faces, particularly in the broad, noble brow, as to leave no doubt of the relationship. My musician andthe boy were father and son. 

Courvoisier looked up as I came in. For one half moment there leapedinto his eyes a look of surprise and of something more. If it had lasteda second longer I could have sworn it was welcome--then it was gone. Herose, turned the child over to Helfen, saying, "One moment, Friedel, "then turned to me as to some stranger who had come on an errand as yetunknown to him, and did not speak. The little one, from Helfen's knee, stared at me with large, solemn eyes, and Helfen himself looked scarcelyless impressed. 

I have no doubt I looked frightened--I felt so--frightened out of mysenses. I came tremulously forward, and offering my pieces of silver, said, in the smallest voice which I had ever used:

"I have come to pay my debt. I did not know where you lived, or I shouldhave done it long before. "

He made no motion to take the money, but said--I almost started, soaltered was the voice from that of my frank companion at Köln, to an icycoldness of ceremony:

"_Mein Fräulein_, I do not understand. "

"You--you--the things you paid for. Do you not remember me?"

"Remember a lady who has intimated that she wishes me to forget her? No, I do not. "

What a horribly complicated revenge! thought I, as I said, ever lowerand lower, more and more shamedfacedly, while the young violinist satwith the child on his knee, and his soft brown eyes staring at me inwonder:

"I think you must remember. You helped me at Köln, and you paid for myticket to Elberthal, and for something that I had at the hotel. You toldme that was what I owed you. "

I again tendered the money; again he made no effort to receive it, butsaid:

"I am sorry that I do not understand to what you refer. I only know itis impossible that I could ever have told you you owed me three thalers, or three anything, or that there could, under any circumstances, be anyquestion of money between you and me. Suppose we consider the topic atan end. "

Such a voice of ice, and such a manner, to chill the boldest heart, Ihad never yet encountered. The cool, unspeakable disdain cut me to thequick. 

"You have no right to refuse the money, " said I, desperately. "You haveno right to insult me by--by--" An appropriate peroration refuseditself. 

Again the sweet, proud, courteous smile; not only courteous, butcourtly; again the icy little bow of the head, which would have donecredit to a prince in displeasure, and which yet had the deference duefrom a gentleman to a lady. 

"You will excuse the semblance of rudeness which may appear if I saythat if you unfortunately are not of a very decided disposition, I am. It is impossible that I should ever have the slightest intercourse witha lady who has once unequivocally refused my acquaintance. The lady mayhonor me by changing her mind; I am sorry that I can not respond. I donot change my mind. "

"You must let us part on equal terms, " I reiterated. "It is unjust--"

"Yourself closed all possibility of the faintest attempt at furtheracquaintance, _mein Fräulein_. The matter is at an end. "

"Herr Courvoisier, I--"

"At an end, " he repeated, calmly, gently, looking at me as he had oftenlooked at me since the night of "Lohengrin, " with a glance that baffledand chilled me. 

"I wish to apologize--"

"For what?" he inquired, with the faintest possible look of indifferentsurprise. 

"For my rudeness--my surprise--I--"

"You refer to one evening at the opera. You exercised your privilege, asa lady, of closing an acquaintance which you did not wish to renew. Inow exercise mine, as a gentleman, of saying that I choose to abide bythat decision, now and always. "

I was surprised. Despite my own apologetic frame of mind, I wassurprised at his hardness; at the narrowness and ungenerosity whichcould so determinedly shut the door in the face of an humble penitentlike me. He must see how I had repented the stupid slip I had made;he must see how I desired to atone for it. It was not a slip of thekind one would name irreparable, and yet he behaved to me as if Ihad committed a crime; froze me with looks and words. Was he soself-conscious and so vain that he could not get over that small slightto his self-consequence, committed in haste and confusion by an ignorantgirl? Even then, even in that moment I asked myself these questions, myastonishment being almost as great as my pain, for it was the veryreverse, the very opposite of what I had pictured to myself. Once let mesee him and speak to him, I had said to myself, and it would be allright; every lineament of his face, every tone of his voice, bespoke afrank, generous nature--one that could forgive. Alas! and alas! this wasthe truth!

He had come to the door; he stood by it now, holding it open, looking atme so courteously, so deferentially, with a manner of one who had been agentleman and lived with gentlemen all his life, but in a way which atthe same time ordered me out as plainly as possible. 

I went to the door. I could no longer stand under that chilling glance, nor endure the cool, polished contempt of the manner. I behaved by nomeans heroically; neither flung my head back, nor muttered any defiance, nor in any way proved myself a person of spirit. All I could do was tolook appealingly into his face; to search the bright, steady eyes, without finding in them any hint of softening or relenting. 

"Will you not take it, please?" I asked, in a quivering voice and withtrembling lips. 

"Impossible, _mein Fräulein_, " with the same chilly little bow asbefore. 

Struggling to repress my tears, I said no more, but passed out, cut tothe heart. The door was closed gently behind me. I felt as if it hadclosed upon a bright belief of my youth. I leaned for a moment againstthe passage wall and pressed my hand against my eyes. From within camethe sound of a child's voice, "_Mein vater_, " and the soft, deep murmurof Eugen's answer; then I went down-stairs and into the open street. 

That hated, hateful three thalers ten groschen were still clasped in myhand. What was I to do with it? Throw it into the Rhine, and wash itaway forever? Give it to some one in need? Fling it into the gutter?Send it him by post? I dismissed that idea for what it was worth. No; Iwould obey his prohibition. I would keep it--those very coins, and whenI felt inclined to be proud and conceited about anything on my ownaccount, or disposed to put down superhuman charms to the account ofothers, I would go and look at them, and they would preach me eloquentsermons. 

As I went into the house, up the stairs to my room, the front dooropened again and Anna Sartorius overtook me. 

"I thought you had left the probe?" said I, staring at her. 

"So I had, _Herzchen_, " said she, with her usual ambiguous, mockinglaugh; "but I was not compelled to come home, like a good little girl, the moment I came out of the Tonhalle. I have been visiting a friend. But where have you been, for the probe must have been over for sometime? We heard the people go past; indeed, some of them were staying inthe house where I was. Did you take a walk in the moonlight?"

"Good-night, " said I, too weary and too indifferent even to answer her. 

"It must have been a tiring walk; you seem weary, quite _ermüdet_, " saidshe, mockingly, and I made no answer. 

"A haupt-probe is a dismal thing after all, " she called out to me fromthe top of the stairs. 

From my inmost heart I agreed with her. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

KAFFEEKLATSCH. 

 "_Phillis. _ I want none o' thy friendship! _Lesbia. _ Then take my enmity!"

"When a number of ladies meet together to discuss matters of importance, we call it 'Kaffeeklatsch, '" Courvoisier had said to me on thatnever-forgotten afternoon of my adventure at Köln. 

It was my first kaffeeklatsch which, in a measure, decided my destiny. Hitherto, that is, up to the end of June, I had not been at anyentertainment of this kind. At last there came an invitation to FrauSteinmann and to Anna Sartorius, to assist at a "coffee" of unusualmagnitude, and Frau Steinmann suggested that I should go with them andsee what it was like. Nothing loath, I consented. 

"Bring some work, " said Anna Sartorius to me, "or you will find it_langweilig_--slow, I mean. "

"Shall we not have some music?"

"Music, yes, the sweetest of all--that of our own tongues. You shallhear every one's candid opinion of every one else--present companyalways excepted, and you will see what the state of Elberthal societyreally is--present company still excepted. By a very strange chance theladies who meet at a klatsch are always good, pious, virtuous, and, above all, charitable. It is wonderful how well we manage to keep theblack sheep out, and have nothing but lambs immaculate. "

"Oh, don't!"

"Oh, bah! I know the Elberthal _Klatscherei_. It has picked me to piecesmany a time. After you have partaken to-day of its coffee and its cakes, it will pick you to pieces. "

"But, " said I, arranging the ruffles of my very best frock, which I hadbeen told it was _de rigueur_ to wear, "I thought women never gossipedso much among men. "

Fräulein Sartorius laughed loud and long. 

"The men! _Du meine Güte!_ Men at a kaffeeklatsch! Show me the one thata man dare even look into, and I'll crown you--and him too--with laurel, and bay, and the wild parsley. A man at a kaffee--_mag Gott esbewahren!_"

"Oh!" said I, half disappointed, and with a very poor, mean sense ofdissatisfaction at having put on my pretty new dress for the first timeonly for the edification of a number of virulent gossips. 

"Men!" she reiterated with a harsh laugh as we walked toward theGoldsternstrasse, our destination. "Men--no. We despise their company, you see. We only talk about them directly or indirectly from the momentof meeting to that of parting. "

"I'm sorry there are no gentlemen, " said I, and I was. I felt I lookedwell. 

Arrived at the scene of the kaffee, we were conducted to a bedroom wherewe laid aside our hats and mantles. I was standing before the glass, drawing a comb through my upturned hair, and contemplating withirrepressible satisfaction the delicate lavender hue of my dress, when Isuddenly saw reflected behind me the dark, harshly cut face of AnnaSartorius. She started slightly; then said, with a laugh which had in itsomething a little forced:

"We are a contrast, aren't we? Beauty and the Beast, one might almostsay. _Na! 's schad't nix. _"

I turned away in a little offended pride. Her familiarity annoyed me. What if she were a thousand times cleverer, wittier, better read than I?I did not like her. A shade crossed her face. 

"Is it that you are thoroughly unamiable?" said she, in a voice whichhad reproach in it, "or are all English girls so touchy that theyreceive a compliment upon their good looks as if it were an offense?"

"I wish you would not talk of my 'good looks' as if I were a dog or ahorse!" said I, angrily. "I hate to be flattered. I am no beauty, and donot wish to be treated as if I were. "

"Do you always hate it?" said she from the window, whither she hadturned. "_Ach!_ there goes Herr Courvoisier!"

The name startled me like a sudden report. I made an eager step forwardbefore I had time to recollect myself--then stopped. 

"He is not out of sight yet, " said she, with a curious look, "if youwish to see him. "

I sat down and made no answer. What prompted her to talk in such amanner? Was it a mere coincidence?

"He is a handsome fellow, _nicht wahr_?" she said, still watching me, while I thought Frau Steinmann never would manage to arrange her cap inthe style that pleased her. "But a _Taugenichts_ all the same, " pursuedAnna as I did not speak. "Don't you think so?" she added. 

"A _Taugenichts_--I don't know what that is. "

"What you call a good-for-nothing. "

"Oh. "

"_Nicht wahr?_" she persisted. 

"I know nothing about it. "

"I do. I will tell you all about him some time. "

"I don't wish to know anything about him. "

"So!" said she, with a laugh. 

Without further word or look I followed Frau Steinmann down-stairs. 

The lady of the house was seated in the midst of a large concourse ofold and young ladies, holding her own with a well-seasoned hardihood inthe midst of the awful Babel of tongues. What a noise! It smote upon andstunned my confounded ear. Our hostess advanced and led me with a waveof the hand into the center of the room, when she introduced me to abouta dozen ladies: and every one in the room stopped talking and working, and stared at me intently and unwinkingly until my name had beenpronounced, after which some continued still to stare at me, andcommenting openly upon it. Meanwhile I was conducted to a sofa at theend of the room, and requested in a set phrase, "_Bitte, Fräulein, nehmen sie platz auf dem sofa_, " with which long custom has since mademe familiar, to take my seat upon it. I humbly tried to decline thehonor, but Anna Sartorius, behind me, whispered:

"Sit down directly, unless you want to be thought an utter barbarian. The place has been kept for you. "

Deeply impressed, and very uncomfortable, I sat down. First one and thenanother came and spoke and talked to me. Their questions and remarkswere much in this style:

"Do you like Elberthal? What is your Christian name? How old are you?Have you been or are you engaged to be married? They break offengagements in England for a mere trifle, don't they? _Schrecklich!_ Didyou get your dress in Elberthal? What did it cost the _elle_? YoungEnglish ladies wear silk much more than young German ladies. You nevergo to the theater on Sunday in England--you are all _pietistisch_. Howbeautifully you speak our language! Really no foreign accent!" (Thisrepeatedly and unblushingly, in spite of my most flagrant mistakes, andin the face of my most feeble, halting, and stammering efforts to makemyself understood. ) "Do you learn music? singing? From whom? Herr vonFrancius? _Ach, so!_" (Pause, while they all look impressively at me. The very name of von Francius calls up emotions of no common order. ) "Ibelieve I have seen you at the proben to the 'Paradise Lost. ' Perhapsyou are the lady who is to take the solos? Yes! _Du lieber Himmel!_ Whatdo you think of Herr von Francius? Is he not nice?" (_Nett_, though, signifies something feminine and finikin. ) "No? How odd! There is noaccounting for the tastes of English women. Do you know many people inElberthal? No? _Schade!_ No officers? not Hauptmann Sachse?" (with voicegrowing gradually shriller), "nor Lieutenant Pieper? Not knowLieutenant Pieper! _Um Gotteswillen!_ What do you mean? He is sohandsome! such eyes! such a mustache! _Herrgott!_ And you do not knowhim? I will tell you something. When he went off to the autumn maneuversat Frankfort (I have it on good authority), twenty young ladies went tosee him off. "

"Disgusting!" I exclaimed, unable to control my feelings any longer. Isaw Anna Sartorius malignantly smiling as she rocked herself in anAmerican rocking-chair. 

"How! disgusting? You are joking. He had dozens of bouquets. All thegirls are in love with him. They compelled the photographer to sell themhis photograph, and they all believe he is in love with them. I believeLuise Breidenstein will die if he doesn't propose to her. "

"They ought to be ashamed of themselves. "

"But he is so handsome, so delightful. He dances divinely, and knowssuch good riddles, and acts--_ach, himmlisch!_"

"But how absurd to make such a fuss of him!" I cried, hot and indignant. "The idea of going on so about a man!"

A chorus, a shriek, a Babel of expostulations. 

"Listen, Thekla! Fräulein Wedderburn does not know Lieutenant Pieper, and does not think it right to _schwärm_ for him. "

"The darling! No one can help it who knows him!" said another. 

"Let her wait till she does know him, " said Thekla, a sentimental youngwoman, pretty in a certain sentimental way, and graceful too--alsosentimentally--with the sentiment that lingers about young ladies'albums with leaves of smooth, various-hued note-paper, and about thesonnets which nestle within the same. There was a sudden shriek:

"There he goes! There is the Herr Lieutenant riding by. Just come here, _mein Fräulein_! See him! Judge for yourself!"

A strong hand dragged me, whether I would or not, to the window, andpointed out to me the Herr Lieutenant riding by. An adorable creature ina Hussar uniform; he had pink cheeks and a straight nose, and theloveliest little model of a mustache ever seen; tightly curling blackhair, and the dearest little feet and hands imaginable. 

"Oh, the dear, handsome, delightful follow!" cried one enthusiasticyoung creature, who had scrambled upon a chair in the background and wasgazing after him while another, behind me, murmured in tones of emotion:

"Look how he salutes--divine, isn't it?"

I turned away, smiling an irrepressible smile. My musician, with hisample traits and clear, bold eyes, would have looked a wild, rough, untamable creature by the side of that wax-doll beauty--that prettylittle being who had just ridden by. I thought I saw them side byside--Herr Lieutenant Pieper and Eugen Courvoisier. The latter wouldhave been as much more imposing than the former as an oak is moreimposing than a spruce fir--as Gluck than Lortzing. And could theseenthusiastic young ladies have viewed the two they would have been trueto their lieutenant; so much was certain. They would have said that theother was a wild man, who did not cut his hair often enough, who hadlarge hands, whose collar was perhaps chosen more with a view to easeand the free movement of the throat than to the smallest number ofinches within which it was possible to confine that throat; who did notwear polished kid boots, and was not seen off from the station by twentydevoted admirers of the opposite sex, was not deluged with bouquets. With a feeling as of something singing at my heart I went back to myplace, smiling still. 

"See! she is quite charmed with the Herr Lieutenant! Is he notdelightful?"

"Oh, very; so is a Dresden china shepherd, but if you let him fall hebreaks. "

"_Wie komisch!_ how odd!" was the universal comment upon myeccentricity. The conversation had wandered off to other military stars, all of whom were _reizend_, _hübsch_, or _nett_. So it went on until Igot heartily tired of it, and then the ladies discussed their femaleneighbors, but I leave that branch of the subject to the intelligentreader. It was the old tune with the old variations, which were rattledover in the accustomed manner. I listened, half curious, half appalled, and thought of various speeches made by Anna Sartorius. Whether she wereamiable or not, she had certainly a keen insight into the hearts andmotives of her fellow-creatures. Perhaps the gift had soured her. 

Anna and I walked home alone. Frau Steinmann was, with other elderlyladies of the company, to spend the evening there. As we walked down theKönigsallée--how well to this day do I remember it! the chestnuts werebeginning to fade, the road was dusty, the sun setting gloriously, thepeople thronging in crowds--she said suddenly, quietly, and in a tone ofthe utmost composure:

"So you don't admire Lieutenant Pieper so much as Herr Courvoisier?"

"What do you mean?" I cried, astonished, alarmed, and wondering whatunlucky chance led her to talk to me of Eugen. 

"I mean what I say; and for my part I agree with you--partly. Courvoisier, bad though he may be, is a man; the other a mixture of dolland puppy. "

She spoke in a friendly tone; discursive, as if inviting confidence andcomment on my part. I was not inclined to give either. I shrunk withmorbid nervousness from owning to any knowledge of Eugen. My pride, nay, my very self-esteem, bled whenever I thought of him or heard himmentioned. Above all, I shrunk from the idea of discussing him, oranything pertaining to him, with Anna Sartorius. 

"It will be time for you to agree with me when I give you anything toagree about, " said I, coldly. "I know nothing of either of thegentlemen, and wish to know nothing. "

There was a pause. Looking up, I found Anna's eyes fixed upon my face, amazed, reproachful. I felt myself blushing fierily. My tongue had ledme astray; I had lied to her: I knew it. 

"Do not say you know nothing of either of the gentlemen. HerrCourvoisier was your first acquaintance in Elberthal. "

"What?" I cried, with a great leap of the heart, for I felt as if a veilhad suddenly been rent away from before my eyes and I shown a precipice. 

"I saw you arrive with Herr Courvoisier, " said Anna, calmly; "at least, I saw you come from the platform with him, and he put you into a drosky. And I saw you cut him at the opera; and I saw you go into his houseafter the general probe. Will you tell me again that you know nothing ofhim? I should have thought you too proud to tell lies. "

"I wish you would mind your own business, " said I, heartily wishing thatAnna Sartorius were at the antipodes. 

"Listen!" said she, very earnestly, and, I remember it now, though I didnot heed it then, with wistful kindness. "I do not bear malice--you areso young and inexperienced. I wish you were more friendly, but I carefor you too much to be rebuffed by a trifle. I will tell you aboutCourvoisier. "

"Thank you, " said I, hastily, "I beg you will do no such thing. "

"I know his story. I can tell you the truth about him. "

"I decline to discuss the subject, " said I, thinking of Eugen, andpassionately refusing the idea of discussing him, gossiping about him, with any one. 

Anna looked surprised; then a look of anger crossed her face. 

"You can not be in earnest, " said she. 

"I assure you I am. I wish you would leave me alone, " I said, exasperated beyond endurance. 

"You don't wish to know what I can tell you about him?"

"No, I don't. What is more, if you begin talking to me about him, I willput my fingers in my ears, and leave you. "

"Then you may learn it for yourself, " said she, suddenly, in a voicelittle more than a whisper. "You shall rue your treatment of me. Andwhen you know the lesson by heart, then you will be sorry. "

"You are officious and impertinent, " said I, white with ire. "I don'twish for your society, and I will say good-evening to you. "

With that I turned down a side street leading into the Alléestrasse, andleft her. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

 "So! Another chapter read; with doubtful hand I turn the page, with doubtful eye I scan The heading of the next. "

From that evening Anna let me alone, as I thought, and I was glad of it, nor did I attempt any reconciliation, for the very good reason that Iwished for none. 

Soon after our dispute I found upon my plate at breakfast, one morning, a letter directed in a bold though unformed hand, which I recognized asStella's:

 "DEAR MAY, --I dare say Adelaide will be writing to you, but I will take time by the forelock, so to speak, and give you my views on the subject first. 

 "There is news, strange to say that there is some news to tell you. I shall give it without making any remarks. I shall not say whether I think it good, bad, or indifferent. Adelaide is engaged to Sir Peter Le Marchant. It was only made known two days ago. Adelaide thinks he is in love with her. What a strange mistake for her to make! She thinks she can do anything with him. Also a monstrous misapprehension on her part. Seriously, May, I am rather uncomfortable about it, or should be, if it were any one else but Adelaide. But she knows so remarkably well what she is about, that perhaps, after all, my fears are needless. And yet--but it is no use speculating about it--I said I wouldn't. 

 "She is a queer girl. I don't know how she can marry Sir Peter, I must say. I suppose he is awfully rich, and Adelaide has always said that poverty was the most horrible thing in the world. I don't know, I'm sure. I should be inclined to say that Sir Peter was the most horrible thing in the world. Write soon, and tell me what you think about it. 

 "Thine, speculatively, "STELLA WEDDERBURN. "

I did not feel surprise at this letter. Foreboding, grief, shame, I didexperience at finding that Adelaide was bent upon her own misery. Butthen, I reflected, she can not be very sensible to misery, or she wouldnot be able to go through with such a purpose. I went upstairs tocommunicate this news to Miss Hallam. Soon the rapid movement of eventsin my own affairs completely drove thoughts of Adelaide for a time, atleast, out of my mind. 

Miss Hallam received the information quietly and with a certaincontemptuous indifference. I knew she did not like Adelaide, and I spokeof her as seldom as possible. 

I took up some work, glancing at the clock, for I expected von Franciussoon to give me my lesson, and Miss Hallam sat still. I had offered toread to her, and she had declined. I glanced at her now and then. I hadgrown accustomed to that sarcastic, wrinkled, bitter face, and did notdislike it. Indeed, Miss Hallam had given me abundant proofs that, eccentric though she might be, pessimist in theory, merciless upon humannature, which she spoke of in a manner which sometimes absolutelyappalled me, yet in fact, in deed, she was a warm-hearted, generouswoman. She had dealt bountifully by me, and I knew she loved me, thoughshe never said so. 

"May, " she presently remarked, "yesterday, when you were out, I sawDoctor Mittendorf. "

"Did you, Miss Hallam?"

"Yes. He says it is useless my remaining here any longer. I shall neversee, and an operation might cost me my life!"

Half-stunned, and not yet quite taking in the whole case, I held my worksuspended, and looked at her. She went on:

"I knew it would be so when I came. I don't intend to try any moreexperiments. I shall go home next week. "

Now I grasped the truth. 

"Go home, Miss Hallam!" I repeated, faintly. 

"Yes, of course. There is no reason why I should stay, is there?"

"N--no, I suppose not, " I admitted; and contrived to stammer out, "and Iam very sorry that Doctor Mittendorf thinks you will not be better. "

Then I left the room quickly--I could not stay, I was overwhelmed. Itwas scarcely ten minutes since I had come upstairs to her. I could havethought it was a week. 

Outside the room, I stood on the landing with my hand pressed to myforehead, for I felt somewhat bewildered. Stella's letter was still inmy hand. As I stood there Anna Sartorius came past. 

"_Guten Tag, Fräulein_, " said she, with a mocking kind of good-naturewhen she had observed me for a few minutes. "What is the matter? Are youill? Have you had bad news?"

"Good-morning, Fräulein, " I answered, quietly enough, dropping my handfrom my brow. 

I went to my room. A maid was there, and the furniture might have stoodas a type of chaos. I turned away, and went to the empty room, in whichmy piano stood, and where I had my music lessons. I sat down upon astool in the middle of the room, folded my hands in my lap, andendeavored to realize what had happened--what was going to happen. Thererang in my head nothing but the words, "I am going home next week. "

Home again! What a blank yawned before me at the idea! LeaveElberthal--leave this new life which had just begun to grow real tome! Leave it--go away; be whirled rapidly away back to Skernford--awayfrom this vivid life, away from--Eugen. I drew a long breath, as thewretched, ignominious idea intruded itself, and I knew now what it wasthat gave terror to the prospect before me. My heart quailed and faintedat the bare idea of such a thing. Not even Hobson's choice was open tome. There was no alternative--I must go. I sat still, and felt myselfgrowing gradually stiller and graver and colder as I looked mentally toevery side of my horizon, and found it so bounded--myself shut in sofast. 

There was nothing for it but to return home, and spend the rest of mylife at Skernford. I was in a mood in which I could smile. I smiled atthe idea of myself growing older and older, and this six weeks that Ihad spent fading back and back into the distance, and the people intowhose lives I had a cursory glance going on their way, and soonforgetting my existence. Truly, Anna! if you were anxious for me to bemiserable, this moment, could you know it, should be sweet to you!

My hands clasped themselves more closely upon my lap, and I sat staringat nothing, vaguely, until a shadow before me caused me to look up. Without knowing it, von Francius had come in, and was standing by, looking at me. 

"Good-morning!" said I, with a vast effort, partially collecting myscattered thoughts. 

"Are you ready for your lesson, _mein Fräulein_?"

"N--no. I think, Herr Direktor, I will not take any lesson to-day, ifyou will excuse it. "

"But why? Are you ill?"

"No, " said I. "At least--perhaps I want to accustom myself to do withoutmusic lessons. "

"So?"

"Yes, and without many other pleasant things, " said I, wryly anddecidedly. 

"I do not understand, " said he, putting his hat down, and leaning oneelbow upon the piano, while his deep eyes fixed themselves upon my face, and, as usual, began to compel my secrets from me. 

"I am going home, " said I. 

A quick look of feeling--whether astonishment, regret, or dismay, Ishould not like to have said--flashed across his face. 

"Have you had bad news?"

"Yes, very. Miss Hallam returns to England next week. "

"But why do you go? Why not remain here?"

"Gladly, if I had any money, " I said, with a dry smile. "But I havenone, and can not get any. "

"You will return to England now? Do you know what you are giving up?"

"Obligation has no choice, " said I, gracefully. "I would give anythingif I could stay here, and not go home again. " And with that I burst intotears. I covered my face with my hands, and all the pent-up grief andpain of the coming parting streamed from my eyes. I wept uncontrollably. 

He did not interrupt my tears for some time. When he did speak, it wasin a very gentle voice. 

"Miss Wedderburn, will you try to compose yourself, and listen tosomething I have to say?"

I looked up. I saw his eyes fixed seriously and kindly upon me with anexpression quite apart from their usual indifferent coolness--with thelook of one friend to another--with such a look as I had seen and havesince seen exchanged between Courvoisier and his friend Helfen. 

"See, " said he, "I take an interest in you, Fräulein May. Why should Ihesitate to say so? You are young--you do not know the extent of yourown strength, or of your own weakness. I do. I will not flatter--it isnot my way--as I think you know. "

I smiled. I remembered the plentiful blame and the scant praise which ithad often fallen to my lot to receive from him. 

"I am a strict, sarcastic, disagreeable old pedagogue, as you and somany of my other fair pupils consider, " he went on, and I looked up inamaze. I knew that so many of his "fair pupils" considered him exactlythe reverse. 

"It is my business to know whether a voice is good for anything or not. Now yours, with training, will be good for a great deal. Have you themeans, or the chance, or the possibility of getting that training inEngland?"

"No. "

"I should like to help you, partly from the regard I have for you, partly for my own sake, because I think you would do me credit. "

He paused. I was looking at him with all my senses concentrated uponwhat he had said. He had been talking round the subject until he sawthat he had fairly fixed my attention; then he said, sharply andrapidly:

"Fräulein, it lies with you to choose. Will you go home and stagnatethere, or will you remain here, fight down your difficulties, and becomea worthy artist?"

"Can there be any question as to which I should like to do?" said I, distracted at the idea of having to give up the prospect he held out. "But it is impossible. Miss Hallam alone can decide. "

"But if Miss Hallam consented, you would remain?"

"Oh! Herr von Francius! You should soon see whether I would remain!"

"Also! Miss Hallam shall consent. Now to our singing!"

I stood up. A singular apathy had come over me; I felt no longer my oldself. I had a kind of confidence in von Francius, and yet--Despite myrecent trouble, I felt now a lightness and freedom, and a perfectability to cast aside all anxieties, and turn to the business of themoment--my singing. I had never sung better. Von Francius condescendedto say that I had done well. Then he rose. 

"Now I am going to have a private interview with Miss Hallam, " said he, smiling. "I am always having private interviews with her, _nicht wahr_?Nay, Fräulein May, do not let your eyes fill with tears. Have confidencein yourself and your destiny, as I have. "

With that he was gone, leaving me to practice. How very kind vonFrancius was to me! I thought--not in the least the kind of man peoplecalled him. I had great confidence in him--in his will. I almostbelieved that he would know the right thing to say to Miss Hallam to gether to let me stay; but then, suppose she were willing, I had nopossible means of support. Tired of conjecturing upon a subject uponwhich I was so utterly in the dark, I soon ceased that foolish pursuit. An hour had passed, when I heard von Francius' step, which I knew quitewell, come down the stairs. My heart beat, but I could not move. 

Would he pass, or would he come and speak to me? He paused. His hand wason the lock. That was he standing before me, with a slight smile. He didnot look like a man defeated--but then, could he look like a mandefeated? My idea of him was that he held his own way calmly, and thatcircumstances respectfully bowed to him. 

"The day is gained, " said he, and paused; but before I could speak hewent on: "Go to Miss Hallam; be kind to her. It is hard for her to partfrom you, and she has behaved like a Spartan. I felt quite sorry to haveto give her so much pain. "

Much wondering what could have passed between them, I left von Franciussilently and sought Miss Hallam. 

"Are you there, May?" said she. "What have you been doing all themorning?"

"Practicing--and having my lesson. "

"Practicing--and having your lesson--exactly what I have been doing. Practicing giving up my own wishes, and taking a lesson in the act ofpersuasion, by being myself persuaded. Your singing-master is awonderful man. He has made me act against my principles. "

"Miss Hallam--"

"You were in great trouble this morning when you heard you were to leaveElberthal. I knew it instantly. However, you shall not go unless youchoose. You shall stay. "

Wondering, I held my tongue. 

"Herr von Francius has showed me my duty. "

"Miss Hallam, " said I, suddenly, "I will do whatever you wish. Afteryour kindness to me, you have the right to dispose of my doings. I shallbe glad to do as you wish. "

"Well, " said she, composedly, "I wish you to write a letter to yourparents, which I will dictate; of course they must be consulted. Then, if they consent, I intend to provide you with the means of carrying onyour studies in Elberthal under Herr von Francius. "

I almost gasped. Miss Hallam, who had been a by-word in Skernford, andin our own family, for eccentricity and stinginess, was indeed heapingcoals of fire upon my head. I tried, weakly and ineffectually, toexpress my gratitude to her, and at last said:

"You may trust me never to abuse your kindness, Miss Hallam. "

"I have trusted you ever since you refused Sir Peter Le Marchant, andwere ready to leave your home to get rid of him, " said she, with grimhumor. 

She then told me that she had settled everything with von Francius, eventhat I was to remove to different lodgings, more suited for a solitarystudent than Frau Steinmann's busy house. 

"And, " she added, "I shall ask Doctor Mittendorf to have an eye to younow and then, and to write to me of how you go on. "

I could not find many words in which to thank her. The feeling that Iwas not going, did not need to leave it all, filled my heart with ahappiness as deep as it was unfounded and unreasonable. 

At my next lesson von Francius spoke to me of the future. 

"I want you to be a real student--no play one, " said he, "or you willnever succeed. And for that reason I told Miss Hallam that you hadbetter leave this house. There are too many distractions. I am going toput you in a very different place. "

"Where? In which part of the town?"

"Wehrhahn, 39, is the address, " said he. 

I was not quite sure where that was, but did not ask further, for I wasoccupied in helping Miss Hallam, and wished to be with her as much as Icould before she left. 

The day of parting came, as come it must. Miss Hallam was gone. I hadcried, and she had maintained the grim silence which was her only way ofexpressing emotion. 

She was going back home to Skernford, to blindness, now known to beinevitable, to her saddened, joyless life. I was going to remain inElberthal--for what? When I look back I ask myself--was I not as blindas she, in truth? In the afternoon of the day of Miss Hallam'sdeparture, I left Frau Steinmann's house. Clara promised to come andsee me sometimes. Frau Steinmann kissed me, and called me _liebes Kind_. I got into the cab and directed the driver to go to Wehrhahn, 39. He drove me along one or two streets into the one known as theSchadowstrasse, a long, wide street, in which stood the Tonhalle. Alittle past that building, round a corner, and he stopped, on the sameside of the road. 

"Not here!" said I, putting my head out of the window when I saw thewindow of the curiosity shop exactly opposite. "Not here!"

"Wehrhahn, 39, Fräulein?"

"Yes. "

"This is it. "

I stared around. Yes--on the wall stood in plainly to be read whiteletters, "Wehrhahn, " and on the door of the house, 39. Yielding to aconviction that it was to be, I murmured "Kismet, " and descended from mychariot. The woman of the house received me civilly. "The young lady forwhom the Herr Direktor had taken lodgings? _Schon_! Please to come thisway, Fräulein. The room was on the third _étage_. " I followed herupstairs--steep, dark, narrow stairs, like those of the opposite house. The room was a bare-looking, tolerably large one. There was a littlecloset of a bedroom opening from it--a scrap of carpet upon the floor, and open windows letting in the air. The woman chatted good-naturedlyenough. 

"So! I hope the room will suit, Fräulein. It is truly not to becalled richly furnished, but one doesn't need that when one is a_Sing-student_. I have had many in my time--ladies and gentlementoo--pupils of Herr von Francius often. _Na!_ what if they did make agreat noise? I have no children--thank the good God! and one gets usedto the screaming just as one gets used to everything else. " Here shecalled me to the window. 

"You might have worse prospects than this, Fräulein, and worse neighborsthan those over the way. See! there is the old furniture shop where somany of the Herren Maler go, and then there there is Herr Duntze, thelandscape painter, and Herr Knoop who paints _Genrebilder_ and does notmake much by it--so a picture of a child with a raveled skein of wool, or a little girl making ear-rings for herself with bunches ofcherries--for my part I don't see much in them, and wonder that thereare people who will lay down good hard thalers for them. Then there isHerr Courvoisier, the musiker--but perhaps you know who he is. "

"Yes, " I assented. 

"And his little son!" Here she threw up her hands. "_Ach!_ the poor man!There are people who speak against him, and every one knows he and theHerr Direktor are not the best friends, but _sehn Sie wohl, Fräulein_, the Herr Direktor is well off, settled, provided for; Herr Courvoisierhas his way to make yet, and the world before him; and what sort of astory it may be with the child, I don't know, but this I will say, letthose dare to doubt it or question it who will, he is a good father--Iknow it. And the other young man with Herr Courvoisier--his friend, Isuppose--he is a musiker too. I hear them practicing a good dealsometimes--things without any air or tune to them; for my part I wonderhow they can go on with it. Give me a good song with a tune init--'Drunten im Unterland, ' or 'In Berlin, sagt er, ' or something oneknows. _Na!_ I suppose the fiddling all lies in the way of business, andperhaps they can fall asleep over it sometimes, as I do now and thenover my knitting, when I'm weary. The young man, Herr Courvoisier'sfriend, looked ill when they first came; even now he is not to call arobust-looking person--but formerly he looked as if he would go out ofthe fugue altogether. _Entschuldigen_, Fräulein, if I use a fewprofessional proverbs. My husband, the sainted man! was a piano-tuner bycalling, and I have picked up some of his musical expressions and usethem, more for his sake than any other reason--for I have heard too muchmusic to believe in it so much as ignorant people do. _Nun!_ I will sendFräulein her box up, and then I hope she will feel comfortable and athome, and send for whatever she wants. "

In a few moments my luggage had come upstairs, and when they who broughtit had finally disappeared, I went to the window again and looked out. Opposite, on the same _étage_, were two windows, corresponding to mytwo, wide open, letting me see into an empty room, in which there seemedto be books and many sheets of white paper, a music-desk and a vase offlowers. I also saw a piano in the clare-obscure, and another door, halfopen, leading into the inner room. All the inhabitants of the rooms wereout. No tone came across to me--no movement of life. But the influenceof the absent ones was there. Strange concourse of circumstances whichhad placed me as the opposite neighbor, in the same profession too, ofEugen Courvoisier! Pure chance it certainly was, for von Francius hadcertainly had no motive in bringing me hither. 

"Kismet!" I murmured once again, and wondered what the future wouldbring. 

CHAPTER XV. 

 "He looks his angel in the face Without a blush: nor heeds disgrace, Whom naught disgraceful done Disgraces. Who knows nothing base Fears nothing known. "

It was noon. The probe to "Tannhauser" was over, and we, the members ofthe kapelle, turned out, and stood in a knot around the orchestraentrance to the Elberthal Theater. 

It was a raw October noontide. The last traces of the by-gone summerwere being swept away by equinoctial gales, which whirled the remainingyellowing leaves from the trees, and strewed with them the walks of thedeserted Hofgarten; a stormy gray sky promised rain at the earliestopportunity; our Rhine went gliding by like a stream of ruffled lead. 

"Proper theater weather, " observed one of my fellow-musicians; "but itdoesn't seem to suit you, Friedhelm. What makes you look so down?"

I shrugged my shoulders. Existence was not at that time very pleasant tome; my life's hues were somewhat of the color of the autumn skies and ofthe dull river. I scarcely knew why I stood with the others now; it wasmore a mechanical pause before I took my spiritless way home, thanbecause I felt any interest in what was going on. 

"I should say he will be younger by a long way than old Kohler, "observed Karl Linders, one of the violoncellists, a young man with anunfailing flow of good nature, good spirits, and eagerness to enjoyevery pleasure which came in his way, which qualities were the objectsof my deep wonder and mild envy. "And they say, " he continued, "thathe's coming to-night; so Friedhelm, my boy, you may look out. Yourmaster's on the way. "

"So!" said I, lending but an indifferent attention; "what is his name?"

"That's his way of gently intimating that he hasn't got no master, " saidKarl, jocosely, but the general answer to my question was, "I don'tknow. "

"But they say, " said a tall man who wore spectacles and sat behind me inthe first violins--"they say that von Francius doesn't like theappointment. He wanted some one else, but Die Direktion managed to beathim. He dislikes the new fellow beforehand, whatever he may be. "

"So! Then he will have a roughish time of it!" agreed one or two others. 

The "he" of whom they spoke was the coming man who should take the placeof the leader of the first violins--it followed that he would be atleast an excellent performer--possibly a clever man in many other ways, for the post was in many ways a good one. Our kapelle was no meanone--in our own estimation at any rate. Our late first violinist, whohad recently died, had been on visiting terms with persons of thehighest respectability, had given lessons to the very best families, andmight have been seen bowing to young ladies and important dowagersalmost any day. No wonder his successor was speculated about with somecuriosity. 

"_Alle Wetter!_" cried Karl Linders, impatiently--that young man wasmuch given to impatience--"what does von Francius want? He can't haveeverything. I suppose this new fellow plays a little too well for histaste. He will have to give him a solo now and then instead of keepingthem all for himself. "

"_Weiss 's nit_, " said another, shrugging his shoulders, "I've onlyheard that von Francius had a row with the Direction, and was outvoted. "

"What a sweet temper he will be in at the probe to-morrow!" laughedKarl. "Won't he give it to the _Mädchen_ right and left!"

"What time is he coming?" proceeded one of the oboists. 

"Don't know; know nothing about it; perhaps he'll appear in 'Tannhauser'to-night. Look out, Friedhelm. "

"Here comes little Luischen, " said Karl, with a winning smile, astraightening of his collar, and a general arming-for-conquestexpression, as some of the "ladies of the chorus and ballet, " appearedfrom the side door. "Isn't she pretty?" he went on, in an audible asideto me. "I've a crow to pluck with her too. _Tag_, Fräulein!" he added, advancing to the young lady who had so struck him. 

He was "struck" on an average once a week, every time with the mostbeautiful and charming of her sex. The others, with one or twoexceptions, also turned. I said good-morning to Linders, who wished, with a noble generosity, to make me a partaker in his cheerfulconversation with Fräulein Luise of the first soprans, slipped from hisgrasp and took my way homeward. Fräulein Luischen was no doubt verypretty, and in her way a companionable person. Unfortunately I nevercould appreciate that way. With every wish to accommodate myself to theonly society with which fortune supplied me, it was but ill that Isucceeded. 

I, Friedhelm Helfen, was at that time a lonely, soured misanthrope oftwo-and-twenty. Let the announcement sound as absurd as it may, it issimply and absolutely true, I was literally alone in the world. My lastrelative had died and left me entirely without any one who could haveeven a theoretical reason for taking any interest in me. Gradually, during the last few months, I had fallen into evil places of thought andimagination. There had been a time before, as there has been a timesince--as it is with me now--when I worshiped my art with all mystrength as the most beautiful thing on earth; the art of arts--the mostbeautiful and perfect development of beauty which mankind has yetsucceeded in attaining to, and when the very fact of its being so and ofmy being gifted with some poor power of expressing and interpreting thatbeauty was enough for me--gave me a place in the world with which I wassatisfied, and made life understandable to me. At that time thisbelief--my natural and normal state--was clouded over; between me andthe goddess of my idolatry had fallen a veil; I wasted my brain tissuein trying to philosophize--cracked my head, and almost my reason overthe endless, unanswerable question, _Cui bono?_ that question which mayso easily become the destruction of the fool who once allows himself tobe drawn into dallying with it. _Cui bono?_ is a mental Delilah who willshear the locks of the most arrogant Samson. And into the arms and tothe tender mercies of this Delilah I had given myself. I was in a fairway of being lost forever in her snares, which she sets for the feet ofmen. To what use all this toil? To what use--music? After by dint ofhard twisting my thoughts and coping desperately with problems that Idid not understand, having managed to extract a conviction that therewas use in music--a use to beautify, gladden, and elevate--I began toask myself further, "What is it to me whether mankind is elevated ornot? made better or worse? higher or lower?"

Only one who has asked himself that question, as I did, in bitterearnest, and fairly faced the answer, can know the horror, theblackness, the emptiness of the abyss into which it gives one a glimpse. Blackness of darkness--no standpoint, no vantage-ground--it is a horrorof horrors; it haunted me then day and night, and constituted itself notonly my companion but my tyrant. 

I was in bad health too. At night, when the joyless day was over, thework done, the play played out, the smell of the foot-lights and gas andthe dust of the stage dispersed, a deadly weariness used to overcome me;an utter, tired, miserable apathy; and alone, surrounded by loneliness, I let my morbid thoughts carry me whither they would. It had gone so farthat I had even begun to say to myself lately:

"Friedhelm Helfen, you are not wanted. On the other side this life is anothingness so large that you will be as nothing in it. Launch yourselfinto it. The story that suicide is wrong and immoral is, like otherthings, to be taken with reservation. There is no absolute right andwrong. Suicide is sometimes the highest form of right and reason. "

This mood was strong upon me on that particular day, and as I pacedalong the Schadowstrasse toward the Wehrhahn, where my lodging was, thevery stones seemed to cry out, "The world is weary, and you are notwanted in it. "

A heavy, cold, beating rain began to fall. I entered the room whichserved me as living- and sleeping-room. From habit I ate and drankat the same restauration as that frequented by my _confrères_ of theorchestra. I leaned my elbows upon the table, and listened drearily tothe beat of the rain upon the pane. Scattered sheets of musiccontaining, some great, others little thoughts, lay around me. Latelyit seemed as if the flavor was gone from them. The other night Beethovenhimself had failed to move me, and I accepted it as a sign that allwas over with me. In an hour it would be time to go out and seek dinner, if I made up my mind to have any dinner. Then there would be theafternoon--the dreary, wet afternoon, the tramp through the soakingstreets, with the lamp-light shining into the pools of water, tothe theater; the lights, the people, the weary round of paintedballet-girls, and accustomed voices and faces of audience andperformers. The same number of bars to play, the same to leave unplayed;the whole dreary story, gone through so often before, to be gone throughso often again. 

The restauration did not see me that day; I remained in the house. Therewas to be a great concert in the course of a week or two; the "Tower ofBabel" was to be given at it. I had the music. I practiced my part, andI remember being a little touched with the exquisite loveliness of oneof the choruses, that sung by the "Children of Japhet" as they wandersadly away with their punishment upon them into the _Waldeinsamkeit_(that lovely and untranslatable word) one of the purest and mostpathetic melodies ever composed. 

It was dark that afternoon. I had not stirred from my hole since comingin from the probe--had neither eaten nor drunk, and was in fullpossession of the uninterrupted solitude coveted by busy men. Once Ithought that it would have been pleasant if some one had known and caredfor me well enough to run up the stairs, put his head into the room, andtalk to me about his affairs. 

To the sound of gustily blowing wind and rain beating on the pane, theafternoon hours dragged slowly by, and the world went on outside andaround me until about five o'clock. Then there came a knock at my door, an occurrence so unprecedented that I sat and stared at the said doorinstead of speaking, as if Edgar Poe's raven had put in a suddenappearance and begun to croak its "never-more" at me. 

The door was opened. A dreadful, dirty-looking young woman, a servant ofthe house, stood in the door-way. 

"What do you want?" I inquired. 

A gentleman wished to speak to me. 

"Bring him in then, " said I, somewhat testily. 

She turned and requested some one to come forward. There entered a talland stately man, with one of those rare faces, beautiful in feature, bright in expression, which one meets sometimes, and, having once seen, never forgets. He carried what I took at first for a bundle done up in adark-green plaid, but as I stood up and looked at him I perceived thatthe plaid was wrapped round a child. Lost in astonishment, I gazed athim in silence. 

"I beg you will excuse my intruding upon you thus, " said he, bowing, andI involuntarily returned his bow, wondering more and more what he couldbe. His accent was none of the Elberthal one; it was fine, refined, polished. 

"How can I serve you?" I asked, impressed by his voice, manner, andappearance; agreeably impressed. A little masterful he looked--a littleimperious, but not unapproachable, with nothing ungenial in his pride. 

"You could serve me very much by giving me one or two pieces ofinformation. In the first place let me introduce myself; you, I think, are Herr Helfen?" I bowed. "My name is Eugen Courvoisier. I am the newmember of your _städtisches Orchester_. "

"_O, was!_" said I, within myself. "That our new first violin!"

"And this is my son, " he added, looking down at the plaid bundle, whichhe held very carefully and tenderly. "If you will tell me at what timethe opera begins, what it is to-night, and finally, if there is a roomto be had, perhaps in this house, even for one night. I must find a nestfor this _Vögelein_ as soon as I possibly can. "

"I believe the opera begins at seven, " said I, still gazing at him inastonishment, with open mouth and incredulous eyes. Our orchestracontained among its sufficiently varied specimens of nationality andappearance nothing in the very least like this man, beside whom I feltmyself blundering, clumsy, and unpolished. It was not mere natural graceof manner. He had that, but it had been cultivated somewhere, andcultivated highly. 

"Yes?" he said. 

"At seven--yes. It is 'Tannhauser' to-night. And the rooms--I believethey have rooms in the house. "

"Ah, then I will inquire about it, " said he, with an exceedingly openand delightful smile. "I thank you for telling me. Adieu, _mein Herr_. "

"Is he asleep?" I asked, abruptly, and pointing to the bundle. 

"Yes; _armes Kerlchen_! just now he is, " said the young man. 

He was quite young, I saw. In that half light I supposed him evenyounger than he really was. He looked down at the bundle again andsmiled. 

"I should like to see him, " said I, politely and gracefully, seized byan impulse of which I felt ashamed, but which I yet could not resist. 

With that I stepped forward and came to examine the bundle. He movedthe plaid a little aside and showed me a child--a very young, small, helpless child, with closed eyes, immensely long, black, curving lashes, and fine, delicate black brows. The small face was flushed, but even insleep this child looked melancholy. Yet he was a lovely child--mostbeautiful and most pathetic to see. 

I looked at the small face in silence, and a great desire came upon meto look at it oftener--to see it again, then up at that of the father. How unlike the two faces! Now that I fairly looked at the man I found hewas different from what I had thought; older, sparer, with more sharplycut features. I could not tell what the child's eyes might be--those ofthe father were piercing as an eagle's; clear, open, strange. There wassorrow in the face, I saw, as I looked so earnestly into it; and it wasworn as if with a keen inner life. This glance was one of those whichpenetrate deep, not the glance of a moment, but a revelation for life. 

"He is very beautiful, " said I. 

"_Nicht wahr?_" said the other, softly. 

"Look here, " I added, going to a sofa which was strewn with papers, books, and other paraphernalia; "couldn't we put him here, and then goand see about the rooms? Such a young, tender child must not be carriedabout the passages, and the house is full of draughts. "

I do not know what had so suddenly supplied me with this wisdom as towhat was good for a "young, tender child, " nor can I account for thesudden deep interest which possessed me. I dashed the things off thesofa, beat the dust from it, desired him to wait one moment while Irushed to my bed to ravish it of its pillow. Then with the sight of thebed (I was buying my experience) I knew that that, and not the sofa, wasthe place for the child, and said so. 

"Put him here, do put him here!" I besought, earnestly. "He will sleepfor a time here, won't he?"

"You are very good, " said my visitor, hesitating a moment. 

"Put him there!" said I, flushed with excitement, and with the hithertounknown joy of being able to offer hospitality. 

Courvoisier looked meditatively at me for a short time then laid thechild upon the bed, and arranged the plaid around it as skillfully andas quickly as a woman would have done it. 

"How clever he must be, " I thought, looking at him with awe, and withlittle less awe contemplating the motionless child. 

"Wouldn't you like something to put over him?" I asked, lookingexcitedly about. "I have an overcoat. I'll lend it you. " And I wasrushing off to fetch it, but he laughingly laid his hand upon my arm. 

"Let him alone, " said he; "he's all right. "

"He won't fall off, will he?" I asked, anxiously. 

"No; don't be alarmed. Now, if you will be so good, we will see aboutthe rooms. "

"Dare you leave him?" I asked, still with anxiety, and looking back aswe went toward the door. 

"I dare because I must, " replied he. 

He closed the door, and we went down-stairs to seek the persons inauthority. Courvoisier related his business and condition, and askedto see rooms. The woman hesitated when she heard there was a child. 

"The child will never trouble you, madame, " said he, quietly, but ratheras if the patience of his look were forced. 

"No, never!" I added, fervently. "I will answer for that, Frau Schmidt. "

A quick glance, half gratitude, half amusement, shot from his eyes asthe woman went on to say that she only took gentlemen lodgers, and couldnot do with ladies, children, and nurse-maids. They wanted so muchattending to, and she did not profess to open her house to them. 

"You will not be troubled with either lady or nurse-maid, " said he. "Itake charge of the child myself. You will not know that he is in thehouse. "

"But your wife--" she began. 

"There will be no one but myself and my little boy, " he replied, everpolitely, but ever, as it seemed, to me, with repressed pain orirritation. 

"So!" said the woman, treating him to a long, curious, unsparing lookof wonder and inquiry, which made me feel hot all over. He returned theglance quietly and unsmilingly. After a pause she said:

"Well, I suppose I must see about it, but it will be the first child Iever took into the house, in that way, and only as a favor to HerrHelfen. "

I was greatly astonished, not having known before that I stood in suchhigh esteem. Courvoisier threw me a smiling glance as we followed thewoman up the stairs, up to the top of the house, where I lived. Throwingopen a door, she said there were two rooms which must go together. Courvoisier shook his head. 

"I do not want two rooms, " said he, "or rather, I don't think I canafford them. What do you charge?"

She told him. 

"If it were so much, " said he, naming a smaller sum, "I could do it. "

"_Nie!_" said the woman, curtly, "for that I can't do it. _UmGotteswillen!_ One must live. "

She paused, reflecting, and I watched anxiously. She was going torefuse. My heart sunk. Rapidly reviewing my own circumstances andfinances, and making a hasty calculation in my mind, I said:

"Why can't we arrange it? Here is a big room and a little room. Make thelittle room into a bedroom, and use the big room for a sitting-room. Iwill join at it, and so it will come within the price you wish to pay. "

The woman's face cleared a little. She had listened with a cloudedexpression and her head on one side. Now she straightened herself, drewherself up, smoothed down her apron, and said:

"Yes, that lets itself be heard. If Herr Helfen agreed to that, shewould like it. "

"Oh, but I can't think of putting you to the extra expense, " saidCourvoisier. 

"I should like it, " said I. "I have often wished I had a little moreroom, but, like you, I couldn't afford the whole expense. We can have apiano, and the child can play there. Don't you see?" I added, with greatearnestness and touching his arm. "It is a large airy room; he can runabout there, and make as much noise as he likes. "

He still seemed to hesitate. 

"I can afford it, " said I. "I've no one but myself, unluckily. If youdon't object to my company, let us try it. We shall be neighbors in theorchestra. "

"So!"

"Why not at home too? I think it an excellent plan. Let us decide itso. "

I was very urgent about it. An hour ago I could not have conceivedanything which could make me so urgent and set my heart beating so. 

"If I did not think it would inconvenience you, " he began. 

"Then it is settled?" said I. "Now let us go and see what kind offurniture there is in that big room. "

Without allowing him to utter any further objection, I dragged himto the large room, and we surveyed it. The woman, who for someunaccountable reason appeared to have recovered her good-temper in amarvelous manner, said quite cheerfully that she would send the maid tomake the smaller room ready as a bedroom for two. "One of us won't takemuch room, " said Courvoisier with a laugh, to which she assented with asmile, and then left us. The big room was long, low, and rather dark. Beams were across the ceiling, and two not very large windows lookedupon the street below, across to two similar windows of anotherlodging-house, a little to the left of which was the Tonhalle. The floorwas carpetless, but clean; there was a big square table, and somechairs. 

"There, " said I, drawing Courvoisier to the window, and pointing across:"there is one scene of your future exertions, the Städtische Tonhalle. "

"So!" said he, turning away again from the window--it was as dark asever outside--and looking round the room again. "This is a dull-lookingplace, " he added, gazing around it. 

"We'll soon make it different, " said I, rubbing my hands and gazinground the room with avidity. "I have long wished to be able to inhabitthis room. We must make it more cheerful, though, before the child comesto it. We'll have the stove lighted, and we'll knock up some shelvesand we'll have a piano in, and the sofa from my room, _nicht wahr?_ Oh, we'll make a place of it, I can tell you. "

He looked at me as if struck with my enthusiasm, and I bustled about. We set to work to make the room habitable. He was out for a short timeat the station and returned with the luggage which he had left there. While he was away I stole into my room and took a good look at my newtreasure; he still slept peacefully and calmly on. We were deep inimpromptu carpentering and contrivances for use and comfort, when itoccurred to me to look at my watch. 

"Five minutes to seven!" I almost yelled, dashing wildly into my room towash my hands and get my violin. Courvoisier followed me. The child wasawake. I felt a horrible sense of guilt as I saw it looking at me withgreat, soft, solemn, brown eyes, not in the least those of its father, but it did not move. I said apologetically that I feared I had awakenedit. 

"Oh, no! He's been awake for some time, " said Courvoisier. The child sawhim, and stretched out its arms toward him. 

"_Na! junger Taugenichts!_" he said, taking it up and kissing it. "Thoumust stay here till I come back. Wilt be happy till I come?"

The answer made by the mournful-looking child was a singular one. It putboth tiny arms around the big man's neck, laid its face for a momentagainst his, and loosed him again. Neither word nor sound did it emitduring the process. A feeling altogether new and astonishing overcameme. I turned hastily away, and as I picked up my violin-case, was amazedto find my eyes dim. My visitors were something unprecedented to me. 

"You are not compelled to go to the theater to-night, you know, unlessyou like, " I suggested, as we went down-stairs. 

"Thanks, it is as well to begin at once. "

On the lowest landing we met Frau Schmidt. 

"Where are you going, _mein Herren_?" she demanded. 

"To work, madame, " he replied, lifting his cap with a courtesy whichseemed to disarm her. 

"But the child?" she demanded. 

"Do not trouble yourself about him. "

"Is he asleep?"

"Not just now. He is all right, though. "

She gave us a look which meant volumes. I pulled Courvoisier out. 

"Come along, do!" cried I. "She will keep you there for half an hour, and it is time now. "

We rushed along the streets too rapidly to have time or breath to speak, and it was five minutes after the time when we scrambled into theorchestra, and found that the overture was already begun. 

Though there is certainly not much time for observing one's fellows whenone is helping in the overture to "Tannhauser, " yet I saw the manycurious and astonished glances which were cast toward our new member, glances of which he took no notice, simply because he apparently did notsee them. He had the finest absence of self-consciousness that I eversaw. 

The first act of the opera was over, and it fell to my share to makeCourvoisier known to his fellow-musicians. I introduced him to thedirector, who was not von Francius, nor any friend of his. Then weretired to one of the small rooms on one side of the orchestra. 

"_Hundewetter!_" said one of the men, shivering. "Have you traveled farto-day?" he inquired of Courvoisier, by way of opening the conversation. 

"From Köln only. "

"Live there?"

"No. "

The man continued his catechism, but in another direction. 

"Are you a friend of Helfen's?"

"I rather think Helfen has been a friend to me, " said Courvoisier, smiling. 

"Have you found lodgings already?"

"Yes. "

"So!" said his interlocutor, rather puzzled with the new arrival. Iremember the scene well. Half a dozen of the men were standing in onecorner of the room, smoking, drinking beer, and laughing over some notvery brilliant joke; we three were a little apart. Courvoisier, statelyand imposing-looking, and with that fine manner of his, politelyanswering his interrogator, a small, sharp-featured man, who looked upto him and rattled complacently away, while I sat upon the table amongthe fiddle-cases and beer-glasses, my foot on a chair, my chin inmy hand, feeling my cheeks glow, and a strange sense of dizzinessand weakness all over me, a lightness in my head which I could notunderstand. It had quite escaped me that I had neither eaten nor drunksince my breakfast at eight o'clock, on a cup of coffee and dry_Brödchen_, and it was now twelve hours later. 

The pause was not a long one, and we returned to our places. But"Tannhauser" is not a short opera. As time went on my sensations ofillness and faintness increased. During the second pause I remained inmy place. Courvoisier presently came and sat beside me. 

"I'm afraid you feel ill, " said he. 

I denied it. But though I struggled on to the end, yet at last a deadlyfaintness overcame me. As the curtain went down amid the applause, everything reeled around me. I heard the bustle of the others--of theaudience going away. I myself could not move. 

"_Was ist denn mit ihm?_" I heard Courvoisier say as he stooped over me. 

"Is that Friedhelm Helfen?" asked Karl Linders, surveying me. "_Potzblitz!_ he looks like a corpse! he's been at his old tricks again, starving himself. I expect he has touched nothing the whole day. "

"Let's get him out and give him some brandy, " said Courvoisier. "Lendhim an arm, and I'll give him one on this side. "

Together they hauled me down to the retiring-room. 

"_Ei!_ he wants a schnapps, or something of the kind, " said Karl, whoseemed to think the whole affair an excellent joke. "Look here, _alterNarr!_" he added; "you've been going without anything to eat, _nicht_?"

"I believe I have, " I assented, feebly. "But I'm all right; I'll gohome. "

Rejecting Karl's pressing entreaties to join him at supper at hisfavorite Wirthschaft, we went home, purchasing our supper on the way. Courvoisier's first step was toward the place where he had left thechild. He was gone. 

"_Verschwunden!_" cried he, striding off to the sleeping-room, whither Ifollowed him. The little lad had been undressed and put to bed in asmall crib, and was sleeping serenely. 

"That's Frau Schmidt, who can't do with children and nurse-maids, " saidI, laughing. 

"It's very kind of her, " said he, as he touched the child's cheekslightly with his little finger, and then, without another word, returned to the other room, and we sat down to our long-delayed supper. 

"What on earth made you spend more than twelve hours without food?" heasked me, laying down his knife and fork, and looking at me. 

"I'll tell you some time perhaps, not now, " said I, for there had begunto dawn upon my mind, like a sun-ray, the idea that life held aninterest for me--two interests--a friend and a child. To a miserable, lonely wretch like me, the idea was divine. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

 Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower. We will grieve not--rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been, must ever be. In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering! In the faith that looks through death-- In years, that bring the philosophic mind. WORDSWORTH. 

From that October afternoon I was a man saved from myself. Courvoisierhad said, in answer to my earnest entreaties about joining housekeeping:"We will try--you may not like it, and if so, remember you are atliberty to withdraw when you will. " The answer contented me, because Iknew that I should not try to withdraw. 

Our friendship progressed by such quiet, imperceptible degrees, each oneknotting the past more closely and inextricably with the present, that Icould by no means relate them if I wished it. But I do not wish it. Ionly know, and am content with it, that it has fallen to my lot to beblessed with that most precious of all earthly possessions, the"friend" that "sticketh closer than a brother. " Our union has grown andremained not merely "_fest und treu_, " but immovable, unshakable. 

There was first the child. He was two years old; a strange, weird, silent child, very beautiful--as the son of his father could scarcelyfail to be--but with a different kind of beauty. How still he was, andhow patient! Not a fretful child, not given to crying or complaint; fondof resting in one place, with solemn, thoughtful eyes fixed, when hisfather was there, upon him; when his father was not there, upon thestrip of sky which was to be seen, through the window above thehouse-tops. 

The child's name was Sigmund; he displayed a friendly disposition towardme, indeed, he was passively friendly and--if one may say such a thingof a baby--courteous to all he came in contact with. He had inheritedhis father's polished manner; one saw that when he grew up he would be a"gentleman, " in the finest outer sense of the word. His inner life hekept concealed from us. I believe he had some method of communicatinghis ideas to Eugen, even if he never spoke. Eugen never could concealhis own mood from the child; it knew--let him feign otherwise never socunningly--exactly what he felt, glad or sad, or between the two, and noacting could deceive him. It was a strange, intensely interesting studyto me; one to which I daily returned with fresh avidity. He would let metake him in my arms and talk to him; would sometimes, after looking atme long and earnestly, break into a smile--a strange, grave, sweetsmile. Then I could do no otherwise than set him hastily down and lookaway, for so unearthly a smile I had never seen. He was, though fragile, not an unhealthy child; though so delicately formed, and intenselysensitive to nervous shocks, had nothing of the coward in him, as wasproved to us in a thousand ways; shivered through and through his littleframe at the sight of a certain picture to which he had taken a greatantipathy, a picture which hung in the public gallery at the Tonhalle;he hated it, because of a certain evil-looking man portrayed in it; butwhen his father, taking his hand, said to him, "Go, Sigmund, and look atthat man; I wish thee to look at him, " went without turn or waver, andgazed long and earnestly at the low type, bestial visage portrayed tohim. Eugen had trodden noiselessly behind him; I watched, and hewatched, how his two little fists clinched themselves at his sides, while his gaze never wavered, never wandered, till at last Eugen, with astrange expression, caught him in his arms and half killed him withkisses. 

"_Mein liebling!_" he murmured, as if utterly satisfied with him. 

Courvoisier himself? There were a great many strong and positivequalities about this man, which in themselves would have set himsomewhat apart from other men. Thus he had crotchety ideas about truthand honor, such as one might expect from so knightly looking apersonage. It was Karl Linders, who, at a later period of ouracquaintance, amused himself by chalking up, "Prinz Eugen, der edleRitter, " beneath his name. His musical talent--or rather genius, it wasmore than talent--was at that time not one fifth part known to me, yeteven what I saw excited my wonder. But these, and a long list of otheractive characteristics, all faded into insignificance before thetowering passion of his existence--his love for his child. It wasstrange, it was touching, to see the bond between father and son. Thechild's thoughts and words, as told in his eyes and from his lips, formed the man's philosophy. I believe Eugen confided everything to hisboy. His first thought in the morning, his last at night, was for _derKleine_. His leisure was--I can not say "given up" to the boy--but itwas always passed with him. 

Courvoisier soon gained a reputation among our comrades for being a shamand a delusion. They said that to look at him one would suppose that nomore genial, jovial fellow could exist--there was kindliness in hisglance, _bon camaraderie_ in his voice, a genial, open, humansympathetic kind of influence in his nature, and in all he did. "Andyet, " said Karl Linders to me, with gesticulation, "one never can gethim to go anywhere. One may invite him, one may try to be friends withhim, but, no! off he goes home! What does the fellow want at home? Hebehaves like a young miss of fifteen, whose governess won't let her mixwith vulgar companions. "

I laughed, despite myself, at this tirade of Karl. So that was howEugen's behavior struck outsiders!

"And you are every bit as bad as he is, and as soft--he has made youso, " went on Linders, vehemently. "It isn't right. You two ought to beleaders outside as well as in, but you walk yourselves away, and stay athome! At home, indeed! Let green goslings and grandfathers stay athome. "

Indeed, Herr Linders was not a person who troubled home much; spendinghis time between morning and night between the theater and concert-room, restauration and verein. 

"What do you do at home?" he asked, irately. 

"That's our concern, _mein lieber_, " said I, composedly, thinking ofyoung Sigmund, whose existence was unknown except to our two selves, andlaughing. 

"Are you composing a symphony? or an opera buffa? You might tell afellow. "

I laughed again, and said we led a peaceable life, as honest citizensshould; and added, laying my hand upon his shoulder, for I had more of aleaning toward Karl, scamp though he was, than to any of the others, "You might do worse than follow our example, old fellow. "

"Bah!" said he, with unutterable contempt. "I'm a man; not a milksop. Besides, how do I know what your example is? You say you behaveyourselves; but how am I to know it? I'll drop upon you unawares andcatch you, some time. See if I don't. "

The next evening, by a rare chance with us, was a free one--there was noopera and no concert; we had had probe that morning, and were at libertyto follow the devices and desires of our own hearts that evening. 

These devices and desires led us straight home, followed by a sneeringlaugh from Herr Linders, which vastly amused me. The year was drawing toa close. Christmas was nigh; the weather was cold and unfriendly. Ourstove was lighted; our lamp burned pleasantly on the table; our big roomlooked homely and charming by these evening lights. Master Sigmund waswide awake in honor of the occasion, and sat upon my knee while hisfather played the fiddle. I have not spoken of his playing before--itwas, in its way, unique. It was not a violin that he played--it was aspirit that he invoked--and a strange answer it sometimes gave forth tohis summons. To-night he had taken it up suddenly, and sat playing, without book, a strange melody which wrung my heart--full of minorcadences, with an infinite wail and weariness in it. I closed my eyesand listened. It was sad, but it was absorbing. When I opened my eyesagain and looked down, I found that tears were running from Sigmund'seyes. He was sobbing quietly, his head against my breast. 

"I say, Eugen! Look here!"

"Is he crying? Poor little chap! He'll have a good deal to go throughbefore he has learned all his lessons, " said Eugen, laying down hisviolin. 

"What was that? I never heard it before. "

"I have, often, " said he, resting his chin upon his hand, "in the soundof streams--in the rush of a crowd--upon a mountain--yes, even alonewith the woman I--" He broke off abruptly. 

"But never on a violin before?" said I, significantly. 

"No, never. "

"Why don't you print some of those impromptus that you are alwaysmaking?" I asked. 

He shrugged his shoulders. Ere I could pursue the question some oneknocked at the door, and in answer to our _herein!_ appeared a handsome, laughing face, and a head of wavy hair, which, with a tall, shapelyfigure, I recognized as those of Karl Linders. 

"I told you fellows I'd hunt you up, and I always keep my word, " saidhe, composedly. "You can't very well turn me out for calling upon you. "

He advanced. Courvoisier rose, and with a courteous cordiality offeredhis hand and drew a chair up. Karl came forward, looking round, smilingand chuckling at the success of his experiment, and as he came oppositeto me his eyes fell upon those of the child, who had raised his head andwas staring gravely at him. 

Never shall I forget the start--the look of amaze, almost of fear, whichshot across the face of Herr Linders. Amazement would be a weak word inwhich to describe it. He stopped, stood stock-still in the middle of theroom; his jaw fell--he gazed from one to the other of us in feebleastonishment, then said, in a whisper:

"_Donnerwetter!_ A child!"

"Don't use bad language before the little innocent, " said I, enjoyinghis confusion. 

"Which of you does it belong to? Is it he or she?" he inquired in anawe-struck and alarmed manner. 

"His name is Sigmund Courvoisier, " said I, with difficulty preserving mygravity. 

"Oh, indeed! I--I wasn't aware--" began Karl, looking at Eugen in such apeculiar manner--half respectful, half timid, half ashamed--that I couldno longer contain my feelings, but burst into such a shout of laughteras I had not enjoyed for years. After a moment, Eugen joined in; welaughed peal after peal of laughter, while poor Karl stood feeblylooking from one to the other of the company--speechless--crestfallen. 

"I beg your pardon. " he said, at last, "I won't intrude any longer. Good--"

He was making for the door, but Eugen made a dash after him, turned himround, and pushed him into a chair. 

"Sit down, man, " said he, stifling his laughter. "Sit down, man; do youthink the poor little chap will hurt you?"

Karl cast a distrustful glance sideways at my nursling and spoke not. 

"I'm glad to see you, " pursued Eugen. "Why didn't you come before?"

At that Karl's lips began to twitch with a humorous smile; presently hetoo began to laugh, and seemed not to know how or when to stop. 

"It beats all I ever saw or heard or dreamed of, " said he, at last. "That's what brought you home in such a hurry every night. Let mecongratulate you, Friedel! You make a first-rate nurse; when everythingelse fails I will give you a character as _Kindermädchen_; clean, sober, industrious, and not given to running after young men. " With which heroared again, and Sigmund surveyed him with a somewhat severe, thoughscarcely a disapproving, expression. Karl seated himself near him, and, though not yet venturing to address him, cast various glances ofblandishment and persuasion upon him. 

Half an hour passed thus, and a second knock was followed by theentrance of Frau Schmidt. 

"Good evening, gentlemen, " she remarked, in a tone which saidunutterable things--scorn, contempt, pity--all finely blended into awithering sneer, as she cast her eyes around, and a slight but awfulsmile played about her lips. "Half past eight, and that blessedbaby not in bed yet. I knew how it would be. And you all smoking, too--_natürlich!_ You ought to know better, Herr Courvoisier--you ought, at any rate, " she added, scorn dropping into heart-piercing reproach. "Give him to me, " she added, taking him from me, and apostrophizing him. "You poor, blessed lamb! Well for you that I'm here to look after you, that have had children of my own, and know a little about the sort ofway that you ought to be brought up in. "

Evident signs of uneasiness on Karl's part, as Frau Schmidt, with thesame extraordinary contortion of the mouth--half smile, halfsneer--brought Sigmund to his father, to say good-night. That processover, he was brought to me, and then, as if it were a matter which"understood itself, " to Karl. Eugen and I, like family men, as we were, had gone through the ceremony with willing grace. Karl backed his chaira little, looked much alarmed, shot a queer glance at us, at the child, and then appealingly up into the woman's face. We, through our smoke, watched him. 

"He looks so very--very--" he began. 

"Come, come, _mein Herr_, what does that mean? Kiss the little angel, and be thankful you may. The innocent! You ought to be delighted, " saidshe, standing with grenadier-like stiffness beside him. 

"He won't bite you, Karl, " I said, reassuringly. "He's quite harmless. "

Thus encouraged, Herr Linders stooped forward and touched the cheek ofthe child with his lips; then, as if surprised, stroked it with hisfinger. 

"_Lieber Himmel!_ how soft! Like satin, or rose leaves!" he murmured, asthe woman carried the child away, shut the door and disappeared. 

"Does she tackle you in that way every night?" he inquired next. 

"Every evening, " said Eugen. "And I little dare open my lips before her. You would notice how quiet I kept. It's because I am afraid of her. "

Frau Schmidt, who had at first objected so strongly to the advent of thechild, was now devoted to it, and would have resented exceedingly theidea of allowing any one but herself to put it to bed, dress or undressit, or look after it in general. This state of things had crept on verygradually; she had never said how fond she was of the child, but puther kindness upon the ground that as a Christian woman she could notstand by and see it mishandled by a couple of _men_, and oh! theunutterable contempt upon the word "men. " Under this disguise sheattempted to cover the fact that she delighted to have it with her, tokiss it, fondle it, admire it, and "do for it. " We knew now that nosooner had we left the house than the child would be brought down, andwould never leave the care of Frau Schmidt until our return, or until hewas in bed and asleep. She said he was a quiet child, and "did not giveso much trouble. " Indeed, the little fellow won a friend in whoever sawhim. He had made another conquest to-night. Karl Linders, after puffingaway for some time, inquired, with an affectation of indifference:

"How old is he--_der kleine Bengel_?"

"Two--a little more. "

"Handsome little fellow!"

"Glad you think so. "

"Sure of it. But I didn't know, Courvoisier--so sure as I live, I knewnothing about it!"

"I dare say not. Did I ever say you did?"

I saw that Karl wished to ask another question; one which had trembledupon my own lips many a time, but which I had never asked--which I knewthat I never should ask. "The mother of that child--is she alive ordead? Why may we never hear one word of her? Why this silence, as of thegrave? Was she your wife? Did you love her? Did she love you?"

Questions which could not fail to come to me, and about which mythoughts would hang for hours. I could imagine a woman being very deeplyin love with Courvoisier. Whether he would love very deeply himself, whether love would form a mainspring of his life and actions, or whetherit took only a secondary place--I speak of the love of woman--I couldnot guess. I could decide upon many points of his character. He was agood friend, a high-minded and a pure-minded man; his every-day life, the turn of his thoughts and conversation, showed me that as plainly asany great adventure could have done. That he was an ardent musician, anartist in the truest and deepest sense, of a quixotically generous andunselfish nature--all this I had already proved. That he loved his childwith a love not short of passion was patent to me every day. But uponthe past, silence so utter as I never before met with. Not a hint; notan allusion; not one syllable. 

Little Sigmund was not yet two and a half. The story upon which hisfather maintained so deep a silence was not, could not, be a very oldone. His behavior gave me no clew as to whether it had been a joyful ora sorrowful one. Mere silence could tell me nothing. Some men are silentabout their griefs; some about their joys. I knew not in which directionhis disposition lay. 

I saw Karl look at him that evening once or twice, and I trembled lestthe blundering, good-natured fellow should make the mistake of askingsome question. But he did not; I need not have feared. People were notin the habit of putting obtrusive questions to Eugen Courvoisier. Thedanger was somehow quietly tided over, the delicate ground avoided. 

The conversation wandered quietly off to commonplace topics--the stateof the orchestra; tales of its doings; the tempers of our differentconductors--Malperg of the opera; Woelff of the ordinary concerts, whichtook place two or three times a week, when we fiddled and the publicate, drank, and listened; lastly, von Francius, _königlicherMusik-direktor_. 

Karl Linders gave his opinion freely upon the men in authority. He hadnothing to do with them, nothing to hope or fear from them; he filled aquiet place among the violoncellists, and had attained his twenty-eighthyear without displaying any violent talent or tendency to distinguishhimself, otherwise than by getting as much mirth out of life as possibleand living in a perpetual state of "carlesse contente. "

He desired to know what Courvoisier thought of von Francius; forcuriosity--the fault of those idle persons who afterward develop intobusybodies--was already beginning to leave its traces on Herr Linders. It was less known than guessed that the state of things betweenCourvoisier and von Francius was less peace than armed neutrality. Theintense politeness of von Francius to his first violinist, and thepunctilious ceremoniousness of the latter toward his chief, were topicsof speculation and amusement to the whole orchestra. 

"I think von Francius would be a fiend if he could, " said Karl, comfortably. "I wouldn't stand it if he spoke to me as he speaks to somepeople. "

"Oh, they like it!" said Courvoisier; and Karl stared. "Girls don'tobject to a little bullying; anything rather than be left quite alone, "Courvoisier went on, tranquilly. 

"Girls!" ejaculated Karl. 

"You mean the young ladies in the chorus, don't you?" asked Courvoisier, unmovedly. "He does bully them, I don't deny; but they come back again. "

"Oh, I see!" said Karl, accepting the rebuff. 

He had not referred to the young ladies of the chorus. 

"Have you heard von Francius play?" he began next. 

"_Natürlich!_"

"What do you think of it?"

"I think it is superb!" said Courvoisier. 

Baffled again, Karl was silent. 

"The power and the daring of it are grand, " went on Eugen, heartily. "Icould listen to him for hours. To see him seat himself before the piano, as if he were sitting down to read a newspaper, and do what he does, without moving a muscle, is simply superb--there's no other word. Othermen may play the piano; he takes the key-board and plays with it, and itsays what he likes. "

I looked at him, and was satisfied. He found the same want in vonFrancius' "superb" manipulation that I did--the glitter of a diamond, not the glow of a fire. 

Karl had not the subtlety to retort, "Ay, but does it say what we like?"He subsided again, merely giving a meek assent to the proposition, andsaying, suggestively:

"He's not liked, though he is such a popular fellow. "

"The public is often a great fool. "

"Well, but you can't expect it to kiss the hand that slaps it in theface, as von Francius does, " said Karl, driven to metaphor, probably forthe first time in his life, and seeming astonished at having discovereda hitherto unknown mental property pertaining to himself. 

Courvoisier laughed. 

"I'm certain of one thing: von Francius will go on slapping the public'sface. I won't say how it will end; but it would not surprise me in theleast to see the public at his feet, as it is now at those of--"

"Humph!" said Karl, reflectively. 

He did not stay much longer, but having finished his cigar, rose. Heseemed to feel very apologetic, and out of the fullness of his heart hismouth spake. 

"I really wouldn't have intruded if I had known--"

"Known what?" inquired Eugen, with well-assumed surprise. 

"I thought you were just by yourselves, you know, and--"

"So we are; but we can do with other society. Friedel here gets verytedious sometimes--in fact, _langweilig_. Come again, _nicht wahr_?"

"If I sha'n't be in your way, " said Karl, looking round the room withsomewhat wistful eyes. 

We assured him to the contrary, and he promised, with unnecessaryemphasis, to come again. 

"He will return; I know he will!" said Eugen, after he had gone. 

The next time that Herr Linders arrived, which was ere many days hadpassed, he looked excited and important; and after the first greetingswere over, he undid a great number of papers which wrapped and infoldeda parcel of considerable dimensions, and displayed to our enrapturedview of a white woolly animal of stupendous dimensions, fastened upon agreen stand, which stand, when pressed, caused the creature to giveforth a howl like unto no lowing of oxen nor bleating of sheep everheard on earth. This inviting-looking creature he held forth towardSigmund, who stared at it. 

"Perhaps he's got one already?" said Karl, seeing that the child did notdisplay any violent enthusiasm about the treasure. 

"Oh, no!" said Eugen, promptly. 

"Perhaps he doesn't know what it is, " I suggested, rather unkindly, scarcely able to keep my countenance at the idea of that baby playingwith such a toy. 

"Perhaps not, " said Karl, more cheerfully, kneeling down by myside--Sigmund sat on my knee--and squeezing the stand, so that thewoolly animal howled. "_Sieh!_ Sigmund! Look at the pretty lamb!"

"Oh, come, Karl! Are you a lamb? Call it an eagle at once, " said I, skeptically. 

"It is a lamb, ain't it?" said he, turning it over. "They called it alamb at the shop. "

"A very queer lamb; not a German breed, anyhow. "

"Now I think of it, my little sister has one, but she calls it a rabbit, I believe. "

"Very likely. You might call that anything, and no one could contradictyou. "

"Well, _der Kleine_ doesn't know the difference; it's a toy, " said Karl, desperately. 

"Not a toy that seems to take his fancy much, " said I, as Sigmund, withevident signs of displeasure, turned away from the animal on the greenstand, and refused to look at it. Karl looked despondent. 

"He doesn't like the look of it, " said he, plaintively. 

"I thought I was sure to be right in this. My little sister" (Karl'slittle sister had certainly never been so often quoted by her brotherbefore) "plays for hours with that thing that she calls a rabbit. "

Eugen had come to the rescue, and grasped the woolly animal which Karlhad contemptuously thrown aside. After convincing himself by nearexamination as to which was intended for head and which for tail, hepresented it to his son, remarking that it was "a pretty toy. "

"I'll pray for you after that, Eugen--often and earnestly, " said I. 

Sigmund looked appealingly at him, but seeing that his father appearedable to endure the presence of the beast, and seemed to wish him to dothe same, from some dark and inscrutable reason not to be grasped by soyoung a mind--for he was modest as to his own intelligence--he put outhis small arm, received the creature into it, and embracing it round thebody, held it to his side, and looked at Eugen with a patheticexpression. 

"Pretty plaything, _nicht wahr_?" said Eugen, encouragingly. 

Sigmund nodded silently. The animal emitted a howl; the child winced, but looked resigned. Eugen rose and stood at some little distance, looking on. Sigmund continued to embrace the animal with the sameresigned expression, until Karl, stooping, took it away. 

"You mustn't _make_ him, just because I brought it, " said he. "Betterluck next time. I see he's not a common child. I must try to think ofsomething else. "

We commanded our countenances with difficulty, but preserved them. Sigmund's feelings had been severely wounded. For many days he eyed Karlwith a strange, cold glance, which the latter used every art in hispower to change, and at last succeeded. Woolly lambs became a forbiddensubject. Nothing annoyed Karl more than for us to suggest, if Sigmundhappened to be a little cross or mournful, "Suppose you just go home, Karl, and fetch the 'lamb-rabbit-lion. ' I'm sure he would like it. " Fromthat time the child had another worshiper, and we a constant visitor inKarl Linders. 

We sat together one evening--Eugen and I, after Sigmund had been in beda long time, after the opera was over--chatting, as we often did, or asoften remained silent. He had been reading, and the book from which heread was a volume of English poetry. At last, laying the book aside, hesaid:

"The first night we met, you fainted away from exhaustion and longfasting. You said you would tell me why you had allowed yourself to doso, but you have never kept your word. "

"I didn't care to eat. People eat to live--except those who live to eat, and I was not very anxious to live, I didn't care for my life, in fact, I wished I was dead. "

"Why? An unlucky love?"

"_I, bewahre!_ I never knew what it was to be in love in my life, " saidI, with perfect truth. 

"Is that true, Friedel?" he asked, apparently surprised. 

"As true as possible. I think a timely love affair, however unlucky, would have roused me and brought me to my senses again. "

"General melancholy?"

"Oh, I was alone in the world. I had been reading, reading, reading; mybrain was one dark and misty muddle of Kant, Schopenhauer, von Hartmann, and a few others. I read them one after another, as quickly as possible;the mixture had the same effect upon my mind as the indiscriminatecontents of taffy-shop would have upon Sigmund's stomach--it made itsick. In my crude, ungainly, unfinished fashion I turned over myinformation, laying down big generalizations upon a foundation ofexperience of the smallest possible dimensions, and all upon one side. "

He nodded. "_Ei!_ I know it. "

"And after considering the state of the human race--that is to say thehalf dozen people I knew, and the miseries of the human lot as set forthin the books I had read, and having proved to myself, all up in thatlittle room, you know"--I pointed to my bedroom--"that there neither wasnor could be heaven or hell or any future state, and having decided, also from that room, that there was no place for me in the world, andthat I was very likely actually filling the place of some other man, poorer than I was, and able to think life a good thing" (Eugen wassmiling to himself in great amusement), "I came to the conclusion thatthe best thing I could do was to leave the world. "

"Were you going to starve yourself to death? That is rather a tediousprocess, _nicht wahr_?"

"Oh, no! I had not decided upon any means of effacing myself; and it wasreally your arrival which brought on that fainting fit, for if youhadn't turned up when you did I should probably have thought of myinterior some time before seven o'clock. But you came. Eugen, I wonderwhat sent you up to my room just at that very time, on that very day!"

"Von Francius, " said Eugen, tranquilly. "I had seen him, and he was verybusy and referred me to you--that's all. "

"Well--let us call it von Francius. "

"But what's the end of it? Is that the whole story?"

"I thought I might as well help you a bit, " said I, rather awkwardly. "You were not like other people, you see--it was the child, I think. Iwas as much amazed as Karl, if I didn't show it so much, and afterthat--"

"After that?"

"Well. There was the child, you see, and things seemed quite differentsomehow. I've been very comfortable" (this was my way of putting it)"ever since, and I am curious to see what the boy will be like in a fewyears. Shall you make him into a musician too?"

Courvoisier's brow clouded a little. 

"I don't know, " was all he said. Later, I learned the reason of that"don't know. "

"So it was no love affair, " said Eugen again. "Then I have been wrongall the time. I quite fancied it was some girl--"

"What could make you think so?" I asked, with a whole-hearted laugh. "Itell you I don't know what it is to be in love. The other fellows arealways in love. They are in a constant state of _Schwäramerei_ aboutsome girl or other. It goes in epidemics. They have not each a separatepassion. The whole lot of them will go mad about one young woman. Ican't understand it. I wish I could, for they seem to enjoy it so much. "

"You heathen!" said he, but not in a very bantering tone. 

"Why, Eugen, do you mean to say that you are so very susceptible? Oh, Ibeg your pardon, " I added, hastily, shocked and confused to find that Ihad been so nearly overstepping the boundary which I had always markedout for myself. And I stopped abruptly. 

"That's like you, Friedhelm, " said he, in a tone which was in some waydifferent from his usual one. "I never knew such a ridiculous, chivalrous, punctilious fellow as you are. Tell me something--did younever speculate about me?"

"Never impertinently, I assure you, Eugen, " said I, earnestly. 

He laughed. 

"You impertinent! That is amusing, I must say. But surely you have givenme a thought now and then, have wondered whether I had a history, orsprung out of nothing?"

"Certainly, and wondered what your story was; but I do not need to knowit to--"

"I understand. Well, but it is rather difficult to say this to such anunsympathetic person; you won't understand it. I have been in love, Friedel. "

"So I can suppose. "

I waited for the corollary, "and been loved in return, " but it did notcome. He said, "And received as much regard in return as Ideserved--perhaps more. "

As I could not cordially assent to this proposition, I remained silent. 

After a pause he went on: "I am eight-and-twenty, and have lived mylife. The story won't bear raking up now--perhaps never. For a long timeI went on my own way, and was satisfied with it--blindly, inanely, densely satisfied with it; then all at once I was brought to reason--"He laughed, not a very pleasant laugh. "Brought to reason, " he resumed, "but how? By waking one morning to find myself a spoiled man, andspoiled by myself, too. "

A pause, while I turned this information over in my mind, and then said, composedly:

"I don't quite believe in your being a spoiled man. Granted that youhave made some _fiasco_--even a very bad one--what is to prevent yourmaking a life again?"

"Ha, ha!" said he, ungenially. "Things not dreamed of, Friedel, by yourstraightforward philosophy. One night I was, take it all in all, straight with the world and my destiny; the next night I was an outcast, and justly so. I don't complain. I have no right to complain. "

Again he laughed. 

"I once knew some one, " said I, "who used to say that many a good manand many a great man was lost to the world simply because nothinginterrupted the course of his prosperity. "

"Don't suppose that I am an embryo hero of any description, " said he, bitterly. "I am merely, as I said, a spoiled man, brought to his sensesand with life before him to go through as best he may, and the knowledgethat his own fault has brought him to what he is. "

"But look here! If it is merely a question of name or money, " I began. 

"It is not merely that; but suppose it were, what then?"

"It lies with yourself. You may make a name either as a composer orperformer--your head or your fingers will secure you money and fame. "

"None the less should I be, as I said, a spoiled man, " he said, quietly. "I should be ashamed to come forward. It was I myself who sent myselfand my prospects _caput_;[A] and for that sort of obscurity is the besttaste and the right sphere. "

[Footnote A: _Caput_--a German slang expression with the generalsignificance of the English "gone to smash, " but also a hundred otherand wider meanings, impossible to render in brief. ]

"But there's the boy, " I suggested. "Let him have the advantage. "

"Don't, don't!" he said, suddenly, and wincing visibly, as if I hadtouched a raw spot. "No; my one hope for him is that he may never beknown as my son. "

"But--but--"

"Poor little beggar! I wonder what will become of him, " he uttered, after a pause, during which I did not speak again. 

Eugen puffed fitfully at his cigar, and at last knocking the ash from itand avoiding my eyes, he said, in a low voice:

"I suppose some time I must leave the boy. "

"Leave him!" I echoed, intelligently. 

"When he grows a little older--before he is old enough to feel it verymuch, though, I must part from him. It will be better. "

Another pause. No sign of emotion, no quiver of the lips, no groan, though the heart might be afaint. I sat speechless. 

"I have not come to the conclusion lately. I've always known it, " hewent on, and spoke slowly. "I have known it--and have thought aboutit--so as to get accustomed to it--see?"

I nodded. 

"At that time--as you seem to have a fancy for the child--will you givean eye to him--sometimes, Friedel--that is, if you care enough for me--"

For a moment I did not speak. Then I said:

"You are quite sure the parting must take place?"

He assented. 

"When it does, will you give him to me--to my charge altogether?"

"What do you mean?"

"If he must lose one father, let me grow as like another to him as Ican. "

"Friedhelm--"

"On no other condition, " said I. "I will not 'have an eye' to himoccasionally. I will not let him go out alone among strangers, and givea look in upon him now and then. "

Eugen had covered his face with his hands, but spoke not. 

"I will have him with me altogether, or not at all, " I finished, with akind of jerk. 

"Impossible!" said he, looking up with a pale face, and eyes full ofanguish--the more intense in that he uttered not a word of it. "Impossible! You are no relation--he has not a claim--there is not areason--not the wildest reason for such a--"

"Yes, there is; there is the reason that I won't have it otherwise, "said I, doggedly. 

"It is fantastic, like your insane self, " he said, with a forced smile, which cut me, somehow, more than if he had groaned. 

"Fantastic! I don't know what you mean. What good would it be to me tosee him with strangers? I should only make myself miserable with wishingto have him. I don't know what you mean by fantastic. "

He drew a long breath. "So be it, then, " said he, at last. "And he needknow nothing about his father. I may even see him from time to timewithout his knowing--see him growing into a man like you, Friedel; itwould be worth the separation, even if one had not to make a merit ofnecessity; yes, well worth it. "

"Like me? _Nie, mein lieber_; he shall be something rather better than Iam, let us hope, " said I; "but there is time enough to talk about it. "

"Oh, yes! In a year or two from now, " said he, almost inaudibly. "Theworst of it is that in a case like this, the years go so fast, socursedly fast. "

I could make no answer to this, and he added, "Give me thy hand upon it, Friedel. "

I held out my hand. We had risen, and stood looking steadfastly intoeach other's eyes. 

"I wish I were--what I might have been--to pay you for this, " he said, hesitatingly, wringing my hand and laying his left for a moment on myshoulder; then, without another word, went into his room, shutting thedoor after him. 

I remained still--sadder, gladder than I had ever been before. Never hadI so intensely felt the deep, eternal sorrow of life--that sorrow whichcan be avoided by none who rightly live; yet never had life toweredbefore me so rich and so well worth living out, so capable of highexultation, pure purpose, full satisfaction, and sufficient reward. Myquarrel with existence was made up. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

 "The merely great are, all in all, No more than what the merely small Esteem them. Man's opinion Neither conferred nor can remove _This_ man's dominion. "

Three years passed--an even way. In three years there happened little ofimportance--little, that is, of open importance--to either of us. I readthat sentence again, and can not help smiling; "to either of us. " Itshows the progress that our friendship has made. Yes, it had grown everyday. 

I had no past, painful or otherwise, which I could even wish to conceal;I had no thought that I desired hidden from the man who had become myother self. What there was of good in me, what of evil, he saw. It waslaid open to him, and he appeared to consider that the good predominatedover the bad; for, from that first day of meeting, our intimacy went onsteadily in one direction--increasing, deepening. He was six yearsolder than I was. At the end of this time of which I speak he wasone-and-thirty, I five-and-twenty; but we met on equal ground--not thatI had anything approaching his capacities in any way. I do not thinkthat had anything to do with it. Our happiness did not depend onmental supremacy. I loved him--because I could not help it; he me, because--upon my word, I can think of no good reason--probably becausehe did. 

And yet we were as unlike as possible. He had habits of recklessextravagance, or what seemed to me reckless extravagance, and a lordlymanner (when he forgot himself) of speaking of things, which absolutelyappalled my economical burgher soul. I had certain habits, too, theoutcomes of my training, and my sparing, middle-class way of living, which I saw puzzled him very much. To cite only one insignificantincident. We were both great readers, and, despite our sometimes arduouswork, contrived to get through a good amount of books in the year. Oneevening he came home with a brand-new novel, in three volumes, in hishands. 

"Here, Friedel; here is some mental dissipation for to-night. Drop thatSchopenhauer, and study Heyse. Here is 'Die Kinder der Welt;' it willsuit our case exactly, for it is what we are ourselves. "

"How clean it looks!" I observed, innocently. 

"So it ought, seeing that I have just paid for it. "

"Paid for it!" I almost shouted. "Paid for it! You don't mean that youhave bought the book!"

"Calm thy troubled spirit! You don't surely mean that you thought mecapable of stealing the book?"

"You are hopeless. You have paid at least eighteen marks for it. "

"That's the figure to a pfennig. "

"Well, " said I, with conscious superiority, "you might have had thewhole three volumes from the library for five or six groschen. "

"I know. But their copy looked so disgustingly greasy I couldn't havetouched it; so I ordered a new one. "

"Very well. Your accounts will look well when you come to balance andtake stock, " I retorted. 

"What a fuss about a miserable eighteen marks!" said he, stretchinghimself out, and opening a volume. "Come, Sig, learn how the children ofthe world are wiser in their generation than the children of light, andleave that low person to prematurely age himself by beginning to balancehis accounts before they are ripe for it. "

"I don't know whether you are aware that you are talking the wildest andmost utter rubbish that was ever conceived, " said I, nettled. "There issimply no sense in it. Given an income of--"

"_Aber, ich bitte Dich!_" he implored, though laughing; and I wassilent. 

But his three volumes of "Die Kinder der Welt" furnished me with many anopportunity to "point a moral or adorn a tale, " and I believe reallywarned him off one or two other similar extravagances. The idea of menin our position recklessly ordering three-volume novels because thecirculating library copy happened to be greasy, was one I could not getover for a long time. 

We still inhabited the same rooms at No. 45, in the Wehrhahn. We hadoutstayed many other tenants; men had come and gone, both from ourhouse and from those rooms over the way whose windows faced ours. Wepassed our time in much the same way--hard work at our profession, and, with Eugen at least, hard work out of it; the education of his boy, whom he made his constant companion in every leisure moment, andtaught, with a wisdom that I could hardly believe--it seemed so likeinspiration--composition, translation, or writing of his own--incessantemployment of some kind. He never seemed able to pass an idle moment;and yet there were times when, it seemed to me, his work did not satisfyhim, but rather seemed to disgust him. 

Once when I asked him if it were so, he laid down his pen and said, "Yes. "

"Then why do you do it?"

"Because--for no reason that I know; but because I am an unreasonablefool. "

"An unreasonable fool to work hard?"

"No; but to go on as if hard work now can ever undo what years ofidleness have done. "

"Do you believe in work?" I asked. 

"I believe it is the very highest and holiest thing there is, and thegrandest purifier and cleanser in the world. But it is not a panaceaagainst every ill. I believe that idleness is sometimes as strong aswork, and stronger. You may do that in a few years of idleness which alife-time of afterwork won't cover, mend, or improve. You may make holesin your coat from sheer laziness, and then find that no amount ofstitching will patch them up again. "

I seldom answered these mystic monologues. Love gives a wonderfulsharpness even to dull wits; it had sharpened mine so that I often felthe indulged in those speeches out of sheer desire to work off some griefor bitterness from his heart, but that a question might, howeverinnocent, overshoot the mark, and touch a sore spot--the thing I mostdreaded. And I did not feel it essential to my regard for him to knowevery item of his past. 

In such cases, however, when there is something behind--when one knowsit, only does not know what it is (and Eugen had never tried to concealfrom me that something had happened to him which he did not care totell)--then, even though one accept the fact, as I accepted it, withoutdispute or resentment, one yet involuntarily builds theories, has ideas, or rather the ideas shape themselves about the object of interest, andtake their coloring from him, one can not refrain from conjectures, surmises. Mine were necessarily of the most vague and shadowydescription; more negative than active, less theories as to what he hadbeen or done than inferences from what he let fall in talk or conduct asto what he had not been or done. 

In our three years' acquaintance, it is true, there had not been muchopportunity for any striking display on his part of good or badqualities; but certainly ample opportunity of testing whether he were, taken all in all, superior, even with, or inferior to the average manof our average acquaintance. And, briefly speaking, to me he had becomea standing model of a superior man. 

I had by this time learned to know that when there were many ways oflooking at a question, that one, if there were such an one, which wasless earthily practical, more ideal and less common than the others, would most inevitably be the view taken by Eugen Courvoisier, andadvocated by him with warmth, energy, and eloquence to the very last. The point from which he surveyed the things and the doings of life was, taken all in all, a higher one than that of other men, and was illuminedwith something of the purple splendor of that "light that never was onsea or land. " A less practical conduct, a more ideal view of right andwrong--sometimes a little fantastic even--always imbued with somethingof the knightliness which sat upon him as a natural attribute. _Ritterlich_, Karl Linders called him, half in jest, half in earnest;and _ritterlich_ he was. 

In his outward demeanor to the world with which he came in contact, hewas courteous to men; to a friend or intimate, as myself, an ever-newdelight and joy; to all people, truthful to fantasy; and to women, onthe rare occasions on which I ever saw him in their company, he waspolite and deferential--but rather overwhelmingly so; it was apoliteness which raised a barrier, and there was a glacial surface tothe manner. I remarked this, and speculated about it. He seemed to haveone manner to every woman with whom he had anything to do; themaid-servant who, at her leisure or pleasure, was supposed to answer ourbehests (though he would often do a thing himself, alleging that hepreferred doing so to "seeing that poor creature's apron"), old FrauHenschel who sold the programmes at the kasse at the concerts, to theyoung ladies who presided behind a counter, to every woman to whom hespoke a chance word, up to Frau Sybel, the wife of the great painter, who came to negotiate about lessons for the lovely Fräulein, herdaughter, who wished to play a different instrument from that affectedby every one else. The same inimitable courtesy, the same unruffled, unrufflable quiet indifference, and the same utter unconsciousness thathe, or his appearance, or behavior, or anything about him, couldpossibly interest them. And yet he was a man eminently calculated toattract women, only he never to this day has been got to believe so, andwill often deprecate his poor power of entertaining ladies. 

I often watched this little by-play of behavior from and to the fairersex with silent amusement, more particularly when Eugen and I madeshopping expeditious for Sigmund's benefit. We once went to buystockings--winter stockings for him; it was a large miscellaneous andsmallware shop, full of young women behind the counters and ladies ofall ages before them. 

We found ourselves in the awful position of being the only malecreatures in the place. Happy in my insignificance and plainness, Isurvived the glances that were thrown upon us; I did not wonder thatthey fell upon my companions. Eugen consulted a little piece of paper onwhich Frau Schmidt had written down what we were to ask for, and, marching straight up to a disengaged shop-woman, requested to be showncolored woolen stockings. 

"For yourself, _mein Herr_?" she inquired, with a fascinating smile. 

"No, thank you; for my little boy, " says Eugen, politely, glancingdeferentially round at the piles of wool and packets of hosen around. 

"Ah, so! For the young gentleman? _Bitte, meine Herren_, be seated. " Andshe gracefully pushes chairs for us; on one of which I, unable to resistso much affability, sit down. 

Eugen remains standing; and Sigmund, desirous of having a voice in thematter, mounts upon his stool, kneels upon it, and leans his elbows onthe counter. 

The affable young woman returns, and with a glance at Eugen that speaksof worlds beyond colored stockings, proceeds to untie a packet anddisplay her wares. He turns them over. Clearly he does not like them, and does not understand them. They are striped; some are stripedlatitudinally, others longitudinally. Eugen turns them over, and theyoung woman murmurs that they are of the best quality. 

"Are they?" says he, and his eyes roam round the shop. "Well, Sigmund, wilt thou have legs like a stork, as these long stripes will inevitablymake them, or wilt thou have legs like a zebra's back?"

"I should like legs like a little boy, please, " is Sigmund's modestexpression of a reasonable desire. 

Eugen surveys them. 

"_Von der besten Qualität_, " repeats the young woman, impressively. 

"Have you no blue ones?" demands Eugen. "All blue, you know. He wearsblue clothes. "

"Assuredly, _mein Herr_, but of a much dearer description; real English, magnificent. "

She retires to find them, and a young lady who has been standing near usturns and observes:

"Excuse me--you want stockings for your little boy?"

We both assent. It is a joint affair, of equal importance to both of us. 

"I wouldn't have those, " says she, and I remark her face. 

I have seen her often before--moreover, I have seen her look veryearnestly at Eugen. I learned later that her name was Anna Sartorius. Ere she can finish, the shop-woman with wreathed smiles still lingeringabout her face, returns and produces stockings--fine, blue-ribbedstockings, such as the children of rich English parents wear. Theirfineness, and the smooth quality of the wool, and the good shape appearto soothe Eugen's feelings. He pushes away his heap of striped ones, which look still coarser and commoner now, observing hopefully andcheerily:

"_Ja wohl!_ That is more what I mean. " (The poor dear fellow had meantnothing, but he knew what he wanted when he saw it. ) "These look morelike thy legs, Sigmund, _nicht wahr_? I'll take--"

I dug him violently in the ribs. 

"Hold on, Eugen! How much do they cost the pair, Fräulein?"

"Two thalers twenty-five; the very best quality, " she says, with aravishing smile. 

"There! eight shillings a pair!" say I. "It is ridiculous. "

"Eight shillings!" he repeats, ruefully. "That is too much. "

"They are real English, _mein Herr_, " she says, feelingly. 

"But, _um Gotteswillen_! don't we make any like them in Germany?"

"Oh, sir!" she says, reproachfully. 

"Those others are such brutes, " he remarks, evidently wavering. 

I am in despair. The young woman is annoyed to find that he does noteven see the amiable looks she has bestowed upon him, so she sweeps backthe heap of striped stockings and announces that they are only threemarks the pair--naturally inferior, but you can not have the bestarticle for nothing. 

Fräulein Sartorius, about to go, says to Eugen:

"_Mein Herr_, ask for such and such an article. I know they keep them, and you will find it what you want. "

Eugen, much touched and much surprised (as he always is and has been)that any one should take an interest in him, makes a bow, and a speech, and rushes off to open the door for Fräulein Sartorius, thanking herprofusely for her goodness. The young lady behind the counter smilesbitterly, and now looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth. I, assuming the practical, mention the class of goods referred to byFräulein Sartorius, which she unwillingly brings forth, and westraightway purchase. The errand accomplished, Eugen takes Sigmund bythe hand, makes a grand bow to the young woman, and instructs his son totake off his hat, and, this process being complete, we sally forthagain, and half-way home Eugen remarks that it was very kind of thatyoung lady to help us. 

"Very, " I assent, dryly, and when Sigmund has contributed the artlessremark that all the ladies laughed at us and looked at us, and has beentold by his father not to be so self-conceited, for that no one canpossibly wish to look at us, we arrive at home, and the stockings aretried on. 

Constantly I saw this willingness to charm on the part of women;constantly the same utter ignorance of any such thought on the part ofEugen, who was continually expressing his surprise at the kindness ofpeople, and adding with the gravest simplicity that he had always foundit so, at which announcement Karl laughed till he had to hold his sides. 

And Sigmund? Since the day when Courvoisier had said to me, slowly andwith difficulty, the words about parting, he had mentioned the subjecttwice--always with the same intention expressed. Once it was when I hadbeen out during the evening, and he had not. I came into oursitting-room, and found it in darkness. A light came from the innerroom, and, going toward it, I found that he had placed the lamp upon adistant stand, and was sitting by the child's crib, his arms folded, hisface calm and sad. He rose when he saw me, brought the lamp into theparlor again, and said:

"Pardon, Friedel, that I left you without light. The time of partingwill come, you know, and I was taking a look in anticipation of the timewhen there will be no one there to look at. "

I bowed. There was a slight smile upon his lips, but I would rather haveheard a broken voice and seen a mien less serene. 

The second, and only time, up to now, and the events I am coming to, wasonce when he had been giving Sigmund a music lesson, as we calledit--that is to say, Eugen took his violin and played a melody, butincorrectly, and Sigmund told him every time a wrong note was played, orfalse time kept. Eugen sat, giving a look now and then at the boy, whosesmall, delicate face was bright with intelligence, whose dark eyesblazed with life and fire, and whose every gesture betrayed spirit, grace, and quick understanding. A child for a father to be proud of. Nomeanness there; no littleness in the fine, high-bred features;everything that the father's heart could wish, except perhaps somelittle want of robustness; one might have desired that the limbs wereless exquisitely graceful and delicate--more stout and robust. 

As Eugen laid aside his violin, he drew the child toward him, and asked(what I had never heard him ask before):

"What wilt thou be, Sigmund, when thou art a man?"

"_Ja, lieber Vater_, I will be just like thee. "

"How just like me?"

"I will do what thou dost. "

"So! Thou wilt be a musiker like me and Friedel?"

"_Ja wohl!_" said Sigmund, but something else seemed to weigh upon hissmall mind. He eyed his father with a reflective look, then looked downat his own small hands and slender limbs (his legs were cased in the newstockings). 

"How?" inquired his father. 

"I should like to be a musician, " said Sigmund, who had a fineconfidence in his sire, and confided his every thought to him. 

"I don't know how to say it, " he went on, resting his elbows uponEugen's knee, and propping his chin upon his two small fists, he lookedup into his father's face. 

"Friedhelm is a musician, but he is not like thee, " he pursued. Eugenreddened; I laughed. 

"True as can be, Sigmund, " I said. 

"'I would I were as honest a man, '" said Eugen, slightly altering"Hamlet;" but as he spoke English I contented myself with shaking myhead at him. 

"I like Friedel, " went on Sigmund. "I love him; he is good. But thou, _mein Vater_--"

"Well?" asked Eugen again. 

"I will be like thee, " said the boy, vehemently, his eyes filling withtears. "I will. Thou saidst that men who try can do all they will--and Iwill, I will. "

"Why, my child?"

It was a long earnest look that the child gave the man. Eugen had saidto me some few days before, and I had fully agreed with him:

"That child's life is one strife after the beautiful in art, and nature, and life--how will he succeed in the search?"

I thought of this--it flashed subtly through my mind as Sigmund gazed athis father with a childish adoration--then, suddenly springing round hisneck, said, passionately:

"Thou art so beautiful--so beautiful! I must be like thee. "

Eugen bit his lip momentarily, saying to me in English:

"I am his God, you see, Friedel. What will he do when he finds out whata common clay figure it was he worshiped?"

But he had not the heart to banter the child; only held the littleclinging figure to his breast; the breast which Sigmund recognized ashis heaven. 

It was after this that Eugen said to me when we were alone:

"It must come before he thinks less of me than he does now, Friedel. "

To these speeches I could never make any answer, and he always had thesame singular smile--the same paleness about the lips and unnaturallight in the eyes when he spoke so. 

He had accomplished one great feat in those three years--he had won overto himself his comrades, and that without, so to speak, actively layinghimself out to do so. He had struck us all as something so verydifferent from the rest of us, that, on his arrival and for some timeafterward, there lingered some idea that he must be opposed to us. But Ivery soon, and the rest by gradual degrees, got to recognize that thoughin, not of us, yet he was no natural enemy of ours; if he made noadvances, he never avoided or repulsed any, but on the very contrary, seemed surprised and pleased that any one should take an interest inhim. We soon found that he was extremely modest as to his own merits andeager to acknowledge those of other people. 

"And, " said Karl Linders once, twirling his mustache, and smiling in theconsciousness that his own outward presentment was not to be calledrepulsive, "he can't help his looks; no fellow can. "

At the time of which I speak, his popularity was much greater than heknew, or would have believed if he had been told of it. 

Only between him and von Francius there remained a constant gulf and acontinual coldness. Von Francius never stepped aside to make friends;Eugen most certainly never went out of his way to ingratiate himselfwith von Francius. Courvoisier had been appointed contrary to the wishof von Francius, which perhaps caused the latter to regard him a littlecoldly--even more coldly than was usual with him, and he was neverenthusiastic about any one or anything, while to Eugen there wasabsolutely nothing in von Francius which attracted him, save themagnificent power of his musical talent--a power which was as calm andcold as himself. 

Max von Francius was a man about whom there were various opinions, expressed and unexpressed; he was a person who never spoke of himself, and who contrived to live a life more isolated and apart than any one Ihave ever known, considering that he went much into society, and mixed agood deal with the world. In every circle in Elberthal which could byany means be called select, his society was eagerly sought, nor did herefuse it. His days were full of engagements; he was consulted, and hisopinion deferred to in a singular manner--singular, because he was nosayer of smooth things, but the very contrary; because he hung upon nopatron, submitted to no dictation, was in his way an autocrat. Thisstate of things he had brought about entirely by force of his own willand in utter opposition to precedent, for the former directors had beennotoriously under the thumb of certain influential outsiders, who werein reality the directors of the director. It was the universal feelingthat though the Herr Direktor was the busiest man, and had the largestcircle of acquaintance of any one in Elberthal, yet that he was lessreally known than many another man of half his importance. His businessas musik-direktor took up much of his time; the rest might have beenfilled to overflowing with private lessons, but von Francius was not aman to make himself cheap; it was a distinction to be taught by him, themore so as the position or circumstances of a would-be pupil appeared tomake not the very smallest impression upon him. Distinguished for hard, practical common sense, a ready sneer at anything high-flown orromantic, discouraging not so much enthusiasm as the outwardmanifestation of it, which he called melodrama, Max von Francius was thecynosure of all eyes in Elberthal, and bore the scrutiny with glacialindifference. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

FRIEDHELM'S STORY. 

[Illustration: Music, JOACHIM, RAFF. _Op. _ 177. ]

"Make yourself quite easy, Herr Concertmeister. No child that was leftto my charge was ever known to come to harm. "

Thus Frau Schmidt to Eugen, as she stood with dubious smile and foldedarms in our parlor, and harangued him, while he and I stood, violin-cases in our hands, in a great hurry, and anxious to be off. 

"You are very kind, Frau Schmidt, I hope he will not trouble you. "

"He is a well-behaved child, and not nearly so disagreeable and bad todo with as most. And at what time will you be back?"

"That is uncertain. It just depends upon the length of the probe. "

"Ha! It is all the same. I am going out for a little excursion thisafternoon, to the Grafenberg, and I shall take the boy with me. "

"Oh, thank you, " said Eugen; "that will be very kind. He wants somefresh air, and I've had no time to take him out. You are very kind. "

"Trust to me, Herr Concertmeister--trust to me, " said she, with theusual imperial wave of her hand, as she at last moved aside from thedoor-way which she had blocked up and allowed us to pass out. A lastwave of the hand from Eugen to Sigmund, and then we hurried away to thestation. We were bound for Cologne, where that year the Lower RhineMusikfest was to be held. It was then somewhat past the middle of April, and the fest came off at Whitsuntide, in the middle of May. We, amongothers, were engaged to strengthen the Cologne orchestra for theoccasion, and we were bidden this morning to the first probe. 

We just caught our train, seeing one or two faces of comrades we knew, and in an hour were in Köln. 

"The Tower of Babel, " and Raff's Fifth Symphonie, that called "Lenore, "were the subjects we had been summoned to practice. They, together withBeethoven's "Choral Fantasia" and some solos were to come off on thethird evening of the fest. 

The probe lasted a long time; it was three o'clock when we left theconcert-hall, after five hours' hard work. 

"Come along, Eugen, " cried I, "we have just time to catch the three-ten, but only just. "

"Don't wait for me, " he answered, with an absent look. "I don't think Ishall come by it. Look after yourself, Friedel, and _auf wiedersehen_!"

I was scarcely surprised, for I had seen that the music had deeply movedhim, and I can understand the wish of any man to be alone with theremembrance or continuance of such emotions. Accordingly I took my wayto the station, and there met one or two of my Elberthal comrades, whohad been on the same errand as myself, and, like me, were returninghome. 

Lively remarks upon the probable features of the coming fest, and thecirculation of any amount of loose and hazy gossip respecting composersand soloists followed, and we all went to our usual restauration anddined together. There was an opera that night to which we had probe thatafternoon, and I scarcely had time to rush home and give a look atSigmund before it was time to go again to the theater. 

Eugen's place remained empty. For the first time since he had come intothe orchestra he was absent from his post, and I wondered what couldhave kept him. 

Taking my way home, very tired, with fragments of airs from "Czar undZimmermann, " in which I had just been playing, the "March" from"Lenore, " and scraps of choruses and airs from the "Thurm zu Babel, " allringing in my head in a confused jumble, I sprung up the stairs (upwhich I used to plod so wearily and so spiritlessly), and went into thesitting-room. Darkness! After I had stood still and gazed about for atime, my eyes grew accustomed to the obscurity. I perceived that a dimgray light still stole in at the open window, and that some one reposingin an easy-chair was faintly shadowed out against it. 

"Is that you, Friedhelm?" asked Eugen's voice. 

"_Lieber Himmel!_ Are you there? What are you doing in the dark?"

"Light the lamp, my Friedel! Dreams belong to darkness, and facts tolight. Sometimes I wish light and facts had never been invented. "

I found the lamp and lighted it, carried it up to him, and stood beforehim, contemplating him curiously. He lay back in our one easy-chair, hishands clasped behind his head, his legs outstretched. He had been idlefor the first time, I think, since I had known him. He had been sittingin the dark, not even pretending to do anything. 

"There are things new under the sun, " said I, in mingled amusement andamaze. "Absent from your post, to the alarm and surprise of all who knowyou, here I find you mooning in the darkness, and when I illuminate you, you smile up at me in a somewhat imbecile manner, and say nothing. Whatmay it portend?"

He roused himself, sat up, and looked at me with an ambiguous halfsmile. 

"Most punctual of men! most worthy, honest, fidgety old friend, " saidhe, with still the same suppressed smile, "how I honor you! How I wishI could emulate you! How I wish I were like you! and yet, Friedel, oldboy, you have missed something this afternoon. "

"So! I should like to know what you have been doing. Give an account ofyourself. "

"I have erred and gone astray, and have found it pleasant. I have donethat which I ought not to have done, and am sorry, for the sake ofmorality and propriety, to have to say that it was delightful; far moredelightful than to go on doing just what one ought to do. Say, goodMentor, does it matter? For this occasion only. Never again, as I am aliving man. "

"I wish you would speak plainly, " said I, first putting the lamp andthen myself upon the table. I swung my legs about and looked at him. 

"And not go on telling you stories like that of Munchausen, in Arabesks, eh? I will be explicit; I will use the indicative mood, present tense. Now then. I like Cologne; I like the cathedral of that town; I like theHotel du Nord; and, above all, I love the railway station. "

"Are you raving?"

"Did you ever examine the Cologne railway station?" he went on, lightinga cigar. "There is a great big waiting-room, which they lock up; thereis a delightful place in which you may get lost, and find yourselfsuddenly alone in a deserted wing of the building, with an impertinentporter, who doesn't understand one word of Eng--of your native tongue--"

"Are you mad?" was my varied comment. 

"And while you are in the greatest distress, separated from yourfriends, who have gone on to Elberthal (like mine), and struggling tomake this porter understand you, you may be encountered by a mooningindividual--a native of the land--and you may address him. He drives thefumes of music from his brain, and looks at you, and finds youcharming--more than charming. My dear Friedhelm, the look in your eyesis quite painful to see. By the exercise of a little diplomacy, which, as you are charmingly naïve, you do not see through, he manages to sealan alliance by which you and he agree to pass three or four hours ineach other's society, for mutual instruction and entertainment. Theentertainment consists of cutlets, potatoes--the kind called kartoffelnfrittes, which they give you very good at the Nord--and the wine knownto us as Doctorberger. The instruction is varied, and is carried onchiefly in the aisle of the Kölner Dom, to the sound of music. And whenhe is quite spell-bound, in a magic circle, a kind of golden net orcloud, he pulls out an earthly watch, made of dust and dross ('More foolhe, ' your eye says, and you are quite right), and sees that time isadvancing. A whole army of horned things with stings, called feelings ofpropriety, honor, correctness, the right thing, etc. , come in thickbattalions in _sturmschritt_ upon him, and with a hasty word he hurriesher--he gets off to the station. There is still an hour, for both arecoming to Elberthal--an hour of unalloyed delight; then"--he snapped hisfingers--"a drosky, an address, a crack of the whip, and _ade_!"

I sat and stared at him while he wound up this rhodomontade by singing:

 "Ade, ade, ade! Ja, Scheiden und Meiden thut Weh!"

"You are too young and fair, " he presently resumed, "too slight andsober for apoplexy; but a painful fear seizes me that your mentalfaculties are under some slight cloud. There is a vacant look in yourusually radiant eyes; a want of intelligence in the curve of your rosylips--"

"Eugen! Stop that string of fantastic rubbish! Where have you been, andwhat have you been doing?"

"I have not deserved that from you. Haven't I been telling you all thistime where I have been and what I have been doing? There is a brutalityin your behavior which is to a refined mind most lamentable. "

"But where have you been, and what have you done?"

"Another time, _mein lieber_--another time!"

With this misty promise I had to content myself. I speculated upon thesubject for that evening, and came to the conclusion that he hadinvented the whole story, to see whether I would believe it (for we hadall a reprehensible habit of that kind), and very soon the wholecircumstance dropped from my memory. 

On the following morning I had occasion to go to the public eyehospital. Eugen and I had interested ourselves to procure a ticket forfree, or almost free, treatment as an out-patient for a youth whom weknew--one of the second violins--whose sight was threatened, and who, poor boy, could not afford to pay for proper treatment. Eugen beingbusy, I went to receive the ticket. 

It was the first time I had been in the place. I was shown into a roomwith the light somewhat obscured, and there had to wait some fewminutes. Every one had something the matter with his or her eyes--atleast so I thought, until my own fell upon a girl who leaned, looking alittle tired and a little disappointed, against a tall desk at one sideof the room. 

She struck me on the instant as no feminine appearance had ever struckme before. She, like myself, seemed to be waiting for some one orsomething. She was tall and supple in figure, and her face was girlishand very innocent-looking; and yet, both in her attitude and countenancethere was a little pride, some hauteur. It was evidently natural to her, and sat well upon her. A slight but exquisitely molded figure, differentfrom those of our stalwart Elberthaler _Mädchen_--finer, more refinedand distinguished, and a face to dream of. I thought it then, and I sayit now. Masses, almost too thick and heavy, of dark auburn hair, withhere and there a glint of warmer hue, framed that beautiful face--halfwoman's, half child's. Dark-gray eyes, with long dark lashes and brows;cheeks naturally very pale, but sensitive, like some delicate alabaster, showing the red at every wave of emotion; something racy, piquant, unique, enveloped the whole appearance of this young girl. I had neverseen anything at all like her before. 

She looked wearily round the room, and sighed a little. Then her eyesmet mine; and seeing the earnestness with which I looked at her, sheturned away, and a slight, very slight, flush appeared in her cheek. 

I had time to notice (for everything about her interested me) that herdress was of the very plainest and simplest kind, so plain as to bealmost poor, and in its fashion not of the newest, even in Elberthal. 

Then my name was called out. I received my ticket, and went to the probeat the theater. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

"Wishes are pilgrims to the vale of tears. "

A week--ten days passed. I did not see the beautiful girl again--nordid I forget her. One night at the opera I found her. It was"Lohengrin"--but she has told all that story herself--how Eugen came inlate (he had a trick of never coming in till the last minute, and I usedto think he had some reason for it)--and the recognition and the cutdirect, first on her side, then on his. 

Eugen and I walked home together, arm in arm, and I felt provoked withhim. 

"I say, Eugen, did you see the young lady with Vincent and the others inthe first row of the parquet?"

"I saw some six or eight ladies of various ages in the first row of theparquet. Some were old and some were young. One had a knitted shawl overher head, which she kept on during the whole of the performance. "

"Don't be so maddening. I said the young lady with Vincent and FräuleinSartorius. By the bye, Eugen, do you know, or have you ever known her?"

"Who?"

"Fräulein Sartorius. "

"Who is she?"

"Oh, bother! The young lady I mean sat exactly opposite to you and me--abeautiful young girl; an _Engländerin_--fair, with that hair that wenever see here, and--"

"In a brown hat--sitting next to Vincent. I saw her--yes. "

"She saw you too. "

"She must have been blind if she hadn't. "

"Have you seen her before?"

"I have seen her before--yes. "

"And spoken to her?"

"Even spoken to her. "

"Do tell me what it all means. "

"Nothing. "

"But, Eugen--"

"Are you so struck with her, Friedel? Don't lose your heart to her, Iwarn you. "

"Why?" I inquired, wilily, hoping the answer would give me some clew tohis acquaintance with her. 

"Because, _mein Bester_, she is a cut above you and me, in a differentsphere, one that we know nothing about. What is more, she knows it, andshows it. Be glad that you can not lay yourself open to the snub that Igot to-night. "

There was so much bitterness in his tone that I was surprised. But asudden remembrance flushed into my mind of his strange remarks after Ihad left him that day at Cologne, and I laughed to myself, nor, when heasked me, would I tell him why. That evening he had very little to sayto Karl Linders and myself. 

Eugen never spoke to me of the beautiful girl who had behaved sostrangely that evening, though we saw her again and again. 

Sometimes I used to meet her in the street, in company with the dark, plain girl, Anna Sartorius, who, I fancied, always surveyed Eugen with alook of recognition. The two young women formed in appearance an almoststartling contrast. She came to all the concerts, as if she made music astudy--generally she was with a stout, good-natured-looking GermanFräulein, and the young Englishman, Vincent. There was always somethingrather melancholy about her grace and beauty. 

Most beautiful she was; with long, slender, artist-like hands, the facea perfect oval, but the features more piquant than regular; sometimes asubdued fire glowed in her eyes and compressed her lips, which removedher altogether from the category of spiritless beauties--a genus forwhich I never had the least taste. 

One morning Courvoisier and I, standing just within the entrance to thetheater orchestra, saw two people go by. One, a figure well enough knownto every one in Elberthal, and especially to us--that of Max vonFrancius. Did I ever say that von Francius was an exceedingly handsomefellow, in a certain dark, clean-shaved style? On that occasion he wasspeaking with more animation than was usual with him, and the person towhom he had unbent so far was the fair English woman--that enigmaticalbeauty who had cut my friend at the opera. She also was looking animatedand very beautiful; her face turned to his with a smile--a glad, gratified smile. He was saying:

"But in the next lesson, you know--"

They passed on. I turned to ask Eugen if he had seen. I needed not toput the question. He had seen. There was a forced smile upon his lips. Before I could speak he had said:

"It's time to go in, Friedel; come along!" With which he turned into thetheater, and I followed thoughtfully. 

Then it was rumored that at the coming concert--the benefit of vonFrancius--a new soprano was to appear--a young lady of whom report usedvaried tones; some believable facts at least we learned about her. Hername, they said was Wedderburn; she was an English woman, and had a mostwonderful voice. The Herr Direktor took a very deep interest in her; henot only gave her lessons; he had asked to give her lessons, andintended to form of her an artiste who should one day be to the world akind of Patti, Lucca, or Nilsson. 

I had no doubt in my own mind as to who she was, but for all that I feltconsiderable excitement on the evening of the haupt-probe to the"Verlorenes Paradies. "

Yes, I was right. Miss Wedderburn, the pupil of von Francius, of whom somuch was prophesied, was the beautiful, forlorn-looking English girl. The feeling which grew upon me that evening, and which I never foundreason afterward to alter, was that she was modest, gentle, yetspirited, very gifted, and an artiste by nature and gift, yet sadly illat ease and out of place in that world into which von Francius wished tolead her. 

She sat quite near to Eugen and me, and I saw how alone she was, and howshe seemed to feel her loneliness. I saw how certain young ladies drewthemselves together, and looked at her (it was on this occasion that Ifirst began to notice the silent behavior of women toward each other, and the more I have observed, the more has my wonder grown andincreased), and whispered behind their music, and shrugged theirshoulders when von Francius, seeing how isolated she seemed, bentforward and said a few kind words to her. 

I liked him for it. After all, he was a man. But his distinguishing thechild did not add to the delights of her position--rather made it worse. I put myself in her place as well as I could, and felt her feelings whenvon Francius introduced her to one of the young ladies near her, whofirst stared at him, then at her, then inclined her head a littleforward and a little backward, turned her back upon Miss Wedderburn, and appeared lost in conversation of the deepest importance with herneighbor. And I thought of the words which Karl Linders had said to usin haste and anger, and after a disappointment he had lately had, "_Dasweib ist der teufel. _" Yes, woman is the devil sometimes, thought I, anda mean kind of devil too. A female Mephistopheles would not have damnedGretchen's soul, nor killed her body, she would have left the latter onthis earthly sphere, and damned her reputation. 

Von Francius was a clever man, but he made a grand mistake that night, unless he were desirous of making his protégée as uncomfortable aspossible. How could those ladies feel otherwise than insulted at seeingthe man of ice so suddenly attentive and bland to a nobody, an upstart, and a beautiful one?

The probe continued, and still she sat alone and unspoken to, her onlyacquaintance or companion seeming to be Fräulein Sartorius, with whomshe had come in. I saw how, when von Francius called upon her to do herpart, and the looks which had hitherto been averted from her were nowturned pitilessly and unwinkingly upon her, she quailed. She bit herlip; her hand trembled. I turned to Eugen with a look which saidvolumes. He sat with his arms folded, and his face perfectly devoid ofall expression, gazing straight before him. 

Miss Wedderburn might have been satisfied to the full with her revenge. That was a voice! such a volume of pure, exquisite melody as I hadrarely heard. After hearing that, all doubts were settled. The giftmight be a blessing or a curse--let every one decide that for himself, according to his style of thinking--but it was there. She possessed thepower which put her out of the category of commonplace, and had the mostmelodious "Open, Sesame!" with which to besiege the doors of the courtsin which dwell artists--creative and interpretative. 

The performance finished the gap between her and her companions. Theirlooks said, "You are not one of us. " My angry spirit said, "No; you cannever be like her. "

She seemed half afraid of what she had done when it was over, and shrunkinto herself with downcast eyes and nervous quivering of the lips at thesubdued applause of the men. I wanted to applaud too, but I looked atEugen. I had instinctively given him some share in the affairs of thislovely creature--a share, which he always strenuously repudiated, bothtacitly and openly. 

Nevertheless, when I saw him I abstained from applauding, knowing, by alightning-quick intuition, that it would be highly irritating to him. Heshowed no emotion; if he had done, I should not have thought theoccasion was anything special to him. It was his absurd gravity, stonyinexpressiveness, which impressed me with the fact that he wasmoved--moved against his will and his judgment. He could no more helpapproving both of her and her voice than he could help admiring aperfect, half-opened rose. 

It was over, and we went out of the saal, across the road, and home. 

Sigmund, who had not been very well that day, was awake, and restless. Eugen took him up, wrapped him in a little bed-gown, carried him intothe other room, and sat down with him. The child rested his head on theloved breast, and was soothed. 

 * * * * *

She had gone; the door had closed after her. Eugen turned to me, andtook Sigmund into his arms again. 

"_Mein Vater_, who is the beautiful lady, and why did you speak soharshly to her? Why did you make her cry?"

The answer, though ostensibly spoken to Sigmund, was a revelation to me. 

"That I may not have to cry myself, " said Eugen, kissing him. 

"Could the lady make thee cry?" demanded Sigmund, sitting up, muchexcited at the idea. 

Another kiss and a half laugh was the answer. Then he bade him go tosleep, as he did not understand what he was talking about. 

By and by Sigmund did drop to sleep. Eugen carried him to his bed, tucked him up, and returned. We sat in silence--such an uncomfortableconstrained silence, as had never before been between us. I had a bookbefore me. I saw no word of it. I could not drive the vision away--thelovely, pleading face, the penitence. Good heavens! How could he repulseher as he had done? Her repeated request that he would take thatmoney--what did it all mean? And, moreover, my heart was sore that hehad concealed it all from me. About the past I felt no resentment;there was a secret there which I respected; but I was cut up at this. The more I thought of it, the keener was the pain I felt. 

"Friedel!"

I looked up. Eugen was leaning across the table and his hand wasstretched toward me; his eyes looked full into mine. I answered hislook, but I was not clear yet. 

"Forgive me!"

"Forgive thee what?"

"This playing with thy confidence. "

"Don't mention it, " I forced myself to say, but the sore feeling stillremained. "You have surely a right to keep your affairs to yourself ifyou choose. "

"You will not shake hands? Well, perhaps I have no right to ask it; butI should like to tell you all about it. "

I put my hand into his. 

"I was wounded, " said I, "it is true. But it is over. "

"Then listen, Friedel. "

He told me the story of his meeting with Miss Wedderburn. All he said ofthe impression she had made upon him was:

"I thought her very charming, and the loveliest creature I had everseen. And about the trains. It stands in this way. I thought a few hoursof her society would make me very happy, and would be like--oh, well! Iknew that in the future, if she ever should see me again, she wouldeither treat me with distant politeness as an inferior, or, supposingshe discovered that I had cheated her, would cut me dead. And as it didnot matter, as I could not possibly be an acquaintance of hers in thefuture, I gave myself that pleasure then. It has turned out a mistakeon my part, but that is nothing new; my whole existence has been amonstrous mistake. However, now she sees what a churl's nature was undermy fair-seeming exterior, her pride will show her what to do. She willtake a wrong view of my character, but what does that signify? She willsay that to be deceitful first and uncivil afterward are the mainfeatures of the German character, and when she is at Cologne on herhoney-moon, she will tell her bride-groom about this adventure, and hewill remark that the fellow wanted horsewhipping, and she--"

"There! You have exercised your imagination quite sufficiently. Thenyou intend to keep up this farce of not recognizing her. Why?"

He hesitated, looked as nearly awkward as he could, and said, a littleconstrainedly:

"Because I think it will be for the best. "

"For you or for her?" I inquired, not very fairly, but I could notresist it. 

Eugen flushed all over his face. 

"What a question!" was all he said. 

"I do not think it such a remarkable question. Either you have grownexceedingly nervous as to your own strength of resistance or your fearfor hers. "

"Friedhelm, " said he, in a cutting voice, "that is a tone which I shouldnot have believed you capable of taking. It is vulgar, my dear fellow, and uncalled for; and it is so unlike you that I am astonished. If youhad been one of the other fellows--"

I fired up. 

"Excuse me, Eugen, it might be vulgar if I were merely chaffing you, butI am not; and I think, after what you have told me, that I have saidvery little. I am not so sure of her despising you. She looks much moreas if she were distressed at your despising her. "

"Pre--pos--ter--ous!"

"If you can mention an instance in her behavior this evening whichlooked as if she were desirous of snubbing you, I should be obliged byyour mentioning it, " I continued:

"Well--well--"

"Well--well. If she had wished to snub you she would have sent you thatmoney through the post, and made an end of it. She simply desired, aswas evident all along, to apologize for having been rude to a person whohad been kind to her. I can quite understand it, and I am not sure thatyour behavior will not have the very opposite effect to that youexpect. "

"I think you are mistaken. However, it does not matter; our paths liequite apart. She will have plenty of other things to take up her timeand thoughts. Anyhow I am glad that you and I are quits once more. "

So was I. We said no more upon the subject, but I always felt as if akind of connecting link existed between my friend and me, and thatbeautiful, solitary English girl. 

The link was destined to become yet closer. The concert was over atwhich she sung. She had a success. I see she has not mentioned it; asuccess which isolated her still more from her companions, inasmuch asit made her more distinctly professional and them more severelyvirtuous. 

One afternoon when Eugen and I happened to have nothing to do, we tookSigmund to the Grafenberg. We wandered about in the fir wood, and atlast came to a pause and rested. Eugen lay upon his back and gazed upinto the thickness of brown-green fir above, and perhaps guessed at theheaven beyond the dark shade. I sat and stared before me through thestraight red-brown stems across the ground, "With sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged, "

to an invisible beyond which had charms for me, and was a kind ofsymphonic beauty in my mind. Sigmund lay flat upon his stomach, kickedhis heels and made intricate patterns with the fir needles, while hehummed a gentle song to himself in a small, sweet voice, true as alark's, but sadder. There was utter stillness and utter calm all round. 

Presently Eugen's arm stole around Sigmund and drew him closer andcloser to him, and they continued to look at each other until a mutualsmile broke upon both faces, and the boy said, his whole small frame aswell as his voice quivering (the poor little fellow had nerves thatvibrated to the slightest emotion): "I love thee. "

A light leaped into the father's eyes; a look of pain followed itquickly. 

"And I shall never leave thee, " said Sigmund. 

Eugen parried the necessity of speaking by a kiss. 

"I love thee too, Friedel, " continued he, taking my hand. "We are veryhappy together, aren't we?" And he laughed placidly to himself. 

Eugen, as if stung by some tormenting thought, sprung up and we left thewood. 

Oh, far back, by-gone day! There was a soft light over you shed by akindly sun. That was a time in which joy ran a golden thread through thegray homespun of every-day life. 

Back to the restauration at the foot of the _berg_, where Sigmund wassupplied with milk and Eugen and I with beer, where we sat at a littlewooden table in a garden and the pleasant clack of friendly conversationsounded around; where the women tried to make friends with Sigmund, andthe girls whispered behind their coffee-cups or (_pace_, elegantfiction!) their beer-glasses, and always happened to be looking up ifour eyes roved that way. Two poor musiker and a little boy; persons ofno importance whatever, who could scrape their part in the symphony withsome intelligence and feel they had done their duty. Well, well! it isnot all of us who can do even so much. I know some instruments that arealways out of tune. Let us be complacent where we justly can. Theopportunities are few. 

We took our way home. The days were long, and it was yet light when wereturned and found the reproachful face of Frau Schmidt looking for us, and her arms open to receive the weary little lad who had fallen asleepon his father's shoulder. 

I went upstairs, and, by a natural instinct, to the window. Those facingit were open; some one moved in the room. Two chords of a piano werestruck. Some one came and stood by the window, shielded her eyes fromthe rays of the setting sun which streamed down the street and lookedwestward. Eugen was passing behind me. I pulled him to the window, andwe both looked--silently, gravely. 

The girl dropped her hand; her eyes fell upon us. The color mounted toher cheek; she turned away and went to the interior of the room. It wasMay Wedderburn. 

"Also!" said Eugen, after a pause. "A new neighbor; it reminds me of oneof Andersen's 'Märchen, ' but I don't know which. "

CHAPTER XX. 

 "For though he lived aloof from ken, The world's unwitnessed denizen, The love within him stirs Abroad, and with the hearts of men His own confers. "

The story of my life from day to day was dull enough, same enough forsome time after I went to live at the Wehrhahn. I was studying hard, andmy only variety was the letters I had from home; not very cheering, these. One, which I received from Adelaide, puzzled me somewhat. Afterspeaking of her coming marriage in a way which made me sad anduncomfortable, she condescended to express her approval of what I wasdoing, and went on:

 "I am catholic in my tastes. I suppose all our friends would faint at the idea of there being a 'singer' in the family. Now, I should rather like you to be a singer--only be a great one--not a little twopenny-halfpenny person who has to advertise for engagements. 

 "Now I am going to give you some advice. This Herr von Francius--your teacher or whatever he is. Be cautious what you are about with him. I don't say more, but I say that again. Be cautious! Don't burn your fingers. Now, I have not much time, and I hate writing letters, as you know. In a week I am to be married, and then--_nous verrons_. We go to Paris first, and then on to Rome, where we shall winter--to gratify my taste, I wonder, or Sir Peter's for moldering ruins, ancient pictures, and the Coliseum by moonlight? I have no doubt that we shall do our duty by the respectable old structures. Remember what I said, and write to me now and then. 

 "A. "

I frowned and puzzled a little over this letter. Be cautious? In whatpossible way could I be cautious? What need could there be for it whenall that passed between me and von Francius was the daily singing lessonat which he was so strict and severe, sometimes so sharp and cuttingwith me. I saw him then; I saw him also at the constant proben toconcerts whose season had already begun; proben to the "Passions-musik, "the "Messiah, " etc. At one or two of these concerts I was to sing. I didnot like the idea, but I could not make von Francius see it as I did. Hesaid I must sing--it was part of my studies, and I was fain to bend tohis will. 

Von Francius--I looked at Adelaide's letter, and smiled again. VonFrancius had kept his word; he had behaved to me as a kind elderbrother. He seemed instinctively to understand the wish, which was verystrong on my part, not to live entirely at Miss Hallam's expense--toprovide, partially at any rate, for myself, if possible. He helped me todo this. Now he brought me some music to be copied; now he told me of ayoung lady who wanted lessons in English--now of one little thing--nowof another, which kept me, to my pride and joy, in such slenderpocket-money as I needed. Truly, I used to think in those days, it doesnot need much money nor much room for a person like me to keep her placein the world. I wished to trouble no one--only to work as hard as Icould, and do the work that was set for me as well as I knew how. I hadmy wish and so far was not unhappy. 

But what did Adelaide mean? True, I had once described von Francius toher as young, that is youngish, clever and handsome. Did she, remembering my well-known susceptibility, fear that I might fall in lovewith him and compromise myself by some silly _Schwärmerei_? I laughedabout all by myself at the very idea of such a thing. Fall in love withvon Francius, and--my eyes fell upon the two windows over the way. No;my heart was pure of the faintest feeling for him, save that of respect, gratitude, and liking founded at that time more on esteem thanspontaneous growth. And he--I smiled at that idea, too. 

In all my long interviews with von Francius throughout our intercoursehe maintained one unvaried tone, that of a kind, frank, protectinginterest, with something of the patron on his part. He would conversewith me about Schiller and Goethe, true; he would also caution meagainst such and such shop-keepers as extortioners, and tell me theplace where they gave the largest discount on music paid for on thespot; would discuss the "Waldstein" or "Appassionata" with me, or thebeauties of Rubinstein or the deep meanings of Schumann, also therelative cost of living _en pension_ or providing for one's self. 

No. Adelaide was mistaken. I wished, parenthetically, that she couldmake the acquaintance of von Francius, and learn how mistaken--and againmy eyes fell upon the opposite windows. Friedhelm Helfen leaned fromone, holding fast Courvoisier's boy. The rich Italian coloring of thelovely young face; the dusky hair; the glow upon the cheeks, the deepblue of his serge dress, made the effect of a warmly tinted southernflower; it was a flower-face too; delicate and rich at once. 

Adelaide's letter dropped unheeded to the floor. Those two could not seeme, and I had a joy in watching them. 

To say, however, that I actually watched my opposite neighbors would notbe true. I studiously avoided watching them; never sat in the window;seldom showed myself at it, though in passing I sometimes allowed myselfto linger, and so had glimpses of those within. They were three and Iwas one. They were the happier by two. Or if I knew that they were out, that a probe was going on, or an opera or concert, there was nothing Iliked better than to sit for a time and look to the opposite windows. They were nearly always open, as were also mine, for the heat of thestove was oppressive to me, and I preferred to temper it with a littleof the raw outside air. I used sometimes to hear from those oppositerooms the practicing or playing of passages on the violin andvioloncello--scales, shakes, long complicated flourishes and phrases. Sometimes I heard the very strains that I had to sing to: airs, scrapsof airs, snatches from operas, concerts and symphonies. They were alwayshumming and singing things. They came home haunted with "The Last Rose, "from "Marta"--now some air from "Faust, " "Der Freischütz, " or"Tannhauser. "

But one air was particular to Eugen, who seemed to be perfectlypossessed by it--that which I had heard him humming when I first methim--the March from "Lenore. " He whistled it and sung it; played it onviolin, 'cello and piano; hummed it first thing in the morning and lastthing at night; harped upon it until in despair his companion threwbooks and music at him, and he, dodging them, laughed, begged pardon, was silent for five minutes, and then the March _da Capo_ set in ahalting kind of measure to the ballad. 

By way of a slight and wholesome variety there was the whole repertoryof "Volkslieder, " from

 "Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen; Du, du, liegst mir im Sinn, "

up to

 "Mädele, ruck, ruck, ruck An meine grüne Seite. "

Sometimes they--one or both of them with the boy--might be seen at thewindow leaning out, whistling or talking. When doors banged and quicksteps rushed up or down the stairs two steps at a time I knew it wasCourvoisier. Friedhelm Helfen's movements were slower and more sedate. I grew to know his face as well as Eugen's, and to like it better themore I saw of it. A quite young, almost boyish face, with aninexpressibly pure, true, and good expression upon the mouth and in thedark-brown eyes. Reticent, as most good faces are, but a face which madeyou desire to know the owner of it, made you feel that you could trusthim in any trial. His face reminded me in a distant manner of twoothers, also faces of musicians, but greater in their craft than he, they being creators and pioneers, while he was only a disciple, ofBeethoven and of the living master, Rubinstein. A gentle, though farfrom weak face, and such a contrast in expression and everything else tothat of my musician, as to make me wonder sometimes whether they hadbeen drawn to each other from very oppositeness of disposition andcharacter. That they were very great friends I could not doubt; that theleadership was on Courvoisier's side was no less evident. Eugen'saffection for Helfen seemed to have something fatherly in it, while Icould see that both joined in an absorbing worship of the boy, who was avery Croesus in love if in nothing else. Sigmund had, too, an adorerin a third musician, a violoncellist, one of their comrades, whoapparently spent much of his spare substance in purchasing presents oftoys and books and other offerings, which he laid at the shrine of St. Sigmund, with what success I could not tell. Beyond this young fellow, Karl Linders, they had not many visitors. Young men used occasionally toappear with violin-cases in their hands, coming for lessons, probably. 

All these things I saw without absolutely watching for them; they madethat impression upon me which the most trifling facts connected with aperson around whom cling all one's deepest pleasures and deepest painsever do and must make. I was glad to know them, but at the same timethey impressed the loneliness and aloofness of my own life moredecidedly upon me. 

I remember one small incident which at the time it happened struck hometo me. My windows were open; it was an October afternoon, mild andsunny. The yellow light shone with a peaceful warmth upon the afternoonquietness of the street. Suddenly that quietness was broken. The soundof music, the peculiar blatant noise of trumpets smote the air. It camenearer, and with it the measured tramp of feet. I rose and went to lookout. A Hussar regiment was passing; before them was borne a soldier'scoffin; they carried a comrade to his grave. The music they played wasthe "Funeral March for the Death of a Hero, " from the "Sinfonia Eroica. "Muffled, slow, grand and mournful, it went wailing and throbbing by. Theprocession passed slowly on in the October sunshine, along theSchadowstrasse, turning off by the Hofgarten, and so on to the cemetery. I leaned out of the window and looked after it--forgetting all outside, till just as the last of the procession passed by my eyes fell uponCourvoisier going into his house, and who presently entered the room. Hewas unperceived by Friedhelm and Sigmund, who were looking after theprocession. The child's face was earnest, almost solemn--he had not seenhis father come up. I saw Helfen's lip caress Sigmund's loose black hairthat waved just beneath them. 

Then I saw a figure--only a black shadow to my eyes which were dazzledby the sun--come behind them. One hand was laid upon Helfen's shoulder, another turned the child's chin. What a change! Friedhelm's grave facesmiled: Sigmund sprung aside, made a leap to his father, who stooped tohim, and clasping his arms tight round his neck was raised up in hisarms. 

They were all satisfied--all smiling--all happy. I turned away. That wasa home--that was a meeting of three affections. What more could theywant? I shut the window--shut it all out, and myself with it into thecold, feeling my lips quiver. It was very fine, this life ofindependence and self-support, but it was dreadfully lonely. 

The days went on. Adelaide was now Lady Le Marchant. She had written tome again, and warned me once more to be careful what I was about. Shehad said that she liked her life--at least she said so in her first twoor three letters, and then there fell a sudden utter silence aboutherself, which seemed to me ominous. 

Adelaide had always acted upon the assumption that Sir Peter was a farfrom strong-minded individual, with a certain hardness and cunningperhaps in relation to money matters, but nothing that a clever wifewith a strong enough sense of her own privileges could not overcome. 

She said nothing to me about herself. She told me about Rome; who wasthere; what they did and looked like; what she wore; what complimentswere paid to her--that was all. 

Stella told me my letters were dull--and I dare say they were--and thatthere was no use in her writing, because nothing ever happened inSkernford, which was also true. And for Eugen, we were on exactly thesame terms--or rather no terms--as before. Opposite neighbors, and asfar removed as if we had lived at the antipodes. 

My life, as time went on, grew into a kind of fossilized dream, in whichI rose up and lay down, practiced so many hours a day, ate and drank andtook my lesson, and it seemed as if I had been living so for years, andshould continue to live on so to the end of my days--until one morningmy eyes would not open again, and for me the world would have come to anend. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

 "And nearer still shall further be, And words shall plague and vex and buffet thee. "

It was December, close upon Christmas. Winter at last in real earnest. Ablack frost. The earth bound in fetters of iron. The land gray; the skysteel; the wind a dagger. The trees, leafless and stark, rattled theirshriveled boughs together in that wind. 

It met you at corners and froze the words out of your mouth; it whistleda low, fiendish, malignant whistle round the houses; as vicious andlittle louder than the buzz of a mosquito. It swept, thin, keen andcutting, down the Königsallée, and blew fine black dust into one's face. 

It cut up the skaters upon the pond in the Neue Anlage, which was in thecenter of the town, and comparatively sheltered; but it was in its glorywhistling across the flat fields leading to the great skating-ground ofElberthal in general--the Schwanenspiegel at the Grafenbergerdahl. 

The Grafenberg was a low chain of what, for want of a better name, maybe called hills, lying to the north of Elberthal. The country all aroundthis unfortunate apology for a range of hills was, if possible, flatterthan ever. The Grafenbergerdahl was, properly, no "dale" at all, but abroad plain of meadows, with the railway cutting them at one point, thendiverging and running on under the Grafenberg. 

One vast meadow which lay, if possible, a trifle lower than the rest, was flooded regularly by the autumn rains, but not deeply. It was frozenover now, and formed a model skating place, and so, apparently, thoughtthe townspeople, for they came out, singly or in bodies, and from ninein the morning till dusk the place was crowded, and the merry music ofthe iron on the ice ceased not for a second. 

I discovered this place of resort by accident one day when I was takinga constitutional, and found myself upon the borders of the great frozenmere covered with skaters. I stood looking at them, and my blood warmedat the sight. If there were one thing--one accomplishment upon which Iprided myself, it was this very one--skating. 

In a drawing-room I might feel awkward--confused among clever people, bashful among accomplished ones; shy about music and painting, diffidentas to my voice, and deprecatory in spirit as to the etiquette to beobserved at a dinner-party. Give me my skates and put me on a sheet ofice, and I was at home. 

As I paused and watched the skaters, it struck me that there was noreason at all why I should deny myself that seasonable enjoyment. I hadmy skates, and the mere was large enough to hold me as well as theothers--indeed, I saw in the distance great tracts of virgin ice towhich no skater seemed yet to have reached. 

I went home, and on the following afternoon carried out my resolution;though it was after three o'clock before I could set out. 

A long, bleak way. First up the merry Jägerhofstrasse, then through theMalkasten garden, up a narrow lane, then out upon the open, bleak road, with that bitter wind going ping-ping at one's ears and upon one'scheek. Through a big gate-way, and a court-yard pertaining to an orphanasylum--along a lane bordered with apple-trees, through a rustic arch, and, hurrah! the field was before me--not so thickly covered asyesterday, for it was getting late, and the Elberthalers did not seem tounderstand the joy of careering over the black ice by moonlight, in thenight wind. It was, however, as yet far from dark, and the moon wasrising in silver yonder, in a sky of a pale but clear blue. 

I quickly put on my skates--stumbled to the edge, and set off. I took afew turns, circling among the people--then, seeing several turn to lookat me, I fixed my eyes upon a distant clump of reeds rising from theice, and resolved to make it my goal. I could only just see it, evenwith my long-sighted eyes, but struck out for it bravely. Past groupafter group of the skaters who turned to look at my scarlet shawl as itflashed past. I glanced at them and skimmed smoothly on, till I came tothe outside circle where there was a skater all alone, his hands thrustdeep into his great-coat pockets, the collar of the same turned highabout his ears, and the inevitable little gray cloth _Studentenhut_crowning the luxuriance of waving dark hair. He was gliding round incomplicated figures and circles, doing the outside edge for his ownsolitary gratification, so far as I could see; active, graceful, andmuscular, with practiced ease and assured strength in every limb. Itneeded no second glance on my part to assure me who he was--even if thedark bright eyes had not been caught by the flash of my cloak, andgravely raised for a moment as I flew by. I dashed on, breasting thewind. To reach the bunch of reeds seemed more than ever desirable now. Iwould make it my sole companion until it was time to go away. At leasthe had seen me, and I was safe from any _contretemps_--he would avoid meas strenuously as I avoided him. But the first fresh lust after pleasurewas gone. Just one moment's glance into a face had had the power toalter everything so much. I skated on, as fast, as surely as ever, but, "A joy has taken flight. "

The pleasant sensation of solitude, which I could so easily have feltamong a thousand people had he not been counted among them, was gone. The roll of my skates upon the ice had lost its music for me; the windfelt colder--I sadder. At least I thought so. Should I go away again nowthat this disturbing element had appeared upon the scene? No, no, no, said something eagerly within me, and I bit my lip, and choked back akind of sob of disgust as I realized that despite my gloomy reflectionsmy heart was beating a high, rapid march of--joy! as I skimmed, allalone, far away from the crowd, among the dismal withered reeds, andround the little islets of stiffened grass and rushes which were frozenupright in their places. 

The daylight faded, and the moon rose. The people were going away. Thedistant buzz of laughter had grown silent. I could dimly discern somefew groups, but very few, still left, and one or two solitary figures. Even my preternatural eagerness could not discern who they were! Thedarkness, the long walk home, the probe at seven, which I should be tootired to attend, all had quite slipped from my mind; it was possiblethat among those figures which I still dimly saw, was yet remaining thatof Courvoisier, and surely there was no harm in my staying here. 

I struck out in another direction, and flew on in the keen air; thefrosty moon shedding a weird light upon the black ice; I saw the railwaylines, polished, gleaming too in the light; the belt of dark firs to myright; the red sand soil frozen hard and silvered over with frost. Flatand tame, but still beautiful. I felt a kind of rejoicing in it; I feltit home. I was probably the first person who had been there since thefreezing of the mere, thought I, and that idea was soon converted to acertainty in my mind, for in a second my rapid career was interrupted. At the furthest point from help or human presence the ice gave way witha crash, and I shrieked aloud at the shock of the bitter water. Oh, howcold it was! how piercing, frightful, numbing! It was not deep--scarcelyabove my knees, but the difficulty was how to get out. Put my hand whereI would the ice gave way. I could only plunge in the icy water, feelingthe sodden grass under my feet. What sort of things might there not bein that water? A cold shudder, worse than any ice, shot through me atthe idea of newts and rats and water-serpents, absurd though it was. Iscreamed again in desperation, and tried to haul myself out by catchingat the rushes. They were rotten with the frost and gave way in my hand. I made a frantic effort at the ice again; stumbled and fell on my kneesin the water. I was wet all over now, and I gasped. My limbs achedagonizingly with the cold. I should be, if not drowned, yet benumbed, frozen to death here alone in the great mere, among the frozen reeds andunder the steely sky. 

I was pausing, standing still, and rapidly becoming almost too benumbedto think or hold myself up, when I heard the sound of skates and theweird measure of the "Lenore March" again. I held my breath; I desiredintensely to call out, shriek aloud for help, but I could not. Not aword would come. 

"I did hear some one, " he muttered, and then in the moonlight he cameskating past, saw me, and stopped. 

"_Sie_, Fräulein!" he began, quickly, and then altering his tone. "Theice has broken. Let me help you. "

"Don't come too near; the ice is very thin--it doesn't hold at all, " Ichattered, scarcely able to get the words out. 

"You are cold?" he asked, and smiled. I felt the smile cruel; andrealized that I probably looked rather ludicrous. 

"Cold!" I repeated, with an irrepressible short sob. 

He knelt down upon the ice at about a yard's distance from me. 

"Here it is strong, " said he, holding out his arms. "Lean this way, _mein Fräulein_, and I will lift you out. "

"Oh, no! You will certainly fall in yourself. "

"Do as I tell you, " he said, imperatively, and I obeyed, leaning alittle forward. He took me round the waist, lifted me quietly out of thewater, and placed me upon the ice at a discreet distance from the holein which I had been stuck, then rose himself, apparently undisturbed bythe effort. 

Miserable, degraded object that I felt! My clothes clinging round me;icy cold, shivering from head to foot; so aching with cold that I couldno longer stand. As he opened his mouth to say something about its being"happily accomplished, " I sunk upon my knees at his feet. My strengthhad deserted me; I could no longer support myself. 

"Frozen!" he remarked to himself, as he stooped and half raised me. "Isee what must be done. Let me take off your skates--_sonst geht'snicht_. "

I sat down upon the ice, half hysterical, partly from the sense of thedegrading, ludicrous plight I was in, partly from intense yet painfuldelight at being thus once more with him, seeing some recognition in hiseyes again, and hearing some cordiality in his voice. 

He unfastened my skates deftly and quickly, slung them over his arm, andhelped me up again. I essayed feebly to walk, but my limbs were numbwith cold. I could not put one foot before the other, but could onlycling to his arm in silence. 

"So!" said he, with a little laugh. "We are all alone here! A fine timefor a moonlight skating. "

"Ah! yes, " said I, wearily, "but I can't move. "

"You need not, " said he. "I am going to carry you away in spite ofyourself, like a popular preacher. "

He put his arm round my waist and bade me hold fast to his shoulder. Iobeyed, and directly found myself carried along in a swift, delightfulmovement, which seemed to my drowsy, deadened senses, quick as thenimble air, smooth as a swallow's flight. He was a consummate master inthe art of skating--that was evident. A strong, unfailing arm held mefast. I felt no sense of danger, no fear lest he should fall or stumble;no such idea entered my head. 

We had far to go--from one end of the great Schwanenspiegel to theother. Despite the rapid motion, numbness overcame me; my eyes closed, my head sunk upon my hands, which were clasped over his shoulder. A sobrose to my throat. In the midst of the torpor that was stealing over me, there shot every now and then a shiver of ecstasy so keen as to almostterrify me. But then even that died away. Everything seemed to whirlround me--the meadows and trees, the stiff rushes and the great blacksheet of ice, and the white moon in the inky heavens became only aconfused dream. Was it sleep or faintness, or coma? What was it thatseemed to make my senses as dull as my limbs, and as heavy? I scarcelyfelt the movement, as he lifted me from the ice to the ground. His shoutdid not waken me, though he sent the full power of his voice ringing outtoward the pile of buildings to our left. 

With the last echo of his voice I lost consciousness entirely; allfailed and faded, and then vanished before me, until I opened my eyesagain feebly, and found myself in a great stony-looking room, before abig black stove, the door of which was thrown open. I was lying upon asofa, and a woman was bending over me. At the foot of the sofa, leaningagainst the wall, was Courvoisier, looking down at me, his arms folded, his face pensive. 

"Oh, dear!" cried I, starting up. "What is the matter? I must go home. "

"You shall--when you can, " said Courvoisier, smiling as he had smiledwhen I first knew him, before all these miserable misunderstandings hadcome between us. 

My apprehensions were stilled. It did me good, warmed me, sent the tearstrembling to my eyes, when I found that his voice had not resumed theold accent of ice, nor his eyes that cool, unrecognizing stare which hadfrozen me so many a time in the last few weeks. 

"_Trinken sie 'mal, Fräulein_, " said the woman, holding a glass to mylips; it held hot spirits and water, which smoked. 

"Bah!" replied I, gratefully, and turning away. "_Nie, nie!_" sherepeated. "You must drink just a _Schnäppschen_, Fräulein. "

I pushed it away with some disgust. Courvoisier took it from her handand held it to me. 

"Don't be so foolish and childish. Think of your voice after this, " saidhe, smiling kindly; and I, with an odd sensation, choked down my tearsand drank it. It was bad--despite my desire to please, I found it verybad. 

"Yes, I know, " said he, with a sympathetic look, as I made a horribleface after drinking it, and he took the glass. "And now this woman willlend you some dry things. Shall I go straight to Elberthal and send adrosky here for you, or will you try to walk home?"

"Oh, I will walk. I am sure it would be the best--if--do you think itwould?"

"Do you feel equal to it? is the question, " he answered, and I wassurprised to see that though I was looking hard at him he did not lookat me, but only into the glass he held. 

"Yes, " said I. "And they say that people who have been nearly drownedshould always walk; it does them good. "

"In that case then, " said he, repressing a smile, "I should say it wouldbe better for you to try. But pray make haste and get your wet thingsoff, or you will come to serious harm. "

"I will be as quick as ever I can. "

"Now hurry, " he replied, sitting down, and pulling one of the woman'schildren toward him. "Come, _mein Junge_, tell me how old you are?"

I followed the woman to an inner room, where she divested me of mydripping things, and attired me in a costume consisting of a short fullbrown petticoat, a blue woolen jacket, thick blue knitted stockings, anda pair of wide low shoes, which habiliments constituted the uniform ofthe orphan asylum of which she was matron, and belonged to her niece. 

She expatiated upon the warmth of the dress, and did not produce anyouter wrap or shawl, and I, only anxious to go, said nothing, buttwisted up my loose hair, and went back into the large stony room beforespoken of, from which a great noise had been proceeding for some time. 

I stood in the door-way and saw Eugen surrounded by other children, inaddition to the one he had first called to him. There were likewise twodogs, and they--the children, the dogs, and Herr ConcertmeisterCourvoisier most of all--were making as much noise as they possiblycould. I paused for a moment to have the small gratification of watchingthe scene. One child on his knee and one on his shoulder pulling hishair, which was all ruffled and on end, a laugh upon his face, a dancinglight in his eyes as if he felt happy and at home among all the littleflaxen heads. 

Could he be the same man who had behaved so coldly to me? My heart wentout to him in this kinder moment. Why was he so genial with thosechildren and so harsh to me, who was little better than a child myself?

His eye fell upon me as he held a shouting and kicking child high in theair, and his own face laughed all over in mirth and enjoyment. 

"Come here, Miss Wedderburn; this is Hans, there is Fritz, and here isFranz--a jolly trio; aren't they?"

He put the child into his mother's arms, who regarded him with an eye ofapproval, and told him that it was not every one who knew how toingratiate himself with her children, who were uncommonly spirited. 

"Ready?" he asked, surveying me and my costume and laughing. "Don't youfeel a stranger in these garments?"

"No! Why?"

"I should have said silk and lace and velvet, or fine muslins andembroideries, were more in your style. "

"You are quite mistaken. I was just thinking how admirably this costumesuits me, and that I should do well to adopt it permanently. "

"Perhaps there was a mirror in the inner room, " he suggested. 

"A mirror! Why?"

"Then your idea would quite be accounted for. Young ladies must ofcourse wish to wear that which becomes them. "

"Very becoming!" I sneered, grandly. 

"Very, " he replied, emphatically. "It makes me wish to be an orphan. "

"Ah, _mein Herr_, " said the woman, reproachfully, for he had spokenGerman. "Don't jest about that. If you have parents--"

"No, I haven't, " he interposed, hastily. 

"Or children either?"

"I should not else have understood yours so well, " he laughed. "Come, my--Miss Wedderburn, if you are ready. "

After arranging with the woman that she should dry my things and returnthem, receiving her own in exchange, we left the house. 

It was quite moonlight now; the last faint streak of twilight haddisappeared. The way that we must traverse to reach the town stretchedbefore us, long, straight, and flat. 

"Where is your shawl?" he asked, suddenly. 

"I left it; it was wet through. "

Before I knew what he was doing, he had stripped off his heavy overcoat, and I felt its warmth and thickness about my shoulders. 

"Oh, don't!" I cried, in great distress, as I strove to remove it again, and looked imploringly into his face. 

"Don't do that. You will get cold; you will--"

"Get cold!" he laughed, as if much amused, as he drew the coat around meand fastened it, making no more ado of my resisting hands than if theyhad been bits of straw. 

"So!" said he, pushing one of my arms through the sleeve. "Now, " as hestill held it fastened together, and looked half laughingly at me, "doyou intend to keep it on or not?"

"I suppose I must. "

"I call that gratitude. Take my arm--so. You are weak yet. "

We walked on in silence for some time. I was happy; for the first timesince the night I had heard "Lohengrin" I was happy and at rest. True, no forgiveness had been asked or extended; but he had ceased to behaveas if I were not forgiven. 

"Am I not going too fast?" he inquired. 

"N--no. "

"Yes, I am, I see. We will moderate the pace a little. "

We walked more slowly. Physically I was inexpressibly weary. Thereaction after my drenching had set in; I felt a languor which amountedto pain, and an aching and weakness in every limb. I tried to regret theevent, but could not; tried to wish it were not such a long walk toElberthal, and found myself perversely regretting that it was such ashort one. 

At length the lights of the town came in sight. I heaved a deep sigh. Soon it would be over--"the glory and the dream. "

"I think we are exactly on the way to your house, _nicht wahr_?" saidhe. 

"Yes; and to yours since we are opposite neighbors. "

"Yes. "

"You are not as lonely as I am, though; you have companions. "

"I--oh--Friedhelm; yes. "

"And--your little boy. "

"Sigmund also, " was all he said. 

But "_auch_ Sigmund" may express much more in German than in English. Itdid so then. 

"And you?" he added. 

"I am alone, " said I. 

I did not mean to be foolishly sentimental. The sigh that followed mywords was involuntary. 

"So you are. But I suppose you like it?"

"Like it? What can make you think so?"

"Well, at least you have good friends. "

"Have I? Oh, yes, of course!" said I, thinking of von Francius. 

"Do you get on with your music?" he next inquired. 

"I hope so. I--do you think it strange that I should live there allalone?" I asked, tormented with a desire to know what he did think ofme, and crassly ready to burst into explanations on the leastprovocation. I was destined to be undeceived. 

"I have not thought about it at all; it is not my business. "

Snub number one. He had spoken quickly, as if to clear himself as muchas possible from any semblance of interest to me. 

I went on, rashly plunging into further intricacies of conversation:

"It is curious that you and I should not only live near to each other, but actually have the same profession at last. "

"How?"

Snub number two. But I persevered. 

"Music. Your profession is music, and mine will be. "

"I do not see the resemblance. There is little point of likeness betweena young lady who is in training for a prima-donna and an obscuremusiker, who contributes his share of shakes and runs to the symphony. "

"I in training for a prima-donna! How can you say so?"

"Do we not all know the forte of Herr von Francius? And--excuse me--arenot your windows opposite to ours, and open as a rule? Can I not hearthe music you practice, and shall I not believe my own ears?"

"I am sure your own ears do not tell you that a future prima-donna livesopposite to you, " said I, feeling most insanely and unreasonably hurtand cut up at the idea. 

"Will you tell me that you are not studying for the stage?"

"I never said I was not. I said I was not a future prima-donna. My voiceis not half good enough. I am not clever enough, either. "

He laughed. 

"As if voice or cleverness had anything to do with it. Personalappearance and friends at court are the chief things. I have knownprime-donne--seen them, I mean--and from my place below the foot-lightsI have had the impertinence to judge them upon their own merits. Provided they were handsome, impudent, and unscrupulous enough, theirpublic seemed gladly to dispense with art, cultivation, or genius intheir performances and conceptions. "

"And you think that I am, or shall be in time, handsome, impudent, andunscrupulous enough, " said I, in a low choked tone. 

My fleeting joy was being thrust back by hands most ruthless. Unmixedsatisfaction for even the brief space of an hour or so was not to beincluded in my lot. 

"_O, bewahre!_" said he, with a little laugh, that chilled me stillfurther. "I think no such thing. The beauty is there, _meinFräulein_--pardon me for saying so--"

Indeed, I was well able to pardon it. Had he been informing hisgrandmother that there were the remains of a handsome woman to be tracedin her, he could not have spoken more unenthusiastically. 

"The beauty is there. The rest, as I said, when one has friends, thesethings are arranged for one. "

"But I have no friends. "

"No, " with again that dry little laugh. "Perhaps they will be providedat the proper time, as Elijah was fed by the ravens. Some finenight--who knows--I may sit with my violin in the orchestra at yourbenefit, and one of the bouquets with which you are smothered may fallat my feet and bring me _aus der fuge_. When that happens, will youforgive me if I break a rose from the bouquet before I toss it on to thefeet of its rightful owner? I promise that I will seek for no note, norspy out any ring or bracelet. I will only keep the rose in remembranceof the night when I skated with you across the Schwanenspiegel, andprophesied unto you the future. It will be a kind of 'I told you so, ' onmy part. "

Mock sentiment, mock respect, mock admiration; a sneer in the voice, adry sarcasm in the words. What was I to think? Why did he veer round inthis way, and from protecting kindness return to a raillery which wasmore cruel than his silence? My blood rose, though, at the mockingnessof his tone. 

"I don't know what you mean, " said I, coldly. "I am studying operaticmusic. If I have any success in that line, I shall devote myself to it. What is there wrong in it? The person who has her living to gain mustuse the talents that have been given her. My talent is my voice;it is the only thing I have--except, perhaps, some capacity tolove--those--who are kind to me. I can do that, thank God! Beyond thatI have nothing, and I did not make myself. "

"A capacity to love those who are kind to you, " he said, hastily. "Anddo you love all who are kind to you?"

"Yes, " said I, stoutly, though I felt my face burning. 

"And hate them that despitefully use you?"

"Naturally, " I said, with a somewhat unsteady laugh. A rush of my rulingfeeling--propriety and decent reserve--tied my tongue, and I could notsay, "Not all--not always. "

He, however, snapped, as it were, at my remark or admission, and choseto take it as if it were in the deepest earnest; for he said, quickly, decisively, and, as I thought, with a kind of exultation:

"Ah, then I will be disagreeable to you. "

This remark, and the tone in which it was uttered, came upon me with ashock which I can not express. He would be disagreeable to me because Ihated those who were disagreeable to me, _ergo_, he wished me to hatehim. But why? What was the meaning of the whole extraordinaryproceeding?

"Why?" I asked, mechanically, and asked nothing more. 

"Because then you will hate me, unless you have the good sense to do soalready. "

"Why? What effect will my hatred have upon you?"

"None. Not a jot. _Gar keine. _ But I wish you to hate me, nevertheless. "

"So you have begun to be disagreeable to me by pulling me out of thewater, lending me your coat, and giving me your arm all along this hard, lonely road, " said I, composedly. 

He laughed. 

"That was before I knew of your peculiarity. From to-morrow morning on Ishall begin. I will make you hate me. I shall be glad if you hate me. "

I said nothing. My head felt bewildered; my understanding benumbed. Iwas conscious that I was very weary--conscious that I should like tocry, so bitter was my disappointment. 

As we came within the town, I said:

"I am very sorry, Herr Courvoisier, to have given you so much trouble. "

"That means that I am to put you into a cab and relieve you of mycompany. "

"It does not, " I ejaculated, passionately, jerking my hand from his arm. "How can you say so? How dare you say so?"

"You might meet some of your friends, you know. "

"And I tell you I have no friends except Herr von Francius, and I am notaccountable to him for my actions. "

"We shall soon be at your house now. "

"Herr Courvoisier, have you forgiven me?"

"Forgiven you what?"

"My rudeness to you once. "

"Ah, _mein Fräulein_, " said he, shrugging his shoulders a little andsmiling slightly, "you are under a delusion about that circumstance. Howcan I forgive that which I never resented?"

This was putting the matter in a new, and, for me, an humbling light. 

"Never resented!" I murmured, confusedly. 

"Never. Why should I resent it? I forgot myself, _nicht wahr_! and youshowed me at one and the same time my proper place and your ownexcellent good sense. You did not wish to know me, and I did not resentit. I had no right to resent it. "

"Excuse me, " said I, my voice vibrating against my will; "you are wrongthere, and either you are purposely saying what is not true, or you havenot the feelings of a gentleman. " His arm sprung a little aside as Iwent on, amazed at my own boldness. "I did not show you your 'properplace. ' I did not show my own good sense. I showed my ignorance, vanity, and surprise. If you do not know that, you are not what I take youfor--a gentleman. "

"Perhaps not, " said he, after a pause. "You certainly did not take mefor one then. Why should I be a gentleman? What makes you suppose I amone?"

Questions which, however satisfactorily I might answer them to myself, Icould not well reply to in words. I felt that I had rushed upon a topicwhich could not be explained, since he would not own himself offended. Ihad made a fool of myself and gained nothing by it. While I was rackingmy brain for some satisfactory closing remark, we turned a corner andcame into the Wehrhahn. A clock struck seven. 

"_Gott im Himmel!_" he exclaimed. "Seven o'clock! The opera--_da geht'sschon an!_ Excuse me, Fräulein, I must go. Ah, here is your house. "

He took the coat gently from my shoulders, wished me _gute besserung_, and ringing the bell, made me a profound bow, and either not noticing ornot choosing to notice the hand which I stretched out toward him, strodeoff hastily toward the theater, leaving me cold, sick, and miserable, todigest my humble pie with what appetite I might. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

CUI BONO?

Christmas morning. And how cheerfully I spent it! I tried first of allto forget that it was Christmas, and only succeeded in impressing thefact more forcibly and vividly upon my mind, and with it others; thefact that I was alone especially predominating. And a German Christmasis not the kind of thing to let a lonely person forget his lonelinessin; its very bustle and union serves to emphasize their solitude tosolitary people. 

I had seen such quantities of Christmas-trees go past the day before. One to every house in the neighborhood. One had even come here, and thewidow of the piano-tuner had hung it with lights and invited somechildren to make merry for the feast of Weihnachten Abend. 

Every one had a present except me. Every one had some one with whom tospend their Christmas--except me. A little tiny Christmas-tree had goneto the rooms whose windows faced mine. I had watched its arrival; foronce I had broken through my rule of not deliberately watching myneighbors, and had done so. The tree arrived in the morning. It was kepta profound mystery from Sigmund, who was relegated, much to his disgust, to the society of Frau Schmidt down-stairs, who kept a vigilant watchupon him and would not let him go upstairs on any account. 

The afternoon gradually darkened down. My landlady invited me to joinher party down-stairs; I declined. The rapturous, untutored joy of halfa dozen children had no attraction for me; the hermit-like watching ofthe scene over the way had. I did not light my lamp. I was secure ofnot being disturbed; for Frau Lutzler, when I would not come to her, hadsent my supper upstairs, and said she would not be able to come to meagain that evening. 

"So much the better!" I murmured, and put myself in a window corner. 

The lights over the way were presently lighted. For a moment I trembledlest the blinds were going to be put down, and all my chance of spyingspoiled. But no; my neighbors were careless fellows--not given towatching their neighbors themselves nor to suspecting other people ofit. The blinds were left up, and I was free to observe all that passed. 

Toward half past five I saw by the light of the street-lamp, whichwas just opposite, two people come into the house; a young man whoheld the hand of a little girl. The young man was Karl Linders, thevioloncellist; the little girl, I supposed, must be his sister. Theywent upstairs, or rather Karl went upstairs; his little sister remainedbelow. 

There was a great shaking of hands and some laughing when Karl came intothe room. He produced various packages which were opened, their contentscriticised, and hung upon the tree. Then the three men surveyed theirhandiwork with much satisfaction. I could see the whole scene. Theycould not see my watching face pressed against the window, for they werein light and I was in darkness. 

Friedhelm went out of the room, and, I suppose, exerted his lungs fromthe top of the stairs, for he came back, flushed and laughing, andpresently the door opened, and Frau Schmidt, looking like the motherof the Gracchi, entered, holding a child by each hand. She nevermoved a muscle. She held a hand of each, and looked alternatelyat them. Breathless, I watched. It was almost as exciting as if Ihad been joining in the play--more so, for to me everything was_sur l'imprévu_--revealed piecemeal, while to them some degree offoreknowledge must exist, to deprive the ceremony of some of its charms. 

There was awed silence for a time. It was a pretty scene. In the middleof the room a wooden table; upon it the small green fir, covered withlittle twinkling tapers; the orthodox waxen angels, and strings of ballsand bonbons hanging about--the white _Christ-kind_ at the top in thearms of Father Christmas. The three men standing in a semi-circle at oneside; how well I could see them! A suppressed smile upon Eugen's face, such as it always wore when pleasing other people. Friedhelm notallowing the smile to fully appear upon his countenance, but with agrave delight upon his face, and with great satisfaction beaming fromhis luminous brown eyes. Karl with his hands in his pockets, and anattitude by which I knew he said, "There! what do you think of that?"Frau Schmidt and the two children on the other side. 

The tree was not a big one. The wax-lights were probably cheap ones; thegifts that hung upon the boughs or lay on the table must have beenmeasured by the available funds of three poor musicians. But the wholeaffair did its mission admirably--even more effectively than an officialcommission to (let us say) inquire into the cause of the loss of anironclad. It--the tree I mean, not the commission--was intended toexcite joy and delight, and it did excite them to a very high extent. Itwas meant to produce astonishment in unsophisticated minds--it did thattoo, and here it has a point in common with the proceedings of thecommission respectfully alluded to. 

The little girl who was a head taller than Sigmund, had quantities offlaxen hair plaited in a pigtail and tied with light blue ribbon--new;and a sweet face which was a softened girl miniature of her brother's. She jumped for joy, and eyed the tree and the bonbons, and everythingelse with irrepressible rapture. Sigmund was not given to effusivedeclaration of his emotion, but after gazing long and solemnly at theshow, his eyes turned to his father, and the two smiled in the oddmanner they had, as if at some private understanding existing betweenthemselves. Then the festivities were considered inaugurated. 

Friedhelm Helfen took the rest of the proceedings into his own hands;and distributed the presents exactly as if he had found them all growingon the tree, and had not the least idea what they were nor whence theycame. A doll which fell to the share of the little Gretchen was fromSigmund, as I found from the lively demonstrations that took place. Gretchen kissed him, at which every one laughed, and made him kiss thedoll, or receive a kiss from it--a waxy salute which did not seem tocause him much enthusiasm. 

I could not see what the other things were, only it was evident thatevery one gave every one else something, and Frau Schmidt's face relaxedinto a stern smile on one or two occasions, as the young men presentedher one after the other with some offering, accompanied with speechesand bows and ceremony. A conspicuous parcel done up in white paper wasleft to the last. Then Friedhelm took it up, and apparently made a longharangue, for the company--especially Karl Linders--became attentive. Isaw a convulsive smile twitch Eugen's lips now and then, as the orationproceeded. Karl by and by grew even solemn, and it was with an almostawe-struck glance that he at last received the parcel from Friedhelm'shands, who gave it as if he were bestowing his blessing. 

Great gravity, eager attention on the part of the children, who pressedup to him as he opened it; then the last wrapper was torn off, and to myutter amazement and bewilderment Karl drew forth a white woolly animalof indefinite race, on a green stand. The look which crossed his facewas indescribable; the shout of laughter which greeted the discoverypenetrated even to my ears. 

With my face pressed against the window I watched; it was really toointeresting. But my spying was put an end to. A speech appeared to bemade to Frau Schmidt, to which she answered by a frosty smile and anelaborate courtesy. She was apparently saying good-night, but, with theinstinct of a housekeeper, set a few chairs straight, pulled atable-cloth, and pushed a footstool to its place, and in her tour roundthe room her eyes fell upon the windows. She came and put the shuttersto. In one moment it had all flashed from my sight--tree and faces andlamp-light and brightness. 

I raised my chin from my hands, and found that I was cold, numb, andstiff. I lighted the lamp, and passed my hands over my eyes; but couldnot quite find myself, and instead of getting to some occupation of myown, I sat with Richter's "Through Bass and Harmony" before me and a penin my hand, and wondered what they were doing now. 

It was with the remembrance of this evening in my mind to emphasize myloneliness that I woke on Christmas morning. 

At post-time my landlady brought me a letter, scented, monogrammed, with the Roman post-mark. Adelaide wrote:

 "I won't wish you a merry Christmas. I think it is such nonsense. Who does have a merry Christmas now, except children and paupers? And, all being well--or rather ill, so far as I am concerned--we shall meet before long. We are coming to Elberthal. I will tell you why when we meet. It is too long to write--and too vexatious" (this word was half erased), "troublesome. I will let you know when we come, and our address. How are you getting on?

 "ADELAIDE. "

I was much puzzled with this letter, and meditated long over it. Something lay in the background. Adelaide was not happy. It surely couldnot be that Sir Peter gave her any cause for discomfort. Impossible! Didhe not dote upon her? Was not the being able to "turn him round herfinger" one of the principal advantages of her marriage? And yet, thatshe should be coming to Elberthal of her own will, was an idea which myunderstanding declined to accept. She must have been compelled toit--and by nothing pleasant. This threw another shadow over my spirit. 

Going to the window, I saw again how lonely I was. The people werepassing in groups and throngs; it was Christmas-time; they were glad. They had nothing in common with me. I looked inside my room--bare, meager chamber that it was--the piano the only thing in it that was morethan barely necessary, and a great wonder came over me. 

"What is the use of it all? What is the use of working hard? Why am Ileading this life? To earn money, and perhaps applause--some time. Well, and when I have got it--even supposing, which is extremely improbable, that I win it while I am young and can enjoy it--what good will it dome? I don't believe it will make me very happy. I don't know that I longfor it very much. I don't know why I am working for it, except becauseHerr von Francius has a stronger will than I have, and rather compels meto it. Otherwise--

"Well, what should I like? What do I wish for?" At the moment I seemedto feel myself free from all prejudice and all influence, and surveyingwith a calm, impartial eye possibilities and prospects, I could notdiscover that there was anything I particularly wished for. Hadsomething within me changed during the last night?

I had been so eager before; I felt so apathetic now. I looked across theway. I dimly saw Courvoisier snatch up his boy, hold him in the air, andthen, gathering him to him, cover him with kisses. I smiled. At themoment I felt neutral--experienced neither pleasure nor pain from thesight. I had loved the man so eagerly and intensely--with such warmth, fervor, and humility. It seemed as if now a pause had come (only for atime, I knew, but still a pause) in the warm current of delusion, and Icontemplated facts with a dry, unmoved eye. After all--what was he? Aman who seemed quite content with his station--not a particularly goodor noble man that I could see; with some musical talent which he turnedto account to earn his bread. He had a fine figure, a handsome face, awinning smile, plenty of presence of mind, and an excellent opinion ofhimself. 

Stay! Let me be fair--he had only asserted his right to be treated as agentleman by one whom he had treated in every respect as a lady. He didnot want me--nor to know anything about me--else, why could he laugh forvery glee as his boy's eyes met his? Want me? No! he was rich already. What he had was sufficient for him, and no wonder, I thought, with ajealous pang. 

Who would want to have anything to do with grown-up people, with theirlarger selfishnesses, more developed self-seeking--robust jealousies andfull-grown exactions and sophistications, when they had a beautifullittle one like that? A child of one's own--not any child, but that verychild to love in that ideal way. It was a relation that one scarcelysees out of a romance; it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. 

His life was sufficient to him. He did not suffer as I had beensuffering. Suppose some one were to offer him a better post than that henow had. He would be glad, and would take it without a scruple. Perhaps, for a little while some casual thought of me might now and then crosshis mind--but not for long; certainly in no importunate or troublesomemanner. While I--why was I there, if not for his sake? What, when Iaccepted the proposal of von Francius, had been my chief thought? Ithad been, though all unspoken, scarcely acknowledged--yet a whisperedforce--"I shall not lose sight of him--of Eugen Courvoisier. " I wasrightly punished. 

I felt no great pain just now in thinking of this. I saw myself, andjudged myself, and remembered how Faust had said once, in an immortalpassage, half to himself, half to Mephisto:

 "Entbehren sollst du; sollst entbehren. "

And that read both ways, it comes to the same thing. 

 "Entbehren sollst du; sollst entbehren. "

It flitted rhythmically through my mind on this dreamful morning, when Iseemed a stranger to myself; or rather, when I seemed to stand outsidemyself, and contemplate, calmly and judicially, the heart which had oflate beaten and throbbed with such vivid, and such unreasoning, unconnected pangs. It is as painful and as humiliating a description ofself-vivisection as there is, and one not without its peculiar merits. 

The end of my reflections was the same as that which is, I believe, often arrived at by the talented class called philosophers, who spendmuch learning and science in going into the questions about whose skirtsI skimmed; many of them, like me, after summing up, say, _Cui bono?_

So passed the morning, and the gray cloud still hung over my spirits. Mylandlady brought me a slice of _kuchen_ at dinner-time, for Christmas, and wished me _guten appetit_ to it, for which I thanked her withgravity. 

In the afternoon I turned to the piano. After all it was Christmas-day. After beginning a bravura singing exercise, I suddenly stopped myself, and found myself, before I knew what I was about, singing the "AdesteFidelis"--till I could not sing any more. Something rose in mythroat--ceasing abruptly, I burst into tears, and cried plentifully overthe piano keys. 

"In tears, Fräulein May! _Aber_--what does that mean?"

I looked up. Von Francius stood in the door-way, looking not unkindly atme, with a bouquet in his hand of Christmas roses and ferns. 

"It is only because it is Christmas, " said I. 

"Are you quite alone?"

"Yes. "

"So am I. "

"You! But you have so many friends. "

"Have I? It is true, that if friends count by the number of invitationsthat one has, I have many. Unfortunately I could not make up my mind toaccept any. As I passed through the flower-market this morning I thoughtof you--naturally. It struck me that perhaps you had no one to come andwish you the Merry Christmas and Happy New-year which belongs to you ofright, so I came, and have the pleasure to wish it you now, with theseflowers, though truly they are not _Maiblümchen_. "

He raised my hand to his lips, and I was quite amazed at the sense ofstrength, healthiness, and new life which his presence brought. 

"I am very foolish, " I remarked; "I ought to know better. But I amunhappy about my sister, and also I have been foolishly thinking of oldtimes, when she and I were at home together. "

"_Ei!_ That is foolish. Those things--old times and all that--are thevery deuce for making one miserable. Strauss--he who writes dancemusic--has made a waltz, and called it 'The Good Old times. ' _LieberHimmel!_ Fancy waltzing to the memory of old times. A requiem or afuneral march would have been intelligible. "

"Yes. "

"Well, you must not sit here and let these old times say what they liketo you. Will you come out with me?"

"Go out!" I echoed, with an unwilling shrinking from it. My soulpreferred rather to shut herself up in her case and turn surlily awayfrom the light outside. But, as usual, he had his way. 

"Yes--out. The two loneliest people in Elberthal will make a littlezauberfest for themselves. I will show you some pictures. There are somenew ones at the exhibition. Make haste. "

So calm, so matter-of-fact was his manner, so indisputable did he seemto think his proposition, that I half rose; then I sat down again. 

"I don't want to go out, Herr von Francius. "

"That is foolish. Quick! before the daylight fades and it grows too darkfor the pictures. "

Scarcely knowing why I complied, I went to my room and put on mythings. What a shabby sight I looked! I felt it keenly; so much, thatwhen I came back and found him seated at the piano, and playing awonderful in-and-out fugue of immense learning and immense difficulty, and quite without pathos or tenderness, I interrupted him incontinently. 

"Here I am, Herr von Francius. You have asked the most shabbily dressedperson in Elberthal to be your companion. I have a mind to make you holdto your bargain, whether you like it or not. "

Von Francius turned, surveying me from head to foot, with a smile. Allthe pedagogue was put off. It was holiday-time. I was half vexed atmyself for beginning to feel as if it were holiday-time with me too. 

We went out together. The wind was raw and cold, the day dreary, thestreets not so full as they had been. We went along the street pastthe Tonhalle, and there we met Courvoisier alone. He looked at us, but though von Francius raised his hat, he did not notice us. Therewas a pallid change upon his face, a fixed look in his eyes, a strange, drawn, subdued expression upon his whole countenance. My heart leapedwith an answering pang. That mood of the morning had fled. I had"found myself again, " but again not "happily. "

I followed von Francius up the stairs of the picture exhibition. No onewas in the room. All the world had other occupations on Christmasafternoon, or preferred the stove-side and the family circle. 

Von Francius showed me a picture which he said every one was talkingabout. 

"Why?" I inquired when I had contemplated it, and failed to find itlovely. 

"The drawing, the grouping, are admirable, as you must see. The artdisplayed is wonderful. I find the picture excellent. "

"But the subject?" said I. 

It was not a large picture, and represented the interior of an artist'satelier. In the foreground a dissipated-looking young man tilted hischair backward as he held his gloves in one hand, and with the otherstroked his mustache, while he contemplated a picture standing on aneasel before him. The face was hard, worn, _blasé_; the features, originally good, and even beautiful, had had all the latent lovelinessworn out of them by a wrong, unbeautiful life. He wore a tall hat, verymuch to one side, as if to accent the fact that the rest of the company, upon whom he had turned his back, certainly did not merit that he shouldbe at the trouble of baring his head to them. And the rest of thecompany--a girl, a model, seated on a chair upon a raised dais, dressedin a long, flounced white skirt, not of the freshest, some kindof Oriental wrap falling negligently about it--arms, models ofshapeliness, folded, and she crouching herself together as ifwearied, or contemptuous, or perhaps a little chilly. Upon a divannear her a man--presumably the artist to whom the establishmentpertained--stretched at full length, looking up carelessly intoher face, a pipe in his mouth, with indifference and--scarcelyimpertinence--it did not take the trouble to be a fully developedimpertinence--in every gesture. This was the picture; faithful to life, significant in its very insignificance, before which von Francius sat, and declared that the drawing, coloring, and grouping were perfect. [B]

[Footnote B: The original is by Charles Herman, of Brussels. ]

"The subject?" he echoed, after a pause. "It is only a scrap ofartist-life. "

"Is that artist-life?" said I, shrugging my shoulders. "I do not like itat all; it is common, low, vulgar. There is no romance about it; it onlyreminds one of stale tobacco and flat champagne. "

"You are too particular, " said von Francius, after a pause, and with aflavor of some feeling which I did not quite understand tincturing hisvoice. 

For my part, I was looking at the picture and thinking of whatCourvoisier had said: "Beauty, impudence, assurance, and an admiringpublic. " That the girl was beautiful--at least, she had the batteredremains of a decided beauty; she had impudence certainly, and assurancetoo, and an admiring public, I supposed, which testified its admirationby lolling on a couch and staring at her, or keeping its hat on andturning its back to her. 

"Do you really admire the picture, Herr von Francius?" I inquired. 

"Indeed I do. It is so admirably true. That is the kind of life intowhich I was born, and in which I was for a long time brought up; but Iescaped from it. "

I looked at him in astonishment. It seemed so extraordinary thatthat model of reticence should speak to me, above all, about himself. It struck me for the very first time that no one ever spoke of vonFrancius as if he had any one belonging to him. Calm, cold, lonely, self-sufficing--and self-sufficing, too, because he must be so, becausehe had none other to whom to turn--that was his character, and viewinghim in that manner I had always judged him. But what might the truth be?

"Were you not happy when you were young?" I asked, on a quick impulse. 

"Happy! Who expects to be happy? If I had been simply not miserable, Ishould have counted my childhood a good one; but--"

He paused a moment, then went on:

"Your great novelist, Dickens, had a poor, sordid kind of childhoodin outward circumstances. But mine was spiritually sordid--hideous, repulsive. There are some plants which spring from and flourish in mudand slime; they are but a flabby, pestiferous growth, as you maysuppose. I was, to begin with, a human specimen of that kind; I was inan atmosphere of moral mud, an intellectual hot-bed. I don't know whatthere was in me that set me against the life; that I never can tell. Itwas a sort of hell on earth that I was living in. One day somethinghappened--I was twelve years old then--something happened, and it seemedas if all my nature--its good and its evil, its energies and indolence, its pride and humility--all ran together, welded by the furnace ofpassion into one furious, white-hot rage of anger, rebellion. In aninstant I had decided my course; in an hour I had acted upon it. I am anodd kind of fellow, I believe. I quitted that scene and have nevervisited it since. I can not describe to you the anger I then felt, andto which I yielded. Twelve years old I was then. I fought hard formany years; but, _mein Fräulein_"--(he looked at me, and paused amoment)--"that was the first occasion upon which I ever was reallyangry; it has been the last. I have never felt the sensation of angersince--I mean personal anger. Artistic anger I have known; the anger atbad work, at false interpretations, at charlatanry in art; but I havenever been angry with the anger that resents. I tell you this as acuriosity of character. With that brief flash all resentment seemed toevaporate from me--to exhaust itself in one brief, resolute, effectiveattempt at self-cleansing, self-government. "

He paused. 

"Tell me more, Herr von Francius, " I besought. "Do not leave off there. Afterward?"

"You really care to hear? Afterward I lived through hardships in plenty;but I had effectually severed the whole connection with that whichdragged me down. I used all my will to rise. I am not boasting, butsimply stating a peculiarity of my temperament when I tell you that whatI determine upon I always accomplish. I determined upon rising, and Ihave risen to what I am. I set it, or something like it, before me as mygoal, and I have attained it. "

"Well?" I asked, with some eagerness; for I, after all my unfulfilledstrivings, had asked myself _Cui bono?_ "And what is the end of it? Areyou satisfied?"

"How quickly and how easily you see!" said he, with a smile. "I valuethe position I have, in a certain way--that is, I see the advantage itgives me, and the influence. But that deep inner happiness, which liesoutside of condition and circumstances--that feeling of the poet in'Faust'--don't you remember?--

 "'I nothing had, and yet enough'--

all that is unknown to me. For I ask myself, _Cui bono?_"

"Like me, " I could not help saying. 

He added:

"Fräulein May, the nearest feeling I have had to happiness has been theknowing you. Do you know that you are a person who makes joy?"

"No, indeed I did not. "

"It is true, though. I should like, if you do not mind--if you can sayit truly--to hear from your lips that you look upon me as your friend. "

"Indeed, Herr von Francius, I feel you my very best friend, and I wouldnot lose your regard for anything, " I was able to assure him. 

And then, as it was growing dark, the woman from the receipt of customby the door came in and told us that she must close the rooms. 

We got up and went out. In the street the lamps were lighted, and thepeople going up and down. 

Von Francius left me at the door of my lodgings. 

"Good-evening, _liebes Fräulein_; and thank you for your company thisafternoon. "

 * * * * *

A light burned steadily all evening in the sitting-room of my oppositeneighbors; but the shutters were closed. I only saw a thin stream comingthrough a chink. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

 "Es ist bestimmt, in Gottes Rath, Dass man vom Liebsten was man hat Muss scheiden. "

Our merry little zauberfest of Christmas-eve was over. Christmas morningcame. I remember that morning well--a gray, neutral kind of day, whosemonotony outside emphasized the keenness of emotion within. 

On that morning the postman came--a rather rare occurrence with us; for, except with notes from pupils, notices of proben, or other officialcommunications, he seldom troubled us. 

It was Sigmund who opened the door; it was he who took the letter, andwished the postman "good-morning" in his courteous little way. I daresay that the incident gave an additional pang afterward to the father, if he marked it, and seldom did the smallest act or movement of hischild escape him. 

"Father, here is a letter, " he said, giving it into Eugen's hand. 

"Perhaps it is for Friedel; thou art too ready to think that everythingappertains to thy father, " said Eugen, with a smile, as he took theletter and looked at it; but before he had finished speaking the smilehad faded. There remained a whiteness, a blank, a haggardness. 

I had caught a glimpse of the letter; it was large, square, massive, andthere was a seal upon the envelope--a regular letter of fate out of aromance. 

Eugen took it into his hand, and for once he made no answer to thecaress of his child, who put his arms round his neck and wanted to climbupon his knee. He allowed the action, but passively. 

"Let me open it!" cried Sigmund. "Let me open thy letter!"

"No, no, child!" said Eugen, in a sharp, pained tone. "Let it alone. "

Sigmund looked surprised, and recoiled a little; a shock clouding hiseyes. It was all right if his father said no, but a shade presentlycrossed his young face. His father did not usually speak so; did notusually have that white and pallid look about the eyes--above all, didnot look at his son with a look that meant nothing. 

Eugen was usually prompt enough in all he did, but he laid aside thatletter, and proposed in a subdued tone that we should have breakfast. Which we had, and still the letter lay unopened. And when breakfastwas over he even took up his violin and played runs and shakes andscales--and the air of a drinking song, which sounded grotesque incontrast with the surroundings. This lasted for some time, and yet theletter was not opened. It seemed as if he could not open it. I knew thatit was with a desperate effort that he at last took it up, and--wentinto his room and shut the door. 

I was reading--that is, I had a book in my hands, and was stretched outin the full luxury of an unexpected holiday upon the couch; but I couldno more have read under the new influence, could no more have helpedwatching Sigmund, than I could help breathing and feeling. 

He, Sigmund, stood still for a moment, looking at the closed door;gazing at it as if he expected it to open, and a loved hand to beckonhim within. But it remained pitilessly shut, and the little boy had toaccommodate himself as well as he could to a new phase in his mentalhistory--the being excluded--left out in the cold. After making animpulsive step toward the door he turned, plunged his hands into hispockets as if to keep them from attacking the handle of that closeddoor, and walking to the window, gazed out, silent and motionless. Iwatched; I was compelled to watch. He was listening with every faculty, every fiber, for the least noise, the faintest movement from the roomfrom which he was shut out. I did not dare to speak to him. I was verymiserable myself; and a sense of coming loss and disaster was drivenfirmly into my mind and fixed there--a heavy prevision of inevitablesorrow and pain overhung my mind. I turned to my book and tried to read. It was one of the most delightful of romances that I held--no other than"Die Kinder der Welt"--and the scene was that in which Edwin andToinette make that delightful, irregular Sunday excursion to theCharlottenburg, but I understood none of it. With that pathetic littlereal figure taking up so much of my consciousness, and every moment moreinsistently so, I could think of nothing else. 

Dead silence from the room within; utter and entire silence, whichlasted so long that my misery grew acute, and still that little figure, which was now growing terrible to me, neither spoke nor stirred. I donot know how long by the clock we remained in these relative positions;by my feelings it was a week; by those of Sigmund, I doubt not, ahundred years. But he turned at last, and with a face from which alltrace of color had fled walked slowly toward the closed door. 

"Sigmund!" I cried, in a loud whisper. "Come here, my child! Stay here, with me. "

"I must go in, " said he. He did not knock. He opened the door softly, and went in, closing it after him. I know not what passed. There wassilence as deep as before, after one short, inarticulate murmur. Thereare some moments in this our life which are at once sacrificial, sacramental, and strong with the virtue of absolution for sins past;moments which are a crucible from which a stained soul may come outwhite again. Such were these--I know it now--in which father and sonwere alone together. 

After a short silence, during which my book hung unheeded from my hand, I left the house, out of a sort of respect for my two friends. I hadnothing particular to do, and so strolled aimlessly about, first intothe Hofgarten, where I watched the Rhine, and looked Hollandward alongits low, flat shores, to where there was a bend, and beyond the bend, Kaiserswerth. It is now long since I saw the river. Fair are his bankshigher up--not at Elberthal would he have struck the stranger as being astream for which to fight and die; but to me there is no part of hisbanks so lovely as the poor old Schöne Aussicht in the ElberthalHofgarten, from whence I have watched the sun set flaming over the broadwater, and felt my heart beat to the sense of precious possessions inthe homely town behind. Then I strolled through the town, and comingdown the Königsallée, beheld some bustle in front of a large, imposing-looking house, which had long been shut up and uninhabited. Ithad been a venture by a too shortly successful banker. He had built thehouse, lived in it three months, and finding himself bankrupt, had onemorning disposed of himself by cutting his throat. Since then the househad been closed, and had had an ill name, though it was the handsomestbuilding in the most fashionable part of the town, with a grand_porte-cochère_ in front, and a pleasant, enticing kind of bowery gardenbehind--the house faced the Exerzierplatz, and was on the promenade ofElberthal. A fine chestnut avenue made the street into a pleasant wood, and yet Königsallée No. 3 always looked deserted and depressing. Ipaused to watch the workmen who were throwing open the shutters anduncovering the furniture. There were some women-servants busy with brushand duster in the hall, and a splendid barouche was being pushed throughthe _porte-cochère_ into the back premises; a couple of trim-lookingEnglish grooms with four horses followed. 

"Is some one coming to live here?" I demanded of a workman, who madeanswer:

"_Ja wohl!_ A rich English milord has taken the house furnished for sixmonths--Sir Le Marchant, _oder so etwas_. I do not know the name quitecorrectly. He comes in a few days. "

"So!" said I, wondering what attraction Elberthal could offer to arich English sir or milord, and feeling at the same time a mildglow of curiosity as to him and his circumstances, for I humbly confessit--I had never seen an authentic milord. Elberthal and Köln werealmost the extent of my travels, and I only remembered that at theNiederrheinisches Musikfest last year some one had pointed out to me adecrepit-looking old gentleman, with a bottle-nose and a meaninglesseye, as a milord--very, very rich, and exceedingly good. I had sorroweda little at the time in thinking that he did not personally better gracehis circumstances and character, but until this moment I had neverthought of him again. 

"That is his secretary, " pursued the workman to me, in an under-tone, ashe pointed out a young man who was standing in the middle of the hall, note-book in hand. "Herr Arkwright. He is looking after us. "

"When does the _Engländer_ come?"

"In a few days, with his servants and milady, and milady's maid and dogsand bags and everything. And she--milady--is to have those rooms"--hepointed overhead, and grinned--"those where Banquier Klein was foundwith his throat cut. _Hè!_"

He laughed, and began to sing lustily, "In Berlin, sagt' er. "

After giving one more short survey to the house, and wondering why theapartments of a suicide should be assigned to a young and beautifulwoman (for I instinctively judged her to be young and beautiful), I wenton my way, and my thoughts soon returned to Eugen and Sigmund, and thattrouble which I felt was hanging inevitably over us. 

 * * * * *

Eugen was, that evening, in a mood of utter, cool aloofness. His troubledid not appear to be one that he could confide--at present, at least. Hetook up his violin and discoursed most eloquent music, in the dark, towhich music Sigmund and I listened. Sigmund sat upon my knee, and Eugenwent on playing--improvising, or rather speaking the thoughts which wereuppermost in his heart. It was wild, strange, melancholy, sometimessweet, but ever with a ringing note of woe so piercing as to stab, recurring perpetually--such a note as comes throbbing to life now andthen in the "Sonate Pathetique, " or in Raff's Fifth Symphony. 

Eugen always went to Sigmund after he had gone to bed, and talked to himor listened to him. I do not know if he taught him something like aprayer at such times, or spoke to him of supernatural things, or uponwhat they discoursed. I only know that it was an interchange of soul, and that usually he came away from it looking glad. But to-night, afterremaining longer than usual, he returned with a face more haggard than Ihad seen it yet. 

He sat down opposite me at the table, and there was silence, with anever-deepening, sympathetic pain on my part. At last I raised my eyes tohis face; one elbow rested upon the table, and his head leaned upon hishand. The lamp-light fell full upon his face, and there was that in itwhich would let me be silent no longer, any more than one could see acomrade bleeding to death, and not try to stanch the wound. I stepped upto him and laid my hand upon his shoulder. He looked up drearily, unrecognizingly, unsmilingly at me. 

"Eugen, what hast thou?"

"_La mort dans l'âme_, " he answered, quoting from a poem which we hadboth been reading. 

"And what has caused it?"

"Must you know, friend?" he asked. "If I did not need to tell it, Ishould be very glad. "

"I must know it, or--or leave you to it!" said I, choking back someemotion. "I can not pass another day like this. "

"And I had no right to let you spend such a day as this, " he answered. "Forgive me once again, Friedel--you who have forgiven so much and sooften. "

"Well, " said I, "let us have the worst, Eugen. It is something about--"

I glanced toward the door, on the other side of which Sigmund wassleeping. 

His face became set, as if of stone. One word, and one alone, after ashort pause, passed his lips--"_Ja!_"

I breathed again. It was so then. 

"I told you, Friedel, that I should have to leave him?"

The words dropped out one by one from his lips, distinct, short, steady. 

"Yes. "

"That was bad, very bad. The worst, I thought, that could befall; but itseems that my imagination was limited. "

"Eugen, what is it?"

"I shall not have to leave him. I shall have to send him away from me. "

As if with the utterance of the words, the very core and fiber ofresolution melted away and vanished, and the broken spirit turnedwrithing and shuddering from the phantom that extended its arms for thesacrifice, he flung his arms upon the table; his shoulders heaved. Iheard two suppressed, choked-down sobs--the sobs of a strong man--strongalike in body and mind; strongest of all in the heart and spirit andpurpose to love and cherish. 

"_La mort dans l'âme_, " indeed! He could have chosen no fitterexpression. 

"Send him away!" I echoed, beneath my breath. 

"Send my child away from me--as if I--did not--want him, " saidCourvoisier, slowly, and in a voice made low and halting with anguish, as he lifted his gaze, dim with the desperate pain of coming parting, and looked me in the face. 

I had begun in an aimless manner to pace the room, my heart on fire, my brain reaching wildly after some escape from the fetters ofcircumstance, invisible but iron strong, relentless as cramps andglaives of tempered steel. I knew no reason, of course. I knew nooutward circumstances of my friend's life or destiny. I did not wish tolearn any. I did know that since he said it was so it must be so. Sigmund must be sent away! He--we--must be left alone; two poor men, with the brightness gone from our lives. 

The scene does not let me rightly describe it. It was an anguish alliedin its intensity to that of Gethsemane. Let me relate it as briefly as Ican. 

I made no spoken assurance of sympathy. I winced almost at the idea ofspeaking to him. I knew then that we may contemplate, or believe wecontemplate, some coming catastrophe for years, believing that so thesuffering, when it finally falls, will be lessened. This is a delusion. Let the blow rather come short, sharp, and without forewarning;preparation heightens the agony. 

"Friedel, " said he at last, "you do not ask why must this be. "

"I do not need to ask why. I know that it must be, or you would not doit. "

"I would tell you if I could--if I might. "

"For Heaven's sake, don't suppose that I wish to pry--" I began. Heinterrupted me. 

"You will make me laugh in spite of myself, " said he. "You wish to pry!Now, let me see how much more I can tell you. You perhaps think itwrong, in an abstract light, for a father to send his young son awayfrom him. That is because you do not know what I do. If you did, youwould say, as I do, that it must be so--I never saw it till now. Thatletter was a revelation. It is now all as clear as sunshine. "

I assented. 

"Then you consent to take my word that it must be so, without more. "

"Indeed, Eugen, I wish for no more. "

He looked at me. "If I were to tell you, " said he, suddenly, and animpulsive light beamed in his eyes. A look of relief--it was nothingelse--of hope, crossed his face. Then he sunk again into his formerattitude--as if tired and wearied with some hard battle; exhausted, orwhat we more expressively call _niedergeschlagen_. 

"Now something more, " he went on; and I saw the frown of desperationthat gathered upon his brow. He went on quickly, as if otherwise hecould not say what had to be said: "When he goes from me, he goes tolearn to become a stranger to me. I promise not to see him, nor write tohim, nor in any way communicate with him, or influence him. Wepart--utterly and entirely. "

"Eugen! Impossible! _Herrgott!_ Impossible!" cried I, coming to a stop, and looking incredulously at him. That I did not believe. "Impossible!"I repeated, beneath my breath. 

"By faith men can move mountains, " he retorted. 

This, then, was the flavoring which made the cup so intolerable. 

"You say that that is and must be wrong under all circumstances, " saidEugen, eying me steadily. 

I paused. I could almost have found it in my heart to say, "Yes, I do. "But my faith in and love for this man had grown with me; as a dailyprayer grows part of one's thoughts, so was my confidence in him part ofmy mind. He looked as if he were appealing to me to say that it must bewrong, and so give him some excuse to push it aside. But I could not. After wavering for a moment, I answered:

"No. I am sure you have sufficient reasons. "

"I have. God knows I have. "

In the silence that ensued my mind was busy. Eugen Courvoisier was not areligious man, as the popular meaning of religious runs. He did not sayof his misfortune, "It is God's will, " nor did he add, "and thereforesweet to me. " He said nothing of whose will it was; but I felt that hadthat cause been a living thing--had it been a man, for instance, hewould have gripped it and fastened to it until it lay dead and impotent, and he could set his heel upon it. 

But it was no strong, living, tangible thing. It was a breathlessabstraction--a something existing in the minds of men, and which theycall "Right!" and being that--not an outside law which an officer ofthe law could enforce upon him; being that abstraction, he obeyed it. 

As for saying that because it was right he liked it, or felt anyconsolation from the knowledge--he never once pretended to any suchthing; but, true to his character of Child of the World, hated it witha hatred as strong as his love for the creature which it deprived himof. Only--he did it. He is not alone in such circumstances. Others haveobeyed and will again obey this invisible law in circumstances asanguishing as those in which he stood, will steel their hearts tohardness while every fiber cries out, "Relent!" or will, like him, writhe under the lash, shake their chained hands at Heaven, and--submit. 

"One more question, Eugen. When?"

"Soon. "

"A year would seem soon to any of us three. "

"In a very short time. It may be in weeks; it may be in days. Now, Friedhelm, have a little pity and don't probe any further. "

But I had no need to ask any more questions. The dreary evening passedsomehow over, and bed-time came, and the morrow dawned. 

For us three it brought the knowledge that for an indefinite timeretrospective happiness must play the part of sun on our mental horizon. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

"My Lady's Glory. "

"Königsallée, No. 3, " wrote Adelaide to me, "is the house which has beentaken for us. We shall be there on Tuesday evening. "

I accepted this communication in my own sense, and did not go to meetAdelaide, nor visit her that evening, but wrote a card, saying I wouldcome on the following morning. I had seen the house which had been takenfor Sir Peter and Lady Le Marchant--a large, gloomy-looking house, witha tragedy attached to it, which had stood empty ever since I had come toElberthal. 

Up to the fashionable Königsallée, under the naked chestnut avenue, andpast the great long Caserne and Exerzierplatz--a way on which I did notas a rule intrude my ancient and poverty-stricken garments, I went onthe morning after Adelaide's arrival. Lady Le Marchant had not yet lefther room, but if I were Miss Wedderburn I was to be taken to herimmediately. Then I was taken upstairs, and had time to remark upon thecontrast between my sister's surroundings and my own, before I wasdelivered over to a lady's-maid--French in nationality--who opened adoor and announced me as Mlle. Veddairebairne. I had a rapid, dimimpression that it was quite the chamber of a _grande dame_, in themidst of which stood my lady herself, having slowly risen as I came in. 

"At last you have condescended to come, " said the old proud, curt voice. 

"How are you, Adelaide?" said I, originally, feeling that any display ofemotion would be unwelcome and inappropriate, and moreover, feeling anydesire to indulge in the same suddenly evaporate. 

She took my hand loosely, gave me a little chilly kiss on the cheek, andthen held me off at arms'-length to look at me. 

I did not speak. I could think of nothing agreeable to say. The onlywords that rose to my lips were, "How very ill you look!" and I wiselyconcluded not to say them. She was very beautiful, and looked prouderand more imperious than ever. But she was changed. I could not tell whatit was. I could find no name for the subtle alteration; ere long I knewonly too well what it was. Then, I only knew that she was different fromwhat she had been, and different in a way that aroused tenfold all myvague forebodings. 

She was wasted too--had gone, for her, quite thin; and the repressedrestlessness of her eyes made a disagreeable impression upon me. Was sheperhaps wasted with passion and wicked thoughts? She looked as if itwould not have taken much to bring the smoldering fire into a blaze offull fury--as if fire and not blood ran in her veins. 

She was in a loose silk dressing-gown, which fell in long folds abouther stately figure. Her thick black hair was twisted into a knot abouther head. She was surrounded on all sides with rich and costly things. All the old severe simplicity of style had vanished--it seemed as if shehad gratified every passing fantastic wish or whim of her restless, reckless spirit, and the result was a curious medley of the ugly, grotesque, ludicrous and beautiful--a feverish dream of Cleopatra-likeluxury, in the midst of which she stood, as beautiful and sinuous as aserpent, and looking as if she could be, upon occasion, as poisonous asthe same. 

She looked me over from head to foot with piercing eyes, and then saidhalf scornfully, half enviously:

"How well a stagnant life seems to suit some people! Now you--you areimmensely improved--unspeakably improved. You have grown into a prettywoman--more than a pretty woman. I shouldn't have thought a few monthscould make such an alteration in any one. "

Her words struck me as a kind of satire upon herself. 

"I might say the same to you, " said I, constrainedly. "I think you arevery much altered. "

Indeed I felt strangely ill at ease with the beautiful creature who, Ikept trying to convince myself, was my sister Adelaide, but who seemedfurther apart from me than ever. But the old sense of fascination whichshe had been wont to exercise over me returned again in all or in morethan its primitive strength. 

"I want to talk to you, " said she, forcing me into a deep easy-chair. "Ihave millions of things to ask you. Take off your hat and mantle. Youmust stay all day. Heavens! how shabby you are! I never saw anything soworn out--and yet your dress suits you, and you look nice in it. " (Shesighed deeply. ) "Nothing suits me now. Formerly I looked well ineverything. I should have looked well in rags, and people would haveturned to look after me. Now, whatever I put on makes me look hideous. "

"Nonsense!"

"It does--And I am glad of it, " she added, closing her lips as if sheclosed in some bitter joy. 

"I wish you would tell me why you have come here, " I inquired, innocently. "I was so astonished. It was the last place I should havethought of your coming to. "

"Naturally. But you see Sir Peter adores me so that he hastens togratify my smallest wish. I expressed a desire one day to see you, andtwo days afterward we were _en route_. He said I should have my wish. Sisterly love was a beautiful thing, and he felt it his duty toencourage it. "

I looked at her, and could not decide whether she were in jest orearnest. If she were in jest, it was but a sorry kind of joke--if inearnest, she chose a disagreeably flippant manner of expressing herself. 

"Sir Peter has great faith in annoying and thwarting me, " she went on. "He has been looking better and more cheerful ever since we left Rome. "

"But Adelaide--if you wished to leave Rome--"

"But I did not wish to leave Rome. I wished to stay--so we came away, you know. "

The suppressed rage and hatred in her tone made me feel uncomfortable. Iavoided speaking, but I could not altogether avoid looking at her. Oureyes met, and Adelaide burst into a peal of harsh laughter. 

"Oh, your face, May! It is a study! I had a particular objection tocoming to Elberthal, therefore Sir Peter instantly experienced aparticular desire to come. When you are married you will understandthese things. I was almost enjoying myself in Rome; I suppose SirPeter was afraid that familiarity might bring dislike, or that if westayed too long I might feel it dull. This is a gay, lively place, Ibelieve--we came here, and for aught I know we are going to stay here. "

She laughed again, and I sat aghast. I had been miserable aboutAdelaide's marriage, but I had very greatly trusted in what she hadprognosticated about being able to do what she liked with him. I begannow to think that there must have been some miscalculation--that shehad mistaken the metal and found it not quite so ductile as she hadexpected. I knew enough of her to be aware that I was probably the firstperson to whom she had spoken in such a manner, and that not even to mewould she have so spoken unless some strong feeling had prompted her toit. This made me still more uneasy. She held so fast by the fine polishof the outside of the cup and platter. Very likely the world in generalsupposed that she and Sir Peter were a model couple. 

"I am glad you are here, " she pursued. "It is a relief to have some oneelse than Arkwright to speak to. "

"Who is Arkwright?"

"Sir Peter's secretary--a very good sort of boy. He knows all about ourdomestic bliss and other concerns--because he can't help. Sir Petertells him--"

A hand on the door-handle outside. A pause ere the persons came in, forSir Peter's voice was audible, giving directions to some one, probablythe secretary of whom Adelaide had spoken. She started violently; thecolor fled from her face; pale dismay painted itself for a moment uponher lips, but only for a moment. In the next she was outwardly herselfagain. But the hand trembled which passed her handkerchief over herlips. 

The door was fully opened, and Sir Peter came in. 

Yes; that was the same face, the same pent-house of ragged eyebrow overthe cold and snaky eye beneath, the same wolfish mouth and permanenthungry smile. But he looked better, stouter, stronger; more cheerful. Itseemed as if my lady's society had done him a world of good, and actedas a kind of elixir of life. 

I observed Adelaide. As he came in her eyes dropped; her hand closedtightly over the handkerchief she held, crushing it together in hergrasp; she held her breath; then, recovered, she faced him. 

"Heyday! Whom have we here?" he asked, in a voice which time and aresidence in hearing of the language of music had not mollified. "Whomhave we here? Your dress-maker, my lady? Have you had to send for adress-maker already? Ha! what? Your sister? Impossible! Miss May, I am delighted to see you again! Are you very well? You look alittle--a--shabby, one might almost say, my dear--a little seedy, hey?"

I had no answer ready for this winning greeting. 

"Rather like my lady before she was my lady, " he continued, pleasantly, as his eyes roved over the room, over its furniture, over us. 

There was power--a horrible kind of strength and vitality in thatfigure--a crushing impression of his potency to make one miserable, conveyed in the strong, rasping voice. Quite a different Sir Peterfrom my erstwhile wooer. He was a masculine, strong, planning creature, whose force of will was able to crush that of my sister as easily asher forefinger might crush a troublesome midge. He was not blind ordriveling; he could reason, plot, argue, concoct a systematic plan forrevenge, and work it out fully and in detail; he was able at once tograsp the broadest bearing and the minute details of a position, and toact upon their intimations with crushing accuracy. He was calm, decided, keen, and all in a certain small, bounded, positive way which made himall the more efficient as a ruling factor in this social sphere, wheresmall, bounded, positive strength, without keen sympathies save in theone direction--self--and without idea of generosity, save with regard toits own merits, pays better than a higher kind of strength--better thanthe strength of Joan of Arc, or St. Stephen, or Christ. 

This was the real Sir Peter, and before the revelation I stood aghast. And that look in Adelaide's eyes, that tone in her voice, thatrestrained spring in her movements, would have been rebellion, revolution, but in the act of breaking forth it became--fear. She hadbeen outwitted, most thoroughly and completely. She had got a jailer anda prison. She feared the former, and every tradition of her life badeher remain in the latter. 

Sir Peter, pleasantly exhilarated by my confusion and my lady's sullensilence, proceeded with an agreeable smile:

"Are you never coming down-stairs, madame? I have been deprived longenough of the delights of your society. Come down! I want you to read tome. "

"I am engaged, as you may see, " she answered in a low voice ofopposition. 

"Then the engagement must be deferred. There is a great deal of readingto do. There is the 'Times' for a week. "

"I hate the 'Times, ' and I don't understand it. "

"So much the more reason why you should learn to do so. In half anhour, " said Sir Peter, consulting his watch, "I shall be ready, or sayin quarter of an hour. "

"Absurd! I can not be ready in quarter of an hour. Where is Mr. Arkwright?"

"What is Mr. Arkwright to you, my dear? You may be sure that Mr. Arkwright's time is not being wasted. If his mamma knew what he wasdoing she would be quite satisfied--oh, quite. In quarter of an hour. "

He was leaving the room, but paused at the door, with a suspicious look. 

"Miss May, it is a pity for you to go away. It will do you good to seeyour sister, I am sure. Pray spend the day with us. Now, my lady, wasteno more time. "

With that he finally departed. Adelaide's face was white, but she didnot address me. She rang for her maid. 

"Dress my hair, Toinette, and do it as quickly as possible. Is my dressready?" was all she said. 

"_Mais oui, madame. _"

"Quick!" she repeated. "You have only quarter of an hour. "

Despite the suppressed cries, expostulations, and announcements that itwas impossible, Adelaide was dressed in quarter of an hour. 

"You will stay, May?" said she; and I knew it was only the presence ofToinette which restrained her from urgently imploring me to stay. 

I remained, though not all day; only until it was time to go and have mylesson from von Francius. During my stay, however, I had ampleopportunity to observe how things were. 

Sir Peter appeared to have lighted upon a congenial occupation somewhatlate in life, or perhaps previous practice had made him an adept in it. His time was fully occupied in carrying out a series of experiments uponhis wife's pride, with a view to humble and bring it to the ground. Ifhe did not fully succeed in that, he succeeded in making her hate him asscarcely ever was man hated before. 

They had now been married some two or three months, and had forsworn allsemblance of a pretense at unity or concord. She thwarted him as much asshe could, and defied him as far as she dared. He played round and roundhis victim, springing upon her at last, with some look, or word, orhint, or smile, which meant something--I know not what--that cowed her. 

Oh, it was a pleasant household!--a cheerful, amiable scene of connubiallove, in which this fair woman of two-and-twenty found herself, withevery prospect of its continuing for an indefinite number of years; forthe Le Marchants were a long-lived family, and Sir Peter ailed nothing. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

 "Wenn Menschen aus einander gehen, So sagen sie, Auf Wiedersehen! Auf Wiedersehen!"

Eugen had said, "Very soon--it may be weeks, it may be days, " and hadbegged me not to inquire further into the matter. Seeing his anguish, Ihad refrained; but when two or three days had passed, and nothing wasdone or said, I began to hope that the parting might not be deferredeven a few weeks; for I believe the father suffered, and with him thechild, enough each day to wipe out years of transgression. 

It was impossible to hide from Sigmund that some great grief threatened, or had already descended upon his father, and therefore upon him. Thechild's sympathy with the man's nature, with every mood and feeling--Ihad almost said his intuitive understanding of his father's verythoughts, was too keen and intense to be hoodwinked or turned aside. Hedid not behave like other children, of course--_versteht sich_, as Eugensaid to me with a dreary smile. He did not hang about his father's neck, imploring to hear what was the matter; he did not weep or wail, or makecomplaints. After that first moment of uncontrollable pain and anxiety, when he had gone into the room whose door was closed upon him, andin which Eugen had not told him all that was coming, he displayedno violent emotion; but he did what was to Eugen and me much moreheart-breaking--brooded silently; grew every day wanner and thinner, andspent long intervals in watching his father, with eyes which nothingcould divert and nothing deceive. If Eugen tried to be cheerful, to puton a little gayety of demeanor which he did not feel in his heart, Sigmund made no answer to it, but continued to look with the samesolemn, large and mournful gaze. 

His father's grief was eating into his own young heart. He asked notwhat it was; but both Eugen and I knew that in time, if it went onlong enough, he would die of it. The picture, "Innocence Dying ofBlood-stain, " which Hawthorne has suggested to us, may have itsprototypes and counterparts in unsuspected places. Here was one. Nor didSigmund, as some others, children both of larger and smaller growth, might have done, turn to me and ask me to tell him the meaning of thesad change which had crept silently and darkly into our lives. Heoutspartaned the Spartan in many ways. His father had not chosen to tellhim; he would die rather than ask the meaning of the silence. 

One night--when some three days had passed since the letter had come--asEugen and I sat alone, it struck me that I heard a weary turning over inthe little bed in the next room, and a stifled sob coming distinctly tomy ears. I lifted my head. Eugen had heard too; he was looking, with anexpression of pain and indecision, toward the door. With a vasteffort--the greatest my regard for him had yet made--I took it uponmyself, laid my hand on his arm, and coercing him again into the chairfrom which he had half risen, whispered:

"I will tell him. You can not. _Nicht wahr?_"

A look was the only, but a very sufficient answer. 

I went into the inner room and closed the door. A dim whiteness ofmoonlight struggled through the shutters, and very, very faintly showedme the outline of the child who was dear to me. Stooping down besidehim, I asked if he were awake. 

"_Ja, ich wache_, " he replied, in a patient, resigned kind of smallvoice. 

"Why dost thou not sleep, Sigmund? Art thou not well?"

"No, I am not well, " he answered; but with an expression of doublemeaning. "_Mir ist's nicht wohl. _"

"What ails thee?"

"If you know what ails him, you know what ails me. "

"Do you not know yourself?" I asked. 

"No, " said Sigmund, with a short sob. "He says he can not tell me. "

I slipped upon my knees beside the little bed, and paused a moment. I amnot ashamed to say that I prayed to something which in my mind existedoutside all earthly things--perhaps to the "Freude" which Schiller sungand Beethoven composed to--for help in the hardest task of my life. 

"Can not tell me. " No wonder he could not tell that soft-eyed, clinging warmth; that subtle mixture of fire and softness, spirit andgentleness--that spirit which in the years of trouble they had passedtogether had grown part of his very nature--that they must part! Nowonder that the father, upon whom the child built his every idea of whatwas great and good, beautiful, right and true in every shape and form, could not say, "You shall not stay with me; you shall be thrust forth tostrangers; and, moreover, I will not see you nor speak to you, nor shallyou hear my name; and this I will do without telling you why"--that hecould not say this--what had the man been who could have said it?

As I knelt in the darkness by Sigmund's little bed, and felt his pillowwet with his silent tears, and his hot cheek touching my hand, I knew itall. I believe I felt for once as a man who has begotten a child andmust hurt it, repulse it, part from it, feels. 

"No, my child, he can not tell thee, because he loves thee so dearly, "said I. "But I can tell thee; I have his leave to tell thee, Sigmund. "

"Friedel?"

"Thou art a very little boy, but thou art not like other boys; thyfather is not just like other fathers. "

"I know it. "

"He is very sad. "

"Yes. "

"And his life which he has to live will be a sad one. "

The child began to weep again. I had to pause. How was I to open my lipsto instruct this baby upon the fearful, profound abyss of a subject--theevil and the sorrow that are in the world--how, how force those littletender, bare feet, from the soft grass on to the rough up-hill path allstrewed with stones, and all rugged with ups and downs? It was horriblycruel. 

"Life is very sad sometimes, _mein_ Sigmund. "

"Is it?"

"Yes. Some people, too, are much sadder than others. I think thy fatheris one of those people. Perhaps thou art to be another. "

"What my father is I will be, " said he, softly; and I thought that itwas another and a holier version of Eugen's words to me, wrung out ofthe inner bitterness of his heart. "The sins of the fathers shall bevisited upon the children, even unto the third and fourth generation, whether they deserve it or not. " The child, who knew nothing of theancient saying, merely said with love and satisfaction swelling hisvoice to fullness, "What my father is, I will be. "

"Couldst thou give up something very dear for his sake?"

"What a queer question!" said Sigmund. "I want nothing when I am withhim. "

"_Ei! mein kind!_ Thou dost not know what I mean. What is the greatestjoy of thy life? To be near thy father and see him, hear his voice, andtouch him, and feel him near thee; _nicht?_"

"Yes, " said he, in a scarcely audible whisper. 

There was a pause, during which I was racking my brains to think of someway of introducing the rest without shocking him too much, when suddenlyhe said, in a clear, low voice:

"That is it. He would never let me leave him, and he would never leaveme. "

Silence again for a few moments, which seemed to deepen some sneakingshadow in the boy's mind, for he repeated through clinched teeth, and ina voice which fought hard against conviction, "Never, never, never!"

"Sigmund--never of his own will. But remember what I said, that he issad, and there is something in his life which makes him not only unableto do what he likes, but obliged to do exactly what he does notlike--what he most hates and fears--to--to part from thee. "

"_Nein, nein, nein!_" said he. "Who can make him do anything he does notwish? Who can take me away from him?"

"I do not know. I only know that it must be so. There is no escapingfrom it, and no getting out of it. It is horrible, but it is so. Sometimes, Sigmund, there are things in the world like this. "

"The world must be a very cruel place, " he said, as if first struck withthat fact. 

"Now dost thou understand, Sigmund, why he did not speak? Couldst thouhave told him such a thing?"

"Where is he?"

"There, in the next room, and very sad for thee. "

Sigmund, before I knew what he was thinking of, was out of bed and hadopened the door. I saw that Eugen looked up, saw the child standing inthe door-way, sprung up, and Sigmund bounded to meet him. A cry as of agreat terror came from the child. Self-restraint, so long maintained, broke down; he cried in a loud, frightened voice:

"_Mein Vater_, Friedel says I must leave thee!" and burst into a stormof sobs and crying such as I had never before known him yield to. Eugenfolded him in his arms, laid his head upon his breast, and clasping himvery closely to him, paced about the room with him in silence, until thefirst fit of grief was over. I, from the dark room, watched them in akind of languor, for I was weary, as though I had gone through somephysical struggle. 

They passed to and fro like some moving dream. Bit by bit the childlearned from his father's lips the pitiless truth, down to the lastbitter drop; that the parting was to be complete, and they were not tosee each other. 

"But never, never?" asked Sigmund, in a voice of terror and painmingled. 

"When thou art a man that will depend upon thyself, " said Eugen. "Thouwilt have to choose. "

"Choose what?"

"Whether thou wilt see me again. "

"When I am a man may I choose?" he asked, raising his head with suddenanimation. 

"Yes; I shall see to that. "

"Oh, very well. I have chosen now, " said Sigmund, and the thought gavehim visible joy and relief. 

Eugen kissed him passionately. Blessed ignorance of the hardeninginfluences of the coming years! Blessed tenderness of heartand singleness of affection which could see no possibility thatcircumstances might make the acquaintance of a now loved and adoredsuperior being appear undesirable! And blessed sanguineness of fiveyears old, which could bridge the gulf between then and manhood, andcry, _Auf wiedersehen!_

 * * * * *

During the next few days more letters were exchanged. Eugen received onewhich he answered. Part of the answer he showed to me, and it ran thus:

"I consent to this, but only upon one condition, which is that when myson is eighteen years old, you tell him all, and give him his choicewhether he see me again or not. My word is given not to interfere in thematter, and I can trust yours when you promise that it shall be as Istipulate. I want your answer upon this point, which is very simple, andthe single condition I make. It is, however, one which I can not andwill not waive. "

"Thirteen years, Eugen, " said I. 

"Yes; in thirteen years I shall be forty-three. "

"You will let me know what the answer to that is, " I went on. 

He nodded. By return of post the answer came. 

"It is 'yes, '" said he, and paused. "The day after to-morrow he is togo. "

"Not alone, surely?"

"No; some one will come for him. "

I heard some of the instructions he gave his boy. 

"There is one man where you are going, whom I wish you to obey as youwould me, Sigmund, " he told him. 

"Is he like thee?"

"No; much better and wiser than I am. But, remember, he never commandstwice. Thou must not question and delay as thou dost with thyweak-minded old father. He is the master in the place thou art goingto. "

"Is it far from here?"

"Not exceedingly far. "

"Hast thou been there?"

"Oh, yes, " said Eugen, in a peculiar tone, "often. "

"What must I call this man?" inquired Sigmund. 

"He will tell thee that. Do thou obey him and endeavor to do what hewishes, and so thou mayst know thou art best pleasing me. "

"And when I am a man I can choose to see thee again. But where wilt thoube?"

"When the time comes thou wilt soon find me if it is necessary--Andthy music, " pursued Eugen. "Remember that in all troubles that may cometo thee, and whatever thou mayst pass through, there is one great, beautiful goddess who abides above the troubles of men, and is oftenmost beautiful in the hearts that are most troubled. Remember--whom?"

"Beethoven, " was the prompt reply. 

"Just so. And hold fast to the service of the goddess Music, the mostbeautiful thing in the world. "

"And thou art a musician, " said Sigmund, with a little laugh, as if it"understood itself" that his father should naturally be a priest of "themost beautiful thing in the world. "

I hurry over that short time before the parting came. Eugen said to me:

"They are sending for him--an old servant. I am not afraid to trust himwith him. "

And one morning he came--the old servant. Sigmund happened at the momentnot to be in the sitting-room; Eugen and I were. There was a knock, andin answer to our _Herein!_ there entered an elderly man of soldierlyappearance, with a grizzled mustache, and stiff, military bearing; hewas dressed in a very plain, but very handsome livery, and on enteringthe room and seeing Eugen, he paused just within the door, and salutedwith a look of deep respect; nor did he attempt to advance further. Eugen had turned very pale. 

It struck me that he might have something to say to this messenger offate, and with some words to that effect I rose to leave them together. Eugen laid his hand upon my arm. 

"Sit still, Friedhelm. " And turning to the man, he added: "How were allwhen you left, Heinrich?"

"Well, Herr Gr--"

"Courvoisier. "

"All were well, _mein Herr_. "

"Wait a short time, " said he. 

A silent inclination on the part of the man. Eugen went into the innerroom where Sigmund was, and closed the door. There was silence. How longdid it endure? What was passing there? What throes of parting? Whatgrief not to be spoken or described?

Meanwhile the elderly man-servant remained in his sentinel attitude, andwith fixed expressionless countenance, within the door-way. Was the timelong to him, or short?

At last the door opened, and Sigmund came out alone. God help us all! Itis terrible to see such an expression upon a child's soft face. Whiteand set and worn as if with years of suffering was the beautiful littleface. The elderly man started, surprised from his impassiveness, as thechild came into the room. An irrepressible flash of emotion crossed hisface; he made a step forward. Sigmund seemed as if he did not see us. Hewas making a mechanical way to the door, when I interrupted him. 

"Sigmund, do not forget thy old Friedhelm!" I cried, clasping him in myarms, and kissing his little pale face, thinking of the day, three yearsago, when his father had brought him wrapped up in the plaid on that wetafternoon, and my heart had gone out to him. 

"_Lieber_ Friedhelm!" he said, returning my embrace, "Love my fatherwhen I--am gone. And--_auf--auf--wiedersehen_!"

He loosed his arms from round my neck and went up to the man, saying:

"I am ready. "

The large horny hand clasped round the small delicate one. Theservant-man turned, and with a stiff, respectful bow to me, led Sigmundfrom the room. The door closed after him--he was gone. The light of twolonely lives was put out. Was our darling right or wrong in thatpersistent _auf wiedersehen_ of his?

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Resignation! Welch' elendes Hulfsmittel! und doch bleibt es mir daseinzig Uebrige--_Briefe_ BEETHOVEN'S. 

Several small events which took place at this time had all theirindirect but strong bearing on the histories of the characters in thisveracious narrative. The great concert of the "Passions-musik" of Bachcame off on the very evening of Sigmund's departure. It was, I confess, with some fear and trembling that I went to call Eugen to his duties, for he had not emerged from his own room since he had gone into it tosend Sigmund away. 

He raised his face as I came in; he was sitting looking out of thewindow, and told me afterward that he had sat there, he believed, eversince he had been unable to catch another glimpse of the carriage whichbore his darling away from him. 

"What is it, Friedel?" he asked, when I came in. 

I suggested in a subdued tone that the concert began in half an hour. 

"Ah, true!" said he, rising; "I must get ready. Let me see, what is it?"

"The 'Passions-musik. '"

"To be sure! Most appropriate music! I feel as if I could write aPassion Music myself just now. "

We had but to cross the road from our dwelling to the concert-room. Aswe entered the corridor two ladies also stepped into it from a verygrand carriage. They were accompanied by a young man, who stood a littleto one side to let them pass; and as they came up and we came up, vonFrancius came up too. 

One of the ladies was May Wedderburn, who was dressed in black, andlooked exquisitely lovely to my eyes, and, I felt, to some others, withher warm auburn hair in shining coils upon her head. The other was awoman in whose pale, magnificent face I traced some likeness to ourfair singer, but she was different; colder, grander, more severe. Itso happened that the ladies barred the way as we arrived, and we hadto stand by for a few moments as von Francius shook hands with MissWedderburn, and asked her smilingly if she were in good voice. 

She answered in the prettiest broken German I ever heard, and thenturned to the lady, saying:

"Adelaide, may I introduce Herr von Francius--Lady Le Marchant. "

A stately bow from the lady--a deep reverence, with a momentary glanceof an admiration warmer than I had ever seen in his eyes, on the partof von Francius--a glance which was instantly suppressed to one ofconventional inexpressiveness. I was pleased and interested with thislittle peep at a rank which I had never seen, and could have stoodwatching them for a long time; the splendid beauty and the great prideof bearing of the English lady were a revelation to me, and opened quitea large, unknown world before my mental eyes. Romances and poems, andmen dying of love, or killing each other for it, no longer seemedridiculous; for a smile or a warmer glance from that icily beautifulface must be something not to forget. 

It was Eugen who pushed forward, with a frown on his brow, and less thanhis usual courtesy. I saw his eyes and Miss Wedderburn's meet; I saw thesudden flush that ran over her fair face; the stern composure of his. Hewould own nothing; but I was strangely mistaken if he could say that itwas merely because he had nothing to own. 

The concert was a success, so far as Miss Wedderburn went. If vonFrancius had allowed repetitions, one song at least would have beenencored. As it was, she was a success. And von Francius spent his timein the pauses with her and her sister; in a grave, sedate way he and theEnglish lady seemed to "get on. "

The concert was over. The next thing that was of any importance tous occurred shortly afterward. Von Francius had long been somewhatunpopular with his men, and at silent enmity with Eugen, who was, on thecontrary, a universal favorite. There came a crisis, and the men sent adeputation to Eugen to say that if he would accept the post of leaderthey would strike, and refuse to accept any other than he. 

This was an opportunity for distinguishing himself. He declined thehonor; his words were few; he said something about how kind we had allbeen to him, "from the time when I arrived; when Friedhelm Helfen, here, took me in, gave me every help and assistance in his power, and showedhow appropriate his name was;[C] and so began a friendship which, pleaseHeaven, shall last till death divides us, and perhaps go on afterward. "He ended by saying some words which made a deep impression upon me. After saying that he might possibly leave Elberthal, he added: "Lastly, I can not be your leader because I never intend to be any one'sleader--more than I am now, " he added, with a faint smile. "A kind ofdeputy, you know. I am not fit to be a leader. I have no gift in thatline--"

[Footnote C: _Helfen_--to help. ]

"_Doch!_" from half a dozen around. 

"None whatever. I intend to remain in my present condition--no lower ifI can help it, but certainly no higher. I have good reasons for knowingit to be my duty to do so. "

And then he urged them so strongly to stand by Herr von Francius that wewere quite astonished. He told them that von Francius would some timerank with Schumann, Raff, or Rubinstein, and that the men who rejectedhim now would then be pointed out as ignorant and prejudiced. 

And amid the silence that ensued, he began to direct us--we had a probeto Liszt's "Prometheus, " I remember. 

He had won the day for von Francius, and von Francius, getting to hearof it, came one day to see him and frankly apologized for his prejudicein the past, and asked Eugen for his friendship in the future. Eugen'sanswer puzzled me. 

"I am glad, you know, that I honor your genius, and wish you well, " saidhe, "and your offer of friendship honors me. Suppose I say I acceptit--until you see cause to withdraw it. "

"You are putting rather a remote contingency to the front, " said vonFrancius. 

"Perhaps--perhaps not, " said Eugen, with a singular smile. "At least Iam glad to have had this token of your sense of generosity. We are ondifferent paths, and my friends are not on the same level as yours--"

"Excuse me; every true artist must be a friend of every other trueartist. We recognize no division of rank or possession. "

Eugen bowed, still smiling ambiguously, nor could von Francius prevailupon him to say anything nearer or more certain. They parted, and longafterward I learned the truth, and knew the bitterness which must havebeen in Eugen's heart; the shame, the gloom; the downcast sorrow, as herefused indirectly but decidedly the thing he would have liked sowell--to shake the hand of a man high in position and honorable inname--look him in the face and say, "I accept your friendship--nor needyou be ashamed of wearing mine openly. "

He refused the advance; he refused that and every other opening foradvancement. The man seemed to have a horror of advancement, or ofcoming in any way forward. He rejected even certain offers which weremade that he should perform some solos at different concerts inElberthal and the neighborhood. I once urged him to become rich and haveSigmund back again. He said: "If I had all the wealth in Germany, itwould divide us further still. "

I have said nothing about the blank which Sigmund's absence made in ourlives, simply because it was too great a blank to describe. Day afterday we felt it, and it grew keener, and the wound smarted more sharply. One can not work all day long, and in our leisure hours we learned toknow only too well that he was gone--and gone indeed. That whichremained to us was the "Resignation, " the "miserable assistant" whichpoor Beethoven indicated with such a bitter smile. We took it to us asinmate and _Hausfreund_, and made what we could of it. 

CHAPTER XXVII

"So runs the world away. "

Königsallée, No. 3, could scarcely be called a happy establishment. Isaw much of its inner life, and what I saw made me feel mortallysad--envy, hatred, and malice; no hour of satisfaction; my sister'sbitter laughs and sneers and jibes at men and things; Sir Peter's calmconsciousness of his power, and his no less calm, crushing, unvaryingmanner of wielding it--of silently and horribly making it felt. Adelaide's very nature appeared to have changed. From a loftyindifference to most things, to sorrow and joy, to the hopes, fears, and feelings of others, she had become eager, earnest, passionate, resenting ill-usage, strenuously desiring her own way, deeply angry whenshe could not get it. To say that Sir Peter's influence upon her wasmerely productive of a negative dislike would be ridiculous. It wasproductive of an intense, active hatred, a hatred which would gladly, ifit could, have vented itself in deeds. That being impossible, it showeditself in a haughty, unbroken indifference of demeanor which it seemedto be Sir Peter's present aim in some way to break down, for not onlydid she hate him--he hated her. 

She used to the utmost what liberty she had. She was not a woman to talkof regret for what she had done, or to own that she had miscalculatedher game. Her life was a great failure, and that failure had beenbrought home to her mind in a mercilessly short space of time; but ofwhat use to bewail it? She was not yet conquered. The bitterness ofspirit which she carried about with her took the form of a scoffingpessimism. A hard laugh at the things which made other people shaketheir heads and uplift their hands; a ready scoff at all tenderness; asneer at anything which could by any stretch of imagination be calledgood; a determined running up of what was hard, sordid, and worldly, anda persistent and utter skepticism as to the existence of the reverse ofthose things; such was now the yea, yea, and nay, nay, of hercommunication. 

To a certain extent she had what she had sold herself for; outside pompand show in plenty--carriages, horses, servants, jewels, and clothes. Sir Peter liked, to use his own expression, "to see my lady blazeaway"--only she must blaze away in his fashion, not hers. He declared hedid not know how long he might remain in Elberthal; spoke vaguely of"business at home, " about which he was waiting to hear, and said thatuntil he heard the news he wanted, he could not move from the place hewas in. He was in excellent spirits at seeing his wife chafing under theconfinement to a place she detested, and appeared to find life sweet. 

Meanwhile she, using her liberty, as I said, to the utmost extent, hadsoon plunged into the midst of the fastest set in Elberthal. 

There was a fast set there as there was a musical set, an artistic set, a religious set, a free-thinking set; for though it was not so large orso rich as many dull, wealthy towns in England, it presented from itsmixed inhabitants various phases of society. 

This set into which Adelaide had thrown herself was the fast one; acoterie of officers, artists, the richer merchants and bankers, medicalmen, literati, and the young (and sometimes old) wives, sisters anddaughters of the same; many of them priding themselves upon not beingnatives of Elberthal, but coming from larger and gayer towns--Berlin, Dresden, Hamburg, Frankfurt, and others. 

They led a gay enough life among themselves--a life of theater, concert, and opera-going, of dances, private at home, public at the Malkasten orArtists' Club, flirtations, marriages, engagements, disappointments, theusual dreary and monotonous round. They considered themselves the onlysociety worthy the name in Elberthal, and whoever was not of their setwas _niemand_. 

I was partly dragged, partly I went to a certain extent of my own will, into this vortex. I felt myself to have earned a larger experience nowof life and life's realities. I questioned when I should once havediscreetly inclined the head and held my peace. I had a mind to examinethis clique and the characters of some of its units, and see in what itwas superior to some other acquaintances (in an humbler sphere) withwhom my lot had been cast. As time went on I found the points ofsuperiority to decrease--those of inferiority rapidly to increase. 

I troubled myself little about them and their opinions. My joys andgriefs, hopes and fears, lay so entirely outside their circle that Iscarce noticed whether they noticed me or not. I felt and behaved coldlytoward them! to the women because their voices never had the ring ofgenuine liking in speaking to me; to the men because I found them as arule shallow, ignorant, and pretentious; repellent to me, as I dare sayI, with my inability to understand them, was to them. I saw most men andthings through a distorting glass; that of contrast, conscious orunconscious, with Courvoisier. 

My musician, I reasoned, wrongly or rightly, had three times their wit, three times their good looks, manners and information, and many timesthree times their common sense, as well as a juster appreciation ofhis own merits; besides which, my musician was not a person whoseacquaintance and esteem were to be had for the asking--or even for agreat deal more than the asking, while it seemed that these younggentleman gave their society to any one who could live in a certainstyle and talk a certain _argot_, and their esteem to every one whocould give them often enough the savory meat that their souls loved, andthe wine of a certain quality which made glad their hearts, and renderedthem of a cheerful countenance. 

But my chief reason for mixing with people who were certainly as a ruleutterly distasteful and repugnant to me, was because I could not bear toleave Adelaide alone. I pitied her in her lonely and alienated misery;and I knew that it was some small solace to her to have me with her. 

The tale of one day will give an approximate idea of most of the days Ispent with her. I was at the time staying with her. Our hours were late. Breakfast was not over till ten, that is by Adelaide and myself. SirPeter was an exceedingly active person, both in mind and body, who sawafter the management of his affairs in England in the minutest mannerthat absence would allow. Toward half past eleven he strolled into theroom in which we were sitting, and asked what we were doing. 

"Looking over costumes, " said I, as Adelaide made no answer, and Iraised my eyes from some colored illustrations. 

"Costumes--what kind of costumes?"

"Costumes for the maskenball, " I answered, taking refuge in brevity ofreply. 

"Oh!" He paused. Then, turning suddenly to Adelaide:

"And what is this entertainment, my lady?"

"The Carnival Ball, " said she, almost inaudibly, between her closedlips, as she shut the book of illustrations, pushed it away from her, and leaned back in her chair. 

"And you think you would like to go to the Carnival Ball, hey?"

"No, I do not, " said she, as she stroked her lap-dog with a long, whitehand on which glittered many rings, and steadily avoided looking at him. She did wish to go to the ball, but she knew that it was as likely asnot that if she displayed any such desire he would prevent it. Despiteher curt reply she foresaw impending the occurrence which she most ofanything disliked--a conversation with Sir Peter. He placed himself inour midst, and requested to look at the pictures. In silence I handedhim the book. I never could force myself to smile when he was there, norovercome a certain restraint of demeanor which rather pleased andflattered him than otherwise. He glanced sharply round in the silencewhich followed his joining our company, and turning over theillustrations, said:

"I thought I heard some noise when I came in. Don't let me interrupt theconversation. "

But the conversation was more than interrupted; it was dead--the lifefrozen out of it by his very appearance. 

"When is the carnival, and when does this piece of tomfoolery come off?"he inquired, with winning grace of diction. 

"The carnival begins this year on the 26th of February. The ball is onthe 27th, " said I, confining myself to facts and figures. 

"And how do you get there? By paying?"

"Well, you have to pay--yes. But you must get your tickets from somemember of the Malkasten Club. It is the artists' ball, and they arrangeit all. "

"H'm! Ha! And as what do you think of going, Adelaide?" he inquired, turning with suddenness toward her. 

"I tell you I had not thought of going--nor thought anything about it. Herr von Francius sent us the pictures, and we were looking over them. That is all. "

Sir Peter turned over the pages and looked at the commonplace costumestherein suggested--Joan of Arc, Cleopatra, Picardy Peasant, MariaStuart, a Snow Queen, and all the rest of them. 

"Well, I don't see anything here that I would wear if I were a woman, "he said, as he closed the book. "February, did you say?"

"Yes, " said I, as no one else spoke. 

"Well, it is the middle of January now. You had better be looking outfor something; but don't let it be anything in those books. Let thebeggarly daubers see how English women do these things. "

"Do you intend me to understand that you wish us to go to the ball?"inquired Adelaide, in an icy kind of voice. 

"Yes, I do, " almost shouted Sir Peter. Adelaide could, despite the whipand rein with which he held her, exasperate and irritate him--by nomeans more thoroughly than by pretending that she did not understandhis grandiloquent allusions, and the vague grandness of the commandswhich he sometimes gave. "I mean you to go, and your little sister here, and Arkwright too. I don't know about myself. Now, I am going to ride. Good-morning. "

As Sir Peter went out, von Francius came in. Sir Peter greeted him witha grin and exaggerated expressions of affability at which von Franciuslooked silently scornful. Sir Peter added:

"Those two ladies are puzzled to know what they shall wear at theCarnival Ball. Perhaps you can give them your assistance. "

Then he went away. It was as if a half-muzzled wolf had left the room. 

Von Francius had come to give me my lesson, which was now generallytaken at my sister's house and in her presence, and after which vonFrancius usually remained some half hour or so in conversation with oneor both of us. He had become an _intime_ of the house. I was glad ofthis, and that without him nothing seemed complete, no party rounded, scarcely an evening finished. 

When he was not with us in the evening, we were somewhere where he was;either at a concert or a probe, or at the theater or opera, or one ofthe fashionable lectures which were then in season. 

It could hardly be said that von Francius was a more frequent visitorthan some other men at the house, but from the first his attitude withregard to Adelaide had been different. Some of those other men were, orprofessed to be, desperately in love with the beautiful English woman;there was always a half gallantry in their behavior, a homage whichmight not be very earnest, but which was homage all the same, to abeautiful woman. With von Francius it had never been thus, but there hadbeen a gravity and depth about their intercourse which pleased me. I hadnever had the least apprehension with regard to those other people; shemight amuse herself with them; it would only be amusement, and somecontempt. 

But von Francius was a man of another mettle. It had struck me almostfrom the first that there might be some danger, and I was unfeignedlythankful to see that as time went on and his visits grew more and morefrequent and the intimacy deeper, not a look, not a sign occurred tohint that it ever was or would be more than acquaintance, liking, appreciation, friendship, in successive stages. Von Francius had neverfrom the first treated her as an ordinary person, but with a kind oftacit understanding that something not to be spoken of lay behind allshe did and said, with the consciousness that the skeleton in Adelaide'scupboard was more ghastly to look upon than most people's secretspecters, and that it persisted, with an intrusiveness and want ofbreeding peculiar to guests of that caliber, in thrusting its societyupon her at all kinds of inconvenient times. 

I enjoyed these music lessons, I must confess. Von Francius had begun toteach me music now, as well as singing. By this time I had resignedmyself to the conviction that such talent as I might have lay in myvoice, not my fingers, and accepted it as part of the conditions whichordain that in every human life shall be something _manqué_, somethingincomplete. 

The most memorable moments with me have been those in which pain andpleasure, yearning and satisfaction, knowledge and seeking, have been soexquisitely and so intangibly blended, in listening to some deep sonata, some stately and pathetic old _ciacconna_ or gavotte, some concerto orsymphony; the thing nearest heaven is to sit apart with closed eyeswhile the orchestra or the individual performer interprets for one themystic poetry, or the dramatic fire, or the subtle cobweb refinements ofsome instrumental poem. 

I would rather have composed a certain little "Traumerei" of Schumann'sor a "Barcarole" of Rubinstein's, or a sonata of Schubert's than havewon all the laurels of Grisi, all the glory of Malibran and Jenny Lind. 

But it was not to be. I told myself so, and yet I tried so hard in myhalting, bungling way to worship the goddess of my idolatry, that mymaster had to restrain me. 

"Stop!" said he this morning, when I had been weakly endeavoring torender a _ciacconna_ from a suite of Lachner's, which had moved me tothoughts too deep for tears at the last symphonie concert. "Stop, Fräulein May! Duty first; your voice before your fingers. "

"Let me try once again!" I implored. 

He shut up the music and took it from the desk. 

"_Entbehren sollst du; sollst entbehren!_" said he, dryly. 

I took my lesson and then practiced shakes for an hour, while he talkedto Adelaide; and then, she being summoned to visitors, he went away. 

Later I found Adelaide in the midst of a lot of visitors--Herr HauptmannThis, Herr Lieutenant That, Herr Maler The Other, Herr ConcertmeisterSo-and-So--for von Francius was not the only musician who followed inher train. But there I am wrong. He did not follow in her train; hemight stand aside and watch the others who did; but following was not inhis line. 

There were ladies there too--gay young women, who rallied round Lady LeMarchant as around a master spirit in the art of _Zeitvertreib_. 

This levée lasted till the bell rang for lunch, when we went into thedining-room, and found Sir Peter and his secretary, young Arkwright, already seated. He--Arkwright--was a good-natured, tender-hearted lad, devoted to Adelaide. I do not think he was very happy or very wellsatisfied with his place, but from his salary he half supported a motherand sister, and so was fain to "grin and bear it. "

Sir Peter was always exceedingly affectionate to me. I hated to be inthe same room with him, and while I detested him, was also conscious ofan unheroic fear of him. For Adelaide's sake I was as attentive to himas I could make myself, in order to free her a little from hissurveillance, for poor Adelaide Wedderburn, with her few pounds ofannual pocket-money, and her proud, restless, ambitious spirit, had beena free, contented woman in comparison with Lady Le Marchant. 

On the day in question he was particularly amiable, called me "my dear"every time he spoke to me, and complimented me upon my good looks, telling me I was growing monstrous handsome--ay, devilish handsome, byGad! far outstripping my lady, who had gone off dreadfully in her goodlooks, hadn't she, Arkwright?

Poor Arkwright, tingling with a scorching blush, and ready to sinkthrough the floor with confusion, stammered out that he had neverthought of venturing to remark upon my Lady Le Marchant's looks. 

"What a lie, Arkwright! You know you watch her as if she was the appleof your eye, " chuckled Sir Peter, smiling round upon the company withhis cold, glittering eyes. "What are you blushing so for, my prettyMay? Isn't there a song something about my pretty May, my dearest May, eh?"

"My pretty Jane, I suppose you mean, " said I, nobly taking his attentionupon myself, while Adelaide sat motionless and white as marble, andArkwright cooled down somewhat from his state of shame and anguish atbeing called upon to decide which of us eclipsed the other in goodlooks. 

"Pretty Jane! Whoever heard of a pretty Jane?" said Sir Peter. "If itisn't May, it ought to be. At any rate, there was a Charming May. "

"The month--not a person. "

"Pretty Jane, indeed! You must sing me that after lunch, and then we cansee whether the song was pretty or not, my dear, eh?"

"Certainly, Sir Peter, if you like. "

"Yes, I do like. My lady here seems to have lost her voice lately. Ican't imagine the reason. I am sure she has everything to make her singfor joy; have you not, my dear?"

"Everything, and more than everything, " replies my lady, laconically. 

"And she has a strong sense of duty, too; loves those whom she ought tolove, and despises those whom she ought to despise. She always has done, from her infancy up to the time when she loved me and despised publicopinion for my sake. "

The last remark was uttered in tones of deeper malignity, while the eyesbegan to glare, and the under lip to droop, and the sharp eye-teeth, which lent such a very emphatic point to all Sir Peter's smiles, sneers, and facial movements in general, gleamed. 

Adelaide's lip quivered for a second; her color momentarily faded. 

In this kind of light and agreeable badinage the meal passed over, andwe were followed into the drawing-room by Sir Peter, loudly demanding"'My Pretty Jane'--or May, or whatever it was. "

"We are going out, " said my lady. "You can have it another time. May cannot sing the moment she has finished lunch. "

"Hold your tongue, my dear, " said Sir Peter; and inspired by anagreeable and playful humor, he patted his wife's shoulder and pinchedher ear. 

The color fled from her very lips and she stood pale and rigid with alook in her eyes which I interpreted to mean a shuddering recoil, stopped by sheer force of will. 

Sir Peter turned with an engaging laugh to me:

"Miss May--bonny May--made me a promise, and she must keep it; or if shedoesn't I shall take the usual forfeit. We know what that is. Upon myword, I almost wish she would break her promise. "

"I have no wish to break my promise, " said I, hastening to the piano, and then and there singing "My Pretty Jane, " and one or two others, after which he released us, chuckling at having contrived to keep mylady so long waiting for her drive. 

The afternoon's programme was, I confess, not without attraction to me;for I knew that I was pretty, and I had not one of the strong andpowerful minds which remained unelated by admiration and undepressed bythe absence of it. 

We drove to the picture exhibitions, and at both of them had a littlecrowd attending us. That crowd consisted chiefly of admirers, orprofessed admirers, of my sister, with von Francius in addition, whodropped in at the first exhibition. 

Von Francius did not attend my sister; it was by my side that heremained and it was to me that he talked. He looked on at the men whowere around her, but scarcely addressed her himself. 

There was a clique of young artists who chose to consider the wealth ofSir Peter Le Marchant as fabulous, and who paid court to his wife frommixed motives; the prevailing one being a hope that she would be smittenby some picture of theirs at a fancy price, and order it to be senthome--as if she ever saw with anything beyond the most superficialoutward eye those pictures, and as if it lay in her power to order anyone, even the smallest and meanest of them. These ingenuous artists hadyet to learn that Sir Peter's picture purchases were formed from his ownjudgment, through the medium of himself or his secretary, armed withstrict injunctions as to price, and upon the most purely practical andbusiness-like principles--not in the least at the caprice of his wife. 

We went to the larger gallery last. As we entered it I turned aside withvon Francius to look at a picture in a small back room, and when weturned to follow the others, they had all gone forward into the largeroom; but standing at the door by which we had entered, and lookingcalmly after us, was Courvoisier. 

A shock thrilled me. It was some time since I had seen him; for I hadscarcely been at my lodgings for a fortnight, and we had had nohaupt-proben lately. I had heard some rumor that important things--or, as Frau Lutzler gracefully expressed it, _was wichtiges_--had takenplace between von Francius and the kapelle, and that Courvoisier hadtaken a leading part in the affair. To-day the greeting between the twomen was a cordial if a brief one. 

Eugen's eyes scarcely fell upon me; he included me in his bow--that wasall. All my little day-dream of growing self-complacency was shattered, scattered; the old feeling of soreness, smallness, wounded pride, andbruised self-esteem came back again. I felt a wild, angry desire tocompel some other glance from those eyes than that exasperating one ofquiet indifference. I felt it like a lash every time I encountered it. Its very coolness and absence of emotion stung me and made me quiver. 

We and Courvoisier entered the large room at the same time. WhileAdelaide was languidly making its circuit, von Francius and I sat uponthe ottoman in the middle of the room. I watched Eugen, even if he tookno notice of me--watched him till every feeling of rest, every hard-wonconviction of indifference to him and feeling of regard conquered cametumbling down in ignominious ruins. I knew he had had a fiery trial. Hischild, for whom I used to watch his adoration with a dull kind of envy, had left him. There was some mystery about it, and much pain. FrauLutzler had begun to tell me a long story culled from one told her byFrau Schmidt, and I had stopped her, but knew that "Herr Courvoisier wasnot like the same man any more. "

That trouble was visible in firmly marked lines, even now; he lookedsubdued, older, and his face was thin and worn. Yet never had I noticedso plainly before the bright light of intellect in his eye; the noblestamp of mind upon his brow. There was more than the grace of a kindlynature in the pleasant curve of the lips--there was thought, power, intellectual strength. I compared him with the young men who were atthis moment dangling round my sister. Not one among them could approachhim--not merely in stature and breadth and the natural grace and dignityof carriage, but in far better things--in the mind that dominates sense;the will that holds back passion with a hand as strong and firm as thatof a master over the dog whom he chooses to obey him. This man--I writefrom knowledge--had the capacity to appreciate and enjoy life--to tasteits pleasures--never to excess, but with no ascetic's lips. But thenatural prompting--the moral "eat, drink, and be merry, " was held backwith a ruthless hand, with chain of iron, and biting thong to chastisepitilessly each restive movement. He dreed out his weird mostthoroughly, and drank the cup presented to him to the last dregs. 

When the weird is very long and hard--when the flavor of the cup isexceeding bitter, this process leaves its effects in the form of soberedmien, gathering wrinkles, and a permanent shadow on the brow, and in theeyes. So it was with him. 

He went round the room, looking at a picture here and there with the eyeof a connoisseur--then pausing before the one which von Francius hadbrought me to look at on Christmas-day, Courvoisier, folding his arms, stood before it and surveyed it, straightly, and without moving amuscle; coolly, criticisingly and very fastidiously. The _blasé_-lookingindividual in the foreground received, I saw, a share of hisattention--the artist, too, in the background; the model, with the whitedress, oriental fan, bare arms, and half-bored, half-cynic look. Helooked at them all long--attentively--then turned away; the only tokenof approval or disapproval which he vouchsafed being a slight smile anda slight shrug, both so very slight as to be almost imperceptible. Thenhe passed on--glanced at some other pictures--at my sister, on whom hiseyes dwelt for a moment as if he thought that she at least made a verybeautiful picture; then out of the room. 

"Do you know him?" said von Francius, quite softly, to me. 

I started violently. I had utterly forgotten that he was at my side, andI know not what tales my face had been telling. I turned to find thedark and impenetrable eyes of von Francius fixed on me. 

"A little, " I said. 

"Then you know a generous, high-minded man--a man who has made me feelashamed of myself--and a man to whom I made an apology the other daywith pleasure. "

My heart warmed. This praise of Eugen by a man whom I admired sodevotedly as I did Max von Francius seemed to put me right with myselfand the world. 

Soon afterward we left the exhibition, and while the others went away itappeared somehow by the merest casualty that von Francius was asked todrive back with us and have afternoon tea, _englischerweise_--which hedid, after a moment's hesitation. 

After tea he left for an orchestra probe to the next Saturday's concert;but with an _auf wiedersehen_, for the probe will not last long, and weshall meet again at the opera and later at the Malkasten Ball. 

I enjoyed going to the theater. I knew my dress was pretty. I knew thatI looked nice, and that people would look at me, and that I, too, shouldhave my share of admiration and compliments as a _schöne Engländerin_. 

We were twenty minutes late--naturally. All the people in the placestare at us and whisper about us, partly because we have a conspicuousplace--the proscenium loge to the right of the stage, partly because weare in full toilet--an almost unprecedented circumstance in that homelytheater--partly, I suppose, because Adelaide is supremely beautiful. 

Mr. Arkwright was already with us. Von Francius joined us after thefirst act, and remained until the end. Almost the only words heexchanged with Adelaide were:

"Have you seen this opera before, Lady Le Marchant?"

"No; never. "

It was Auber's merry little opera, "Des Teufels Antheil. " The play wasplayed. Von Francius was beside me. Whenever I looked down I saw Eugen, with the same calm, placid indifference upon his face; and again I feltthe old sensation of soreness, shame, and humiliation. I feel wroughtup to a great pitch of nervous excitement when we leave the theater anddrive to the Malkasten, where there is more music--dance music, andwhere the ball is at its height. And in a few moments I find myselfwhirling down the room in the arms of von Francius, to the music of"Mein schönster Tag in Baden, " and wishing very earnestly that theheart-sickness I feel would make me ill or faint, or anything that wouldsend me home to quietness and--him. But it does not have the desiredeffect. I am in a fever; I am all too vividly conscious, and people tellme how well I am looking, and that rosy cheeks become me better thanpale ones. 

They are merry parties, these dances at the Malkasten, in the quaintlydecorated saal of the artists' club-house. There is a certain license inthe dress. Velvet coats, and coats, too, in many colors, green and pruneand claret, vying with black, are not tabooed. There are variousuniforms of hussars, infantry, and uhlans, and some of the women, too, are dressed in a certain fantastically picturesque style to please theirartist brothers or _fiancés_. 

The dancing gets faster, and the festivities are kept up late. Songs aresung which perhaps would not be heard in a quiet drawing-room; a littleacting is done with them. Music is played, and von Francius, in avagrant mood, sits down and improvises a fitful, stormy kind offantasia, which in itself and in his playing puts me much in mind of theweird performances of the Abbate Liszt. 

I at least hear another note than of yore, another touch. The soul thatit wanted seems gradually creeping into it. He tells a strange storyupon the quivering keys--it is becoming tragic, sad, pathetic. He sayshastily to me and in an under-tone: "Fräulein May, this is a thought ofone of your own poets:

 "'How sad, and mad, and bad it was, And yet how it was sweet. '"

I am almost in tears, and every face is affording illustrations for "TheExpressions of the Emotions in Men and Women, " when it suddenly breaksoff with a loud, Ha! ha! ha! which sounds as if it came from a humanvoice, and jars upon me, and then he breaks into a waltz, pushing theastonished musicians aside, and telling the company to dance while hepipes. 

A mad dance to a mad tune. He plays and plays on, ever faster, and evera wilder measure, with strange eerie clanging chords in it which are notlike dance notes, until Adelaide prepares to go, and then he suddenlyceases, springs up, and comes with us to our carriage. Adelaide lookswhite and worn. 

Again at the carriage door, "a pair of words" passes between them. 

"Milady is tired?" from him, in a courteous tone, as his dark eyes dwellupon her face. 

"Thanks, Herr Direktor, I am generally tired, " from her, with a slightsmile, as she folds her shawl across her breast with one hand, andextends the other to him. 

"Milady, adieu. "

"Adieu, Herr von Francius. "

The ball is over, and I think we have all had enough of it. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE CARNIVAL BALL. 

"Aren't you coming to the ball, Eugen?"

"I? No. "

"I would if I were you. "

"But you are yourself, you see, and I am I. What was it that HeinrichMohr in 'The Children of the World' was always saying? _Ich bin ich, und setze mich selbst. _ Ditto me, that's all. "

"It is no end of a lark, " I pursued. 

"My larking days are over. "

"And you can talk to any one you like. "

"I am going to talk to myself, thanks. I have long wanted a littleconversation with that interesting individual, and while you aremasquerading, I will be doing the reverse. By the time you come home Ishall be so thoroughly self-investigated and set to rights that a merelook at me will shake all the frivolity out of you. "

"Miss Wedderburn will be there. "

"I hope she may enjoy it. "

"At least she will look so lovely that she will make others enjoy it. "

He made no answer. 

"You won't go--quite certain?"

"Quite certain, _mein lieber_. Go yourself, and may you have muchpleasure. "

Finding that he was in earnest, I went out to hire one domino andpurchase one mask, instead of furnishing myself, as I had hoped, withtwo of each of those requisites. 

It was Sunday, the first day of the carnival, and that devoted to theball of the season. There were others given, but this was the Malerball, or artists' ball. It was considered rather select, and had I not beenlucky enough to have one or two pupils, members of the club, who hadcome forward with offerings of tickets, I might have tried in vain togain admittance. 

Everybody in Elherthal who was anybody would be at this ball. I hadalready been at one like it, as well as at several of the less selectand rougher entertainments, and I found a pleasure which was somewhatstrange even to myself in standing to one side and watching the motleythrong and the formal procession which was every year organized by theartists who had the management of the proceedings. 

The ball began at the timely hour of seven; about nine I envelopedmyself in my domino, and took my way across the road to the scene of thefestivities, which took up the whole three saals of the Tonhalle. 

The night was bitter cold, but cold with that rawness which speaks of acoming thaw. The lamps were lighted, and despite the cold there was adense crowd of watchers round the front of the building and in thegardens, with cold, inquisitive noses flattened against the long glassdoors through which I have seen the people stream in the pleasant Mayevenings after the concert or musikfest into the illuminated gardens. 

The last time I had been in the big saal had been to attend a dry probeto a dry concert--the "Erste Walpurgisnacht" of Mendelssohn. The scenewas changed now; the whole room was a mob--"motley the only wear. " Itwas full to excess, so that there was scarcely room to move about, muchless for dancing. For that purpose the middle saal of the three had beenset aside, or rather a part of it railed off. 

I felt a pleasant sense of ease and well-being--a security that I shouldnot be recognized, as I had drawn the pointed hood of my domino over myhead, and enveloped myself closely in its ample folds, and thus I couldsurvey the brilliant Maskenball as I surveyed life from a quiet, unnoticed obscurity, and without taking part in its active affairs. 

There was music going on as I entered. It could scarcely be heard abovethe Babel of tongues which was sounding. People were moving as well asthey could. I made my way slowly and unobtrusively toward the upper endof the saal, intending to secure a place on the great orchestra, andthence survey the procession. 

I recognized dozens of people whom I knew personally, or by sight, orname, transformed from sober Rhenish burger, or youths of the period, into persons and creatures whose appropriateness or inappropriateness totheir every-day character it gave me much joy to witness. The mostfoolish young man I knew was attired as Cardinal Richelieu; the wisest, in certain respects, had a buffoon's costume, and plagued the statesmanand churchman grievously. 

By degrees I made my way through the mocking, taunting, flouting, many-colored crowd, to the orchestra, and gradually up its steps until Istood upon a fine vantage-ground. Near me were others; I looked round. One party seemed to keep very much together--a party which for richnessand correctness of costume outshone all others in the room. Two ladies, one dark and one fair, were dressed as Elsa and Ortrud. A man, whoseslight, tall, commanding figure I soon recognized, was attired in theblue mantle, silver helm and harness of Lohengrin the son of Percivale;and a second man, too boyish-looking for the character, was masked asFrederic of Telramund. Henry the Fowler was wanting, but the group waseasily to be recognized as personating the four principal charactersfrom Wagner's great opera. 

They had apparently not been there long, for they had not yet unmasked. I had, however, no difficulty in recognizing any of them. The tall, fairgirl in the dress of Elsa was Miss Wedderburn; the Ortrud was Lady LeMarchant, and right well she looked the character. Lohengrin was vonFrancius, and Friedrich von Telramund was Mr. Arkwright, Sir Peter'ssecretary. Here was a party in whom I could take some interest, and Iimmediately and in the most unprincipled manner devoted myself towatching them--myself unnoticed. 

"Who in all that motley crowd would I wish to be?" I thought, as my eyeswandered over them. 

The procession was just forming; the voluptuous music of "Die Tausendund eine Nacht" waltzes was floating from the gallery and through theroom. They went sweeping past--or running, or jumping; a ballet-girlwhose mustache had been too precious to be parted with and a lady of the_vielle cour_ beside her, nuns and corpses; Christy Minstrels (English, these last, whose motives were constantly misunderstood), fools andastrologers, Gretchens, Clärchens, devils, Egmonts, Joans of Arc enoughto have rescued France a dozen times, and peasants of every race: Turksand Finns; American Indians and Alfred the Great--it was tedious anddazzling. 

Then the procession was got into order; a long string of German legends, all the misty chronicle of Gudrun, the "Nibelungenlied" and theRheingold--Siegfried and Kriemhild--those two everlasting figures ofbeauty and heroism, love and tragedy, which stand forth in hues of purebrightness that no time can dim; Brunhild and von Tronje-Hagen--this wasbefore the days of Bayreuth and the Tetralogy--Tannhauser and Lohengrin, the Loreley, Walther von der Vogelweide, the two Elizabeths of theWartburg, dozens of obscure legends and figures from "Volkslieder" andFolklore which I did not recognize; "Dornroschen, " Rubezahl; and themusic to which they marched, was the melancholy yet noble measure, "TheLast Ten of the Fourth Regiment. "

I surveyed the masks and masquerading for some time, keeping my eye allthe while upon the party near me. They presently separated. Lady LeMarchant took the arm which von Francius offered her, and they went downthe steps. Miss Wedderburn and the young secretary were left alone. Iwas standing near them, and two other masks, both in domino, hoveredääabout. One wore a white domino with a scarlet rosette on the breast. Theother was a black domino, closely disguised, who looked long after vonFrancius and Lady Le Marchant, and presently descended the orchestrasteps and followed in their wake. 

"Do not remain with me, Mr. Arkwright, " I heard Miss Wedderburn say. "You want to dance. Go and enjoy yourself. "

"I could not think of leaving you alone, Miss Wedderburn. "

"Oh, yes, you could, and can. I am not going to move from here. I wantto look on--not to dance. You will find me here when you return. "

Again she urged him not to remain with her, and finally he departed insearch of amusement among the crowd below. 

Miss Wedderburn was now alone. She turned; her eyes, through her mask, met mine through my mask, and a certain thrill shot through me. This wassuch an opportunity as I had never hoped for, and I told myself that Ishould be a great fool if I let it slip. But how to begin? I looked ather. She was very beautiful, this young English girl, with the wonderfulblending of fire and softness which had made me from the first think herone of the most attractive women I had ever seen. 

As I stood, awkward and undecided, she beckoned me to her. In an instantI was at her side, bowing but maintaining silence. 

"You are Herr Helfen, _nicht wahr_?" said she, inquiringly. 

"Yes, " said I, and removed my mask. "How did you know it?"

"Something in your figure and attitude. Are you not dancing?"

"I--oh, no!"

"Nor I--I am not in the humor for it. I never felt less like dancing, nor less like a masquerade. " Then--hesitatingly--"Are you aloneto-night?"

"Yes. Eugen would not come. "

"He will not be here at all?"

"Not at all?"

"I am surprised. "

"I tried to persuade him to come, " said I, apologetically. "But he wouldnot. He said he was going to have a little conversation at home withhimself. "

"So!" She turned to me with a mounting color, which I saw flush to herbrow above her mask, and with parted lips. 

"He has never cared for anything since Sigmund left us, " I continued. 

"Sigmund--was that the dear little boy?"

"You say very truly. "

"Tell me about him. Was not his father very fond of him?"

"Fond! I never saw a man idolize his child so much. It was onlyneed--the hardest need that made them part. "

"How--need? You do not mean poverty?" said she, somewhat awe-struck. 

"Oh, no! Moral necessity. I do not know the reason. I have never asked. But I know it was like a death-blow. "

"Ah!" said she, and with a sudden movement removed her mask, as if shefelt it stifling her, and looked me in the face with her beautiful cleareyes. 

"Who could oblige him to part with his own child?" she asked. 

"That I do not know, _mein Fräulein_. What I do know is that some shadowdarkens my friend's life and imbitters it--that he not only can not dowhat he wishes, but is forced to do what he hates--and that parting wasone of the things. "

She looked at me with eagerness for some moments; then said, quickly:

"I can not help being interested in all this, but I fancy I ought not tolisten to it, for--for--I don't think he would like it. He--he--Ibelieve he dislikes me, and perhaps you had better say no more. "

"Dislikes you!" I echoed. "Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes! he does, " she repeated, with a faint smile, which struggledfor a moment with a look of pain, and then was extinguished. "Icertainly was once very rude to him, but I should not have thought hewas an ungenerous man--should you?"

"He is not ungenerous; the very reverse; he is too generous. "

"It does not matter, I suppose, " said she, repressing some emotion. "Itcan make no difference, but it pains me to be so misunderstood and sobehaved to by one who was at first so kind to me--for he was very kind. "

"_Mein Fräulein_, " said I, eager, though puzzled, "I can not explainit; it is as great a mystery to me as to you. I know nothing of hispast--nothing of what he has been or done; nothing of who he is--onlyof one thing I am sure--that he is not what he seems to be. He may becalled Eugen Courvoisier, or he may call himself Eugen Courvoisier; hewas once known by some name in a very different world to that he livesin now. I know nothing about that, but I know this--that I believe inhim. I have lived more than three years with him; he is true andhonorable; fantastically, chivalrously honorable" (her eyes weredowncast and her cheeks burning). "He never did anything false ordishonest--"

A slight, low, sneering laugh at my right hand caused me to look up. That figure in a white domino with a black mask, and a crimson rosetteon the breast, stood leaning up against the foot of the organ, but otherfigures were near; the laugh might have come from one of them; it mighthave nothing to do with us or our remarks. I went on in a vehement andeager tone:

"He is what we Germans call a _ganzer kerl_--thorough in all--out andout good. Nothing will ever make me believe otherwise. Perhaps themystery will never be cleared up. It doesn't matter to me. It will makeno difference in my opinion of the only man I love. "

A pause. Miss Wedderburn was looking at me; her eyes were full of tears;her face strangely moved. Yes--she loved him. It stood confessed in thevery strength of the effort she made to be calm and composed. As sheopened her lips to speak, that domino that I mentioned glided from herplace and stooping down between us, whispered or murmured:

"You are a fool for your pains. Believe no one--least of all those wholook most worthy of belief. He is not honest; he is not honorable. It isfrom shame and disgrace that he hides himself. Ask him if he remembersthe 20th of April five years ago; you will hear what he has to say aboutit, and how brave and honorable he looks. "

Swift as fire the words were said, and rapidly as the same she hadraised herself and disappeared. We were left gazing at each other. MissWedderburn's face was blanched--she stared at me with large dilatedeyes, and at last in a low voice of anguish and apprehension said:

"Oh, what does it mean?"

Her voice recalled me to myself. 

"It may mean what it likes, " said I, calmly. "As I said, it makes nodifference to me. I do not and will not believe that he ever didanything dishonorable. "

"Do you not?" said she, tremulously. "But--but--Anna Sartorius does knowsomething of him. "

"Who is Anna Sartorius?"

"Why, that domino who spoke to us just now. But I forgot. You will notknow her. She wanted long ago to tell me about him, and I would not lether, so she said I might learn for myself, and should never leave offuntil I knew the lesson by heart. I think she has kept her word, " sheadded, with a heartsick sigh. 

"You surely would not believe her if she said the same thing fifty timesover, " said I, not very reasonably, certainly. 

"I do not know, " she replied, hesitatingly. "It is very difficult toknow. "

"Well, I would not. If the whole world accused him I would believenothing except from his own lips. "

"I wish I knew all about Anna Sartorius, " said she, slowly, and shelooked as if seeking back in her memory to remember some dream. I stoodbeside her; the motley crowd ebbed and flowed beneath us, but thewhisper we had heard had changed everything; and yet, no--to me notchanged, but only darkened things. 

In the meantime it had been growing later. Our conversation, with itsfrequent pauses, had taken a longer time than we had supposed. The crowdwas thinning. Some of the women were going. 

"I wonder where my sister is!" observed Miss Wedderburn, rather wearily. Her face was pale, and her delicate head drooped as if it wereoverweighed and pulled down by the superabundance of her beautifulchestnut hair, which came rippling and waving over her shoulders. Awhite satin petticoat, stiff with gold embroidery; a long trailing bluemantle of heavy brocade, fastened on the shoulders with golden clasps; agolden circlet in the gold of her hair; such was the dress, and rightroyally she became it. She looked a vision of loveliness. I wondered ifshe would ever act Elsa in reality; she would be assuredly the loveliestrepresentative of that fair and weak-minded heroine who ever trod theboards. Supposing it ever came to pass that she acted Elsa to some oneelse's Lohengrin, would she think of this night? Would she remember thegreat orchestra--and me, and the lights, and the people--our words--awhisper? A pause. 

"But where can Adelaide be?" she said, at last. "I have not seen themsince they left us. "

"They are there, " said I, surveying from my vantage-ground the thinningranks. "They are coming up here too. And there is the other gentleman, Graf von Telramund, following them. "

They drew up to the foot of the orchestra, and then Mr. Arkwright cameup to seek us. 

"Miss Wedderburn, Lady Le Marchant is tired and thinks it is time to begoing. "

"So am I tired, " she replied. I stepped back, but before she went awayshe turned to me, holding out her hand:

"Good-night, Herr Helfen. I, too, will not believe without proof. "

We shook hands, and she went away. 

 * * * * *

The lamp still burning, the room cold, the stove extinct. Eugen seatedmotionless near it. 

"Eugen, art thou asleep?"

"I asleep, my dear boy! Well, how was it?"

"Eugen, I wish you had been there. "

"Why?" He roused himself with an effort and looked at me. His brow wasclouded, his eyes too. 

"Because you would have enjoyed it. I did. I saw Miss Wedderburn, andspoke to her. She looked lovely. "

"In that case it would have been odd indeed if you had not enjoyedyourself. "

"You are inexplicable. "

"It is bed-time, " he remarked, rising and speaking, as I thought, coldly. 

We both retired. As for the whisper, frankly and honestly, I did notgive it another thought. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

MAY'S STORY. 

[Illustration: Music, SCHUMANN]

Following Arkwright, I joined Adelaide and von Francius at the foot ofthe orchestra. She had sent word that she was tired. Looking at her, Ithought indeed she must be very tired, so white, so sad she looked. 

"Adelaide, " I expostulated, "why did you remain so long?"

"Oh, I did not know it was so late. Come!"

We made our way out of the hall through the veranda to the entrance. Lady Le Merchant's carriage, it seemed, was ready and waiting. It wasa pouring night. The thaw had begun. The steady downpour promised acheerful ending to the carnival doings of the Monday and Tuesday; allbut a few homeless or persevering wretches had been driven away. Wedrove away too. I noticed that the "good-night" between Adelaide andvon Francius was of the most laconical character. They barely spoke, didnot shake hands, and he turned and went to seek his cab before we hadall got into the carriage. 

Adelaide uttered not a word during our drive home, and I, leaning back, shut my eyes and lived the evening over again. Eugen's friend hadlaughed the insidious whisper to scorn. I could not deal so summarilywith it; nor could I drive the words of it out of my head. They setthemselves to the tune of the waltz, and rang in my ears:

"He is not honest; he is not honorable. It is from shame and disgracethat he is hiding. Ask him if he remembers the 20th of April five yearsago. "

The carriage stopped. A sleepy servant let us in. Adelaide, as we wentupstairs, drew me into her dressing-room. 

"A moment, May. Have you enjoyed yourself?"

"H'm--well--yes and no. And you, Adelaide?"

"I never enjoy myself now, " she replied, very gently. "I am getting usedto that, I think. "

She clasped her jeweled hands and stood by the lamp, whose calm lightlighted her calm face, showing it wasted and unutterably sad. 

Something--a terror, a shrinking as from a strong menacing hand--shookme. 

"Are you ill, Adelaide?" I cried. 

"No. Good-night, dear May. _Schlaf' wohl_, as they say here. "

To my unbounded astonishment, she leaned forward and gave me a gentlekiss; then, still holding my hand, asked: "Do you still say yourprayers, May?"

"Sometimes. "

"What do you say?"

"Oh! the same that I always used to say; they are better than any I caninvent. "

"Yes. I never do say mine now. I rather think I am afraid to beginagain. "

"Good-night, Adelaide, " I said, inaudibly; and she loosed my hand. 

At the door I turned. She was still standing by the lamp; still her facewore the same strange, subdued look. With a heart oppressed by newuneasiness, I left her. 

It must have been not till toward dawn that I fell into a sleep, heavy, but not quiet--filled with fantastic dreams, most of which vanished assoon as they had passed my mind. But one remained. To this day it is asvivid before me, as if I had actually lived through it. 

Meseemed again to be at the Grafenbergerdahl, again to be skating, againrescued--and by Eugen Courvoisier. But suddenly the scene changed; froma smooth sheet of ice, across which the wind blew nippingly, and abovewhich the stars twinkled frostily, there was a huge waste of water whichraged, while a tempest howled around--the clear moon was veiled, all wasdarkness and chaos. He saved me, not by skating with me to the shore, but by clinging with me to some floating wood until we drove upon a bankand landed. But scarcely had we set foot upon the ground, than all waschanged again. I was alone, seated upon a bench in the Hofgarten, on aspring afternoon. It was May; the chestnuts and acacias were in fullbloom, and the latter made the air heavy with their fragrance. Thenightingales sung richly, and I sat looking, from beneath the shade ofa great tree, upon the fleeting Rhine, which glided by almost past myfeet. It seemed to me that I had been sad--so sad as never before. Adeep weight appeared to have been just removed from my heart, and yet soheavy had it been that I could not at once recover from its pressure;and even then, in the sunshine, and feeling that I had no single causefor care or grief, I was unhappy, with a reflex mournfulness. 

And as I sat thus, it seemed that some one came and sat beside mewithout speaking, and I did not turn to look at him; but ever as I satthere and felt that he was beside me, the sadness lifted from my heart, until it grew so full of joy that tears rose to my eyes. Then he who wasbeside me placed his hand upon mine, and I looked at him. It was EugenCourvoisier. His face and his eyes were full of sadness; but I knewthat he loved me, though he said but one word, "Forgive!" to which Ianswered, "Can you forgive?" But I knew that I alluded to something muchdeeper than that silly little episode of having cut him at the theater. He bowed his head; and then I thought I began to weep, covering my facewith my hands; but they were tears of exquisite joy, and the peace at myheart was the most entire I had ever felt. And he loosened my hands, anddrew me to him and kissed me, saying "My love!" And as I felt--yes, actually felt--the pressure of his lips upon mine, and felt the springshining upon me, and heard the very echo of the twitter of the birds, saw the light fall upon the water, and smelled the scent of the acacias, and saw the Lotus-blume as she--

 "Duftet und weinet und zittert Vor Liebe und Liebesweh, "

I awoke, and confronted a gray February morning, felt a raw chillinessin the air, heard a cold, pitiless rain driven against the window; knewthat my head ached, my heart harmonized therewith; that I was awake, notin a dream; that there had been no spring morning, no acacias, nonightingales; above all, no love--remembered last night, and roused tothe consciousness of another day, the necessity of waking up and livingon. 

Nor could I rest or sleep. I rose and contemplated through the windowthe driving rain and the soaking street, the sorrowful naked trees, theplain of the parade ground, which looked a mere waste of mud andhalf-melted ice; the long plain line of the Caserne itself--a cheeringprospect truly!

When I went down-stairs I found Sir Peter, in heavy traveling overcoat, standing in the hall; a carriage stood at the door; his servant wasputting in his master's luggage and rugs. I paused in astonishment. SirPeter looked at me and smiled with the dubious benevolence which he wasin the habit of extending to me. 

"I am very sorry to be obliged to quit your charming society, MissWedderburn, but business calls me imperatively to England; and, atleast, I am sure that my wife can not be unhappy with such a companionas her sister. "

"You are going to England?"

"I am going to England. I have been called so hastily that I can make noarrangements for Adelaide to accompany me, and indeed it would not be atall pleasant for her, as I am only going on business; but I hope toreturn for her and bring her home in a few weeks. I am leaving Arkwrightwith you. He will see that you have all you want. "

Sir Peter was smiling, ever smiling, with the smile which was my horror. 

"A brilliant ball, last night, was it not?" he added, extending hishand to me, in farewell, and looking at me intently with eyes thatfascinated and repelled me at once. 

"Very, but--but--you were not there?"

"Was I not? I have a strong impression that I was. Ask my lady if shethinks I was there. And now good-bye, and _au revoir_!"

He loosened my hand, descended the steps, entered the carriage, and wasdriven away. His departure ought to have raised a great weight from mymind, but it did not; it impressed me with a sense of coming disaster. 

Adelaide breakfasted in her room. When I had finished I went to her. Herbehavior puzzled me. She seemed elated, excited, at the absence of SirPeter, and yet, suddenly turning to me, she exclaimed, eagerly:

"Oh, May! I wish I had been going to England, too! I wish I could leavethis place, and never see it again. "

"Was Sir Peter at the ball, Adelaide?" I asked. 

She turned suddenly pale; her lip trembled; her eye wavered, as she saidin a low, uneasy voice:

"I believe he was--yes; in domino. "

"What a sneaking thing to do!" I remarked, candidly. "He had told usparticularly that he was not coming. "

"That very statement should have put us on our guard, " she remarked. 

"On our guard? Against what?" I asked, unsuspectingly. 

"Oh, nothing--nothing! I wonder when he will return! I would give aworld to be in England!" she said, with a heartsick sigh; and I, feelingvery much bewildered, left her. 

In the afternoon, despite wind and weather, I sallied forth, and took myway to my old lodgings in the Wehrhahn. Crossing a square leading to thestreet I was going to, I met Anna Sartorius. She bowed, looking at memockingly. I returned her salutation, and remembered last night againwith painful distinctness. The air seemed full of mysteries anduncertainties; they clung about my mind like cobwebs, and I could notget rid of their soft, stifling influence. 

Having arrived at my lodgings, I mounted the stairs. Frau Lutzler metme. 

"_Na_, _na_, Fräulein! You do not patronize me much now. My rooms arebecoming too small for you, I reckon. "

"Indeed, Frau Lutzler, I wish I had never been in any larger ones, " Ianswered her, earnestly. 

"So! Well, 'tis true you look thin and worn--not as well as you used to. And were you--but I heard you were, so where's the use of telling liesabout it--at the Maskenball last night? And how did you like it?"

"Oh, it was all very new to me. I never was at one before. "

"_Nicht?_ Then you must have been astonished. They say there was aMephisto so good he would have deceived the devil himself. And you, Fräulein--I heard that you looked very beautiful. "

"So! It must have been a mistake. "

"_Doch nicht!_ I have always maintained that at certain times you werefar from bad-looking, and dressed and got up for the stage, would beabsolutely handsome. Nearly any one can be that--if you are not toonear the foot-lights, that is, and don't go behind the scenes. "

With which neat slaying of a particular compliment by a general one, shereleased me, and let me go on my way upstairs. 

Here I had some books and some music. But the room was cold; the booksfailed to interest me, and the music did not go--the piano was likeme--out of tune. And yet I felt the need of some musical expressionof the mood that was upon me. I bethought myself of the Tonhalle, next door, almost, and that in the rittersaal it would be quiet andundisturbed, as the ball that night was not to be held there, but inone of the large rooms of the Caserne. 

Without pausing to think a second time of the plan, I left the house andwent to the Tonhalle, only a few steps away. In consequence of the rainand bad weather almost every trace of the carnival had disappeared. Ifound the Tonhalle deserted save by a bar-maid at the restauration. Iasked her if the rittersaal were open, and she said yes. I passed on. AsI drew near the door I heard music; the piano was already being played. Could it be von Francius who was there? I did not think so. The touchwas not his--neither so practiced, so brilliant, nor so sure. 

Satisfied, after listening a moment, that it was not he, I resolved togo in and pass through the room. If it were any one whom I could sendaway I would do so, if not, I could go away again myself. 

I entered. The room was somewhat dark, but I went in and had almostcome to the piano before I recognized the player--Courvoisier. Overcomewith vexation and confusion at the _contretemps_, I paused a moment, undecided whether to turn back and go out again. In any case I resolvednot to remain in the room. He was seated with his back to me, and stillcontinued to play. Some music was on the desk of the piano before him. 

I might turn back without being observed. I would do so. Hardly, though--a mirror hung directly before the piano, and I now saw thatwhile he continued to play, he was quietly looking at me, and that hiskeen eyes--that hawk's glance which I knew so well--must have recognizedme. That decided me. I would not turn back. It would be a silly, senseless proceeding, and would look much more invidious than myremaining. I walked up to the piano, and he turned, still playing. 

"_Guten Tag, mein Fräulein. _"

I merely bowed, and began to search through a pile of songs and musicupon the piano. I would at any rate take some away with me to give somecolor to my proceedings. Meanwhile he played on. 

I selected a song, not in the least knowing what it was, and rolling itup, was turning away. 

"Are you busy, Miss Wedderburn?"

"N--no. "

"Would it be asking too much of you to play the pianoforteaccompaniment?"

"I will try, " said I, speaking briefly, and slowly drawing off mygloves. 

"If it is disagreeable to you, don't do it, " said he, pausing. 

"Not in the very least, " said I, avoiding looking at him. 

He opened the music. It was one of Jensen's "Wanderbilder" for piano andviolin--the "Kreuz am Wege. "

"I have only tried it once before, " I remarked, "and I am a dreadfulbungler. "

"_Bitte sehr!_" said he, smiling, arranging his own music on one of thestands and adding, "Now I am ready. "

I found my hands trembling so much that I could scarcely follow themusic. Truly this man, with his changes from silence to talkativeness, from ironical hardness to cordiality, was a puzzle and a trial to me. 

"Das Kreuz am Wege" turned out rather lame. I said so when it was over. 

"Suppose we try it again, " he suggested, and we did so. I found myfingers lingering and forgetting their part as I listened to thepiercing beauty of his notes. 

"That is dismal, " said he. 

"It is a dismal subject, is it not?"

"Suggestive, at least. 'The Cross by the Wayside. ' Well, I have a mindfor something more cheerful. Did you leave the ball early last night?"

"No; not very early. "

"Did you enjoy it?"

"It was all new to me--very interesting--but I don't think I quiteenjoyed it. "

"Ah, you should see the balls at Florence, or Venice, or Vienna!"

He smiled as he leaned back, as if thinking over past scenes. 

"Yes, " said I, dubiously, "I don't think I care much for such things, though it is interesting to watch the little drama going on around. "

"And to act in it, " I also thought, remembering Anna Sartorius and herwhisper, and I looked at him. "Not honest, not honorable. Hiding fromshame and disgrace. "

I looked at him and did not believe it. For the moment the torturingidea left me. I was free from it and at peace. 

"Were you going to practice?" he asked. "I fear I disturb you. "

"Oh, no! It does not matter in the least. I shall not practice now. "

"I want to try some other things, " said he, "and Friedhelm's and mypiano was not loud enough for me, nor was there sufficient space betweenour walls for the sounds of a symphony. Do you not know the mood?"

"Yes. "

"But I am afraid to ask you to accompany me. "

"Why?"

"You seem unwilling. "

"I am not: but I should have supposed that my unwillingness--if I hadbeen unwilling--would have been an inducement to you to ask me. "

"_Herrgott!_ Why?"

"Since you took a vow to be disagreeable to me, and to make me hateyou. "

A slight flush passed rapidly over his face, as he paused for a momentand bit his lips. 

"_Mein Fräulein_--that night I was in bitterness of spirit--I hardlyknew what I was saying--"

"I will accompany you, " I interrupted him, my heart beating. "Only howcan I begin unless you play, or tell me what you want to play?"

"True, " said he, laughing, and yet not moving from his place besidethe piano, upon which he had leaned his elbow, and across which he nowlooked at me with the self-same kindly, genial glance as that he hadcast upon me across the little table at the Köln restaurant. And yet notthe self-same glance, but another, which I would not have exchanged forthat first one. 

If he would but begin to play I felt that I should not mind so much; butwhen he sat there and looked at me and half smiled, without beginninganything practical, I felt the situation at least trying. 

He raised his eyes as the door opened at the other end of the saal. 

"Ah, there is Friedhelm, " said he, "now he will take seconds. "

"Then I will not disturb you any longer. "

"On the contrary, " said he, laying his hand upon my wrist. (My dream ofthe morning flashed into my mind. ) "It would be better if you remained, then we could have a trio. Friedel, come here! You are just in time. Fräulein Wedderburn will be good enough to accompany us, and we can trythe Fourth Symphony. "

"What you call 'Spring'?" inquired Helfen, coming up smilingly. "Withall my heart. Where is the score?"

"What you call Spring?" Was it possible that in winter--on a cold andunfriendly day--we were going to have spring, leafy bloom, the desertfilled with leaping springs, and blossoming like a rose? Full of wonder, surprise, and a certain excitement at the idea, I sat still and thoughtof my dream, and the rain beat against the windows, and a draughty windfluttered the tinselly decorations of last night. The floor was strewedwith fragments of garments torn in the crush--paper and silken flowers, here a rosette, there a buckle, a satin bow, a tinsel spangle. Benchesand tables were piled about the room, which was half dark; only towestward, through one window, was visible a paler gleam, which might bycomparison be called light. 

The two young men turned over the music, laughing at something, andchaffing each other. I never in my life saw two such entire friends asthese; they seemed to harmonize most perfectly in the midst of theirunlikeness to each other. 

"Excuse that we kept you waiting, _mein Fräulein_, " said Courvoisier, placing some music before me. "This fellow is so slow, and will puteverything into order as he uses it. "

"Well for you that I am, _mein lieber_, " said Helfen, composedly. "Ifany one had the enterprise to offer a prize to the most extravagant, untidy fellow in Europe, the palm would be yours--by a long way too. "

"Friedel binds his music and numbers it, " observed Courvoisier. "It isone of the most beautiful and affecting of sights to behold him withscissors, paste-pot, brush and binding. It occurs periodically aboutfour times a year, I think, and moves me almost to tears when I see it. "

"_Der edle Ritter_ leaves his music unbound, and borrows mine on everypossible occasion when his own property is scattered to the four windsof heaven. "

"_Aber! aber!_" cried Eugen. "That is too much! I call Frau Schmidt towitness that all my music is put in one place. "

"I never said it wasn't. But you never can find it when you want it, andthe confusion is delightfully increased by your constantly rushing offto buy a new _partitur_ when you can't find the old one; so you havethree or four of each. "

"This is all to show off what he considers his own good qualities; acertain slow, methodical plodding and a good memory, which are naturalgifts, but which he boasts of as if they were acquired virtues. He bindshis music because he is a pedant and a prig, and can't help it; a badfellow to get on with. Now, _mein bester_, for the 'Fruhling. '"

"But the Fräulein ought to have it explained, " expostulated Helfen, laughing. "Every one has not the misfortune to be so well acquaintedwith you as I am. He has rather insane fancies sometimes, " he added, turning to me, "without rhyme or reason that I am aware, and he choosesto assert that Beethoven's Fourth Symphony, or the chief motive of it, occurred to him on a spring day, when the master was, for a time, quitecharmed from his bitter humor, and had, perhaps, some one by his sidewho put his heart in tune with the spring songs of the birds, the greenof the grass, the scent of the flowers. So he calls it the 'FruhlingSymphonie, ' and will persist in playing it as such. I call the idearather far-fetched, but then that is nothing unusual with him. "

"Having said your remarkably stupid say, which Miss Wedderburn has fartoo much sense to heed in the least, suppose you allow us to begin, "said Courvoisier, giving the other a push toward his violin. 

But we were destined to have yet another coadjutor in the shape of KarlLinders, who at that moment strolled in, and was hailed by his friendswith jubilation. 

"Come and help! Your 'cello will give just the mellowness that iswanted, " said Eugen. 

"I must go and get it then, " said Karl, looking at me. 

Eugen, with an indescribable expression as he intercepted the glance, introduced us to one another. Karl and Friedhelm Helfen went off toanother part of the Tonhalle to fetch Karl's violoncello, and we wereleft alone again. 

"Perhaps I ought not to have introduced him. I forgot 'Lohengrin, '" saidEugen. 

"You know that you did not, " said I, in a low voice. 

"No, " he answered, almost in the same tone. "It was thinking of thatwhich led me to introduce poor old Karl to you. I thought, perhaps, thatyou would accept it as a sign--will you?"

"A sign of what?"

"That I feel myself to have been in the wrong throughout--and forgive. "

As I sat, amazed and a little awed at this almost literal fulfillment ofmy dream, the others returned. 

Karl contributed the tones of his mellowest of instruments, which heplayed with a certain pleasant breadth and brightness of coloring, andmy dream came ever truer and truer. The symphony was as spring-likeas possible. We tried it nearly all through; the hymn-like and yetfairy-like first movement; the second, that song of universal love, joy, and thanksgiving, with Beethoven's masculine hand evidentthroughout. To the notes there seemed to fall a sunshine into the room, and we could see the fields casting their covering of snow, and witheredtrees bursting into bloom; brooks swollen with warm rain, birds busy atnest-making; clumps of primroses on velvet leaves, and the subtle scentof violets; youths and maidens with love in their eyes; and even a hintof later warmth, when hedges should be white with hawthorn, and thewoodland slopes look, with their sheets of hyacinths, as if some ofheaven's blue had been spilled upon earth's grass. 

As the last strong, melodious modulations ceased, Courvoisier pointed toone of the windows. 

"Friedhelm, you wretched unbeliever, behold the refutation of yourtheories. The symphony has brought the sun out. "

"For the first time, " said Friedhelm, as he turned his earnest youngface with its fringe of loose brown hair toward the sneaking sun-ray, which was certainly looking shyly in. "As a rule the very heavens weepat the performance. Don't you remember the last time we tried it, itbegan to rain instantly?"

"Miss Wedderburn's co-operation must have secured its success then onthis occasion, " said Eugen, gravely, glancing at me for a moment. 

"Hear! hear!" murmured Karl, screwing up his violoncello and smilingfurtively. 

"Oh, I am afraid I hindered rather than helped, " said I, "but it is verybeautiful. "

"But not like spring, is it?" asked Friedhelm. 

"Well, I think it is. "

"There! I knew she would declare for me, " said Courvoisier, calmly, atwhich Karl Linders looked up in some astonishment. 

"Shall we try this 'Traumerei, ' Miss Wedderburn, if you are not tootired?"

I turned willingly to the piano, and we played Schumann's little"Dreams. "

"Ah, " said Eugen, with a deep sigh (and his face had grown sad), "isn'tthat the essence of sweetness and poetry? Here's another which islovely. 'Noch ein Paar, ' _nicht wahr?_"

"And it will be 'noch ein Paar' until our fingers drop off, " scoldedFriedhelm, who seemed, however, very willing to await that consummation. We went through many of the Kinderscenen and some of the Kreissleriana, and just as we finished a sweet little "Bittendes Kind, " the twilightgrew almost into darkness, and Courvoisier laid his violin down. 

"Miss Wedderburn, thank you a thousand times!"

"Oh, _bitte sehr_!" was all I could say. I wanted to say so much more;to say that I had been made happy; my sadness dispelled, a dream halffulfilled, but the words stuck, and had they come ever so flowingly Icould not have uttered them with Friedhelm Helfen, who knew so much, looking at us, and Karl Linders on his best behavior in what heconsidered superior company. 

I do not know how it was that Karl and Friedhelm, as we all came fromthe Tonhalle, walked off to the house, and Eugen and I were left to walkalone through the soaking streets, emptied of all their revelers, andalong the dripping Königsallée, with its leafless chestnuts, to SirPeter's house. It was cold, it was wet--cheerless, dark, and dismal, andI was very happy--very insanely so. I gave a glance once or twice at mycompanion. The brightness had left his face; it was stern and wornagain, and his lips set as if with the repression of some pain. 

"Herr Courvoisier, have you heard from your little boy?"

"No. "

"No?"

"I do not expect to hear from him, _mein Fräulein_. When he left me weparted altogether. "

"Oh, how dreadful!"

No answer. And we spoke no more until he said "Good-evening" to me atthe door of No. 3. As I went in I reflected that I might never meet himthus face to face again. Was it an opportunity missed, or was it a briefglimpse of unexpected joy?

CHAPTER XXX. 

THE TRUTH. 

As days went on and grew into weeks, and weeks paired off until a monthpassed, and I still saw the same stricken look upon my sister's face, my heart grew full of foreboding. 

One morning the astonishing news came that Sir Peter had gone toAmerica. 

"America!" I ejaculated (it was always I who acted the part of chorusand did the exclamations and questioning), and I looked at HarryArkwright, who had communicated the news, and who held an open letter inhis hand. 

"Yes, to America, to see about a railway which looks very bad. He has noend of their bonds, " said Harry, folding up the letter. 

"When will he return?"

"He doesn't know. Meanwhile we are to stay where we are. "

Adelaide, when we spoke of this circumstance, said, bitterly:

"Everything is against me!"

"Against you, Adelaide?" said I, looking apprehensively at her. 

"Yes, everything!" she repeated. 

She had never been effusive in her behavior to others; she was now, ifpossible, still less so, but the uniform quietness and gentleness withwhich she now treated all who came in contact with her, puzzled andtroubled me. What was it that preyed upon her mind? In looking round fora cause my thoughts lighted first on one person, then on another; Idismissed the idea of all, except von Francius, with a smile. Shortly Iabandoned that idea too. True, he was a man of very different caliberfrom the others; a man, too, for whom Adelaide had conceived a decidedfriendship, though in these latter days even that seemed to be dyingout. He did not come so often; when he did come they had little to sayto each other. Perhaps, after all, the cause of her sadness lay nodeeper than her every-day life, which must necessarily grow moremournful day by day. She could feel intensely, as I had lately becomeaware, and had, too, a warm, quick imagination. It might be that asimple weariness of life and the anticipation of long years to come ofsuch a life lay so heavily upon her soul as to have wrought that gradualchange. 

Sometimes I was satisfied with this theory; at others it dwindled into amiserably inadequate measure. When Adelaide once or twice kissed me, smiled at me, and called me "dear, " it was on my lips to ask themeaning of the whole thing, but it never passed them. I dared not speakwhen it came to the point. 

One day, about this time, I met Anna Sartorius in one of the pictureexhibitions. I would have bowed and passed her, but she stopped andspoke to me. 

"I have not seen you often lately, " said she; "but I assure you, youwill hear more of me some time--and before long. "

Without replying, I passed on. Anna had ceased even to pretend to lookfriendly upon me, and I did not feel much alarm as to her power for oragainst my happiness or peace of mind. 

Regularly, once a month, I wrote to Miss Hallam and occasionally had afew lines from Stella, who had become a protégée of Miss Hallam's too. They appeared to get on very well together, at which I did not wonder;for Stella, with all her youthfulness, was of a cynical turn of mind, which must suit Miss Hallam well. 

My greatest friend in Elberthal was good little Dr. Mittendorf, who hadbrought his wife to call upon me, and to whose house I had been invitedseveral times since Miss Hallam's departure. 

During this time I worked more steadily than ever, and with a deeperlove of my art for itself. Von Francius was still my master and myfriend. I used to look back upon the days, now nearly a year ago, when Ifirst saw him, and seeing him, distrusted and only half liked him, andwondered at myself; for I had now as entire a confidence in him as canby any means be placed in a man. He had thoroughly won my esteem, respect, admiration--in a measure, too, my affection. I liked the powerof him; the strong hand with which he carried things in his own way; theidiomatic language, and quick, curt sentences in which he enunciated hisopinions. I felt him like a strong, kind, and thoughtful elder brother, and have had abundant evidence in his deeds and in some briefunemotional words of his that he felt a great regard of the fraternalkind for me. It has often comforted me, that friendship--pure, disinterested and manly on his side, grateful and unwavering on mine. 

I still retained my old lodgings in the Wehrhahn, and was determined todo so. I would not be tied to remain in Sir Peter Le Marchant's houseunless I choose. Adelaide wished me to come and remain with heraltogether. She said Sir Peter wished it too; he had written and saidshe might ask me. I asked what was Sir Peter's motive in wishing it? Wasit not a desire to humiliate both of us, and to show us that we--thegirl who had scorned him, and the woman who had sold herself tohim--were in the end dependent upon him, and must follow his will andsubmit to his pleasure?

She reddened, sighed, and owned that it was true; nor did she press meany further. 

A month, then, elapsed between the carnival in February and the nextgreat concert in the latter end of March. It was rather a specialconcert, for von Francius had succeeded, in spite of many obstacles, inbringing out the Choral Symphony. 

He conducted well that night; and he, Courvoisier, Friedhelm Helfen, Karl Linders, and one or two others, formed in their white heat ofenthusiasm a leaven which leavened the whole lump. Orchestra and chorusalike did a little more than their possible, without which no greatenthusiasm can be carried out. As I watched von Francius, it seemed tome that a new soul had entered into the man. I did not believe that ayear ago he could have conducted the Choral Symphony as he did thatnight. Can any one enter into the broad, eternal clang of the great"world-story" unless he has a private story of his own which may servehim in some measure as a key to its mystery? I think not. It was a nightof triumph for Max von Francius. Not only was the glorious music cheeredand applauded, he was called to receive a meed of thanks for having oncemore given to the world a never-dying joy and beauty. 

I was in the chorus. Down below I saw Adelaide and her devotedattendant, Harry Arkwright. She looked whiter and more subdued thanever. All the splendor of the praise of "joy" could not bring joy to herheart--

 "Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt"

brought no warmth to her cheek, nor lessened the load on her breast. 

The concert over, we returned home. Adelaide and I retired to herdressing-room, and her maid brought us tea. She seated herself insilence. For my part, I was excited and hot, and felt my cheeks glowing. I was so stirred that I could not sit still, but moved to and fro, wishing that all the world could hear that music, and repeating linesfrom the "Ode to Joy, " the grand march-like measure, feeling my heartuplifted with the exaltation of its opening strain:

 "Freude, schöner Gotterfunken! Tochter aus Elysium!"

As I paced about thus excitedly, Adelaide's maid came in with a note. Mr. Arkwright had received it from Herr von Francius, who had desiredhim to give it to Lady Le Marchant. 

Adelaide opened it and I went on with my chant. I know now how dreadfulit must have sounded to her. 

 "Freude trinken alle Wesen An den Brüsten der Natur--"

"May!" said Adelaide, faintly. 

I turned in my walk and looked at her. White as death, she held thepaper toward me with a steady hand, and I, the song of joy slain upon mylips, took it. It was a brief note from von Francius. 

"I let you know, my lady, first of all that I have accepted the post ofMusik-Direktor in ----. It will be made known to-morrow. "

I held the paper and looked at her. Now I knew the reason of her pallidlooks. I had indeed been blind. I might have guessed better. 

"Have you read it?" she asked, and she stretched her arms above herhead, as if panting for breath. 

"Adelaide!" I whispered, going up to her; "Adelaide--oh!"

She fell upon my neck. She did not speak, and I, speechless, held her tomy breast. 

"You love him, Adelaide?" I said, at last. 

"With my whole soul!" she answered, in a low, very low, but vehementvoice. "With my whole soul. "

"And you have owned it to him?"

"Yes. "

"Tell me, " said I, "how it was. "

"I think I have loved him since almost the first time I saw him--he madequite a different impression upon me than other men do--quite. I hardlyknew myself. He mastered me. No other man ever did--except--" sheshuddered a little, "and that only because I tied myself hand and foot. But I liked the mastery. It was delicious; it was rest and peace. Itwent on for long. We knew--each knew quite well that we loved, but henever spoke of it. He saw how it was with me and he helped me--oh, whyis he so good? He never tried to trap me into any acknowledgment. Henever made any use of the power he knew he had except to keep me right. But at the Maskenball--I do not know how it was--we were alone in allthe crowd--there was something said--a look. It was all over. But he wastrue to the last. He did not say, 'Throw everything up and come to me. 'He said, 'Give me the only joy that we may have. Tell me you love me. 'And I told him. I said, 'I love you with my life and my soul, andeverything I have, for ever and ever. ' And that is true. He said, 'Thankyou, milady. I accept the condition of my knighthood, ' and kissed myhand. There was some-one following us. It was Sir Peter. He heard all, and he has punished me for it since. He will punish me again. "

A pause. 

"That is all that has been said. He does not know that Sir Peter knows, for he has never alluded to it since. He has spared me. I say he is anoble man. "

She raised herself, and looked at me. 

Dear sister! With your love and your pride, your sins and your folly, inexpressibly dear to me! I pressed a kiss upon her lips. 

"Von Francius is good, Adelaide; he is good. "

"Von Francius would have told me this himself, but he has been afraidfor me; some time ago he said to me that he had the offer of a post at adistance. That was asking my advice. I found out what it was, and said, 'Take it. ' He has done so. "

"Then you have decided?" I stammered. 

"To part. He has strength. So have I. It was my own fault. May--I couldbear it if it were for myself alone. I have had my eyes opened now. Isee that when people do wrong they drag others into it--they punishthose they love--it is part of their own punishment. "

A pause. Facts, I felt, were pitiless; but the glow of friendship forvon Francius was like a strong fire. In the midst of the keenest painone finds a true man, and the discovery is like a sudden soothing ofsharp anguish, or like the finding a strong comrade in a battle. 

Adelaide had been very self-restrained and quiet all this time, but nowsuddenly broke out into low, quick, half sobbed-out words:

"Oh, I love him, I love him! It is dreadful! How shall I go through withit?"

Ay, there was the rub! Not one short, sharp pang, and over--all firequenched in cool mists of death and unconsciousness, but long years tocome of daily, hourly, paying the price; incessant compunction, activepunishment. A prospect for a martyr to shirk from, and for a woman whohas made a mistake to--live through. 

We needed not further words. The secret was told, and the worst known. We parted. Von Francius was from this moment a sacred being to me. 

But from this time he scarcely came near the house--not even to give memy lessons. I went to my lodging and had them there. Adelaide saidnothing, asked not a question concerning him, nor mentioned his name, and the silence on his side was almost as profound as that on hers. Itseemed as if they feared that should they meet, speak, look each otherin the eyes, all resolution would be swept away, and the end hurryresistless on. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

"And behold, though the way was light and the sun did shine, yet myheart was ill at ease, for a sinister blot did now and again fleck thesun, and a muttered sound perturbed the air. And he repeated oft 'Onehath told me--thus--or thus. '"

Karl Linders, our old acquaintance, was now our fast friend. Manychanges had taken place in the _personnel_ of our fellow-workmen in thekapelle, but Eugen, Karl, and I remained stationary in the same placesand holding the same rank as on the day we had first met. He, Karl, hadbeen from the first more congenial to me than any other of my fellows(Eugen excepted, of course). Why, I could never exactly tell. There wasabout him a contagious cheerfulness, good-humor, and honesty. He was asinner, but no rascal; a wild fellow--_Taugenichts_--_wilder Gesell_, as our phraseology had it, but the furthest thing possible from aknave. 

Since his visits to us and his earnest efforts to curry favor withSigmund by means of nondescript wool beasts, domestic or of prey, he hadgrown much nearer to us. He was the only intimate we had--the onlyperson who came in and out of our quarters at any time; the only man whosat and smoked with us in an evening. At the time when Karl put in hisfirst appearance in these pages he was a young man not only notparticular, but utterly reckless as to the society he frequented. Anyone, he was wont to say, was good enough to talk with, or to listenwhile talked to. Karl's conversation could not be called either affectedor pedantic; his taste was catholic, and comprised within wide bounds;he considered all subjects that were amusing appropriate matter ofdiscussion, and to him most subjects were--or were susceptible of beingmade--amusing. 

Latterly, however, it would seem that a process of growth had been goingon in him. Three years had worked a difference. In some respects he was, thank Heaven! still the old Karl--the old careless, reckless, aimlessfellow; but in others he was metamorphosed. 

Karl Linders, a handsome fellow himself and a slave to beauty, as he wascareful to inform us--susceptible in the highest degree to realloveliness--so he often told us--and in love on an average, desperatelyand forever, once a week, had at last fallen really and actually inlove. 

For a long time we did not guess it--or rather, accepting his being inlove as a chronic state of his being--one of the "inseparableaccidents, " which may almost be called qualities, we wondered what layat the bottom of his sudden intense sobriety of demeanor and proprietyof conduct, and looked for some cause deeper than love, which did notusually have that effect upon him; we thought it might be debt. Westudied the behavior itself; we remarked that for upward of ten days hehad never lauded the charms of any young woman connected with the choralor terpsichorean staff of the opera, and wondered. 

We saw that he had had his hair very much cut, and we told him franklythat we did not think it improved him. To our great surprise he told usthat we knew nothing about it, and requested us to mind our ownbusiness, adding testily, after a pause, that he did not see why onearth a set of men like us should make ourselves conspicuous by thefashion of our hair, as if we were Absaloms or Samsons. 

"Samson had a Delilah, _mein lieber_, " said I, eying him. "She shore hislocks for him. Tell us frankly who has acted the part by you. "

"Bah! Can a fellow have no sense in his own head to find such thingsout? Go and do likewise, and I can tell you you'll be improved. "

But we agreed when he was gone that the loose locks, drooping over thelaughing glance, suited him better than that neatly cropped propriety. 

Days passed, and Karl was still not his old self. It became matter ofpublic remark that his easy, short jacket, a mongrel kind of garment towhich he was deeply attached, was discarded, not merely for grandoccasions, but even upon the ordinary Saturday night concert, yea, evenfor walking out at midday, and a superior frock-coat substituted forit--a frock-coat in which, we told him, he looked quite _edel_. At whichhe pished and pshawed, but surreptitiously adjusted his collar beforethe looking-glass which the propriety and satisfactoriness of ourbehavior had induced Frau Schmidt to add to our responsibilities, pulledhis cuffs down, and remarked _en passant_ that "the 'cello was ahorribly ungraceful instrument. "

"Not as you use it, " said we both, politely, and allowed him to lead theway to the concert-room. 

A few evenings later he strolled into our room, lighted a cigar, andsighed deeply. 

"What ails thee, then, Karl?" I asked. 

"I've something on my mind, " he replied, uneasily. 

"That we know, " put in Eugen; "and a pretty big lump it must be, too. Out with it, man! Has she accepted the bottle-nosed oboist after all?"

"No. "

"Have you got into debt? How much? I dare say we can manage it betweenus. "

"No--oh, no! I am five thalers to the good. "

Our countenances grow more serious. Not debt? Then what was it, whatcould it be?

"I hope nothing has happened to Gretchen, " suggested Eugen, forGretchen, his sister, was the one permanently strong love of Karl'sheart. 

"Oh, no! _Das Mädel_ is very well, and getting on in her classes. "

"Then what is it?"

"I'm--engaged--to be married. "

I grieve to say that Eugen and I, after staring at him for some fewminutes, until we had taken in the announcement, both burst into themost immoderate laughter--till the tears ran down our cheeks, and oursides ached. 

Karl sat quite still, unresponsive, puffing away at his cigar; and whenwe had finished, or rather were becoming a little more moderate in theexpression of our amusement, he knocked the ash away from his weed, andremarked:

"That's blind jealousy. You both know that there isn't a _Mädchen_ inthe place who would look at you, so you try to laugh at people who arebetter off than yourselves. "

This was so stinging (from the tone more than the words) as coming fromthe most sweet-tempered fellow I ever knew, that we stopped. Eugenapologized, and we asked who the lady was. 

"I shouldn't suppose you cared to know, " said he, rather sulkily. "Andit's all very fine to laugh, but let me see the man who even smiles ather--he shall learn who I am. "

We assured him, with the strongest expressions that we could call to ouraid, that it was the very idea of his being engaged that made uslaugh--not any disrespect, and begged his pardon again. By degrees herelented. We still urgently demanded the name of the lady. 

"_Als verlobte empfehlen sich_ Karl Linders and--who else?" asked Eugen. 

"_Als verlobte empfehlen sich_[D] Karl Linders and Clara Steinmann, "said Karl, with much dignity. 

[Footnote D: The German custom on an engagement taking place is toannounce it with the above words, signifying "M. And N. Announce(recommend) themselves as betrothed. " This appears in the newspaper--asa marriage with us. ]

"Clara Steinmann, " we repeated, in tones of respectful gravity, "I neverheard of her. "

"No, she keeps herself rather reserved and select, " said Karl, impressively. "She lives with her aunt in the Alléestrasse, at number39. "

"Number 39!" we both ejaculated. 

"Exactly so! What have you to say against it?" demanded Herr Linders, glaring round upon us with an awful majesty. 

"Nothing--oh, less than nothing. But I know now where you mean. It is aboarding-house, _nicht wahr?_"

He nodded sedately. 

"I have seen the young lady, " said I, carefully observing all duerespect. "Eugen, you must have seen her too. Miss Wedderburn used tocome with her to the Instrumental Concerts before she began to sing. "

"Right!" said Karl, graciously. "She did. Clara liked Miss Wedderburnvery much. "

"Indeed!" said we, respectfully, and fully recognizing that this wasquite a different affair from any of the previous flirtations withchorus-singers and ballet-girls which had taken up so much of hisattention. 

"I don't know her, " said I, "I have not that pleasure, but I am sure youare to be congratulated, old fellow--so I do congratulate you veryheartily. "

"Thank you, " said he. 

"I can't congratulate you, Karl, as I don't know the lady, " said Eugen, "but I do congratulate her, " laying his hand upon Karl's shoulder; "Ihope she knows the kind of man she has won, and is worthy of him. "

A smile of the Miss Squeers description--"Tilda, I pities your ignoranceand despises you"--crossed Karl's lips as he said:

"Thank you. No one else knows. It only took place--decidedly, you know, to-night. I said I should tell two friends of mine--she said she had noobjection. I should not have liked to keep it from you two. I wish, "said Karl, whose eyes had been roving in a seeking manner round theroom, and who now brought his words out with a run; "I wish Sigmund hadbeen here too. I wish she could have seen him. She loves children; shehas been very good to Gretchen. "

Eugen's hand dropped from our friend's shoulder. He walked to the windowwithout speaking, and looked out into the darkness--as he was then inmore senses than one often wont to do--nor did he break the silence norlook at us again until some time after Karl and I had resumed theconversation. 

So did the quaint fellow announce his engagement to us. It was quite aromantic little history, for it turned out that he had loved the girlfor full two years, but for a long time had not been able even to makeher acquaintance, and when that was accomplished, had hardly dared tospeak of his love for her; for though she was sprung from much the sameclass as himself, she was in much better circumstances, and accustomedto a life of ease and plenty, even if she were little better in realitythan a kind of working housekeeper. A second suitor for her hand had, however, roused Karl into boldness and activity; he declared himself, and was accepted. Despite the opposition of Frau Steinmann, who thoughtthe match in every way beneath her niece (why, I never could tell), thelovers managed to carry their purpose so far as the betrothal or_verlobung_ went; marriage was a question strictly of the future. It wasduring the last weeks of suspense and uncertainty that Karl had beenunable to carry things off in quite his usual light-hearted manner; itwas after finally conquering that he came to make us partners in hissatisfaction. 

In time we had the honor of an introduction to Fräulein Steinmann, andour amazement and amusement were equally great. Karl was a tall, handsome, well-knit fellow, with an exceptionally graceful figure andwhat I call a typical German face (typical, I mean, in one line ofdevelopment)--open, frank, handsome, with the broad traits, smilinglips, clear and direct guileless eyes, waving hair and aptitude forgeniality which are the chief characteristics of that type--not thehighest, perhaps, but a good one, nevertheless--honest, loyal, brave--akind which makes good fathers and good soldiers--how many a hundred aremourned since 1870-71!

He had fallen in love with a little stout dumpy _Mädchen_, honest andopen as himself, but stupid in all outside domestic matters. She wasevidently desperately in love with him, and could understand a goodwaltz or a sentimental song, so that his musical talents were notaltogether thrown away. I liked her better after a time. There wassomething touching in the way in which she said to me once:

"He might have done so much better. I am such an ugly, stupid thing, butwhen he said did I love him or could I love him, or something like that, _um Gotteswillen_, Herr Helfen, what could I say?"

"I am sure you did the best possible thing both for him and for you, " Iwas able to say, with emphasis and conviction. 

Karl had now become a completely reformed and domesticated member ofsociety; now he wore the frock-coat several times a week, and confidedto me that he thought he must have a new one soon. Now too did otherstrange results appear of his engagement to Fräulein Clara (he gotsentimental and called her Clärchen sometimes). He had now the _entrée_of Frau Steinmann's house and there met feminine society several degreesabove that to which he had been accustomed. He was obliged to wear apermanently polite and polished manner (which, let me hasten to say, wasnot the least trouble to him). No chaffing of these young ladies--nooffering to take them to places of amusement of any but the verysternest and severest respectability. 

He took Fräulein Clara out for walks. They jogged along arm in arm, Karlradiant, Clara no less so, and sometimes they were accompanied byanother inmate of Frau Steinmann's house--a contrast to them both. Shelived _en famille_ with her hostess, not having an income large enoughto admit of indulging in quite separate quarters, and her name was AnnaSartorius. 

It was very shortly after his engagement that Karl began to talk to meabout Anna Sartorius. She was a clever young woman, it seemed--or as hecalled her, a _gescheidtes Mädchen_. She could talk most wonderfully. She had traveled--she had been in England and France, and seen theworld, said Karl. They all passed very delightful evenings togethersometimes, diversified with music and song and the racy jest--at whichtimes Frau Steinmann became quite another person, and he, Karl, felthimself in heaven. 

The substance of all this was told me by him one day at a probe, whereEugen had been conspicuous by his absence. Perhaps the circumstancereminded Karl of some previous conversation, for he said:

"She must have seen Courvoisier before somewhere. She asks a good manyquestions about him, and when I said I knew him she laughed. "

"Look here, Karl, don't go talking to outsiders about Eugen--or any ofus. His affairs are no business of Fräulein Sartorius, or any otherbusybody. "

"I talk about him! What do you mean? Upon my word I don't know how theconversation took that turn; but I am sure she knows something abouthim. She said 'Eugen Courvoisier indeed!' and laughed in a very peculiarway. "

"She is a fool. So are you if you let her talk to you about him. "

"She is no fool, and I want to talk to no one but my own _Mädchen_, "said he, easily; "but when a woman is talking one can't stop one'sears. "

Time passed. The concert with the Choral Symphony followed. Karl had hadthe happiness of presenting tickets to Fräulein Clara and her aunt, andof seeing them, in company with Miss Sartorius, enjoying looking at thedresses, and saying how loud the music was. His visits to Frau Steinmanncontinued. 

"Friedel, " he remarked abruptly one day to me, as we paced down theCasernenstrasse, "I wonder who Courvoisier is!"

"You have managed to exist very comfortably for three or four yearswithout knowing. "

"There is something behind all his secrecy about himself. "

"Fräulein Sartorius says so, I suppose, " I remarked, dryly. 

"N--no; she never said so; but I think she knows it is so. "

"And what if it be so?"

"Oh, nothing! But I wonder what can have driven him here. "

"Driven him here? His own choice, of course. "

Karl laughed. 

"_Nee_, _nee_, Friedel, not quite. "

"I should advise you to let him and his affairs alone, unless you want arow with him. I would no more think of asking him than of cutting off myright hand. "

"Asking him--_lieber Himmel!_ no; but one may wonder--It was a veryqueer thing his sending poor Sigmund off in that style. I wonder wherehe is. "

"I don't know. "

"Did he never tell you?"

"No. "

"Queer!" said Karl, reflectively. "I think there is something odd behindit all. "

"Now listen, Karl. Do you want to have a row with Eugen? Are you anxiousfor him never to speak to you again?"

"_Herrgott_, no!"

"Then take my advice, and just keep your mouth shut. Don't listen totales, and don't repeat them. "

"But, my dear fellow, when there is a mystery about a man--"

"Mystery! Nonsense! What mystery is there in a man's choosing to haveprivate affairs? We didn't behave in this idiotic manner when you weregoing on like a lunatic about Fräulein Clara. We simply assumed that asyou didn't speak you had affairs which you chose to keep to yourself. Just apply the rule, or it may be worse for you. "

"For all that, there is something queer, " he said, as we turned into therestauration for dinner. 

Yet again, some days later, just before the last concert came off, Karl, talking to me, said, in a tone and with a look as if the idea troubledand haunted him:

"I say, Friedel, do you think Courvoisier's being here is all square?"

"All square?" I repeated, scornfully. 

He nodded. 

"Yes. Of course all has been right since he came here; but don't youthink there may be something shady in the background?"

"What do you mean by 'shady'?" I asked, more annoyed than I cared toconfess at his repeated returning to the subject. 

"Well, you know, there must be a reason for his being here--"

I burst into a fit of laughter, which was not so mirthful as it mightseem. 

"I should rather think there must. Isn't there a reason for every onebeing somewhere? Why am I here? Why are you here?"

"Yes; but this is quite a different thing. We are all agreed thatwhatever he may be now, he has not always been one of us, and I likethings to be clear about people. "

"It is a most extraordinary thing that you should only have felt theanxiety lately, " said I, witheringly, and then, after a moment'sreflection, I said:

"Look here, Karl; no one could be more unwilling than I to pick aquarrel with you, but quarrel we must if this talking of Eugen behindhis back goes on. It is nothing to either of us what his past has been. I want no references. If you want to gossip about him or any one else, go to the old women who are the natural exchangers of that commodity. Only if you mention it again to me it comes to a quarrel--_verstehstdu?_"

"I meant no harm, and I can see no harm in it, " said he. 

"Very well; but I do. I hate it. So shake hands, and let there be an endof it. I wish now that I had spoken out at first. There's a dirtiness, to my mind, in the idea of speculating about a person with whom you areintimate, in a way that you wouldn't like him to hear. "

"Well, if you will have it so, " said he; but there was not the usuallook of open satisfaction upon his face. He did not mention the subjectto me again, but I caught him looking now and then earnestly at Eugen, as if he wished to ask him something. Then I knew that in my anxiety toavoid gossiping about the friend whose secrets were sacred to me, I hadmade a mistake. I ought to have made Karl tell me whether he had heardanything specific about him or against him, and so judge the extent ofthe mischief done. 

It needed but little thought on my part to refer Karl's suspicions andvague rumors to the agency of Anna Sartorius. Lately I had begun toobserve this young lady more closely. She was a tall, dark, plain girl, with large, defiant-looking eyes, and a bitter mouth; when she smiledthere was nothing genial in the smile. When she spoke, her voice had acertain harsh flavor; her laugh was hard and mocking--as if she laughedat, not with, people. There was something rather striking in herappearance, but little pleasing. She looked at odds with the world, orwith her lot in it, or with her present circumstances, or something. Iwas satisfied that she knew something of Eugen, though, when I oncepointed her out to him and asked if he knew her, he looked at her, andafter a moment's look, as if he remembered, shook his head, saying:

"There is something a little familiar to me in her face, but I am surethat I have never seen her--most assuredly never spoken to her. "

Yet I had often seen her look at him long and earnestly, usually with acertain peculiar smile, and with her head a little to one side as if sheexamined some curiosity or _lusus naturæ_. I was too little curiousmyself to know Eugen's past to speculate much about it; but I was quitesure that there was some link between him and that dark, bitter, sarcastic-looking girl, Anna Sartorius. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

 "Didst thou, or didst thou not? Just tell me, friend! Not that _my_ conscience may be satisfied, _I_ never for a moment doubted thee-- But that I may have wherewithal in hand To turn against them when they point at thee: A whip to flog them with--a rock to crush-- Thy word--thy simple downright 'No, I did not. '

 * * * * *

 Why! How! What's this? He does not, will not speak. Oh, God! Nay, raise thy head and look me in the eyes! Canst not? What is this thing?"

It was the last concert of the season, and the end of April, whenevenings were growing pleasantly long and the air balmy. Those lastconcerts, and the last nights of the opera, which closed at the end ofApril, until September, were always crowded. That night I remember wehad Liszt's "Prometheus, " and a great violinist had been announced ascoming to enrapture the audience with the performance of a Concerto ofBeethoven's. 

The concert was for the benefit of von Francius, and was probably thelast one at which he would conduct us. He was leaving to assume the postof Königlicher Musik-Direktor at ----. Now that the time came there wasnot a man among us who was not heartily sorry to think of the parting. 

Miss Wedderburn was one of the soloists that evening and her sister andMr. Arkwright were both there. 

Karl Linders came on late. I saw that just before he appeared by theorchestra entrance, his beloved, her aunt, and Fräulein Sartorius hadtaken their places in the parquet. Karl looked sullen and discontented, and utterly unlike himself. Anna Sartorius was half smiling. Lady LeMarchant, I noticed, passingly, looked the shadow of her former self. 

Then von Francius came on; he too looked disturbed, for him very muchso, and glanced round the orchestra and the room; and then coming up toEugen, drew him a little aside, and seemed to put a question to him. Thediscussion, though carried on in low tones, was animated, and lastedsome time. Von Francius appeared greatly to urge Courvoisier tosomething--the latter to resist. At last some understanding appeared tobe come to. Von Francius returned to his estrade, Eugen to his seat, andthe concert began. 

The third piece on the list was the Violin Concerto, and when its turncame all eyes turned in all directions in search of ----, thecelebrated, who was to perform it. Von Francius advanced and made ashort enough announcement. 

"_Meine Herrschaften_, I am sorry to say that I have received a telegramfrom Herr ----, saying that sudden illness prevents his playingto-night. I am sorry that you should be disappointed of hearing him, butI can not regret that you should have an opportunity of listening to onewho will be a very effectual substitute--Herr ConcertmeisterCourvoisier, your first violin. "

He stepped back. Courvoisier rose. There was a dead silence in the hall. Eugen stood in the well-known position of the prophet without honor, only that he had not yet begun to speak. The rest of the orchestra andvon Francius were waiting to begin Beethoven's Concerto; but Eugen, lifting his voice, addressed them in his turn:

"I am sorry to say that I dare not venture upon the great Concerto; itis so long since I attempted it. I shall have pleasure in trying to playa _Chaconne_--one of the compositions of Herr von Francius. "

Von Francius started up as if to forbid it. But Eugen had touched theright key. There was a round of applause, and then an expectant settlingdown to listen on the part of the audience, who were, perhaps, betterpleased to hear von Francius the living and much discussed thanBeethoven the dead and undisputed. 

It was a minor measure, and one unknown to the public, for it had notyet been published. Von Francius had lent Eugen the score a few daysago, and he had once or twice said to me that it was full not merely oftalent; it was replete with the fire of genius. 

And so, indeed, he proved to us that night. Never, before or since, fromprofessional or private _virtuoso_, have I heard such playing as that. The work was in itself a fine one; original, strong, terse and racy, like him who had composed it. It was sad, very sad, but there was amagnificent elevation running all through it which raised it far above amere complaint, gave a depth to its tragedy while it pointed at hope. And this, interpreted by Eugen, whose mood and whose inner life itseemed exactly to suit, was a thing not to be forgotten in a life-time. To me the scene and the sounds come freshly as if heard yesterday. I seethe great hall full of people, attentive--more than attentive--everymoment more inthralled. I see the pleased smile which had broken uponevery face of his fellow-musicians at this chance of distinctiongradually subside into admiration and profound appreciation; I feelagain the warm glow of joy which filled my own heart; I meet again May'seyes and see the light in them, and see von Francius shade his face withhis hand to conceal the intensity of the artist's delight he felt athearing his own creation so grandly, so passionately interpreted. 

Then I see how it was all over, and Eugen, pale with the depth ofemotion with which he had played the passionate music, retired, andthere came a burst of enthusiastic applause--applause renewed again andagain--it was a veritable _succès fou_. 

But he would make no response to the plaudits. He remained obstinatelyseated, and there was no elation, but rather gloom upon his face. Invain von Francius besought him to come forward. He declined, and thecalls at last ceased. It was the last piece on the first part of theprogramme. The people at last let him alone. But there could be no doubtthat he had both roused a great interest in himself and stimulated thepopularity of von Francius in no common degree. And at last he had to godown the orchestra steps to receive a great many congratulations, and gothrough several introductions, while I sat still and mentally rubbed myhands. 

Meanwhile Karl Linders, with nearly all the other instrumentalists, haddisappeared from the orchestra. I saw him appear again in the body ofthe hall, among all the people, who were standing up, laughing anddiscussing and roving about to talk to their friends. He had a longdiscussion with Fräulein Clara and Anna Sartorius. 

And then I turned my attention to Eugen again, who, looking grave andunelated, released himself as soon as possible from his group of newacquaintance and joined me. 

Then von Francius brought Miss Wedderburn up the steps, and left hersitting near us. She turned to Eugen and said, "_Ich gratuliere_, " towhich he only bowed rather sadly. Her chair was quite close to ours, andvon Francius stood talking to her. Others were quickly coming. One ortwo were around and behind us. 

Eugen was tuning his violin, when a touch on the shoulder roused me. Ilooked up. Karl stood there, leaning across me toward Eugen. Somethingin his face told me that it--that which had been hanging so long overus--was coming. His expression, too, attracted the attention of severalother people--of all who were immediately around. 

Those who heard Karl were myself, von Francius, Miss Wedderburn, andsome two or three others, who had looked up as he came, and had pausedto watch what was coming. 

"Eugen, " said he, "a foul lie has been told about you. "

"So!"

"Of course I don't believe a word of it. I'm not such a fool. But I havebeen challenged to confront you with it. It only needs a syllable onyour side to crush it instantly; for I will take your word against allthe rest of the world put together. "

"Well?" said Eugen, whose face was white, and whose voice was low. 

"A lady has said to me that you had a brother who had acted the part offather to you, and that you rewarded his kindness by forging his namefor a sum of money which you could have had for the asking, for hedenied you nothing. It is almost too ridiculous to repeat, and I begyour pardon for doing it; but I was obliged. Will you give me a word ofdenial?"

Silence!

I looked at Eugen. We were all looking at him. Three things I looked foras equally likely for him to do; but he did none. He did not start upin an indignant denial; he did not utter icily an icy word of contempt;he did not smile and ask Karl if he were out of his senses. He droppedhis eyes, and maintained a deadly silence. 

Karl was looking at him, and his candid face changed. Doubt, fear, dismay succeeded one another upon it. Then, in a lower and changedvoice, as if first admitting the idea that caution might be necessary:

"_Um Gotteswillen_, Eugen! Speak!"

He looked up--so may look a dog that is being tortured--and my veryheart sickened; but he did not speak. 

A few moments--not half a minute--did we remain thus. It seemed ahundred years of slow agony. But during that time I tried to comprehendthat my friend of the bright, clear eyes, and open, fearless glance;the very soul and flower of honor; my ideal of almost Quixoticchivalrousness, stood with eyes that could not meet ours that hung uponhim; face white, expression downcast, accused of a crime which came, ifever crime did, under the category "dirty, " and not denying it!

Karl, the wretched beginner of the wretched scene, came nearer, took theother's hand, and, in a hoarse whisper, said:

"For God's sake, Eugen, speak! Deny it! You can deny it--you must denyit!"

He looked up at last, with a tortured gaze; looked at Karl, at me, atthe faces around. His lips quivered faintly. Silence yet. And yet itseemed to me that it was loathing that was most strongly depicted uponhis face; the loathing of a man who is obliged to intimately examinesome unclean thing; the loathing of one who has to drag a corpse aboutwith him. 

"Say it is a lie, Eugen!" Karl conjured him. 

At last came speech; at last an answer; slow, low, tremulous, impossibleto mistake or explain away. 

"No; I can not say so. "

His head--that proud, high head--dropped again, as if he would fainavoid our eyes. 

Karl raised himself. His face too was white. As if stricken with somemortal blow, he walked away. Some people who had surrounded us turnedaside and began to whisper to each other behind their music. VonFrancius looked impenetrable; May Wedderburn white. The noise andbustle was still going on all around, louder than before. The drama hadnot taken three minutes to play out. 

Eugen rested his brow for a moment on his hand, and his face was hidden. He looked up, rising as he did so, and his eyes met those of MissWedderburn. So sad, so deep a gaze I never saw. It was a sign to me, asignificant one, that he could meet her eyes. 

Then he turned to von Francius. 

"Herr Direktor, Helfen will take my place, _nicht wahr?_"

Von Francius bowed. Eugen left his seat, made his way, without a word, from the orchestra, and von Francius rapped sharply, the preliminarytumult subsided; the concert began. 

I glanced once or twice toward Karl; I received no answering look. Icould not even see his face; he had made himself as small as possiblebehind his music. 

The concert over--it seemed to me interminable--I was hastening away, anxious only to find Eugen, when Karl Linders stopped me in a retiredcorner, and holding me fast, said:

"Friedel, I am a damned fool. "

"I am sorry not to be able to contradict you. "

"Listen, " said he. "You must listen, or I shall follow you and makeyou. I made up my mind not to hear another word against him, but whenI went to _die Clara_ after the solo, I found her and that confoundedgirl whispering together. She--Anna Sartorius--said it was very finefor such scamps to cover their sins with music. I asked her prettystiffly what she meant, for she is always slanging Eugen, and I thoughtshe might have let him alone for once. She said she meant that he was ablackguard--that's the word she used--_ein lauter Spitzbube_--a forger, and worse. I told her I believed it was a lie. I did not believe it. 

"'Ask him, ' said she. I said I would be--something--first. But Clarawould have nothing to say to me, and they both badgered me until formere quietness I agreed to do as they wished. "

He went on in distress for some time. 

"Oh, drop it!" said I, impatiently. "You have done the mischief. I don'twant to listen to your whining over it. Go to the Fräulein Steinmannand Sartorius. They will confer the reward of merit upon you. "

"_Gott behüte!_"

I shook myself loose from him and took my way home. It was with afeeling not far removed from tremulousness that I entered the room. Thatpoor room formed a temple which I had no intention of desecrating. 

He was sitting at the table when I entered, and looked at me absently. Then, with a smile in which sweetness and bitterness were strangelymingled, said:

"So! you have returned? I will not trouble you much longer. Give mehouse-room for to-night. In the morning I shall be gone. "

I went up to him, pushed the writing materials which lay before himaway, and took his hands, but could not speak for ever so long. 

"Well, Friedhelm, " he asked, after a pause, during which the drawn andtense look upon his face relaxed somewhat, "what have you to say to theman who has let you think him honest for three years?"

"Whom I know, and ever have known, to be an honest man. "

He laughed. 

"There are degrees and grades even in honesty. One kind of honesty islower than others. I am honest now because my sin has found me out, Ican't keep up appearances any longer. "

"Pooh! do you suppose that deceives me?" said I, contemptuously. "Me, who have known you for three years. That would be a joke, but one thatno one will enjoy at my expense. "

A momentary expression of pleasure unutterable flashed across his faceand into his eyes; then was repressed, as he said:

"You must listen to reason. Have I not told you all along that my lifehad been spoiled by my own fault?--that I had disqualified myself totake any leading part among men?--that others might advance, but Ishould remain where I was? And have you not the answer to all here? Youare a generous soul, I know, like few others. My keenest regret now isthat I did not tell you long ago how things stood, but it would havecost me your friendship, and I have not too many things to make lifesweet to me. "

"Eugen, why did you not tell me before? I know the reason; for the verysame reason which prevents you from looking me in the eyes now, andsaying, 'I am guilty. I did that of which I am accused, ' because it isnot true. I challenge you; meet my eyes, and say, 'I am guilty!'"

He looked at me; his eyes were dim with anguish. He said:

"Friedel, I--can not tell you that I am innocent. "

"I did not ask you to do so. I asked you to say you were guilty, and onyour soul be it if you lie to me. That I could never forgive. "

Again he looked at me, strove to speak, but no word came. I neverremoved my eyes from his; the pause grew long, till I dropped his handsand turned away with a smile. 

"Let a hundred busybodies raise their clamoring tongues, they can neverdivide you and me. If it were not insulting I should ask you to believethat every feeling of mine for you is unchanged, and will remain so aslong as I live. "

"It is incredible. Such loyalty, such--Friedel, you are a fool!"

His voice broke. 

"I wish you could have heard Miss Wedderburn sing her English song afteryou were gone. It was called, 'What would You do, Love?' and she made usall cry. "

"Ah, Miss Wedderburn! How delightful she is. "

"If it is any comfort to you to know, I can assure you that she thinksas I do. I am certain of it. "

"Comfort--not much. It is only that if I ever allowed myself to fall inlove again, which I shall not do, it would be with Miss Wedderburn. "

The tone sufficiently told me that he was much in love with her already. 

"She is bewitching, " he added. 

"If you do not mean to allow yourself to fall in love with her, " Iremarked, sententiously, "because it seems that 'allowing' is a matterfor her to decide, not the men who happen to know her. "

"I shall not see much more of her. I shall not remain here. "

As this was what I had fully expected to hear, I said nothing, but Ithought of Miss Wedderburn, and grieved for her. 

"Yes, I must go forth from hence, " he pursued. "I suppose I ought to besatisfied that I have had three years here. I wonder if there is any wayin which a man could kill all trace of his old self; a man who has everydesire to lead henceforth a new life, and be at peace and charity withall men. I suppose not--no. I suppose the brand has to be carried abouttill the last; and how long it may be before that 'last' comes!"

I was silent. I had put a good face upon the matter and spoken bravelyabout it. I had told him that I did not believe him guilty--that myregard and respect were as high as ever, and I spoke the truth. Bothbefore and since then he had told me that I had a bump of veneration andone of belief ludicrously out of proportion to the exigencies of the agein which I lived. 

Be it so. Despite my cheerful words, and despite the belief I did feelin him, I could not help seeing that he carried himself now as a markedman. The free, open look was gone; a blight had fallen upon him, and hewithered under it. There was what the English call a "down" look uponhis face, which had not been there formerly, even in those worst dayswhen the parting from Sigmund was immediately before and behind us. 

In the days which immediately followed the scene at the concert Inoticed how he would set about things with a kind of hurried zeal, thensuddenly stop and throw them aside, as if sick of them, and fall tobrooding with head sunk upon his breast, and lowering brow; a state anda spectacle which caused me pain and misery not to be described. Hewould begin sudden conversations with me, starting with some question, as:

"Friedel, do you believe in a future state?"

"I do, and I don't. I mean to say that I don't know anything about it. "

"Do you know what my idea of heaven would be?"

"Indeed, I don't, " said I, feebly endeavoring a feeble joke. "A placewhere all the fiddles are by Stradivarius and Guanarius, and all themusic comes up to Beethoven. "

"No; but a place where there are no mistakes. "

"No mistakes?"

"_Ja wohl!_ Where it would not be possible for a man with fair chancesto spoil his whole career by a single mistake. Or, if there weremistakes, I would arrange that the punishment should be in someproportion to them--not a large punishment for a little sin, and _viceversâ_. "

"Well, I should think that if there is any heaven there would be somearrangement of that kind. "

"As for hell, " he went on, in a low, calm tone which I had learned tounderstand meant with him intense earnestness, "there are people whowonder that any one could invent a hell. My only wonder is why theyshould have resorted to fire and brimstone to enhance its terrors whenthey had the earth full of misery to choose from. "

"You think this world a hell, Eugen?"

"Sometimes I think it the very nethermost hell of hells, and I think ifyou had my feelings you would think so too. A poet, an English poet (youdo not know the English poets as you ought, Friedhelm), has said thatthe fiercest of all hells is the failure in a great purpose. I used tothink that a fine sentiment; now I sometimes wonder whether to a man whowas once inclined to think well of himself it may not be a much fiercertrial to look back and find that he has failed to be commonly honest andupright. It is a nice little distinction--a moral wire-drawing which Iwould recommend to the romancers if I knew any. "

Once and only once was Sigmund mentioned between us, and Eugen said:

"Nine years, were you speaking of? No--not in nineteen, nor inninety-nine shall I ever see him again. "

"Why?"

"The other night, and what occurred then, decided me. Till then I hadsome consolation in thinking that the blot might perhaps be wipedout--the shame lived down. Now I see that that is a fallacy. With God'shelp I will never see him nor speak to him again. It is better that heshould forget me. "

His voice did not tremble as he said this, though I knew that the ideaof being forgotten by Sigmund must be to him anguish of a refinement notto be measured by me. 

I bided my time, saying nothing. I at least was too much engrossed withmy own affairs to foresee the cloud then first dawning on the horizon, which they who looked toward France and Spain might perhaps perceive. 

It had not come yet--the first crack of that thunder which rattledso long over our land, and when we saw the dingy old Jäger Hofat one end of the Hofgarten, and heard by chance the words ofHohenzollern-Sigmaringen, no premonition touched us. My mind was madeup, that let Eugen go when and where he would, I would go with him. 

I had no ties of duty, none of love or of ambition to separate me fromhim; his God should be my God, and his people my people; if the God werea jealous God, dealing out wrath and terror, and the people shoulddwindle to outcasts and pariahs, it mattered not to me. I loved him. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

 Nein, länger kann ich diesen Kampf nicht kämpfen, Den Riesenkampf der Pflicht. Kannst du des Herzens Flammentrieb nicht dämpfen, So fordre, Tugend, dieses Opfer nicht. 

 Geschworen hab' ich 's, ja, ich hab's geschworen, Mich selbst zu bändigen. Hier ist dein Kranz, er sei auf ewig mir verloren; Nimm ihn zurück und lass mich sündigen. SCHILLER. 

If I had never had a trouble before I had one now--large, stalwart, robust. For what seemed to me a long time there was present to my mind'seye little but the vision of a large, lighted room--a great undefinedcrowd surging around and below, a small knot of persons and faces insharp distinctness immediately around me; low-spoken words with aquestion; no answer--vehement imploring for an answer--still no reply;yet another sentence conjuring denial, and then the answer itself--thesilence that succeeded it; the face which had become part of my thoughtsall changed and downcast--the man whom I had looked up to, feared, honored, as chivalrous far beyond his station and circumstances slowlywalking away from the company of his fellows, disgraced, fallen, havinghimself owned to the disgrace being merited, pointed at as acheat--bowing to the accusation. 

It drove me almost mad to think of it. I suffered the more keenlybecause I could speak to no one of what had happened. What sympathyshould I get from any living soul by explaining my sick looks and absentdemeanor with the words, "I love that man who is disgraced?" I smileddryly in the midst of my anguish, and locked it the deeper in my ownbreast. 

I had believed in him so devotedly, so intensely, had loved him soentirely, and with such a humility, such a consciousness of my ownshortcomings and of his superiority. The recoil at first was such as onemight experience who embraces a veiled figure, presses his lips to whereits lips should be, and finds that he kisses a corpse. 

Such, I say, was the recoil at first. But a recoil, from its verynature, is short and vehement. There are some natures, I believe, whichafter a shock turn and flee from the shocking agent. Not so I. Afterfiguratively springing back and pressing my hands over my eyes, Iremoved them again, and still saw his face--and it tortured me to haveto own it, but I had to do so--still loved that face beyond all earthlythings. 

It grew by degrees familiar to me again. I caught myself thinking of thepast and smiling at the remembrance of the jokes between Eugen andHelfen on Carnival Monday, then pulled myself up with a feeling ofhorror, and the conviction that I had no business to be thinking of himat all. But I did think of him day by day and hour by hour, and torturedmyself with thinking of him, and wished, yet dreaded, to see him, andwondered how I possibly could see him, and could only live on in a hopewhich was not fulfilled. For I had no right to seek him out. Hiscondition might be much--very much to me. My sympathy or pity orthought--as I felt all too keenly--could be nothing to him. 

Meanwhile, as is usual in such cases, circumstance composedly took myaffairs into her hands and settled them for me without my being able tomove a finger in the matter. 

The time was approaching for the departure of von Francius. Adelaide andI did not exchange a syllable upon the subject. Of what use? I knew to acertain extent what was passing within her. I knew that this child ofthe world--were we not all children of the world, and not of light?--hadbraced her moral forces to meet the worst, and was awaiting it calmly. 

Adelaide, like me, based her actions not upon religion. Religion was forboth of us an utter abstraction; it touched us not. That which gaveAdelaide force to withstand temptation, and to remain stoically in thedrear sphere in which she already found herself, was not religion; itwas pride on the one hand, and on the other love for Max von Francius. 

Pride forbade her to forfeit her reputation, which was dear to her, though her position had lost the charms with which distance had oncegilded it for her. Love for von Francius made her struggle with all theforce of her nature to remain where she was, renounce him blamelesslyrather than yield at the price which women must pay who do such thingsas leave their husbands. 

It was wonderful to me to see how love had developed in her every higheremotion. I remembered how cynical she had always been as to the meritsof her own sex. Women, according to her, were an inferior race, whogained their poor ends by poor means. She had never been hard uponfemale trickery and subterfuge. Bah! she said, how else are they to getwhat they want? But now with the exalted opinion of a man, had comeexalted ideas as to the woman fit for his wife. 

Since to go to him she must be stained and marked forever, she wouldremain away from him. Never should any circumstance connected with himbe made small or contemptible by any act of hers. I read the motive, and, reading it, read her. 

Von Francius was, equally with herself, distinctly and emphatically achild of the world--as she honored him he honored her. He proved hisstrength and the innate nobility of his nature by his stoic abstinencefrom evasion of or rebellion against the decree which had gone outagainst their love. He was a better man, a greater artist, a moresympathetic nature now than before. His passage through the furnacehad cleansed him. He was a standing example to me that despite whatour preachers and our poets, our philosophers and our novelistsare incessantly dinning into our ears, there are yet men who canrenounce--men to whom honor and purity are still the highest goddesses. 

I saw him, naturally, and often during these days--so dark for all ofus. He spoke to me of his prospects in his new post. He asked me if Iwould write to him occasionally, even if it should be only three or fourtimes in the year. 

"Indeed I will, if you care to hear from me, " said I, much moved. 

This was at our last music lesson, in my dark little room at theWehrhahn. Von Francius had made it indeed a lesson, more than a lesson, a remembrance to carry with me forever, for he had been playingBeethoven and Schubert to me. 

"Fräulein May, everything concerning you and yours will ever be of thevery deepest interest to me, " he said, looking earnestly at me. "Take afew words of advice and information from one who has never felt anythingfor you since he first met you but the truest friendship. You have inyou the materials of a great artist; whether you have the Spartancourage and perseverance requisite to attain the position, I can hardlytell. If you choose to become an artist, _eine vollkommene Künstlerin_, you must give everything else up--love and marriage and all thatinterferes with your art, for, _liebes Fräulein_, you can not pursue twothings at once. "

"Then I have every chance of becoming as great an artist as possible, "said I; "for none of those things will ever interfere with my pursuit ofart. "

"Wait till the time of probation comes; you are but eighteen yet, " saidhe, kindly, but skeptically. 

"Herr von Francius"--the words started to my lips as the truth intomy mind, and fell from them in the strong desire to speak to some oneof the matter that then filled my whole soul--"I can tell you thetruth--you will understand--the time of probation has been--it isover--past. I am free for the future. "

"So!" said he, in a very low voice, and his eyes were filled, less withpity than with a fellow-feeling which made them "wondrous kind. " "Youtoo have suffered, and given up. There are then four people--you and I, and one whose name I will not speak, and--may I guess once, FräuleinMay?"

I bowed. 

"My first violinist, _nicht wahr?_"

Again I assented silently. He went on:

"Fate is perverse about these things. And now, my fair pupil, youunderstand somewhat more that no true artist is possible without sorrowand suffering and renunciation. And you will think sometimes of yourold, fault-finding, grumbling master--_ja_?"

"Oh, Herr von Francius!" cried I, laying my hand upon the key-board ofthe piano, and sobbing aloud. "The kindest, best, most patient, gentle--"

I could say no more. 

"That is mere nonsense, my dear May, " he said, passing his hand over myprostrate head; and I felt that it--the strong hand--trembled. "I want apromise from you. Will you sing for me next season?"

"If I am alive, and you send for me, I will. "

"Thanks. And--one other word. Some one very dear to us both is very sad;she will become sadder. You, my child, have the power of allayingsadness, and soothing grief and bitterness in a remarkable degree. Willyou expend some of that power upon her when her burden grows very hard, and think that with each word of kindness to her you bind my heart morefast to yourself?"

"I will--indeed I will!"

"We will not say good-bye, but only _auf wiedersehen_!" said he. "Youand I shall meet again. I am sure of that. _Meine liebe, guteSchülerin_, adieu!"

Choked with tears, I passively let him raise my hand to his lips. I hidmy face in my handkerchief to repress my fast-flowing tears. I wouldnot, because I dared not, look at him. The sight of his kind and trustedface would give me too much pain. 

He loosed my hand. I heard steps; a door opened and closed. He was gone!My last lesson was over. My trusty friend had departed. He was to leaveElberthal on the following day. 

 * * * * *

The next night there was an entertainment--half concert, halftheatricals, wholly _dilettante_--at the Malkasten, the Artists' Club. We, as is the duty of a decorous English family, buried all our privategriefs, and appeared at the entertainment, to which, indeed, Adelaidehad received a special invitation. I was going to remain with Adelaideuntil Sir Peter's return, which, we understood, was to be in the courseof a few weeks, and then I was going to ----, by the advice of vonFrancius, there to finish my studies. 

Dearly though I loved music, divine as she ever has been, and will be, to me, yet the idea of leaving von Francius for other masters had atfirst almost shaken my resolution to persevere. But, as I said, all thiswas taken out of my hands by an irresistible concourse of circumstances, over which I had simply no control whatever. 

Adelaide, Harry, and I went to the Malkasten. The gardens were gaylyilluminated; there was a torch-light procession round the littleartificial lake, and chorus singing--merry choruses, such as "Wenn Zweisich gut sind, sie finden den Weg"--which were cheered and laughed at. The fantastically dressed artists and their friends were flitting, torchin hand, about the dark alleys under the twisted acacias and elms, theformer of which made the air voluptuous with their scent. Then weadjourned to the saal for the concert, and heard on all sides regretsabout the absence of von Francius. 

We sat out the first part of the festivities, which were to concludewith theatricals. During the pause we went into the garden. The Mayevening was balmy and beautiful; no moonlight, but many stars and thetwinkling lights in the garden. 

Adelaide and I had seated ourselves on a circular bench surrounding abig tree, which had the mighty word GOETHE cut deeply into its ruggedbark. When the others began to return to the Malkasten, Adelaide, turning to Arkwright, said:

"Harry, will you go in and leave my sister and me here, that's a goodboy? You can call for us when the play is over. "

"All right, my lady, " assented he, amiably, and left us. 

Presently Adelaide and I moved to another seat, near to a small tableunder a thick shade of trees. The pleasant, cool evening air fanned ourfaces; all was still and peaceful. Not a soul but ourselves had remainedout-of-doors. The still drama of the marching stars was less attractivethan the amateur murdering of "Die Piccolomin" within. The tree-topsrustled softly over our heads. The lighted pond gleamed through thelow-hanging boughs at the other end of the garden. A peal of laughterand a round of applause came wafted now and then from within. Ere longAdelaide's hand stole into mine, which closed over it, and we satsilent. 

Then there came a voice. Some one--a complaisant _dilettantin_--wassinging Thekla's song. We heard the refrain--distance lent enchantment;it sounded what it really was, deep as eternity:

 "Ich habe gelebt und geliebet. "

Adelaide moved uneasily; her hand started nervously, and a sigh brokefrom her lips. 

"Schiller wrote from his heart, " said she, in a low voice. 

"Indeed, yes, Adelaide. "

"Did you say good-bye to von Francius, May, yesterday?"

"Yes--at least, we said _au revoir_. He wants me to sing for him nextwinter. "

"Was he very down?"

"Yes--very. He--"

A footstep close at hand. A figure passed in the uncertain light, dimlydiscerned us, paused, and glanced at us. 

"Max!" exclaimed Adelaide, in a low voice, full of surprise and emotion, and she half started up. 

"It is you! That is too wonderful!" said he, pausing. 

"You are not yet gone?"

"I have been detained to-day. I leave early to-morrow. I thought I wouldtake at least one turn in the Malkasten garden, which I may perhapsnever see or enter again. I did not know you were here. "

"We--May and I--thought it so pleasant that we would not go in again tolisten to the play. "

Von Francius had come under the trees and was now leaning against amassive trunk; his slight, tall figure almost lost against it; his armsfolded, and an imposing calm upon his pale face, which was just caughtby the gleam of a lamp outside the trees. 

"Since this accidental meeting has taken place, I may have the privilegeof saying adieu to your ladyship. "

"Yes--" said Adelaide, in a strange, low, much-moved tone. 

I felt uneasy, I was sorry this meeting had taken place. The shockand revulsion of feeling for Adelaide, after she had been securelycalculating that von Francius was a hundred miles on his way to ----, was too severe. I could tell from the very _timbre_ of her voice and itsfaint vibration how agitated she was, and as she seated herself againbeside me, I felt that she trembled like a reed. 

"It is more happiness than I expected, " went on von Francius, and hisvoice too was agitated. Oh, if he would only say "Farewell, " and go!

"Happiness!" echoed Adelaide, in a tone whose wretchedness was too deepfor tears. 

"Ah! You correct me. Still it is a happiness; there are some kinds ofjoy which one can not distinguish from griefs, my lady, until one comesto think that one might have been without them, and then one knows theirreal nature. "

She clasped her hands. I saw her bosom rise and fall with long, stormybreaths. 

I trembled for both; for Adelaide, whose emotion and anguish were, Isaw, mastering her; for von Francius, because if Adelaide failed he mustfind it almost impossible to repulse her. 

"Herr von Francius, " said I, in a quick, low voice, making one steptoward him, and laying my hand upon his arm, "leave us! If you do loveus, " I added, in a whisper, "leave us! Adelaide, say good-bye tohim--let him go!"

"You are right, " said von Francius to me, before Adelaide had time tospeak; "you are quite right. "

A pause. He stepped up to Adelaide. I dared not interfere. Their eyesmet, and his will not to yield produced the same in her, in the shape ofa passive, voiceless acquiescence in his proceedings. He took her hands, saying:

"My lady, adieu! Heaven send you peace, or death, which brings it, or--whatever is best. "

Loosing her hands he turned to me, saying distinctly:

"As you are a woman, and her sister, do not forsake her now. "

Then he was gone. She raised her arms and half fell against the trunk ofthe giant acacia beneath which we had been sitting, face forward, as ifdrunk with misery. 

Von Francius, strong and generous, whose very submission seemed to braceone to meet trouble with a calmer, firmer front, was gone. I raisedmy eyes, and did not even feel startled, only darkly certain thatAdelaide's evil star was high in the heaven of her fate, when I saw, calmly regarding us, Sir Peter Le Marchant. 

In another moment he stood beside his wife, smiling, and touched hershoulder; with a low cry she raised her face, shrinking away from him. She did not seem surprised either, and I do not think people often aresurprised at the presence, however sudden and unexpected, of their evilgenius. It is good luck which surprises the average human being. 

"You give me a cold welcome, my lady, " he remarked. "You are sooverjoyed to see me, I suppose. Your carriage is waiting outside. I camein it, and Arkwright told me I should find you here. Suppose you comehome. We shall be less disturbed there than in these public gardens. "

Tone and words all convinced me that he had heard most of what hadpassed, and would oppress her with it hereafter. 

The late scene had apparently stunned her. After the first recoil shesaid, scarcely audibly, "I am ready, " and moved. He offered her his arm;she took it, turning to me and saying, "Come, May!"

"Excuse me, " observed Sir Peter, "you are better alone. I am sorry I cannot second your invitation to my charming sister-in-law. I do not thinkyou fit for any society--even hers. "

"I can not leave my sister, Sir Peter; she is not fit to be left, " Ifound voice to say. 

"She is not 'left, ' as you say, my dear. She has her husband. She hasme, " said he. 

Some few further words passed. I do not chronicle them. Sir Peter was asfirm as a rock--that I was helpless before him is a matter of course. Isaw my sister handed into her carriage; I saw Sir Peter follow her--thecarriage drive away. I was left alone, half mad with terror at the ideaof her state, to go home to my lodgings. 

Sir Peter had heard the words of von Francius to me; "do not forsake hernow, " and had given himself the satisfaction of setting them aside as ifthey had been so much waste paper. Von Francius was, as I well knew, trying to derive comfort in this very moment from the fact that I atleast was with her; I who loved them both, and would have laid down mylife for them. Well, let him have the comfort! In the midst of my sorrowI rejoiced that he did not know the worst, and would not be likely toimagine for himself a terror grimmer than any feeling I had yet known. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

"Some say, 'A queen discrowned, ' and some call it 'Woman's shame. 'Others name it 'A false step, ' or 'Social suicide, ' just as it happensto strike their minds, or such understanding as they may be blessedwith. In these days one rarely hears seriously mentioned such unrulywords as 'Love, ' or 'Wretchedness, ' or 'Despair, ' which may neverthelessbe important factors in bringing about that result which stands out tothe light of day for public inspection. "

The three days which I passed alone and in suspense were very terribleones to me. I felt myself physically as well as mentally ill, and it wasin vain that I tried to learn anything of or from Adelaide, and I waitedin a kind of breathless eagerness for the end of it all, for I knew aswell as if some one had shouted it aloud from the house-tops that thatfarewell in the Malkasten garden was not the end. 

Early one morning, when the birds were singing and the sunshinestreaming into the room, Frau Lutzler came into the room and put aletter into my hand, which she said a messenger had left. I took it, andpaused a moment before I opened it. I was unwilling to face what I knewwas coming--and yet, how otherwise could the whole story have ended?

 "DEAR MAY, --You, like me, have been suffering during these three days. I have been trying--yes, I have tried to believe I could bear this life, but it is too horrible. Isn't it possible that sometimes it may be right to do wrong? It is of no use telling you what has passed, but it is enough. I believe I am only putting the crowning point to my husband's revenge when I leave him. He will be glad--he does not mind the disgrace for himself; and he can get another wife, as good as I, when he wants one. When you read this, or not long afterward, I shall be with Max von Francius. I wrote to him--I asked him to save me, and he said, 'Come!' It is not because I want to go, but I must go somewhere. I have made a great mess of my life. I believe everybody does make a mess of it who tries to arrange things for himself. Remember that, May. 

 "I wonder if we shall ever meet again. Not likely, when you are married to some respectable, conventional man, who will shield you from contamination with such as I. I must not write more or I shall write nonsense. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye! What will be the end of me? Think of me sometimes, and try not to think too hardly. Listen to your heart--not to what people say. Good-bye again!

 "ADELAIDE. "

I received this stroke without groan or cry, tear or shiver. It struckhome to me. The heavens were riven asunder--a flash came from them, descended upon my head, and left me desolate. I stood, I know not howlong, stock-still in the place where I had read that letter. In novels Ihad read of such things; they had had little meaning for me. In reallife I had only heard them mentioned dimly and distantly, and here Iwas face to face with the awful thing, and so far from being able todeal out hearty, untempered condemnation, I found that the words ofAdelaide's letter came to me like throes of a real heart. Bald, dry, disjointed sentences on the outside; without feeling they might seem, but to me they were the breathless exclamations of a soul in supremetorture and peril. My sister! with what a passion of love my heart wentout to her. Think of you, Adelaide, and think of you not too hardly? Oh, why did not you trust me more?

I saw her as she wrote these words: "I have made a great mess of it. " Tomake a mess of one's life--one mistake after another, till what mighthave been at least honest, pure, and of good report, becomes a stained, limp, unsightly thing, at which men feel that they may gaze openly, andfrom which women turn away in scorn unutterable; and that Adelaide, myproudest of proud sisters, had come to this!

I was not thinking of what people would say. I was not wondering how ithad come about; I was feeling Adelaide's words ever more and moreacutely, till they seemed to stand out from the paper and turn intocries of anguish in my very ears. I put my hands to my ears; I could notbear those notes of despair. 

"What will be the end of me?" she said, and I shook from head to foot asI repeated the question. If her will and that of von Francius ever camein contact. She had put herself at his mercy utterly; her whole futurenow depended upon the good pleasure of a man--and men were selfish. 

With a faint cry of terror and foreboding, I felt everything whirlunsteadily around me; the letter fell from my hand; the icy band thathad held me fast gave way. All things faded before me, and I scarcelyknew that I was sinking upon the floor. I thought I was dying; thenthought faded with the consciousness that brings it. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

 "Allein, allein! und so soll ich genesen? Allein, allein! und das des Schicksals Segen! Allein, allein! O Gott, ein einzig Wesen, Um dieses Haupt an seine Brust zu legen!"

I had a sharp, if not a long attack of illness, which left me weak, shaken, passive, so that I felt neither ability nor wish to resist thosewho took me into their hands. I remember being surprised at the goodnessof every one toward me; astonished at Frau Lutzler's gentle kindness, amazed at the unfailing goodness of Dr. Mittendorf and his wife, at thatof the medical man who attended me in my illness. Yes, the world seemedfull of kindness, full of kind people who were anxious to keep me in it, and who managed, in spite of my effort to leave it, to retain me. 

Dr. Mittendorf, the oculist, had been my guardian angel. It was he whowrote to my friends and told them of my illness; it was he who went tomeet Stella and Miss Hallam's Merrick, who came over to nurse me--andtake me home. The fiat had gone forth. I was to go home. I made noresistance, but my very heart shrunk away in fear and terror from theparting, till one day something happened which reconciled me to goinghome, or rather made me evenly and equally indifferent whether I wenthome, or stayed abroad, or lived, or died, or, in short, what became ofme. 

I sat one afternoon for the first time in an arm-chair opposite thewindow. It was June, and the sun streamed warmly and richly in. The roomwas scented with a bunch of wall-flowers and another of mignonette, which Stella had brought in that morning from the market. Stella wasvery kind to me, but in a superior, patronizing way. I had always feltdeferentially backward before the superior abilities of both mysisters, but Stella quite over-awed me by her decided opinions and calmway of setting me right upon all possible matters. 

This afternoon she had gone out with Merrick to enjoy a little freshair. I was left quite alone, with my hands in my lap, feeling very weak, and looking wistfully toward the well-remembered windows on the otherside of the street. 

They were wide open; I could see inside the room. No one wasthere--Friedhelm and Eugen had gone out, no doubt. 

The door of my room opened, and Frau Lutzler came in. She lookedcautiously around, and then, having ascertained that I was not asleep, asked in a nerve-disturbing whisper if I had everything that I wanted. 

"Everything, thank you, Frau Lutzler, " said I. "But come in! I want tospeak to you. I am afraid I have given you no end of trouble. "

"_Ach, ich bitte sie, Fräulein!_ Don't mention the trouble. We havemanaged to keep you alive. "

How they all did rejoice in having won a victory over that gray-wingedangel, Death! I thought to myself, with a curious sensation of wonder. 

"You are very kind, " I said, "and I want you to tell me something, FrauLutzler: how long have I been ill?"

"Fourteen days, Fräulein; little as you may think it. "

"Indeed! I have heard nothing about any one in that time. Who has beenmade musik-direktor in place of Herr von Francius?"

Frau Lutzler folded her arms and composed herself to tell me a history. 

"_Ja, Fräulein_, the post would have been offered to Herr Courvoisier, only, you see, he has turned out a good-for-nothing. But perhaps youheard about that?"

"Oh, yes! I know all about it, " said I, hastily, as I passed myhandkerchief over my mouth to hide the spasm of pain which contractedit. 

"Of course, considering all that, the Direktion could not offer it tohim, so they proposed it to Herr Helfen--you know Herr Helfen, Fräulein, _nicht_?"

I nodded. 

"A good young man! a worthy young man, and so popular with hiscompanions! _Aber denken sie nur!_ The authorities might have beenoffering him an insult instead of a good post. He refused it then andthere; would not stop to consider about it--in fact, he was quite angryabout it. The gentleman who was chosen at last was a stranger, fromHanover. "

"Herr Helfen refused it--why, do you know?"

"They say, because he was so fond of Herr Courvoisier, and would not beset above him. It may be so. I know for a certainty that, so far fromtaking part against Herr Courvoisier, he would not even believe thestory against him, though he could not deny it, and did not try to denyit. _Aber_, Fräulein--what hearts men must have! To have lived threeyears, and let the world think him an honest man, when all the time hehad that on his conscience! _Schrecklich!_"

Adelaide and Courvoisier, it seemed, might almost be pelted with thesame stones. 

"His wife, they say, died of grief at the disgrace--"

"Yes, " said I, wincing. I could not bear this any longer, nor to discussCourvoisier with Frau Lutzler, and the words "his wife, " uttered in thatspeculatively gossiping tone, repelled me. She turned the subject toHelfen again. 

"Herr Helfen must indeed have loved his friend, for when HerrCourvoisier went away he went with him. "

"Herr Courvoisier is gone?" I inquired, in a voice so like my usual onethat I was surprised. 

"Yes, certainly he is gone. I don't know where, I am sure. "

"Perhaps they will return?"

Frau Lutzler shook her head, and smiled slightly. 

"_Nee_, Fräulein! Their places were filled immediately. They aregone--_ganz und gar_. "

I tried to listen to her, tried to answer her as she went on giving heropinions upon men and things, but the effort collapsed suddenly. I hadat last to turn my head away and close my eyes, and in that weary, wearymoment I prayed to God that He would let me die, and wondered again, andwas almost angry with those who had nursed me, for having done theirwork so well. "We have managed to save you, " Frau Lutzler had said. Saveme from what, and for what?

I knew the truth, as I sat there; it was quite too strong and too clearto be laid aside, or looked upon with doubtful eyes. I was fronted by afact, humiliating or not--a fact which I could not deny. 

It was bad enough to have fallen in love with a man who had never showedme by word or sign that he cared for me, but exactly and pointedly thereverse; but now it seemed the man himself was bad too. Surely awell-regulated mind would have turned away from him--uninfluenced. 

If so, then mine was an ill-regulated mind. I had loved him from thebottom of my heart; the world without him felt cold, empty andbare--desolate to live in, and shorn of its sweetest pleasures. He hadinfluenced me, he influenced me yet--I still felt the words true:

 "The _greater_ soul that draweth thee Hath left his shadow plain to see On thy fair face, Persephone!"

He had bewitched me; I did feel capable of "making a fool of myself" forhis sake. I did feel that life by the side of any other man would bemiserable, though never so richly set; and that life by his side wouldbe full and complete though never so poor and sparing in itscircumstances. I make no excuses, no apologies for this state of things. It simply was so. 

Gone! And Friedhelm with him! I should probably never see either of themagain. "I have made a mess of my life, " Adelaide had said, and I feltthat I might chant the same dirge. A fine ending to my boasted artisticcareer! I thought of how I had sat and chattered so aimlessly toCourvoisier in the cathedral at Köln, and had little known how large andhow deep a shadow his influence was to cast over my life. 

I still retained a habit of occasionally kneeling by my bedside andsaying my prayers, and this night I felt the impulse to do so. I triedto thank God for my recovery. I said the Lord's Prayer; it is auniversal petition and thanksgiving; it did not too nearly touch mywoes; it allowed itself to be said, but when I came to something nearer, tried to say a thanksgiving for blessings and friends who yet remained, my heart refused, my tongue cleaved to my mouth. Alas! I was notregenerate. I could not thank God for what had happened. I found myselfthinking of "the pity on't, " and crying most bitterly till tearsstreamed through my folded fingers, and whispering, "Oh, if I could onlyhave died while I was so ill! no one would have missed me, and it wouldhave been so much better for me!"

 * * * * *

In the beginning of July, Stella, Merrick, and I returned to England, toSkernford, home. I parted in silent tears from my trusted friends, theMittendorfs, who begged me to come and stay with them at some futureday. The anguish of leaving Elberthal did not make itself fully felt atfirst--that remained to torment me at a future day. And soon after ourreturn came printed in large type in all the newspapers, "Declaration ofWar between France and Germany. " Mine was among the hearts which pantedand beat with sickening terror in England while the dogs of war werefastened in deadly grip abroad. 

My time at home was spent more with Miss Hallam than in my own home. Ifound her looking much older, much feebler, and much more subdued thanwhen she had been in Germany. She seemed to find some comfort from mysociety, and I was glad to devote myself to her. But for her I shouldnever have known all those pains and pleasures which, bitter thoughtheir remembrance might be, were, and ever would be to me, the dearestthing of my life. 

Miss Hallam seemed to know this; she once asked me: "Would I return toGermany if I could?"

"Yes, " said I, "I would. "

To say that I found life dull, even in Skernford, at that time would beuntrue. Miss Hallam was a furious partisan of the French, and I darednot mention the war to her, but I took in the "Daily News" from myprivate funds, and read it in my bedroom every night with dimmed eyes, fast-coming breath, and beating heart. I knew--knew well, that Eugenmust be fighting--unless he were dead. And I knew, too, by someintuition founded, I suppose, on many small negative evidences unheededat the time, that he would fight, not like the other men who werebattling for the sake of hearth and home, and sheer love and pride forthe Fatherland, but as one who has no home and no Fatherland, as one whoseeks a grave, not as one who combats a wrong. 

Stella saw the pile of newspapers in my room, and asked me how I couldread those dreary accounts of battles and bombardments. Beyond thesepoor newspapers I had, during the sixteen months that I was at home, butscant tidings from without. I had implored Clara Steinmann to write menow and then, and tell me the news of Elberthal, but her penmanship wasof the most modest and retiring description, and she was, too, sodesperately excited about Karl as to be able to think scarce of anythingelse. Karl belonged to a Landwehr regiment which had not yet been calledout, but to which that frightful contingency might happen any day; andwhat should she, Clara, do in that case? She told me no news; shelamented over the possibility of Karl's being summoned upon activeservice. It was, she said, _grausam, schrecklich_! It made her almostfaint to write about it, and yet she did compose four whole pages inthat condition. The barrack, she informed me, was turned into ahospital, and she and "Tante" both worked hard. There was muchwork--dreadful work to do--such poor groaning fellows to nurse!"_Herrgott!_" cried poor little Clara, "I did not know that the worldwas such a dreadful place!" Everything was so dear, so frightfully dear, and Karl--that was the burden of her song--might have to go into battleany day. 

Also through the public papers I learned that Adelaide and Sir Peter LeMarchant were divided forever. As to what happened afterward I was forsome time in uncertainty, longing most intensely to know, not daring tospeak of it. Adelaide's name was the signal for a cold stare fromStella, and angry, indignant expostulation from Miss Hallam. To me itwas a sorrowful spell which I carried in my heart of hearts. 

One day I saw in a German musical periodical which I took in, thisannouncement: "Herr Musik-direktor Max von Francius in ---- has latelypublished a new symphony in B minor. The productions of this giftedcomposer are slowly but most surely making the mark which they deserveto leave in the musical history of our nation; he has, we believe, left---- for ---- for a few weeks to join his lady (_seine Gemahlin_), whois one of the most active and valuable hospitable nurses of that town, now, alas! little else than a hospital. "

This paragraph set my heart beating wildly. Adelaide was then the wifeof von Francius. My heart yearned from my solitude toward them both. Whydid not they write? They knew how I loved them. Adelaide could notsuppose that I looked upon her deed with the eyes of the world atlarge--with the eyes of Stella or Miss Hallam. Had I not grieved withher? Had I not seen the dreadful struggle? Had I not proved the nobilityof von Francius? On an impulse I seized pen and paper, and wrote toAdelaide, addressing my letter under cover to her husband at the town inwhich he was musik-direktor; to him I also wrote--only a few words--"Isyour pupil forgotten by her master? he has never been forgotten by her. "

At last the answer came. On the part of Adelaide it was short:

 "DEAR MAY, --I have had no time till now to answer your letter. I can not reply to all your questions. You ask whether I repent what I have done. I repent my whole life. If I am happy--how can I be happy? I am busy now, and have many calls upon my time. My husband is very good: he never interposes between me and my work. Shall I ever come to England again?--never. "

 "Yours, "A. Von F. "

No request to write again! No inquiry after friends or relations! Thisletter showed me that whatever I might feel to her--however my heartmight beat and long, how warm soever the love I bore her, yet thatAdelaide was now apart from me--divided in every thought. It was a cruelletter, but in my pain I could not see that it had not been cruellyintended. Her nature had changed. But behind this pain lay comfort. Onthe back of the same sheet as that on which Adelaide's curt epistle waswritten, were some lines in the hand I knew well. 

 "LIEBE MAI"--they said--"Forgive your master, who can never forget you, nor ever cease to love you. You suffer. I know it; I read it in those short, constrained lines, so unlike your spontaneous words and frank smile. My dear child, remember the storms that are beating on every side--over our country, in on our hearts. Once I asked you to sing for me some time: you promised. When the war is over I shall remind you of your promise. At present, believe me, silence is best. 

 "Your old music-master, "M. V. F. "

Gall and honey, roses and thistles, a dagger at the heart and a caressupon the lips; such seemed to me the characters of the two letters onthe same sheet which I held in my hand. Adelaide made my heart ache; vonFrancius made tears stream from my eyes. I reproached myself for havingdoubted him, but oh, I treasured the proof that he was true! It was theone tangible link between me, reality, and hard facts, and the misty yetbeloved life I had quitted. My heart was full to overflowing; I musttell some one--I must speak to some one. 

Once again I tried to talk to Stella about Adelaide, but she gazed at mein that straight, strange way, and said coldly that she preferred not tospeak of "that. " I could not speak to Miss Hallam about it. Alone in thebroad meadows, beside the noiseless river, I sometimes whispered tomyself that I was not forgotten, and tried to console myself with thefeeling that what von Francius promised he did--I should touch his hand, hear his voice again--and Adelaide's. For the rest, I had to lock thewhole affair--my grief and my love, my longing and my anxiety, fastwithin my own breast, and did so. 

It was a long lesson--a hard one; it was conned with bitter tears, weptlong and alone in the darkness; it was a sorrow which lay down and roseup with me. It taught (or rather practiced me until I became expert inthem) certain things in which I had been deficient; reticence, self-reliance, a quicker ability to decide in emergencies. It certainlymade me feel old and sad, and Miss Hallam often said that Stella and Iwere "as quiet as nuns. "

Stella had the power which I so ardently coveted: she was a first-rateinstrumentalist. The only topic she and I had in common was the music Ihad heard and taken part in. To anything concerning that she wouldlisten for hours. 

Meanwhile the war rolled on, and Paris capitulated, and peace wasdeclared. The spring passed and Germany laughed in glee, and bleedingFrance roused herself to look with a haggard eye around her; what shesaw, we all know--desolation, and mourning, and woe. And summer glidedby, and autumn came, and I did not write either to Adelaide or vonFrancius. I had a firm faith in him--and absolute trust. I felt I wasnot forgotten. 

In less than a year after my return to England, Miss Hallam died. Theday before her death she called me to her, and said words which moved mevery much. 

"May, I am an eccentric old woman, and lest you should be in any doubtupon the subject of my feelings toward you, I wish to tell you that mylife has been more satisfactory to me ever since I knew you. "

"That is much more praise than I deserve, Miss Hallam. "

"No, it isn't. I like both you and Stella. Three months ago I made acodicil to my will by which I endeavored to express that liking. It isnothing very brilliant, but I fancy it will suit the views of both ofyou. "

Utterly astounded, I stammered out some incoherent words. 

"There, don't thank me, " said she. "If I were not sure that I shall dieto-morrow--or thereabouts, I should put my plan into execution at once, but I shall not be alive at the end of the week. "

Her words proved true. Grim, sardonic, and cynical to the last, she diedquietly, gladly closing her eyes which had so long been sightless. Shewas sixty-five years old, and had lived alone since she wasfive-and-twenty. 

The codicil to her will, which she had spoken of with so much composure, left three hundred pounds to Stella and me. She wished a portion of itto be devoted to our instruction in music, vocal and instrumental, atany German conservatorium we might select. She preferred that of L----. Until we were of age, our parents or guardians saw to the dispensing ofthe money, after that it was our own--half belonging to each of us; wemight either unite our funds or use them separately as we choose. 

It need scarcely be said that we both chose that course which sheindicated. Stella's joy was deep and intense--mine had an unavoidablesorrow mingled with it. At the end of September, 18--, we departed forGermany, and before going to L---- it was agreed that we should pay avisit at Elberthal, to my friend Dr. Mittendorf. 

It was a gusty September night, with wind dashing angrily about andshowers of rain flying before the gale, on which I once again set footin Elberthal--the place I had thought never more to see. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

 "Freude trinken alle Wesen An den Brüsten der Natur; Alle Guten, alle Bösen Folgen ihrer Rosenspur. "

I felt a deep rapture in being once more in that land where my love, ifhe did not live, slept. But I forbear to dwell on that rapture, much asit influenced me. It waxes tedious when put into words--loses color andflavor, like a pressed flower. 

I was at first bitterly disappointed to find that Stella and I were onlyto have a few days at Elberthal. Dr. Mittendorf no longer lived there;but only had his official residence in the town, going every week-end tohis country house, or "Schloss, " as he ambitiously called it, atLahnburg, a four-hours' railway journey from Elberthal. 

Frau Mittendorf, who had been at Elberthal on a visit, was to takeStella and me with her to Lahnburg on the Tuesday morning after ourarrival, which was on Friday evening. 

The good doctor's schloss, an erection built like the contrivances ofthe White Knight in "Through the Looking-glass, " on "a plan of his owninvention, " had been his pet hobby for years, and now that it wasfinished, he invited every invitable person to come and stay at it. 

It was not likely that he would excuse a person for whom he had so muchregard as he professed for me from the honor, and I was fain to concealthe fact that I would much rather have remained in Elberthal, and makeup my mind to endure as well as I could the prospect of being buried inthe country with Frau Mittendorf and her children. 

 * * * * *

It was Sunday afternoon. An equinoctial gale was raging, or rather hadbeen raging all day. It had rained incessantly, and the wind had howled. The skies were cloud-laden, the wind was furious. The Rhine was soswollen that the streets in the lower part of the town sloping to theriver were under water, and the people going about in boats. 

But I was tired of the house; the heated rooms stifled me. I was wearyof Frau Mittendorf's society, and thoroughly dissatisfied with my own. 

About five in the afternoon I went to the window and looked out. Iperceived a strip of pale, watery blue through a rift in the storm-ladenclouds, and I chose to see that, and that only, ignoring the wind-lashedtrees of the allee; the leaves, wet, and sodden and sere, hurryingpanic-stricken before the gale, ignoring, too, the low wail promising acoming hurricane, which sighed and soughed beneath the wind's shrillscream. 

There was a temporary calm, and I bethought myself that I would go tochurch--not to the Protestant church attended by the Englishclique--heaven forbid! but to my favorite haunt, the Jesuiten Kirche. 

It was just the hour at which the service would be going on. I askedStella in a low voice if she would not like to come; she declined with alook of pity at me, so, notifying my intention to Frau Mittendorf, andmildly but firmly leaving the room before she could utter anyremonstrance, I rushed upstairs, clothed myself in my winter mantle, threw a shawl over my arm, and set out. 

The air was raw, but fresh, life-giving and invigorating. The smell ofthe stove, which clung to me still, was quickly dissipated by it. Iwrapped my shawl around me, turned down a side street, and was soon inthe heart of the old part of the town, where all Roman Catholic churcheswere, the quarter lying near the river and wharves and bridge of boats. 

I liked to go to the Jesuiten Kirche, and placing myself in thebackground, kneel as others knelt, and, without taking part in theservice, think my own thoughts and pray my own prayers. 

Here none of the sheep looked wolfish at you unless you kept to aparticular pen, for the privilege of sitting in which you paid so manymarks _per quartal_ to a respectable functionary who came to collectthem. Here the men came and knelt down, cap in hand, and the womenseemed really to be praying, and aware of what they were praying for, not looking over their prayer-books at each other's clothes. 

I entered the church. Within the building it was already almost dark. Areddish light burned in a great glittering censer, which swung gently toand fro in the chancel. 

There were many people in the church, kneeling in groups and rows, andall occupied with their prayers. I, too, knelt down, and presently asthe rest sat up I sat up too. A sad-looking monk had ascended thepulpit, and was beginning to preach. His face was thin, hollow, andascetic-looking; his eyes blazed bright from deep, sunken sockets. Hiscowl came almost up to his ears. I could dimly see the white cord roundhis waist as he began to preach, at first in a low and feeble voice, which gradually waxed into power. 

He was in earnest--whether right or wrong, he was in earnest. I listenedwith the others to what he said. He preached the beauties ofrenunciation, and during his discourse quoted the very words which hadso often haunted me--_Entbehren sollst du! sollst entbehren!_

His earnestness moved me deeply. His voice was musical, sweet. Hisaccent made the German burr soft; he was half Italian. I had been at theinstrumental concert the previous night, for old association's sake, andthey had played the two movements of Schubert's unfinished symphony--theB minor. The refrain in the last movement haunted me--a refrain of sevencadences, which rises softly and falls, dies away, is carried softlyfrom one instrument to another, wanders afar, returns again, sinks lowerand lower, deeper and deeper, till at last the 'celli (if I mistake not)takes it up for the last time, and the melody dies a beautiful death, leaving you undecided whether to weep or smile, but penetrated throughand through with its dreamy loveliness. 

This exquisite refrain lingered in my memory and echoed in my mind, likea voice from some heavenly height, telling me to rest and be at peace, in time to the swinging of the censer, in harmony with the musicalsouthern voice of that unknown Brother Somebody. 

By degrees I began to think that the censer did not sway so regularly, so like a measured pendulum as it had done, but was moving somewhaterratically, and borne upon the gale came a low, ominous murmur, whichfirst mingled itself with the voice of the preacher, and then threatenedto dominate it. Still the refrain of the symphony rang in my ears, and Iwas soothed to rest by the inimitable nepenthe of music. 

But the murmur of which I had so long been, as it were, half-conscious, swelled and drove other sounds and the thoughts of them from my mind. Itgrew to a deep, hollow roar--a very hurricane of a roar. The preacher'svoice ceased, drowned. 

I think none of us were at first certain about what was happening; weonly felt that something tremendous was going on. Then, with one mightybang and blow of the tempest, the door by which I had entered the churchwas blown bodily in, and fell crashing upon the floor; and after thehurricane came rushing through the church with the howl of a triumphantdemon, and hurried round the building, extinguishing every light, andturning a temple of God into Hades. 

Sounds there were as of things flapping from the walls, as of woodfalling; but all was in the pitchiest darkness--a very "darkness whichmight be felt. " Amid the roar of the wind came disjointed, brokenexclamations of terrified women and angry, impatient men. "_Ach Gott!_""_Du meine Zeit!_" "_Herr du meine Güte!_" "_Oh je!_" etc. , rang allround, and hurrying people rushed past me, making confusion worseconfounded as they scrambled past to try to get out. 

I stood still, not from any bravery or presence of mind, but from utterannihilation of both qualities in the shock and surprise of it all. Atlast I began trying to grope my way toward the door. I found it. Somepeople--I heard and felt rather than saw--were standing about thebattered-in door, and there was the sound of water hurrying past thedoor-way. The Rhine was rushing down the street. 

"We must go to the other door--the west door, " said some one among thepeople; and as the group moved I moved too, beginning to wish myselfwell out of it. 

We reached the west door; it led into a small lane or _gasse_, regardingthe geography of which I was quite at sea, for I had only been in itonce before. I stepped from the street into the lane, which was in thevery blackness of darkness, and seemed to be filled with wind and ahurricane which one could almost distinguish and grasp. 

The roar of the wind and the surging of water were all around, and weredeafening. I followed, as I thought, some voices which I heard, butscarcely knew where I was going, as the wind seemed to be blowing allways at once, and there came to me an echo here and an echo there, misleading rather than guiding. In a few moments I felt my foot uponwood, and there was a loud creaking and rattling, as of chains, agroaning, splitting, and great uproar going on, as well as a motion asif I were on board a ship. 

After making a few steps I paused. It was utterly impossible that Icould have got upon a boat--wildly impossible. I stood still, then wenton a few steps. Still the same extraordinary sounds--still such acreaking and groaning--still the rush, rush, and swish, swish of water;but not a human voice any more, not a light to be seen, not a sign!

With my hat long since stripped from my head and launched into darknessand space, my hair lashed about me in all directions, my petticoatstwisted round me like ropes, I was utterly and completely bewildered bythe thunder and roar of all around. I no longer knew which way I hadcome nor where to turn. I could not imagine where I was, and my onlychance seemed to be to hold fast and firm to the railing against whichthe wind had unceremoniously banged me. 

The creaking grew louder--grew into a crash; there was a splitting ofwood, a snapping of chains, a kind of whirl, and then I felt the windblow upon me, first upon this side, then from that, and became consciousthat the structure upon which I stood was moving--floating smoothly andrapidly upon water. In an instant (when it was too late) it all flashedupon my mind. I had wandered upon the Schiffbrucke, or bridge of boatswhich crossed the Rhine from the foot of the market-place, and this samebridge had been broken by the strength of the water and wind, and upon aportion of it I was now floating down the river. 

With my usual wisdom, and "the shrewd application of a wide experienceso peculiar to yourself, " as some one has since insulted me by saying, Iinstantly gave myself up as lost. The bridge would run into some otherbridge, or dash into a steamer, or do something horrible, and I shouldbe killed, and none would know of my fate; or it would all break intolittle pieces, and I should have to cling to one of them, and shouldinevitably be drowned. 

In any case, my destruction was only a matter of time. How I loved mylife then! How sweet, and warm, and full, and fresh it seemed! How coldthe river, and how undesirable a speedy release from the pomps andvanities of this wicked world!

The wind was still howling horribly--chanting my funeral dirge. Likegrim death, I held on to my railing, and longed, with a desperatelonging, for one glimpse of light. 

I had believed myself alone upon my impromptu raft--or rather, it hadnot occurred to me that there might be another than myself upon it; butat this instant, in a momentary lull of the wind, almost by my side Iheard a sound that I knew well, and had cause to remember--the tune ofthe wild march from "Lenore, " set to the same words, sung by the samevoice as of yore. 

My heart stood still for a moment, then leaped on again. Then a faint, sickly kind of dread overcame me. I thought I was going out of mymind--was wandering in some delusion, which took the form of the dearestvoice, and sounded with its sound in my ears. 

But no. The melody did not cease. As the beating of my heart settledsomewhat down, I still heard it--not loud, but distinct. Then the tuneceased. The voice--ah! there was no mistaking that, and I trembled withthe joy that thrilled me as I heard it--conned over the words as ifstruck with their weird appropriateness to the scene, which wascertainly marked:

 "Und das Gesindel, husch, husch, husch Kam hinten nachgeprasselt-- Wie Wirbelwind am Haselbusch Durch dürre Blatter rasselt. "

And _wirbelwind_--the whirlwind--played a wild accompaniment to thewords. 

It seemed to me that a long time passed, during which I could not speak, but could only stand with my hands clasped over my heart, trying tosteady its tumultuous beating. I had not been wrong, thank the good Godabove! I had not been wrong when my heart sung for joy at being oncemore in this land. He was here--he was living--he was safe!

Here were all my worst fears soothed--my intensest longings answeredwithout my having spoken. It was now first that I really knew how much Iloved him--so much that I felt almost afraid of the strength of thepassion. I knew not till now how it had grown--how fast andall-denominating it had become. 

A sob broke from my lips, and his voice was silenced. 

"Herr Courvoisier!" I stammered. 

"Who spoke?" he asked in a clear voice. 

"It is you!" I murmured. 

"May!" he uttered, and paused abruptly. 

A hand touched mine--warm, firm, strong--his very hand. In its lightesttouch there seemed safety, shelter, comfort. 

"Oh, how glad I am! how glad I am!" I sobbed. 

He murmured "Sonderbar!" as if arguing with himself, and I held his handfast. 

"Don't leave me! Stay here!" I implored. 

"I suppose there is not much choice about that for either of us, " saidhe, and he laughed. 

I did not remember to wonder how he came there; I only knew that he wasthere. That tempest, which will not soon be forgotten in Elberthal, subsided almost as rapidly as it had arisen. The winds lulled as if awizard had bidden them be still. The gale hurried on to devastate freshfields and pastures new. There was a sudden reaction of stillness, and Ibegan to see in the darkness the outlines of a figure beside me. Ilooked up. There was no longer that hideous, driving black mist, likechaos embodied, between me and heaven. The sky, though dark, was clear;some stars were gleaming coldly down upon the havoc which had takenplace since they last viewed the scene. 

Seeing the heavens so calm and serene, a sudden feeling of shyness andterror overtook me. I tried to withdraw my hand from that of mycompanion, and to remove myself a little from him. He held my hand fast. 

"You are exhausted with standing?" said he. "Sit down upon this ledge. "

"If you will too. "

"Oh, of course. I think our voyage will be a long one, and--"

"Speak German, " said I. "Let me hear you speaking it again. "

"And I have no mind to stand all the time, " he concluded in his owntongue. 

"Is there no one else here but ourselves?"

"No one. "

I had seated myself and he placed himself beside me. I was in nolaughing mood or I might have found something ludicrous in oursituation. 

"I wonder where we are now, " I half whispered, as the bridge was stillhurried ceaselessly down the dark and rushing river. I dared not alludeto anything else. I felt my heart was too full--I felt too, too utterlyuncertain of him. There was sadness in his voice. I, who knew its everycadence, could hear that. 

"I think we are about passing Kaiserswerth, " said he. "I wonder where weshall land at last. "

"Do you think we shall go very far?"

"Perhaps we may. It is on record that the Elberthal boat bridge--part ofit, I mean--once turned up at Rotterdam. It may happen again, _warumnicht_?"

"How long does that take?"

"Twelve or fourteen hours, I dare say. "

I was silent. 

"I am sorry for you, " he said in the gentlest of voices, as he happed myshawl more closely around me. "And you are cold too--shivering. My coatmust do duty again. "

"No, no!" cried I. "Keep it! I won't have it. "

"Yes you will, because you can't help it if I make you, " he answered ashe wrapped it round me. 

"Well, please take part of it. At least wrap half of it round you, " Iimplored, "or I shall be miserable. "

"Pray don't. No, keep it! It is not like charity--it has not room formany sins at once. "

"Do you mean you or me?" I could not help asking. 

"Are we not all sinners?"

I knew it would be futile to resist, but I was not happy in the newarrangement, and I touched his coat-sleeve timidly. 

"You have quite a thin coat, " I remonstrated, "and I have a winterdress, a thick jacket, and a shawl. "

"And my coat, _und doch bist du_--oh, pardon! and you are shivering inspite of it, " said he, conclusively. 

"It is an awful storm, is it not?" I suggested next. 

"Was an awful storm, _nicht wahr_? Yes. And how very strange that youand I, of all people, should have met here, of all places. How did youget here?"

"I had been to church. "

"So! I had not. "

"How did you come here?" I ventured to ask. 

"Yes--you may well ask; but first--you have been in England, have younot?"

"Yes, and am going back again. "

"Well--I came here yesterday from Berlin. When the war was over--"

"Ah, you were in the war?" I gasped. 

"_Natürlich, mein Fräulein. _ Where else should I have been?"

"And you fought?"

"Also _natürlich_. "

"Where did you fight? At Sedan?"

"At Sedan--yes. "

"Oh, my God!" I whispered to myself. "And were you wounded?" I addedaloud. 

"A mere trifle. Friedhelm and I had luck to march side by side. Ilearned to know in spirit and in letter the meaning of _Ich hatt' einenguten Cameraden_. "

"You were wounded!" I repeated, unheeding all that discursiveness. "Where? How? Were you in the hospital?"

"Yes. Oh, it is nothing. Since then I have been learning my true placein the world, for you see, unluckily, I was not killed. "

"Thank God! Thank God! How I have wondered! How I have thought--well, how did you come here?"

"I coveted a place in one of those graves, and couldn't have it, " hesaid, bitterly. "It was a little thing to be denied, but fallen men mustdo without much. I saw boys falling around me, whose mothers and sistersare mourning for them yet. "

"Oh, don't. "

"Well--Friedel and I are working in Berlin. We shall not stay therelong; we are wanderers now! There is no room for us. I have a shortholiday, and I came to spend it at Elberthal. This evening I set out, intending to hear the opera--'Der Fliegende Holländer'--veryappropriate, wasn't it?"

"Very. "

"But the storm burst over the theater just as the performance was aboutto begin, and removed part of the roof, upon which one of the companycame before the curtain and dismissed us with his blessing and theannouncement that no play would be played to-night. Thus I was deprivedof the ungodly pleasure of watching my old companions wrestle withWagner's stormy music while I looked on like a gentleman. "

"But when you came out of the theater?"

"When I came out of the theater the storm was so magnificent, and wastelling me so much that I resolved to come down to its center-point andsee Vater Rhein in one of his grandest furies. I strayed upon the bridgeof boats; forgot where I was, listened only to the storm: ere I knewwhat was happening I was adrift and the tempest howling round me--andyou, fresh from your devotions to lull it. "

"Are you going to stay long in Elberthal?"

"It seems I may not. I am driven away by storms and tempests. "

"And me with you, " thought I. "Perhaps there is some meaning in this. Perhaps fate means us to breast other storms together. If so, I amready--anything--so it be with you. "

"There's the moon, " said he; "how brilliant, is she not?"

I looked up into the sky wherein she had indeed appeared "like a dyinglady, lean and pale, " shining cold and drear, but very clearly upon theswollen waters, showing us dim outlines of half-submerged trees, cottages and hedges--showing us that we were in midstream, and thatother pieces of wreck were floating down the river with us, hurryingrapidly with the current--showing me, too, in a ghostly whiteness, theface of my companion turned toward me, and his elbow rested on his kneeand his chin in his hand, and his loose dark hair was blown back fromhis broad forehead, his strange, deep eyes were resting upon my face, calmly, openly. 

Under that gaze my heart fell. In former days there had been in his facesomething not unakin to this stormy free night; but now it waschanged--how changed!

A year had wrought a terrible alteration. I knew not his past; but I didknow that he had long been struggling, and a dread fear seized me thatthe struggle was growing too hard for him--his spirit was breaking. Itwas not only that the shadows were broader, deeper, more permanentlysealed--there was a down look--a hardness and bitterness which inspiredme both with pity and fear. 

"Your fate is a perverse one, " he remarked, as I did not speak. 

"So! Why?"

"It throws you so provokingly into society which must be so unpleasantto you. "

"Whose society?"

"Mine, naturally. "

"You are much mistaken, " said I, composedly. 

"It is kind of you to say so. For your sake, I wish it had been any onebut myself who had been thus thrown together with you. I promise youfaithfully that as soon as ever we can land I will only wait to see yousafely into a train and then I will leave you and--"

He was suddenly silenced. I had composed my face to an expression ofindifference as stony as I knew how to assume, and with my hands foldedin my lap, had steeled myself to look into his face and listen to him. 

I could find nothing but a kind of careless mockery in his face--a hardhalf smile upon his lips as he went on saying the hard things which cuthome and left me quivering, and which he yet uttered as if they had beenthe most harmless pleasantries or the merest whipped-cream compliments. 

It was at this moment that the wind, rising again in a brief spasm, blewa tress of my loosened hair across his face. How it changed! flushedcrimson. His lips parted--a strange, sudden light came into his eyes. 

"I beg your pardon!" said I, hastily, started from my assumed composure, as I raised my hand to push my hair back. But he had gathered the tresstogether--his hand lingered for one moment--a scarcely perceptiblemoment--upon it, then he laid it gently down upon my shoulder. 

"Then I will leave you, " he went on, resuming the old manner, but withevident effort, "and not interfere with you any more. "

What was I to think? What to believe? I thought to myself that had hebeen my lover and I had intercepted such a glance of his to anotherwoman my peace of mind had been gone for evermore. But, on the otherhand, every cool word he said gave the lie to his looks--or did hislooks give the lie to his words? Oh, that I could solve the problem oncefor all, and have done with it forever!

"And you, Miss Wedderburn--have you deserted Germany?"

"I have been obliged to live in England, if that is what you mean--I amliving in Germany at present. "

"And art--_die Kunst_--that is cruel!"

"You are amusing yourself at my expense, as you have always delighted indoing, " said I, sharply, cut to the quick. 

"_Aber, Fräulein May!_ What do you mean?"

"From the very first, " I repeated, the pain I felt giving a keenness tomy reproaches. "Did you not deceive me and draw me out for youramusement that day we met at Köln? You found out then, I suppose, what astupid, silly creature I was, and you have repeated the process now andthen, since--much to your own edification and that of Herr Helfen, I donot doubt. Whether it was just, or honorable, or kind, is a secondaryconsideration. Stupid people are only invented for the amusement ofthose who are not stupid. "

"How dare you, how dare you talk in that manner?" said he, emphatically, laying his hand upon my shoulder, and somehow compelling my gaze to meethis. "But I know why--I read the answer in those eyes which dareeverything, and yet--"

"Not quite everything, " thought I, uncomfortably, as the said eyes sunkbeneath his look. 

"Fräulein May, will you have the patience to listen while I tell you alittle story?"

"Oh, yes!" I responded, readily, as I hailed the prospect of learningsomething more about him. 

"It is now nearly five years since I first came to Elberthal. I hadnever been in the town before. I came with my boy--may God bless him andkeep him!--who was then two years old, and whose mother was dead--for mywife died early. "

A pause, during which I did not speak. It was something so wonderful tome that he should speak to me of his wife. 

"She was young--and very beautiful, " said he. "You will forgive myintroducing the subject?"

"Oh, Herr Courvoisier!"

"And I had wronged her. I came to Friedhelm Helfen, or rather was sentto him, and, as it happened, found such a friend as is not granted toone man in a thousand. When I came here, I was smarting under variousgriefs; about the worst was that I had recklessly destroyed my ownprospects. I had a good career--a fair future open to me. I had cutshort that career, annihilated that future, or any future worth speakingof, by--well, something had happened which divided me utterly anduncompromisingly and forever from the friends, and the sphere, and therespect and affection of those who had been parents and brother andsister to me. Then I knew that their good opinion, their love, was mylaw and my highest desire. And it was not their fault--it was mine--myvery own. 

"The more I look back upon it all, the more I see that I have myself tothank for it. But that reflection, as you may suppose, does not add tothe delights of a man's position when he is humbled to the dust as I wasthen. Biting the dust--you have that phrase in English. Well, I havebeen biting the dust--yes, eating it, living upon it, and deservedly so, for five years; but nothing ever can, nothing ever will, make it tasteanything but dry, bitter, nauseating to the last degree. "

"Go on!" said I, breathlessly. 

"How kind you are to listen to the dull tale! Well, I had my boySigmund, and there were times when the mere fact that he was mine mademe forget everything else, and thank my fate for the simple fact that Ilived and was his father. His father--he was a part of myself, he coulddivine my every thought. But at other times, generally indeed, I wassick of life--that life. Don't suppose that I am one of those high-flownidiots who would make it out that no life is worth living: I knew andfelt to my soul that the life from which I had locked myself out andthen dropped the key as it were here in midstream, was a glorious life, worth living ten times over. 

"There was the sting of it. For three years I lived thus, and learned agreat deal, learned what men in that position are--learned to respect, admire, and love some of them--learned to understand that man--_derMensch_--is the same, and equally to be honored everywhere. I also triedto grow accustomed to the thought, which grew every day more certain tome, that I must live on so for the future--to plan my life, and shapeout a certain kind of repentance for sins past. I decided that the onlyform my atonement could take was that of self-effacement--"

"That is why you never would take the lead in anything. "

"Exactly. I am naturally fond of leading. I love beyond everything tolead those who I know like me, and like following me. When I was_haupt_--I mean, I knew that all that by-gone mischief had arisen fromdoing what I liked, so I dropped doing what I liked, and began to dowhat I disliked. By the time I had begun to get a little into trainingthree years had passed--these things are not accomplished in a day, andthe effects of twenty-seven years of selfishness are not killed soon. Iwas killing them, and becoming a machine in the process. 

"One year the Lower Rhenish Musikfest was to be held at Köln. Longbefore it came off the Cologne Orchestra had sent to us for contingents, and we had begun to attend some of the proben regularly once or twice aweek. 

"One day Friedhelm and I had been at a probe. The 'Tower of Babel' andthe 'Lenore' Symphony were among the things we had practiced. Both ofthem, the 'Lenore' particularly, had got into my head. I broke lose forone day from routine, from drudgery and harness. It was a mistake. Friedhelm went off, shrugging his dear old shoulders, and I at lastturned up, mooning at the Kölner Bahnof. Well--you know the rest. Nay, do not turn so angrily away. Try to forgive a fallen man one littleindiscretion. When I saw you I can not tell what feeling stole warm andinvigorating into my heart; it was something quite new--something I hadnever felt before: it was so sweet that I could not part with it. Fräulein May, I have lived that afternoon over again many and many atime. Have you ever given a thought to it?"

"Yes, I have, " said I, dryly. 

"My conduct after that rose half from pride--wounded pride, I mean, forwhen you cut me, it did cut me--I own it. Partly it arose from aworthier feeling--the feeling that I could not see very much of you orlearn to know you at all well without falling very deeply in love withyou. You hide your face--you are angry at that--"

"Stop. Did you never throughout all this give a thought to thepossibility that I might fall in love with you?"

I did not look at him, but he said, after a pause:

"I had the feeling that if I tried I could win your love. I never wassuch a presumptuous fool as to suppose that you would love meunasked--or even with much asking on my part--_bewahre!_"

I was silent, still concealing my face. He went on:

"Besides, I knew that you were an English lady. I asked myself what wasthe right thing to do, and I decided that though you would consider mean ill-mannered, churlish clown, I would refuse those gracious, charmingadvances which you in your charity made. Our paths in life were destinedto be utterly apart and divided, and what could it matter to you--thebehavior of an insignificant fiddler? You would forget him just when hedeserved to be forgotten, that is--instantly. 

"Time went on. You lived near us. Changes took place. Those who had aright to arbitrate for me, since I had by my own deed deprived myself ofthat right, wrote and demanded my son. I had shown myself incapable ofmanaging my own affairs--was it likely that I could arrange his? Andthen he was better away from such a black sheep. It is true. The blacksheep gave up the white lambling into the care of a legitimate shepherd, who carried it off to a correct and appropriate fold. Then life wasempty indeed, for, strange though it may seem, even black sheep havefeelings--ridiculously out of place they are too. "

"Oh, don't speak so harshly!" said I, tremulously, laying my hand for aninstant upon his. 

His face was turned toward me; his mien was severe, but serene; he spokeas of some far-past, distant dream. 

"Then it was in looking round my darkened horizon for Sigmund, I foundthat it was not empty. You rose trembling upon it like a star of light, and how beautiful a star! But there! do not turn away. I will not shockyou by expatiating upon it. Enough that I found what I had more thanonce suspected--that I loved you. Once or twice I nearly made a fool ofmyself; that Carnival Monday--do you remember? Luckily Friedel and Karlcame in, but in my saner moments I worshiped you as a noble, distantgood--part of the beautiful life which I had gambled with--and lost. Beeasy! I never for one instant aspired to you--never thought ofpossessing you: I was not quite mad. I am only telling you this toexplain, and--"

"And you renounced me?" said I in a low voice. 

"I renounced you. "

I removed my hand from my eyes, and looked at him. His eyes, dry andcalm, rested upon my face. His countenance was pale; his mouth set witha grave, steady sweetness. 

Light rushed in upon my mind in a radiant flood--light and knowledge. Iknew what was right; an unerring finger pointed it to me. I looked deep, deep into his sad eyes, read his innermost soul, and found it pure. 

"They say you have committed a crime, " said I. 

"And I have not denied, can not deny it, " he answered, as if waiting forsomething further. 

"You need not, " said I. "It is all one to me. I want to hear no moreabout that. I want to know if your heart is mine. "

The wind wuthered wearily; the water rushed. Strange, inarticulatesounds of the night came fitfully across ear and sense, as he answeredme:

"Yours and my honor's. What then?"

"This, " I answered, stooping, sweeping the loose hair from that broad, sad forehead, and pressing my lips upon it. "This: accept the gift orreject it. As your heart is mine, so mine is yours--for ever and ever. "

A momentary silence as I raised myself, trembling, and stood aside; andthe water rushed, and the storm-birds on untiring wing beat the sky andcroaked of the gale. 

Then he drew me to him, folded me to his breast without speaking, andgave me a long, tender, yearning kiss, with unspeakable love, littlepassion in it, fit seal of a love that was deeper and sadder than it wastriumphant. 

"Let me have a few moments of this, " said he, "just a few moments, May. Let me believe that I may hold you to your noble, pitying words. Then Ishall be my own master again. "

Ignoring this hint, I laid my hands upon his arm, and eying himsteadily, went on:

"But understand, the man I love must not be my servant. If you want tokeep me you must be the master; I brook no feeble curb; no weak hand canhold me. You must rule, or I shall rebel; you must show the way, for Idon't know it. I don't know whether you understand what you haveundertaken. "

"My dear, you are excited. Your generosity carries you away, and yourdivine, womanly pity and kindness. You speak without thinking. You willrepent to-morrow. "

"That is not kind nor worthy of you, " said I. "I have thought about itfor sixteen months, and the end of my thought has always been the same:I love Eugen Courvoisier, and if he had loved me I should have been ahappy woman, and if--though I thought it too good to be true, youknow--if he ever should tell me so, nothing in this world shall make mespoil our two lives by cowardice; I will hold to him against the wholeworld. "

"It is impossible, May, " he said, quietly, after a pause. "I wish youhad never seen me. "

"It is only impossible if you make it so. "

"My sin found me out even here, in this quiet place, where I knew noone. It will find me out again. You--if ever you were married tome--would be pointed out as the wife of a man who had disgraced hishonor in the blackest, foulest way. I must and will live it out alone. "

"You shall not live it out alone, " I said. 

The idea that I could not stand by him--the fact that he was notprosperous, not stainless before the world--that mine would be noordinary flourishing, meaningless marriage, in which "for better, forworse" signifies nothing but better, no worse--all this poured strengthon strength into my heart, and seemed to warm it and do it good. 

"I will tell you your duty, " said he. "Your duty is to go home andforget me. In due time some one else will find the loveliest and dearestbeing in the world--"

"Eugen! Eugen!" I cried, stabbed to the quick. "How can you? You can notlove me, or you could not coldly turn me over to some other man, someabstraction--"

"Perhaps if he were not an abstraction I might not be able to do it, " hesaid, suddenly clasping me to him with a jealous movement. "No; I amsure I should not be able to do it. Nevertheless, while he yet is anabstraction, and because of that, I say, leave me!"

"Eugen, I do not love lightly!" I began, with forced calm. "I do notlove twice. My love for you is not a mere fancy--I fought against itwith all my strength; it mastered me in spite of myself--now I can nottear it away. If you send me away it will be barbarous; away to bealone, to England again, when I love you with my whole soul. No one buta man--no one but you could have said such a thing. If you do, " I added, terror at the prospect overcoming me, "if you do I shall die--I shalldie. "

I could command myself no longer, but sobbed aloud. 

"You will have to answer for it, " I repeated; "but you will not send meaway. "

"What, in Heaven's name, makes you love me so?" he asked, as if lost inwonder. 

"I don't know. I can not imagine, " said I, with happy politeness. "It isno fault of mine. " I took his hand in mine. "Eugen, look at me. " Hiseyes met mine. They brightened as he looked at me. "That crime of whichyou were accused--you did not do it. "

Silence!

"Look at me and say that you did, " I continued. 

Silence still. 

"Friedhelm Helfen always said you had not done it. He was more loyalthan I, " said I, contritely; "but, " I added, jealously, "he did not loveyou better than I, for I loved you all the same even though I almostbelieved you had done it. Well, that is an easy secret to keep, becauseit is to your credit. "

"That is just what makes it hard. If it were true, one would be anxiousrather than not to conceal it; but as it is not true, don't you see?Whenever you see me suspected, it will be the impulse of your loyal, impetuous heart to silence the offender, and tell him he lies. "

In my haste I had not seen this aspect of the question. It was quite anew idea to me. Yes, I began to see in truer proportions the kind ofsuffering he had suffered, the kind of trials he had gone through, andmy breath failed at the idea. When they pointed at him I must not say, "It is a lie; he is as honest as you. " It was a solemn prospect. Itoverpowered me. 

"You quail before that?" said he, gently, after a pause. 

"No; I realize it. I do not quail before it, " said I, firmly. "But, " Iadded, looking at him with a new element in my glance--that of awe--"doyou mean that for five years you have effaced yourself thus, knowing allthe while that you were not guilty?"

"It was a matter of the clearest duty--and honor, " he replied, flushingand looking somewhat embarrassed. 

"Of duty!" I cried, strangely moved. "If you did not do it, who did? Whyare you silent?"

Our eyes met. I shall never forget that glance. It had the concentratedpatience, love, and pride, and loyalty, of all the years of sufferingpast and--to come. 

"May, that is the test for you! That is what I shrink from exposing youto, what I know it is wrong to expose you to. I can not tell you. No oneknows but I, and I shall never tell any one, not even you, if you becomemy other self and soul and thought. Now you know all. "

He was silent. 

"So that is the truth?" said I. "Thank you for telling it to me. Ialways thought you were a hero; now I am sure of it. Oh, Eugen! how I dolove you for this! And you need not be afraid. I have been learning tokeep secrets lately. I shall help, not hinder you. Eugen, we will liveit down together. "

At last we understood each other. At last our hands clasped and our lipsmet upon the perfect union of feeling and purpose for all our futurelives. All was clear between us, bright, calm; and I, at least, wassupremely happy. How little my past looked now; how petty andinsignificant all my former hopes and fears!

 * * * * *

Dawn was breaking over the river. Wild and storm-beaten was the scene onwhich we looked. A huge waste of swollen waters around us, devastatedvillages, great piles of wreck on all sides; a watery sun casting pallidbeams upon the swollen river. We were sailing Hollandward upon afragment of the bridge, and in the distance were the spires and towersof a town gleaming in the sickly sun-rays. I stood up and gazed towardthat town, and he stood by my side, his arm round my waist. My chiefwish was that our sail could go on forever. 

"Do you know what is ringing in my ears and will not leave my mind?" Iasked. 

"Indeed, no! You are a riddle and a mystery to me. "

I hummed the splendid air from the Choral Symphony, the _motif_ of themusic to the choruses to "Joy" which follow. 

"Ah!" said he, taking up its deep, solemn gladness, "you are right, May--quite right. There is a joy, if it be 'beyond the starry belt. '"

"I wonder what that town is?" I said, after a pause. 

"I am not sure, but I fancy it is Emmerich. I am sure I hope so. "

Whatever the town, we were floating straight toward it. I suddenlythought of my dream long ago, and told it to him, adding:

"I think this must have been the floating wreck to which you and Iseemed clinging; though I thought that all of the dream that was goingto be fulfilled had already come to pass on that Carnival Mondayafternoon. "

The boat had got into one of the twisting currents, and was beingpropelled directly toward the town. 

Eugen looked at me and laughed. I asked why. 

"What for a lark! as they say in your country. "

"You are quite mistaken. I never heard such an expression. But what issuch a lark?"

"We have no hats; we want something to eat; we must have tickets to getback to Elberthal, and I have just two thalers in my pocket--oh! and atwo-pfennige piece. I left my little all behind me. "

"Hurrah! At last you will be compelled to take back that three thalersten. "

We both laughed at this _jeu d'esprit_ as if it had been somethingexquisitely witty; and I forgot my disheveled condition in watching thesun rise over the broad river, in feeling our noiseless progression overit, and, above all, in the divine sense of oneness and harmony with himat my side--a feeling which I can hardly describe, utterly without thepassionate fitfulness of the orthodox lover's rapture, but as if for along time I had been waiting for some quality to make me complete, andhad quietly waked to find it there, and the world understandable--life'sriddle read. 

Eugen's caresses were few, his words of endearment quiet; but I knewwhat they stood for; a love rooted in feelings deeper than those ofsense, holier than mere earthly love--feelings which had taken root inadversity, had grown in darkness and "made a sunshine in a shadyplace"--feelings which in him had their full and noble growth and beautyof development, but which it seems to be the aim of the fashionableeducation of this period as much as possible to do away with--thefeeling of chivalry, delicacy, reticence, manliness, modesty. 

As we drew nearer the town, he said to me:

"In a few hours we shall have to part, May, for a time. While we arehere alone, and you are uninfluenced, let me ask you something. Thislove of yours for me--what will it carry you through?"

"Anything, now that I am sure of yours for me. "

"In short, you are firmly decided to be my wife some time?"

"When you tell me you are ready for me, " said I, putting my hand in his. 

"And if I find it best to leave my Fatherland, and begin life quiteanew?"

"Thy God is my God, and thy people are my people, Eugen. "

"One other thing. How do you know that you can marry? Your friends--"

"I am twenty years old. In a year I can do as I like, " said I, composedly. "Surely we can stand firm and faithful for a year?"

He smiled, and it was a new smile--sweet, hopeful, if not merry. 

With this silent expression of determination and trust we settled thematter. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

 "What's failure or success to me? I have subdued my life to the one purpose. "

Eugen sent a telegram from Emmerich to Frau Mittendorf to reassure heras to my safety. At four in the afternoon we left that town, refreshedand rehatted, to reach Elberthal at six. 

I told Eugen that we were going away the next day to stay a short timeat a place called Lahnburg. 

He started and looked at me. 

"Lahnburg!--I--when you are there--_nein, das ist_--You are going toLahnburg?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"You will know why I ask if you go to Schloss Rothenfels. "

"Why?"

"I say no more, dear May. I will leave you to form your own conclusions. I have seen that this fair head could think wisely and well undertrying circumstances enough. I am rather glad that you are going toLahnburg. "

"The question is--will you still be at Elberthal when I return?"

"I can not say. We had better exchange addresses. I am at Frau Schmidt'sagain--my old quarters. I do not know when or how we shall meet again. Imust see Friedhelm, and you--when you tell your friends, you willprobably be separated at once and completely from me. "

"Well, a year is not much out of our lives. How old are you, Eugen?"

"Thirty-two. And you?"

"Twenty and two months; then you are twelve years older than I. You werea school-boy when I was born. What were you like?"

"A regular little brute, I should suppose, as they all are. "

"When we are married, " said I, "perhaps I may go on with my singing, andearn some more money by it. My voice will be worth something to methen. "

"I thought you had given up art. "

"Perhaps I shall see Adelaide, " I added; "or, rather, I will see her. " Ilooked at him rather inquiringly. To my relief he said:

"Have you not seen her since her marriage?"

"No; have you?"

"She was my angel nurse when I was lying in hospital at ----. Did younot know that she has the Iron Cross? And no one ever won it morenobly. "

"Adelaide--your nurse--the Iron Cross?" I ejaculated. "Then you haveseen her?"

"Seen her shadow to bless it. "

"Do you know where she is now?"

"With her husband at ----. She told me that you were in England, and shegave me this. "

He handed me a yellow, much-worn folded paper, which, on opening, Idiscovered to be my own letter to Adelaide, written during the war, andwhich had received so curt an answer. 

"I begged very hard for it, " said he, "and only got it with difficulty, but I represented that she might get more of them, whereas I--"

He stopped, for two reasons. I was weeping as I returned it to him, andthe train rolled into the Elberthal station. 

On my way to Dr. Mittendorf's, I made up my mind what to do. I shouldnot speak to Stella, nor to any one else of what had happened, but Ishould write very soon to my parents and tell them the truth. I hopedthey would not refuse their consent, but I feared they would. I shouldcertainly not attempt to disobey them while their authority legallybound me, but as soon as I was my own mistress, I should act upon my ownjudgment. I felt no fear of anything; the one fear of my life--the lossof Eugen--had been removed, and all others dwindled to nothing. Myhappiness, I am and was well aware, was quite set upon things below; ifI lost Eugen I lost everything, for I, like him, and like all those whohave been and are dearest to both of us, was a Child of the World. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

 "Oftmals hab' ich geirrt, und habe mich wiedergefunden, Aber glücklicher nie. "

It was beginning to be dusk when we alighted the next day at Lahnburg, asmall way-side station, where the doctor's brand-new carriage met us, and after we had been bidden welcome, whirled us off to the doctor'sbrand-new schloss, full of brand-new furniture. I skip it all, therenewed greetings, the hospitality, the noise. They were very kind. Itwas all right to me, and I enjoyed it immensely. I was in a state ofmind in which I verily believe I should have enjoyed eating a plate ofporridge for supper, or a dish of sauerkraut for dinner. 

The subject for complacency and contemplation in Frau Mittendorf's lifewas her intimacy with the von Rothenfels family, whose great, dark oldschloss, or rather, a portion of it, looking grimly over its woods, shepointed out to me from the windows of her salon. I looked somewhatcuriously at it, chiefly because Eugen had mentioned it, and alsobecause it was such a stern, imposing old pile. It was built of redstone, and stood upon red-stone foundations. Red were the rocks of thiscountry, and hence its name, "Rothen-fels, " the red rocks. Woods, alsodark, but now ablaze with the last fiery autumn tints, billowed beneathit; on the other side, said Frau Mittendorf, was a great plateau coveredwith large trees, intersected by long, straight avenues. She would takeus to look at it; the Gräfin von Rothenfels was a great friend of hers. 

She was entertaining us with stories to prove the great regard andrespect of the countess for her (Frau Mittendorf) on the morning afterour arrival, while I was longing to go out and stroll along some ofthose pleasant breezy upland roads, or explore the sleepy, quaint oldtown below. 

Upon her narrative came an interruption. A servant threw open the doorvery wide, announcing the Gräfin von Rothenfels. Frau Mittendorf rose ina tremulous hurry and flutter to greet her noble guest, and thenintroduced us to her. 

A tall, melancholy, meager-looking woman, --far past youth--on the veryconfines of middle age, with iron-gray hair banded across a stern, much-lined brow. Colorless features of a strong, large, not unhandsometype from which all liveliness and vivacity had long since fled. A sternmouth--steady, lusterless, severe eyes, a dignity--yes, even a majestyof mien which she did not attempt to soften into graciousness; black, trailing draperies; a haughty pride of movement. 

Such was the first impression made upon me by Hildegarde, Countess ofRothenfels--a forbidding, if grand figure--aristocrat in every line;utterly alien and apart, I thought, from me and every feeling of mine. 

But on looking again the human element was found in the deeply plantedsadness which no reserve pride could conceal. Sad the eyes, sad themouth; she was all sad together--and not without reason, as I afterwardlearned. 

She was a rigid Roman Catholic, and at sixteen had been married for _lesconvenances_ to her cousin, Count Bruno von Rothenfels, a man a gooddeal older than herself, though not preposterously so, and whose amplepossessions and old name gave social position of the highest kind. Buthe was a Protestant by education, a thinker by nature, a rationalist byconviction. 

That was one bitter grief. Another was her childlessness. She had beenmarried twenty-four years; no child had sprung from the union. This wasa continual grief which imbittered her whole existence. 

Since then I have seen a portrait of her at twenty--a splendidbrunette, with high spirit and resolute will and noble beauty in everyline. Ah, me! What wretches we become! Sadness and bitterness, proudaloofness and a yearning wistfulness were subtly mingled in the demeanorof Gräfin von Rothenfels. 

She bowed to us, as Frau Mittendorf introduced us. She did not bestow asecond glance upon Stella; but bent a long look, a second, a thirdscrutinizing gaze upon me. I--I am not ashamed to own it--quiveredsomewhat under her searching glance. She impressed and fascinated me. 

She seated herself, and slightly apologizing to us for intrudingdomestic affairs, began to speak with Frau Mittendorf of some case ofvillage distress in which they were both interested. Then she turnedagain to us, speaking in excellent English, and asked us whether we werestaying there, after which she invited us to dine at her house thefollowing day with Frau Mittendorf. After the invitation had beenaccepted with sufficient reverence by that lady, the countess rose as ifto go, and turning again to me with still that pensive, half-wistful, half-mistrustful gaze, she said:

"I have my carriage here. Would you like to come with me to see ourwoods and house? They are sometimes interesting to strangers. "

"Oh, very much!" I said, eagerly. 

"Then come, " said she. "I will see that you are escorted back when youare tired. It is arranged that you remain until you feel _gené, nichtwahr?_"

"Oh, thank you!" said I, again, hastening to make myself ready, andparenthetically hoping, as I ran upstairs, that Frau Mittendorf's eyesmight not start quite out of her head with pride at the honor conferredupon her house and visitors. 

Very soon I was seated beside the Gräfin in the dark-green clarence, with the grand coachman and the lady's own jäger beside him, and we weredriving along a white road with a wild kind of country spreadinground--moorland stretches, and rich deep woods. Up and down, for the waywas uneven, till we entered a kind of park, and to the right, highabove, I saw the great red pile with its little pointed towers crownedwith things like extinguishers ending in a lightning-rod, and whichseemed to spring from all parts of the heavy mass of the main building. 

That, then, was Schloss Rothenfels. It looked the very image of anaristocratic, ancient feste burg, grim and grand; it brooded over uslike a frown, and dominated the landscape for miles around. I was deeplyimpressed; such a place had always been like a dream to me. 

There was something so imposingly conservative about it; it looked as ifit had weathered so many storms; defying such paltry forces as wind andweather, and would through so many more, quite untouched by the roar oflife and progress outside--a fit and firm keeping-place for old shields, for weapons honorably hacked and dinted, for tattered loyal flags--forart treasures and for proud beauties. 

As we gained the height, I perceived the huge scale on which the schlosswas constructed. It was a little town in itself. I saw, too, thatplateau on the other side, of which I had heard; later I explored it. Itwas a natural plain--a kind of table-land, and was laid out in what havealways, since I was a child, impressed me more than any other kind ofsurroundings to a house--mile-long avenues of great trees, stretchingperfectly straight, like lines of marching troops in every direction. 

Long, melancholy alleys and avenues, with huge, moss-grown stone figuresand groups guarding the terraces or keeping fantastic watch over thestone tanks, on whose surfaces floated the lazy water-lilies. Greatmoss-grown gods and goddesses, and strange hybrid beasts, and fauns andsatyrs, and all so silent and forlorn, with the lush grass and heavyfern growing rank and thick under the stately trees. To right theystretched and to left; and straightaway westward was one long, wide, vast, deserted avenue, at the end of which was an opening, and in theopening a huge stone myth or figure of a runner, who in the act ofracing receives an arrow in his heart, and, with arms madly tossed inthe air, staggers. 

Behind this terrible figure the sun used to set, flaming, or mild, orsullen, and the vast arms of it were outlined against the gorgeous sky, or in the half-dark it glimmered like a ghost and seemed to move. It hadbeen there so long that none could remember the legend of it. It was agrim shape. 

Scattered here and there were quaint wildernesses andpleasaunces--clipped yews and oddly trained shrubs and flowers trying tomake a diversion, but ever dominated by the huge woods, the straightavenues, the mathematical melancholy on an immense scale. 

The Frau Gräfin glanced at me once or twice as my head turned this wayand that, and my eyes could not take in the strange scene quicklyenough; but she said nothing, nor did her severe face relax into anysmile. 

We stopped under a huge _porte-cochère_ in which more servants werestanding about. 

"Come with me, " said the lady to me. "First I will take you to my rooms, and then when you have rested a little you can do what you like. "

Pleased at the prospect, I followed her; through a hall which withoutany joking was baronial; through a corridor into a room, through whichshe passed, observing to me:

"This is the rittersaal, one of the oldest rooms in the house. "

The rittersaal--a real, hereditary Hall of Knights where a sangerkriegmight have taken place--where Tannhauser and the others might havecontended before Elizabeth. A polished parquet--a huge hearth on whichburned a large bright wood fire, whose flames sparkled upon suits ofmail in dozens--crossed swords and lances, over which hung tatteredbanners and bannerets. Shields and lances, portraits with each a pair ofspurs beneath it--the men were all knights, of that line! dark and gravechiefly were these lords of the line of Sturm. In the center of the halla great trophy of arms and armor, all of which had been used, and usedto purpose; the only drapery, the banners over these lances andportraits. The room delighted me while it made me feel small--verysmall. The countess turned at a door at the other end and looked backupon me where I stood gasping in the door-way by which we had entered. She was one of the house; this had nothing overpowering for her, if itdid give some of the pride to her mien. 

I hurried after her, apologizing for my tardiness; she waved the wordsback, and led me to a smaller room, which appeared to be her privatesitting-room. Here she asked me to lay aside my things, adding that shehoped I should spend the day at the schloss. 

"If you find it not too intolerably stupid, " she added. "It is a dullplace. "

I said that it seemed to me like something out of a fairy tale, and thatI longed to see more of it if I might. 

"Assuredly you shall. There may be some few things which you may like tosee. I forget that every one is not like myself--tired. Are youmusical?"

"Very!" said I, emphatically. 

"Then you will be interested in the music-rooms here. How old are you?"

I told her. She bowed gravely. "You are young, and, I suppose, happy?"she remarked. 

"Yes, I am--very happy--perfectly, " said I, smiling, because I could nothelp it. 

"When I saw you I was so struck with that look, " said she. "I thought Ihad never seen any one look so radiantly, transcendently happy. I soseldom see it--and never feel it, and I wished to see more of you. I amvery glad you are so happy--very glad. Now I will not keep you talkingto me. I will send for Herr Nahrath, who shall be your guide. "

She rang the bell. I was silent, although I longed to say that I couldtalk to her for a day without thinking of weariness, which indeed wastrue. She impressed and fascinated me. 

"Send Herr Nahrath here, " she said, and presently there came into theroom a young man in the garb of what is called in Germany aKandidat--that is to say an embryo pastor, or parish priest. He bowedvery deeply to the countess and did not speak or advance much beyond thedoor. 

Having introduced us, she desired him to act as cicerone to me until Iwas tired. He bowed, and I did not dispute the mandate, although I wouldrather have remained with her, and got to know something of the naturethat lay behind those gray passionless features, than turn to thesociety of that smug-looking young gentleman who waited so respectfully, like a machine whose mainspring was awe. 

I accompanied him, nevertheless, and he showed me part of the schloss, and endeavored in the intervals of his tolerably arduous task ofcicerone to make himself agreeable to me. It was a wonderful placeindeed--this schloss. The deeper we penetrated into it, the moreabsorbed and interested did I become. Such piled-up, profusely scatteredtreasures of art it had never before fallen to my lot to behold. Theabundance was prodigal; the judgment, cultivation, high perceptionof truth, rarity and beauty, seemed almost faultless. Gems ofpictures--treasures of sculpture, bronze, china, carvings, glass, coins, curiosities which it would have taken a life-time properly to learn. Here I saw for the first time a private library on a large scale, collected by generation after generation of highly cultured men andwomen--a perfect thing of its kind, and one which impressed me mightily;but it was not there that I was destined to find the treasure which layhidden for me in this enchanted palace. We strayed over an acre or so ofpassage and corridor till he paused before an arched door across whichwas hung a curtain, and over which was inscribed _Musik-kammern_ (themusic-rooms). 

"If you wish to see the music, _mein Fräulein_, I must leave you in thehands of Herr Brunken, who will tolerate no cicerone but himself. "

"Oh, I wish to see it certainly, " said I, on fire with curiosity. 

He knocked and was bidden _herein!_ but not going in, told some oneinside that he recommended to his charge a young lady staying with thecountess, and who was desirous of seeing the collection. 

"Pray, _mein Fräulein_, come in!" said a voice. Herr Nahrath left me, and I, lifting the curtain and pushing open the half-closed door, foundmyself in an octagonal room, confronted by the quaintest figure I hadever seen. An old man whose long gray hair, long white beard, and longblack robe made him look like a wizard or astrologer of some mediævalromance, was smiling at me and bidding me welcome to his domain. He wasthe librarian and general custodian of the musical treasures of SchlossRothenfels, and his name was Brunken. He loved his place and histreasures with a jealous love, and would talk of favorite instruments asif they had been dear children, and of great composers as if they weregods. 

All around the room were large shelves filled with music--and over eachdivision stood a name--such mighty names as Scarlatti, Bach, Handel, Beethoven, Schumann, Mozart, Haydn--all the giants, and apparently allthe pygmies too, were there. It was a complete library of music, andthough I have seen many since, I have never beheld any which in theleast approached this in richness or completeness. Rare old manuscriptscores; priceless editions of half-forgotten music; the literature ofthe productions of half-forgotten composers; Eastern music, Westernmusic, and music of all ages; it was an idealized collection--amusician's paradise, only less so than that to which he now led me, fromamid the piled-up scores and the gleaming busts of those mighty men, whohere at least were honored with never-failing reverence. 

He took me into a second room, or rather hall, of great size, height, and dimensions, a museum of musical instruments. It would take far toolong to do it justice in description; indeed, on that first briefinvestigation I could only form a dim general idea of the richness ofits treasures. What histories--what centuries of story were there piledup! Musical instruments of every imaginable form and shape, and in everystage of development. Odd-looking pre-historic bone embryo instrumentsfrom different parts of France. Strange old things from Nineveh, andIndia, and Peru, instruments from tombs and pyramids, and ancient ruinedtemples in tropic groves--things whose very nature and handling is amystery and a dispute--tuned to strange scales which produce strangemelodies, and carry us back into other worlds. On them, perhaps, has theswarthy Ninevan, or slight Hindoo, or some

 "Dusky youth with painted plumage gay"

performed as he apostrophized his mistress's eyebrow. On thatqueer-looking thing which may be a fiddle or not--which may have had abow or not--a slightly clad slave made music while his master the rayahplayed chess with his favorite wife. They are all dead and gone now, andtheir jewels are worn by others, and the memory of them has vanishedfrom off the earth; and these, their musical instruments, repose in aquiet corner amid the rough hills and oak woods and under the cloudyskies of the land of music--Deutschland. 

Down through the changing scale, through the whole range of cymbal andspinet, "flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds ofmusic, " stand literally before me, and a strange revelation it is. Is itthe same faculty which produces that grand piano of Bechstein's, andthat clarion organ of Silbermann's, and that African drum dressed outwith skulls, that war-trumpet hung with tiger's teeth? After thisnothing is wonderful! Strange, unearthly looking Chinese frames ofsonorous stones or modulated bells; huge drums, painted and carved, andset up on stands six feet from the ground; quaint instruments from thepalaces of Aztec Incas, down to pianos by Broadwood, Collard & Collard, and Bechstein. 

There were trophies of Streichinstrumente and Blaseinstrumente. I wasallowed to gaze upon two real Stradivarius fiddles. I might see thedevelopment by evolution, and the survival of the fittest in violin, 'cello, contrabass, alto, beside countless others whose very names haveperished with the time that produced them, and the fingers which playedthem--ingenious guesses, clever misses--the tragedy of harmony as wellas its "Io Pæan!"

There were wind instruments, quaint old double flutes from Italy; pipes, single, double, treble, from ages much further back; harps--Assyrian, Greek, and Roman; instruments of percussion, guitars, and zithers inevery form and kind; a dulcimer--I took it up and thought of Coleridge's"damsel with a dulcimer;" and a grand organ, as well as many incipientorgans, and the quaint little things of that nature from China, Japan, and Siam. 

I stood and gazed in wonder and amazement. 

"Surely the present Graf has not collected all these instruments!" saidI. 

"Oh, no, _mein Fräulein_; they have been accumulating for centuries. They tell strange tales of what the Sturms will do for music. "

With which he proceeded to tell me certain narratives of certaininstruments in the collection, in which he evidently firmly believed, including one relating to a quaint old violin for which he said acertain Graf von Rothenfels called "Max der Tolle, " or the Mad CountMax, had sold his soul. 

As he finished this last he was called away, and excusing himself, leftme. I was alone in this voiceless temple of so many wonderful sounds. Ilooked round, and a feeling of awe and weirdness crept over me. My eyeswould not leave that shabby old fiddle, concerning whose demoniac originI had just heard such a cheerful little anecdote. Every one of thosecountless instruments was capable of harmony and discord--had some timebeen used; pressed, touched, scraped, beaten or blown into by hands ormouths long since crumbled to dust. What tales had been told! whatsongs sung, and in what languages; what laughs laughed, tears shed, vowsspoken, kisses exchanged, over some of those silent pieces of wood, brass, ivory, and catgut! The feelings of all the histories thatsurrounded me had something eerie in it. 

I stayed until I began to feel nervous, and was thinking of going awaywhen sounds from a third room drew my attention. Some one in there beganto play the violin, and to play it with no ordinary delicacy ofmanipulation. There was something exquisitely finished, refined, anddelicate about the performance; it lacked the bold splendor andoriginality of Eugen's playing, but it was so lovely as to bring tearsto my eyes, and, moreover, the air was my favorite "Traumerei. "Something in those sounds, too, was familiar to me. With a suddenbeating of the heart, a sudden eagerness, I stepped hastily forward, pushed back the dividing curtain, and entered the room whence proceededthose sounds. 

In the middle of the room, which was bare and empty, but which had largewindows looking across the melancholy plateau, and to the terriblefigure of the runner at the end of the avenue--stood a boy--a child witha violin. He was dressed richly, in velvet and silk; he was grown--theslender delicacy of his form was set off by the fine clothing that richmen's children wear; his beautiful waving black hair was somewhat moreclosely cut, but the melancholy yet richly colored young face thatturned toward me--the deep and yearning eyes, the large, solemn gaze, the premature gravity, were all his--it was Sigmund, Courvoisier's boy. 

For a moment we both stood motionless--hardly breathing; then he flunghis violin down, sprung forward with a low sound of intense joy, exclaiming:

"_Das Fräulein_, _das Fräulein_, from home!" and stood before metrembling from head to foot. 

I snatched the child to my heart (he looked so much older and sadder), and covered him with kisses. 

He submitted--nay, more, he put his arms about my neck and laid his faceupon my shoulder, and presently, as if he had choked down some silentemotion, looked up at me with large, imploring, sad eyes, and asked:

"Have you seen my father?"

"Sigmund, I saw him the day before yesterday. "

"You saw him--you spoke to him, perhaps?"

"Yes. I spoke long with him. "

"What did he look like?"

"As he always does--brave, and true, and noble. "

"_Nicht wahr?_" said the boy, with flashing eyes. "I know how he looks, just. I am waiting till I am grown up, that I may go to him again. "

"Do you like me, Sigmund?"

"Yes; very much. "

"Do you think you could love me? Would you trust me to love those youlove?"

"Do you mean him?" he asked point-blank, and looked at me somewhatstartled. 

"Yes. "

"I--don't--know. "

"I mean, to take care of him, and try to make him happy till you come tohim again, and then we will all be together. "

He looked doubtful still. 

"What I mean, Sigmund, is that your father and I are going to bemarried; but we shall never be quite happy until you are with us. "

He stood still, taking it in, and I waited in much anxiety. I wascertain that if I had time and opportunity I could win him; but I fearedthe result of this sudden announcement and separation. He might only seethat his father--his supreme idol--could turn for comfort to another, while he would not know how I loved him and longed to make his graveyoung life happy for him. I put my arm round his shoulder, and kneelingdown beside him, said:

"You must say you are glad, Sigmund, or you will make me very unhappy. Iwant you to love me as well as him. Look at me and tell me you willtrust me till we are all together, for I am sure we shall be togethersome day. "

He still hesitated some little time, but at last said, with thesedateness peculiar to him, as of one who overcame a struggle and made asacrifice:

"If he has decided it so it must be right, you know; but--but--you won'tlet him forget me, will you?"

The child's nature overcame that which had been, as it were, supplantedand grafted upon it. The lip quivered, the dark eyes filled with tears. Poor little lonely child! desolate and sad in the midst of all thegrandeur! My heart yearned to him. 

"Forget you, Sigmund? Your father never forgets, he can not!"

"I wish I was grown up, " was all he said. 

Then it occurred to me to wonder how he got there, and in what relationhe stood to these people. 

"Do you live here, Sigmund?"

"Yes. "

"What relation are you to the Herr Graf?"

"Graf von Rothenfels is my uncle. "

"And are they kind to you?" I asked, in a hasty whisper, for his intensegravity and sadness oppressed me. I trembled to think of having to tellhis father in what state I had found him. 

"Oh, yes!" said he. "Yes, very. "

"What do you do all day?"

"I learn lessons from Herr Nahrath, and I ride with Uncle Bruno, and--and--oh! I do whatever I like. Uncle Bruno says that some time Ishall go to Bonn, or Heidelberg, or Jena, or England, whichever I like. "

"And have you no friends?"

"I like being with Brunken the best. He talks to me about my fathersometimes. He knew him when he was only as old as I am. "

"Did he? Oh, I did not know that. "

"But they won't tell me why my father never comes here, and why theynever speak of him, " he added, wearily, looking with melancholy eyesacross the lines of wood, through the wide window. 

"Be sure it is for nothing wrong. He does nothing wrong. He does nothingbut what is good and right, " said I. 

"Oh, of course! But I can't tell the reason. I think and think aboutit. " He put his hand wearily to his head. "They never speak of him. OnceI said something about him. It was at a great dinner they had. AuntHildegarde turned quite pale, and Uncle Bruno called me to him andsaid--no one heard it but me, you know--'Never let me hear that nameagain!' and his eyes looked so fierce. I'm tired of this place, " headded, mournfully. 

"I want to be at Elberthal again--at the Wehrhahn, with my father andFriedhelm and Karl Linders. I think of them every hour. I liked Karl andFriedhelm, and Gretchen, and Frau Schmidt. "

"They do not live there now, dear, Friedhelm and your father, " said I, gently. 

"Not? Then where are they?"

"I do not know, " I was forced to say. "They were fighting in the war. Ithink they live at Berlin now, but I am not at all sure. "

This uncertainty seemed to cause him much distress, and he would haveadded more, but our conversation was brought to an end by the entranceof Brunken, who looked rather surprised to see us in such close andearnest consultation. 

"Will you show me the way back to the countess's room?" said I toSigmund. 

He put his hand in mine, and led me through many of those interminablehalls and passages until we came to the rittersaal again. 

"Sigmund, " said I, "are you not proud to belong to these?" and I pointedto the dim portraits hanging around. 

"Yes, " said he, doubtfully. "Uncle Bruno is always telling me that Imust do nothing to disgrace their name, because I shall one day ruletheir lands; but, " he added, with more animation, "do you not see allthese likenesses? These are all counts of Rothenfels, who have beenheads of the family. You see the last one is here--Graf Bruno--my uncle. But in another room there are a great many more portraits, ladies andchildren and young men, and a man is painting a likeness of me, which isgoing to be hung up there; but my father is not there. What does itmean?"

I was silent. I knew his portrait must have been removed because he wasconsidered to be living in dishonor--a stain to the house, who wasperhaps the most chivalrous of the whole race; but this I could not tellSigmund. It was beginning already, the trial, the "test" of which he hadspoken to me, and it was harder in reality than in anticipation. 

"I don't want to be stuck up there where he has no place, " Sigmund wenton, sullenly. "And I should like to cut the hateful picture to pieceswhen it comes. "

With this he ushered me into Gräfin Hildegarde's boudoir again. She wasstill there, and a tall, stately, stern-looking man of some fifty yearswas with her. 

His appearance gave me a strange shock. He was Eugen, older and withoutany of his artist brightness; Eugen's grace turned into pride and stonyhauteur. He looked as if he could be savage upon occasion; a nature bornto power and nurtured in it. Ruggedly upright, but narrow. I learned himby heart afterward, and found that every act of his was the direct, unsoftened outcome of his nature. 

This was Graf Bruno; this was the proud, intensely feeling man who hadnever forgiven the stain which he supposed his brother had brought upontheir house; this was he who had proposed such hard, bald, pitilessterms concerning the parting of father and son--who forbade the child tospeak of the loved one. 

"Ha!" said he, "you have found Sigmund, _mein Fräulein_? Where did youmeet, then?"

His keen eyes swept me from head to foot. In that, at least, Eugenresembled him; my lover's glance was as hawk-like as this, and asimpenetrable. 

"In the music-room, " said Sigmund; and the uncle's glance left me andfell upon the boy. 

I soon read that story. The child was at once the light of his eyes andthe bitterness of his life. As for Countess Hildegarde, she gazed at hernephew with all a mother's soul in her pathetic eyes, and was silent. 

"Come here, " said the Graf, seating himself and drawing the boy to him. "What hast thou been doing?"

There was no fear in the child's demeanor--he was too thoroughly a childof their own race to know fear--but there was no love, no lighting up ofthe features, no glad meeting of the eyes. 

"I was with Nahrath till Aunt Hildegarde sent for him, and then I wentto practice. "

"Practice what? Thy riding or fencing?"

"No; my violin. "

"Bah! What an extraordinary thing it is that this lad has no taste foranything but fiddling, " observed the uncle, half aside. 

Gräfin Hildegarde looked sharply and apprehensively up. 

Sigmund shrunk a little away from his uncle, not timidly, but with somedistaste. Words were upon his lips; his eyes flashed, his lips parted;then he checked himself, and was silent. 

"_Nun denn!_" said the count. "What hast thou? Out with it!"

"Nothing that it would please you to hear, uncle; therefore I will notsay it, " was the composed retort. 

The grim-looking man laughed a grim little laugh, as if satisfied withthe audacity of the boy, and his grizzled mustache swept the soft cheek. 

"I ride no further this morning; but this afternoon I shall go toMulhausen. Wilt thou come with me?"

"Yes, uncle. "

Neither willing nor unwilling was the tone, and the answer appeared todissatisfy the other, who said:

"'Yes, uncle'--what does that mean? Dost thou not wish to go?"

"Oh, yes! I would as soon go as stay at home. "

"But the distance, Bruno, " here interposed the countess, in a low tone. "I am sure it is too far. He is not too strong. "

"Distance? Pooh! Hildegarde, I wonder at you; considering what stock youcome of, you should be superior to such nonsense! Wert thou thinking ofthe distance, Sigmund?"

"Distance--no, " said he, indifferently. 

"Come with me, " said the elder. "I want to show thee something. "

They went out of the room together. Yes, it was self-evident; the manidolized the child. Strange mixture of sternness and softness! Thesupposed sin of the father was never to be pardoned; but naturalaffection was to have its way, and be lavished upon the son; and the soncould not return it, because the influence of the banished scapegracewas too strong--he had won it all for himself, as scapegraces have thehabit of doing. 

Again I was left alone with the countess, sitting upright over herembroidery. A dull life this great lady led. She cared nothing for theworld's gayeties, and she had neither chick nor child to be ambitiousfor. Her husband was polite enough to her; but she knew perfectly well, and accepted it as a matter of course, that the death of her who hadlived with him and been his companion for twenty-five years would haveweighed less by half with him than any catastrophe to that mournful, unenthusiastic child, who had not been two years under their roof, andwho displayed no delight in the wealth of love lavished upon him. 

She knew that she also adored the child, but that his affection was hardto get. She dared not show her love openly, or in the presence of herhusband, who seemed to look upon the boy as his exclusive property, andwas as jealous as a tiger of the few faint testimonies of affectionmanifested by his darling. A dull journey to Berlin once a year, anoccasional visitor, the society of her director and that of herhusband--who showed how much at home with her he felt by going to sleepwhenever he was more than a quarter of an hour in her presence--a littleinterest of a lofty, distant kind in her townspeople of the poorer sort, an occasional call upon or from some distant neighbor of a rankapproaching her own; for the rest, embroidery in the newest patterns andmost elegant style, some few books, chiefly religious and polemicalworks--and what can be drearier than Roman Catholic polemics, unless, indeed, Protestant ones eclipse them?--a large house, vast estates, servants who never raised their voices beyond a certain tone; the envyof all the middle-class women, the fear and reverential courtesies ofthe poorer ones--a cheerful existence, and one which accounted for someof the wrinkles which so plentifully decked her brow. 

"That is our nephew, " said she; "my husband's heir. "

"I have often seen him before, " said I; "but I should have thought thathis father would be your husband's next heir. "

Never shall I forget the look she darted upon me--the awful glance whichswept over me scathingly, ere she said, in icy tones:

"What do you mean? Have you seen--or do you know--Graf Eugen?"

There was a pause, as if the name had not passed her lips for so longthat now she had difficulty in uttering it. 

"I knew him as Eugen Courvoisier, " said I; but the other name was arevelation to me, and told me that he was also "to the manner born. " "Isaw him two days ago, and I conversed with him, " I added. 

She was silent for a moment, and surveyed me with a haggard look. I mether glance fully, openly. 

"Do you wish to know anything about him?" I asked. 

"Certainly not, " said she, striving to speak frigidly; but there was apiteous tremble in her low tones. "The man has dis--What am I saying? Itis sufficient to say that he is not on terms with his family. "

"So he told me, " said I, struggling on my own part to keep back theburning words within me. 

The countess looked at me--looked again. I saw now that this was one ofthe great sorrows of her sorrowful life. She felt that to be consistentshe ought to wave aside the subject with calm contempt; but it made herheart bleed. I pitied her; I felt an odd kind of affection for heralready. The promise I had given to Eugen lay hard and heavy upon me. 

"What did he tell you?" she asked, at last; and I paused ere I answered, trying to think what I could make of this opportunity. "Do you know thefacts of the case?" she added. 

"No; he said he would write. "

"Would write!" she echoed, suspending her work, and fixing me with hereyes. "Would write--to whom?"

"To me. "

"You correspond with him?" There was a tremulous eagerness in hermanner. 

"I have never corresponded with him yet, " said I, "but I have known himlong, and loved him almost from the first. The other day Ipromised--to--marry him. "

"You?" said she; "you are going to marry Eugen! Are you"--her eyessaid--"are you good enough for him?" but she came to an abruptconclusion. "Tell me, " said she; "where did you meet him, and how?"

I told her in what capacity I had become acquainted with him, and shelistened breathlessly. Every moment I felt the prohibition to speakheavier, for I saw that the Countess von Rothenfels would have been onlytoo delighted to hail any idea, any suggestion, which should allow herto indulge the love that, though so strong, she rigidly repressed. Idare say I told my story in a halting kind of way; it was difficult forme on the spur of the moment to know clearly what to say and what toleave unsaid. As I told the countess about Eugen's and my voyage downthe river, a sort of smile tried to struggle out upon her lips; it wasevidently as good as a romance to her. I finished, saying:

"That is the truth, _gnädige Frau_. All I fear is that I am not goodenough for him--shall not satisfy him. "

"My child, " said she, and paused. "My dear child, " she took both myhands, and her lips quivered, "you do not know how I feel for you. I canfeel for you because I fear that with you it will be as it was with me. Do you know any of the circumstances under which Eugen von Rothenfelsleft his friends?"

"I do not know them circumstantially. I know he was accused ofsomething, and--and--did not--I mean--"

"Could not deny it, " she said. "I dare not take the responsibility ofleaving you in ignorance. I must tell you all, and may Our Lady give meeloquence!"

"I should like to hear the story, madame, but I do not think anyeloquence will change my mind. "

"He always had a manner calculated to deceive and charm, " said she;"always. Well, my husband is his half-brother. I was their cousin. Theyare the sons of different mothers, and my husband is many years olderthan Eugen--eighteen years older. He, my husband, was thirty years oldwhen he succeeded to the name and estates of his father--Eugen, you see, was just twelve years old, a school-boy. We were just married. It is avery long time ago--_ach ja!_ a very long time ago! We played the partof parents to that boy. We were childless, and as time went on, welavished upon him all the love which we should have bestowed upon ourown children had we been happy enough to have any. I do not think anyone was ever better loved than he. It so happened that his owninheritance was not a large one; that made no difference. My husband, with my fullest consent and approbation, had every intention ofproviding for him: we had enough and to spare: money and land and houseroom for half a dozen families, and our two selves alone to enjoy itall. He always seemed fond of us. I suppose it was his facile manner, which could take the appearance of an interest and affection which hedid not feel--"

"No, Frau Gräfin! no, indeed!"

"Wait till you have heard all, my poor child. Everyone loved him. Howproud I was of him. Sometimes I think it is a chastisement, but had youbeen in my place you would have been proud too; so gallant, sohandsome, such grace, and such a charm. He was the joy of my life, " shesaid in a passionate under-tone. "He went by the name of a worthydescendant of all essential things: honor and loyalty and bravery, andso on. They used to call him _Prinz Eugen, der edle Ritter_, after theold song. He was wild and impatient of control, but who is not? I hateyour young men whose veins run milk, not blood. He was one of a fierypassionate line. At the universities he was extravagant; we heard allsorts of follies. "

"Did you ever hear of anything base--anything underhand ordishonorable?"

"Never--oh, never. High play. He was very intimate with a set of youngEnglishmen, and the play was dreadful, it is true; he betted too. Thatis a curse. Play and horses, and general recklessness and extravagance, but no wine and no women. I never heard that he had the least affinityfor either of these dissipations. There were debts--I suppose all youngmen in his position make debts, " said the countess, placidly. "Myhusband made debts at college, and I am sure my brothers did. Then heleft college and lived at home awhile, and that was the happiest time ofmy life. But it is over. 

"Then he entered the army--of course. His family interest procured himpromotion. He was captain in a fine Uhlan regiment. He was with hisregiment at Berlin and Munich, and ----. And always we heard the sametales--play, and wild, fast living. Music always had a hold upon him. 

"In the midst of his extravagance he was sometimes so simple. I rememberwe were dreadfully frightened at a rumor that he had got entangled withFräulein ----, a singer of great beauty at the Hofoper at ----. I got myhusband to let me write about it. I soon had an answer from Eugen. Howhe laughed at me! He had paid a lot of debts for the girl, which hadbeen pressing heavily upon her since her career began; now he said hetrusted she would get along swimmingly; he was going to her benefit thatnight. 

"But when he was at ----, and when he was about six-and-twenty, hereally did get engaged to be married. He wrote and told us about it. That was the first bitter blow: she was an Italian girl of respectablebut by no means noble family--he was always a dreadful radical in suchmatters. She was a governess in the house of one of his friends in ----. 

"We did everything we could think of to divert him from it. It wasuseless. He married her, but he did not become less extravagant. She didnot help him to become steady, I must say. She liked gayety andadmiration, and he liked her to be worshiped. He indulged herfrightfully. He played--he would play so dreadfully. 

"We had his wife over to see us, and he came with her. We were agreeablysurprised. She quite won our hearts. She was very beautiful and verycharming--had rather a pretty voice, though nothing much. We forgave allhis misconduct, and my husband talked to him and implored him to amend. He said he would. Mere promises! It was so easy to him to make promises. 

"That poor young wife! Instead of pitying him for having made a_mésalliance_, we know now that it was she who was to be pitied forhaving fallen into the hands of such a black-hearted, false man. "

The lady paused. The recital evidently cost her some pain and someemotion. She went on:

"She was expecting her confinement. They returned to ----, where we alsohad a house, and we went with them. Vittoria shortly afterward gavebirth to a son. That was in our house. My husband would have it so. Thatson was to reconcile all and make everything straight. At that timeEugen must have been in some anxiety: he had been betting heavily on theEnglish Derby. We did not know that, nor why he had gone to England. Atlast it came out that he was simply ruined. My husband was dreadfullycut up. I was very unhappy--so unhappy that I was ill and confined to myroom. 

"My husband left town for a few days to come over to Rothenfels onbusiness. Eugen was scarcely ever in the house. I thought it was ourreproachful faces that he did not wish to see. Then my husband cameback. He was more cheerful. He had been thinking things over, he said. He kissed me, and told me to cheer up: he had a plan for Eugen, which, he believed, would set all right again. 

"In that very moment some one had asked to see him. It was a clerk fromthe bank with a check which they had cashed the day before. Had myhusband signed it? I saw him look at it for a moment. Then he sent theman away, saying that he was then busy and would communicate with him. Then he showed me the check. It was payable to the bearer, and acrossthe back was written 'Vittoria von Rothenfels. '

"You must bear in mind that Eugen was living in his own house, inanother quarter of the town. My husband sent the check to him, with abrief inquiry as to whether he knew anything about it. Then he went out:he had an appointment, and when he returned he found a letter fromEugen. It was not long: it was burned into my heart, and I have neverforgotten a syllable of it. It was:

 "'I return the check. I am guilty. I relieve you of all further responsibility about me. It is evident that I am not fit for my position. I leave this place forever, taking the boy with me. Vittoria does not seem to care about having him. Will you look after her? Do not let her starve in punishment for my sin. For me--I leave you forever. 

 "'EUGEN. '

"That was the letter. _Ei! mein Gott!_ Oh, it is hideous, child, to findthat those in whom you believed so intensely are bad--rotten to thecore. I had loved Eugen, he had made a sunshine in my not very cheerfullife. His coming was a joy to me, his going away a sorrow. It madeeverything so much blacker when the truth came out. Of course the matterwas hushed up. 

"My husband took immediate steps about it. Soon afterward we came here;Vittoria with us. Poor girl! Poor girl! She did nothing but weep andwring her hands, moan and lament and wonder why she had ever been born, and at last she died of decline--that is to say, they called it decline, but it was really a broken heart. That is the story--a black chronicle, is it not? You know about Sigmund's coming here. My husband rememberedthat he was heir to our name, and we were in a measure responsible forhim. Eugen had taken the name of a distant family connection on hismother's side--she had French blood in her veins--Courvoisier. Now youknow all, my child--he is not good. Do not trust him. "

I was silent. My heart burned; my tongue longed to utter ardent words, but I remembered his sad smile as he said, "You shrink from that, " andI braced myself to silence. The thing seemed to me altogether sopitiable--and yet--and yet, I had sworn. But how had he lived out thesefive terrible years?

By and by the luncheon bell rang. We all met once more. I felt everyhour more like one in a dream or in some impossible old romance. Thatpiece of outward death-like reserve, the countess, with the fire withinwhich she was forever spending her energy in attempts to quench; thatconglomeration of ice, pride, roughness and chivalry, the Herr Grafhimself; the thin, wooden-looking priest, the director of the Gräfin;that lovely picture of grace and bloom, with the dash of melancholy, Sigmund; certainly it was the strangest company in which I had ever beenpresent. The countess sent me home in the afternoon, reminding me that Iwas engaged to dine there with the others to-morrow. I managed to get aword aside with Sigmund--to kiss him and tell him I should come to seehim again. Then I left them; interested, inthralled, fascinated withthem and their life, and--more in love with Eugen than ever. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

"WHERE IS MY FATHER?"

We had been bidden to dine at the schloss--Frau Mittendorf, Stella, andI. In due time the doctor's new carriage was called out, and seated init we were driven to the great castle. With a renewed joy and awe Ilooked at it by twilight, with the dusk of sunset veiling its woods andturning the whole mass to the color of a deep earth-stain. Eugen's home:there he had been born; as the child of such a race and in itstraditions he had been nurtured by that sad lady whom we were going tosee. I at least knew that he had acted, and was now acting, up to thevery standard of his high calling. The place has lost much of itsawfulness for me; it had become even friendly and lovely. 

The dinner was necessarily a solemn one. I was looking out for Sigmund, who, however, did not put in an appearance. 

After dinner, when we were all assembled in a vast salon which thenumberless wax-lights did but partially and in the center illuminate, Idetermined to make an effort at release from this seclusion, and askedthe countess (who had motioned me to a seat beside her) where Sigmundwas. 

"He seemed a little languid and not inclined to come down-stairs, " saidshe. "I expect he is in the music-room--he generally finds his waythere. "

"Oh, I wish you would allow me to go and see him. "

"Certainly, my child, " said she, ringing; and presently a servant guidedme to the door of the music-rooms, and in answer to my knock I wasbidden _herein!_

I entered. The room was in shadow; but a deep glowing fire burned in agreat cavernous, stone fire-place, and shone upon huge brass andirons oneither side of the hearth. In an easy-chair sat Brunken, the oldlibrarian, and his white hair and beard were also warmed into rosinessby the fire-glow. At his feet lay Sigmund, who had apparently beenlistening to some story of his old friend. His hands were clasped aboutthe old man's knee, his face upturned, his hair pushed back. 

Both turned as I came in, and Sigmund sprung up, but ere he had advancedtwo paces, paused and stood still, as if overcome with languor orweariness. 

"Sigmund, I have come to see you, " said I, coming to the fire andgreeting the old man, who welcomed me hospitably. 

I took Sigmund's hand; it was hot and dry. I kissed him; lips and cheekswere burning and glowing crimson. I swept the hair from his brow, thattoo was burning, and his temples throbbed. His eyes met mine with astrange, misty look. Saying nothing, I seated myself in a low chair nearthe fire, and drew him to me. He nestled up to me, and I felt that ifEugen could see us he would be almost satisfied. Sigmund did not sayanything. He merely settled his head upon my breast, gave a deep sigh asif of relief, and closing his eyes, said:

"Now, Brunken, go on!"

"As I was saying, _mein Liebling_, I hope to prove all former theoristsand writers upon the subject to have been wrong--"

"He's talking about a Magrepha, " said Sigmund, still not opening hiseyes. 

"A Magrepha--what may that be?" I inquired. 

"Yes. Some people say it was a real full-blown organ, " explainedSigmund, in a thick, hesitating voice, "and some say it was nothingbetter than a bag-pipe--oh, dear! how my head does ache--and there arepeople who say it was a kettle-drum--nothing more nor less; and Brunkenis going to show that not one of them knew anything about it. "

"I hope so, at least, " said Brunken, with a modest placidity. 

"Oh, indeed!" said I, glancing a little timidly into the far recesses ofthe deep, ghostly room, where the fire-light kept catching the sheen ofmetal, the yellow whiteness of ivory keys or pipes, or the polished caseof some stringed instrument. 

Strange, grotesque shapes loomed out in the uncertain, flickering light;but was it not a strange and haunted chamber? Ever it seemed to me as ifbreaths of air blew through it, which came from all imaginable kinds ofgraves, and were the breaths of those departed ones who had handled thestrange collection, and who wished to finger, or blow into, or beat thedumb, unvibrating things once more. 

Did I say unvibrating? I was wrong then. The strings sometimesquivered to sounds that set them trembling; something like a whisperedtone I have heard from the deep, upturned throats of great brazentrumpets--something like a distant moan floating around the gildedorgan-pipes. In after-days, when Friedhelm Helfen knew this room, hemade a wonderful fantasia about it, in which all the dumb instrumentswoke up, or tried to wake up to life again, for the whole placeimpressed him, he told me, as nothing that he had ever known before. 

Brunken went on in a droning tone, giving theories of his own as to thenature of the Magrepha, and I, with my arms around Sigmund, halflistened to the sleepy monotone of the good old visionary. But whatspoke to me with a more potent voice was the soughing and wuthering ofthe sorrowful wind without, which verily moaned around the old walls, and sought out the old corners, and wailed, and plained, and sobbed in away that was enough to break one's heart. 

By degrees a silence settled upon us. Brunken, having satisfactorilyannihilated his enemies, ceased to speak; the fire burned lower;Sigmund's eyes were closed; his cheeks were not less flushed thanbefore, nor his brow less hot, and a frown contracted it. I know nothow long a time had passed, but I had no wish to rise. 

The door was opened, and some one came into the room. I looked up. Itwas the Gräfin. Brunken rose and stood to one side, bowing. 

I could not get up, but some movement of mine, perhaps, disturbed theheavy and feverish slumber of the child. He started wide awake, with alook of wild terror, and gazed down into the darkness, crying out:

"_Mein Vater_, where art thou?"

A strange, startled, frightened look crossed the face of the countesswhen she heard the words. She did not speak, and I said some soothingwords to Sigmund. 

But there could be no doubt that he was very ill. It was quite unlikehis usual silent courage and reticence to wring his small hands and withever-increasing terror turn a deaf ear to my soothings, sobbing out intones of pain and insistence:

"Father! father! where art thou? I want thee!"

Then he began to cry pitifully, and the only word that was heard was"Father!" It was like some recurrent wail in a piece of music, whichwarns one all through of a coming tragedy. 

"Oh, dear! What is to be done? Sigmund! _Was ist denn mit dir, meinEngel?_" said the poor countess, greatly distressed. 

"He is ill, " said I. "I think he has taken an illness. Does thy headache, Sigmund?"

"Yes, " said he, "it does. Where is my own father? My head never achedwhen I was with my father. "

"_Mein Gott! mein Gott!_" said the countess in a low tone. "I thought hehad forgotten his father. "

"Forgotten!" echoed I. "Frau Gräfin, he is one of yourselves. You do notseem to forget. "

"_Herrgott!_" she exclaimed, wringing her hands. "What can be the matterwith him? What must I say to Bruno? Sigmund darling, what hast thouthen! What ails thee?"

"I want my father!" he repeated. Nor would he utter any other word. Theone idea, long dormant, had now taken full possession of him; in fever, half delirious, out of the fullness of his heart his mouth spake. 

"Sigmund, _Liebchen_, " said the countess, "control thyself. Thy unclemust not hear thee say that word. "

"I don't want my uncle. I want my father!" said Sigmund, lookingrestlessly round. "Oh, where is he? I have not seen him--it is so long, and I want him. I love him; I do love my father, and I want him. "

It was pitiful, pathetic, somewhat tragic too. The poor countess had notthe faintest idea what to do with the boy, whose illness frightened her. I suggested that he should be put to bed and the doctor sent for, as hehad probably taken some complaint which would declare itself in a fewdays, and might be merely some childish disorder. 

The countess seized my suggestion eagerly. Sigmund was taken away. I sawhim no more that night. Presently we left the schloss and drove home. 

I found a letter waiting for me from Eugen. He was still at Elberthal, and appeared to have been reproaching himself for having accepted my"sacrifice, " as he called it. He spoke of Sigmund. There was more, too, in the letter, which made me both glad and sad. I felt life spreadingbefore me, endowed with a gravity, a largeness of aim, and a dignity ofpurpose such as I had never dreamed of before. 

It seemed that for me, too, there was work to do. I also had a love forwhose sake to endure. This made me feel grave. Eugen's low spirits, andthe increased bitterness with which he spoke of things, made me sad; butsomething else made me glad. Throughout his whole letter there breatheda passion, a warmth--restrained, but glowing through its bond ofreticent words--an eagerness which he told me that at last

 "As I loved, loved am I. "

Even after that sail down the river I had felt a half mistrust, now alldoubts were removed. He loved me. He had learned it in all its truth andbreadth since we last parted. He talked of renunciation, but it was withan anguish so keen as to make me wince for him who felt it. If he triedto renounce me now, it would not be the cold laying aside of a thing forwhich he did not care, it would be the wrenching himself away from hisheart's desire. I triumphed in the knowledge, and this was what made meglad. 

Almost before we had finished breakfast in the morning, there came athundering of wheels up to the door, and a shriek of excitement fromFrau Mittendorf, who, _morgenhaube_ on her head, a shapeless oldmorning-gown clinging hideously about her ample figure, rushed to thewindow, looked out, and announced the carriage of the Frau Gräfin. "_Aber!_ What can she want at this early hour?" she speculated, cominginto the room again and staring at us both with wide open eyes roundwith agitation and importance. "But I dare say she wishes to consult meupon some matter. I wish I were dressed more becomingly. I haveheard--that is, I know, for I am so intimate with her--that she neverwears _négligé_. I wonder if I should have time to--"

She stopped to hold out her hand for the note which a servant wasbringing in; but her face fell when the missive was presented to me. 

 "LIEBE MAI"--it began--"Will you come and help me in my trouble? Sigmund is very ill. Sometimes he is delirious. He calls for you often. It breaks my heart to find that after all not a word is uttered of us, but only of Eugen (burn this when you have read it), of you, and of 'Karl, ' and 'Friedhelm, ' and one or two other names which I do not know. I fear this petition will sound troublesome to you, who were certainly not made for trouble, but you are kind. I saw it in your face. I grieve too much. Truly the flesh is fearfully weak. I would live as if earth had no joys for me--as indeed it has none--and yet that does not prevent my suffering. May God help me! Trusting to you, Your, "HILDEGARDE v. ROTHENFELS. "

I lost no time in complying with this summons. In a few moments I was inthe carriage; ere long I was at the schloss, was met by CountessHildegarde, looking like a ghost that had been keeping a strict Lent, and was at last by Sigmund's bedside. 

He was tossing feverishly from side to side, murmuring and muttering. But when he saw me he was still, a sweet, frank smile flitted over hisface--a smile wonderfully like that which his father had lately bentupon me. He gave a little laugh, saying:

"Fräulein May! _Willkommen!_ Have you brought my father? And I shouldlike to see Friedhelm, too. You and _der Vater_ and Friedel used to sitnear together at the concert, don't you remember? I went once, and yousung. That tall black man beat time, and my father never stopped lookingat you and listening--Friedel too. I will ask them if they remember. "

He laughed again at the reminiscence, and took my hand, and asked me ifI remembered, so that it was with difficulty that I steadied my voiceand kept my eyes from running over as I answered him. Gräfin Hildegardebehind wrung her hands and turned to the window. He did not advance anyreminiscence of what had happened since he came to the schloss. 

There was no doubt that our Sigmund was very ill. A visitation ofscarlet fever, of the worst kind, was raging in Lahnburg and in thehamlet of Rothenfels, which lay about the gates of the schloss. 

Sigmund, some ten days before, had ridden with his uncle, and waited onhis pony for some time outside a row of cottages, while the countvisited one of his old servants, a man who had become an octogenarian inthe service of his family, and upon whom Graf Bruno periodically shedthe light of his countenance. 

It was scarcely to be doubted that the boy had taken the infection thenand there, and the doctor did not conceal that he had the complaint inits worst form, and that his recovery admitted of the gravest doubts. 

A short time convinced me that I must not again leave the child till theillness was decided in one way or another. He was mine now, and I feltmyself in the place of Eugen, as I stood beside his bed and told him thehard truth--that his father was not here, nor Friedhelm, nor Karl, forwhom he also asked, but only I. 

The day passed on. A certain conviction was growing every hour strongerwith me. An incident at last decided it. I had scarcely left Sigmund'sside for eight or nine hours, but I had seen nothing of the count, norheard his voice, nor had any mention been made of him, and rememberinghow he adored the boy, I was surprised. 

At last Gräfin Hildegarde, after a brief absence, came into the room, and with a white face and parted lips, said to me in a half-whisper. 

"_Liebe_ Miss Wedderburn, will you do something for me? Will you speakto my husband?"

"To your husband!" I ejaculated. 

She bowed. 

"He longs to see Sigmund, but dare not come. For me, I have hardly daredto go near him since the little one began to be ill. He believes thatSigmund will die, and that he will be his murderer, having taken him outthat day. I have often spoken to him about making _der Arme_ ride toofar, and now the sight of me reminds him of it; he can not endure tolook at me. Heaven help me! Why was I ever born?"

She turned away without tears--tears were not in her line--and I went, much against my will, to find the Graf. 

He was in his study. Was that the same man, I wondered, whom I had seenthe very day before, so strong, and full of pride and life? He raised ahaggard, white, and ghastly face to me, which had aged and fallen inunspeakably. He made an effort, and rose with politeness as I came in. 

"_Mein Fräulein_, you are loading us with obligations. It is quiteunheard of. "

But no thanks were implied in the tone--only bitterness. He was angrythat I should be in the place he dared not come to. 

If I had not been raised by one supreme fear above all smaller ones, Ishould have been afraid of this haggard, eager-looking old man--for hedid look very old in his anguish. I could see the rage of jealousy withwhich he regarded me, and I am not naturally fond of encountering an oldwolf who has starved. 

But I used my utmost effort to prevail upon him to visit his nephew, andat last succeeded. I piloted him to Sigmund's room; led him to the boy'sbedside. The sick child's eyes were closed, but he presently openedthem. The uncle was stooping over him, his rugged face all working withemotion, and his voice broken as he murmured:

"_Ach, mein Liebling!_ art thou then so ill?"

With a kind of shuddering cry, the boy pushed him away with both hands, crying:

"Go away! I want my father--my father, my father, I say! Where is he?Why do you not fetch him? You are a bad man, and you hate him. "

Then I was frightened. The count recoiled; his face turned deathlywhite--livid; his fist clinched. He glared down upon the nowunrecognizing young face and stuttered forth something, paused, thensaid in a low, distinct voice, which shook me from head to foot:

"So! Better he should die. The brood is worthy the nest it sprung from. Where is our blood, that he whines after that hound--that hound?"

With which, and with a fell look around, he departed, leaving Sigmundoblivious of all that had passed, utterly indifferent and unconscious, and me shivering with fear at the outburst I had seen. 

But it seemed to me that my charge was worse. I left him for a fewmoments, and seeking out the countess, spoke my mind. 

"Frau Gräfin, Eugen must be sent for. I fear that Sigmund is going todie, and I dare not let him die without sending for his father. "

"I dare not!" said the countess. 

She had met her husband, and was flung, unnerved, upon a couch, her handover her heart. 

"But I dare, and I must do it!" said I, secretly wondering at myself. "Ishall telegraph for him. "

"If my husband knew!" she breathed. 

"I can not help it, " said I. "Is the poor child to die among people whoprofess to love him, with the one wish ungratified which he has beenrepeating ever since he began to be ill? I do not understand such love;I call it horrible inhumanity. "

"For Eugen to enter this house again!" she said in a whisper. 

"I would to God that there were any other head as noble under its roof!"was my magniloquent and thoroughly earnest inspiration. "Well, _gnädigeFrau_, will you arrange this matter, or shall I?"

"I dare not, " she moaned, half distracted; "I dare not--but I will donothing to prevent you. Use the whole household; they are at yourcommand. "

I lost not an instant in writing out a telegram and dispatching it by aman on horseback to Lahnburg. I summoned Eugen briefly:

"Sigmund is ill. I am here. Come to us. "

I saw the man depart, and then I went and told the countess what I haddone. She turned, if possible, a shade paler, then said:

"I am not responsible for it. "

Then I left the poor pale lady to still her beating heart and kill herdeadly apprehensions in the embroidery of the lily of the field and themodest violet. 

No change in the child's condition. A lethargy had fallen upon him. Thatawful stupor, with the dark, flushed cheek and heavy breath, was to memore ominous than the restlessness of fever. 

I sat down and calculated. My telegram might be in Eugen's hand in thecourse of an hour. 

When could he be here? Was it possible that he might arrive this night?I obtained the German equivalent for Bradshaw, and studied it till Ithought I had made out that, supposing Eugen to receive the telegram inthe shortest possible time, he might be here by half past eleven thatnight. It was now five in the afternoon. Six hours and a half--and atthe end of that time his non-arrival might tell me he could not be herebefore the morrow. 

I sat still, and now that the deed was done, gave myself up, with myusual enlightenment and discretion, to fears and apprehensions. Theterrible look and tone of Graf von Rothenfels returned to my mind infull force. Clearly it was just the most dangerous thing in the worldfor Eugen to do--to put in an appearance at the present time. Butanother glance at Sigmund somewhat reassured me. In wondering whethergirl had ever before been placed in such a bizarre situation as mine, darkness overtook me. 

Sigmund moved restlessly and moaned, stretching out little hot hands, and saying "Father!" I caught those hands to my lips, and knew that Ihad done right. 

CHAPTER XL. 

VINDICATED. 

It was a wild night. Driving clouds kept hiding and revealing thestormy-looking moon. I was out-of-doors. I could not remain in thehouse; it had felt too small for me, but now nature felt too large. Idimly saw the huge pile of the schloss defined against the gray light;sometimes when the moon unveiled herself it started out clear, andblack, and grim. I saw a light in a corner window--that was Sigmund'sroom; and another in a room below--that was the Graf's study, and therethe terrible man sat. I heard the wind moan among the trees, heard thegreat dogs baying from the kennels; from an open window came rich, low, mellow sounds. Old Brunken was in the music-room, playing to himselfupon the violoncello. That was a movement from the "Grand Septuor"--thesecond movement, which is, if one may use such an expression, painfullybeautiful. I bethought myself of the woods which lay hidden from me, thevast avenues, the lonely tanks, the grotesques statues, and thatterrible figure with its arms cast upward, at the end of the long walk, and I shivered faintly. 

I was some short distance down the principal avenue, and dared not goany further. A sudden dread of the loneliness and the night-voices cameupon me; my heart beating thickly, I turned to go back to the house. Iwould try to comfort poor Countess Hildegarde in her watching and herfears. 

But there is a step near me. Some one comes up the avenue, with footthat knows its windings, its turns and twists, its ups and downs. 

"Eugen!" I said, tremulously. 

A sudden pause--a stop; then he said with a kind of laugh:

"Witchcraft--Zauberei!" and was going on. 

But now I knew his whereabouts, and coming up to him, touched his arm. 

"This, however, is reality!" he exclaimed, infolding me and kissing meas he hurried on. "May, how is he?"

"Just the same, " said I, clinging to him. "Oh, thank Heaven that you arecome!"

"I drove to the gates, and sent the fellow away. But what art thou doingalone at the Ghost's Corner on a stormy night?"

We were still walking fast toward the schloss. My heart was beatingfast, half with fear of what was impending, half with intensity of joyat hearing his voice again, and knowing what that last letter had toldme. 

As we emerged upon the great terrace before the house Eugen made one(the only one) momentary pause, pressed my arm, and bit his lips. I knewthe meaning of it all. Then we passed quickly on. We met no one in thegreat stone hall--no one on the stairway or along the passages--straighthe held his way, and I with him. 

We entered the room. Eugen's eyes leaped swiftly to his child's face. Isaw him pass his hand over his mouth. I withdrew my hand from his armand stood aside, feeling a tremulous thankfulness that he was here, andthat that restless plaining would at last be hushed in satisfaction. 

A delusion! The face over which my lover bent did not brighten; nor theeyes recognize him. The child did not know the father for whom he hadyearned out his little heart--he did not hear the half-frantic wordsspoken by that father as he flung himself upon him, kissing him, beseeching him, conjuring him with every foolish word of fondness thathe could think of, to speak, answer, look up once again. 

Then fear, terror overcame the man--for the first time I saw him lookpale with apprehension. 

"Not this cup--not this!" muttered he. "_Gott im Himmel!_ anything shortof this--I will give him up--leave him--anything--only let him live!"

He had flung himself, unnerved, trembling, upon a chair by thebedside--his face buried in his hands. I saw the sweat stand upon hisbrow--I could do nothing to help--nothing but wish despairingly thatsome blessed miracle would reverse the condition of the child andme--lay me low in death upon that bed--place him safe and sound in hisfather's arms. 

Is it not hard, you father of many children, to lose one of them? Do younot grudge Death his prize? But this man had but the one; the lovebetween them was such a love as one meets perhaps once in a life-time. The child's life had been a mourning to him, the father's a burden, eversince they had parted. 

I felt it strange that I should be trying to comfort him, and yet it wasso; it was his brow that leaned on my shoulder; it was he who was faintwith anguish, so that he could scarce see or speak--his hand that wascold and nerveless. It was I who said:

"Do not despair, I hope still. "

"If he is dying, " said Eugen, "he shall die in my arms. "

With which, as if the idea were a dreary kind of comfort, he startedup, folded Sigmund in a shawl, and lifted him out of bed, infolding himin his arms, and pillowing his head upon his breast. 

It was a terrible moment, yet, as I clung to his arm, and with himlooked into our darling's face, I felt that von Francius' words, spokenlong ago to my sister, contained a deep truth. This joy, so like asorrow--would I have parted with it? A thousand times, no!

Whether the motion and movement roused him, or whether that were thecrisis of some change, I knew not. Sigmund's eyes opened. He bent themupon the face above him, and after a pause of reflection, said, in avoice whose utter satisfaction passed anything I had ever heard: "My ownfather!" released a pair of little wasted arms from his covering, andclasped them round Eugen's neck, putting his face close to his, andkissing him as if no number of kisses could ever satisfy him. 

Upon this scene, as Eugen stood in the middle of the room, his head bentdown, a smile upon his face which no ultimate griefs could for themoment quench, there entered the countess. 

Her greeting after six years of absence, separation, belief in hisdishonesty, was a strange one. She came quickly forward, laid her handon his arm, and said:

"Eugen, it is dreadfully infectious! Don't kiss the child in that way, or you will take the fever and be laid up too. "

He looked up, and at his look a shock passed across her face; withpallid cheeks and parted lips she gazed at him speechless. 

His mind, too, seemed to bridge the gulf--it was in a strange tone thathe answered:

"Ah, Hildegarde! What does it matter what becomes of me? Leave me this!"

"No, not that, Eugen, " said I, going up to him, and I suppose somethingin my eyes moved him, for he gave the child into my arms in silence. 

The countess had stood looking at him. She strove for silence; soughttremulously after coldness, but in vain. 

"Eugen--" She came nearer, and looked more closely at him. "_Herrgott!_how you are altered! What a meeting! I--can it be six years ago--andnow--oh!" Her voice broke into a very wail. "We loved you--why did youdeceive us?"

My heart stood still. Would he stand this test? It was the hardest hehad had. Gräfin Hildegarde had been--was dear to him. That he was dearto her, intensely dear, that love for him was intwined about her veryheart-strings, stood confessed now. "Why did you deceive us?" It soundedmore like, "Tell us we may trust you; make us happy again!" One wordfrom him, and the poor sad lady would have banished from her heart thelong-staying, unwelcome guest--belief in his falseness, and closed itaway from her forever. 

He was spared the dreadful necessity of answering her. A timid summonsfrom her maid at the door told her the count wanted to speak to her, andshe left us quickly. 

 * * * * *

Sigmund did not die; he recovered, and lives now. But with that I am notat present concerned. 

It was the afternoon following that never-to-be-forgotten night. I hadleft Eugen watching beside Sigmund, who was sleeping, his hand jealouslyholding two of his father's fingers. 

I intended to call at Frau Mittendorf's door to say that I could not yetreturn there, and when I came back, said Eugen, he would have somethingto tell me; he was going to speak with his brother--to tell him that weshould be married, "and to speak about Sigmund, " he added, decisively. "I will not risk such a thing as this again. If you had not been here hemight have died without my knowing it. I feel myself absolved from allobligation to let him remain. My child's happiness shall not be furthersacrificed. "

With this understanding I left him. I went toward the countess's room, to speak to her, and tell her of Sigmund before I went out. I heardvoices ere I entered the room, and when I entered it I stood still, anda sickly apprehension clutched my very heart. There stood my evilgenius--the _böser Geist_ of my lover's fate--Anna Sartorius. And thecount and countess were present, apparently waiting for her to begin tospeak. 

"You are here, " said the Gräfin to me. "I was just about to send foryou. This lady says she knows you. "

"She does, " said I, hesitatingly. 

Anna looked at me. There was gravity in her face, and the usual cynicalsmile in her eyes. 

"You are surprised to see me, " said she. "You will be still moresurprised to hear that I have journeyed all the way from Elberthal toLahnburg on your account, and for your benefit. "

I did not believe her, and composing myself as well as I could, satdown. After all, what could she do to harm me? She could not rob me ofEugen's heart, and she had already done her worst against him and hisfair name. 

Anna had a strong will, she exerted it. Graf Bruno was looking in somesurprise at the unexpected guest; the countess sat rigidly upright, witha puzzled look, as if at the sight of Anna she recalled some far-pastscene. Anna compelled their attention; she turned to me, saying:

"Please remain here, Miss Wedderburn. What I have to say concerns you asmuch as any one here. You wonder who I am, and what business I have tointrude myself upon you, " she added to the others. 

"I confess--" began the countess, and Anna went on:

"You, _gnädige Frau_, have spoken to me before, and I to you. I see youremember, or feel you ought to remember me. I will recall the occasionof our meeting to your mind. You once called at my father's house--hewas a music teacher--to ask about lessons for some friend or protégée ofyours. My father was engaged at the moment, and I invited you into mysitting-room and endeavored to begin a conversation with you. You werevery distant and very proud, scarcely deigning to answer me. When myfather came into the room, I left it. But I could not help laughing atyour treatment of me. You little knew from your shut-up, _cossue_existence among the lofty ones of the earth, what influence even suchinsignificant persons as I might have upon your lot. At the time I wasthe intimate friend of, and in close correspondence with, a person whoafterward became one of your family. Her name was Vittoria Leopardi, andshe married your brother-in-law, Graf Eugen. "

The plain-spoken, plain-looking woman had her way. She had the samepower as that which shone in the "glittering eye" of the AncientMariner. Whether we liked or not we gave her our attention. All werelistening now, and we listened to the end. 

"Vittoria Leopardi was the Italian governess at General von ----'s. Atone time she had several music lessons from my father. That was how Ibecame acquainted with her. She was very beautiful--almost as beautifulas you, Miss Wedderburn, and I, dull and plain myself, have a keenappreciation of beauty and of the gentleness which does not alwaysaccompany it. When I first knew her she was lonely and strange, and Itried to befriend her. I soon began to learn what a singular mixture ofsordid worldliness and vacant weak-mindedness dwelt behind her fairface. She wrote to me often, for she was one of the persons who musthave some one to whom to relate their 'triumphs' and conquests, and Isuppose I was the only person she could get to listen to her. 

"At that time--the time you called at our house, _gnädige Frau_--herepistles were decidedly tedious. What sense she had--there was never toomuch of it--was completely eclipsed. At last came the announcement thather noble and gallant Uhlan had proposed, and been accepted--naturally. She told me what he was, and his possessions and prospects; his chiefmerit in her eyes appeared to be that he would let her do anything sheliked, and release her from the drudgery of teaching, for which shenever had the least affinity. She hated children. She never on anyoccasion hinted that she loved him very much. 

"In due time the marriage, as you all know, came off. She almost droppedme then, but never completely so; I suppose she had that instinct whichstupid people often have as to the sort of people who may be of use tothem some time. I received no invitations to her house. She usedawkwardly to apologize for the negligence sometimes, and say she was sobusy, and it would be no compliment to me to ask me to meet all thosestupid people of whom the house was always full. 

"That did not trouble me much, though I loved her none the better forit. She had become more a study to me now than anything I really caredfor. Occasionally I used to go and see her, in the morning, before shehad left her room; and once, and once only, I met her husband in thecorridor. He was hastening away to his duty, and scarcely saw me as hehurried past. Of course I knew him by sight as well as possible. Who didnot? Occasionally she came to me to recount her triumphs and make mejealous. She did not wish to reign supreme in her husband's heart; shewished idle men to pay her compliments. Everybody in ---- knew of theextravagance of that household, and the reckless, neck-or-nothing habitsof its master. People were indignant with him that he did not reform. Isay it would have been easier for him to find his way alone up theMatterhorn in the dark than to reform--after his marriage. 

"There had been hope for him before--there was none afterward. A prettyinducement to reform, she offered him! I knew that woman through andthrough, and I tell you that there never lived a more selfish, feeble, vain, and miserable thing. All was self--self--self. When she was matedto a man who never did think of self--whose one joy was to be giving, whose generosity was no less a by-word than his recklessness, who wasdelighted if she expressed a wish, and would move heaven and earth togratify it; the more eagerly the more unreasonable it was--_mes amis_, Ithink it is easy to guess the end--the end was ruin. I watched it comingon, and I thought of you, Frau Gräfin. Vittoria was expecting herconfinement in the course of a few months. I never heard her express ahope as to the coming child, never a word of joy, never a thought as tothe wider cares which a short time would bring to her. She did sayoften, with a sigh, that women with young children were so tied; theycould not do this, and they could not do that. She was in greatexcitement when she was invited to come here; in great triumph when shereturned. 

"Eugen, she said, was a fool not to conciliate his brother and thatdoting old saint (her words, _gnädige Frau_, not mine) more than he did. It was evident that they would do anything for him if he only flatteredthem, but he was so insanely downright--she called it stupid, she said. The idea of missing such advantages when a few words of commonpoliteness would have secured them. I may add that what she called'common politeness' was just the same thing that I called smoothhypocrisy. 

"Very shortly after this her child was born. I did not see her then. Herhusband lost all his money on a race, and came to smash, as you Englishsay. She wrote to me. She was in absolute need of money, she said; Eugenhad not been able to give her any. He had said they must retrench. Retrench! was that what she married him for! There was a set ofturquoises that she must have, or another woman would get them, and thenshe would die. And her milliner, a most unreasonable woman, had sentword that she must be paid. 

"So she was grumbling in a letter which I received one afternoon, andthe next I was frightfully startled to see herself. She came in and saidsmilingly that she was going to ask a favor of me. Would I take her cabon to the bank and get a check cashed for her? She did not want to gothere herself. And then she explained how her brother-in-law had givenher a check for a thousand thalers--was it not kind of him? It reallydid not enter my head at the moment to think there was anything wrongabout the check. She had indorsed it, and I took it, received the moneyfor it, and brought it to her. She trembled so as she took it, and wasso remarkably quiet about it, that it suddenly flashed upon my mind thatthere must be something not as it ought to be about it. 

"I asked her a question or two, and she said, deliberately contradictingherself, that the Herr Graf had not given it to her, but to her husband, and then she went away, and I was sure I should hear more about it. Idid. She wrote to me in the course of a few days, saying she wished shewere dead, since Eugen, by his wickedness, had destroyed every chance ofhappiness; she might as well be a widow. She sent me a package ofletters--my letters--and asked me to keep them, together with some otherthings, an old desk among the rest. She had no means of destroying themall, and she did not choose to carry them to Rothenfels, whither she wasgoing to be buried alive with those awful people. 

"I accepted the charge. For five--no, six years, the desk, the papers, everything lay with some other possessions of mine which I could notcarry about with me on the wandering life I led after my father'sdeath--stored in an old trunk in the lumber-room of a cousin's house. Ivisited that house last week. 

"Certain circumstances which have occurred of late years induced me tolook over those papers. I burned the old bundle of letters from myselfto her, and then I looked through the desk. In a pigeon-hole I foundthese. "

She handed some pieces of paper to Graf Bruno, who looked at them. I, too, have seen them since. They bore the imitations of differentsignatures; her husband's, Graf Bruno's, that of Anna Sartorius, andothers which I did not know. 

The same conviction as that which had struck Anna flashed into the eyesof Graf von Rothenfels. 

"I found those, " repeated Anna, "and I knew in a second who was theculprit. He, your brother, is no criminal. She forged the signature ofthe Herr Graf--"

"Who forged the signature of the Herr Graf?" asked a voice which causedme to start up, which brought all our eyes from Anna's face, upon whichthey had been fastened, and showed us Eugen standing in the door-way, with compressed lips and eyes that looked from one to the other of usanxiously. 

"Your wife, " said Anna, calmly. And before any one could speak she wenton: "I have helped to circulate the lie about you, Herr Graf"--she spoketo Eugen--"for I disliked you; I disliked your family, and I disliked, or rather wished to punish, Miss Wedderburn for her behavior to me. ButI firmly believed the story I circulated. The moment I knew the truth Idetermined to set you right. Perhaps I was pleased to be able tocircumvent your plans. I considered that if I told the truth toFriedhelm Helfen he would be as silent as yourself, because you chose tobe silent. The same with May Wedderburn, therefore I decided to come tohead-quarters at once. It is useless for you to try to appear guilty anylonger, " she added, mockingly. "You can tell them all the rest, and Iwill wish you good-afternoon. "

She was gone. From that day to this I have never seen her nor heard ofher again. Probably with her power over us her interest in us ceased. 

Meanwhile I had released myself from the spell which held me, and goneto the countess. Something very like fear held me from approachingEugen. 

Count Bruno had gone to his brother, and touched his shoulder. Eugenlooked up. Their eyes met. It just flashed into my mind that after sixyears of separation the first words were--must be--words ofreconciliation, of forgiveness asked on the one side, eagerly extendedon the other. 

"Eugen!" in a trembling voice, and then, with a positive sob, "canstthou forgive?"

"My brother--I have not resented. I could not. Honor in thee, as honorin me--"

"But that thou wert doubted, hated, mistak--"

But another had asserted herself. The countess had come to herselfagain, and going up to him, looked him full in the face and kissed him. 

"Now I can die happy! What folly, Eugen! and folly like none but thine. I might have known--"

A faint smile crossed his lips. For all the triumphant vindication, helooked very pallid. 

"I have often wondered, Hildegarde, how so proud a woman as you could sosoon accept the worthlessness of a pupil on whom she had spent suchpains as you upon me. I learned my best notions of honor and chivalryfrom you. You might have credited me rather with trying to carry thelesson out than with plucking it away and casting it from me at thefirst opportunity. "

"You have much to forgive, " said she. 

"Eugen, you came to see me on business, " said his brother. 

Eugen turned to me. I turned hot and then cold. This was a terribleordeal indeed. He seemed metamorphosed into an exceedingly grandpersonage as he came to me, took my hand, and said, very proudly andvery gravely:

"The first part of my business related to Sigmund. It will not need tobe discussed now. The rest was to tell you that this young lady--inspite of having heard all that could be said against me--was still notafraid to assert her intention to honor me by becoming my wife andsharing my fate. Now that she has learned the truth--May, do you stillcare for me enough to marry me?"

"If so, " interrupted his brother before I could speak, "let me add mypetition and that of my wife--do you allow me, Hildegarde?"

"Indeed, yes, yes!"

"That she will honor us and make us happy by entering our family, whichcan only gain by the acquisition of such beauty and excellence. "

The idea of being entreated by Graf Bruno to marry his brother almostoverpowered me. I looked at Eugen and stammered out somethinginaudible, confused, too, by the look he gave me. 

He was changed; he was more formidable now than before, and he led mesilently up to his brother without a word, upon which Count Brunocrowned my confusion by uttering some more very Grandisonian words andgravely saluting my cheek. That was certainly a terrible moment, butfrom that day to this I have loved better and better my haughtybrother-in-law. 

Half in consideration for me, I believe, the countess began:

"But I want to know, Eugen, about this. I don't quite understand yet howyou managed to shift the blame upon yourself. "

"Perhaps he does not want to tell, " said I, hastily. 

"Yes; since the truth is known, I may tell the rest, " said he. "It was avery simple matter. After all was lost, my only ray of comfort was thatI could pay my debts by selling everything, and throwing up mycommission. But when I thought of my wife I felt a devil. I suppose thatis the feeling which the devils do experience in place of love--at leastHeine says so:

 "'Die Teufel nennen es Höllenqual, Die Menschen nennen es Liebe. '

"I kept it from her as long as I could. It was a week after Sigmund wasborn that at last one day I had to tell her. I actually looked to herfor advice, help. It was tolerably presumptuous in me, I must say, afterwhat I had brought her to. She brought me to reason. May Heaven preservemen from needing such lessons! She reproached me--ay, she did reproachme. I thank my good genius, or whatever it is that looks after us, thatI could set my teeth and not answer her a syllable. "

"The minx!" said the countess aside to me. "I would have shaken her!"

"'What was she to do without a groschen?' she concluded, and I couldonly say that I had had thoughts of dropping my military career andtaking to music in good earnest. I had never been able to neglect it, even in any worst time, for it was a passion with me. She said:

"'A composer--a beggar!' That was hard. 

"I asked her, 'Will you not help me?'

"'Never, to degrade yourself in that manner, ' she assured me. 

"Considering that I had deserved my punishment, I left her. I sat upall night, I remember, thinking over what I had brought her to, andwondering what I could do for her. I wondered if you, Bruno, would helpher and let me go away and work out my punishment, for, believe me, Inever thought of shirking it. I had been most effectually brought toreason, and your example, and yours, Hildegarde, had taught me adifferent kind of moral fiber to that. 

"I brought your note about the check to Vittoria, and asked her if sheknew anything about it. She looked at me, and in that instant I knew thetruth. She did not once attempt to deny it. I do not know what, in myhorrible despair and shame, I may have said or done. 

"I was brought to my senses by seeing her cowering before me, with herhands before her face, and begging me not to kill her. I felt what abrute I must have been, but that kind of brutality has been knocked outof me long ago. I raised her, and asked her to forgive me, and bade herkeep silence and see no one, and I would see that she did not suffer forit. 

"Everything seemed to stand clearly before me. If I had kept straight, the poor ignorant thing would never have been tempted to such a thing. Isettled my whole course in half an hour, and have never departed from itsince. 

"I wrote that letter to you, and went and read it to my wife. I toldher that I could never forgive myself for having caused her suchunhappiness, and that I was going to release her from me. I only droppeda vague hint about the boy at first; I was stooping over his crib to saygood-bye to him. She said, 'What am I to do with him?' I caught at theidea, and she easily let me take him. I asked Hugo von Meilingen tosettle affairs for me, and left that night. Thanks to you, Bruno, thestory never got abroad. The rest you know. "

"What did you tell Hugo von Meilingen?"

"Only that I had made a mess of everything and broken my wife's heart, which he did not seem to believe. He was stanch. He settled upeverything. Some day I will thank him for it. For two years I traveledabout a good deal. Sigmund has been more a citizen of the world than heknows. I had so much facility of execution--"

"So much genius, you mean, " I interposed. 

"That I never had any difficulty in getting an engagement. I saw awonderful amount of life of a certain kind, and learned most thoroughlyto despise my own past, and to entertain a thorough contempt for thosewho are still leading such lives. I have learned German history in mybanishment. I have lived with our trues heroes--the lowermiddle-classes. "

"Well, well! You were always a radical, Eugen, " said the count, indulgently. 

"At last, at Köln I obtained the situation of first violinist in theElberthal Kapelle, and I went over there one wet October afternoon andsaw the director, von Francius. He was busy, and referred me to the manwho was next below me, Friedhelm Helfen. "

Eugen paused, and choked down some little emotion ere he added:

"You must know him. I trust to have his friendship till death separatesus. He is a nobleman of nature's most careful making--a knight _sanspeur et sans reproche_. When Sigmund came here it was he who saved mefrom doing something desperate or driveling--there is not much of a stepbetween the two. Fräulein Sartorius, who seems to have a peculiardisposition, took it into her head to confront me with a charge of myguilt at a public place. Friedhelm never wavered, despite my shame andmy inability to deny the charge. "

"Oh, dear, how beautiful!" said the countess, in tears. 

"We must have him over here and see a great deal of him. "

"We must certainly know him, and that soon, " said Count Bruno. 

At this juncture I, from mingled motives, stole from the room, and foundmy way to Sigmund's bedside, where also joy awaited me. The stupor andthe restlessness had alike vanished; he was in a deep sleep. I kneltdown by the bedside and remained there long. 

Nothing, then, was to be as I had planned it. There would be no poverty, no shame to contend against--no struggle to make, except the struggle upto the standard--so fearfully severe and unapproachable, set up by myown husband. Set up and acted upon by him. How could I ever attain it oranything near it? Should I not be constantly shocking him by coarse, gross notions as to the needlessness of this or that fine point ofconduct? by my ill-defined ideas as to a code of honor--my slovenly waysof looking at questions?

It was such a fearful height, this to which he had carried his notionsand behavior in the matter of chivalry and loyalty. How was I ever tohelp him to carry it out, and moreover, to bring up this child beforeme, and perhaps children of my own in the same rules?

It was no doubt a much more brilliant destiny which actually awaited methan any which I had anticipated--the wife of a nobleman, with thetraditions of a long line of noblemen and noblewomen to support, and ahusband with the most impossible ideas upon the subject. 

I felt afraid. I thought of that poor, vain, selfish first wife, and Iwondered if ever the time might come when I might fall in his eyes asshe had fallen, for scrupulous though he was to cast no reproach uponher, I felt keenly that he despised her, that had she lived, after thatdreadful discovery he would never have loved her again. It was awful tothink of. True, I should never commit forgery; but I might, withoutknowing it, fail in some other way, and then--woe to me!

Thus dismally cogitating I was roused by a touch on my shoulder and akiss on the top of my head. Eugen was leaning over me, laughing. 

"You have been saying your prayers so long that I was sure you must beasking too much. "

I confided some of my doubts and fears to him, for with his actualpresence that dreadful height of morality seemed to dwindle down. He washuman too--quick, impulsive, a very mortal. And he said:

"I would ask thee one thing, May. Thou dost not seem to see what makesall the difference. I loved Vittoria: I longed to make some sacrificefor her, would she but have let me. But she could not; poor girl! Shedid not love me. "

"Well?"

"Well! _Mein Engel_--you do, " said he, laughing. 

"Oh, I see!" said I, feeling myself blushing violently. Yes, it wastrue. Our union should be different from that former one. After all itwas pleasant to find that the high tragedy which we had so wiselyplanned for ourselves had made a _faux pas_ and come ignominiously toground. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

 "And surely, when all this is past They shall not want their rest at last. "

On the 23d of December--I will not say how few or how many years afterthose doings and that violent agitation which my friend Gräfin May hasstriven to make coherent in the last chapter--I, with my great-coat onmy arm, stood waiting for the train which was to bear me ten miles awayfrom the sleepy old musical ducal Hauptstadt, in which I am HerzoglicherKapellmeister, to Rothenfels, where I was bidden to spend Christmas. Ihad not long to wait. Having ascertained that my bag was safe, in whichreposed divers humble proofs of my affection for the friends of thepast, I looked leisurely out as the train came in for a second-classcarriage, and very soon found what I wanted. I shook hands with anacquaintance, and leaned out of the window, talking to him till thetrain started. Then for the first time I began to look at myfellow-traveler; a lady, and most distinctly not one of my owncountrywomen, who, whatever else they may excel in, emphatically do notknow how to clothe themselves for traveling. Her veil was down, but herface was turned toward me, and I thought I knew something of the grandsweep of the splendid shoulders and majestic bearing of the statelyform. She soon raised her veil, and looking at me, said, with a gravebow:

"Herr Helfen, how do you do?"

"Ah, pardon me, _gnädige Frau_; for the moment I did not recognize you. I hope you are well. "

"Quite well, thank you, " said she, with grave courtesy; but I saw thather beautiful face was thin and worn, her pallor greater than ever. 

She had never been a person much given to mirthfulness; but now shelooked as if all smiles had passed forever from her lips--a certainsecret sat upon them, and closed them in an outline, sweet, but utterlyimpenetrable. 

"You are going to Rothenfels, I presume?" she said. 

"Yes. And you also?"

"I also--somewhat against my will; but I did not want to hurt mysister's feelings. It is the first time I have left home since myhusband's death. "

I bowed. Her face did not alter. Calm, sad, and staid--whatever stormshad once shaken that proud heart, they were lulled forever now. 

Two years ago Adelaide von Francius had buried keen grief and sharpanguish, together with vivid hope or great joy, with her noble husband, whom we had mourned bitterly then, whom we yet mourn in our hearts, andwhom we shall continue to mourn as long as we live. 

May's passionate conviction that he and she should meet again had beenfulfilled. They had met, and each had found the other unchanged; andAdelaide had begun to yield to the conviction that her sister's love waslove, pure and simple, and not pity. Since his death she had continuedto live in the town in which their married life had been passed--a lifewhich for her was just beginning to be happy--that is to say, she wasjust learning to allow herself to be happy, in the firm assurance of hisunalterable love and devotion, when the summons came; a sharp attack, ashort illness, all over--eyes closed, lips, too--silent before her forevermore. 

It has often been my fate to hear criticisms both on von Francius andhis wife, and upon their conduct. This I know, that she never forgaveherself the step she had taken in her despair. Her pride never recoveredfrom the burden laid upon it--that she had taken the initiative, hadfollowed the man who had said farewell to her. Bad her lot was to be, sad, and joyless, whether in its gilded cage, or linked with the manwhom she loved, but to be with whom she had had to pay so terrible aprice. I have never heard her complain of life and the world; yet shecan find neither very sweet, for she is an extremely proud woman, whohas made two terrible failures in her affairs. 

Von Francius, before he died, had made a mark not to be erased in thehearts of his musical compatriots. Had he lived--but that is vain!Still, one feels--one can now but feel--that, as his widow said to me, with matter-of-fact composure:

"He was much more hardly to be spared than such a person as I, HerrHelfen. If I might have died and left him to enrich and gladden theworld, I should have felt that I had not made such a mess of everythingafter all. "

Yet she never referred to him as "my poor husband, " or by any of thosesoftening terms by which some people approach the name of a dead dearone; all the same we knew quite well that with him life had died forher. 

Since his death, she and I had been in frequent communication; she wasediting a new edition of his works, for which, after his death, therehad been an instant call. It had lately been completed; and the music ofour former friend shall, if I mistake not, become, in the best andhighest sense of the word, popular music--the people's music. I had beenher eager and, she was pleased to say, able assistant in the work. 

We journeyed on together through the winter country, and I glanced ather now and then--at the still, pale face which rose above herEnglish-fashioned sealskin, and wondered how it was that some faces, though never so young and beautiful, have written upon them inunmistakable characters, "The End, " as one saw upon her face. Still, wetalked about all kinds of matters--musical, private, and public. I askedif she went out at all. 

"Only to concerts with the von ----s, who have been friends of mine eversince I went to ----, " she replied; and then the train rolled into thestation of Lahnburg. 

There was a group of faces I knew waiting to meet us. 

"Ah! there is my sister Stella, " said Adelaide, in a low voice. "How sheis altered! And that is May's husband, I suppose. I remember his facenow that I see it. "

We had been caught sight of. Four people came crowding round us. Eugen--my eyes fell upon him first--we grasped hands silently. His wife, looking lovelier than ever in her winter furs and feathers. A tall boyin a sealskin cap--my Sigmund--who had been hanging on his father's arm, and whose eyes welcomed me more volubly than his tongue, which was nevergiven to excessive wagging. 

May and Frau von Francius went home in a carriage which Sigmund, underthe direction of an awful-looking Kutscher, drove. 

Stella, Eugen, and I walked to Rothenfels, and they quarreled, as theyalways did, while I listened and gave an encouraging word to each inturn. Stella Wedderburn was very beautiful; and after spending Christmasat Rothenfels, she was going home to be married. Eugen, May, and Sigmundwere going too, for the first time since May's marriage. 

Graf Bruno that year had temporarily abdicated his throne, and Eugenhad been constituted host for the season. The guests were his and hiswife's; the arrangements were his, and the entertainment fell to hisshare. 

Gräfin Hildegarde looked a little amazed at such of her guests, forinstance, as Karl Linders. She had got over the first shock of seeing mea regular visitor in the house, and was pleased to draw me aside on thisoccasion, and inform me that really that young man, Herr Linders, waspresentable--quite presentable--and never forgot himself; he had handedher into her carriage yesterday really quite creditably. No doubt it waslong friendship with Eugen which had given him that extra polish. 

"Indeed, Frau Gräfin, he was always like that. It is natural. "

"He is very presentable, really--very. But as a friend of Eugen's, " andshe smiled condescendingly upon me, "he would naturally be so. "

In truth, Karl was Karl. "Time had not thinned his flowing locks;" hewas as handsome, as impulsive, and as true as ever; had added two babiesto his responsibilities, who, with his beloved Frau Gemahlin, hadlikewise been bidden to this festivity, but had declined to quit thestove and private Christmas-tree of home life. He wore no more shortjackets now; his sister Gretchen was engaged to a young doctor, andKarl's head was growing higher--as it deserved--for it had no mean orshady deeds to bow it. 

The company then consisted _in toto_ of Graf and Gräfin von Rothenfels, who, I must record it, both looked full ten years younger and bettersince their prodigal was returned to them, of Stella Wedderburn, Frauvon Francius, Karl Linders, and Friedhelm Helfen. May, as I said, lookedlovelier than ever. It was easy to see that she was the darling of theelder brother and his wife. She was a radiant, bright creature, yet herdeepest affections were given to sad people--to her husband, to hersister Adelaide, to Countess Hildegarde. 

She and Eugen are well mated. It is true he is not a very cheerfulman--his face is melancholy. In his eyes is a shadow which neverwholly disappears--lines upon his broad and tranquil brow which areindelible. He has honor and titles, and a name clean and high beforemen, but it was not always so. That terrible bringing to reason--thatsix years' grinding lesson of suffering, self-suppression--ay, self-effacement--have left their marks, a "shadow plain to see, " andwill never leave him. He is a different man from the outcast who steppedforth into the night with a weird upon him, nor ever looked back till itwas dreed out in darkness to its utmost term. 

He has tasted of the sorrows--the self-brought sorrows which make merrymen into sober ones, the sorrows which test a man and prove hischaracter to be of gold or of dross, and therefore he is grave. Gravetoo is the son who is more worshiped by both him and his wife than anyof their other children. Sigmund von Rothenfels is what outsiders call"a strange, incomprehensible child;" seldom smiles, and has no childfriends. His friends are his father and "Mother May"--Mütterchen hecalls her; and it is quaint sometimes to see how on an equality thethree meet and associate. His notions of what is fit for a man to be anddo he takes from his father; his ideal woman--I am sure he hasone--would, I believe, turn out to be a subtle and impossible compoundof May and his aunt Hildegarde. 

We sometimes speculate as to what he will turn out. Perhaps the musicalgenius which his father will not bring before the world in himself mayone day astonish that world in Sigmund. It is certain that his very lifeseems bound up in the art, and in that house and that circle it must bea very Caliban, or something yet lower, which could resist theinfluence. 

One day May, Eugen, Karl, and I, repaired to the music-room and playedtogether the Fourth Symphonie and some of Schumann's "Kinderscenen, " butMay began to cry before it was over, and the rest of us had thoughtsthat did lie too deep for tears--thoughts of that far-back afternoon ofCarnival Monday, and how we "made a sunshine in a shady place"--of allthat came before--and after. 

Between me and Eugen there has never come a cloud, nor the faintestshadow of one. Built upon days passed together in storm and sunshine, weal and woe, good report and evil report, our union stands upon a firmfoundation of that nether rock of friendship, perfect trust, perfectfaith, love stronger than death, which makes a peace in our hearts, amighty influence in our lives which very truly "passeth understanding. "

 THE END. 

THE CRIMINAL WITNESS. 

In the spring of '48, I was called to Jackson to attend court, havingbeen engaged to defend a young man who had been accused of robbing themail. I had a long conference with my client, and he acknowledged to methat on the night when the mail was robbed he had been with a party ofdissipated companions over to Topham, and that on returning, they metthe mail-carrier on horseback coming from Jackson. Some of hiscompanions were very drunk, and they proposed to stop the carrier andoverhaul his bag. The roads were very muddy at the time, and the coachcould not run. My client assured me that he not only had no hand inrobbing the mail, but that he tried to dissuade his companions fromdoing so. But they would not listen to him. One of them slipped upbehind the carrier, and knocked him from his horse. Then they bound andblindfolded him, and having tied him to a tree, they took his mail-bag, and made off into a neighboring field, where they overhauled it, findingsome five hundred dollars in money in the various letters. He went withthem, but in no way did he have any hand in the crime. Those who did doit had fled, and, as the carrier had recognized him as in the party, hehad been arrested. 

The mail-bag had been found, as well as the letters. Those letters fromwhich money had been taken, were kept, by order of the officers, andduplicates sent to the various persons, to whom they were directed, announcing the particulars. These letters had been given me forexamination, and I had then returned them to the prosecuting attorney. 

I got through with my private preliminaries about noon, and as the casewould not come up before the next day, I went into the court in theafternoon, to see what was going on. The first case which came up wasone of theft, and the prisoner was a young girl, not more than seventeenyears of age, named Elizabeth Madworth. She was very pretty, and borethat mild, innocent look, which we seldom find in a culprit. 

The complaint against her set forth that she had stolen one hundreddollars from a Mrs. Naseby; and as the case went on, I found that thisMrs. Naseby was her mistress, she (Mrs. N. ) being a wealthy widow, living in the town. The poor girl declared her innocence in the wildestterms, and called on God to witness that she would rather die thansteal. But circumstances were hard against her. A hundred dollars, inbank notes had been stolen from her mistress's room, and she was theonly one who had access there. 

At this juncture, while the mistress was upon the witness stand, a youngman came and caught me by the arm. 

"They tell me you are a good lawyer?" he whispered. 

"I am a lawyer, " I answered. 

"Then--oh!--save her! You can certainly do it, for she is innocent. "

"Has she no counsel?" I asked. 

"None that's good for anything--nobody that'll do anything for her. Oh, save her, and I'll pay you all I've got. I can't pay you much, but I canraise something. "

I reflected for a moment. I cast my eyes toward the prisoner, and shewas at that moment looking at me. She caught my eye, and the volume ofhumble, prayerful entreaty I read in those large, tearful orbs, resolvedme in a moment. I arose and went to the girl, and asked her if shewished me to defend her. She said yes. Then I informed the court that Iwas ready to enter into the case, and I was admitted at once. 

I asked for a moment's cessation, that I might speak with my client. Iwent and sat down by her side, and asked her to state candidly the wholecase. She told me she had lived with Mrs. Naseby nearly two years, andthat during all that time she had never had any trouble before. Abouttwo weeks ago, she said, her mistress lost a hundred dollars. 

"She missed it from her drawer, " the girl told me, "and she asked meabout it, but I knew nothing of it. The next thing I knew, Nancy Luthertold Mrs. Naseby that she saw me take the money from her drawer--thatshe watched me through the keyhole. Then they went to my trunk, and theyfound twenty-five dollars of the missing money there. But, oh, sir, Inever took it--and somebody else put that money there!"

I then asked her if she suspected any one. 

"I don't know, " she said, "who could have done it but Nancy. She hasnever liked me, because she thought I was treated better than she was. She is the cook, and I was the chamber-maid. "

She pointed Nancy Luther out to me. She was a stout, bold-faced girl, somewhere about five-and-twenty years old, with a low forehead, smallgray eyes, a pug nose and thick lips. 

"Oh, sir, can you help me?" my client asked, in a fearful whisper. 

"Nancy Luther, did you say that girl's name was?" I asked, for a newlight had broken in upon me. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Is there any other girl of that name about here?"

"No, sir. "

"Then rest easy. I'll try hard to save you. "

I left the courtroom, and went to the prosecuting attorney and asked himfor the letters I had handed him--the ones that had been stolen from themail-bag. He gave them to me, and, having selected one, I returned therest, and told him I would see that he had the one I kept before night. I then returned to the courtroom, and the case went on. 

Mrs. Naseby resumed her testimony. She said she entrusted her room tothe prisoner's care, and that no one else had access there save herself. Then she described about missing the money, and closed by telling howshe found twenty-five dollars of it in the prisoner's trunk. She couldswear it was the identical money she had lost, it being in two tens andone five-dollar bill. 

"Mrs. Naseby, " said I, "when you first missed your money, had you anyreason to believe that the prisoner had it?"

"No, sir, " she answered. 

"Had you ever before detected her in any dishonesty?"

"No, sir. "

"Should you have thought of searching her trunk, had not Nancy Lutheradvised you and informed you?"

"No, sir. "

Mrs. Naseby then left the stand, and Nancy Luther took her place. Shecame up with a bold look, and upon me she cast a defiant glance, as muchas to say "Trap me, if you can. " She gave her evidence as follows:

She said that on the night when the money was stolen she saw theprisoner going upstairs, and from the sly manner in which she went up, she suspected all was not right. So she followed her up. "Elizabeth wentinto Mrs. Naseby's room, and shut the door after her. I stooped down andlooked through the keyhole, and saw her at the mistress's drawer. I sawher take out the money and put it in her pocket. Then she stooped downand picked up the lamp, and as I saw that she was coming out, I hurriedaway. " Then she went on and told how she had informed her mistress ofthis, and how she proposed to search the girl's trunk. 

I called Mrs. Naseby back to the stand. 

"You say that no one save yourself and the prisoner had access to yourroom, " I said. "Now, could Nancy Luther have entered that room, if shewished?"

"Certainly, sir. I meant no one else had any right there. "

I saw that Mrs. N. , though naturally a hard woman, was somewhat moved bypoor Elizabeth's misery. 

"Could your cook have known, by any means in your knowledge, where yourmoney was?"

"Yes, sir; for she has often come up to my room when I was there, and Ihave given her money with which to buy provisions of marketmen whohappened along with their wagons. "

"One more question: Have you known of the prisoner's having used anymoney since this was stolen?"

"No, sir. "

I now called Nancy Luther back, and she began to tremble a little, though her look was as bold and defiant. 

"Miss Luther, " I said, "why did you not inform your mistress at once ofwhat you had seen without waiting for her to ask you about the lostmoney?"

"Because I could not make up my mind at once to expose the poor younggirl, " she answered, promptly. 

"You say you looked through the keyhole and saw her take the money?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Where did she place the lamp, while she did so?"

"On the bureau. "

"In your testimony, you said she stooped down when she picked it up. What did you mean by that?"

The girl hesitated, and finally said she didn't mean anything, only thatshe picked up the lamp. 

"Very well, " said I. "How long have you been with Mrs. Naseby?"

"Not quite a year, sir. "

"How much does she pay you a week?"

"A dollar and three-quarters. "

"Have you taken up any of your pay since you have been there?"

"Yes, sir. "

"How much?"

"I don't know, sir. "

"Why don't you know?"

"How should I? I've taken it at different times, just as I wanted it, and have kept no account. "

"Now, if you had had any wish to harm the prisoner, couldn't you haveraised twenty-five dollars to put in her trunk?"

"No, sir, " she replied, with virtuous indignation. 

"Then you have not laid up any money since you have been there?"

"No, sir--only what Mrs. Naseby may owe me. "

"Then you didn't have twenty-five dollars when you came there?"

"No, sir; and what's more, the money found in the girl's trunk was thevery money that Mrs. Naseby lost. You might have known that, if you'donly remember what you hear. "

"Will you tell me if you belong to this State?" I asked next. 

"I do, sir. "

"In what town?"

She hesitated, and for an instant the bold look forsook her. But shefinally answered:

"I belong in Somers, Montgomery County. "

I next turned to Mrs. Naseby. 

"Do you ever take a receipt from your girls when you pay them?" I asked. 

"Always, " she answered. 

"Can you send and get one of them for me?"

She said she would willingly go, if the court said so. The court did sayso, and she went. Her dwelling was not far off, and she soon returned, and handed me four receipts, which I took and examined. They were allsigned in a strange, straggling hand, by the witness. 

"Now, Nancy Luther, " said I, turning to the witness, "please tell thecourt, and the jury, and tell me, too, where you got the seventy-fivedollars you sent in a letter to your sister in Somers?"

The witness started as though a volcano had burst at her feet. Sheturned pale as death, and every limb shook violently. I waited until thepeople could have an opportunity to see her emotion, and then I repeatedthe question. 

"I--never--sent--any, " she fairly gasped. 

"You did!" I thundered, for I was excited now. 

"I--I--didn't, " she faintly uttered, grasping the rail by her side forsupport. 

"May it please your honor, and gentlemen of the jury, " I said, as soonas I had looked the witness out of countenance, "I came here to defend ayouth who had been arrested for helping to rob the mail, and in thecourse of my preliminary examinations, I had access to the letters whichhad been torn open and rifled of money. When I entered upon this case, and I heard the name of this witness pronounced, I went out and got theletter which I now hold, for I remembered to have seen one bearing thesignature of Nancy Luther. This letter was taken from the mail-bag, andit contained seventy-five dollars, and by looking at the post-mark, youwill observe that it was mailed on the very next day after the hundreddollars were taken from Mrs. Naseby's drawer. I will read it to you, ifyou please. "

The court nodded assent, and I read the following, which was withoutdate, save that made by the post-master upon the outside. I give it hereverbatim:

 "SISTER DORCAS: I cend yu heer sevente fiv dolers, which i want yu to kepe for me till i cum hum. I can't kepe it heer coz ime afrade it will git stole. Don't speke wun word tu a livin sole bout this coz I don't want nobodi tu kno i hav got enny mony. Yu wont now wil yu. I am first rate heer, only that gude fur nuthin snipe of liz madwurth is heer yit--but i hop tu git red ov her now. Yu no i rote yu bout her. Give my luv to awl inquiren friends. This is from your sister til deth. NANCY LUTHER. "

"Now, your honor, " I said, as I handed him the letter, and also thereceipts, "you will see that the letter is directed to 'Dorcas Luther, Somers, Montgomery County. ' And you will also observe that one handwrote that letter and signed those receipts. The jury will also observe. And now I will only add: It is plain to see how the hundred dollars weredisposed of. Seventy-five were put into that letter and sent off forsafe-keeping, while the remaining twenty-five were placed in theprisoner's trunk for the purpose of covering the real criminal. "

The case was given to the jury immediately following their examinationof the letter. Without leaving their seats, they returned a verdictof--"Not Guilty. "

The youth, who had first asked me to defend the prisoner, caught me bythe hand, but he could not speak plainly. He simply looked at me throughhis tears for a moment, and then rushed to the fair prisoner. He seemedto forget where he was, for he flung his arms about her, and as she laidher head upon his bosom, she wept aloud. 

I will not attempt to describe the scene that followed; but if NancyLuther had not been immediately arrested for theft, she would have beenobliged to seek the protection of the officers, or the excited peoplewould surely have maimed her, if they had done no more. On the nextmorning, I received a note, very handsomely written, in which I was toldthat "the within" was but a slight token of the gratitude due me for myeffort in behalf of a poor, defenseless, but much loved, maiden. It wassigned "Several Citizens, " and contained one hundred dollars. Shortlyafterward, the youth came to pay me all the money he could raise. Isimply showed him the note I had received, and asked him if he wouldkeep his hard earnings for his wife, when he got one. He owned that heintended to make Lizzie Madworth his wife very soon. 

I will only add that on the following day I succeeded in clearing mynext client from conviction of robbing the mail; and I will not denythat I made a considerable handle of the fortunate discovery of theletter which had saved an innocent girl, on the day before, in my appealto the jury; and if I made them feel that the finger of Omnipotence wasin the work, I did it because I sincerely believe my client was innocentof all crime; and I am sure they thought so too. 

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors;otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author'swords and intent. 

3. German readers may find it unusual that German nouns have not beencapitalized; the book did not follow the German convention, and thetranscriber has not changed that in this e-text.