Transcriber's Note:
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THE

BREAKING OF THE STORM.

BY

FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN.

Translated from the German

BY

S. E. A. H. STEPHENSON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL III.

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.
1877.

(All Rights Reserved.)

THE BREAKING OF THE STORM.

BOOK V.--Continued.

CHAPTER V.

Frau Feldner, Valerie's old lady's-maid, told Elsa that her lady was in a sound sleep, as was always the case with her after a violent attack of headache, and out of which she would hardly awake before evening. Elsa, who had herself suffered from the extraordinary sultriness of the day, and from the uncomfortable conversation at dinner, and was also put out and agitated by the scene with the Count, intended to employ the time in taking a walk; and thinking that Carla and the Count were already gone, was going, out of courtesy, to invite Frau von Wallbach to accompany her. Hat and shawl in hand, she was coming out of the Baroness's rooms, and innocently lifting the portière of the anteroom, had become a very unwilling spectator of the little scene which took place between the Count and Carla. In her consternation she had let the curtain fall again, and without even thinking whether she had been observed or not, had hastily run downstairs, and now wandered round the garden trying to persuade herself that what she had seen was a mistake--her eyes had deceived her. It was not possible that Carla could have so far forgotten herself, that she could so shamefully deceive her brother. But the more determinately she tried to drive back and destroy the hateful picture, the more terribly distinctly it stood out in her mind.

It must be so! The link that should have united Ottomar and Carla was torn asunder for ever, even if what she had just seen were only the sudden delirium of the moment. But how could that be, when she thought of Carla's intense frivolity, which had often caused her such anxiety; and of the Count's audacity, from which she had from the first instinctively shrunk, and of which he had even now given such proof; when she remembered the confidential whispering, the coquettish flirting, the many, many things which had taken place between the two in her very presence, and which had been so displeasing and offensive, but, above all, so incomprehensible to her, and of which she now found so terrible an explanation! What would Ottomar say? He must hear of it! What would he do? Perhaps exult that the chain which fettered him was broken--in good time! But that would not be like Ottomar. No man would take it patiently--and he! so sensitive, passionate, and violent, who had so often risked his life in a duel on the slightest provocation--a disagreeable word, a look--which gave him offence! But, on the other hand, had he really a right to feel himself offended? Had he really tried to retain Carla's love, or even first to win it, as it was his duty to do, after he became engaged to her? Had he not neglected her in the eyes of the world? left her, unguarded and unsheltered, to throw herself into that roaring whirlpool of social life in which she had formerly moved with such fatal enjoyment, and in which she had gained such brilliant triumphs? If so, he would have no betrayed love, only wounded vanity to avenge--to risk his life for a thing in which he did not himself believe, only because in the eyes of society this sad comedy of errors needed a sanguinary end. Oh! this miserable slavery, in which she had once fancied herself happy and free, only because she had not learnt how a free heart beats, and for what a soul longs which that heart has set free, and which now spreads out its wings to soar away from all these wretched barriers of prejudice and illusion into the clear atmosphere of a noble and unselfish love! She could no longer bear to remain between the high, straight hedges and the interwoven branches of the beech-walk, in which here and there appeared stone gods and goddesses in odd and exaggerated attitudes, as if startled at the sight of one who could think and feel so differently to those who had their pride and joy in these quaint, old-fashioned splendours.

Away! away! to him she loved, if it might be, to seek shelter in his strong arms from this hollow, unreal world, to weep out upon his faithful breast her grief and indignation, to feel free in his presence from all this self-made sorrow, this foolish misery, and never, never again to leave him. And if this highest happiness were denied her, if she must return to the slavery of these intolerable circumstances--out into the open then, over the brown meadows, through the dark fields, to the white dunes which peeped out in the distance, to have one look at the sea--his beloved sea! Might it but bring her a greeting from her beloved, a waft of his breath to cool her hot brow, to refresh her burning eyes, were it only by a tear of unsatisfied longing!

Over the brown meadows and through the dark fields Elsa hurried, in the direction of a farm which lay before her at some distance, and which she must pass if she followed any further the sandy path, which looked as if it would take her quickest to her goal. The path led her ever nearer to the farm, and at last directly into it. Elsa did not like it; she would rather have met no one, since she dared not hope to meet him for whom she longed; but an attempt to get round the outside of the barn was frustrated by wet ground here and a hedge there. She must turn back or pass through the farm--a little, melancholy, quiet farm, a few tumble-down out-buildings, from which the dwelling-house was only to be distinguished by the windows--which looked dilapidated enough too--and by the two lime-trees, which in summer made a pleasant shade before the door, but whose bare, leafless branches now projected in a ghostly manner over the decayed thatched roof against the grey sky.

A tall, broad-shouldered man came out from a barn-door, followed by a little dog, who flew at the stranger, barking loudly. The man called the animal back. At the first sound of his voice, Elsa, to whom the whole scene had appeared wonderfully familiar, as if she must have seen it before, recognised the honest farmer who had so kindly sheltered her last autumn.

"Herr Pölitz!" she said, holding out her hand. "You have forgotten me."

A look of joy came over the sunburnt face. "Come, this is good of you to pay us a visit!"

"You knew, then, that I was in Warnow?"

The farmer smiled in his melancholy way.

"How should the like of us not know such a thing? But that you should have remembered us! My wife will be so pleased."

He went towards the house. Elsa was very sorry to spoil the pleasure of these worthy people, but she could not permit herself even so trifling an untruth. The farmer's face clouded, as she explained, with some embarrassment, that during the week she had been at Warnow she had never been beyond the garden, and had not now intended any visit; in fact, that she had not known that these buildings, which she had often enough seen from her window across the fields, were Herr Pölitz's farm. "But," she added, "I should have come had I known, or as soon as I discovered it. For that I give you my word."

"We could not have expected it," answered the farmer; "but since you say so, I believe you. But will you not come in!" he added hesitatingly.

"Yes, for a minute, to speak to your wife and to see the children."

"The children!"

As they now stood before the door, the farmer laid his brown hand on her arm, and said in a low voice:

"Don't ask after little Carl. Since Christmas he has slept over there in the churchyard. It was a sorrowful Christmas. But in a few days, if God will, we shall again have two."

He left Elsa no time to answer, but opened the low house-door--how well Elsa remembered the rattling bell!--called out to his wife, and showed his guest into the parlour on the left. As she went in, the figure of a woman rose up from a stool near the stove, whom Elsa in the dusk, which already prevailed in the room, with its small, dull windows, took for Frau Pölitz, but on coming nearer, saw that it was a young and pretty, but pale and sickly-looking girl. She greeted her in a shy and embarrassed manner, and went away without speaking a word.

"A sister of mine," said the farmer, answering Elsa's look, in a low voice and turning away his head. "Will you not sit down? If you will allow me, I will go myself and look for my wife."

He went out. Elsa would have preferred to follow him. The close atmosphere in the little, over-heated room nearly took away her breath; and worse than the atmosphere was the sense of misery which was so palpable here, and spoke so distinctly in the farmer's melancholy face, in the girl's white cheeks, in everything on which her glance fell--even in the gloomy silence of the wretched farmyard and in the dilapidated house. Had she fled from the splendid misery of the castle only to find the same helpless sorrow in the little farmhouse! But at least it was not self-made suffering, so that it must awaken compassion, though it could not revolt the soul like what she had just experienced. How could she refuse these poor people the only thing they had asked of her--a tender word of compassion?

The farmer came in with his wife. He had already told her all--that the young lady could only say a word in passing to-day, but that in a few days she would come and spend a longer time with them. "Hardly in a few days," said the farmer; "we are going to have bad weather. I must even urge the young lady not to remain too long; it may break up this evening."

He had been standing at the window, and now left the room, murmuring a few words of apology, of which Elsa only understood "roof" and "cover."

"It is the roof of the barn," explained his wife; "it is so rotten he has had to take down one corner, and must now cover it over as well as he can, that the storm may not carry away the rest. To be sure it may be all one to him. We must leave at Easter anyhow."

"How is that?" asked Elsa.

"Our lease is not renewed," answered the woman; "and no new farmer is coming either. Everything here is to be pulled down and a big hotel built, so they say. God knows what will become of us!"

The poor woman, who looked even paler and more worn in her present condition than in the autumn, sighed deeply. Elsa tried to comfort her with words of sympathy. "It would be easy for a man like Herr Pölitz to find something else, and if capital was wanting to rent a new, and perhaps larger and better farm, some means would be devised for that also. The great thing was, not to lose courage herself. She must think only of her husband, who took life hardly enough as it was, and whose strength would be paralysed if she lost heart. She must think of the child that remained to her, and of the other that was coming, and everything would come right."

The woman smiled through her tears.

"Ah!" she said, "what a comfort it is to hear such words from kind people! It does not last long, but for the moment one feels lighter; and that is a great deal when one's heart is so heavy. That is what I always say to the Captain. He is just like you."

A thrill of joy passed through Elsa. Reinhold had been here! He had also sought the place to which her thoughts had so often returned.

"He has often been here already," said Frau Pölitz; "only the day before yesterday he came on foot; but generally he goes in his boat to Ahlbeck."

"How far is it to Wissow?" asked Elsa.

"About four or five miles if you go right over Wissow Head; three miles to the Head, and half as much down to Wissow. You can see it there from the top. It is very fine up there on a summer's day. We used to go there very often formerly, but we never go now."

The pale girl here came in, took a key from a shelf near the door, and went out again immediately.

"Your sister-in-law is here to nurse you?" said Elsa. "The poor girl seems rather to need nursing herself."

"Yes, God knows?" said Frau Pölitz. She pulled at her apron with an embarrassed look and drew nearer to Elsa on the little sofa, and went on in a low voice, "I ought not to talk about it, but you are so kind and good, and it lies so terribly heavy on my mind. If you would----"

"If your husband has forbidden you to speak, you had better not tell me."

The woman shook her head.

"No, no, not that; he does not know--at least I hope not, although since yesterday--perhaps it is as well----"

"Tell me then, it may calm you," said Elsa, who was frightened at the woman's evident excitement.

"Yes, yes; true," said Frau Pölitz; "and you might also advise me as to what I shall do. Marie is--she has--if you look at me like that I cannot tell you--she has always been in all other respects a good, industrious, clever girl, only sometimes a little high-flown, poor thing. She was housekeeper over at Golm to the Count, for two years, although my husband never approved of it, as in a large house like that--you know well how it is--there are so many people, and in a bachelor's establishment it is difficult to keep order and discipline. But she had good wages, and all went on well till last Michaelmas, when she suddenly gave warning, without saying a word to us, and went to Sundin, also as housekeeper, to the President's. But that did not last long, and the President's lady, who is a very good lady--may God reward her!--looked after her; and we knew nothing about it all until the poor infant died, in November. My husband was quite frantic, as he lays great store by his family, which has seen better days, and especially this sister, who had always been his pet. But what was to be done? What is done is done, and when at Christmas our little Carl died, and I could not well manage the household work, I wrote to the President's lady and she sent her here to us, and wrote at the same time such a kind letter. I will show it to you next time you come. Marie has been a real help to me, and has cost us nothing. She has saved something, and the President's lady also helped, and she has often offered me her little store. Of course I have never taken it, although I am convinced that it is honestly earned, and that he--the father--has never troubled himself about the poor thing. She told me that herself, but always added, 'He knew nothing of it--nothing at all.' But that is impossible to believe, even if we, my husband and I, had no suspicion as to who could be the father. The name should never pass her lips, the poor girl said. And even yesterday it never did so." The woman paused for a few moments, as if to gather strength for what she still had to relate. Elsa's heart beat with sympathy, and with a dull fear, which increased every moment, for which, however, she could not account. What possible reference could the poor girl's story have to her! The woman had come quite close to her, and went on in a still lower voice: "Yesterday afternoon, just at this time, my husband was behind there at the barn, Marie was ironing, with the child in the room next the kitchen, where, if you remember, the window looks on to the garden, and I was here washing, when some riders came up to the farm----" Elsa's heart gave a leap, and she involuntarily turned away from the woman. "Good heavens!" exclaimed the latter; "I trusted the Captain. He told me the day before yesterday that there was not a word of truth in the report about here that you were going to marry the Count. If it is true, I dare not say another word!"

"Thank God it is not the case," said Elsa, by a strong effort overcoming her emotion. "The Count is then the man!"

Frau Pölitz nodded. "She cannot any longer deny it, and indeed she confessed as much to me, when I brought her to herself. They had dismounted and come into the house; the Count said that the young lady was unwell, and begged for a cup of coffee. May God forgive him, but it was certainly untrue, as the young lady was not the least unwell; on the contrary, did nothing but laugh, and they went through the house straight into the garden. A few old trees stand in it, and the hedges are also rather overgrown, so that it is quite sheltered; but Marie must have seen more than the poor girl could bear; and as I stood there by the stove she suddenly shrieked out, so that I thought she had let the heater of the iron fall on her foot, or that the child had hurt itself, and rushed in. There she lay on her back on the floor, and I thought she was dead, as she neither moved nor stirred, and was cold as ice and white as a sheet. You may easily imagine how frightened I was, and I may thank God that it was no worse. I called out, and Rike, our maidservant, came, and I sent her for my husband; and it was well I did so, for Marie came to herself, looked all round her with a bewildered, glassy stare, and then to the window, and asked timidly, 'Is he still there?' I knew then for certain, and begged her, for God's sake, to keep silence before Carl, my husband. But since then he has been so odd; I am afraid he must have remarked something when he went into the garden to tell the Count that they must wait a little for the coffee and so forth. The Count would not hear anything more about the coffee, and the young lady told me how sorry she was. She had had no idea that we had an invalid in the house. Upon which my husband said, 'Excuse me, ma'am, my sister is not an invalid, she has only just been taken ill;' and he said it so strangely, with his eyes fixed as if some other thought were in his mind. What shall I do? Shall I tell him? What do you think?"

Frau Pölitz held both Elsa's hands clasped in hers and looked anxiously into her eyes.

"I think--yes," said Elsa. "You cannot keep it from him in the end, and a wife should have no secrets from her husband. It seems to me that all the evil in the world comes from our keeping and concealing from one another our most sacred feelings, as if we had reason to be ashamed of them; as if we did not live in them--only in them!"

She stood up and seized her hat and shawl from the round table.

"You are going already?" said Frau Pölitz sorrowfully; "but indeed it is a long way to Warnow."

"I have much farther to go," said Elsa, putting on her hat. "Three miles, did you say?"

"Where to?"

"To Wissow Head." Frau Pölitz stared at Elsa, as if she were talking nonsense. "Yes," said Elsa, "to the Head. I cannot miss the way?"

"A road goes from here straight through the marshes, but makes a great bend at Ahlbeck on account of the brook. But, my dear young lady, for heaven's sake what do you want to go there for?"

Elsa had put on her shawl, and now grasped Frau Pölitz by both hands. "I will tell you. To have one look--one look only--at the place where the man I love lives. You need not look at me so anxiously, dear Frau Pölitz, He really lives at Wissow."

"The Superintendent of Pilots?" exclaimed Frau Pölitz.

She sat down and burst into tears of joy.

"You also love him," said Elsa with a proud smile.

"Oh! indeed I do," cried Frau Pölitz, sobbing; "and oh! how happy my husband will be! May I tell him----"

"You may tell whom you will."

"Oh! how pleased I am! You could not have given me greater pleasure than to tell me this. It makes me feel quite young again. Such a charming gentleman as he is, and such a dear, dear young lady! I feel sure that everything must go right now."

She kissed Elsa's hand again and again, with hot tears. Elsa gently disengaged herself. "I will tell you everything next time. Now I must go."

"No," said Frau Pölitz, standing up, "you must not walk such a long way; my husband shall drive you."

"I am determined to walk," said Elsa.

"You cannot be back before dark. It is already beginning to get dark, and we are certainly going to have bad weather."

Elsa would allow no objection to weigh with her. She was a good walker and had eyes like a hawk. She feared neither the distance nor the darkness.

With that she once more shook Frau Pölitz's hand, and the next minute had left room, and house, and farm, and was walking quickly through the fields along the road, of which the farmer's wife had spoken, towards the headland, whose broad mass stood out from the wide plain.

CHAPTER III.

It was three miles, Frau Pölitz had to Wissow Head, but it seemed to Elsa as if the long, winding road would never come to an end. And yet she walked so quickly, that the little empty waggon which at first was far ahead of her, was now as far behind. That wretched vehicle was the only sign of human life. Besides that, only the brown plain, like a desert waste, as far as her eye could reach. No large trees, only here and there a few stunted willows, and some wretched shrubs by the ditches which intersected each other here and there, and by the broad sluggish stream which she now crossed by means of a rickety and unprotected wooden bridge. The stream evidently flowed from the chain of hills on her right hand, at the foot of which Elsa could see far apart the buildings of Gristow and of Damerow, the two other properties belonging to Warnow.

Taking a long circuit, she gradually ascended to Wissow Head, which lay straight before her, whilst the plain to the left stretched without the smallest undulation to the low-lying dunes, which only showed white here and there over the edge of the moor. Only once, for a few minutes, a leaden-grey streak showed through a gap by which the brook made its way, which Elsa knew must be the sea, although she could scarcely distinguish it from the sky, for the sky above her was the same leaden colour too, only that towards the east, over the sea, it seemed somewhat darker than over the hills to the west, and in the leaden firmament hung here and there a solitary whitish speck like the smoke of gunpowder, which in the motionless air remained always in the same spot. Not the slightest breath was stirring, but from time to time a strange murmur passed across the waste, as if the brown moor was trying to rouse itself from its long slumber; and through the heavy, gloomy atmosphere there came a sound as of a soft, long-drawn-out, plaintive wail, and then again a death-like stillness, in which Elsa seemed to hear the beating of her heart.

But more fearful almost than the stillness of this desert spot was the shrieking of a great flock of sea-gulls, which she had startled from one of the many hollows on the moors, and which now hovered hither and thither in the grey atmosphere, their pointed bills turned downwards, and followed her for a long time, as if in furious anger at this intruder upon their domain.

Nevertheless she walked on and on, quicker and quicker, following an impulse which she would allow no considerations of prudence to check, which was stronger even than the dread which earth and sky whispered to her with ghost-like breath, threatening and warning her with supernatural voices. And then came another more terrible fear. Far away in the distance, at the foot of the headland, which ever stood out more majestically before her, she had fancied she saw dark moving objects, and now that she approached nearer, she was convinced of it. Labourers--many hundred--who were working at an apparently endless embankment, which had already reached a considerable height.

She could not avoid crossing the embankment, even if she made a great circuit; she must pass through the long line of workmen. She did so with a courteous greeting to those who stood nearest to her. The men, who were already working lazily enough, let their barrows stand, and stared at her without returning her greeting. As she passed on, loud shouts and coarse laughter sounded behind her. Turning involuntarily, she saw that two of the number had followed her, and only stopped as she turned, perhaps also checked by the noise made by the others.

She continued on her way, almost running. There was now only a narrow path over the short withered grass and across the sandy tracts which alternated on the slope of the hill. Elsa said to herself that she should remain within sight of the men till she reached the top, and might at any time be followed by them. But if she turned back in the deepening twilight the men would perhaps have left off work; no overseer would be there to keep their rudeness in check, and there would be the whole endless plain as far as Warnow in which these rough men might bewilder, terrify, and insult her. Should she turn back at once, while it was yet time? beg for the escort of one of the overseers? or take refuge in the waggon which she had before overtaken, and which was now close to the workmen, or in another vehicle, which from the height on which she stood she could now see in the distance, and which must also have followed her, as there was no other road over the plain.

Whilst Elsa was thus deliberating with herself, she hastened, as if under a spell, with beating heart, up the incline, whose top stood out sharply in a straight line against the grey sky between her and the sea.

With every step the sea and the line of dunes stretched broader and farther to the left, and her gaze wandered out to where the vapour of the sea and sky mingled together, and over the beautifully curved line of the coast to the wooded heights of Golmberg, whose purple masses hung threateningly over.

Above the confused mass of crowded treetops rose the tower of the castle. Between Golmberg yonder and the height on which she stood was the brown plain over which she had passed--inhospitable as the sea itself, from which it was only divided by the yellow outline of the dunes. The only abode of mankind was the fishing hamlet of Ahlbeck, which, close to the foot of the promontory, now lay almost directly at her feet. There also, between the houses and the sea, on the broad strand, were long moving lines of workmen as far as the two piers, which, curving towards each other, ran out into the sea. At the piers were two or three large vessels, which seemed to be unloading, whilst a fleet of fishing-boats, all on the same course, were making for the shore. Though all the sails were set, yet the boats were really only moved by the oars. The uniform position of the brown sails and the monotonous movements of the oars, formed a curious contrast to the confused whirring of the white gulls, who, as before, circled incessantly above her head, between her and the shore.

She saw it all with her clear-sighted eyes, as a traveller on the railway mechanically observes the details of the landscape which the train rushes through, while his thoughts are at home, tasting the rapture which he will feel after his long separation from those he loves. And she, alas! dared not hope to look into the dear eyes, to hold the loved hands in hers, to hear the sound of that strong, yet gentle and kind voice. She only wanted to see the place where he lived.

And it seemed as if even that small consolation was to be denied to her. She had already wandered some way along the path on the top of the hill, without gaining the slightest glimpse of the other side, where Wissow must lie, only the sky looked leaden over the edge of the plateau. Perhaps she might see it if she followed the broader road that she had now reached, and that, coming from her right, led upwards along the side of the hill to a heap of immense logs, above which rose a huge signal-post, which must be erected on the topmost height of the headland, and probably also on its extreme edge.

And in fact, as she now climbed higher and higher, a pale streak appeared to her right--the shore of the mainland--and then again the leaden surface of the sea, on which here and there a sail was seen, and at last, immediately beneath her on this side, a white point of dune, which spread gradually like a wedge towards the headland, until it formed a little peninsula, in the centre of which lay a dozen or so of houses of various sizes between the white sands and the brown moor. That was Wissow! That must be Wissow!

And now, as she stood on the point which she had reached by the exertion of all her physical and moral powers, and however lovingly she stretched out her arms, felt that the object of her desires still lay so far off, so utterly beyond her reach--now for the first time she believed that she understood the dumb, terrifying voices of the solitude and loneliness around her, the whispering and rustling of the moor, the wailing spirit-voices in the air. Alone! alone!

Infinite sorrow welled up in her heart, her knees gave way, she sank down upon a stone near the logs, buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears like a helpless, lost child. She did not see that a man, who was leaning against the signal-post behind the logs, watching the sea, startled by the strange sound near him, stepped forward. She did not hear his steps as he hastened towards her over the short turf.

"Elsa!"

She sprang up with a half-stifled cry.

"Elsa!"

And again she cried out--a wild cry of joy, which rang strangely through the stillness, and she lay on his breast, clinging to him like a drowning woman.

"Reinhold! My Reinhold!"

She wept, she laughed, she cried again and again: "Reinhold, my Reinhold!"

Speechless with happiness and astonishment at the sweet surprise, he drew her down to him on the stone on which she had been sitting.

She leaned her head on his breast. "I have so longed for you."

"Elsa, my darling Elsa!"

"I was forced to come, I could not help it; I was drawn here, as if by invisible hands. And now I have you! Oh! do not leave me again. Take me with you yonder to your home. My home is there with you. With you! Do not drive me out again into the desolate, false and loveless world which lies behind me. With you only is happiness, peace, joy, truth, fidelity! Oh! how your true loving heart beats, I feel it. It loves me as I love you. It has longed for me, as my poor, distracted heart has longed for you."

"Yes, my Elsa, it has longed for you intensely, unspeakably. I came up here because it gave me no peace. I wanted to have one look only to where you were--one last look, before----"

"Before what--for heaven's sake!"

He had led her the few steps to the logs, and now stood, with his arm round her, close to the edge of the hill, which sloped so precipitously down from its frowning brow, that they seemed to be hanging immediately over the grey sea in the grey sky.

"Look, Elsa! There comes the storm. I hear it, I see it, as if it were already let loose. It may be hours first, but it will come, it must come with terrible fury. Everything shows signs of it. That leaden sea below us will be tossed in wild waves, whose spray will be thrown up even to this height. Woe to the ships that are not already safe in harbour, and perhaps even there they are not secure from its wild fury. Woe to the low-lying lands beneath us. I meant to have written to you this morning, because I saw it coming even yesterday, and to tell you that you would do better to leave Warnow, but you would not have gone."

"Never! I am so proud that you trust me, that you have told me this. And if the storm breaks, and I know that your dear life is in danger, I will be firm; or if I tremble I will not fear, only to myself I will say, 'He could not do his duty, he could not be the brave true man whom I love, if he knew that I were weeping and wringing my hands, whilst he must guide and command as on that evening;' do you remember? Do you know, my darling, that I loved you then! and do you remember you told me that I had the eyes of a sailor? Oh! how I remember every word, every look, and how pleased I was that I was not obliged to give you back the compass directly! I did not mean to keep it, I meant you to have it again."

"You were more honest then than I was, my darling. I was determined not to give you back your glove. You had taken it off when you were looking through my telescope; it lay on the deck and I took it up. Since then it has never left me. See! it has been my talisman. We sailors are superstitious. I have sworn never to part with it, until instead of the glove, I hold your dear hand in mine for ever."

He kissed the little grey glove before he returned it to his breast-pocket. They had again seated themselves on the stone--softly whispering, caressing, jesting, in loving talk, heart to heart and lip to lip, forgetting, in the paradise of their young love, the desert which surrounded them, the darkness which was ever deepening, and the storm which was brooding in the leaden air, over the leaden sea, like the angel of destruction over a world which he hoped to annihilate for ever, and to cast back into primeval chaos. A dull rumbling sound quivering in the distance attracted their attention; followed immediately by a sound of rushing through the air, without any motion that they could feel even at this height, and then again followed the deathlike stillness.

Reinhold sprang up.

"It comes quicker than I thought. We have not a moment to lose."

"What are you going to do?"

"To take you back."

"You cannot. You must be at your post. You did not come to Warnow this morning on account of it. How can you now absent yourself so far, when the danger is much nearer? No, no, my darling, do not look so anxiously at me. I must learn to live without fear, and I will. I am quite determined. From this moment there shall be no fear, even before the world. I cannot live any longer without you, and you cannot live without me. If I were still in ignorance--but now I know! And, believe me, my dear father will be the first to understand. He must have known already when he said to me, what he also wrote to you, 'I leave your fate in your own hands.' Ottomar and my aunt may share my inheritance; my proud father would have taken nothing from me, and you--you take me as I am, and lead me to your home for ever. One more look at my paradise! One more kiss, and now farewell! farewell!"

She embraced him fervently, and then would have freed herself, but he held her hand fast.

"It is impossible, Elsa; it is already growing dark up here, and in half an hour below it will be night. You cannot be certain of keeping to the road, which can no longer be distinguished from the moor, and that is full of deep bogs. It is really impossible, Elsa."

"It must be possible. I should despise myself if I kept you back from your duty; and how could you continue to love me, and not to look upon your love as a burden, if I did so? How do you know that you may not be wanted at the shortest notice? At this moment possibly the men may be standing helpless, and looking out for their leader. Reinhold, by your love! am I right or not?"

"You are indeed right, but----"

"No 'but,' my darling, we must part." They were as they spoke hastening hand-in-hand along the path by which Elsa had before reached the top, and now stood on the cross way which led on one side to the Warnow moor, and on the other to Wissow.

"Only to the foot. Till I know you are on the right path," said Reinhold.

"Not a step farther. Hark! What is that?"

He had also noticed it already--a sound as of horses' feet, galloping on the hard turf behind the slope of the hill which rose before them and concealed from them any farther view of the other and more precipitous side. The next moment a rider appeared in sight over the hill. He had now reached the top, and pulling up his horse, rose in his saddle and appeared to be looking round him.

"It is the Count," said Elsa.

A deep glow came into her face. "You must accompany me a little way now," she said, drawing a deep breath. "Come."

She took his arm. At that moment the Count, who had been looking above them, looked down, and saw the pair. He put spurs to his horse, and galloping down the slope, was with them in a trice. He had no doubt recognised Reinhold at once, for when he checked his horse and took off his hat, his countenance did not show the slightest trace of wonder or astonishment. He seemed in fact not to see Reinhold, as if he had met Elsa alone.

"This is good luck indeed. How delighted your aunt will be. She is waiting there; the carriage could not come any farther."

He pointed with the handle of his whip over the slope of the hill.

"I assure you it is so, though you seem so astonished. Your aunt was very uneasy at your long absence--inquired in the neighbourhood--learnt from Pölitz that you had come here--a strange fancy, by Jove!--your aunt was determined to come herself--I had just returned with Fräulein von Wallbach, and begged to escort her--was beginning to despair. Awfully lucky! May I be allowed to accompany you to the carriage? it is not a hundred yards off."

He had swung himself from his saddle, and held his horse by the bridle.

Reinhold looked straight into Elsa's eyes. She understood and answered the look.

"We are much obliged to you, Count Golm," he said, "but we will not trespass on your kindness one instant longer than is necessary. I will myself conduct my betrothed to the Baroness."

"Ah!" said the Count.

He had pictured to himself beforehand the terrible embarrassment which, in his opinion, the two culprits would feel on becoming aware of his presence, and the shock that the Baroness would experience if he could tell her in what company he had had the happiness of meeting her niece. He took it for granted that on his arrival the fellow would take himself off to Wissow, with some embarrassed words of explanation. And now he could not believe his ears, and he could hardly trust his eyes, as Elsa and this fellow, turning their backs upon him, walked off arm-in-arm, as if he had not been there. With one spring he was again in his stirrups.

"Allow me at least to announce the joyful news to the Baroness!" he cried, as bowing sarcastically he galloped past and hastened up the hill, behind which he almost immediately disappeared.

"Wretch!" said Elsa; "thank you, Reinhold, for having understood me, for having freed me for ever from him and all. You cannot imagine how thankful I am, nor why I am so thankful. I will not trouble your loving heart yet with the hateful things I have learned. I will tell you another time. Happen what will, I am yours, you are mine. That happiness is so great, everything else is in comparison small and insignificant."

At a slight distance from them stood the open carriage, and beside it a horseman. They thought it was the Count, but on coming nearer they saw that it was a servant. The Count had vanished. As soon as he had imparted the great discovery, with a sneering laugh to the Baroness, receiving no other reply than, "I am obliged to you, Count, for your escort so far"--the two last words being pronounced with peculiar emphasis--he again took off his hat and rode away over the hill.

The Baroness got out of the carriage and came towards the lovers. Elsa dropped Reinhold's arm and hastened towards her aunt. Her impetuous embrace told all that was necessary. As Reinhold stepped forward, the Baroness held out her hand to him, and said in an agitated voice, "You bring me my dear child--and yourself. I thank you doubly."

Reinhold kissed the trembling hand. "There is no time to make speeches," he said, "and your kind heart knows what I feel. God bless you!"

"And you also, my Reinhold," cried Elsa, throwing her arms round him; "God bless you! Good luck and joy be with you!"

He had helped the ladies into the carriage, one more pressure of the loved hand, and the vehicle started off, preceded by the servant. In spite of the hilly nature of the ground, it was possible to go quickly, as the soil was firm and the road good, even up here on the top, and Reinhold had urged the utmost speed. Only a few minutes had passed, therefore, before the carriage disappeared behind the hill, and half an hour must elapse before it again came in sight on the plain. He had no time to wait for that. He dared not lose another moment. The beacons were already lighted below in Wissow. At that moment a light shone over the sea, it was the signal for a pilot. It would be instantly obeyed, he knew; but at any moment some new arrangements might be necessary which would require his presence. He would take a quarter of an hour to get there at his quickest pace. He sprang in great bounds down the hill, when a horseman rose up right before him out of a dip in the ground which lay in the direction of the hills to the right, and remained standing on the path. He appeared so suddenly that Reinhold nearly ran against the horse.

"You are in a great hurry now, it seems," said the Count,

"I am in a great hurry," answered Reinhold, breathless from his quick run, as he tried to pass the horse. The Count turned it round so that he now faced Reinhold.

"Make way!" cried Reinhold.

"I am on my own land," answered the Count.

"The road is free!"

"And you are for freedom in all things!"

"Once more! Make way!"

"When it suits me."

Reinhold seized the bridle, and the horse, struck sharply by the spurs on either side, reared up. Reinhold started back.

The next moment he had drawn a long dirk, which, sailor-like, was always at his side.

"I should be sorry for the horse," he cried, "but if you will have it----"

"I only wished to say good-evening to you, Captain; I forgot it before. Good-evening."

The Count took off his hat with a sneering laugh, turned his horse round again, and rode off down into the hollow out of which he had come.

"Such people never learn," murmured Reinhold, as he put up his knife. It was a speech he had often heard from his uncle Ernst. His uncle Ernst, who must have felt as he now did, in the terrible moment when the sword descended upon him. Her father's sword. Good God! is it really true that the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children? That this strife will last for ever, from generation to generation? That we, who are blameless, must take it up against our will and our convictions?

A clap of thunder, still in the distance, but coming nearer, rolled through the heavy air, louder and more threatening than the last, followed again by a tremendous gust of wind, not this time in the upper strata of clouds, but already descending upon the heights and slopes, and wailing and groaning as it died away in the hollows. The next gust might strike the sea, and let loose the storm which would come up with the tide.

Another struggle was impending before which human malice would seem as child's play, and human hatred an offence, and only one feeling would remain victorious--Love!

Reinhold felt this in the lowest depths of his heart, as he now tried to make up for the moments lost in so painfully trifling a way, and hastened down in spite of all to risk his life if necessary for the lives of other men.

CHAPTER IV.

Few words passed between the ladies until they reached home. The aunt appeared to be suffering from extreme exhaustion that was increased by the rough drive over the bad road, which, as Reinhold had foretold, they could hardly distinguish from the heath in the rapidly approaching darkness; and to all this was added the oppressive sultriness of the thick damp atmosphere, in which even Elsa herself found breathing difficult. She also was silent though her heart was full, for she had thankfully perceived that, come what might, her aunt would be on her side. Had she not answered the announcement of Elsa's engagement to Reinhold, startling as it must have been to her, unhesitatingly, with a warm embrace which was more eloquent than any words? And now she scarcely once let go her handy or if she did so for a moment it was only to seize it again immediately as if she wished at least to assure her of her sympathy and love, though in her weakness she could do no more for her.

They reached the castle at last. The Baroness sank almost fainting into her maid's arms, and was immediately conducted by her, with the help of Elsa, to her own apartments. "Thank you a thousand, thousand times," said Elsa, as she wished her aunt good-night.

She was the less inclined to look for Carla in the drawing-room where she would probably be, as she heard that Frau von Wallbach had already gone to her room--to read, as she always gave out herself--to sleep, as Carla maintained. The chattering lady's-maid told Elsa, without waiting to be asked, that the Count had come there again shortly before their return, but only for a few minutes, and had brought Fräulein von Wallbach word that they would soon be back, probably with Captain Schmidt. The girl smiled as she uttered the last word, not so much but that she could have denied it if need were, but still just sufficiently to show the young lady that she knew more, and was quite ready, if asked, to place at her disposal her good advice and experience. The Count then had made good use of his time. Let him! for whatever reasons, whether out of hatred to Reinhold, out of jealousy (the ugly word was only too good in this case), out of miserable offended vanity, or only for the malicious satisfaction of himself and Carla, let him tell all Berlin to-morrow, as he had to-day told the inhabitants of the castle, what had happened. He would not certainly long have the pleasure of spreading about so precious a secret under the seal of mystery. The announcement of the engagement would soon enough break the seal, and could no longer be delayed. The post from Jasmund to Prora passed through Warnow at nine o'clock. There was just time. Elsa seated herself at the little table in the deep bow which was her favourite seat on account of the view from the window over the plain as far as the sea and Wissow Head, and wrote with flying pen a few heartfelt lines to her father. Neither she nor Reinhold had intended, since they were assured of each other's love, to do otherwise than wait patiently for brighter and happier days. But after what had happened she must be careful; there must be no gossip connected with the name of her father's daughter. No one could know that better, or feel it more deeply, than the dear kind father in whose righteous hands she now laid her righteous cause. She gave the letter into the care of an old and faithful servant, who, during the long absence of the owners, had been in charge of the castle, and now walked up and down her room in a strange, half-frightened, half-joyful, but wholly overpowering state of emotion. "Elsa von Werben--Reinhold Schmidt, Superintendent of Pilots. Betrothed. Berlin--Wissow." A Superintendent of Pilots! How odd! What is it exactly?--and Wissow! Does anybody know where Wissow is?--Wissow, ladies and gentlemen, is a little sandy peninsula, with about twenty houses, not one of which is a quarter the size of the shooting-box at Golmberg, or of one of the out-buildings of the ancestral castle of Golm, whose courtyard gate you pass on the road from Prora to Warnow. How extraordinary! Really! But she always had extraordinary taste!--and how wise of the Count to draw back in time from so unseemly a competition. He is said to be otherwise an agreeable man. That is always said afterwards. An officer of the reserve too. A la bonne heure! In that case the General's daughter could really no longer hesitate. And Elsa laughed and danced as she pictured to herself many well-known voices in this little concert, to which old Baroness Kniebreche beat time with her great black fan, but she started back as she skipped past the window, when a dazzling flash of lightning lit up the broad plain with a pale light, the Pölitz's farm lying there as clearly as in broad daylight, and at the same moment a long rolling peal of thunder made the windows rattle. And then it seemed as if an earthquake shook the very foundations of the castle. The tiles rattled from the high roof, shutters clapped to, doors banged, whole windows must have been blown out, as the wind moaned and whistled and howled round the walls and gables and through the joints and crevices. Running, hurrying, and calling resounded through the castle; steps approached her door. It was her aunt's elderly maid: "Would she come to her aunt? she was so dreadfully restless and excited, and it was impossible even for the young lady to think of sleep in such horrible weather." Elsa was ready at once. She wanted to go to her aunt to thank her for her kind consideration, and to beg her for her sake on no account to deprive herself of the rest which, after such a trying day, was so necessary to her. She said as much to the maid, who only shook her head and answered nothing, but conducted Elsa in silence to her lady's door.

Valerie came to meet Elsa at the door. Elsa was startled at the deadly-white, tear-stained face. She could only imagine that the shock of the tremendous thunderclap had increased her aunt's malady to this pitch; she begged her to calm herself; to allow herself to be put to bed; she would remain with her--the whole night. Her aunt would take courage when she saw how courageous she herself was, who certainly had sufficient cause for anxiety.

She led the tottering, trembling woman to the sofa, and would have rung for her maid, but the other caught her hand convulsively, and pulled her down by her on the seat. "No, no," she murmured, "not that; it is you I want; you must stay, but not because I am afraid of the storm--I fear something much worse than that."

She sprang up and began walking up and down, wringing her hands, through the large room, which was but dimly lighted by a lamp on the table.

"I cannot bear it any longer. Now or never is the time. I must speak out--I must--I must."

She suddenly threw herself at Elsa's feet, as if struck down by the thunder which just then pealed above them, and clasped her knees.

"It has been my hope and consolation all this time, to confess to you, so pure, so good! To free myself from the thraldom in which my tyrant holds me. To make the highest, greatest sacrifice that I can make of the one bright spot in this dark world--your love!"

"You will not lose my love," said Elsa, "whatever you may confide to me, that I swear to you!"

"Do not swear it; you cannot. See, I feel even now, how your dear hands tremble, how your whole body shakes, how you are struggling to keep calm, and as yet you have heard nothing."

"How can I be calm when you are so terribly excited?" answered Elsa. "Look, aunt, I have long felt that something lies between you and me, something more than the unhappy family dissensions, so far as I know them--a secret which you have not ventured to tell me. I have often and often longed to beg you to tell me all, but have never had the courage to do so, though I have reproached myself for not having done it. But lately it has seemed to me that you have been more reserved towards me than at first, and that has made me still more anxious. And I also had a secret on my mind, and did not venture to confess my love to you, notwithstanding that every hour I spend with you only makes me more certain that you--you above all others--would be just in the position to set aside the prejudice with which even my dear father is surrounded. Shall I confess it to you? Your relations with--with Signor Giraldi, however much you must have suffered and still must suffer from them--have seemed to me on this account to be comforting and encouraging. Whether you approve of my love or not, you will at least understand it, will be able to sympathise with what you must once have felt yourself, that one may love a man for himself alone, because one sees in him the ideal of all that appears to oneself to be worth loving. And now chance, if it is not wrong to speak of chance here, has snatched my secret from me. Take courage! Have confidence. Tell me all. You say it is the right moment, and it certainly is so. It must not be let slip. And now, dear aunt, rise up, and if I really am, as you said the first moment we met and now repeat again--your guardian angel, let me prove it--let me prove that in the midst of the happiness of my love for the best and noblest of men, I have the strength to free you, to restore to you the peace and joy for which your soul pines."

With gentle violence Elsa raised up her aunt, whose head had sunk upon her bosom, dried the tears on the lovely pale face, which seemed already somewhat calmer and more composed, threw her arms round her and made her lie down on the sofa, reseating herself on the stool by her side, after she had put the lamp out of the way on the console.

"I can only confess by the light of your dear eyes," said Valerie. "From any other my secret would creep back into my heart."

Outside the storm raged and thundered against the old castle, in long, unequal gusts, and whistled and howled round the walls, between the gables, as if wild with fury at meeting with resistance, and at this resistance defying its omnipotence.

"So will he rage," said Valerie, shuddering, "when he comes to-morrow and demands his victim, and she does not and will not follow him, if he does his worst, even if he annihilates her.

"Yes, Elsa, he is coming to-morrow; I found the letter when we came in. The diabolical scheme is ripe, which is to be the destruction of you, Ottomar--all of you. I myself only partly know this scheme. Hard as his heart is, he has yet discovered that my heart has gone from him--how much, how entirely, he does not know, he does not even suspect, or she whom he once loved as well as he is capable of loving, and who so passionately loved him, would certainly no longer be alive. Yes, my dearest Elsa, I must begin with this terrible confession, or you would not understand the worse things that remain for me to tell. You would look upon me as the most degraded of our sex; even your loving heart could not absolve me--if indeed it ever can do so!

"I loved him with an infinite, unholy love, the fiend, who to this day entraps all who come under his pernicious influence, and whom you must have known in the beauty and lustre of his youth, to conceive how even good women found it hard to resist his fascinations.

"I was not absolutely bad, but neither was I good--not in my heart at least, which longed eagerly for fuller joy; nor was my imagination so pure as not to be allured and captivated by the world and its glory. I may have been so unhappily constituted by nature, or the frivolity and luxury of the court life to which I was so early introduced may have corrupted my young heart, I do not know, but so it was that my heart and imagination were alike undisciplined and uncontrolled. How otherwise could it have been that the bride, whose wedding was to take place in a few weeks, fell desperately in love in one moment with a man whom she saw for the first time, and against whom, moreover, even her dulled conscience warned her, and that, in spite of all and of the utter hopelessness of this passion which she could not tear from her heart and--shame and misery!--with this passion for a stranger in her heart, she stood with her betrothed, in God's sight, before the altar, to plight him that troth which she had already broken in her heart, and which, indeed, she had already more than half resolved to break in reality.

"Do you shudder, my poor darling? I can tell you she had friends who would not have shuddered had they known! Yes, who knew it, and did not shudder, who, laughing, pointed to one who had already done so, and before whom no gentleman took off his hat the less respectfully, before whom the nobles of the land did not bow less low, and to whom learned men and artists did not the less render homage.

"Why should we not be allowed what was permitted to her? Were we less beautiful, less agreeable and clever? She borrowed from us the lustre which surrounded her. From whom did the fame of the Medician Court proceed, if not from us and such as we? So might we also allow ourselves the liberty, which she permitted herself behind the cloak she borrowed from us.

"And now occurred what I never for one moment believed possible, had never even thought of. My husband gave up his embassy, quitted the public service for good, and wished to live here on his property with me--to live for me. If the latter were not a mere form of words, it did not mean much at least to my mind. The fact is, he had, in his usual methodical way, made a regular programme for his whole life, and in it was laid down, that after he had served the State for a certain number of years he should marry and retire to his estates. He now intended to live for me as formerly for the State; fulfilling his duty with anxious care, without enthusiasm, without pleasure--marriage was to him a task which must be got over like any other.

"He had concluded and arranged everything before he confided it to me. I was horrified, rebellious, distracted, furious, and yet--dared not by look or word betray my feelings. There was only one faint consolation for me, that the mission on which Giraldi had been employed at our Court (our duchess was a Roman Catholic, you know) was ended, and he must at any rate return to Rome. We parted from each other with promises of eternal love, 'Even if we never see each other again,' I sobbed. 'We shall meet again,' said Giraldi, with that imperious smile that you know.

"I did not believe it. I was in despair. And with despair in my heart I arrived here.

"Was it really despair for the dreamed of happiness? Was it the soothing influence which the solemn neighbourhood of the sea, the melancholy solitude of the shore, exercised on my passionate heart? Was it that my better self was really getting the dominion at last? Little as I can say for myself, I may at least say this, that I took great pains to do my duty as the mistress of this house--the wealthy country lady. I tried even to love my husband, and there were moments when I thought I did love him. But only moments. I must admit that he was always and in all things a well-meaning man, who endeavoured to the utmost to act up to his favourite saying, 'Give every man his due,' so far as he understood it, and another woman would perhaps have been very happy with him. I was not, and could not be so. The profound difference between our characters could not be concealed, but seemed to show more clearly, the harder I tried to overcome it. He was extremely well-informed, I might even say learned, but with a want of sensibility which provoked me, and with a poverty of imagination which drove me to despair. Nothing was great, nothing was sublime to him. For him there was nothing heroic, nothing divine. I tried to enter into his prosaic view of the world, into his narrow-minded judgment of people and things. I was forced sometimes to admit that he was right, that the selfish motives which he discovered everywhere had in many cases played a part, had contributed to bring about this or that result. But what was there in this melancholy satisfaction of the intellect, in comparison with all the noble spiritual qualities which were thus left to lie fallow and perish miserably.

"I felt that I was deteriorating. That whatever blossoms my mind still bore, were withering as they came under the influence of this dry atmosphere in which he lived, in which he moved and spoke. I felt that in the dry sands of this unvarying commonplace life the roots of my mind were one after another dying down, that I began to hate this life, which was no life to me, I who had so loved life!--that I began to hate my husband, who imposed upon me this torturing existence in place of life.

"It could not last so. I had become a mere shadow of myself. The doctors shook their heads. Ah! if I had but died then. But I was still so young, I wanted to live. I swear to you, Elsa, that was all I wished for. In four such years of suffering one fancies one has learned to give up even the faintest glimmer and hope of happiness. Strange delusion! As if one could live without happiness; as if I could have done so, with the ardent, insatiable heart I had; as if I were not at that very time giving proof that I could not do it.

"But, truly, it is easy to see this on looking back, but when one looks forward, one does not see it.

"My husband naturally considered it his duty to follow the doctor's advice, and to set off on a journey with his young wife. Let me be silent over the splendid misery of that journey. It brought change, diversion, but neither peace nor happiness; at the utmost, it deadened for a moment the wretchedness that reigned uninterruptedly in my innermost heart, greatly as the young wife in her renovated beauty was admired in the society of all the Courts which we visited. I may boast that I victoriously withstood all the temptations with which I was surrounded; and yet not altogether. For if I did so--if I remained cold in presence of the passionate feelings which I roused in other hearts--if I was not touched by the love with which I inspired men whose worth I well knew, it was not conviction of the sacredness of marriage that guarded me; it was not pride; it was, although I knew it not, a deep, bitter grudge against fate which had denied me my happiness--that happiness of which I had dreamed. It was, in a word, the recollection of that great passion which filled my soul in my dreams at night, so that I saw my daily waking life only through its magic veil--the love which, unknown to myself, still filled my heart, like the aroma of attar of roses, which long after it is gone scents the crystal phial which it once filled.

"I discovered this when it was too late--when I had seen him again. It was not my fault. I had learnt from an apparently unquestionable source that he had for some years held an important post in South America, and that he was at that moment in the far West, on the shores of the Pacific Ocean. A command from the Pope--or, as he said, his star--had brought him back. You will believe me, Elsa, that I speak the truth, that the agreement which it is said we made together was an invention; it is further said that I, whether by agreement or by chance, seized the cleverly-arranged or unhoped-for happiness with eager hands, and drank it down greedily.

"And I?

"I went that same evening on which we had met Giraldi at an entertainment at the French Ambassador's to my husband, and told him that I wished to return home--the next day. He had given no reason when he threw up his post and brought me here into this solitude, and I thought I might also keep silence on the reasons which took me from Rome and the world into solitude. Neither did he inquire. He had already seen--had, like all the world, perceived the extraordinary charm which was even more remarkable in the man who had ripened to such splendid maturity under a tropical sun, than in the fascinating youth of former days; he probably remembered what kind friends then no doubt had told him, and what in his pride and self-confidence he had certainly not believed. And now this confidence was not broken; but it was shaken. The past years, so empty and joyless, stood out before his startled eyes in a strange and suspicious light. All I had suffered and been deprived of must have come before him. But it was still not too late, in his eyes. I wished to do my duty apparently by flying from temptation. He accepted silently what in his opinion was a matter of course. We left the next morning, and went home.

"And now commenced a dark and fearful drama which I shudder to look upon, even now that the entangled threads have become clear before my eyes. We had curiously changed our parts. Whilst I, proud of the victory I had obtained over myself, held my head up and took a melancholy pleasure in the renunciation to which I doomed myself, he suffered more and more from the disquietude which had until now possessed me; he was tortured by longings after a happiness which I had resigned. He had married me because I was young, handsome, and brilliant; perhaps had also fancied at the time that he loved me, after his fashion. Now he loved me for the first time with all the passion of which he was capable, and which must be the more fatal to him, that he, to whom a calm bearing had always been the ideal of a gentleman, was ashamed of his passion, and would certainly give no expression to it; and, what was worse than all, he must see, or fancy he saw, that he was too late in treading the path which led to my heart--which perhaps even now would have led to it. It is so hard for a woman to shut her heart against the charm which the knowledge that she is loved sheds around her. I saw how he suffered. I suffered terribly under it; for I held it to be impossible that I could ever return his sentiments; yet I suffered with him, and pity is so near akin to love! If children had played around us, perhaps everything would have happened differently, and I truly believe that their gracious influence at this stage of our affairs would have brought about a happier ending. But as it was, the reckoning was not between father and mother, but always between man and wife, and childless marriages are only too fruitful a source of sorrowful home tragedies. And yet all would have gone, if not well, at least better in time, which gradually buries so many raging flames under its embers, had not my husband been taken possession of by an unlucky thought, which became a fixed idea. What had appeared to him, so long as he had not loved me, as a piece of wisdom and diplomatic reserve--namely, our leaving Rome--now appeared to him in the light of a shameful flight, a miserable cowardice, which he could never forgive himself, which I could never forgive him, and which, infatuated as he was, he now held to be the principal--the only reason, indeed--that I remained cold to him, whilst he was consumed with love. He could not, as usual, find any soothing, explanatory words for the agitated condition of his heart.

"I should be in the dark now as to this portion of my unhappy history had I not learnt the real circumstances from letters of your father, which my husband on his second departure from Rome left in his desk, and which afterwards were found by Giraldi and shown to me. It appeared from these letters that my husband confided everything to his friend, and had begged his advice especially with respect to the fatal plan with which he deluded himself. Your father advised most strongly against it; not that he doubted that I should be victorious in the struggle to which I was to be exposed--a Werben would always, and in all circumstances, do her duty--but because he took the whole thing for a romance, that might do very well in a French play, but was altogether out of place in the realities of German life, and particularly in the case of a German nobleman and his wife. If we had not found happiness in our marriage, he certainly deplored it with all his heart; but he knew of no other remedy than the determination not to depart from the good and right course; and should this means prove unavailing, there was nothing for a man to do but to accept in all humility the fate which he had assuredly prepared for himself, and bear it with dignity as inevitable. We were not sent on earth to be happy, but to do our duty.

"Oh, Elsa! with what sensations did I at that time read this letter, which I took to be the perfect expression of a mind which had forgotten all human emotions in the formalities of the service, and which revolted me the more as I had clung to him who could so write with true sisterly love, and believed myself beloved by him as by a brother. What terrible experiences were needed before I understood what great though bitter wisdom, and how much true love, was in these words!

"A second journey to Rome was announced to me, like all these resolutions, in the most courteous manner, but with a tacit assumption of my assent. It was not my fault that I also had meanwhile learnt to conceal my feelings. In the company of taciturn people even sympathetic minds become silenced at last, and then for ever. I saw beforehand what would happen--yes, I was determined that it should happen. I have not concealed from you the frivolous levity with which I approached the altar. The evil disposition of my young and half-corrupted heart had not been fulfilled. I had continued a better woman than I had believed myself--yes, I may say I had grown better in time. Now that all my honest efforts were fruitless, that I knew them to be slighted and misunderstood, that I saw fate insolently challenged by the man who should have been grateful to me for having preserved myself and him from it by such great sacrifices of my own heart--now I became worse than I had ever been--now I became truly bad. I scoffed in my inmost heart at the madman who strove to gather grapes from thorns; I secretly derided the vain fool who could imagine for a moment that he could prevail in the struggle with the noblest of mankind; I triumphed beforehand over his downfall.

"It is terrible to have to say all this to you; all the more terrible as it did not remain the mere fancy of a distorted imagination, but was all, all most horribly fulfilled."

Valerie, who sat crouched up on the sofa, hid her face shuddering in her hands. A cold shiver ran through her slender form. Elsa would willingly have begged her to leave off for that day, but she felt that she could not take the bitter cup from the lips of the unhappy woman, to whom it gave one drop of comfort that a sympathising human eye should at last look down into the depths of her misery.

She comforted her with tender words, gave her a glass of water, which the exhausted woman hastily drank with feverish lips, and then again seized Elsa's hand, which she had all along held tightly in hers, and went on with her sorrowful confession, whilst the storm howled without like a band of demons whose victim was trying to escape them from the gates of hell.

"Alas that I cannot relate further without offending your pure ears, as I have already troubled your pure mind. But it must be. What is bad cannot be expressed in good words; and from the moment when I again touched Rome's venerable soil everything in my life was for long, endless years soiled and tainted, until at last I looked almost with envy upon the poor women in the streets. I was in the hands of one who seemed to have risen from the bottomless pit to destroy both body and soul. And yet it was years and years before this knowledge began to dawn upon me; years before the abhorrence grew into secret rebellion, and if this rebellion expresses itself in action, as I hope and pray to God it may, it is you, you only, I have to thank. I owe it to the new life that I have drunk from your loving looks, to the courage with which your strong, noble love has inspired me, which without neglecting one single duty, has looked steadfastly through all impediments to its one lofty star. I owe it to my longing to win your love, to be worthy of it as far as lies within my power, as far as the deepest repentance may expiate the heaviest guilt. I might call it a sudden insanity that threw me into the arms of this terrible man, in other words, that brought me to my ruin; and many things conspired together, too, to dull my feelings and judgment; the long torture which I had borne, and borne in vain, the violence with which I had been torn from such a hard-won act of resignation, the madness of a passion which, after having so long been forcibly restrained, now overflowed all barriers; the unholy charm which guilt offers to an undisciplined mind! How many have fallen who had not such temptations! But that this insanity lasted so long! that I should have known I was mad! that I chose to be so! It all appears to me now like a dark dream, in spite of the golden sun of Italy which illuminated it, of the perfume of orange blossom which surrounded it, and of the gentle tides of the blue sea which flowed about it. My husband had, after a few months, given up the futile struggle; he had gone away, beaten, broken down, without even the strength to come to any decision, only giving me permission in writing to remain away as long as I pleased. Whether he hoped that this apparent magnanimity would touch me, or that his absence would appeal more strongly to my heart than his presence, that the separation would teach me what I might lose in him--what I had already lost--I do not know. I only know that I had nothing but scorn and derision for what I called his pitiful flight, without a shadow of pity for him, even if I thought of him at all, or of anything but of enjoying my freedom to its fullest extent. And had I wished to follow him, as I did not wish, I could not have done so. Even before he fled I was fettered to him from whom he fled, by the strongest chains by which a woman can be bound to the man of her choice. But what so often brings about a transformation in a woman's life, what leads even the most frivolous to reflection, and awakens in her nobler feelings, brought no repentance to me, even--terrible to say--no joy. I needed no pledge of his love; and it brought to him whose path I would have strewn with roses, only care and perplexity.

"He had had no trouble in convincing me that my condition must remain a profound secret to all the world. Our hope was that my husband would himself insist upon a divorce, and as we--thanks to the devilish ingenuity of that fearful man--had never openly violated public decorum, as my husband had gone of his own free will, he leaving me, not I him, the separation could only terminate in my--that is in our--favour. Our fates were now irrevocably joined.

"And now came a circumstance which--Oh, Elsa! Elsa! have pity on me! How can I tell you? We reckoned on, we hoped for, my husband's death. From Giraldi's spies--he has them all over the world--we heard that my husband was ill, then that his illness was taking a serious turn, at last that the doctors gave no hope, even if the end did not come immediately. We tremblingly awaited the messenger who should summon me to his sick-bed; we thought over what excuses I should make if I did not obey the call; but the messenger never came. But neither did that come for which we waited in more intense suspense, as my time drew ever nearer. Though indeed we should not have been easily found. We had hidden ourselves deep in the mountains in a lonely place between Amalfi and Salerno. My old Feldner was our only companion. The loveliest boy was born, and as soon as I was able to move, was left in the hands of the faithful woman. It was necessary again to show myself before the world, and talk in the drawing-rooms of Naples about Sicily, through which we had hurriedly passed, and where I was supposed to have spent the last few months. And not one pang of remorse, not one wish to hear of or see the innocent child, left up in the mountains! To say that I was mad is perhaps the right word!

"But my husband still lived, and news came from Feldner that travellers--acquaintances of ours--had passed through her mountain retreat, and that she had only escaped discovery by the merest chance. The faithful soul begged us to liberate her and the child from their isolation. She asked if I did not wish to see the dear little creature again. A queen would be proud of such a child!

"Intoxicated though I was with the poisonous draught of sinful passion which none knew better than he how to mix, the cry for help from the faithful woman pierced my obdurate heart. I wanted to see my child; I wanted to have it with me. It was needed to fulfil my happiness. Nothing short of a full, even overflowing happiness would now content me. He had to bring all the force of his powers of persuasion to keep me from a step which he assured me would overthrow all our carefully-arranged plans. 'And if you do not consider yourself,' he cried, 'whom such an open admission of your position would reduce to beggary, think of our son, who would become a beggar with you. His future depends upon our caution, our foresight, our prudence; but prudence enjoins us to leave him in concealment until everything is decided, even, as his present place of abode has been shown not to afford sufficient security, to remove him to deeper concealment. It is only a question of a short time, of a few weeks, perhaps days. Trust me in this, as you have hitherto trusted me in all things. Leave it to me; I have already considered and prepared everything.'

"He communicated his plan to me. We had visited Pœstum in the spring. The young and handsome guide who had conducted us over the ruins had left an agreeable impression on my mind, as well as the plump little wife whom he had lately brought home there. I had envied both these poor people their unconcealed happiness. 'Those are the people,' said Giraldi, 'to whom to entrust our Cesare. The young wife will think but little of such an addition to her cares, and the strong husband will be an admirable protector to the child. Moreover, the presence of a detachment of soldiers at Pœstum is sufficient to ensure his safety.' He silenced my doubts, set aside every objection, and went to carry out his plan--alone. I dared not at this moment, when a thousand suspicious eyes watched us, when we were assuredly surrounded by invisible spies, leave the town on any account.

"He was back by the evening of the next day. All had gone perfectly as arranged. The child was well; the good Panaris (that was the name of the guide) full of joy over the treasure confided to them, which to these poor people became naturally a real treasure.

"Quite different indeed was the account of Feldner, who had accompanied him on the expedition. She painted with the utmost horror the wilds they had passed through, and over whose burnt-up surface malaria breathed its poison, and the pale, fever-stricken countenances of the poor inhabitants in the ruinous, dirty huts. The Panaris, too, had been ready enough to undertake the charge of the child, but the man was not without many doubts, which he had secretly imparted to her. The brigands were just then gathered in unwonted force in the mountains, and in spite of the soldiers posted in various places, and of the military escorts which accompanied travellers from Salerno or Battipagha to Pœstum, robberies had taken place in the immediate neighbourhood of the ruins. He could the less answer absolutely for the safety of the child, as he was himself never for a moment sure that his own property, perhaps even his own life, was safe.

"Unfortunately, out of fear of Giraldi, Feldner only let out these warnings gradually and cautiously. I myself, who had only been to Pœstum in the spring, and seen the broad plains covered with tender green, and gleaming in the mildest sunshine, naturally looked upon one cause of this anxiety as exaggerated, and Giraldi laughed to scorn the other objections. 'At the worst,' he said, 'it is an attempt on the part of the Panaris to get higher pay, which moreover I am quite willing to give them; and do you buy a silk dress and a coral ornament from the Chiaja for your duenna, that is all she wants. Only patience for a few days!'

"And as if fate itself were bound to serve him, a few days later news came that my husband had breathed his last here in Warnow, and with the announcement of his death came a copy of his will.

"I was distracted; I could have wished the world to come to an end, when all the happiness for which I had hoped, in which I had already revelled, lay shattered before me. I swear to you, it is the one bright spot in the infernal darkness of my unhappy soul that I never thought of myself. I lived only for him, lied for him, intrigued for him, stifled the voice of nature for him. I would have lived in a hovel with him, and in the sweat of my brow worked for the daily bread of us both. I would--but let me keep silence upon what I would have done for him--the infamy is too great as it is.

"He smiled his sarcastic smile. He did not believe in love in a cottage. My husband's disbelief in all unselfish sentiments had revolted me; here I only saw the right to a demand which so finely-organised a nature made upon life; nay, must make if it would not lose any of the charm which surrounded it. But if the will forbade me, under penalty of disinheritance, to call the man I loved my husband before all the world, there was no such penalty attached to a shame of which he had never thought, it did not forbid me to recognise my child. I would have my child at once. I had so much at least to retrieve.

"Now, I cried, that we are denied the luxury of a legitimate position, now that we are driven back to the sources from which we have drawn so deeply without asking anyone's permission--to nature and love--not one link shall fail of the chain which nature and love can forge; now for the first time I feel how only the pledge of our love can make our bond complete and indestructible. Let us not lose one moment.

"A feverish impatience had taken possession of me, which he--and oh! how thankful I was to him--appeared fully to share. I see him now, pale and disturbed, pacing through the room, and then standing still and spurring on Feldner, who in the hurry could not collect the child's things, and myself even to greater haste.

"'We do not want to lose a moment,' he cried, 'and we are losing hours, which are perhaps irretrievable.'

"We were getting into the carriage (there was no railway then), which would take us by Battipaglia to Pœstum, when an old woman, who had been crouched on the steps of the hotel, hobbled up, and in the cool way of a Neapolitan beggar, pulled him back by the tail of his coat, just as he had his foot on the step.

"He turned unwillingly, and--I have tried a thousand times in vain to recall the particulars of this scene--Feldner and I must have been just then arranging ourselves in the carriage. I only know that when I looked round at him the old woman was disappearing round the corner of the hotel, with greater activity than I should have given her credit for, whilst he, with his back to us, was standing in the entrance of the hotel apparently reading a letter. He then came out again. 'I had another direction to give to the porter,' he said, as he sat down by us and pressed my hand with a smile, saying, 'Coraggio, anima mia! coraggio!'

"'Coraggio!' I answered tenderly, returning the pressure. His face was so pale, his eyes looked so gloomy, that he seemed to me to need more encouragement than I did.

"It was evening before we reached Battipaglia. The little place, from which travellers over the lonely plain were in the habit of taking their military escort, was in great excitement. A company of Bersaglieri had just marched hastily through, a second company was on its way from Salerno to Pœstum, a third was lying in wait for the robbers in the mountains. Such a measure had become really necessary. The robbers had swarmed before the very gates of Salerno, and for days past no one could venture out of Battipaglia into the country. From Pœstum no news had come for the same time, and the worst was feared for the poor dwellers there.

"An inexpressible terror came over me. The unhappy child in the midst of this universal distress, in the very centre of the horrors! It was in vain now that Giraldi attempted to calm me by arguing that the approach of the troops gave promise of safety; I would not, I could not listen to anything; I could say nothing but 'On! on!'

"The people said we should not get far, and in fact we had scarcely gone a mile before we came up with a large body of soldiers, whose young officer courteously but decidedly ordered us back. The carriage had passed the lines against the distinct order of the colonel, and we could go no farther, as the banditti had rendered the bridge over the Sele impracticable for carriages and horses; very likely at this moment there was fighting in the open field before Pœstum. To-morrow the roads would be safer than they had ever been before; we must have patience so long.

"No prayers, no supplications availed. Back to Battipaglia! The impossibility of reaching the child, the fear of losing it, perhaps of having already lost it, drove me almost frantic. For the first time Giraldi had lost his power over me. He left me to my despair in the miserable inn and wandered about out of doors. It was a fearful night!

"The next morning the roads were, as the officer had promised, free. He thought it his duty to bring us the news himself, advising us, however, to postpone to another time our romantic trip. We had wanted to see Pœstum yesterday by moonlight! Good God! It looked melancholy in Pœstum. The little hotel was a ruin, the house of the guide Panari destroyed, he himself dangerously wounded in the defence of a strange child, which had been entrusted to him, and which the banditti had carried off to the mountains. This had taken place unfortunately the evening before last, so that the robbers had had time to convey to a place of safety their prey, on which indeed they must set great store, as they had made the most tremendous efforts to attain it, and had put themselves in such evident danger to place it in safety. There was, however, still a hope of snatching their prey from them. The pursuit was hot, and the precautionary measures well laid out. The lady might for the present calm her compassionate heart, and moreover, even if the child were to be pitied, the unnatural parents who had placed their child in such danger deserved no pity. Who could tell that they had not themselves planned the robbery, the better to hide the living witness of their shame, and that the pursuit of their accomplices was more than inconvenient to them? Such things had happened before.

"Oh! Elsa I Elsa! when the young man spoke these words so unsuspiciously, I did not venture to look up for shame and horror; I had provoked this fate. I 'deserved no pity!' and yet--and yet----

"But there was yet a possibility of escaping from this hell of anguish. Bandits were almost daily brought in--men, women, and children! 'It is not our Cesare,' said Feldner. I---- Good God! I should not have known with certainty if it were my child. Feldner cried quietly to herself night after night, that she had been robbed of her heart's-blood, her sweet little Cesare. I forbade her to cry. I threatened to dismiss her. I would not endure that he who appeared to suffer so terribly under the blow should be still further distressed by her complaints. He had in no way given up hope; prisoners had reported that a certain Lazzaro Cecutti, one of their principal leaders, who had for reasons unknown to them conducted the actual robbery of the child, with two others who had fallen in the fight, and his mother, with whom he had sent the child into the mountains, could alone give any information as to the destination of the same. Why should not Lazzaro or old Barbara be taken prisoners, like so many others? But they were not taken.

"'They are too cunning,' said Giraldi; 'they will not let themselves be taken; but when the pursuit is over, and that will soon be, the ardour of our authorities dies quickly, they will emerge in some distant spot and demand the ransom, which is naturally the only thing they care for; and on that very account we may be easy about our child, they will treasure it as the apple of their eye. Everything for them depends upon the child.'

"'But how will they find us?' I asked; 'we who by your direction have never openly claimed the child, have never offered a reward for his restoration?'

"'Those are measures,' said Giraldi, 'which would only have drawn upon us the attention of the public and the officials; that is to say, would have made it more difficult for the robbers to come to us unnoticed. You do not know either the loquacity or the cunning of my country people. The Panaris have assuredly not kept their counsel, and Lazzaro, before he achieved the robbery, knew our address better even than the police authorities; and when Italian bandits want to get a ransom they can find their men, wherever they may be. And believe me, they will find us.'

"The pursuit came to an end, very quickly too, astonishingly so, the papers said. It was at an end, but Lazzaro and his mother appeared neither here nor elsewhere. No one talked any more about the affair, it was buried in profound silence; the silence of death! Lazzaro was dead--he must be dead--he and his mother, and--my child! They, wounded to the death, drawing out their last breath in some deep and lonely mountain glen; the child, whom they no doubt kept with them to the end, hungry and thirsty, perishing miserably.

"Giraldi himself had to give it up at last. Heaven, he trusted, would send compensation. But Heaven, who had seen our firstborn given over to be a prey to the fox and the eagle, would not confide a second to such unnatural parents. The one so ruthlessly sacrificed remained the only one.

"And here I anticipate my narrative by years, in saying, that I thank God it remained the only one. More, I shudder at the thought that this child of sin and shame may still be living, may one day step out from the darkness which has so long enveloped him, may appear before me and say, 'Here I am; Cesare, your son.' Oh! Elsa, Elsa, everything is crushed and destroyed in me. How can my feelings be simple and natural like other people's? How can I do other than shudder at the possibility of finding him again when I think to myself how I must find him, who has grown up amongst robbers and murderers? in whom I have no share, save that I bore him, in whose soul I have no part? The son who would only come to help his father to rivet again the worn-out chain at the very time when I was in the act of breaking the last link? He feels and knows this. And it is by no chance, therefore, that he now, at this very time, has again and again conjured up that terrible picture--ah! no one understands as he does that devilish art!--Cesare is not dead. Cesare lives; wandering about the world in lowly guise, shortly to throw off the peasant dress and stand before us in his bright beauty.

"And I am to believe him--I, who have long been convinced, with my faithful Feldner, that what the young officer had thrown out as conjecture and possibility, with soldierly bluntness, was the terrible truth. He had taken the unhappy child to the foot of the mountains in the wilds of Pœstum, from whose barren slopes the robbers descend on to the plain, that he might be carried off at any time, that is, as soon as I showed a serious intention of producing him before the world, before the right time came. He--he himself had thrown the prey to these villains. He had learnt from the woman who came to the carriage-door that the villainous plot was carried into execution, at the moment when he would have given anything not to have contrived it. And then it unfortunately happened that at that very time the raid against the robbers was taken in hand by the Government, but at any rate the crime remained undiscovered; he could still raise his insolent eyes to mine as before.

"It is terrible to have to relate this, and to feel that though it was years and years before my blindness was in some measure removed, and I began to estimate the depth of my misery, I still endured it so long. But however slight the bond that unites bad men, that between a thoroughly bad man and one who is not utterly lost to nobler impulses is almost unbreakable, especially when that other is a woman. If she has repented her sinful life, and would turn with horror and aversion from her destroyer, fear prevents it; and if fear is forgotten in the excess of sorrow, she is bound once more and for ever by the shame of having to confess that she has so long been the companion of the reprobate.

"Oh, Elsa! I have gone through all these horrible phases. I thank heaven and you, whom heaven has sent to me, that at last I have come to the end.

"When we came here in the autumn, my soul was filled with terror, like a criminal who has escaped with noiseless tread from his prison, and is terrified at the trembling of a leaf. I knew that the crisis was approaching on all sides, that a word, a look, might betray me, the more so that suspicion had certainly been roused in him. A sure sign of this was that he no longer trusted his accomplices. All our servants have always been such. Even my old Feldner had long been in his pay--apparently. She takes the wages of sin, with which he pays her betrayal of her mistress, and we give it to the poor. She says nothing to him but what we have agreed upon beforehand. But since we have been here, he no longer employs her. He must even have begun to suspect François, a crafty bad man, who had at first promised to be a particularly useful tool, and rightly. Whether Giraldi has offended him, or the clever Feldner has won him over, he has come over to us. But he also has no longer anything to tell. It seems that his last commission, to accompany and watch me here, was only a pretext to get him away from Berlin, where Giraldi is weaving the last meshes of his net. Let him. I fear him and his devilish arts no longer, now that an angel has spread its pure wings over me.

"He has long lied to me as he has to all the world. The last time that he divulged his plans to me, and then only in part, was on the morning after my arrival in Berlin, a few minutes before I saw your dear face for the first time. I may not, and will not importune you with the repulsive details; it is enough for you to know, that with the courage to oppose him, I have also the power to frustrate his plans.

"The net, into the toils of which he thinks to bring you, will close around his own guilty head. When he comes to me to-morrow, sneering at the intelligence which the Count and Carla will hasten to impart to him, that Elsa von Werben has forfeited her inheritance, he shall have his answer, and if he announces in triumph that Ottomar has also returned to his forsaken love, and equally forfeits his inheritance, he shall not long await his answer; and if with lips trembling with passion he asks how I, his tool, his slave, have dared to rebel against my lord and master, I will seize you by the hand and say, 'Away from me, tempter! back into the darkness of your hell, Satan! before this angel of light!'"

With the last words, Valerie had slipped from the sofa to Elsa's feet, her weeping face hidden in her lap, and kissing her hands and dress in an excess of agitation, which only too clearly proved what terrible anguish the dreadful confession had cost her, with what rapture her poor heart, which so thirsted for comfort, was now filled. It was long before Elsa could in any degree calm her, only at last through the consideration that she must gather up all her strength for the interview with Giraldi next day, and that a few hours' sleep after such a day was indispensable. She would remain with her. She must allow her good angel to watch even over her slumbers.

She got the exhausted, broken-down woman to bed. It was long before her quicker breathing showed that Nature had asserted her rights. But at last she lay really asleep. Elsa sat by the bed, and gazed with deep sympathy upon that still lovely, noble, deathly-white face.

And then she thought of him whose image during her aunt's story had ever stood out in her mind, as if it were to him and not to her that the confession was being made. As if he and not she had here to decide, to judge, and to absolve. And as another tremendous clap of thunder now shook the old castle, and the sleeper moaned in terror, she folded her hands, not in fear, but in thankful emotion that whilst her lover was risking his dear life to save the lives of others, she was also permitted to pilot a human soul out of the storm of passion and sin into the haven of love, and that their works of salvation would succeed for the sake of their mutual love.

CHAPTER V.

The storm was raging that night through the straight streets of Berlin also.

Let it! What does one more discomfort signify to us, as we hurry along the pavement? We are accustomed to discomforts of every sort; and if a tile or a slate falls down occasionally at our feet, we have not been struck yet, thank goodness! And if a chimney should be blown down, or a new house fall in, or anything of that sort, we shall read about it in the papers to-morrow. We have weightier matters to consider, truly! The storm which raged through the Chambers to-day during the debates, will also unroof many a fine edifice on the Stock Exchange in quite another fashion, and many a great house which appeared this morning to stand firm enough, and command the market, will be shattered to its foundations, and will drag others down with it to disgraceful failure. Like this one here for instance; it is just finished after years of labour, having cost untold sums, and its magnificence having roused the astonishment of everybody who was favoured with a view of it, and the eager curiosity of the many who were obliged to content themselves with a sight of the lofty scaffolding. Was it not to be opened to-night with a great ball, of which for the last fortnight such wonders have been related? To be sure! And it is really a curious coincidence that it should take place just to-day, when the lightning has struck the neighbouring houses, that stand upon the same insecure foundations, have been erected from the same disgraceful materials, and are in every respect the same miserable swindle from basement to roof. I should not like to stand in that man's shoes.

Nor I either, my dear friend, but, believe me, our virtuous indignation, if he could be aware of it, would only be an additional satisfaction to this man. He has landed his goods in safety. What does it matter to him if you, or I, or anybody be drowned in the rushing stream from which there is no escape except for him and such as him? Who asked us to venture into the water? You thought, perhaps, that if he were not prevented from giving this feast by the black Care that sits behind him, he must be so by very shame, especially today when he and the whole brood of them have been branded with the mark of Cain upon their brows. And now look I look up at this splendid façade, see how the light from the innumerable wax candles streams through the great plate-glass windows, with their crimson silk hangings, and shines like daylight upon us out here in the dark! No contemptible gas except in the passages and corridors! That is how it is in the Emperor's palace, and he must have the same. That splendid awning before the door, which is being blown about by the wind, the Brussels carpet which is laid in the dirt of the street from the door to the carriages, will be thrown into the dust-hole to-morrow in rags and tatters. Why not? That is what they are for. But come--the police are already beginning to look indignantly at us. They suspect our wicked doubts about the sacred rights of order, which consist in plate-glass windows, marble doorways, fringed awnings, and Brussels carpets. Or have you got a card of invitation like Justus Anders there, who is lost in wonder over the varnished boots which so seldom deck his feet, and is in trouble about his new hat, with handsome Antonio following as his aide-de-camp, hastening in without noticing us his best friends; but do not look morosely at him, and hurl no anathemas at him out of the depths of your injured, democratic conscience. The poet is the equal of the king, and the artist must be the equal of the speculator. Those are laws which we must respect. And now let us go and drink a glass to Lasker's health. Only this one more carriage? Oh! you rogue! because there are ladies' dresses--it serves you right! Old Kniebreche. Sauve qui peut!

The old Baroness was of course there. She was everywhere, it was said, where anything was to be seen. She had been present at the creation of the world, and would assist at its end. She had first intended to let Ottomar get her an invitation, but eventually entrusted the honour to Herr von Wallbach. The dissension between the Werbens and the Wallbachs was no longer a secret, at least from her. Dear Giraldi, who was, however, discretion itself, and really only repeated what could absolutely no longer be concealed, had told her something--too terrible, but still not so terrible as what that good Wallbach, who had fetched her in his carriage, had related to her on the way.

"Poor, poor Carla! Absolutely deserted on account of a pretty girl of no family, whom his former mistress had had to intercede with for him. Wallbach was going to show her at this very ball the principal performer in this pretty story, a dancer from an obscure theatre. Wallbach must be sure to remember! She was so curious to see this person. In such an utter scandal, it was impossible to be too careful about the most trifling details. And if dear Carla had tried to comfort herself in her grief--of course, my dear Wallbach, what was she to do? It speaks for itself. And she had the dear Count there under her very hand! Oh! Mon Dieu! How I have been deceived in Ottomar, but they have, none of them, been good for anything. I knew his grandfather, and even saw his great grandfather when I was a little girl. But the old gentleman would turn in his grave if he knew what his great-grandchildren were doing. And Elsa--my dear Wallbach, I suppose I must believe that story, but it is a strong measure for a General's daughter. As to Ottomar drawing lots of bills of exchange--I know whole regiments who do it; but there I stop--further than that I cannot go, unless I heard it from his own lips."

"But, my dear lady, I conjure you by all that is sacred, be discreet."

"Do you take me for a baby--for a goose, for I don't know what? You have no business to talk like that to old Kniebreche, who might be your grandmother. Give me your arm, and point out a few interesting people. Will Lasker be here, too? What do you say? One ought not to talk of the hangman.-- What is it to me if tag and rag fall out together? But our worthy host--do point him out to me--the big, broad-shouldered man with the fine forehead and full chin? A fine-looking man. Bring him to me at once!"

Philip was charmed, at last and in his own house, to become personally acquainted with a lady who was reckoned amongst the few celebrities in which Berlin rejoices. Now, for the first time, he could venture to say that his entertainment had not proved a failure. Would her ladyship allow him the honour of conducting her to the ball-room? Unfortunately he had not been able to restrain any longer the young people's desire to begin dancing, or he would certainly have asked her ladyship to have led the polonaise with him. He flattered himself that she would not feel herself too isolated at his house, though several illustrious names would not appear in the list of those present; as, for instance, that of Count Golm. One could not have everything and everybody at once. He was, and always had been, a modest man; and that "a king's glory was his state, and our glory was the labour of our hands," was a saying which he had, all his life, held to, and hoped to continue to do so. Were the pillars which supported the orchestra real marble? Certainly. He was the son of a worker in marble. He might say that everything her ladyship saw here was real, save, perhaps, a little of the colour on the ladies' cheeks, about which, for his part, he had secret doubts; and the nobility of a few barons and baronesses, which might also seem a little doubtful to her ladyship. The Stock Exchange seemed nowadays to be all-powerful, but after all, however long the train might be, and whatever quantity of diamonds were worn in the hair, or sewn on the dress, what a difference there was between Baroness Kniebreche and Baroness---- He would name no names, but a difference there must always be. Would her ladyship permit him to offer her some refreshments? they were here close by.

"Quite a presentable man for a parvenu," whispered Baroness Kniebreche into the ear of Baroness von Holzweg, whom she met in the refreshment-room in the midst of a group of great ladies. "He understands the art of living, it must be allowed. There is not a more magnificent room in Berlin, even at his Majesty's, only here it is much more comfortable. What a capital idea to put a refreshment-room so close to the ball-room, and such good things too. What have you got there, my dear! Oyster patties? Delicious! Young man, bring some oyster patties and a glass of Chateau Yquem. How well that sort of man understands bringing people together. Of course there are all the tag and rag here--actors, dancers, heaven knows what! But if one does not look too closely one might imagine oneself at a court ball. The ballroom absolutely swarms with guardsmen. Well, young people, I cannot blame you; you are cocks of the walk here. À propos, what brought you here, dear Baroness?"

"Quite between ourselves, dear Baroness," whispered Baroness Holzweg.

"Of course between ourselves!" cried Baroness Kniebreche.

"Prince Wladimir is expected to be here for a moment."

"'You don't say so! Of course you and your niece could not fail. But take care! The 'illustrious lovers' are getting quite common. Come, come, I meant no harm; I readily allow the greatest latitude in the upper circles, if only the proprieties are observed as regards the lower ranks. But such things are going on now, dear Baroness--such things!"

And Baroness Kniebreche began waving her gigantic fan with much energy.

"May I venture to ask, dear Baroness?" whispered Baroness Holzweg, drawing nearer, in curiosity.

"Well, quite between ourselves, you know, dear Baroness."

"How can you imagine, dear Baroness--"

The heads of the two old ladies disappeared for a long time behind the black fan.

"And these are all facts, dear Baroness?"

"Absolute facts. I have them from Wallbach, who is generally discretion itself--but there are limits to everything. Is not that him there behind the door? Actually! and talking to Signor Giraldi. I must go there. That good man absolutely hears the grass grow."

The old lady got up with difficulty, and rustled off, with her glass to her half-blind eyes, towards the two gentlemen, every one retreating, scared, before the black fan.

Baroness Holzweg remained sitting, with an evil smile upon her pale, puffy face.

"Ah!" she murmured, "how pleased Agnes will be. The haughty Herr von Werben, who will not dance with her, because he can understand either secret or open engagements, but not those that cannot be made public! And his arrogant sister, whom he has forbidden to have anything to do with Agnes, and who has now taken up with a merchant-captain. Charming!"

"What is amusing you so, my dear?" asked Frau von Pusterhausen, coming back again to her friend. "You were talking such secrets with Baroness Kniebreche, and I could not get away from Madame Veitel, or whatever she calls herself. She chatters and chatters--I only heard a few words--you seemed to be talking about the Werbens? Am I right? And can you tell me what it was about?"

"But it remains between ourselves, my dear?"

"You may be quite easy, my dear."

And the two ladies put their heads together, one maliciously listening, the other spitefully retailing what she had herself just heard.

Giraldi, after he had wandered through the rooms for half an hour, met Herr von Wallbach, who had luckily got away from the Baroness.

"I was just going," he said; "the heat, the noise, the everlasting talk about Lasker----"

Herr von Wallbach passed his hand over his bald forehead with a gentle sigh. "To be sure," he said, "Lasker! it is a terrible blow. Such a splendid business. We shall never recover the blow, although he has not directly attacked us. It is the beginning of the end, believe me."

"I do not think it looks so bad," said Giraldi. "It is only the first shock; our Ministers have certainly behaved miserably, the mob will triumph, but the reaction cannot be long in coming. They will find that the sun of radicalism, which shines so brightly just now, is itself not without a flaw. The Government, if only to anger the opposition, will guarantee the interest for a sufficient loan for a time, and probably afterwards take over the whole business. The promoters must have acted worse than stupidly if a good slice does not fall to their share, amongst others to our friend the Count."

"Nevertheless we--I mean the Warnow trustees--may have to wait a long time for the payment of the second instalment," said Herr von Wallbach thoughtfully.

"I am certain of that," answered Giraldi. "You may thank your forbearance, which has lasted until the shares with which you paid him have gone down so far. If I had only been listened to, he must have paid the whole million at once, when the shares stood at seventy-five; it would have been possible, and he would still have retained nearly half a million."

"Yes, true," said Herr von Wallbach, "it has again been proved that you are the best financier amongst us. It is lucky that we got the first instalment. The money, if all happens as you say, is as good as the Baroness's property already; but, nevertheless, we must one of these days--I wanted to remind you of that--meet once more, as a matter of form, to receive your report. You have still got the money at Haselow's?"

"Where else?"

"I only mention it because we left the investment absolutely to you. I wish to heaven the time had already come when I was quit of the whole thing. At any rate I shall make Schieler represent me at the trustees' meeting. When a man is on the point of breaking with the son, he cannot very well be on friendly terms with the father."

"Pay Ottomar's bills to-morrow; close one eye to certain mistakes in the signatures which must be amongst them--how should he have managed otherwise?--shut the other to the fair Ferdinanda, and everything remains as it was."

"Do not joke about it. At the best there will be a fearful scandal."

"Better too early than too late. And besides, if the public hear of the new engagement at the same time that they hear of the breaking off of the other, all will be well again."

Herr von Wallbach looked very thoughtful.

"Since this morning, since that terrible speech," he said, "the Count's position has become much worse. I don't know what will become of him now."

"Pardon me," answered Giraldi; "to my mind the affair looks quite different. The respite is an immense gain for the Count. There are so many chances. The shares may go up again, or the powerful hand which enabled him to pay the first instalment may be held out to him again. If it is not, why, the trustees must agree to a compromise--say twenty-five per cent. off; that is to say, the Count can pay up seventy-five. And after all he has always got the entailed estates."

"True, true," said Herr von Wallbach; "that would always remain to him."

He passed his hand over his forehead.

"Have you seen Werben yet?"

"He will hardly come. He is more agreeably employed. Bertalda has again lent her house to the loving couple, and is dancing away the sorrows of her young widowhood. The polka is over. I will beg for a few more details from the communicative little thing, in case they may be of use to you. I shall see you perhaps to-morrow. For to-day, Addio."

Giraldi turned away at the very moment that Baroness Kniebreche came up, and slipped into the ball-room, making as he passed a sign to Bertalda, whom he met on the arm of a very smart officer. Bertalda dismissed her partner, and soon overtook Giraldi, who had passed into one of the less-crowded side-rooms.

"Well!" he asked, sitting down, and inviting Bertalda by a gesture to take a place by him, "did you get the money, child!"

"Yes, and I am extremely obliged to you. I was really in great need of it. My poor brother----"

"I do not want to know what you did with the money. So long as you oblige me, that is sufficient. The important point is, are they happy at last?"

The girl coloured. "I really did my best," she said hesitatingly.

"She never came?" asked Giraldi vehemently.

"Oh yes! I had told her so much about her brother's ball, and----"

"Your dress--and so forth."

"Yes, that also. But it was not needed. I saw in her eyes that she could not hold out any longer, and was delighted that I had given her such a suitable opportunity. She came, too, half an hour before the time, and found everything very charming, just as it was the first time she was there, in November, and helped me to dress, and--well, one knows what it is when a girl, who is really in love, is waiting for her lover. A ring was heard. 'Who can that be?' said I. 'Perhaps it is Herr von Werben,' said Johanna, who naturally knows all about it. 'What brings him here to-day? Perhaps a bouquet; he is always so attentive,' said Johanna. She turned white and red in one moment, and trembled from head to foot, then fell upon my neck and sobbed, 'No, no, I have sworn it;' and before I could turn round myself, she was out of the room, without hat or cloak, down the stairs, and into the carriage, which was waiting at the door--br-r-r!--and she was gone. Next time she will not run away, I am certain of that."

"Next time," cried Giraldi, with scarcely restrained fury, "as if I could wait a hundred years. I had so set my hopes on it. Made so much of it to him. How did he take it?"

"He was frantic. I had to spend half an hour in consoling him. There never was anything like it. I really think he will do himself a mischief, if he doesn't get the girl. It is no joke, I can tell you, to deal with them both. If I were not so fond of Werben, and so sorry for poor Ferdinanda, I would not do it for all the money in the world."

"Did not he want to come here with you?"

"He is lying full length on my sofa and would listen to nothing. But I think he will come still. An hour or so of that sort of thing gets tiresome, here it is delightful. There is the quadrille beginning, and here comes my partner; may I----"

"Yes, go; and if you see him, tell him that I expect him to-morrow morning between nine and ten. He will know why."

"I have been looking for you everywhere, Fräulein Bertalda."