The lieutenant remarked that Helena no longer appeared at his bed-side; his eyes often rested upon her enquiringly when he was able to rise and go into his mother's room, but he said very little, he was not quite sure whether the sweet and charming picture which filled his mind was the result of a feverish imagination or the truth.

Helena was quiet and dreamy; she seldom looked at Wendenstein, the feelings she had so plainly shown in the days of anguish and danger were now most carefully concealed.

Madame von Wendenstein often turned her mild eyes sympathizingly upon the young girl; but she did not say a word, for she held that every true woman's heart is a tender flower, which must bud and blossom in its own way, shrinking back and closing at a rough touch. In her quiet pious way she had committed both these young hearts into G.o.d's hand, and she trusted that in His good time they would come to a happy understanding.

The candidate came very little. He was unwearied in consoling and exhorting the sick, and the whole town spoke of him with esteem and admiration. He said a few kind and hearty words to Lieutenant von Wendenstein when he first saw him, after his recovery appeared certain, reminding him of the grat.i.tude he ought to feel for the life restored to him when on the threshold of death; but Wendenstein felt a strange shudder pa.s.s through him as he spoke, and he sat still afterwards fur some time in deep thought, pursuing the frightful and alarming recollections which arose in his mind, but which he could not completely recall. Whenever he saw the candidate the same feeling of cold and deadly fear returned, and again his memory refused to recall the reason. He blamed himself greatly for his aversion to so excellent a man, and the more his recovery progressed and his nerves strengthened, the more he struggled to feel kindness and friendship for the young clergyman.

After some time of this quiet life, the day came when the ladies and the lieutenant, who could now walk slowly, determined to return home.

Notwithstanding her joy at her son's recovery Madame von Wendenstein had a new and deep cause for grief. The incorporation of Hanover with Prussia was quite decided upon, and the president had told his wife in a short and mournful letter that he should resign, as he could not at his age change his masters. He should go to Hanover for a time, and then he would buy an estate for his son the lieutenant, as he no longer wished him to remain in the army under present circ.u.mstances. The whole family could reside with him.

This letter Madame von Wendenstein received the evening before her journey. As she read it large tears ran slowly down her cheeks. She was then to return, only to leave the old house that for so many years had sheltered her, the home filled with so many remembrances of her quiet happy life. But she was accustomed always to conform to her husband's will without questioning it, and when she thought of leaving the old house at Blechow, which after all belonged to the office the president was about to resign, and of going to an estate which would really be her son's, and of the pleasure of arranging and founding a house for him, she dried her tears. She thought of the children and grandchildren who would always live there, and a smile played round her lips as she again read the president's letter.

The lieutenant's eyes sparkled with joy.

"Oh! how I thank my father!" he cried; "how grateful I am to him for allowing me to leave the service. It would have been too painful to forget the old flag for which I shed my blood."

And holding out his hand to his mother with a smile he said--

"And how beautiful my dear mother will make our new home; oh! it will be charming!"

He gazed at Helena who sat opposite to him, bending over her work. She did not raise her eyes; but she felt his look, and a deep blush pa.s.sed over her face, and Madame von Wendenstein saw it with a quiet smile; from the sorrowful present she foresaw a bright and happy future.

Whilst this went on in the apartments upstairs, Margaret sat with her father and Fritz Deyke at their simple evening meal.

The young girl turned the new potatoes skilfully out of their brown coats, they were first-fruits of the year, and she prepared them for her father and the guest who had become like one of themselves.

They were all three silent, and the young peasant looked very mournful.

"You do not eat," said the old man, looking at his guest's plate, though he himself showed but little appet.i.te.

"Perhaps I have not done them well," said Margaret, trying to make a little joke; but her voice was dismal.

Fritz Deyke gave a quick glance at her pale face and downcast eyes.

"I cannot!" he cried, as he threw down his knife and fork upon the plate. "When I think that I am to go to-morrow, I really wish I had never come; when I sit at home and think of how happy we used to be, especially how beautifully Margaret did everything at dinner time--no wonder I cannot eat!"

Old Lohmeier looked at him sympathetically, it was plain that he was sorry to part with the kind, goodhearted young fellow.

"Stay here," he said simply, "you know we should like to keep you."

Margaret looked at him with bright eyes swimming with tears.

"I cannot help it," he said, "I must go some time, and the longer I stay the worse it will be."

He sighed deeply, and his eyes met those of the young girl.

Margaret put down her head and sobbed aloud. Then she sprang up, covered her face with her hands, and leaned her head against a large chest that stood in the corner, weeping bitterly.

Fritz Deyke rushed to her.

"My G.o.d!" he cried, and tried to withdraw her hands from her face, "I cannot bear it, you will break my heart!"

He stood still for a moment before the weeping girl with his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the ground. Then he walked quickly back to the table and stood before the old man.

"Herr Lohmeier," he said in a firm tone, "I can no longer restrain my feelings. I intended to go home first and come to an understanding with my father, and then to come back here, but I cannot do it. I cannot see her cry, I must speak, and as to my father, I know beforehand quite well what he will say. Herr Lohmeier, I cannot be happy without Margaret, I have enough, much more than enough to keep a wife. I know you think me an honest fellow--give me your daughter!"

Margaret did not move, she kept her hands over her face, the low sound of her weeping was heard throughout the room, whilst Fritz Deyke looked at her father in breathless suspense.

He gazed gravely before him. He did not look much surprised, perhaps he had expected something of the kind, but for a time he was silent and thoughtful.

"It is all right as far as I am concerned," he said at last, "I have grown very fond of you, and I can trust my daughter's happiness to you, but there are two persons to ask about it--in the first place, my daughter."

With one bound Fritz was by Margaret's side.

"Margaret," he cried, "will you go with me?" And putting his arm round her, he drew her gently to the table opposite to her father.

She let her hands glide down from her face; her eyes were full of tears, but they beamed with affection and confidence, and whilst she gazed at her young lover, she said in a loud firm voice:

"Yes!"

"Well, that is one person," said old Lohmeier, laughing, "but the consent of the second is a graver matter, I mean your father. These are sad times, and your father, a thorough-going Hanoverian, will scarcely welcome a Prussian daughter-in-law to his house; she is the daughter of a stiff true Prussian, and I would disinherit her if she ever forgot the love she owes her king."

Fritz Deyke was silent for a moment.

"Herr Lohmeier," he then said, "you know I am a Hanoverian with all my heart and soul, and that it is a great grief to me that we are now to be Prussian, but what can I do, or how can Margaret help it? We did not make the politics and we can't change them; would to G.o.d Prussia and Hanover could come to as good an understanding as we have done.

However," he added more warmly, "I cannot complain, for if Prussia takes my country at least it gives me the best thing it has, and my annexation is a peaceful one, of heart to heart."

He embraced Margaret, and looked imploringly at the old man.

But he continued grave and thoughtful--

"Will your father think so?" he asked.

Fritz considered a moment, then he cried suddenly,

"Wait a moment!" and rushed from the room.

Lohmeier looked after him with surprise. "Where is he going?" he asked.

"I think I know," said Margaret; "he has often told me what a great respect his father has for Madame von Wendenstein, and how he will do anything at a word from her."

Fritz soon came back.

"Madame von Wendenstein begs you to go to her," said he to old Lohmeier with a look of delight.

He stood up at once, brushed his sleeve with the tips of his fingers, stroked his grey hair with the palm of his hand and went upstairs.

Fritz and Margaret remained alone.