"It is the nephew who is appointed adjunct here," said the president, "and to whom the pastor will in time resign. I am very glad that the king graciously granted our good Berger's request, especially as I believe the Consistory would not have appointed him. Perhaps, too, he may be a _parti_ for our pretty Helena."

The lieutenant cast a quick glance at his father, and then stood up and looked silently out over the terrace.

A whispering was heard in the ante-room, and an old servant entered, and said, "Fritz Deyke wishes to speak to the lieutenant."

The young man turned round quickly, and called out, "Come in! come in!

my good Fritz. What brings you here, my lad?" asked he kindly, as he walked towards the door, where young Deyke stood in a stiff att.i.tude, holding his cap in his hand.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but I want to ask you a favour."

"Out with it then!" cried the lieutenant gaily, "it is granted beforehand."

"I hear in the village," said the young peasant, "that war is about to break out, and that the king himself will take the field. Then I must go too; and I came to beg you, sir, as you have known me from a child, to take me with you as a servant, that we might go to the wars together."

"Stop, my dear fellow," cried the officer, "we have not got so far as that, we are not to march yet, perhaps not at all; at present there is no increase of troops, for the army remains on the strength it has in time of peace, so with the best will in the world I cannot take you.

But," he continued, "if it really begins, I promise to take you, not as my servant, I have already a very quiet, respectable man; and," he added laughingly, "my old friend Deyke's son is in too good a position to be a servant."

"Not to be _your_ servant, sir," said Fritz, with such pride in his voice that it was evident he thought himself quite above being servant to anyone else.

"Be easy about it," said the lieutenant, "you shall certainly come with me; at the right time I will take care to get you into my troop, then we shall always be able to talk of when we were in the dragoons together."

"You promise it, and that I shall keep near you?" asked the young peasant.

"I promise," said the lieutenant, "my hand upon it!"

He gave his hand to his former playmate with great heartiness; the latter seized it and shook it warmly, saying,--

"Then G.o.d grant, sir, we may not be parted long!"

Whilst the young peasant took leave of the officer, the servant had silently opened the door, and the pastor, accompanied by his daughter and his nephew, had entered.

The pastor introduced the candidate to Herr von Wendenstein, who shook hands with him and led him to his wife, by whom he was welcomed with a few friendly words.

Helena laid aside her hat and a.s.sisted Miss von Wendenstein in the final arrangements of the tea-table. The lieutenant joined the young ladies.

"Now, Miss Helena," he said, "I am quite in earnest, you really must give me your good wishes, for, perhaps, I shall soon have need of them.

Will you not," he cried warmly, as he looked into her eyes, "will you not sometimes think of me, if we actually march, and send your good wishes after me?"

She looked at him for a moment, and then cast down her eyes, as she said in a voice that trembled slightly,--

"Certainly, I will think of you, and I will pray to G.o.d to take care of you."

He looked at her with emotion: the words were so simple, and so natural, and yet they touched for the first time something in his heart, which seemed to tell him that if he really did march as he so greatly desired to this merry war, he must leave much that he loved behind him.

"I remember very well," he said, after a moment's silence, "the dark cloud we saw the evening before my father's birthday, and how it was driven farther and farther from the light of the moon. I think of it now, that I shall not be here for a long while, perhaps, indeed, this is the last time I shall ever be at home. You see, Miss Helena," he continued, lightly and jestingly, as if he wished to conceal his feelings, "I learn from you--I have got on,--I remember your beautiful thoughts; another step, and I may have ideas of my own."

She answered neither his earnest words nor his jest, but looked up at him in silence.

"Tea is ready, dear mamma," said Miss von Wendenstein, as she gave a last scrutinizing glance at the large round table, which, contrary to custom, was brought into the drawing-room, and bore an improvised supper.

Madame von Wendenstein rose, and approached the table with the pastor, her husband and the candidate followed.

"You will sit by me, will you not?" half whispered the lieutenant to Helena, "for the sake of old times."

She did not reply, but silently took the chair next to him.

The candidate gave the young people a glance of disapproval, as he seated himself beside the young lady of the house.

The cheerful spirits that usually prevailed in the old castle at Blechow were to-day quite wanting. The conversation was forced. No one said what he thought, and no one thought what he said. The jokes, which the president sometimes attempted with an effort, fell flat, like spent rockets; and many quiet tears fell into Madame von Wendenstein's plate.

The lieutenant drew out his watch.

"Time is up," he said, "will you excuse me, mother? John, my horse."

They all rose.

"Yet one request," said the lieutenant, "sing me one song before I leave, Miss Helena. You know how much I like to hear you sing, and to-day I must carry away the happiest recollection of my dear home."

A slight shiver seemed to run through the young girl's slender frame.

She made a movement with her hand as if to refuse.

"I beg it," he said in a low voice.

The president opened the piano, and Helena soon sat before it, led thither by Miss von Wendenstein. The lieutenant leaned against the door opening into the garden, through which there still came the clear twilight that lasts so far into the nights of June.

Helena placed her hands upon the notes and gazed straight before her.

Then she struck a few chords, and as if compelled by some unknown impulse she began to sing Mendelssohn's beautiful melody,

"Es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rath, Da.s.s man vom Liebsten, was man hat, Muss scheiden."

Her lovely pure voice had great richness of tone, and filled the room as with a magnetic stream. The lieutenant stepped outside into the shadow of the evening twilight, and Madame von Wendenstein rested her head in her hands, whilst her sobs became audible.

The voice of the singer grew richer and more expressive, though her face showed only blank indifference, and as she reached the conclusion a firm conviction, a holy faith rang through her song:

"Wenn Menschen auseinander gehn, So sagen sie: Auf Wiedersehn!"

There was a deep silence as she ended, so great was the impression made by the song.

The lieutenant came back from the terrace, looking very grave. He gave one long affectionate look at the young girl, who had risen from her seat and was standing near the piano, her eyes cast down, and with the same calm expressionless look on her face; then he went up to his mother and kissed her hand.

The old lady stood up, took his head between her hands, and pressed a warm kiss upon his brow. She whispered softly, "G.o.d protect you, my son;" then she gently thrust him from her, as if she wished the sorrow of leave-taking to be ended.

The president pressed his son's hand, and said:

"Go, if G.o.d wills it so, and let your acts be worthy of your position and your name! Now no more adieux," cried the old gentleman, looking with concern at his wife, who had sunk back on the sofa, and covered her face with her handkerchief. "To horse! we will accompany you outside."