"Yes--as I said before--that is why I want Julius to go to school. But here I chatter and chatter and do not even ask you if you are hungry and thirsty, and yet you must be so after all your travels on highways and byways. Come, we will go in and see if we cannot hunt up somebody to bring us some refreshment. I want it as much as you do, for I just remember that I have not dined to-day. Have you never been in the house?"

"Yes, at least in the great hall; I asked a large old clock if I might present myself before the lady of Berkow, but it answered: Non-sense!

Non-sense! so I went away again."

Melitta had risen and put on her straw hat, without troubling herself about the ribbons, of which one hung down on her bosom, and the other on her back; now she said, smiling, while Oswald had picked up the book and was looking at the t.i.tle:

"I suppose you also read something in all you see?"

"Yes, generally. This book, for instance, tells me: My mistress would have done better not to read me, since there are so many better books that she might read."

"Alas! we poor creatures who live in the country, we must read what the circulating library or the bookseller sends us. But why do you dislike these _Mysteres_?"

"In the first place, it annoys me to find them wherever I go. In Grunwald the book was lying on every table; I was not two days at Grenwitz before it followed me there, and here I must find it even in your house. I have never been able to read farther than the second volume, and here you are, to my amazement, already in the fourth. How _can_ you take an interest in this Chourineur, this _maitre d'ecole_, this Chouette and all the other rascally people? Surely, not half as readily as in the beasts of a menagerie, for these are at least G.o.d's own creations, whilst those men are nothing better than the misshapen children of the wanton imagination of a used-up poet's brains."

"You may be right," said Melitta, as they were coming down from the terrace. "It is perhaps a real misfortune that such books are written, and a greater one yet that we, and especially women, whose education and training are every way grievously neglected, find after all a kind of pleasure in them. For the rest, I accept all that Sue says of that canaille as gospel truth, as I do with the reports of travellers in distant lands and the marvels they have seen on sh.o.r.e and on board ship. I believe him perhaps all the more readily, as he paints that sphere of society in which I live, partly at least, with great truth, fulness, and accuracy."

"You do not really think _Rudolphe, grand duc regnant de Gerolstein_, to be true to life?"

"That I do not know; but I do know that stories like that of the Marquis d'Harville and his wife occur almost daily in actual life."

Oswald made no reply; he recollected what he had heard about the relations between Melitta and her husband, and how the latter had now been for seven years the victim of incurable insanity. A faint suspicion of the painful scenes that must have preceded the actual crisis, the fearful catastrophe, overcame him; he regretted having touched unconsciously the curtain that hid so dark a family drama. But at the same time he was filled with deep, unspeakable sympathy for the charming woman who was condemned to lead a lonely, mournful life in this green wilderness, in spite of all her youth and beauty. What were to her youth and beauty and wealth without love! and did she obtain that love which she deserved so well, and for which she yearned so ardently, she whose gentle, longing eyes betrayed an unfathomable depth of tenderness and pa.s.sion?

Sympathy is the first-born brother of the sweet sister Love. While Oswald was pitying the fate of the fair lady, he felt how a spring of painfully sweet feelings gushed forth warm from his heart and filled it to overflowing. And if old cla.s.sic love was born in the foam of the waves, romantic modern love not unfrequently prefers the soft, perfumed air of a luxuriant garden full of sweet flowers and fragrant foliage.

Voluptuous shadows dwelt in the cozy bowers; the afternoon sun lay dreamily upon the green lawns; the birds were singing joyously in the dense crowns of mighty trees, b.u.t.terflies were dancing merrily above the sun-drunk forests of bright flowers.

Slowly the two tall companions sauntered through the green gardens, now stopping to admire a rose-bush, which outshone all its neighbors in its exuberant splendor, and now following with the eye a squirrel, as it merrily flew from branch to branch and from tree to tree. More and more Oswald began to feel as if he were walking in a glorious dream, as if he were only dreaming of all this sunshine, this fragrance of flowers, this singing of birds--as if he were only dreaming of Melitta's sweet voice and Melitta's love-speaking eyes--and Melitta also felt as if she were seeing to-day very differently with her eyes, and hearing very differently with her ears. The strange man, to whom she was showing her possessions, looked so familiar to her; she felt as if she had known him many many years, as if she had known him all her life. On the other hand, the things she had seen every day for long years, looked to her almost strange now. So true is it that, after all, man takes most interest in his fellow-man, and understands nothing else as well in the whole range of his surroundings. For the sake of a single human soul, which chimes in harmoniously with our own, we cheerfully throw overboard all the plunder which in idle hours, and when higher enjoyments are wanting, has to fill up our life. And if this is true for men, it is doubly so for women. They know but one kind of bliss upon earth: to love; and only one happiness: to be loved. Melitta's heart, which for years had been forced to content itself with superficial affections and empty flirtations, was yearning after a true, deep pa.s.sion. When the young man now raised his half-reverent, half-defiant glances with sincere admiration and an almost caressing devotion to her face, and wove around her a magic net, whose meshes were constantly drawing more closely, she felt far too happy not to be heartily grateful towards him who afforded her such sweet enjoyment.

Thus she felt ineffably happy, and yet also more seriously inclined than she was accustomed. The storm of wild pa.s.sion, which was gradually rising on the horizon of her soul, cast its dark shadows in advance on her sun-lit mind, and the first cold breath tore the veil which time had slowly woven over so many a bright picture of past days. While Oswald was sketching a plan of education for Julius, such as seemed to him best, he accidentally came to speak of his own life; allowing the beautiful woman to catch many a glimpse of the innermost recesses of his heart. She felt this as a sign of his love and his veneration for her, and was deeply moved by it. Many thoughts which the young man presented to her in his lively manner with pleasing eloquence, had been suggested to her once before, and in almost the same words, by a man who had been very dear to her, and whose uncommon character had attracted and enchained her active mind while his roughness had repelled and offended her gentle disposition. Here, now, she found once more the roses whose voluptuous fragrance had then intoxicated her, but without their thorns; here she found what she had so painfully missed in those days: beauty of form, grace of motion, and harmony of speech.

CHAPTER XIII.

Sauntering up and down in the walks between the flower-beds, they only recalled their first intention to go into the house when they came near it a second time. They entered through the open door into a room whose admirable proportions, and simple, tasteful decoration made at once a most pleasing impression on Oswald. The tall chestnut-trees before the windows kept the room shady and cool. The subdued light was grateful to the eyes after the overwhelming sunshine of the garden. Comfortable chairs in various shapes and sizes, American rocking-chairs, French causeuses, a large grand-action piano, tables covered with books and portfolios, scattered here and there over the large room, gave it, amidst all the abundance of objects, something cozy, which contrasted most delightfully with the stiff regularity at the chateau of Grenwitz.

"I am quite curious to see if anybody will come when I ring," said Melitta, throwing her hat on a table and going towards the bell-rope; "it is by no means impossible that we may have to go ourselves to the pantry, provided always we can find the key."

She rang the bell and turned again to Oswald, who was looking at one of the marble busts with which the walls of the room were adorned.

"How do you like that mask?"

"Very much indeed--it is the Rondanini Medusa."

"Ah! I see you are a connoisseur."

"At best only an amateur. I have seen a good deal in the capital and elsewhere, but mostly only casts. It has been from boyhood up my most ardent wish to make a pilgrimage to Italy, in order to be able to worship at the feet of the great G.o.d Apollo Belvedere."

"Well, that is a very reasonable wish."

"Not so very reasonable, after all, if it is reasonable only to wish what we can attain."

"Then it would be unreasonable to wish for some refreshments now, as that does not seem attainable," said Melitta, in a playfully complaining tone. "But do we not often obtain something from Fate, merely because we wish for it most ardently, almost impertinently? Fate grants us our wish, as a mother often does the piece of cake to the importunate child, only to get rid of us."

"Fate is no capricious lady, but a hard, stony-hearted G.o.d, and if we want anything of him we must be firm."

"That may be so with you men, and perhaps it is well it should be so, else you would be too overbearing. But we women--what on earth would become of us if we had to be firm like that when we want a little happiness? We rather go to work and beg and pray, and when we are just about to give up all hope and to despair of all happiness--why, just then--you see, there comes Baumann, and with him a prospect that we may get some refreshments."

The door opened, and the form of a tall, thin man appeared on the threshold. He had quite a martial air with his old wrinkled face and bushy eyebrows; a deep scar ran across the bald forehead, past the left eye, and down the whole cheek, and his mouth was shaded by a heavy iron-gray mustache.

"Madam," he said, in a voice which seemed to rise from a deep cavern.

"Ah, Baumann, is everybody out?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"But I did not say they might go out. Where is mam'selle?"

"In Fashwitz, ma'am."

"And John?"

"Gone to see the forester."

"And the maids?"

"In the village."

"My good Baumann, we should like to have some supper."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Can you get us some?"

"Hardly!"

"Or can you find the key to the pantry?"

"Will hardly be possible."

"My dear Baumann, you must really see what can be done."

"Yes, ma'am."

Thereupon the strange fellow turned on his heels and marched out again.

"Well, what do you think of my _maitre d'hotel_?"