German, French, English, and Swedish; sacred books and profane books; the best and the worst books. To-day I find her reading Rousseau's Confessions, to-morrow a catchpenny novel; to-day she studies Schleiermacher's religious discourses, to-morrow she is deep in the last horror by Dumas or Eugene Sue. In small matters she has good sense enough, but as soon as you approach the higher mysteries of our life here below, or as soon even as the question arises how a general conclusion can be obtained from the ma.s.s of details, she begins to talk nonsense, and produces such foolish aristocratic commonplace phrases that my head swims."

"This tendency of the baroness, I should think, does not serve to make your position in Grenwitz very pleasant?"

"Not exactly," replied Oswald, lightly; "but I try to weaken the addition of wormwood by avoiding as much as I can the philosophical effusions of the baroness, and by confining my intercourse with the family generally to the least possible frequency."

"But with all consideration to your time and your disposition, might you not have fixed these limits a little too narrow?" said the doctor, knocking off the ashes of his cigar.

"How so?" asked Oswald, not without some surprise.

"You will pardon my indiscretion," said the other, turning more fully towards Oswald, so as to look at him with his bright intelligent eyes.

"You know that physicians are condemned to play the disagreeable part of confidential friends in the families in which they practise. At one or the other point, everything in life is, after all, closely connected with our body, and as we have the control of that part of our patients, we gradually are made judges of everything, even of such things which seem to belong before any other forum rather than that of the physician. And even if there happens to be no connection whatever between the two questions of soul and of body, the patient is very apt to think: If you have told him so much you may just as well tell him a little more. Thus the baroness could not help telling me to-day--I am not going to flatter you or to annoy you, but only to give you a hint, which you may follow or not, just as you like--that you, who possessed such a very great gift to make yourself agreeable, and who could, if you chose, be so perfectly at home in well-bred society, were rather disposed to make no use of these talents. She regretted this all the more, she added, as this reserve caused a great loss to Malte, who was by nature a domestic boy and never so happy as in the family circle, and who now could not enjoy the privileges which he would otherwise derive from being in your society and becoming intimate with you."

"Is it not strange," said Oswald, after a short pause, "what inapproachable beings some of us children of Adam are? What you have just told me, I have told myself more than once. I have admonished myself that having once agreed to sell my time and my talents for the benefit of this family, I am bound to make all necessary concessions--and yet, now that I hear you say the same thing, it wounds my feelings.... But I beg to a.s.sure you that it is not you I blame, but only myself, and that I am all the more pleased with myself because the hint you are giving me with such kind intentions ought certainly not to have disturbed me for a moment."

"I was sure," said the doctor, "that I had to do with a man who knows how to separate the chaff from the grain; if I had not been sure of that, you may be convinced I would not have spoken."

There followed another pause in the conversation of the two young men; the doctor repented perhaps in silence having been led by his good-nature to perform the ungrateful duty of giving advice unasked, while Oswald pursued his thoughts, and seemed to forget entirely that the pine-trees were swiftly gliding past him, and the doctor's swift horses had nearly accomplished the distance between Grenwitz and Berkow. He started in great surprise when he saw a light shining through the branches to the right of the road. He knew it came from the house of the forester at Berkow. On the other side a path led up to the clearing in the forest, where Melitta's hermitage stood. At this very place where they now were, the baron's carriage had been waiting for him the day before.

"Pray let me get out here," he said hurriedly to the doctor. "I am amazed to see that we are actually near Berkow. It is high time for me to return."

The carriage stopped and Oswald got out.

"I hope," he said, shaking hands with the doctor, "that this has not been the only distance nor the longest distance on the great road of life on which we shall keep each other company."

"I hope and wish the same," replied the other. "It seems to me as if our thoughts and feelings had much in common with each other, and to meet thus a kindred nature is far too fortunate a thing to be easily given up again. At all events, I shall soon be again in this neighborhood. In the mean time, good-by."

The carriage rolled away; the sounds soon ceased to be heard; the light in the forester's house disappeared--Oswald was alone amid darkness and silence.

And at once Melitta's image appeared again before his mind's eye, and swiftly glided before him along the narrow forest path on which he now crept stealthily and silently like a poacher. Suddenly he found himself on the clearing; he stopped, frightened as if lightning had fallen by his side--there was a light in the window of the cottage! He had left Melitta at the chateau, and she was here, not fifty yards from where he stood--he had only to cross the meadow and to ascend a few steps--to open a door. Oswald leant against the trunk of a beech-tree to calm his wildly beating heart. And if anybody should see him here! If he should recklessly endanger Melitta's reputation! Breathless he listened ...

the night was silent ... he heard nothing but those strange, mysterious voices which are never heard in broad daylight, and which are born at the break of night: a whispering and twittering up in the branches, a rustling and rushing below in the dry leaves on the ground--the subdued barking of a dog far out in a village. An owl came swiftly and silently on its broad wings and nearly touched his face; it flew off like an arrow. Otherwise all around still as the grave. But what is that? A low, threatening growl, close to his ear? It was Melitta's gigantic dog, who kept watch and guard at the entrance to the cottage. The faithful guardian probably had discovered the presence of a stranger, for he rose, jumped down the steps, and came bounding along, running around the house like a shepherd's dog around his flock.

"Bonc[oe]ur?" called Oswald, as the animal came near him; "_ici!_"

The intelligent creature started at the well-known call, which he heard so constantly from the lips of his mistress, and quickly recognizing Oswald, he came rushing up to him and welcomed him by putting his huge paws on his breast and his shoulders.

"Ah!" said Oswald, caressing the beautiful animal, "ah! you permit me then to see your mistress? Come!"

Holding the dog by his long, curly hair, Oswald went across the meadow.

On the steps the noise of Bonc[oe]ur's paws deadened the sound of his own light footsteps, and thus he crept along on the veranda which surrounded the cottage till he came to the window. The window was open, and through the Venetian ivy which had been trained over it Oswald looked into the room. On the table stood a burning lamp, the globe of which was covered with a red veil, so that the sacred image of Venus looked, in the rosy light, as if it were alive. Melitta was sitting at the foot of the statue near a table, turning her face toward Oswald.

She had an open book before her, but she was evidently not reading; the delicate hand which supported her head was buried in the dark, abundant hair, and she seemed to be buried in thought. An inexpressibly touching expression, full of plaintive melancholy and of surpa.s.sing happiness, lay on her chaste, childlike features. Oswald had to make a great effort not to destroy the incomparably beautiful picture as it stood before him in the frame of the small window. At last he whispered her name.

Melitta raised her head, and fixing her large eyes fully upon the window, she listened for a moment. But then she smiled sadly, as if she wished to say: It was but a dream, and rested her head again in her hand.

"Melitta--it is I."

This time she had not dreamt. She started up with a cry of joy, to the door, to meet Oswald. She wound her arms around his neck, she felt his burning lips again and again on her own; she laid her head on his bosom; she looked through her tears up at him and said: "See, Oswald, I was just thinking of you. I said to myself: If he loves you he will come, he will surely be here to-day, and if he does not come, he does not love you! Oswald, you do love me--don't you? Not as much as I love you, but still, you love me a little, eh, Oswald?"

Speechless with emotion and happiness, Oswald embraced her again and again.

"Melitta, you are inexpressibly good and beautiful--whoever loves you must love you boundlessly."

Before the door of the hermitage, on a straw mat, his colossal head between his forepaws, lies Bonc[oe]ur. The swift motion of his ears, as soon as he hears a noise from the forest, shows he is keeping faithful watch. He would tear any one to pieces who should dare to intrude upon this temple of love.

CHAPTER XXII.

Several days had pa.s.sed since that evening.

Bemperlein and Julius had gone to Grunwald, and the former had already written letters to Melitta and to Oswald. His pupil had found a home in the family of a government officer, who had two sons of nearly the same age as Julius. He wrote Oswald that he had a long and most interesting conversation with Professor Berger, the results of which he promised to tell his friend on his return to Berkow, some time in the next week, in order to take a final farewell. This only he added, that he was more decided than ever, and ready to enter immediately upon his new profession.

The day after Bemperlein's departure, the surveyor had arrived at Grenwitz; he had stayed only a few hours, however, to hold a conference with the baron and the baroness, and then he had gone to another estate which was to be surveyed, and where, as he told Oswald, he would "raise his wigwam" for the present. Oswald had found him to be a very lively, witty, and apparently well-read man, quite young yet, but well educated, and he was glad to have a prospect of seeing more of him, as Mr. Timm was soon to come to Grenwitz to make plats and drawings. The baroness, always looking forward, had already ordered two rooms in the same wing in which Oswald lived to be prepared for him, and large tables had been arranged there.

For next Sunday the family at Grenwitz, with Doctor Stein, had been invited to dine with Baron Barnewitz, Melitta's cousin. Oswald had been very much tempted to refuse the invitation at once, but he had yielded to Melitta's advice and accepted.

"What am I to do there," he had said to Melitta, "they only invite me either because they want partners for the dance, or to pay a compliment to the old baron, but surely not for my own sake. I shall be looked upon there like a Mohican among the Iroquois, like a spy in the camp. I know the n.o.bles. The n.o.bleman is only courteous and agreeable to the not n.o.bly born as long as the two are alone; if there are several n.o.bles present, they run together like mercury, and show their _esprit de corps_ to the outsider. I tell you, Melitta, I know the n.o.bles, and I hate them."

"But you love me, Oswald, and I also belong to the proscribed cla.s.s."

"Unfortunately," said Oswald, "and that is the only defect, sweet one, which I have ever seen in you. But then you are so very sweet and good, and you go through all the mire without receiving a single stain on your robe. And much as you must gain by comparison with these vain, stupid peac.o.c.ks, I can yet not help fearing that unawares some spark of the fiery hatred which I feel for the whole concern, may fall upon you also. Now you are my queen, my chatelaine, who has stolen away from her chateau to embrace her beloved by stealth for a moment, and I forget your rank, your greatness here in this charming forest solitude. You are nothing to me but she whom I love, whom I worship,--just what you would be to me if you were the beggar's daughter,--but there, in the brilliantly lighted rooms, surrounded by your great people, flattered and honored by everybody, there I cannot shut my eyes, and shall be painfully reminded that I ought not to have raised my eyes so high."

"Now, Oswald," said Melitta, fixing her eyes firmly on his, "is that kind in you? Are you mocking me when you talk so? I hear it in the harsh tone of your voice; I see it in the restless flashing of your eyes, which contrasts so strangely with their usual calm and steady light, that you feel very well how you appear in our midst like a born ruler, thanks to your mind, your superb manly beauty and strength. I have given myself to you; you are my lord and master; I would willingly accede to your maddest whim; I would bear everything from your hand, even death would not seem cruel to me coming from you--but why will you pour even a drop of wormwood into the cup of love, from which I drink with such thirsty, eager desire? Oswald, do not laugh at me."

"I do not, Melitta; I am sure of your love, although I deserve it so little; I know that your love is humble, as all love is which beareth all things and believeth all things--but you see, darling, that is the curse of these abominable inst.i.tutions, that they sow distrust and hatred and discord in the hearts of men, even in such hearts which G.o.d has created for each other. And this poisonous seed flourishes and kills the roses of true love. I do not blame you for this; I blame no single person, who perhaps unconsciously suffers as much under these social distinctions as I do. But be sure it is so. The Catholic will never see his equal--his brother--in the Protestant, nor the n.o.ble in the humbly born, nor the Christian in the Jew--and vice versa. Nathan's pious wish, that man might at last be content with being a man, is still far from fulfilment: who knows whether it will ever be fulfilled."

"And until then," said Melitta, in her usual playful manner, pushing Oswald's hair from his brow, "until then, you dreamy dreamer, and incorrigible censor of the world, we will enjoy the fleeting moments, and that is why you must go to Barnewitz to-morrow. Pray, pray, dear Oswald, come,--and I will talk with no one else, dance with no one else,--I must go to this party in order to gain the right to refuse ten others, at which I--at which I--would feel less free than here. And without you I shall not have the least benefit from going; on the contrary, I shall be as sad as a little bird that has been caught and put in the cage. But if you are there, dearest, I will be cheerful and dance and sing--no, not sing--but I will look pretty, very pretty, for your sake. Shall I go in white? with a camellia in my hair, or a rose?

You have never told me yet how you like me best. Oh! what a wooden knight you are!"

Next day, it was a Sunday, in the afternoon, at five o'clock, the gala-coach was waiting at the portal of the chateau at Grenwitz. The heavy bays had the best harness with the silver ornaments; the silent coachman wore his state-livery; the baron appeared in evening costume, with the decoration in his b.u.t.ton-hole, which one of the many German princes in miniature had long ago bestowed upon him; and even the baroness appeared in a costume which made her exceptionably look only five years older than she really was. After the necessary ballast of cloaks and shawls for the return had been stowed away, and the baroness, already seated, had once more invested Mademoiselle Marguerite with the dignity of chatelaine--she would have much preferred going too--she stopped the coachman in order to examine the pretty French-woman once more for ten minutes on all the points on which she had obtained precise orders and regulations. Then only the order to start was given, and the coach moved with that solemnity which happily suited the disposition of the bays and the temper of the silent coachman equally well. As they pa.s.sed under the bridge Bruno appeared above, at the head of Malte and a lot of hired boys who were weeding in the garden, and gave three cheers, an idea which induced even the grim baroness to smile. However, the good lady seemed to be to-day in an unusually mild and even communicative humor, perhaps in order to prepare herself for the party. She thought the weather quite fine, only a little too warm; the road excellent, only rather dusty; she hoped for cooler weather on the return, only she feared there might be a thunderstorm brewing, for a cloud on the western horizon looked to her very suspicious. Then they discussed the question whether Miss Marguerite, if the storm should really come up,--a case for which no instructions had been left,--would have the good sense to order the upper windows to be closed, and then, whether she would generally do her duty. As it was not feasible to obtain a majority of votes, the baroness denying the question at once, Oswald affirming it as positively, and the old baron being unable to form any opinion whatever, the discussion was abandoned, and they proceeded to inquire with far greater solemnity into more important questions. Had Count Grieben recovered from his attack of acute rheumatism, and would he be able to be present to-night? How would Baron Trantow's gout be, and so on, till they had easily drifted into the regular family gossip, which is as current among the high and highest n.o.bility as among Tom, d.i.c.k, and Harry; only they speak there of Tom and d.i.c.k, and here only of d.i.c.k and Tom. Generally, when this favorite subject was mooted, Oswald had a habit of not listening, an art in which he had become quite an adept in the short time of his residence at Grenwitz; but to-day, when he was to see himself all the persons of whom they spoke, the topic had a little more interest for him, especially as Melitta's name was repeatedly mentioned. He learnt on this occasion that Baron Barnewitz and Melitta were first cousins, and that Melitta's father, Baron Barnewitz's brother, had been an officer in the Swedish service, had fought as such in the campaign against Napoleon, and died very soon after the marriage of Melitta with Baron Berkow.

"However, you know, Grenwitz," said the baroness, "Melitta will not be there to-night!"

Oswald listened attentively.

"How do you know, dear Anna Maria?" replied the baron.

"The servant showed me the list of invited guests; I always make him do so, in order to know whom I shall meet. I read it carefully. Frau von Berkow was not on it."

"Perhaps a mistake?"

"I think not. You know Melitta and her cousin, the baroness, are not very good friends. It would not be the first time they choose not to invite Melitta. But then there will be another remarkable personage there--just guess, Berkow?"

"The Prince of Putbus," said the old gentleman, almost frightened, and regretting in his heart that he was not in full official costume; "surely not the Prince?"

"No. Can you guess, doctor?"

"The man from the moon?"