"No, no!"

"Yes, Melitta! It will be so, and--now I know what the dark storm-cloud meant which I saw the other day hang over your head. You may be sure the blow will fall upon you sooner or later, and when you are cast down by its violence and do not wish to live any longer,--though you cannot yet die,--then, Melitta, then you will perhaps be able to understand what I suffer; then you will be sorry in your heart for the wrong you have done me. Would to G.o.d you could be spared that awaking! The penalty is so enormous! But, but--you will have to pay it. Farewell, Melitta! Pardon me if I have pained you; it shall not happen again; it is the first and the last time I have spoken thus to you. Farewell, Melitta!--Melitta, have you not one kind word for me?"

Melitta had pressed her face into her hands; the twilight which reigned in the room concealed all but the mere att.i.tude of her form--she would not or could not answer.

The baron held both his hands over her head.

"G.o.d help you, Melitta!" he said, and the voice of the proud, stern man sounded soft and mild like a father's voice.

When Melitta heard the door close behind him, she started up from her chair and stepped forward hurriedly. But halfway she paused.

"No, no!" she murmured; "it is better so; I must not leave him a ray of hope."

She went slowly back to her chair. She sat down again and covered her face once more with her hands. And now the long pent-up tears broke in streams from her eyes. "I know it will come so," she murmured, "but why must he cruelly break the short dream of my happiness?"

CHAPTER IV.

The postman who carried Helen's letter in the evening to town, had been there once before in the morning of the same day. He had brought Oswald a letter from one of his friends in Grunwald, who was at the same time one of the few with whom Professor Berger was intimate. This gentleman, a teacher at the University, wrote Oswald that he thought he was bound to inform him promptly of an event which had created, the day before, the greatest consternation in the city. Professor Berger had suddenly become insane; at least no one had had the slightest suspicion of his affection. He had come, as usual, at four o'clock to deliver his lecture on Logic, and had commenced his discourse as ably and ingeniously as ever. Then his words had gradually become more and more confused, so that one student after the other had laid down his pen, staring at his neighbor in wonder and terror. "Do you know, gentlemen,"

he had said, "what the youth of Sas beheld when he raised the veil that hid the great secret?--the great secret which was to be the key to all the confused riddles of life? You see, gentlemen, I take my head, I open it thus, one-half in this hand, the other in that hand, what do you see in this head of the great Professor Berger, at whose feet you sit listening to his wise words, and taking them down with hideously grating pens in your tiresome note-books? What do you see? Exactly what the youth of Sas saw, when he raised the veil of truth: Nothing!

Absolutely nothing, nothing in itself, nothing for itself! And this lesson, that all our best endeavors amount to nothing, that we spend our life's blood for nothing, that, gentlemen, deprived the youth of Sas of his senses, that has made me mad, and will one of these days send you to an asylum, if you have any brains in your empty heads. And now, gentlemen, shut up your stupid note-books, so that the scribbling may come to an end, and join me in the n.o.ble and significative song: There is a fly on the wall, a fly, a fly!" Berger had then commenced to sing in a loud voice, beating his desk with his hands; had run along the walls of the lecture-room, trying to catch imaginary flies, and had each time opened the hand cautiously, looked in, and cried out triumphantly: "Nothing, gentlemen, you see nothing, and ever nothing!"

Oswald's correspondent closed with the news that Professor Berger had immediately been sent to the celebrated Insane Asylum of Doctor Birkenhain, in N., and that he had allowed his friends to dispose of him as they thought best, after they had persuaded him that he was going to see there the Original Nothing.

Oswald was deeply moved by the contents of that letter. He had loved and honored Berger as a friend; he had won his good-will in an unusual degree, and been allowed to see more than anybody else, perhaps, of the inner life of the eccentric man. How often had he listened to his marvellous eloquence, when he, suddenly leaving the world of logic, had entered upon a world of which all we know has been revealed to us by intuition; a world so fantastic, so fabulous, but also so divinely beautiful and pure, that Oswald forgot everything else, and fancied he was walking bodily about in this Fata Morgana, till the magician let the gorgeous image sink and vanish by a word of bitter contempt and wild despair! And now this n.o.ble mind, with all its wealth, was destroyed! This lofty intellect buried in the hideous night of insanity!

Oswald felt as if the world was out of joint--so fearful, so inconceivable appeared to him this calamity. Must not all fall to ruin if such a magnificent pillar could stand no longer? Then friendship and love also were probably nothing but fables--then it was, perhaps, also more than a mere accident which betrayed to him this morning Oldenburg's present whereabouts?--For when Oswald had glanced at the letters which the postman had taken out of his mail-bag, to select his own, he had noticed one, which was evidently directed in Oldenburg's peculiar and unmistakable handwriting. The letter was for his steward at Cona. Why should the baron not write to his steward? But Oswald also noticed the stamp, which showed where the letter came from; and that was the same town to which Berger had just been sent--the same place where Baron Berkow had been living for seven years--the same place where Melitta had now been a fortnight, two days longer than Oldenburg's mysterious journey! Melitta, in her long letter which Oswald had received through Baumann, had not said a word about the baron; Bemperlein, however, must have written Baumann all about it, and hence the old man had been so embarra.s.sed when he mentioned the persons who had been present at Melitta's visit to her husband. Why this mysterious manner in a man who looked like frankness and candor itself?

Had he received orders to the purpose, or did he know his mistress so perfectly, that he preferred not to tell the whole truth in a case like this?

These were the evil thoughts which filled Oswald's heart, as he was standing bareheaded in the hot afternoon sun, staring at the water in the fountain with the Naiad, while Miss Helen, at her writing-table, was wondering whether she was perhaps herself the cause of this troubled state of mind. But before she could come to any satisfactory conclusion about it, there came a knock at the door. The young lady immediately locked her portfolio, and seemed to be deep in Lamartine's _Voyage en Orient_, when upon her invitation the door opened and the baroness entered.

"Do I disturb you, dear Helen?"

"Not at all, my dear mamma," said the young girl, rising and going to meet her mother.

"You were staying so unusually long in your room to-day, that I thought I had better see what keeps you here. Lamartine's _Voyage_! Well, quite a nice book, but a little too romantic, I should say. To be sure, at my age the views of life change, and with them our views on books and men.

But I am glad you are not idle, as you have the talent to occupy yourself. I was almost afraid our monotonous life here would contrast too badly with the gay animation of the Inst.i.tute, and you might feel the difference unpleasantly. We can do so little for your amus.e.m.e.nt here! That was always my reply when your father wanted you to come home from boarding-school."

"But I a.s.sure you, dear mamma, you trouble yourself quite unnecessarily," said Miss Helen, kissing her mother's hand respectfully. "I am very happy here, and how could it be otherwise? I am once more in my paternal home, where everybody meets me with love and kindness. I have all I can wish for. I should really be very, very ungrateful, if I were to forget that for a moment."

"You are a dear, sensible girl," said the baroness, kissing her beautiful daughter on the forehead. "You will give me great joy yet.

That is my certain hope, as it is my daily prayer. Ah, my dear child, believe me, I stand in need of such a prospect, if I am not to succ.u.mb to the many cares which oppress me."

The baroness had taken a seat on a small sofa; she looked quite excited, and dried her eyes with her handkerchief.

"Why, dear mamma," said Miss Helen, with sincere sympathy, "I am only a simple, inexperienced girl, but if you feel confidence in me, tell me what it is? Even if I cannot advise or help, I can perhaps comfort you, and that would give me very great pleasure."

"My dear child," said the baroness, "you have been away from your father's house so very long,--come, sit down here, and let us have a nice confidential chat,--that you know of course very little about our circ.u.mstances. You think we are rich, very rich; but the truth is almost the contrary; at least as far as we women are concerned.

The whole large fortune goes to your brother after your father's death--which G.o.d Almighty will, I hope, defer for a long time yet--I shall have nothing but the small insurance, and you, my poor child, will be left without anything at all."

"But, mamma, I have always heard that Stantow and Baerwalde belong to papa, and that he can dispose of them as he likes?"

"You are mistaken, my child; the two estates do not belong to him; they may belong to him one of these days, if the real heir does not come forward within a certain time. I cannot tell you all about that now, my dear child, because that involves certain facts connected with your uncle Harald, which are better not mentioned. Enough, we cannot count upon the two farms with any certainty. All that is left us will amount to a few thousand dollars, which your father and I have been able to lay by from the annual revenue."

"Dear mamma, I wish you would not trouble yourself about me," said Miss Helen. "I have not been spoilt in Hamburg, and the luxuries with which your kindness surrounds me here are quite new to me. I shall be able to be content with little--and then our dear papa is, G.o.d be thanked, so active and hearty again, and has so quickly recovered from his fever attack in Hamburg, that I hope we shall enjoy for a long time yet his love and his excellent management."

"G.o.d grant it," said the baroness, "but I fear we shall have to be prepared for the worst. Your father is by no means as hearty as you think. He is always suffering, although he does not let us see it. The doctor in Hamburg thought his case a very grave one. If he should be taken from us you might easily have an opportunity to prove your powers of endurance. But, dear child, you do not know what life is. It is much easier to talk of poverty than to bear it. I know it from experience; I was a poor girl when your father married me; I know what it means to have to turn a dress again and again, for want of money to buy a new one; I know what painful mortifications a poor girl of good family has to endure."

"I cannot think, dearest mamma, that things will ever be quite so bad as that. Perhaps it is because I am so young, or the fine summer-day outdoors--but I cannot see the clouds that you speak of so sadly. I shall----"

"Marry a rich and deserving man," said the baroness, with a smile which did not render her more attractive.

"But, mamma----"

"I know you meant to say something else, my child. It is a jest now, which, however, will soon change into reality, I hope. You are at an age now when a young girl may very well begin to give a place to such thoughts in her heart. Happy is she who chooses well; happier still, if she leaves the choice to her parents, who wish nothing but to see her happy, and who are aided in their efforts by the rich experience of a long life."

"But, mamma, that is a long way off yet."

"Very likely, my child; however, we cannot know what Heaven may have decreed. We have to leave these, as in fact all things in our life, to His direction.--But who in the world is that man who is standing there so immovable near that tree? I have left my gla.s.ses in my room."

"That is Mr. Stein, mamma; he has been standing there for half an hour; I believe he has grown to the place."

"A strange man, that man Stein," said the baroness. "He has something uncomfortable for me. I cannot by possibility understand him. How do you like him, dear Helen?"

"Why, mamma, I have never thought about it, and with such people there can be hardly a question about liking or not liking. I think they are all pretty much alike, and the few points of difference are so unimportant that they are hardly noticed. One is called Stein, the other is called Timm, and that is nearly all."

"You are right, dear child," said the baroness. "These people are mutes on the stage; they are only seen when the princ.i.p.al personages are going out. Fortunately, I can promise you soon better and more agreeable company."

"Who is that?"

"Your cousin Felix. I have just received a letter from him, the postman is still in the kitchen; you can give him a letter if you think of writing a few lines to Hamburg,--he announces his coming for to-morrow or the day after. But was not that your father's voice? Good-by, dear child; get ready; we shall dine a little earlier and go to pay some visits."

The baroness kissed her daughter on the forehead and left the room.

Miss Helen drew out the letter she had so hastily hidden, in order to add: "Mamma, who has just left me, is, after all, very kind indeed. She told me of a visitor who is coming: Felix Grenwitz (the lieutenant). We shall have a little more life now at Grenwitz, for it seems we can no longer count upon Mr. Stein. Adieu, dearest, dearest Mary."

CHAPTER V.

If anyone should have taken a special interest in Mr. Timm, he would have noticed that something extraordinary must have happened to him lately. The black dress coat which he now daily wore, and the greater care which he bestowed on his appearance, together with other kindred changes in his general manner, might have been explained by Miss Helen's presence, and the higher style which seemed to prevail at Grenwitz. But what meant the grave expression which was now frequently seen on his white forehead and in his blue eyes? What the silence to which he, the talkative man, now condemned himself for hours? What, especially, the restless industry with which he stood all day long bent over his drawing-board, busy with pencil and brush? Up to the day on which the family returned, Mr. Timm had given himself entirely to the pleasures of a pleasant rural retreat; but from the hour at which he had gone into the archive-room, and there found a small package of letters tied up with a red silk cord, all had changed. Not that it had been in Albert's nature to repent of his _dolce far niente_ during that pleasant week--he, besides, worked so rapidly and easily that it was a trifle to him to make up for lost time. It was surely not the plats and the surveys, therefore, which troubled him now. Any one might have seen that by looking on that afternoon into his room, which he had, to his habit, carefully locked after him.

Mr. Timm was sitting on a lounge in his room, one leg crossed over the other, his head resting in his hands, and blowing mighty clouds from his cigar, while he was evidently thinking deeply. By his side, on the lounge, lay the letters which he had found among the archives. There were not many of them, all written in the same delicate handwriting, and upon rather grayish paper, such as was universally in use, even for letters, some forty years ago. The letters were rather old, apparently, for the ink was very much faded; but no contrary date was to be found anywhere.

"These letters ought to be valuable in some way," said Albert, speaking confidentially to his best friend and only intimate, his dear own self, "only I do not know how. If I should succeed in finding the answers, it would go hard indeed if a clever fellow, such as I am, could not ferret out the whole of the great secret. Besides, I think I am on the track.