Could he defend himself against the accusations brought against him? He had tried once to do so to Lieschen, and how incredulously she had shaken her lovely head! with what surprise, nay, dismay, she had looked at him! Had not his former life justified all that was said of him? Had he not given additional reason for it by carrying on a deception for weeks, living under an a.s.sumed name among those who had trusted him?

In imagination he saw Lieschen turning from him indignantly, as she exclaimed, "There is nothing I detest as I do falsehood!" He heard the Lieutenant's scornful laughter. And Bertha! Should she too witness his humiliation?

No; he could not return and run the risk of being discovered, nor could he confess his deceit. Both were alike impossible.

But if he did not return to the castle, what was he to do? Go back to Berlin! And why not? Formerly the thought of falling in with his father's plans had filled him with disgust; now his heart beat quicker at the thought of calling Bertha von Ma.s.senburg his wife.

And yet he hesitated and could come to no decision. Always in the midst of the intoxication of the senses that accompanied the remembrance of Bertha, a lovely girlish image would rise before his mental vision to calm and soothe him, and no sacrifice seemed to him too great to purchase a gentle word of pardon from Lieschen, one look of love from her eyes.

He could not decide. For three days he wandered about the mountains, pursuing those paths least frequented by tourists, and lodging at night in some lonely, retired little inn, determined to avoid any chance encounter with acquaintances. But on the fourth day of his wanderings he was slowly descending the agate rocks towards Hermsdorf, lost in thought, his eyes bent upon the ground, when he was roused from his revery by a clear, merry voice: "All good spirits praise the Lord!

Positively this is a capital joke! Day before yesterday we buried you, Herr von Ernau, and to-day I meet you, sound in body and limb, upon this far from delightful ascent!"

Egon looked up startled. Before him stood an old acquaintance from Berlin,--Baron von Freistetten, a wealthy young n.o.bleman, whom he had often met in society, and whom he had liked rather better than most of his a.s.sociates, since in the preference shown him by the young fellow there could be no suspicion of interested motives.

Freistetten was in the act of making the ascent of the agate rocks, in company with a guide, and had paused for a moment to take breath, when he perceived Egon coming down towards him and instantly hailed him. All fatigue was forgotten; he hurried to meet him, and shook him cordially by the hand. "Upon my word, Ernau," he said, "this is the greatest pleasure I have had for years! I never believed you were dead, for did I not see you a month ago in Breslau? But when everybody insisted that your body had been found, and when I followed it to the grave, the day before yesterday, I thought I had been mistaken, and sincerely mourned you. Thank G.o.d! I was right at first. I am indeed delighted."

The young fellow's joy was so sincere that Egon could not but reciprocate his cordiality. Disagreeably surprised as he was at first at the encounter, several of the Baron's expressions had aroused his curiosity, and he agreed readily to the young man's proposal that they should find some shady spot for a half-hour's talk.

Beneath an overhanging rock they threw themselves down upon the soft green moss.

"I cannot get used to it," said Freistetten, shaking Egon again by the hand. "This is what I call a surprise indeed. But now tell me all about yourself. Where in the world have you been hiding? What reasons could you have for vanishing so suddenly and giving no sign of life?"

"I was tired of the stupid society life of the capital, and I have been spending a few weeks quietly in the country. I really have nothing to tell. But you must satisfy my curiosity. What was it you said about finding my body and going to my funeral? What did you mean?"

"That you were buried, and have risen from the dead. But no, the matter is too serious for trifling. You shall hear the consequences of your flight from Berlin."

And he went over the whole story; how he had not been believed when he said that he had seen Egon in Breslau, how every one said that young Ernau had taken his life because of an unhappy love-affair. "You have deeply grieved your friends, Ernau," he added.

"Have I any friends?" Egon rejoined. "The few who felt some slight regret at my death were more than indemnified by the interesting gossip to which it gave occasion."

"I don't envy you such sentiments as those," Freistetten said, gravely.

"They can only be entertained by one who is no man's friend, and who thinks only of himself. I am no moralist, but I cannot understand how you could make up your mind to play so reckless a game with your friends, among whom I count myself, and, above all, with your father."

Egon had no reply to make to this reproach, and Freistetten continued his narrative, telling how the dress of the corpse found in the Spree had been identified by the servant and by Councillor von Ernau, and how magnificent had been the funeral.

Egon listened eagerly, and when he heard how the body had been identified, he had a sudden conviction as to who had been so ceremoniously consigned to earth in his stead. He remembered that he had forgotten to take his empty silver card-case from the breast-pocket of the coat which he had exchanged for Pigglewitch's. The Candidate had not been heard from for weeks. Doubtless he had gambled again, had again lost all, and his second attempt at suicide had been more successful than his first. His body was now at rest in the church-yard.

"You are really dead in every one's estimation," Freistetten concluded.

"It is fortunate that I chanced to meet you, and could tell you of the result of your flight from Berlin,--else you might not have thought of returning thither to put a stop to the wild rumours about you. Or were you going down to Hirschberg, to start thence for Berlin?"

"No," Egon replied, "I did not think of that. I have not yet decided what to do, and I must pray you to keep my secret, and inform no one that you have seen me."

"I shall do no such thing!" Freistetten exclaimed, indignantly. "That would be to make myself an accomplice in what offends my sense of right. Indeed, Ernau, you must return to Berlin; it would be unpardonable to allow your father to believe any longer that he has lost his only son. I know that your relations with him were never very cordial, but he is your father, and you owe him a son's duty. If you refuse to return to Berlin, I shall cut short my mountain excursion and go there myself to tell your father that his son is alive."

Freistetten had arisen, and now signed to his guide that he was ready to go on.

"Decide, Ernau," he said, gravely; "your decision will govern mine."

Egon had hoped for some chance that should force him to a resolution; his wish was fulfilled; his hesitation between Castle Osternau and Berlin was at an end. He was not angry with Freistetten for his severe, almost insulting, words: he was justified in using them.

"I thank you, Freistetten," he said, likewise rising. "Your admonition is harsh, but I will lay it to heart. Continue your tour; I promise you to go directly to Berlin from Hirschberg. Since I am, half unwillingly I admit, forced to take upon me the old yoke, I will do so without delay. Farewell!"

The young men separated with a warm grasp of the hand, and Egon walked on down into the Hirschberg valley. With a heavy heart he went his way back to the old life. Now that he was resolved not to return to Castle Osternau, existence there appeared to him in the rosiest light; he longed for each one of those of its inmates who had grown dear to him; he could not bear the thought of parting from them without one word of farewell, one prayer for pardon for having deceived them.

Lieschen's image accompanied him on his way; it seemed to beckon him on. He felt an intense desire to hasten to Castle Osternau, if only for a day, an hour, that she might decide whether he should remain there, or return to Berlin.

He lodged for the night in a little inn seldom visited by strangers. He could not sleep when he first retired to his room; the effort to abide by his resolve chased sleep from his eyelids. At last he sat down and wrote two farewell letters, one to Herr von Osternau, the other to Herr Storting. In the latter he enclosed the payment of the little debt for which Storting had so readily gone surety in Breslau. Both letters he posted the next morning before starting for Berlin, thus destroying all possibility of a return to Castle Osternau. He then grew calmer; the struggle was over, he hesitated no longer.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

Privy Councillor Von Ernau was sitting in his dining-room, at the little round table, which was to-day set for but one person. He was not fond of dining alone; guests were always invited to join him at this meal, which was on table punctually at four o'clock. Certainly gay conversation is the best seasoning for delicate viands. Neither well-prepared food nor excellent wine delighted the Councillor's palate if partaken of in solitude. He therefore reflected sadly, as he sipped his soup, upon the number of days upon which he should now be obliged to dine alone,--fourteen, at the very least. He sighed profoundly.

Fourteen days appeared an endless time to him. Since the finding of Egon's body had established the fact that the unfortunate Councillor von Ernau had lost his only son, eight days had pa.s.sed; for eight days he had worn deep mourning. Until eight days ago there had been some doubt as to his calamity, and he had not felt it necessary to deny himself all social pleasures; but now there was no help for it. As a father overwhelmed with grief, such joys were not for him. He glanced sadly enough at the broad band of c.r.a.pe that encircled his left arm.

During the first few days after the finding of the body there had been some satisfaction in the sensation produced in Berlin by the actual death of Egon von Ernau. It had been very interesting to read the accounts in the papers, to receive visits of condolence, to show to each new-comer how profound was the grief that wrung the paternal bosom; then came all the arrangements for the funeral, which was magnificent. Thus occupied the time pa.s.sed quickly, and the sacrifice of a solitary dinner was a matter of course, but now? The visits of condolence had ceased, the funeral was over, the newspapers said nothing more with regard to the death of Herr Egon von Ernau, the Councillor felt very lonely, and the thought that he must yet pa.s.s at least fourteen days secluded from all the delights of the capital made him very sad. It really was a hard fate to lose an only son in the bloom of youth, and to have to go into mourning for him besides!

The soup was delicate, but he did not relish it. He looked up with a sigh----The spoon dropped from his fingers and fell clinking into his soup-plate, as he gazed with staring eyes at the ghost which suddenly confronted him in broad daylight,--a ghost the very presentment of his dead son. There it stood in the open door-way. No, it did not stand; it moved as if made of flesh and blood; it walked with the elastic step that had been Egon's, through the room and directly towards its solitary occupant.

"Good-day, sir," Egon remarked, as quietly as if he had just returned from a short walk; and then, turning to the servant, who stood staring in no less terror than his master, he said, "Bring me a plate, Johann, and be quick, for I am desperately hungry."

No ghost speaks thus; no ghost coolly draws a chair up to a table and sits down.

"Good G.o.d!" exclaimed the Councillor, who could not yet collect himself, "is it really you, Egon? and alive?"

"As you see, sir, alive, and very hungry. Will you have the kindness to order Johann to bring me a plate and not to stand there staring at me?

I think my appet.i.te will soon convince both you and him that I am alive."

Johann hastened to obey the order, and the Councillor no longer doubted that his son was before him. He took up his spoon again, wiped a spot of soup off the handle with his napkin, and as he did so eyed his resuscitated son with an air of anything but delight. "You are alive, then," he said, peevishly; "and that you are so destroys the only satisfactory excuse that there could be for recklessly plunging me into the greatest embarra.s.sment by your sudden disappearance, just when your betrothal was announced."

"Did I embarra.s.s you, sir?" asked Egon, upon whom the paternal reproof appeared to produce but a slight impression. "I am sorry, but I should not have believed it. You are not wont to be easily embarra.s.sed. So far as I can learn, you have had a very agreeable time. The variety which the sensation caused by my disappearance, by the discovery of my body, and at last by my funeral must have introduced into your monotonous existence has certainly been entertaining. The c.r.a.pe upon your arm becomes you admirably; it is a pity to have to take it off, but then you will be indemnified for its loss by the fresh sensation which the prodigal's return will-excite. We shall both form the topic of Berlin gossip for at least a week. Dead men do not rise from their graves every day. The funeral, I hear from Freistetten, was really brilliant, quite worthy of your distinguished taste. I regret not to have witnessed it. However, I can go to the church-yard tomorrow to look at my grave and admire the flowers with which you have adorned it. I must beg you to accept my thanks for them."

"Always the same," the Councillor murmured, "a venomous sneer in every word; you return as you departed."

"Does that vex you, sir? We have always got along very well together.

You never troubled yourself about me, and I never annoyed you. I think we can do as well for the future. You never shall be disturbed in your enjoyment of life by me, not even now. Pray do not let your soup get cold; here comes mine. We will dine together, and consult comfortably how we can introduce to the living world in the manner most agreeable to you the son risen from the dead. But before I say another word I must take my soup; I am as hungry as a wolf."

He applied himself to his task with an excellent appet.i.te, and the Councillor followed his example.

The Councillor did not speak until the soup was removed and Johann was busy changing the plates for the next course. Then he availed himself of the interruption of the dinner to say, "It seems high time that you should inform me of your reasons for leaving me so suddenly, of where you have been, of what you have been doing, and why we have heard nothing from you for all these long weeks? Certainly, as your father, I have a right to an explanation from you."

"There we differ, sir," Egon replied, in the same tone of cool contempt which he had thus far used in addressing his father. "Our relations have hitherto not corresponded to those usually existing between father and son. You never desired any confidence from me. You have pursued your pleasures without troubling yourself to think whether your son might not perhaps need a father's affection, and you have never required of me any explanation of my actions or sentiments. You gave the boy perfect liberty to commit any folly he chose; how can the man possibly be called to account by you? We had better continue our relations as you have arranged them. It can be of little moment to you where I have been and why I went away. It is enough that I am here again, and that you are relieved of the duty of mourning for my death.

It is true that you are also deprived of the inheritance of my estate, but this is a matter of indifference to you. You never attached any great value to money, and you have probably never even remembered that my maternal inheritance fell to you at my death."

"You do me but justice. I certainly never thought of that when I saw you alive before me. I did think of what I could reply to the countless inquiries that will be made of me as to where you have been and what you have been doing all these weeks."