CHAPTER IX.

"Hallo, Elsie, do not run so!" shouted the forester, the next day at three o'clock in the afternoon, as he came out of the forest with his rifle on his shoulder and crossed the meadow towards the Lodge.

Elizabeth was running down the mountain, her round hat hanging upon her arm instead of resting upon the braids that glanced in the sunlight, and as she reached the house she flew laughing into her uncle's arms, which he extended to receive her.

She put her hand into her pocket, and stepped back a few paces. "Guess what I have in my pocket, uncle," she said, smiling.

"Well, what can it be? No need to puzzle one's brains long about it. Probably a little sentimental hay,--a few dried flowers, kept for the sake of the melancholy associations that they recall,--or some printed sighs over the woes of the world, bound in gilt pasteboard?"

"Wrong, indeed; twice wrong, Herr Forester, for, in the first place, your wit glances harmlessly aside from me, and in the next--look here!"

She drew a little box from her pocket, and lifted the cover. There, upon green leaves, was comfortably lying a large lemon-coloured caterpillar, with black spots, broad bluish-green stripes upon its back, and a crooked horn upon its tail.

"By all that is wonderful, Sphinx Atropos!" cried the delighted forester. "Ah, my sunbeam, where did you find that exquisite specimen?"

"Over at Lindhof, in a potato-field. Isn't it beautiful? There, let us shut the box carefully, and put it back in my pocket."

"What! am I not to have it?"

"Oh yes; you can have it,--that is if you are inclined to pay for it."

"Zounds! What a girl you have become! Come, give it to me,--here are four groschen."

"Not for the world. You can't have it for one farthing less than twelve. When many a ragged, yellow old bit of parchment,--that one can hardly bear to touch,--is paid for with its weight in gold, certainly such a perfect piece of Nature's workmanship is worth twelve groschen."

"Yellow old parchment! never breathe such a word into scientific ears, if you value your reputation."

"Ah, there are none such to be breathed into here in the forest."

"Take care; Herr von Walde----"

"Is hiding in the Pyramids."

"But he might suddenly return and take a certain self-conceited young person to strict account. He is cock-of-the-walk among learned men."

"Well, for aught I care, they may raise monuments in his honour, and strew laurels in his path, as much as they choose. I cannot forgive him for forgetting, in the midst of all that dead lumber, the claims that the living have upon him. While he is engaged in an enthusiastic search, perhaps, for some wonderfully preserved receipt by Lucullus, or lost in investigations as to whether the Romans did actually feed their fish upon the flesh of slaves, the poor employed upon his estate starve under the baroness' rule--actually crushed beneath the yoke of modern slavery."

"Hallo! how his left ear must burn! What a pity that he cannot hear this confession of faith! Here are your twelve groschen, if you must have them. You want to buy some trinket or other, a feather, or ribbons for your hat, hey?" he said, smiling.

She held her hat out at arm's length before her, and contemplated with admiration the two fresh roses which she had stuck into the simple band of black velvet that encircled it. "Does not that look lovely?" she asked. "Do you think I would voluntarily hide my head beneath nodding plumes when I can have roses, fresh roses? And there is your caterpillar, and now you shall know why I want to black-mail you. This morning the poor widow of a weaver in Lindhof came to my mother, begging a little assistance. Her husband had had a fall, which injured his arm and his foot, so that he has not been able to earn anything for weeks. My mother gave her some old linen and a large loaf of bread. She could do nothing more, as you know. See, here I have fifteen groschen,--from my money-box,--there is not another farthing in it just now, and three from little Ernst, who would gladly have sold his tin soldiers to help the poor woman, and with the price for the caterpillar I shall have a whole thaler, which I shall carry to the poor thing immediately."

"Let me see. Here is another thaler; and, Sabina," he called into the house, "bring out a piece of meat from your pickling-tub, and wrap it up in green leaves. You shall take that too," he said, turning again to Elizabeth.

"Oh, you dearest of splendid uncles!" cried the girl, taking his large hand between her slender palms and pressing it tenderly.

"But take care," he continued, "that the piece of good salt meat does not turn into roses. It would be a sad change for the poor weaver's wife. You seem to be following in the steps of your saintly namesake."

"Yes; but fortunately I have here no cruel Landgrave to fear. And if I had, I would tell the truth in spite of him."

"Gracious gods, what a heroic soul it is!"

"But I think the courage to tell a lie would be far greater, even though it were a pious one."

"True, true, my daughter. I think I could hardly have done it either. Ah, here comes Sabina!"

The old housekeeper issued from the door, and whilst she wrapped up the meat for Elizabeth, in accordance with the forester's directions, she whispered to him that Herr von Walde, who had yesterday arrived from abroad, had been waiting for him for some time.

"Where?" he asked.

"Here in the dwelling-room."

Now they had been standing directly beneath the open windows of this room. Elizabeth turned quickly round, blushing scarlet, but could see no one. Her uncle, without turning, shrugged his shoulders with an infinitely comical gesture, stroked his long moustache, and whispered, with a suppressed laugh: "Here's a nice state of things! You have settled matters finely,--he has heard every word.7"

"So much the better," replied his niece, throwing her head back with an air of defiance. "He does not hear the truth very often, perhaps." Then bidding farewell to her uncle and Sabina, she walked slowly away through the forest in the direction of Lindhof.

At first she was annoyed at the thought that Herr von Walde had been obliged, entirely against his will, to listen to the judgment which had been passed upon him. Then she was sure that she should have told him just the same truth to his face. And as it was scarcely to be supposed that he would ever trouble himself about her estimate of him, it certainly could do him no harm that he had been involuntarily the auditor of a frank, impartial sentence passed upon him, even although such sentence came from the lips of a young girl. But how had it happened that he had returned so suddenly and unexpectedly? Fraeulein von Walde had always spoken of her brother's absence as likely to continue for several years, and the day before she had had not the slightest expectation of his return. And then her encounter of the previous evening flashed into her mind. The old gentleman had said that he was a traveller returning home; but it was impossible that he, with his smiling, good-humoured face, could be the grave, haughty proprietor of Lindhof, who, perhaps, was the person that had remained concealed beneath the trees while his companion was getting an answer to his inquiries. But what could Herr von Walde want with her uncle, who, as she knew, had never stood in any relation to him whatever?

These and similar thoughts occupied her mind upon her way to the weaver's. Husband and wife were delighted by the unhoped-for assistance, and heaped Elizabeth with profuse professions of gratitude as she left the house.

She passed through the village, and directed her steps to Lindhof, where she had promised to practice as usual. The lesson had not been postponed, notwithstanding the return of Herr von Walde. The proprietor's return had worked a great change in the whole look of the castle. All the windows of the lower story on the south side, which had so long been dark and closed behind their white shutters, now reflected the sunlight in a long, shining row. The apartments within were undergoing a thorough airing and dusting. A glass door stood wide open, revealing the interior of a large saloon. Upon one of the steps which led down to the garden at the back lay a snow-white greyhound, with his slender body stretched out upon the hot stone and his head resting upon his forepaws; he blinked at Elizabeth as though she had been an old acquaintance. At an open window the gardener was arranging a stand of flowers, and the old steward Lorenz was walking through the rooms, superintending everything.

It was remarkable that all the people whom the young girl met had, as if by magic, entirely altered their whole expression. Had a tempest swept through the sultry atmosphere and a fresh breeze filled all the rooms, so that voices sounded clearer, and bent forms grew straight and elastic? Even old Lorenz, whose face had always worn so grim and depressed a look, as though there were a weight of lead upon his shoulders, shot real sunshine from his eyes, although he was scolding one of the maids; Elizabeth looked on in surprise. She had only seen him before gliding about upon the tips of his toes, and in low, suppressed tones announcing guests to the ladies in the drawing-room.

In amazement at this sudden bursting into bloom of new life and activity, Elizabeth turned towards the wing appropriated to the ladies. Here the deepest silence still reigned. In the apartments of the baroness the curtains were closely drawn. No noise penetrated through the doors by which Elizabeth passed. The air of the passages was heavy with the odour of valerian, and when at the lower end of one of the halls, Elizabeth saw through an open door one human face, what a change met her eye! It was the baroness' old waiting-maid who looked out, probably to see who was so bold as to invade the solemn repose of the corridor. Her cap was set upon her false curls all awry, and the curls themselves were but loosely put on. Her countenance wore a troubled expression, and a round, red spot on each cheek, betokened either high fever or some violent, mental agitation. She returned Elizabeth's salute shortly and sullenly, and disappeared into the room, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

When Elizabeth reached Fraeulein von Walde's apartment, she thought that she had arrived at the last act in the mysterious drama which had begun in the baroness' rooms, for no "come in" answered her repeated knock. Not only were the curtains here drawn, but the shutters also were closed as she saw when she gently opened the door. The profound quiet and the darkness deterred her from entering, and she was about to shut the door again when Helene, in a weak voice, called to her to enter. The little lady lay on a couch at the farther end of the room, her head resting on a white pillow, and Elizabeth could hear that her teeth were chattering as if with cold.

"Ah, dear child," she said, and laid her cold, damp hand upon her young friend's arm, "I have had a nervous attack. None of my people have observed that I am lying here so ill, and it has been terribly lonely in this dark room. Pray open the windows wide,--I need air, the warm air of heaven."

Elizabeth immediately did as she desired, and when the daylight streamed in upon the pale face of the invalid, it revealed traces of violent weeping.

The sunshine aroused more life and motion in the room than Elizabeth had anticipated; she was startled by a loud scream which proceeded from one corner. There she discovered a cockatoo, with snow-white plumage and a brilliant yellow crest, swinging to and fro upon a ring.

"Heavens! what a fearful noise!" sighed Helene, pressing her little hands upon her ears. "That terrible bird will tear my nerves to pieces!"

Elizabeth's glance rested amazed upon the little stranger, and then explored the rest of the apartment, which looked like a bazaar. Upon tables and chairs were lying costly stuffs, shawls, richly-bound books, and all kinds of toilet articles. Fraeulein von Walde noticed Elizabeth's look, and said briefly, with averted face: "All presents from my brother, who returned home quite unexpectedly yesterday."

How cold her voice was as she said it! And there was not the slightest hint of pleasure to be discovered in her features, swollen with weeping; the large eyes, usually so soft and gentle, expressed only vexation and annoyance.

Elizabeth stooped silently and picked up a gorgeous bouquet of camellias, that was lying half faded upon the floor.

"Oh yes," said Helene, sitting up, while a slight flush appeared on her cheeks, "that is my brother's good-morning to me; it fell down from the table, and I forgot it. Pray put it in that vase there."

"Poor flowers," said Elizabeth, half aloud, as she looked at the brown edges of the white petals, "they never dreamed when they opened their tender buds, that they were to bloom in such a cold atmosphere!"

Helene looked up into her friend's face with a searching, troubled glance, and for an instant her eyes expressed regret. "Put the flowers on the sill of the open window," she whispered quickly, "the air there will do them good. Oh, heavens!" she cried, sinking back among her cushions. "He is certainly a most excellent man, but his sudden return has destroyed the harmony of our delightful home life."

Elizabeth looked almost incredulously at the little lady who lay there, her clasped hands raised, and her eyes lifted to heaven, as if fate had decreed her a most bitter trial. If she had failed yesterday to find the key to Helene's conduct, she was certainly more puzzled than ever to-day by this incomprehensible character. What had become of all those sentiments of fervent gratitude that had breathed from every word whenever Helene had spoken of her absent brother? Had all the sisterly tenderness which had seemed to fill her heart vanished in a single moment, so that she now lamented what, according to her own words, she had so lately regarded as the most delightful thing that could happen? Even supposing that the returned brother did not sympathize with the circle in which alone she felt happy, if he should oppose her dearest wishes, was it possible that coldness and anger could exist between two beings whom fate had bound together by so close a tie, a tie which must bring them all the nearer to each other, since one was so helpless, and the other so alone in the world? Elizabeth suddenly felt profound pity for the man who had sailed on distant seas and wandered through strange lands so long, only to be greeted as a disturbing element when he once more appeared at his own fireside. Apparently there was one tender spot in his proud heart, love for his sister; how deeply wounded he must be that she had no loving welcome for him, and that her heart was cold and hard towards him!

Occupied with these thoughts, Elizabeth arranged the flowers in the vase. She returned not a syllable to Helene's outbreak, which had so maligned her brother to stranger ears. And Helene herself, shamed probably by Elizabeth's silence, seemed to be conscious that she had lost her self-control, for she suddenly, in an altered voice, begged her to take a chair and stay with her for awhile.

At this moment the door was violently flung open, and a female figure appeared upon the threshold. Elizabeth was at some trouble to recognize in this apparition in its neglected, careless dress, betraying every sign of great agitation, the Baroness Lessen. Her scanty locks, usually so carefully arranged, were streaming from under a morning-cap across her forehead, no longer white and smooth as ivory, but flushing scarlet. The stereotyped self-satisfaction had vanished from her eyes, and she presented a most insignificant appearance as she looked shyly into the room!

"Ah, Helene!" she cried anxiously, without noticing Elizabeth, and her corpulent figure advanced with unwonted rapidity. "Rudolph has just sent for the unfortunate Linke to come to his room, and he abused the poor man so violently and loudly that I heard him in my bed-room on the other side of the court--Heavens! how wretched I am! The morning has agitated me so that I can scarcely stand, but I could not listen to such injustice any longer, and sought refuge here. And those servile wretches, the other servants, who, while Rudolph was away, scarcely dared to wink their eyes,--there they stand now boldly beneath the windows, taking a malicious pleasure in the misfortunes that are befalling a faithful servant. Everything is destroyed that I had arranged so carefully and with such pains for the salvation of this household. And Emil is at Odenberg! How miserable and forlorn we are, dearest Helene!"

She threw her arms around the neck of the little lady, who started up pale as ashes. Elizabeth took advantage of this moment to slip out of the room.

As she passed along the corridor leading to the vestibule she heard some one speaking loudly. It was a deep, sonorous, manly voice, which grew louder now and then under the influence of excitement, but there was no sharpness in its tones even when they were loudest. Although she could not distinguish a word, the tone thrilled through her,--there was something inexorable in the intonation of the emphasized sentences.

The echo in the long corridor was deceptive. Elizabeth did not know whence the voice proceeded, and she therefore ran forwards quickly that she might the sooner reach the open air. But after a few steps she heard, as though the speaker were directly beside her, the words, "To-morrow evening you will leave Lindhof."

"But, most gracious Herr!"--was the answer.

"I have nothing else to say to you! now go!" was uttered in a commanding tone; and just then Elizabeth, to her terror, found herself opposite a wide-open folding door. The tall figure of a man stood in the middle of the room, his left hand behind him, and his right pointing to the door. A pair of flashing, dark eyes met her own as she passed hastily through the vestibule and into the garden. It seemed as if that look, in which there glowed an indignant soul, pursued her and drove her onward.

As the Ferber family were sitting at supper, her father told with expressions of pleasure how he had made the acquaintance of Herr von Walde that day at the Lodge.

"Well, and how does he please you?" asked his wife.

"That is a question, dear child, that I might be able to answer if I should happen to have daily intercourse with him for a year or so, although even then I cannot tell whether I should be able to give a satisfactory reply. The man is very interesting to me--as one is continually tempted to try to discover whether he really is what he appears,--a perfectly cold, passionless nature. He came to my brother to learn the particulars concerning the affair between his superintendent and the poor labourer's widow, because he had been informed that Sabina had been an eye-witness of the ill treatment she had received. Sabina was obliged to tell how she discovered the poor woman. He asked about everything, even the smallest circumstance, but in a very short, decided manner. What impression Sabina's account made upon him no one could tell; his looks were utterly impenetrable, not the smallest change of countenance betrayed his thoughts. He comes directly from Spain. From the few remarks that he let fall, I judge that his sudden return to Thuringia is owing to a letter from some one of his friends here, telling him of the mismanagement of affairs upon his estate and the unhappiness among his tenantry."

"And his exterior?" asked Frau Ferber.

"Is pleasing, although I have never seen so much reserve and inaccessibility expressed in a man's bearing I entirely understand how he has the reputation of boundless haughtiness; and yet I cannot, on the other hand, convince myself that such exceeding folly can lurk behind such remarkably intellectual features. His face always wears the look of cold repose of which I have spoken; but, between the eyebrows, there is what I might call an involuntary, unguarded expression of what a superficial observer might think sternness; to me it seems settled melancholy."

Elizabeth listened thoughtfully to this description. She had already learned how that cold repose could be entirely laid aside for a time, and she told her father of the scene which she had witnessed.

"Then sentence has been passed sooner than I anticipated," said Ferber. "Possibly your uncle may have done his part towards this end by his strong language,--he does not hesitate when asked for an opinion. He was so frank with Herr von Walde, that he felt quite relieved and retained not an iota in his heart of all that had been vexing him in the course of the past year."