CHAPTER VII.

EMANCIPATION OF THE SPIRIT.

High up upon the platform of her observatory, fanned by the pure night-breeze and bathed in starry radiance, stood Ernestine, waiting for the moon to rise. On her serious brow and in her maidenly soul there was self-consecration, and peace. The heated vapour of passion that was gathering like a thunder-cloud about her name in the world beneath her, the poisonous slander of lips that mentioned her only to defame her, could not ascend hither. Unconscious, assailed by no sordid temptations, she stood there in vestal purity,--elevated physically but a few feet from the earth, but soaring in mind worlds above it.

Slowly and solemnly the moon's disc arose from the horizon and mounted upwards, lonely and quiet, in soft splendour. Thousands of little moons were reflected in the telescopes of astronomers in thousandfold diversity of aspect; but they were all images of the one orb slowly sailing through the air. Ernestine was not busied with her telescope, for no mortal quest could aid her in what she was seeking to-night. It was to be found only in her own breast. It was not the material, but the immaterial, that she was now longing to grasp; no single sense could be of any avail. She needed all the powers of her being harmoniously co-operating. And, as she gazed there, full of dreamy inspiration, it was as if the moon had paused in its course to mirror itself in those eyes. Oh that we could die when and as we choose! that we could breathe out our souls in a single sigh! No human being could pass away more calmly and blissfully than Ernestine could have done at that moment, as she gazed at that serene moon and breathed forth a yearning sigh after the Unfathomable.

Happiness, pure and unspeakable, descended into her soul from the sparkling canopy of night This was her holiday, her hour of enfranchisement from the fetters of toil and study. She was alone beneath the starry sky,--a lone watcher, while all around were sleeping,--thinking while others were unconscious. She seemed to herself appointed to keep guard over the dignity of humanity, while all beside were sunk in slumber. She could rest only when others were roused to consciousness. The fever of night, that brings remorse to so many tossing upon restless couches, never assailed her. All earthly phantoms recede from the heart bathed in starlight, for in that light there is peace. In view of immensity, eternity is revealed to us, and every earthly pain vanishes like a shadow before it. But when star after star faded, and the moon had paled, the first rosy streak of dawn kissed a brow pale as snow, and a weariness as of death assailed her. The sacred fire of her soul had devoured her bodily strength and was extinguished with it. Then she sank to rest silently and uncomplainingly, like the lamps of night at the approach of day. So it was at this hour. As the darkness vanished, she descended to her apartments, and sought in brief repose the strength that would suffice for a day of constant labour.

"The more time I spend in sleep, the less of life do I enjoy," she said in answer to the remonstrances of her anxious attendant. "Everything in the world is so beautiful that we should not lose one moment of it,--so short a time is ours to enjoy it."

"Enjoy! Good heavens! What do you enjoy? you do nothing but work."

"That is my enjoyment, my good Willmers. For my work is nothing less than the constant study and discovery of the beauties of the world. An immortality would not suffice to enjoy it all,--and what can we accomplish in our brief span of existence? Shall we curtail it by sleep? Has not nature, who gives us eighty years of life, robbed us of almost half of it by imposing upon us the necessity of spending from seven to nine hours out of the twenty-four in a state of unconsciousness? I will defy her as long as I can, and maintain my right to enjoy her gift as I please, and not as she please."

Frau Willmers looked with intense anxiety at the pale cheeks of the speaker. As she lay in her bed, white as the snowy draperies around her, her thin hands fallen wearied upon the coverlet, her breath coming short and quick, the faithful servant's heart misgave her; for she saw that nature had already begun to revenge herself for the disobedience of her laws. She covered her up carefully in the soft coverlet. "Do not talk any more, my dear Fraeulein von Hartwich,--you are worn out."

"And you are wearied too, my good Willmers. Why do you rise whenever you hear me going to bed?"

"Because I always hope that I may force you, out of consideration for me, to do what you will not do for yourself,--retire earlier and grant yourself the repose which is needful even for the strongest man,--how much more so for such a delicate creature as you are!"

Ernestine languidly held out her hand. "You are kind and unselfish, my dear Willmers, but you cannot understand me. And, if you will insist upon sacrificing your night's rest to me, I must give you a room at a distance from mine, where you cannot hear what I am doing. Thank you for your care. Good-night."

"Good-night," replied the housekeeper sadly, delaying her departure for a moment to draw the curtains closely around Ernestine's bed, that they might exclude the first golden rays of sunlight.

That same night the countess spent tossing, like one scourged by the furies, upon her restless couch. She could hardly wait for the day that should take her to see her rival, and the same rising sun that filled Ernestine's sleep with friendly dreams,--for even in slumber the eye is conscious of light, and communicates it to the soul,--the same rising sun drove the tortured woman from her silken bed. She knew no weariness. Her healthy physical frame, hardened by exercise, withstood every attack of weakness. She owned no restraint, physically, morally, or mentally. She was talented, but she refused to think. Thought was in her view a fetter upon self-indulgence. Knowledge had limits which those who knew nothing were unconscious of. She would be free as the air, and therefore avoided everything that could disturb her superficial security. And she had sufficient intellect to feel that thought might lead to conclusions most dangerous to her theory of life.

"Man's destiny is labour, woman's enjoyment" This was her motto, and she lived up to it. She dazzled the world with the rare spectacle of beautiful power and powerful beauty carrying away like the hurricane in its mad career whatever lies in its path, stripping the leaves from every flower, uprooting every young tree, and bearing them on perhaps for one moment before casting them aside, crushed and dying. A glorious spectacle for exultant Valkyrias, but one at which the common herd cross themselves. Every destructive force of nature--and such was this woman--possesses a shuddering poetic attraction for the on-looker who is himself secure. He admires what he fears, he revels in the sight of what he knows to be destructive. This was the position held by the inhabitants of the little town of N---- towards the beautiful Russian since she had arrived there with her sick husband. With her wild manner of life, she was a wonderful apparition in their eyes, a constant source of interest, yet always provoking sternest disapproval. When the magnificent woman galloped through the streets upon her fiery Arabian, or held the reins behind her pair of horses with a skilful hand, like Victory in her triumphal car, no one could refrain from rushing to the window to enjoy a sight not to be forgotten. Strength, health, and beauty seemed to be her monopoly and the firm foundation of her joyous existence.

"The woman who desires to be emancipated," she was wont to say, "must have the true stuff in her. And as there are so few who possess it, there are but a few who are emancipated. If you cannot compete with a man, do not try to rival him. But she who has been baptized, as I have, in the ice-cold Neva, can afford to laugh at the whole tribe with their masculine arrogance."

In Russia, where she had played her part in a community far less strict, she had had an excellent field for displaying her grace and agility in all knightly exercises at the tilting-school which had been instituted by the Russian nobility. There she made her appearance usually in a steel helmet and closely-fitting coat of mail of woven silver that shone in the brilliant sunlight, enveloping her as it were in splendour. When she rode into the lists thus arrayed, a crooked scimitar by her side, pistols in her belt, and mounted upon her Arabian steed, nothing could restrain the loud applause of all present. She rivalled the most distinguished sons of the Russian nobility in the grace and skill with which she managed her horse, the precision of her aim in shooting, and the boldness of her leaps. She knew no fear and no fatigue.

She had the strength and vigour of a Northern divinity, with the glowing temperament of an Oriental. What wonder that, from Emperor to serf, all were her admiring slaves?

Her father, Alexei Fedorowitsch, was a poor and uneducated noble, who had distinguished himself by his bravery in the war with Napoleon, and, invalided at its close, retired to his small estate in the country, where he lived upon his pension. His wife, a sickly aristocrat, who had condescended to marry him for want of a more desirable _parti_, was the torment of his life. In despair at the trouble and annoyance caused by his wife's delicate health, sensibility, and affectation, he made a vow, when she bore him a daughter, to educate his child to be an utter contrast to her mother. Better that the child should die than live to be such an invalid as his wife. And he began by causing his little daughter to be baptized, like the children of the poorest Russians in that part of the country, in the icy waters of the Neva. The little Feodorowna outlived her icy bath, and her entire education corresponded with this beginning. Her mother died a few days after this cruel baptism; anxiety for her child put the finishing stroke to her invalid existence. And so her rude, uncultured father was her only guide and instructor. He loved her after his fashion, and made her his companion in all his amusements, riding, training horses, and the chase.

She was scarcely sixteen when he married her to a wealthy landed proprietor in the neighbourhood, ruder and more illiterate even than himself, and to the girl an object of aversion. As his wife, she lived on his lonely estate like a serf. Her husband was cruel and suspicious, and made her married life perfect torture. She was compelled to resign her free habits of life, which she loved better than all else in the world. Every extravagance, even the most harmless, was forbidden by her husband. The joyous girl who had been used to fly upon the back of her spirited steed over steppe and heath was not allowed to mount a horse, but was made to sit with her maid-servants and spin by the dim light of a train-oil lamp until her husband came home to compel, perhaps by the _kantschu_, her reluctant attention to his wishes. She bore this martyrdom for one year in silence. At last she made a confidant of a neighbouring nobleman, and implored his aid in her great need; but she found no sympathy,--no assistance. He called her a fool, who did not appreciate her good fortune,--told her that to think of a divorce was a crime, and that her husband was perfectly right. In her utter loneliness, longing for love, if it were only the love of her old father, a desire for freedom and hatred of her tormentor gained the victory, and she fled, without taking anything with her but the few clothes that she had possessed at her marriage. She travelled the greater part of the way on foot, and arrived at her father's in such a wretched condition that he was touched by compassion, received her kindly, and took her part against her husband. Her suit for divorce left her wholly without means, but free, and when shortly afterwards she came to know the old diplomat Count Worronska, and he laid his rank and his millions at her feet, offering a field for her beauty at court at St. Petersburg, she could not withstand the temptation. She became his wife, and was transplanted from the midst of half-savage serfs to one of the most magnificent courts in the world,--from the Russian forests and steppes to apartments gorgeous with every luxury of life. At first dazzled and confused, she won all hearts, even those of the women, by her innocent beauty and graceful diffidence. At last her unbridled nature broke forth all the more impetuously for the long restraint under which it had lain, and, with no guidance but that of her imbecile husband, who adored her, she rapidly degenerated in every way. Society always looks more leniently upon those errors that are gradually developed before its eyes and under its protection than upon those that it observes outside of its sphere, because it is cognizant of the excuse for the faults of those within it, and it was all the more willing to pardon the delinquent in this instance for the sake of the high rank of her husband. It therefore ignored escapades that the distinguished position held by the old count forbade it to punish, and the beautiful and enormously wealthy Countess Worronska, in spite of her dissipation, was and continued to be the centre of the most brilliant, if not the best, circle of society in St. Petersburg. All this she had resigned for the last six months, and she had lived like an outlaw, avoided by prudent "German Philisters," in the town of N----, for the sake of the only man whom she truly loved, and who--despised her.

Before the death of her husband she had always been surrounded by a brilliant crowd of gentlemen who had sought her society from the neighbouring famous baths,--acquaintances from St. Petersburg, distinguished Englishmen, Italians, Poles,--in short, the gay, wealthy idlers of every nation that invariably flock around a beautiful woman upon her travels. With these she smoked, rode, and drove,--proceedings that had excited no outcry in the gay world at St. Petersburg, but that called forth shrieks of horror from the women in the little German University-town and greatly excited the students, who were never weary of caricaturing her,--harnessing four horses, and, disguised as women, driving them wildly through the streets, mimicking her foreign admirers, making her bearded servants drunk, and playing many other madcap pranks in ridicule of her.

The universal horror culminated, however, when she did not dress in black after the count's death. People said with a shudder that she had declared that "it seemed to her despicable to play such a farce, and simulate a grief that she did not feel." How could any one so scorn conventionalities, and lay bare the secrets of the heart to the public gaze? Yes, it was even suggested that she had never been married, and they called her the "wild countess,"--much as we speak of wild fruit to distinguish them from those that are genuine. Although injustice was done her in this respect, she deserved the epithet "wild" in every other, and the name clave to her. Even Moellner, who was always ready to find some magnanimous excuse for feminine failings, thought that she ought to show more respect for her septuagenarian husband, and pronounced her conduct heartless ostentation. From that moment she lost all interest, if she had ever possessed any, in his eyes. He never noticed that for months no gentleman had been allowed to enter her doors, for he did not think it worth while to observe her actions. Whoever did observe it ascribed it to chance. The report of her improvement was drowned in the billows of scandal that had been lashed up by her previous conduct. No one believed in her reformation, least of all he for whom she made such sacrifices.

And now the moment had arrived when, for the first time, she found herself helpless, opposed to a higher power,--and the effect of this first collision with invisible barriers upon the untrained heart of the countess was terrible. Hitherto she had recognized only the laws of decorum, and had transgressed them with impunity whenever they had oppressed her. Decorum is almost always subject to the will of individuals and to fashion. But the higher law that hovers over the universe, subject to no human will, to no change,--unchangeable, as is all that is divine,--is the law of _morality_. It was this against which the countess was now struggling, of the existence of which she seemed now first to become aware.

But such a woman could not give up the battle. It was a law of her nature to resist. She could not yield. How could she?--she had never learned submission. She would battle for her desires. As a girl, she had endured hunger and cold for days in the pursuit of the chase, while food and warmth waited for her at home. From her earliest childhood, her will had been trained to iron persistence, and now, when she had again left the comforts and delights of home in pursuit of a far nobler prey, should she desist from the chase because the game belonged to another? Such a course was impossible for such a woman, and, as strength could not avail her here, she resorted to the commonest weapon of the merest flirt,--cunning.

Herbert's malice contained a seed that swiftly ripened and bore fruit in the fertile brain of the countess, for she knew only too well how much truth there was in the charge that her friendship was a dishonour to a young girl. It was a terrible thought for her that there was no means left for her whereby she could crush a rival except by so poisoning her with her own infection that she might become an object of disgust to her lover. But, if she could gain nothing by such a course, she could at least revenge herself. She turned over the leaves of Ernestine's publications. They were too learned for her. She understood nothing from their pages, except that they contended for the emancipation of women,--that was enough for her. She too was "emancipated." It was enough to establish an understanding between them. Perhaps a meeting with Moellner might grow out of a visit to Ernestine. She was determined to make use of Herbert's malicious hint, his last bequest to her; for she had mortally offended him, and he no longer came near her. She hastily studied a few papers upon the emancipation of women, that she might comprehend what Herbert had said of "principle" in connection with the subject, and this was the day upon which she was resolved to see her victim. She selected Wednesday for her expedition, because Herbert had told her that Moellner had been with Ernestine on the previous Wednesday. Perhaps his visit might be repeated on the same day of the week.

As soon as she rose, she blew a shrill whistle upon a little silver call. There instantly appeared--not a dog--a maid with a large bucket of spring-water, which was dashed over her beautiful mistress in a little bathing-tent.

The maid then silently withdrew, and brought coffee and the newspapers. The countess, wrapped in a rich brocade dressing-gown, lighted a cigar, and, while drinking her coffee, looked carelessly through the papers.

Afterwards she went to her dressing-room, and called to the dressing-maid in attendance there, "Riding-habit!" and, after a short delay, the maid brought her all she required. "Ali!" said the countess, which meant, "Go tell the groom to saddle Ali for me."

The brief order was understood and obeyed with rapidity. Like a shadow the attendant glided from the room, appearing again like a shadow in the presence of her dreaded mistress. The servants of this woman must have neither mind, soul, nor heart,--only ears to hear, and hands and feet to obey. The poor dressing-maid did her best to fulfil all that was required of her,--she was all ear, hands, and feet. She scarcely breathed. It really seemed as if the powerful lungs of her mistress inhaled all the air of the apartment, leaving none for any other inmate.

She took her place behind the countess, who sat before the mirror, smoking, and began, as carefully as possible, to comb out her long hair. The lovely woman examined her own features critically to-day. One peculiarity of her face, otherwise faultless,--a peculiarity that reminded her of the Russian type,--irritated her excessively; she thought her cheek-bones somewhat too high.

Just as she was contemplating this imaginary defect, the maid slightly pulled her hair. It was too much for her patience.

"Maschinka!" she cried, starting up and snatching the comb from the poor girl's hand. A flash--a blow--and Maschinka stooped silently to pick up the pieces of the broken comb. The print of its teeth was left upon her pale cheek, but no word, no cry of pain, escaped her lips,--her eyes alone looked tearful.

"Get another!" ordered her mistress, as if nothing had happened, and she sat down again.

Maschinka obeyed, and finished the coiffure, and the rest of the toilette, without further disaster. Then she brought riding-whip, hat, and gloves, and the countess descended the richly-carpeted stairs. Suddenly she stood still, and called, "Maschinka!"

"Madame!"

"Does your cheek hurt you?"

"Oh, no!" whispered the girl.

"What? Don't lie! Well, then, rub it with cold cream, from the silver box on my dressing-table; and keep the box,--I give it to you."

Without listening to the girl's thanks, she passed on. Her magnificent Arabian was led, snorting and foaming, around the court-yard. She beckoned to the stout, bearded Russian, who could scarcely restrain it, and he led it towards her. Another servant, in a rich livery, brought sugar upon a silver plate. She fed the noble animal, who was instantly soothed, kissed its smooth forehead, patted its neck, and mounted lightly to her place upon its back.

"What o'clock?" she asked, as the servant handed her the whip, and she rose in the stirrup to arrange the folds of her dress.

"Past five o'clock, madame," was the answer.

"I shall return at eight. The carriage must be ready by twelve. Tell Maschinka to have my dress prepared."

"As madame pleases," replied the servant.

"Open!" cried the countess, and a third groom, who had been waiting for this order, threw open the double gates of the court-yard, letting in a flood of morning sun-light. All reared beneath his lovely burden, as if he would soar with her into the clouds, but a quick cut from her whip somewhat cooled his Pegasus ardour, and he sprang forward, almost running over a servant, who had not moved aside quite quickly enough, and gained the street. Here, however, his mistress reined him in.

"The dogs!" she called.

The servants all hurried into the court-yard, and a frightful noise was heard. The barking, howling pack came rushing from their kennels, and leaped around their mistress with all the signs of delight that their mad gambols can evince. And now a wild race began. Away tore the Arabian, tossing the foam from his mouth. As he flew rather than galloped along, he tossed back his head, pointed his ears, and distended his nostrils, striving to outstrip the yelling pack at his heels. The beautiful hounds followed hard behind, in long leaps. The servants stood grouped about the gateway, looking after their mistress.

"Aha," muttered the chief among them to himself, "she is turning into the Bergstrasse. The dogs must waken Professor Moellner again, and bring him to the window."

But the bearded old Russian observed sadly, "She'll break her neck some day."

Peaceful, and buried in slumber, lay the quiet little town. The windows,--eyes of the houses,--were closed, as were those of their inmates; but, as the countess dashed by in her mad career, one after another was opened, a curtain drawn aside here and there, and a sleepy, curious face appeared.

The countess laughed at the crop of night-capped heads which her ride past their windows suddenly caused to appear. The warm-blooded Arabian shivered beneath her in the fresh, dewy morning air, and she felt its bracing breath colour her cheek. "What a miserable race is this, that spends such hours in bed! They rise only when the smoke from the chimneys and the weary sighs of labourers have thickened the air. That is the atmosphere for their delicate lungs! They are afraid of the cold breeze of dawn!"

She passed by Herbert's dwelling, and, with a vigorous stroke of her whip, excited her dogs to a more furious barking. How should she know that his invalid wife, in that upper chamber, had just fallen into a refreshing slumber after a wakeful night of pain, a slumber from which the noise aroused her to a day of suffering?

Here, too, a curtain was drawn aside, and Elsa's dream-encircled head peeped out.

"That is his monkey-faced sister," thought the countess, and nodded in very wantonness. The face vanished in alarm. Herbert did not appear. And she galloped on through the silent streets. It was wearisome riding thus upon stony pavements, with a sleeping public all around, her only spectators the servants and peasants carrying milk and bread, and staring open-mouthed at the haughty horsewoman. Now and then a student in his shirt-sleeves, brush or sponge in hand, would appear at a window, and one poured out the contents of his washbasin upon her dogs, who had fallen fiercely upon an innocent little cur that was just taking his morning stroll. It was the only incident that varied the monotony of her ride, and she passed swiftly on towards the Bergstrasse, as the servant had prophesied.

At last she reached it, and the glorious view of the distant mountains lay before her. The rough pavement came to an end, for here the pleasure-grounds of the town were laid out, and the roads were strewn with fine gravel. She now gave her steed the rein, and the fiery beast flew along, _ventre a terre_, with the pack after him in full cry. The houses were all surrounded by charming gardens. There was one which for a long time riveted the attention of the countess. Look! there was an open window, and at it stood Moellner, gazing out upon the far-off mountains.

Just as the countess passed, he observed her, and answered her gesture of recognition by a respectful bow.

He looked after her, well pleased as he marked the finely-knit figure, with a seat in the saddle so light and graceful that she seemed part of her horse. She turned her head and saw him looking after her, and in her pleasure at the sight she reined in Ali until he reared erect in the air and curveted proudly. Then on she galloped, and was soon lost to sight. She had reached the foot of the mountains, and, allowing her panting steed to ascend a little hill more slowly, she paused to rest him on the summit.

Before her lay a golden, sunny world. It was an enchanting morning. Thin, vapoury smoke was beginning to rise from the chimneys, and the heavens were so cloudless that it ascended straight into the blue arch without being pressed down to the earth again.

Over the tops of the pine-trees that crowned the brows of the mountains, little white feathery clouds were still hovering. It seemed as if those mighty heads would fain shake them off, for they soared aloft and then settled again, then shifted from place to place, hiding sometimes in the forest, until at last they vanished before the increasing power of the sun's rays, and the dark, jagged outline of the mountains stood out clear and free against the blue sky. Who, with a heart in his breast, beholding and enjoying all this beauty and glory, does not involuntarily look above in gratitude to the unseen Giver and mourn over his own unworthiness of such bounty? And how many eyes look on it all without understanding it or rejoicing in it! Does it not seem that on such a morning the most degraded soul would gladly purify itself, as the bird dresses his feathers at sunrise before he lifts his wings to soar aloft into the glorious ether?

And yet the gloomy fire of the previous night still smouldered on in the countess's breast, and no cool breeze, no pearly dew, availed to quench its unhallowed glow. Her heart was desecrated,--the abode of the demons of low desire and hate. It could no longer soar to higher spheres. The beautiful woman gazed upon the landscape without one feeling of its beauty. She was far more interested in compelling the obedience of her impatient steed than in the grand prospect before her. In the gilded saloons of St. Petersburg she had lost all comprehension and love of nature, and she was so accustomed to consider herself a divinity that she was no longer conscious of the humility of the creature before its Creator. Although she might not deny Him, she was indifferent to Him, and if she sometimes visited His temple, she did it only as one pays a formal visit to an equal.

Thus she stood there upon the hill, inhaling the fresh, fragrant air with a certain satisfaction, but with no more interest in the lovely scene than was felt by her dogs, who judged of the beauty of the landscape chiefly by their sense of smell, as, lying on the ground around their mistress, they too snuffed the morning breeze. Now and then one was led astray by the scent of game in the thicket; but a call from the silver whistle of his mistress reminded him of his duty, and he returned to his companions,--only casting longing looks in the direction in which his prey had escaped him. Had his haughty mistress ever in her life practised such self-denial? Could she have seriously answered this question, she might have blushed before the unreasoning brute.

* * * * *

It was ten o'clock when Ernestine stepped out upon her balcony. Gaily-dressed peasants were passing, pipe in mouth, along the road outside her garden-wall, for to-day was the Ascension of the Blessed Virgin,--a glorious opportunity for drinking to her honour and glory. The people were in their gayest humour, their morning libations had already had some effect. The peasant seems to know no better way of giving God glory than by enjoying His gifts; he believes that he thus affords Him the same pleasure that a good host feels in seeing the guests at his table enjoy what is placed before them.

Ernestine smiled at the thought of this profane belief, which nevertheless springs from honest, childlike traits of human nature.

Leuthold had not yet returned from his journey, and these days of solitude had been,--she never asked herself why,--the pleasantest that she had known for a long time. She did in his absence only what she was used to do when he was with her; but her thoughts were very different. The man had so thoroughly imbued with his teaching her every thought and action, that when he was by she could not even think what he might disapprove. Since his departure she had, if we may use the expression, let herself alone. She allowed her thoughts to stray as they pleased. She was not ashamed to spring up from her work and feed the birds, or to spend an hour in the garden, or at the window in dreamy reverie. And she made various scientific experiments, that she might surprise her uncle upon his return with their successful results.

And this was not the only advantage of his absence. She could go to the school-house to see the good old people there; she could--receive a visit!--a visit of which her uncle knew nothing. Was that right? Oh, yes, it was right,--it was too sacred a thing to be exposed to his cool contempt. Why was he so dry and cold and stern, that she must conceal every emotion from him? To have told him of this visit would have been like voluntarily exposing her roses to be frozen by ice and snow. She still remembered and felt the pain that he had made her suffer when she spoke to him of God. Then he had taken her God from her, and now he would take from her her friend,--the first, the only one she had ever known. It was the pure, sacred secret of her heart,--as pure and sacred as the communion she held with the starry heavens at night upon her observatory.

Meanwhile the door had opened without her notice, and the AEolian harp sounded in the draught that swept across its strings. The birds, that had hopped close around her for their accustomed food, flew twittering away as a stranger appeared, and a deep, mellow voice asked, "Well, and how are you?"

Ernestine started as at a lightning-flash. She turned and looked at the intruder with a deep blush, but with undisguised delight.

"Why should you be startled?" he asked.

"I do not know,--you appeared so suddenly. I did not see you coming down the road."

"No, I took a cross-cut that was shadier; I came on foot."

"Oh, then you must be tired!" said Ernestine, entering the room with him. "Sit down."

"My dear Fraeulein Hartwich, first shake hands with me,--there! And now tell me that you have quite forgiven me,--you do not think ill of me."

"No, sir,--doctor!--Can I call you doctor? We give names to everything, why should you be the exception?" And she smiled.

It was the first time that he had seen her smile, and it enchanted him.

"If, then, it is so hard not to call me by name, christen me yourself. There are kindly titles invented by friendship or good will. Am I not worthy, in your stern sight, of any of these?"

"Oh, none that I could find would be worthy of you, you are so kind, so--oh, yes! I have a title for you!"

"Well? I am curious."

"Kind sir!--will you allow that?"

"Ah, my dear Fraeulein Hartwich, it is you who are too kind."

Ernestine smiled again. A fleeting blush tinged her cheek.

Johannes looked at her. "Do you know that you seem much more cheerful than when I saw you last?"

"Thanks to your skill, kind sir."

"Indeed?--spite of my bitter physic?"

"Yes, it did taste bitter, but good followed it."

"Then you felt the truth of what I said?"

She grew grave. "No, not that,--but I recognized a true, large heart, and admiration for that conquered my ailment,--delight in its sympathy overcame the pain of being misunderstood by it."

"That is more than I ventured to hope, after so short an acquaintance. Were you less magnanimous than you are, you would hate me, for I deeply wounded your vanity, and, to be frank, I propose to do so still further."

"Not a pleasant prospect, but I will be steadfast. If you deny me the strength of a man, you shall at least not find me subject to women's weaknesses,--among which I hold vanity to be the most despicable."

Johannes smiled. "And yet you are not free from this weakness. You endure my assaults upon your pride because it gratifies your vanity to prove that you are not vain."

Ernestine cast down her eyes. "You are clever at diagnosis," she said with slight bitterness.

"I am only honest. Do you not see that I know, since you have received me so kindly to-day, that it would be quite possible to win your further confidence and esteem if I would only have a little consideration for your weaknesses? Let me confess frankly that a confidence so purchased would not content me. Trifling and jesting may have deceit for their foundation, for one will last no longer than the other, but the regard that I cherish for you, and that I would awaken in you for me, must--can--be founded only in the truth,--must grow out of the inmost core of our natures; and if our natures do not harmonize, any intimate relation between us is impossible, and an artificial tie between us would be, for us, a sin. If, then, my ruthless hand searches the hidden depths of your soul,--if I outrage your vanity, so that even the vanity of being magnanimously self-forgetting will not help you to endure it,--I only fulfil a sacred duty that truth requires of me, both to you and to myself,--a duty whose postponement might be heavily avenged in the future."

Ernestine looked at him inquiringly. She did not understand him.

"You are puzzled, and do not know how to interpret my words," he continued. "You cannot dream how far beyond reality my fancy soars. But you must feel that I am not a man to play the _bel-esprit_ for my amusement,--to find any satisfaction in measuring my wits to advantage with a woman's,--to take delight in hearing the sound of my own voice. Before I seriously approach a woman, I must be clear in my own mind as to what I can be to her and she to me. You, Fraeulein von Hartwich, cannot be to me much or little,--you can be to me everything or nothing. Our natures are both too real to admit of our passing each other by pleasantly, politely, but without enthusiasm, like ephemeral acquaintances in society. We have already, in defiance of conventional rules, formed an intimacy in which character is revealed, and the aim of our intercourse must be a higher one than that of mere amusement. Otherwise I were a boor and you are greatly to blame for enduring me. Only a deep personal interest in you could warrant my relentless treatment of you. I acknowledge that I feel this deep personal interest. More I will not say now, for all else depends upon the development of our relations towards each other, in the increase or decrease of accord in our views of life and its purposes."

Ernestine was silent. She began to have some suspicion of what she might be to this strong, upright character, and what he might be to her. But it was not that tender emotion that the first approach of love awakens in the heart of every woman, even the coldest; she was troubled and anxious. The decision with which he spoke convinced her at once that he never could be converted to her views,--that she must mould herself according to his,--that a transformation must take place in one or the other of them, if she would not lose what was already of such value to her. She was not accustomed to self-sacrifice, for her cunning uncle had so educated her, so trained her inclinations to accord with his wishes, that she always supposed she was having her own way, when in reality she was following his. She felt that this hour was a crisis in her life, that she was brought into contact with a will which would require of her great self-sacrifice, and of which she was almost in dread, because it was backed by superior strength.

Johannes waited for an answer, but none came. He saw what was going on in Ernestine's mind, and that his words had chilled her, kindly as they were meant. He took her hand and looked into her eyes. "Ah, you will not call me 'kind sir' any more?"

Ernestine was conscious of the true kindliness of his look, she felt the gentle clasp of his hand, and involuntarily she held out to him her disengaged hand also, and said almost in a tone of entreaty, "No, you will not be cruel, you will not hurt me."

He stood silent for an instant, looking into her clear, confiding eyes, holding both her hands in his, and was for the moment unspeakably happy.

"I promise you I will not give you more pain than I shall suffer myself," he said gently. "But we must buy dearly the happiness that is to content us. We are not of those who innocently and artlessly take upon trust whatever the present throws into their laps. Constituted as we are, we must needs make conditions with Heaven, and accept its gifts only when we have proved them. For we cannot be satisfied with what many would call happiness,--we can take no delight in what would charm thousands of others. It is the curse of natures like ours that they erect a standard of happiness far above what if usual,--and how many are there upon whom Providence bestows unusual happiness!"

Ernestine smiled bitterly at Johannes's last words. "Providence!" she murmured, "we are our own providence. We shape our own destiny, create our joy or our misery,--the conditions of either are in ourselves!"

"And because we are so mysteriously gifted beyond other creatures, because we are mentally freer and more conscious of ourselves than other beings, our responsibility as regards ourselves and those whom we see around us is all the greater. There are natures that are eternally wretched, because they demand more of life than it can possibly afford them, and undervalue all that it offers them, although it makes their lot enviable in the eyes of all. Then we say, 'Their unhappiness is their own fault, they have everything to make them happy, no one injures them; why are they so exorbitant in their longings?' But this is wrong. They are not insatiate, they would perhaps be contented with a far more moderate lot. What fault is it of theirs that the demands of their innermost nature are such that they require just what fate has not bestowed upon them? Of what use is a glittering gem to the traveller in the desert languishing for a drop of water? How willingly would he exchange the bauble for what he longs for! Who would say to him, 'You have a precious treasure, why are you not content?' Who would reproach him with being a human creature that cannot live without drinking? The most one can say to him is, 'Since you know that you cannot live without water, why go into the desert?' There is the point where we are responsible. If we know what are the conditions of our existence, we must see to it that what we choose in life accords with those conditions, always provided that Providence gives us the right of free choice. If this right is ours and we choose falsely, it is our fault if we are wretched. I call it an unusual boon, therefore, when Providence permits us to choose a lot that harmonizes with our nature. If this is denied us, the man of the greatest freedom of thought is not responsible for his fate,--he is under the ban of a higher power."

Ernestine listened to him with undisguised interest. He saw it, and continued:

"We, Fraeulein Hartwich, are free to choose, and are therefore responsible to each other, and it is incumbent upon us to be on the watch. A kindly Providence, you too must admit this, has brought us together, and left the decision as to what we will be to each other in our own hands. Let us show ourselves worthy of the trust; let us try ourselves. I am sure you feel with me that the moment must be a glorious one in which two human beings recognize each other as their embodied destiny. But it must be celebrated not by gushes of sentimentality nor by would-be transcendentalism, but in perfect peace of mind!"

He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. She stood quietly before him, and gathered calmness from his look. And again that significant silence ensued so dear to those whose hearts are full of what they cannot or dare not speak. Suddenly Frau Willmers softly opened the door.

"There is a lady without, who wishes to speak with you, Fraeulein Hartwich."

"With me!" asked Ernestine in displeased surprise. "Who is she?"

"She refuses to give her name, and will not be denied. She says if Fraeulein von Hartwich is not at leisure now, she will wait any length of time."

"Did you tell her I was engaged with a visitor?"

"No, there is no knowing whether the lady"--here she cast an embarrassed glance at Johannes--"might not tell your uncle!"

Ernestine looked down confused. "That is true--if it should chance--What is to be done? How very annoying!"

"I thought perhaps the gentleman would allow me to take him through the laboratory and down the other staircase?" said Frau Willmers in a tone of anxious entreaty.

"Shall I?" asked Johannes, not without evident vexation.

Ernestine looked at Frau Willmers. "Pray do," she begged, "out of pity for poor Frau Willmers, who will have to bear the whole burden of my uncle's displeasure if he should learn that she had connived at our meeting."

"I must comply with your wishes, but only for this once," he said, quietly offering her his hand. "When may I come again?"

"Next Saturday, will you not?"

Johannes knew perfectly well why she appointed that day, but he said nothing, and followed Frau Willmers. At the door he turned and looked at Ernestine. She saw something like displeasure in his face, and hastened after him.

"Pray do not be angry with me, kind sir."

Johannes was touched by the gentle entreaty from one usually so stern and cold. He pressed his lips upon her hand and whispered softly, "I shall never, never be angry with you. God bless you!"

The door closed behind him, and Ernestine, still agitated by the interview, half awake and half dreaming, went into the antechamber to receive the stranger waiting there.

The Worronska, in all her grandeur, stood before her.

Ernestine had never in her life seen so extraordinary a vision. She was actually dazzled.

The brown, Juno-like eyes were regarding her with strange curiosity, the black eyebrows were gloomily contracted; there was something so hard and haughty in her air and bearing that Ernestine took offence at it before a word had been uttered.

The way in which the lady measured her with her glance from head to foot recalled to her memory the pain that she had once suffered beneath the gaze of the Staatsraethin's guests. For one second she felt in danger of the same overwhelming sensation of embarrassment. She seemed to grow pale and wither in the presence of this dazzling and haughty person. But she was no longer a child, sensible only of her defects, and the next moment the pride of conscious power came to her relief. She knew that she stood in the presence of an enemy, but she felt herself the equal of her opponent. Who was this woman who thus assumed the right to look down upon her? Whence did she derive this right?--from beauty, wealth, or rank? Did she know as much as Ernestine? Had she written a prize essay? And, more than all, did she possess such a friend as now belonged to Ernestine? No, no, assuredly not. Ernestine was her equal, whoever she might be.

"Will you walk in?" said Ernestine with icy repose of manner and with a dignity that evidently impressed the countess greatly. Ernestine stood aside to allow her to pass, and motioned her towards a small sofa filling a recess of the room, while she herself took a seat opposite. Her lips were closed; no conventional grimace, usual upon the reception of a visitor, distorted the pure beauty of her grave countenance. She awaited in silence the stranger's communication; she was too unfamiliar with the forms of society to excuse herself for having kept her waiting in the antechamber. The countess at last understood that she must be the first to speak. She felt, too, in the presence of such a woman as Ernestine that her coming hither was a mistake, and it made her falter. For the first time in her life she was confused. The tables were turned. Ernestine was already the victor in this silent encounter. Hers was the victory of true self-respect over the frivolous conceit of a jealous coquette.

The Worronska had failed in her part even before she began to play it. She had heard Moellner's voice and his step as he left the room. The affair, then, had gone farther than she had thought. Anger had put her off her guard, and given her a hostile air when she had come to allure and perhaps lead astray. Her error must be rectified at all hazards. She held out her hand to Ernestine and said, in her melodious Russian-German, "I am the Countess Worronska."

Ernestine slightly inclined her head, and the expression of her face grew colder and more forbidding than before. "And what is your pleasure with me, Countess Worronska?"

"What? Oh, that is soon told. I seek from you amusement, instruction, excitement,--everything that so talented a companion as you are, and one so entirely of my way of thinking, can bestow."

Ernestine recoiled almost perceptibly. "Of your way of thinking?" she asked.

"Most certainly! We are both advocates of the emancipation of women, each in her own way, but our object is the same. We are both adherents of the great champion of women's rights, Louisa A----, who is my intimate friend. How charming it would be to enlist you also! We could then labour in concert,--I in action, Louisa through the daily press, you by your books."

Ernestine listened with the same unmoved countenance to what the countess said. When she had finished, Ernestine was silent for a moment, as if seeking some fitting form of speech for what she wished to say. The countess watched her eagerly. At last Ernestine replied, "Countess Worronska, I must decline your proposal,--I am resolved to pursue my path alone."

The Worronska bit her lips. "Indeed? You are afraid of sharing your laurels?"

"Not so," rejoined Ernestine calmly. "I am afraid of sharing the laurels of a Louisa A----."

"Oh! would you think that a disgrace?"

"Yes."

A pause ensued. The countess cast a fierce glance at Ernestine, who bore it coldly and unflinchingly. Again rage seethed in the bosom of the Worronska, but she controlled herself, for she was determined to compass her ends, and knew that she must be upon her guard with this girl.

"You are certainly frank," she began. "But I like that,--it is original."

"It is unfortunate that truth should be so rare among your associates, Countess Worronska, that you call it original!"

"You are severe, Fraeulein Hartwich. You should know my friends, and then you would be more lenient to their weaknesses. Why is it unfortunate? Refinement of taste brings that in its train. We cushion the chairs on which we sit, we plane and polish the rough wood of our furniture, we clothe the bare walls of our rooms with tapestry, we do not devour our meat raw like the Cossacks, but delicately cooked to please our palates. Why then should we surround ourselves morally with spikes and thorns, which rend and tear those around us? Why should we partake of our intellectual food so raw and undressed that it disgusts us? Thank Heaven, we have put off such barbarisms with our more advanced culture."

"You are perfectly right. Countess Worronska, looking upon the matter from a worldly point of view. I am only surprised to hear you defend the forms of society while you despise its proprieties."

A crimson flush rose to the brow of her visitor. But her rage only strengthened her determination to subdue her foe, superior as she could not but acknowledge her to be. "Yes, what you say is true: I love forms, because they are pleasant and useful. I hate propriety, because it would be our master, and by propriety you mean decorum--I understand you perfectly. Yes, then, yes: I love the forms of society, that give an aesthetic charm to existence, and make it smooth and easy, but I hate what people call decorum. When, in despair at the tyranny of my first husband, and utterly loathing his rude vulgarity, I left him by stealth, and fled, at peril of my life, across the half-frozen Neva to my father, to share his solitude and poverty, I acted honourably, but every one condemned me, the runaway wife was an object of scorn,--she had sinned against the laws of decorum. But when, after my divorce, I married the old Count Worronska, simply because I coveted rank and wealth, I acted dishonourably, but I had done nothing indecorous. Every one bowed low before me, and I found myself an object of respect to others when I was so deeply sunk in my own esteem. And can I do homage to decorum, the idol to which we are sacrificed, the empty scarecrow that the selfishness of men sets up to keep us within our prison-walls? In the folds of its garment lie hidden tyranny, hate and revenge, jealousy and envy, malice and uncharitableness, ready to crawl out like poisonous serpents and attack its victims. What free spirit will not curse it if it has ever been aware of even the shadow of its rod? I began by cursing it, but I have ended by despising it. I have sworn hostility to it, and, trust me, there is a rare delight in stripping it of its mask. Louisa A---- contends against it with far nobler weapons-than it deserves. It is not worth the going out to meet it with such solemn pathos. A hundred years hence, the world will laugh to think that it should have had power to annoy such a woman as Louisa."

She ceased, and looked into Ernestine's face to see the effect of her words. But there was no change of feature there.

"I cannot vie with you in your style of speaking, Countess Worronska. I am used to plain thoughts. I am not practised in metaphor, and cannot adorn what I say with such wealth of imagery. I can only reply plainly and frankly to what you say, that what you designate as our foe I consider our protection, and that it is a far different foe that I contend with. Therefore we should never agree, and it is a useless waste of time to attempt any closer intercourse."

The countess started, and the colour left her lips, so tightly were they compressed. Yet she would make one more attempt. She regarded Ernestine with a look of profound compassion, and possessed herself of her reluctant hand. "Poor child! does even your bold spirit languish in the fetters of prejudice? What a pity! How inconceivable! And will you tell me what foe it is that you wish to subdue?"

"The mean opinion that men entertain of our sex."

"And you would combat this with your pen?"

"I hope to do so."

"Do not mistake; we have mightier weapons for the contest than the pen!"

"There are none more effectual than the cultivation of our powers, for it will prove to them that we do not deserve their contempt,--that we can perform tasks that they consider emphatically their own."

"They will never acknowledge it. All intellectual power is relative,--there is nothing absolute but physical force. If we can knock a man down, he must believe that we are as strong as he. But he will never concede our intellectual equality, because there is no compelling him to be just. As long as there is no third authority in the world to act as umpire in the contest between the sexes, which can only be if God himself should descend from the skies, so long must we be victims to the egotism of men!"

Ernestine looked down thoughtfully. "You may be right, but we must comfort ourselves with the reflection that by the contest itself we have done good. To do good is the object of all, and the individual must be content with the peace of this consciousness as his reward."

"What cold comfort! Why, every flower in your path will perish in such an icy atmosphere! I pity you! Come, confide in me. In spite of your bluntness, I feel drawn towards you. I will introduce you to a new existence, where you may learn how to revenge yourself upon men. You bear the stamp upon your brow of one gifted by God to be their scourge. Learn to understand yourself, and you will see how perverted your views are! Your power lies not in the bulky volumes that you write. Our charms are the weapons by which we conquer! As long as men have eyes and we have beauty, they must be our slaves; and you would imprison yourself within four walls, and toil and strive, while you have only to face those who shrug their shoulders at your writings, to have them prostrate at your feet? Would not this be an easier conquest?"

Ernestine was silent. The countess saw with delight that she was evidently agitated, and continued more confidently.

"You are beautiful,--how beautiful you yourself do not probably know, or you would not deprive the world of a sight that would enchant it, or yourself of the satisfaction of observing its admiration. Believe me,--there is no greater delight than the triumph of our charms. To know yourself an object of worship,--to be able to bless with a smile!--ah, what rapture! It is a divine privilege, that thousands would envy you. In comparison with it, what is the feeble pleasure that your studies can afford you? What can it matter to you if it is reported for a few miles around that you are a great scholar? Is such a report a flower, refreshing you by its fragrance?--a flame, that can warm you, or a ray of light, that can dazzle you? Can it give pleasure to any one besides yourself? It is invisible, incomprehensible,--a mere idea, a phantom, a nothing. Its only value for you is the value that it gives you in the eyes of others, for in ourselves we are nothing. We are only what we may become through our relation to others. Go to the hunters of Siberia, or to the Laplanders, and ascertain whether you find it any satisfaction that you rank among the scholars of Germany. You are striving for one end, that you may secure some value in the eyes of men and revenge yourself for the contempt heaped upon you as a woman. You seek the means to this end in your inkstand,--seek it in your dark lustrous eyes,--in your long silken hair. You will find it there, like the girl in the fairy-tale. You can comb pearls and diamonds out of those locks. Let me be the fairy to hand you the magic comb."

"Cease, I pray you, Countess Worronska!" cried Ernestine, blushing deeply. "I cannot listen to such words."

"If you fear my words, it proves the effect that they have upon you, and I have half conquered already," cried the temptress exultingly.

"If you think so," said Ernestine haughtily, "continue, I pray you. When you have finished, I will tell you what I would rather not have been compelled to say."

"You will think more kindly of me when you have heard me to the end," said the countess. "You think my views immoral; but what is immorality? What corresponds closely with the laws of nature? What morality do the brutes possess? None! and they are, therefore, irresponsible. They obey those laws which you, as a student of nature, esteem the first and highest. Ascetics say morality is necessary to preserve that order without which chaos would come again. But I ask you, Does chaos reign in the brute creation? Does not the strictest order in the preservation of species prevail there? Does not each possess and preserve its individual peculiarities? Does the lion mate with the hyena? Are there not inviolable laws prevailing there? And it would be just so with mankind. Noble natures would attract only noble natures, and the common and vile herd with the vile. Love would direct the whole, and the indecorum of conventionality, of force, of falsehood and hypocrisy, would vanish. Would not the world be fairer, and, believe me, better? Conscious that no legal claim could exist between husband and wife, each would endeavour to retain the heart of the other by redoubled tenderness and self-sacrifice. Mankind would grow more amiable, more self-denying, and the mind would be fed on the freedom of the body. As long as we have no freedom of choice, our spirits must be enslaved. Have not men arrogated to themselves the right of free choice? Are they bound by laws? Where is the man who does not transgress them in public or private? But for us there is no appeal,--we are property possessed,--we have no right of ownership. We must be far above the necessity for change, inherent in every human being,--far above the demands of taste, of passion,--above everything except man. We must achieve the victory over nature, so impossible for him, but be utterly subject to his will. Is this a just order of the world? No! Even those who have never felt the pressure of its injustice cannot defend it! Has not advancing culture abolished serfdom in Russia? And is the saddest of all serfdom--the serfdom of woman--to continue? No! If you do not choose to contend for its own sake for that right of free choice, of personal freedom for which such women as Louisa A---- are doing battle, do it for the thousands of poor weak creatures languishing beneath such a perversion of morality!"

Ernestine cast upon her an annihilating glance. After a short pause she said, "And if I were to do so, I should be striving for the ruin of humanity. I will not argue with you in justification of a morality which you do not understand, but I will attempt to remind you of its necessity, which has not, it seems, occurred to you. It can be done in a few words. Morality is moderation. Where it is wanting, all force exhausts itself in immensity; for moderation is the conservative force in nature, as in life. You look amazed. You do not understand me. I cannot lead you in a single hour along the dark, thorny path by which I have attained this conviction, and I know, besides, that I speak to deaf ears. But you have challenged my opinion. You shall have it, then." Ernestine's cheeks began to flush with noble indignation. "All partisans labour for their cause, which may excuse you for attempting to disturb the peace of a quiet mind, to instil poison into an innocent heart. May you never be more successful than with me! I will believe that you have been impelled by the fanaticism of your error, not by the demoniac desire to drag me, who have done nothing to harm you, down to your abyss. But, Countess Worronska, what wretched error is this upon which you are squandering your power, your glorious gifts? I know it. Do not think that what you say is new to me. It is the old threadbare philosophy of the voluptuary. It is the proclamation of all that mankind should conceal, if not for the sake of morality, then for the sake of immortal beauty, because it is monstrous if you will not call it immoral. It is what has branded the words 'emancipation of woman' with eternal disgrace. Enough! Spare me a nearer approach to so disgusting a theme. I know sufficient of it to condemn it; for it was my right and my duty, as a champion of our rights, to examine and prove all that had been done by any of my sex for the amelioration of its condition. And I have found with the deepest sorrow how widely different these women's paths are from mine, how little they understand their own dignity. What they call emancipation is degradation,--what should make them free makes them bold. Their frankness becomes shamelessness. What they call casting off ignoble fetters is licentiousness. What do they do? What do they achieve to show themselves worthy of the rights that they demand? Are such feats as smoking cigars and shooting pistols the evidences of our greatness? And what about these very rights that they demand? What does this Louisa A---- want? What do all these women want, who strut like stage-heroines about the world, filling it with shrill clamour about their misunderstood hearts? Fie upon them! They train themselves to be slaves by their struggles for emancipation,--slaves to their desires and to men; for all their bombastic phrases about freedom signify freedom of intercourse with the other sex."

The countess sprang up.

"Hear me to the end," said Ernestine, more and more animated by a noble ardour. "My words cannot do you the harm that yours might have done me. I deeply regret that my efforts could have been for one moment confounded with yours, and therefore I will clear myself to your better self, without an instant's delay, from the suspicion of abetting you in any way. Let me tell you that my purpose is solely to vindicate the intellectual honour of my sex,--to enlarge the bounds of our ability, not of our will. Emancipation of the spirit is the goal for which I strive. Or, to speak more plainly, you work for the emancipation of the flesh,--I for emancipation from the flesh. You see our efforts are as wide asunder as the poles; and, I tell you frankly, I fear the shadow that intercourse with you would cast upon my pure cause."

The countess drew around her her mantle of black lace, that had slipped from her shoulders, and shrouded herself in it as in a cloud, then stepped up to Ernestine, who had also risen from her seat, raised her hand, and said in a tone of menace, "You will repent this."

Ernestine calmly returned her gaze. "I scarcely think so, Countess Worronska. Thanks to my occupations, I stand entirely outside of the sphere where you could harm me."

"I could kill you!" hissed the countess, gasping for breath, while the blood rushed to her head and the room grew dark before her eyes.

"Oh, no, you neither could nor would," said Ernestine with cutting contempt. "You would not afford the world the spectacle of so bold a champion of our freedom ending her days in penal confinement."

"You are right,--it would be folly to commit a crime when easier means would gain the same end. I will deal you a death-blow, and your life shall bleed slowly away, and none of our excellent laws can touch me. I will wrest from you the man whom you love. I will,--and, trust me, what I will I can."

Ernestine said not a word. She was benumbed, as if by a blow. She did not see the countess leave the room,--she saw only, by the glare of the burning torch that the wretched woman had hurled into her breast, her own heart.

Was she, then, in love? And with whom?