Chapter XXV…

Chapter XXV

Wave after wave broke over the head of the drowning man.

The factory had now been in operation for some months. The beet-root crop on the estate itself had been deficient, and the cultivation of it in the country round had proved unsuccessful. Many of the small farmers had failed to fulfill their contracts, and others had brought in inferior produce. There was a scarcity of beet-root as well as a scarcity of capital; the works stopped, the workmen dispersed.

Ehrenthal was gone off to the Polish property, and the baron was consumed by the fever of suspense. At last came the dark day when Ehrenthal appeared before him, a letter from Commissary Walter in his hand. The baron's capital had only been saved by his buying the estate.

The owners of the first mortgage of a hundred thousand dollars had raised the property, by bidding, up to a hundred and four thousand; they had then left off, and no other purchaser had come forward.

"The estate is now yours, baron," said Ehrenthal. "In order that you may be able to maintain it, I have negotiated with the owners of the first mortgage, and they will leave the hundred thousand upon the estate. I have advanced for you four thousand dollars and the legal expenses."

The baron said not a word; his head fell heavily on his writing-table. As Ehrenthal left the room, he muttered, "It is all over with him. And the next quarter he will lose his old estate, and he has not energy to undertake the new. I shall have to buy the Polish property too, in the end."

And now term-time drew near, and the baron had the interest of all his borrowed money to pay. Once more he looked round for help. In vain! Last of all he came to his neighbor, George Werner, who had for some years paid homage to Lenore, and then prudently drawn back, the baron's embarrassments being no longer a secret. The young man showed all the sympathy conventional in such a case. He was very sorry, indeed, to hear that there was so large a mortgage upon the recently-purchased property. "Whom did you send to the auction?" asked he.

"Hirsch Ehrenthal," was the reply.

George Werner waxed eloquent. "I fear," cried he, "that that fellow has played you false. I know the usurer well: years ago we lost a large sum by his villainy. My father had cut down a wood in the next province, and sold it to a timber-merchant. Ehrenthal made a cheating bargain with this man, got the timber from him at a nominal price, while the other fellow ran off to America. The two rogues shared my father's money."

The baron's face grew livid; he rose, said not another word about his concerns, and slunk out of his neighbor's house like a felon.

From that day he brooded darkly in his arm-chair, was harsh to his wife, unapproachable by his daughter. The two poor women suffered inexpressibly.

One ray of hope still remained to him--Bernhard's influence with his father. But he would not take the hand unselfishly offered him. He did not send for Anton, but for another, of whom the idea was repulsive to him, yet whose grotesque presence seemed to cheer him whenever they met. Once more, at the last hour, a gracious destiny left his choice free. But alas! he was himself free no longer. It was the curse of an evil deed that now confused his judgment.

Again Itzig stood before him, and the baron, looking askance at the bent figure, said, "Young Ehrenthal has offered to make up my difference with his father."

Veitel leaped up suddenly as if he had been shot. "Bernhard!" said he.

"That is his name, I dare say; he is an invalid."

"He will die," replied Veitel.

"When?" asked the baron, occupied with his own thoughts; but, recovering himself, he added, "What is the matter with him?"

"It is here," said Itzig, laying his hand on his chest; "it labors like a pair of bellows: when a hole is once torn, the breath ceases."

The baron put on an expression of sympathy, but, in reality, his only thought was that he had no time to lose. "The invalid," said he, "has sufficient influence over his father to give me hopes of Ehrenthal's consent to my wishes."

"What does Bernhard know of business? He is a fool," cried Veitel, unable to conceal his annoyance. "If you were to put an old parchment covered with manuscript before him, he would give you any mortgage you liked for it; he is half-witted."

"I see that you do not approve this plan," said the baron, again drifting hopelessly.

Before Itzig replied, he stood for a long time reflecting, and restlessly looking away from the baron into every corner of the room. At last he said, in a more self-possessed tone, "The baron is right. It will be best, after all, that you and Ehrenthal should go together to Bernhard's sick-bed, and there finally settle your affairs." Again he was silent, and his face grew red with stormy thoughts. "Will the baron be graciously pleased to leave me to fix the day and the hour when he can best speak to Bernhard Ehrenthal? As soon as you enter the office, I will go up and tell him that you are there. Meanwhile you will have the goodness to wait in the office, even if I should be half an hour away. You will wait, whatever Ehrenthal may say. And when I take you up stairs, all will be right, for Bernhard can do what he likes with his father."

"I shall wait till I hear from you," decided the baron, distressed at the thought of the painful day.

Itzig then took his leave, and rushed in frantic excitement to his lair in the house of Pinkus. Arrived there, he ran wildly up and down, clenching his fist at the thought of Bernhard. He opened his old desk, and took out of a secret drawer two keys, which he laid on the table, and stood looking at them steadfastly and long. At length he pushed them into his pocket, and ran down to the caravanserai. There, cowering in a corner of the gallery, he found his sagacious friend Mr. Hippus, whose aspect had certainly not improved during the last few days. He was now sitting squeezed into a corner where the sunlight fell, and was reading a dirty romance. When Veitel hurriedly entered, he only buried his head deeper in his book, for which he appeared to care far more than for the young man of business before him.

"Shut up your book, and listen to me," cried Itzig, impatiently. "Rothsattel will get his notes of hand back from Ehrenthal; he will give in the mortgage, and I shall have to pay him the remaining eight thousand dollars."

"Only think--only think," replied the old man, wagging his ugly head, "what things one lives to see! If Ehrenthal gives his money away to a vagabond who has broken his word, it will be time for us all to mend our ways and turn honest. Before, however, we speak further, you may just bring me up something to eat and drink. I am thirsty, and have not another word to say at present."

Veitel hurried down stairs, and the old man, looking after him, muttered, "Now for it! now for it!"

When Veitel had placed his meal before him, Hippus briefly inquired, "How much?"

"Three hundred," said the old man; "and even then I must have time to consider. It is not in my line, most worthy Itzig. I am willing to labor in my vocation for less, as you have experienced ere now, but for a noble exploit in the style of Cartouche and others of your friends, I require better compensation. I am only a volunteer, and I can't say that my preferences lie in this direction."

"Do mine?" cried Itzig. "If there be any other means to take, tell me them. If you know how the baron and Ehrenthal can be kept asunder, say so. Ehrenthal's only son will make peace between them; he will stand between them like the winged cupid on a valentine between two lovers, and we shall be done."

"We?" chuckled the old man. "You will be done, you jackdaw. What are your affairs to me?"

"Two hundred," cried Veitel, drawing nearer.

"Three," replied the old man, tossing off his glass; "but even then I will not do it alone; you must be there."

"If I am to be there," said Veitel, "I can do it alone, and shall not require your help. Listen to me. I will contrive that the office shall be empty; that Ehrenthal and the baron shall leave the house at the same moment. I will give you a sign, to say whether the papers are on the table or in the press. It will be dark. You will have about half an hour's time. I will fasten the house door, and unbolt the back door, which is generally closed. It will all be so safe that a child of two years might do it easily."

"Safe enough for you," said the old man, dryly, "but not for me."

"We have tried what could be done with the law, and it has not answered," cried Veitel; "now we must defy it." He struck the balustrade with his clenched fist, and ground his teeth fiercely. "And if you don't choose to do it, still it shall be done, though I know that all the suspicion will fall upon me, unless I am in Bernhard's room at the time."

"Very fine indeed, gallant Itzig," said the man, adjusting his spectacles, so as to observe more closely the expression of the other's countenance. "Since you are so brave, I will not leave you in the lurch. But three hundred."

The bargaining then began. The pair squeezed themselves into the farthest corner of the gallery, and whispered together till dark.

A few days later, at twilight, Anton entered his friend's sick-room. "I am come to pay you a flying visit, just to see how you are."

"Weak," replied Bernhard; "still very weak, and breathing becomes very difficult. If I could only get out, only once out of this gloomy room."

"Does your doctor allow you to drive out? If the sun be bright and warm, I will bring a carriage to-morrow and take you a drive."

"Yes," cried Bernhard, "you shall come. I shall have something to tell you then." He looked cautiously around. "I have this day received by the townpost a note without a signature." He drew it out from under his pillow, and gave it with a mysterious look to his friend. "Take it: perhaps you know the hand."

Anton went to the window and read, "The Baron Rothsattel wishes to speak to you this evening. Contrive, therefore, to be alone with your father."

When Anton gave back the note, Bernhard received it reverentially, and replaced it under his pillow. "Do you know the hand?" said he.

"No," replied Anton; "the hand seems a feigned one; it is not the young lady's."

"Whoever the writer may be," continued Bernhard, dejectedly, "I hope for a good result from this evening's interview. Wohlfart, this dispute lies like a hundred weight on my breast; it takes my breath away. This evening I shall be better; I shall be free."

Speaking had tired him. "Farewell, then, till morning," said Anton. As he rose he heard the rustle of ladies' dresses, and Bernhard's mother and sister approached the bed and greeted the visitor. "How are you, Bernhard?" asked his mother; "you will be all alone with your father this evening. There is a great musical meeting, and Rosalie is to play. We have moved the piano into the back room, Mr. Wohlfart, that Bernhard may not be disturbed by Rosalie's practicing."

"Sit down for a moment beside me, mother," said Bernhard; "it is long since I have seen you handsomely dressed. You look beautiful to-day; you had just such a gown as this when I, as a boy, took scarlet fever. When I dream of you I always see you in a scarlet dress. Give me your hand, mother; and while you listen to the music this evening, think, too, of your Bernhard, who will be making silent melody here."

His mother sat down beside him. "He is feverish again," said she to Anton, who silently assented.

"To-morrow I shall go out into the sunshine," cried Bernhard, in an excited tone; "that will be my enjoyment."

"The carriage waits," said Rosalie, remindingly; "and we have to go out the back way, which is dirty. Itzig has persuaded my father that the carriage must not drive round to the front for fear of disturbing Bernhard."

"Good-night, Bernhard," said his mother, once more reaching out her plump hand. The ladies hurried away. Anton followed them.

"What do you think of Bernhard?" asked the mother, as they went down stairs.

"I consider him very ill," Anton replied.

"I have already told my husband that, when summer comes, and I go with Rosalie to the Baths, we will take Bernhard with us."

Anton went home with a heavy heart.

The house grew silent; nothing was to be heard in the sick-room but the labored breathing of the sufferer. But there was a stir on the floor below him--doubtless a mouse gnawing the wainscot. Bernhard listened uneasily. "How long will it go on gnawing? till it makes a hole at last, and comes into the room." A shudder came over him--he tossed about on his bed--the darkness seemed to press him in--the air grew thick. He rang till the maid came and set down the lamp. Then he gazed languidly round. The room looked old and prison-like to-day; it appeared unfamiliar to him, like some room in a strange house, where he was only a visitor. He looked with indifference at his library, and the drawer where lay his beloved manuscripts. That spot upon the floor--that chink through which the light from the next room shone in every evening, to-morrow he would leave them all to drive with Anton. He wondered whether they would take the road the young lady took when going to and fro between town and her father's estate. Perhaps they might meet her. His eye beamed; he confidently believed that they should meet her. She would sit queen-like in her carriage, her veil flying round her blooming face; she would raise her white hand and wave it to him--nay, she would recognize him; she would know that he had rendered her father a service; she would stop and inquire how he was. He should speak to her--should hear the noble tones of her voice; she would bow once more; then the carriages would separate, one here, the other there. And whither would he go? "Into the sunshine," whispered he. And again he listened anxiously to the gnawing of the mouse.

A hurried step came through the room beyond. Bernhard sat up--the blood mounted to his face. It was the father of Lenore who was coming to him. The door opened softly; an ugly face peeped in, and glanced stealthily around the room. Bernhard cried in dismay, "What do you want here?"

Itzig went up to the bed in haste, and breathing hard, said, in a voice that sounded as choked as that of the invalid, "The baron has just gone into the office. He has told me to come to you, and to persuade you to support the proposal that he is about to make to your father."

"He has said that to you?" cried Bernhard. "How can the baron give a message to a man like you?"

"Hold your peace," rejoined Veitel, rudely; "there is no time for your speeches. Listen to what I have to say. The baron promised your father, on his word of honor, security for twenty thousand dollars, and now he can not give him that security, because he has sold the deed to another. He has broken his word, and now demands that your father should renounce his security. If you can advise your father to lose twenty thousand dollars, why, do so."

Bernhard trembled all over. "You are a liar!" cried he. "Every word that proceeds from your mouth is hypocrisy, double-dealing, and deceit."

"Hold your peace," replied Veitel, in feverish anxiety. "You are not to persuade your father to his harm. There is no helping this baron; he is a fly who has burned his wings in the candle; he can only crawl. And even if Ehrenthal be fool enough to follow your evil counsel, he can not maintain for the baron possession of his estate. If he does not eject him, another will. I have no interest in saying this to you," continued he, uneasily listening to a sound in front of the house; "I do so merely out of attachment to your family."

Bernhard struggled for breath. "Get out of my sight!" said he, at length; "there is nothing but deceit and falsehood on earth."

"I will bring up the baron and your father," said Veitel, and rushed out of the room.

Meanwhile Ehrenthal's angry voice sounded loudly on the ground floor. "I will go to the lawyer; I will expose you and your intrigues."

Veitel burst open the door. The baron sat on the stool, and hid his face with his hands. Ehrenthal stood before him trembling with rage. On the desk stood the baron's casket, containing the fatal notes of hand and the mortgage. Veitel cried out, "Have done, Ehrenthal; your Bernhard is very ill; he is all alone up stairs, and calls for you and for the baron; he wants you both beside him."

"What means this?" screamed Ehrenthal. "Are you intriguing with my son too, behind my back?"

"Have you shown him the new mortgage that you have had drawn up for him?" asked Veitel, hurriedly.

"He will not even look at it," returned the baron, gloomily.

"Give it to me," said Veitel; and he laid a new deed before Ehrenthal.

"You want me to take a bit of paper instead of my good money--mere trash, that is not worth my burning."

"Will you not give over?" cried Veitel, in greatest distress. "No one is up stairs with Bernhard, and he is calling out for you and the baron; he will do himself a mischief. Do go up stairs; he has groaned out that I am to bring you both to him immediately."

"Just God!" cried Ehrenthal, "what is to be done! I can not come to my son; I am in terror about my money."

"He will cry himself to death," said Veitel; "you can speak about the money long enough afterward. Do make haste."

The baron and Ehrenthal both left the office. Itzig followed. Ehrenthal locked the door, laid the iron bar across it, and fastened the bolts. As they went up stairs a piece of money rang upon the step. Ehrenthal looked round. "It dropped out of my pocket," said Veitel.

The baron and Ehrenthal entered the sick-chamber, and Itzig pushed himself in after them, creeping along the wall to the window behind Bernhard, so that the latter should not see him. The baron sat down at the head of the bed, the father at the foot, and the lamp threw a pale light on the parties who came to wrangle about capital and security in the presence of the dying. The nobleman began by a courteous speech, referring to Bernhard's visit to his estate, hoping soon to welcome him there again; but his eyes rested with terror on the sunken face, and an inner voice told him the last hour was near. Bernhard sat up in his bed, his head resting on his breast, and, raising his hand, he interrupted the baron, saying, "I pray you, baron, to tell me what you require from my father, and, while doing so, to recollect that I am no man of business."

The baron proceeded to state his case. Ehrenthal was often about to interrupt him, but each time Bernhard waved his hand, and then the old man stopped, and contented himself with vehemently shaking his head and mumbling to himself.

When the baron's statement was over, Bernhard beckoned to his father. "Come nearer me, and listen quietly to my words."

The father stooped down with his ear close to his son's mouth. "What I am about to say," continued Bernhard, in a low voice, "is my firm resolve, and it is not one taken this day. If you have made money, it was with the hope that I should outlive you and be your heir. Was it not so?"

Ehrenthal vehemently nodded assent. "If, then, you behold your heir in me, listen to my words. If you love me, act in accordance with them. I renounce my inheritance so long as we both live. What you have laid up for me has been laid up in vain. I require nothing for my future. If it be appointed me to recover, I will learn to support myself by my own labor. Beside your love and your blessing, father, I want nothing. Think upon this."

Ehrenthal raised his arms and cried, "What words are these, my Bernhard, my poor son! Thou art ill; thou art very ill."

"Hear me further," besought Bernhard. "Whatever your claims may be on this gentleman's estate, they must be given up. You have been connected with him in business for long years; you must not be the means of making his family unhappy. I do not ask you to give away the large sum in question. That would pain you too much, and would be humiliating to him; all I require is, that you should accept the security he offers you. If he ever promised you any other, forget it; if you have papers in your possession which compromise him, give them back."

"He is ill," groaned his father; "he is very ill."

"I know that this will pain you, my father. Ever since you left your grandfather's house, a poor barefooted Jew-boy, with one dollar in your pocket, you have thought of nothing but money-making. No one ever taught you any thing else, and your creed excluded you from the society of those who better understood what gave value to life. I know it goes to your heart to risk a large sum, but yet, father, you will do it--you will do it because you love me."

Ehrenthal wrung his hands, and said, with floods of tears, "You know not what you ask, my son. You plead for a robbery--a robbery from your father."

The son took his father's hand. "You have always loved me. You have wished that I should be different from yourself. You have always given heed to my words, and before I could express a wish you have fulfilled it. But this is the first great request that I have ever made. And this request I will whisper in your ear as long as I live; it is the first, father, and it will be my last."

"Thou art a foolish child," cried the father, beside himself; "thou askest my life--my whole substance."

"Fetch the papers," replied Bernhard. "I must, with my own eyes, see you give back to the baron what he wishes to retract, and receive from him what he can still give."

Ehrenthal took out his handkerchief and wept aloud: "He is ill. I shall lose him, and I shall lose my money too." Meanwhile the baron sat silent and looked down. As for Itzig, he was clenching his fist convulsively, and unconsciously tearing the curtain down from the pole.

Bernhard looked at his father's emotion unmoved, and repeated with an effort, "I will have it so; bring the papers, father," Then he sank back on his pillow. His father bent over him, but with a silent gesture of aversion Bernhard waved him off, saying, "Enough! you hurt me."

Then Ehrenthal rose, took up his office-candle, and tottered out of the room.

The baron sat still as before, but in the midst of his suspense he was conscious of flashes that resembled joy. He saw a spot of blue in his clouded sky. His promise given back to him, eight thousand dollars to receive from the man in the window, he might look up once more. He took Bernhard's hand, and, pressing it, said, "I thank you, sir--oh how I thank you! You are my deliverer; you save my family from despair, and me from disgrace."

Bernhard held the baron's hand firmly in his, and a blissful smile passed over his face. Meanwhile the one in the window was grinding his teeth in his phrensy of anxiety, and pressing himself against the wall to control the fever-fit which shook him.

Thus they remained a long while. No one spoke. Ehrenthal did not return. Suddenly the room door was burst open, and a man rushed in furious, with distorted face and streaming hair. It was Ehrenthal, holding in his hand the flaring candle, but nothing else.

"Gone!" said he, clasping his hands, and letting the candle fall; "all gone! all is stolen!" He fell on his son's bed, and stretched out his arms, as if to implore help from him.

The baron sprang up, not less horrified than Ehrenthal. "What is stolen?" cried he.

"Every thing!" groaned Ehrenthal, looking only at his son. "The notes of hand, are gone, the mortgages are gone. I am robbed!" screamed he, springing up. "Robbery! burglary! Send for the police!" And again he rushed out, the baron following him.

Half fainting and bewildered, Bernhard looked after them. Itzig now stepped out from the window and came to the bed. The sufferer threw his head on one side, and gazed at him as the bird does at the snake. It was the face of a devil into which he gazed; the red hair stood up bristling; hellish dread and hate were in every ugly feature. Bernhard closed his eyes, and covered them with his hand. But the face came nearer still, and a hoarse voice whispered in his ear.

Meanwhile two men stood in the office below, and looked at each other in stupid amazement. The casket and its contents were gone. The deeds that the baron had laid on the desk were gone too. Ehrenthal had unlocked the door as usual. There was nothing wrong with the bolts. Every thing stood in its right place. If any money had been taken out of the drawer, it could be but very little. There was not a sign of the well-secured shutters having been touched; it was inexplicable how the documents could have been taken away.

Then they searched the whole ground floor: nothing to be seen--even the house door was locked. They recollected that the cautious book-keeper had done that as they went up stairs. Again they went back to the office and searched every corner, but more rapidly and more hopelessly than before. Then they sat over against each other, watching for some token of treachery; and again they sprang up, and mutually poured out such reproaches as only despair can invent.

The papers had vanished from Ehrenthal's office just as he had unwillingly yielded to his son's entreaties for a reconciliation with the baron. He had not, indeed, made up his mind to it--he had only gone to fetch the papers. Would any one believe that those papers were stolen? Would his own son believe him?

And as for the baron, his loss was greater still. He had just had a hope of rescue, now he fell again into an abyss beyond his fathoming. His notes of hand were in some stranger's possession. If the thief understood how to make use of them--nay, if the thief were only apprehended, he was lost; and if they were never found again, still he was equally lost. He was not in a condition to make any arrangement with Ehrenthal; he was not in a condition to pay any of his creditors; he was lost beyond possibility of deliverance. Before him lay poverty, failure, disgrace. Again there recurred to his mind that court of honor, his fellow-officers, and the unfortunate young man who had destroyed himself. He had been obliged to view the body; he knew how one looks who has died thus; he knew too, now, how a man comes to die. Once he had shuddered at the image of the corpse, now he shuddered at it no longer. His lips moved, and as in a dream he said to himself, "That is the last resource." The door was now torn open, a hideous head appeared, and a wild cry was heard, "Come up, Hirsch Ehrenthal; your son is dying." Then the apparition vanished, Ehrenthal rushed off with a shriek, and the baron tottered out of the house.

When the father fell down beside his son's bed, a white hand was lifted up once more, then a corpse fell back. Bernhard was gone out into the sunshine.

The evening was warm. A light mist hid the stars, but there was still a pleasant twilight. The balmy breath of the flowering shrubs in the public gardens was wafted into the streets. The passers-by returned slowly home, sorry to leave the sweet south breeze, and shut themselves up in-doors. The beggar stretched himself comfortably out on the threshold of the stately house; every young fellow who had a sweetheart led her out with him through the streets. He who was weary forgot his past day's work; he who was sad felt his sadness less on such an evening as this; he who was alone the whole year felt impelled to seek companionship to-day. Groups stood laughing and chattering at the doors; children were playing; the caged nightingale sang her sweetest song--sang of the early summer--that happy time when life is sweet and fond hopes blossom.

Through these swarms of people a tall man walked slowly; his head had sunk on his breast. He did not hear the nightingale's note, and passed through the circle of dancing children without one sound of their happy voices falling upon his ear. He passed into the suburbs, slowly ascended a flower-crowned hill, and sat down on a bench. Beneath him the dark river rolled onward to the sea, and opposite him rose the mighty mass of the old cathedral. The river was covered with timber-rafts brought down from the mountains. On these rafts stood the little huts of their rowers, with small fires in them, at which the men were now preparing their suppers. He too had had to do with timber-rafts like these, and the money he had thus won had been spoken of as a theft. He got up hastily and hurried down the hill.

His way lay through an alley of tall sycamores, and again he stopped, and wearily leaned against the trunk of a tree. Before him rose the chimneys of the manufacturing part of the town. He too knew what it was to build a tall pile like that. He had laid all he had at its base--his strength, his money, his honor. He had paid for it with sleepless nights and whitened hair; it was the tomb-stone of his race which he had raised on his estate, and what he now saw before him in the uncertain light was a monster church-yard, full of shadowy monuments, beneath which lay coffined the peace of mind of many wretched men; and nodding, he said, and started to hear his own words, "It is the last." He rose and went to his house.

On his way thither he felt how comforting it was to think of that which would free him from such hideous pictures. He went in and smiled when the lamp shone on his face. As he stood in the hall he could hear voices in his wife's room. Lenore was reading aloud. He listened and heard that she was reading a novel. He would not frighten those poor women; but there was a back room apart from all the rest--he would go there. While he was still standing in the hall, the room door opened, and the baroness looked out. She gave an involuntary start when she saw him. He smiled and cheerfully entered the room, gave his hand to his wife, stroked Lenore's head, and bent down to see what she was reading. The baroness regretted that she had had her tea without him, and he joked her about her impatience for her favorite beverage. He went to the cage in which two foreign birds were sitting on the same perch, their small heads resting against each other, and putting his fingers to the wires as if to stroke them, he said absently, "They are gone to rest." Then taking the waxlight from the servant's hand, he moved toward his own room. As he took hold of the door-handle, he remarked that his wife's eyes followed him anxiously, and, turning toward her, he nodded cheerfully. Then he closed the door, took a polished case out of his writing-table, and carried it and the candle to the small back room. Here he was sure he should disturb no one.

Slowly he loaded. In loading he looked at the inlaid work on the barrels. It had been the toilsome task of some poor devil of a gunmaker--it had often been admired by his acquaintance. The pistols themselves had been a wedding-present from the general, who had on one occasion acted the part of father to his orphan bride. He hurriedly rammed down the charge, then looked behind him. When he fell it should not be on the floor; he would not make on those who should come in the same painful impression that his outstretched comrade had made on him.

He placed the barrel to his temple. At that moment a woman's shriek was heard, his wife rushed in, his arm was seized with the strength of despair; he started, and his finger touched the trigger--a flash, a report, and he sank back on the sofa, and groaning, raised both his hands to his eyes.

In the merchant's house the bereaved father came, candle in hand, out of the room of the dead to the office below. He looked anxiously about on the desk, in the cupboard, in every corner of the room; then sat down, shook his head, and marveled. Then he locked up the office, went up stairs again, and fell groaning and crying on the bed. So he spent the whole night, seeking and wailing, wailing and seeking--a distracted, desolate, broken-down man.

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Chapter XXVI

In the merchant's house domestic life flowed smoothly on again. The small disturbance made by the return of Anton had gradually settled down. Those first-class treasures of Sabine's had made way for other specimens of damask, still of a superior kind, it is true, but which came within the compass of the elderly cousin's comprehension. She had been quite right in prophesying that Anton would never remark those signs of exuberant gratitude or their withdrawal. However, one change had been permanently made--the greatest, the best of all changes--the clerk retained a privileged place in the heart of the young mistress of the firm, and his tall figure often appeared as one of the circle that Sabine's fancy loved to gather round her when at her work-table or in her treasure-chamber.

To-day she was walking restlessly up and down before dinner. The cousin, who heard every thing, had just told her that a maid from Ehrenthal's had run into the office to announce Bernhard's death to his friend. "How will he bear it?" thought she. And the name of Ehrenthal forced her thoughts back to the past, to one now far away, and to that painful hour when the struggle going on in her own mind had been suddenly brought to a close by a letter from the house of the departed. And Anton had known of that conquered feeling of hers. How considerate he had always been, how chivalrous, how helpful! She wondered if he had any idea of the completeness of her triumph over a girlish illusion. She shook her head. "No, he has not. It was here, at this very table, that an accident first betrayed me to him. That past time still rises like a cloud between us. Whenever I sit near Wohlfart of an evening, I am conscious of another's shadow at my side; and when he speaks to me, his tone, his manner always seem to say, 'You are not alone; he is with you.'" Sabine started, and lovingly passed her hand over the beautiful flowers on the table before her, as if to dispel a painful thought. She could not tell him that she was free from that long-felt sorrow. Now, however, when he had lost a friend whom he so much loved, she must show him that there were other hearts that clung to him still. And again she walked up and down, trying to devise a way of speaking to him alone.

Dinner was announced. Anton came with the rest, and took his place at once. There was no opportunity of exchanging a word during the meal, but he often met her sad and sympathizing eye. "He eats nothing at all to-day," whispered her cousin; "not even any of the roast," she added, reproachfully. Sabine was much perturbed. Mr. Jordan had already risen; Anton would leave the room with the rest, and she should not see him again the whole day through. So she called out, "The great Calla is fully blown now. You were admiring the buds the other day; will you remain a moment; I should like to show it you?" Anton bowed and staid behind. A few more awkward moments, then her brother rose too; and, hurrying to Anton, she took him to the room where the flowers were.

"You have had sorrowful tidings to-day," she began.

"The tidings themselves did not surprise me," replied Anton. "The doctor gave no hope. But I lose much in him."

"I never saw him," said Sabine; "but I know from you that his life was lonely--poor in affection and in enjoyment."

She moved an arm-chair toward Anton, and led him on to talk about his friend. She listened to every word with warm sympathy, and well knew what to ask and how to comfort. It was a relief to Anton to speak of the departed one, to describe his quiet way of life, his erudition, his poetical enthusiasm. After a pause, Sabine looked up frankly into his face, and asked, "Have you any tidings of Herr von Fink?"

It was the first time since his departure that she had ever breathed his name. Anton felt how touching her confidence was, given in this hour of his sadness. In his emotion, he seized her hand, which she was slow in withdrawing.

"He is not happy in his new life," he gravely replied. "There was a savage humor in his last letter, from which I gather, even more than from his actual words, that the business into which his uncle's death has thrown him does not suit him."

"It is unworthy," cried Sabine.

"At all events, it is not what would be recognized as honorable in this house," replied Anton. "Fink is upright, and has lived too long with your brother to take pleasure in the wild speculations so common on the other side the Atlantic. His partners and colleagues are for the most part men without a conscience, and his feelings revolt against their companionship."

"And can Herr von Fink tolerate such relations as these for a day?"

"It is a remarkable thing that he whose own will was ever so arbitrarily exercised, should now be obliged against that will to obey a pressure from without, and every where to work with his hands tied. The organization of such speculations in America is so complicated that one shareholder can do little to alter it; and, now that Fink has attained what used to be the goal of his wishes--a large capital, and the management of immense districts--his condition appears more uncertain than it ever was before. He was always in danger of thinking slightingly of others, now I am distressed at the bitter contempt he expresses for his own life. His last letter paints an intolerable state of things, and seems to point to some decisive resolve."

"There is only one resolve for him," cried Sabine. "May I ask what you said to him in reply?"

"I entreated him instantly, come what would, to free himself from the business in which he was entangled. I said that his own strong will might find a way of extrication, even if that which I pointed out proved impracticable. Then I begged of him either to carry out his old plan of becoming a landed proprietor in America, or to return to us."

"I knew that you would write thus," said Sabine, drawing a long breath. "Yes, Wohlfart, he shall return," said she, gently, "but he shall not return to us."

Anton was silent.

"And do you think that Herr von Fink will follow your advice?"

"I do not know. My advice was not very American."

"But it was worthy of you," cried Sabine, with proud delight.

"An officer wishes to speak to Mr. Wohlfart," said a servant at the door.

Anton sprang up. Sabine went to her flowers and bent mournfully over them. The shadows of others hovered still between her friend and her.

The few words spoken by the servant filled Anton with a vague terror. He hurried into the ante-room: there stood Eugene von Rothsattel. Anton was gladly rushing forward to greet him, but the young soldier's face of agony made him start back. He whispered, "My mother wishes to speak to you; something dreadful has occurred." Anton caught up his hat, ran into the office, hurriedly asked Baumann to excuse him to the principal, and then accompanied the lieutenant to the baron's house.

On the way, Eugene, who had lost all self-command, said unconnectedly to Anton, "My father last night accidentally wounded himself by a pistol-shot--a messenger was sent to summon me--when I came, I found my mother in a swoon--my sister and I do not know what to do--Lenore implored my mother on her knees to send for you--you are the only one in whom we have any confidence in our distress--I understand nothing about business, but my father's affairs must be in a dreadful state--my mother is beside herself--the whole house is in the greatest disorder."

From what Eugene said and what he did not say; from his broken sentences and his look of agony, Anton guessed at the horrors of the previous evening. In the boudoir of the baroness he found Lenore, weeping and exhausted.

"Dear Wohlfart!" cried she, taking his hand and beginning again to sob, while her head sank powerless on his shoulder.

Meanwhile Eugene walked up and down, wringing his hands, and at length throwing himself on the sofa, he gave himself up to silent tears.

"It is horrible, Mr. Wohlfart," said Lenore, lifting up her head. "No one may approach my father--Eugene may not, nor I--only my mother and old John are with him; and early this morning the merchant Ehrenthal was here, insisting that he must see my father. He screamed at my mother, and called my father a deceiver, till she fainted away. When I rushed into the room, the dreadful man went off threatening her with his clenched fist."

Anton led Lenore to a chair and waited till she had told him all. There was no possibility of comforting in this case, and his own heart was wrung to the utmost by the misery he witnessed.

"Call my mother, Eugene," said Lenore, at length.

Her brother left the room.

"Do not forsake us," implored Lenore, clasping her hands; "we are at the last gasp; even your help can not save us."

"He is dead who might perhaps have done so," mournfully replied Anton. "Whether I can be of any use I know not, but you can not doubt my willingness to be so."

"No," cried Lenore. "And Eugene, too, thought of you at once."

The baroness now entered. She walked wearily; but, steadying herself by a chair, she saluted Anton with dignity. "In our position," said she, "we need a friend who knows more of business than we three do. An unfortunate accident prevents the baron--possibly for a long time to come--from managing his own affairs, and, little as I understand them, I can see that our interests require prompt measures. My children have mentioned you to me, but I fear I am unreasonable in asking you to devote your time to our service."

She sat down, beckoned Anton to take a chair, and said to her children, "Leave us; I shall be better able to tell Mr. Wohlfart the little that I know when I do not see your grief."

When they were alone, she motioned him nearer and tried to speak, but her lips quivered, and she hid her face in her handkerchief.

"Before I can consent, gracious lady," said he, "to your reposing in me such confidence as this, I must first inquire whether the baron has no relative or intimate friend to whom you could with less pain make such a communication. I pray you to remember that my own knowledge of business is but small, and my position not one to constitute me a proper counselor to the baron."

"I know no one," said the baroness, hopelessly. "It is less painful to me to tell you what I can not conceal, than to one of our own circle. Consider yourself a physician sent for to visit a patient. The baron has this morning told me some particulars of his present circumstances." And then she proceeded to relate what she had gathered as to the nature of his embarrassments, the danger in which the family property was placed, and the capital needed to take possession of the Polish estate.

"My husband," continued she, "has given me the key of his desk, and he wishes Eugene, with the help of a man of business, to go over his papers. I now request of you to make this examination together with my son. When you need explanations, I will try to obtain them from the baron. The question is now, whether you are inclined to undertake this trouble for us, who are only strangers."

"I am most willing to do so," earnestly replied Anton; "and I hope that the kindness of my principal will allow me the time needful for the purpose, if you do not consider it more advisable to depute the baron's experienced legal adviser to the task."

"There will be an opportunity of asking that gentleman's advice later," said the baroness.

Anton rose. "When do you wish to begin?"

"Immediately. I fear there is not a day to lose. I shall do all I can to help you look the papers over." She led Anton into the next room, called in Eugene, and unlocked the baron's desk. As she opened it she lost her self-command for a moment, and moving to the window, the quivering of the curtains betrayed the anguish that shook her fragile frame.

The mournful task began. Hour after hour passed. Eugene was in no condition to peruse any thing, but his mother reached letters and documents to Anton, and, though often obliged to desist a while, she bravely returned to the task. Anton placed the papers in order, and sought, by glancing over each, to arrive at least at a superficial view of the facts of the case.

It was evening, when the old servant opened the door in dismay, and called out, "He is there again." The baroness could not repress a slight scream, and made a gesture of aversion.

"I have told him that no one is at home, but he will not be dismissed; he makes such a noise on the steps. I can not get rid of him."

"It will kill me if I hear his voice again," murmured the baroness.

"If the man be Ehrenthal," said Anton, rising, "I will try to get him away. We have now done what was most necessary; have the goodness to lock up these papers, and to allow me to return to-morrow." The baroness silently assented, and sank back in her chair. Anton hurried off to the ante-room, whence he could hear Ehrenthal's loudly-raised voice.

The appearance of the usurer shocked him. His hat pushed half off his head, his pale face swelled as if by drinking, his glazed eyes red with tears, Ehrenthal stood before him, calling in broken sentences for the baron, wailing and cursing alternately. "He must come! he must come at once!" cried he; "the wicked man! A nobleman, indeed! he is a vagabond, after whom I will send the police. Where is my money? Where is my security? I want my mortgage from this man who is not at home."

Anton went straight up to him, and asked, "Do you know me, Mr. Ehrenthal?" Ehrenthal turned his glazed eyes upon him, and gradually recognized the friend of his dead son.

"He loved you!" he cried, in a lamentable voice. "He spoke to you more than to his father. You were the only friend that he had on earth. Have you heard what has happened in the house of Ehrenthal?" continued he, in a whisper. "Just as they stole the papers he died. He died with a hand like this," and clenching his fist he struck his forehead. "Oh my son! my son! why didst not thou forgive thy father!"

"We will go to your son," said Anton, taking the arm of the old man, who unresistingly allowed himself to be led back to his own house.

From thence Anton hurried to Councilor Horn, with whom he had a long conversation.

It was late before he returned home. In the midst of his anxiety about those whose prosperity had filled his imagination years before, the confidence that they, in their adversity, reposed in him, dilated his breast with a feeling of pride. He burned with desire to help them, and hoped that his zealous devotion might yet find some way of rescue. As yet he saw none. Looking up at the great building before him, so firm and secure, in the moonlight, a thought flashed into his mind. If any man could help them, it was his principal. His keen eye would be able to unravel all the dark secrets in which the baron was entangled, and his iron strength of will would crush the villains who held the unfortunate nobleman in their power. And then he had a noble nature; he always decided on the right, without an effort or a struggle. Anton looked at the first floor. The whole house-front was dark, but in a corner room a light still burned. It was the private office of his chief.

With sudden resolve, Anton begged the servant to take him to Mr. Schröter, who looked with amazement at the unexpected visitor, and asked what brought him, and whether any thing had happened.

"I implore your counsel--I implore your help," cried Anton.

"For yourself or for others?" inquired the merchant.

"For a family with whom I have accidentally become connected. They are lost if a strong hand does not ward off the impending catastrophe." Anton then rapidly related the occurrences of the afternoon, and, seizing his principal's hand in his emotion, cried, "Have pity upon the unhappy ladies, and help them."

"Help them!" replied the merchant; "how can I? Have you been commissioned to apply to me, or are you only following the impulse of your own feelings?"

"I am not commissioned; it is only the interest that I take in the baron's fate which leads me to you."

"And what right have you to inform me of facts communicated in strict confidence to yourself by the baron's lady?" asked the merchant, dryly.

"I am committing no indiscretion in telling you what will, in a few days, be no secret, even to strangers."

"You are unusually excited, otherwise you would not forget that, under no circumstances whatever, does a man of business venture to make such a communication without the special permission of the parties concerned. Of course, I shall make no wrong use of what you have said, but it was by no means business-like, Wohlfart, to be so open toward me."

Anton was silent, feeling, indeed, that his principal was right, but yet it seemed hard to be blamed for reposing confidence at such a time as this. The merchant walked silently up and down; at length, stopping before Anton, he said, "I do not now inquire how you come to take so warm an interest in this family. I fear it is an acquaintance you owe to Fink."

"You shall hear all," said Anton.

"Not at present. I will now content myself with repeating that it is impossible for me to interfere in these affairs without being specially applied to by the parties themselves. I may add that I by no means wish for such an application, and do not disguise from you that, were it made, I should probably decline to do any thing for the Baron Rothsattel."

Anton's feelings were roused to the utmost. "The question is the rescue of an honorable man, and of lovely and amiable women from the toils of rogues and impostors. To me, this seems the duty of every one; I, at least, consider it a sacred obligation which I dare not shrink from. But without your support I can do nothing."

"And how do you think this embarrassed man can be helped?" inquired the merchant, seating himself.

With somewhat more composure, Anton replied: "In the first instance, by an experienced man of business making himself master of the case. There must be some way of circumventing these villains. Your penetration would discover it."

"Any attorney would be far more likely to do so, and the baron might readily engage the services of experienced and upright legal advisers. If his enemies have done any thing illegal, the quick eye of a lawyer is the most likely to detect it."

"Alas! the baron's own lawyer gives but little hope," replied Anton.

"Then, my dear Wohlfart, no other is likely to do much good. Show me an embarrassed man who has strength to grasp an offered hand, and bid me help him, and for the sake of all I owe you, I will not refuse to do so. I think you are convinced of this."

"I am," said Anton, dejectedly.

"From all I hear, however," the merchant went on, "this is not the case with the baron. From what I gather from general report, as well as from you, his embarrassments arise from his having fallen into the hands of usurers, which proves him deficient in what alone ennobles the life of any man--good sense, and the power of steady exertion."

Anton could only sigh his assent.

"To help such a man," inexorably continued the merchant, "is a futile attempt, against which reason may well protest. We are not to despair of any, but want of strength is the most hopeless case of all. Our power of laboring for others being limited, it becomes our duty to inquire, before we devote our time to the weak, whether we are not thus diminishing our chances of helping better men."

Anton interrupted him. "Does he not deserve every allowance to be made for him? He was brought up to exact much; he has not learned, as we have, to make his way by his own labor."

The merchant laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. "The very reason. Believe me, a large number of these landed gentry, who pay the penalty of their old family memories, are beyond help. I am the last to deny that many worthy and admirable men belong to this class. Indeed, wherever remarkable talent or nobility of character shoots up among them, no doubt their position offers peculiar scope for its development, but for average men it is not a favorable one. He who considers it his hereditary privilege to enjoy life, and who assumes a distinguished position in virtue of his family, will very often fail to put forth his whole strength in order to deserve that position. Accordingly, numbers of our oldest families are declining, and their fall will be no loss to the state. Their family associations make them haughty without any right to be so--limit their perceptions and confuse their judgment."

"Even if all this be true," cried Anton, "it does not absolve us from helping individuals of the class who have excited our sympathy."

"No," said the principal, "if it be excited. But it does not glow so rapidly in advancing years as in youth. The baron has endeavored to isolate his property from the current of circumstances, in order to leave it forever to his family. Forever! You, as a merchant, know how to estimate the attempt. True, every rational man must allow it to be desirable that the culture of the same soil should be handed down from father to son. We all prize what our forefathers have possessed before us, and Sabine would unlock every room in this house with pride, because her great-great-grandmother turned the same keys before her. It is therefore natural that the landed proprietor should desire to preserve those familiar scenes, which are the source of his own prosperity, to those nearest and dearest to him. But there must be means to this end, and these means are the making his own existence available for the maintenance and increase of his patrimony. Where energy dies in families or individuals, then it is well that their means die too, that their money should circulate through other hands, and their plowshare pass to those who can guide it better. A family that has become effete through luxury ought to sink down into common life, to make room for the uprising of fresh energies and faculties. Every one who seeks, at the cost of free activity for others, to preserve permanent possessions and privileges for himself or his family, I must look upon as an enemy to the healthy development of our social state. And if such a man ruin himself in his endeavors, I should feel no malicious pleasure in his downfall, but I should say that he is rightly served, because he has sinned against a fundamental law of our social being; consequently, I should consider it doubly wrong to support this man, because I could but fear that I should thus be supporting an unsound condition of the body politic."

Anton looked down mournfully. He had expected sympathy and warm concurrence, and he met with disaffection and coldness that he despaired of conquering. "I can not gainsay you," he at length replied; "but in this case I can not feel as you do. I have been witness to the unspeakable distress in the baron's family, and my whole soul is full of sadness and sympathy, and of the wish to do something for those who have opened their heart to me. After what you have said, I dare no longer ask you to trouble yourself with their affairs, but I have promised the baroness to assist her as far as my small powers permit, and your kindness allows. I implore you to grant me permission to do this. I shall endeavor to be regular in my attendance at the office, but if during the next few weeks I am occasionally absent, I must ask you to excuse me."

Once more the merchant walked up and down the room, and then, looking at Anton's excited face, with deep seriousness and something of regret, he replied, "Remember, Wohlfart, that every occupation which excites the mind soon obtains a hold over a man, which may retard as well as advance his success in life. It is this which makes it difficult to me to agree to your wishes."

"I know it," said Anton, in a low voice; "but I have now no choice left."

"Well, then, do what you must," said the merchant, gloomily; "I will lay no hinderance in your way; and I hope that after a few weeks you will be able to consider the whole circumstances more calmly." Anton left the room, and the merchant stood looking long with frowning brow at the place his clerk had occupied.

Nor was Anton in a more congenial mood. "So cold, so inexorable!" exclaimed he, as he reached his own room. He began to suspect that his principal was more selfish and less kindly than he had hitherto supposed. Many an expression of Fink's recurred to his mind, as well as that evening when young Rothsattel, in his boyish conceit, had spoken impertinently to the merchant. "Is it possible," thought he, "that that rude speech should be unforgotten?" And his chief's keen, deep-furrowed face lost inexpressibly by contrast with the fair forms of the noble ladies. "I am not wrong," he cried to himself; "let him say what he will, my views are more just than his, and henceforth my destiny shall be to choose for myself the way in which I shall walk." He sat long in the darkness, and his thoughts were gloomy as it; then he went to the window to look down into the dark court below. A great white blossom rose before him like a phantom. Striking a light, he saw that it was the beautiful Calla out of Sabine's room. It hung down mournfully on its broken stem. Sabine had had it placed there. This little circumstance struck him as a mournful omen.

Meanwhile Sabine, taper in hand, entered her brother's room. "Good-night, Traugott," nodded she. "Wohlfart has been with you this evening; how long he staid!"

"He will leave us," replied the merchant, gloomily.

Sabine started and dropped her taper on the table. "For God's sake, what has happened? Has Wohlfart said that he was going away?"

"I do not yet know it, but I see it coming step by step; and I can not, and still less can you, do any thing to retain him. When he stood before me here with glowing cheeks and trembling voice, pleading for a ruined man, I found out what it was that lured him away."

"I do not understand you," said Sabine, looking full at her brother.

"He chooses to become the confidential friend of a decayed noble. A pair of bright eyes draws him away from us: it seems to him a worthy object of ambition to become Rothsattel's man of business. This intimacy with nobility is the legacy bequeathed to him by Fink."

"And you have refused to help him?" inquired Sabine, in a low voice.

"Let the dead bury their dead," said the merchant, harshly; and he turned to his writing-table.

Sabine slowly withdrew. The taper trembled in her hand as she passed through the long suite of rooms listening to her own footfall, and shuddering as the feeling came over her that an invisible companion glided by her side. This was the revenge of that other. The shadow that once fell on her innocent life now drove her friend away from their circle. Anton's affections clung to another. She had but been in his eyes a mere stranger, who had once loved and languished for one now far away, and who now, in widow's weeds, looked back regretfully to the feelings of her youth.

The few next weeks were spent by Anton in over-hard work. He had great difficulty in keeping up his counting-house duties, while he spent every spare hour in conference with the baroness and the lawyer.

In the mean time, the misfortunes of the baron ran their course. He had not been able to pay the interest of the sums with which his estate was burdened. When last they were due, a whole series of claims was brought against him, and the estate fell under the administration of the district authorities. Complicated lawsuits arose. Ehrenthal complained loudly, claiming the first mortgage of twenty thousand dollars--nay, he was inclined to advance claims on the last mortgage offered by the baron in the recent fatal hour. Löbel Pinkus also appeared as claimant of the first mortgage, and asserted that he had paid the whole sum of twenty thousand dollars. Ehrenthal had no proof to bring forward, and had been for some weeks past quite unable to manage his own affairs, while Pinkus, on the contrary, fought with every weapon a hardened sinner can devise or employ, and the deeds which the baron had executed at Veitel's suggestion proved to be so capital a master-stroke of the cunning advocate, that the baron's man of business had, from the first, little hope of the case. We may here observe that Pinkus did eventually win it, and that the mortgage was made over to him.

Anton was now gradually gaining some insight into the baron's circumstances. But the double sale of the first mortgage was still kept a secret by the latter, even from his wife. He declared Ehrenthal's claim unfounded, and even expressed a suspicion that he had himself had something to do with the robbery in his office. Indeed, he really believed this. Then the name of Itzig was never broached, and the suspicion against Ehrenthal, which the baron's lawyer shared, prevented Anton seeking any explanation from him.

Meanwhile, an estrangement had sprung up between our hero and his principal, which the whole counting-house remarked with surprise. The merchant scowled at Anton's vacant seat when the latter chanced to be absent during office-hours, or looked coldly at his clerk's face, made pale as it was with excitement of mind and night-work. He took no notice of his new occupation, and never seemed to remark him. Even to his sister he maintained a stiff-necked silence; nor could all her attempts lead him to speak of Anton, who, on his side, felt his heart revolt against this coldness. After his return, to be treated like a child of the house, praised, promoted, petted, and now to be treated like a mere hireling, who is not worth the bread thrown to him; to be a toy of an incomprehensible caprice--this, at least, he had not deserved; so he became reserved toward the whole family, and sat silent at his desk; but he felt the contrast between the now and the then so keenly, that often, when alone, he would spring up and stamp on the ground in the bitter indignation of his heart.

One comfort remained. Sabine was not estranged. True, he saw little of her, and at dinner she seemed to avoid speaking to him, but he knew that she was on his side.

A few days after his first conversation with the merchant, she came down stairs as he stood in the hall, and had to pass him by so closely that her dress touched him. He had retreated, and made a formal bow, but she looked at him imploringly, and whispered, "You must not be estranged from me." It was an affair of a moment, but the faces of both were radiant with a happy understanding.

The time had now arrived when Mr. Jordan was to quit the firm. The principal again called Anton into his little office, and without any severity, but also without a trace of his former cordiality, began: "I have already mentioned to you my intention of appointing you Jordan's successor; but, during the last few weeks, your time has been more taken up with other business than would be compatible with such a post, I therefore ask you whether you are now at liberty to undertake Jordan's duties?"

"I am not," replied Anton.

"Can you name any--not very distant--time when you will be free from your present occupation? In that case I will endeavor to find a substitute until then."

Anton sorrowfully replied, "I can not at present say when I shall again be master of my whole time; and, besides, I feel that, even as it is, I tax your indulgence by many irregularities. Therefore, Mr. Schröter, I beg that you will fill up this post without any reference to me."

The merchant's brow grew furrowed and dark, and he silently bowed assent. Anton felt as he closed the door that the estrangement between them was now complete, and, resuming his place, he leaned his throbbing head on his hand. A moment later Baumann was summoned to the principal, and Jordan's situation conferred upon him. On returning to the office, he went up to Anton and whispered, "I refused at first, but Mr. Schröter insisted. I am doing you an injustice." And that evening Mr. Baumann, in his own room, read in the first book of Samuel the chapters treating of the unjust Saul (the principal), and of the friendship between Jonathan and the persecuted David, and strengthened his heart thereby.

The next day Anton was summoned to the baroness. Lenore and her mother sat before a large table covered with jewel-boxes and toilette elegances of every description, while a heavy iron chest stood at their feet. The curtains were drawn, and the subdued light shone softly into the richly furnished room. On the carpet glowed wreaths of unfading flowers, and the clock ticked cheerfully in its alabaster case. Under the shade of flowering plants sat the two love-birds in their silvered cage, hopping from perch to perch, screaming ceaselessly, or sitting up quietly close to each other. The whole room was beauty and perfume. "For how long?" thought Anton. The baroness rose. "We are already obliged to trouble you again," said she; "we are engaged in a very painful occupation." On the table were all manner of ornaments, gold chains, brilliants, rings, necklaces, gathered into a heap.

"We have been looking out all that we can dispense with," said the baroness, "and now pray you to undertake to sell these things for us. I have been told that some of them are of value, and as we are now in much need of money, we turn here for help."

Anton looked in perplexity at the glittering heap.

"Tell us, Wohlfart," cried Lenore, anxiously, "is this necessary? can it be of any use? Mamma has insisted upon setting apart for sale all our ornaments, and whatever plate is not in daily use. What I can give is not worth talking of, but my mother's jewels are costly; many of them were presents made to her in youth, which she shall not part with unless you say that it is necessary."

"I fear," said Anton, gravely, "that it will prove so."

"Take them," said the baroness to Anton; "I shall be calmer when I know that we have at least done what we could."

"But do you wish to part with all?" inquired Anton, anxiously. "Much that is dear to you may have but little value in a jeweler's eyes."

"I shall never wear an ornament again," quietly replied the baroness. "Take them all;" and, holding her hands before her eyes, she turned away.

"We are torturing my mother," cried Lenore, hastily; "will you lock up all that is on the table, and get them out of the house as soon as you can?"

"I can not undertake the charge of these valuables," said Anton, "without taking some measures to decrease my own responsibility. First of all, I will in your presence make a short note of all you intrust to me."

"What useless cruelty!" exclaimed Lenore.

"It will not take long."

Anton took out a few sheets from his pocket-book, and began to note down the different articles.

"You shall not see it done, mother," said Lenore, drawing her mother away, and then returning to watch Anton at his task.

"These preparations for the market are horrible," said she. "My mother's whole life will be sold; some memory of hers is linked with every single thing. Look, Wohlfart, the princess gave her this diamond ornament when she married my father."

"They are magnificent brilliants," cried Anton, admiringly.

"This ring was my grandfather's, and these are presents of poor papa's. Alas! no man can know how we love all these things. It was always a festival to me when mamma put on her diamonds. Now we come to my possessions. They are not worth much. Do you think this bracelet good gold?" She held out her hand as she spoke.

"I do not know."

"It shall go with the rest," said Lenore, taking it off. "Yes, you are a kind, good man, Wohlfart," continued she, looking trustfully into his tearful eyes; "do not forsake us. My brother has no experience, and is more helpless than we are. It is a frightful position for me. Before mamma I do all I can to be composed, else I could scream and weep the whole day through." She sank in a chair, still holding his hand. "Dear Wohlfart, do not forsake us."

Anton bent over her, and looked with passionate emotion at the lovely face that turned so trustfully to him in the midst of its tears.

"I will be helpful to you when I can," said he, in the fullness of his heart. "I will be at hand whenever you need me. You have too good an opinion of my information and my faculties; I can be of less assistance to you than you suppose, but what I can, that I will do in any and every possible way."

Their hands parted with a warm pressure; the affair was settled.

The baroness now returned. "Our lawyer was with me this morning," said she; "and now I must ask for your opinion on another subject. He tells me that there is no prospect of preserving the baron's family estate."

"At this time, when interest is high, and money difficult to get, none," replied Anton.

"And you, too, think that we must turn all our efforts toward preserving the Polish property?"

"I do," was the answer.

"For that, also, money will be necessary. Perhaps I may be able through my relatives to intrust you with a small sum, which, with the help of that"--she pointed to the iron chest--"may suffice to cover the first necessary expenses. I do not, however, wish to sell the jewels here, and a journey to the residence would be necessary in order to procure the sum to which I have just alluded. The baron's lawyer has spoken most highly of your capacity for business. It is his wish which now decides me to make a proposal to you. Will you for the next few years, or, at all events, until our greatest difficulties are over, devote your whole time to our affairs? I have consulted my children, and they agree with me in believing that in your assistance lies our only hope of rescue. The baron, too, has come in to the plan. The question now is whether your circumstances allow you to give your support to our unfortunate family. We shall be grateful to you, whatever conditions you affix; and if you can find any way of making our great obligations to you apparent in the position you hold, pray impart it to me."

Anton stood petrified. What the baroness required of him was separation from the firm, separation from his principal, and from Sabine! Had this thought occurred to him before, when standing in Lenore's presence or bending over the baron's papers? At all events, now that the words were spoken, they shocked him. He looked at Lenore, who stood behind her mother with hands clasped in supplication. At length he replied, "I stand in a position which I can not leave without the consent of others. I was not prepared for this proposal, and beg to have time allowed me for consideration. It is a step which will decide my whole future life."

"I do not press you," said the baroness; "I only request your consideration. Whatever your decision be, our warmest gratitude will still be yours; if you are unable to uphold our feeble strength, I fear that we shall find no one to do so. You will think of that," she added, beseechingly.

Anton hurried through the street with throbbing pulse. The noble lady's glance of entreaty, Lenore's folded hands, beckoned him out of the gloomy counting-house into a sphere of greater liberty, into a new future, from whose depths bright images flashed out upon his fancy. A request had been frankly made, and he was strongly inclined to justify the confidence that prompted it. Those ladies required an unwearied, self-sacrificing helper to save them from utter ruin, and if he followed his impulse he should be doing a good work--fulfilling a duty.

In this mood he entered the merchant's dwelling. Alas! all that he saw around him seemed to stretch out a hand to detain him. As he looked at the warehouse, the good-humored faces of the porters, the chains of the great scales, the hieroglyphics of the worthy Pix, again he felt that this was the place that he belonged to. Sabine's dog kissed his hand, and ran before him to his room--his and Fink's room. Here the childish heart of the orphan boy had found a friend, kind companions, a home, a definite and honorable life-purpose. Looking down through his window on all the long-familiar objects, he saw a light in Sabine's store-chamber. How often he had sought for that light, which brightened the whole great building, and brought a sense of comfort and cheerfulness even into his room. He now sprang up suddenly, and said to himself, "She shall decide."

Sabine started in amazement when Anton appeared before her. "I am irresistibly impelled to seek you," cried he. "I have to decide upon my future life, and I feel undetermined, and unable to trust to my own judgment. You have always been a kind friend to me since the day of my arrival. I am accustomed to look up to you, and to think of you in connection with all that interests me here. Let me hear your opinion from your own lips. The Baroness Rothsattel has to-day proposed to me permanently to undertake the situation of confidential adviser and manager of the baron's affairs. Shall I accept; or shall I remain here? I know not--tell me what is right both for myself and others."

"Not I," said Sabine, drawing back and growing very pale. "I can not venture to decide in the matter. Nor do you wish me to do so, Wohlfart, for you have already decided."

Anton looked straight before him and was silent.

"You have thought of leaving this house, and a wish to do so has sprung out of the thought. And I am to justify you, and approve your resolve! This is what you require of me," continued she, bitterly. "But this, Wohlfart, I can not do, for I am sorry that you go away from us."

She turned away from him and leaned on the back of a chair.

"Oh, be not angry with me too!" said Anton; "that I can not bear. I have suffered much of late. Mr. Schröter has suddenly withdrawn from me the friendly regard that I long held my life's greatest treasure. I have not deserved his coldness. What I have been doing has not been wrong, and it was done with his knowledge. I had been spoiled by his kindness; I have the more deeply felt his displeasure. My only comfort has been that you did not condemn me. And now, do not you be cold toward me, else I shall be wretched forever. There is not a soul on earth to whom I can turn for affectionate comprehension of my difficulties. Had I a sister, I should seek her heart to-day. You do not know what to me, lonely as I am, your smile, your kindly shake of the hand has been till now. Do not turn coldly from me, I beseech you."

Sabine was silent. At length she inquired, still with averted face, "What draws you to those strangers; is it a joyful hope, is it sympathy alone? Give this question close consideration before you answer it to yourself at least."

"What it is that makes it possible for me to leave this house," said Anton, "I do not myself know. If I can give a name to my motives, it is gratitude felt toward one. She was the first to speak kindly to the wandering boy on his way out into the world. I have admired her in the peaceful brightness of her former life. I have often dreamed childish dreams about her. There was a time when a tender feeling for her filled my whole heart, and I then believed myself forever the slave of her image. But years bring changes, and I learned to look on men and on life with other eyes. Then I met her again, distressed, unhappy, despairing, and my compassion became overmastering. When I am away from her, I know that she is nothing to me; when I am with her, I feel only the spell of her sorrow. Once, when I had to depart out of her circle like a culprit, she came to me, and before the whole scornful assembly she gave me her hand and acknowledged me her friend; and now she comes and asks for my hand to help her father. Can I refuse it? Is it wrong to feel as I do? I know not, and no one can tell me--no one but you alone."

Sabine's head had sunk down to the back of the chair on which she bent. She now suddenly raised it, and with tearful eyes, and a voice full of love and sorrow, cried, "Follow the voice that calls you. Go, Wohlfart, go."

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Chapter XXVII

On a cold October day, two men were seen driving through the latticed gate of the town of Rosmin on toward the plain, which stretched out before them monotonous and boundless. Anton sat wrapped in his fur coat, his hat low on his forehead, and at his side was young Sturm, in an old cavalry cloak, with his soldier's cap cocked cheerily on one side. In front of them a farm-servant, squatted on a heap of straw, flogged on the small horses. The wind swept the sand and straw from the stubble-fields, the road was a broad causeway without ditches or hedges, the horses had to wade alternately through puddles and deep sand. Yellow sand gleamed through the scanty herbage in all directions wherever a field-mouse had made her way to her nest or an active mole had done what he could to diversify the unbroken plain. Wherever the ground sank, stagnant water lodged, and there hollow willow-trees stretched their crippled arms in the air, their boughs flapping in the wind, and their faded leaves fluttering down into the muddy pool below. Here and there stood a small dwarf pine, a resting-place for the crows, who, scared by the passing carriage, flew loudly croaking over the travelers' heads. There was no house to be seen on the road, no pedestrian, and no conveyance of any kind.

Karl looked every now and then at his silent companion, and said at last, pointing to the horses, "How rough their coats are, and how pretty their gray mouse skins! I wonder how many of these beasties would go to make up my sergeant's horse! When I took leave of my father, the old man said, 'Perhaps I shall pay you a visit, little one, when they light the Christmas-tree.' 'You'll never be able,' said I. 'Why not?' asked he. 'You'll never trust yourself in any post-chaise.' Then the old boy cried, 'Oho! post-chaises are always of a stout build; I shall be sure to trust myself in one.' But now, Mr. Anton, I see that my father never can pay us a visit."

"Why not?"

"It is possible that he may reach Rosmin; but, as soon as he sees these horses and this road, he will instantly turn back. 'Shall I trust myself,' he'll say, 'in a district where sand runs between one's legs like water, and where mice are put into harness? The ground is not firm enough for me.'"

"The horses are not the worst things here," said Anton, absently. "Look! these go fast enough."

"Yes," replied Karl, "but they don't go like regular horses; they entangle their legs like two cats playing in a parsley-bed. And what things they have for shoes--regular webbed hoofs, I declare, which no blacksmith can ever fit."

"If we could only get on!" returned Anton; "the wind blows cold, and I am shivering in spite of my fur."

"You have slept but little the last few nights, sir," said Karl. "The wind blows here as if over a threshing-floor. The earth is not round hereabouts as elsewhere, but flat as a cake. This is a complete desert; we have been driving for more than an hour, and there is not a village to be seen."

"A desert indeed," sighed Anton; "let us hope it may improve." They relapsed into profound silence. At length the driver stopped near a pool, unharnessed the horses, and led them to the water's edge, without noticing the travelers.

"What the deuce does this mean?" cried Karl, jumping down from the carriage.

"I am going to feed," replied the servant, sulkily, in a foreign accent.

"I am anxious to know how that will be done," said Karl. "There is not the shadow of a bag of provender."

The horses, however, soon proved that they could live without corn; they stretched down their shaggy heads, and began to pull the grass and weeds at the edge of the pool, sometimes taking a draught of the dirty water. Meanwhile the servant drew a bundle from under his seat, settled himself under the lee of an alder-bush, and, taking his knife, cut his bread and cheese without even glancing at the travelers.

"I say, Ignatius or Jacob," cried Karl, sharply, "how long will this breakfast of yours last?"

"An hour," replied the man, munching away.

"And how far is it from here to the estate?"

"Six miles, or maybe more."

"You can make nothing of him," said Anton; "we must put up with the customs of the country;" and, leaving the carriage, they went to look on at the horses feeding.

Anton is on his way to the Polish property. He is now the baron's agent. Anxious months have the last proved to him. The parting from his principal and the firm had been painful in the extreme. For some time before it, indeed, Anton had found himself alone in the midst of his colleagues. The quiet Baumann still remained his friend, but the others considered him a castaway. The merchant received his resignation with icy coldness; and even in the hour of parting, his hand lay impassive as metal in Anton's grasp. Since then, our hero had undertaken several journeys to the capital and to creditors in the family's behalf, and now he was on his way to set the new estate in order, accompanied by Karl, whom he had induced to become the baron's bailiff.

Ehrenthal had, by the authority conferred on him, taken possession of the property from the time of the sale by auction, and hired the Polish bailiff for the baron. There had been unfair dealings between them at the time, and it was well known in Rosmin that the bailiff had sold off a good deal, and been guilty of all sorts of frauds since, so that Anton had even now no prospect of a quiet life.

"The hour is come when I may execute my commission," cried Karl, groping in the straw under the seat. He drew out a large japanned tin case, and carried it to Anton. "Miss Sabine gave me this in charge for you." He then joyously opened the lid, produced the materials for an excellent breakfast, a bottle of wine, and a silver goblet. Anton took hold of the case.

"It has a very knowing look," said Karl. "Miss Sabine planned it herself."

Anton examined it on all sides, and placed it carefully on a tuft of grass; then he took up the goblet, and saw his initials engraved on it, and underneath the words, "To thy welfare." Whereupon he forgot the breakfast and all around him, and stood gazing at the goblet, lost in thought.

"Do not forget the breakfast, sir," suggested Karl, respectfully.

"Sit down by me, my faithful friend; eat and drink with me. Leave off your absurd politeness. We shall have but little, either of us, but what we have we will share like brothers. Take the bottle if you have no glass."

"There's nothing like leather," said Karl, taking a small leathern drinking-cup out of his pocket. "As for what you have just said, it was kindly meant, and I thank you; but there must be subordination, if it were but for the sake of the others; and so, sir, be kind enough to let me shake hands with you now, and then let things be as they were before. Only look at the horses, Mr. Anton. My faith! the creatures devour thistles."

Again the horses were harnessed, again they threw out their short legs in the sand, and again the carriage rolled through the barren district--first through an empty plain, next through a wretched fir-wood, then past a row of low sand-hills, then over a tumble-down bridge crossing a small stream.

"This is the property," said the driver, turning round, and pointing with his whip to a row of dirty thatched roofs that had just come into sight.

Anton stood up to look for the group of trees in which the Hall might be supposed to stand. Nothing of the sort to be seen. The village was deficient in all that adorns the home of the poorest German peasant--no orchard, no hedged-in gardens, no lime-trees in the market-place.

"This is wretched," said he, sitting down again; "much worse than they told us in Rosmin."

"The village looks as if under a curse," cried Karl; "no teams working in the fields--not a cow or a sheep to be seen."

The farm-servant flogged his horses into an irregular gallop, and so they passed through the rows of mud huts which constituted the village, and arrived at the public house. Karl sprang from the carriage, opened the tavern door, and called for the landlord. A Jew slowly rose from his seat by the stove and came to the threshold. "Is the gendarme from Rosmin come?" He is gone into the village. "Which is the way to the farm-yard?"

The landlord, an elderly man with an intelligent countenance, described the way in German and Polish, and remained standing at the door--bewildered, Karl declared, by the sight of two human beings. The carriage turned into a cross-road, planted on both sides with thick bushes, the remains of a fallen avenue. Over holes, stones, and puddles, it rattled on to a group of mud huts, which still had a remnant of whitewash upon them. "The barns and stables are empty," cried Karl, "for I see gaps in the roofs large enough to drive our carriage through."

Anton said no more; he was prepared for every thing. They drove through a break between the stables into the farm-yard, a large irregular space, surrounded on three sides by tumble-down buildings, and open to the fields on the fourth. A heap of débris lay there--lime and rotten timber, the remains of a ruined barn. The yard was empty; no trace of farm implements or human labor to be seen. "Which is the inspector's house," inquired Anton, in dismay. The driver looked round, and at last made up his mind that it was a small one-storied building, with straw thatch and dirty windows.

At the noise of the wheels a man appeared on the threshold, and waited phlegmatically till the travelers had dismounted, and were standing close before him. He was a broad-shouldered fellow, with a bloated, brandy-drinking face, dressed in a jacket of shaggy cloth, while behind him peered the muzzle of an equally shaggy dog, who snarled at the strangers. "Are you the steward of this property?"

"I am," replied the man, in broken German, without stirring from where he was.

"And I am the agent of the new proprietor," said Anton.

"That does not concern me," growled the shaggy man, turning sharp round, entering the house, and bolting the door within.

Anton was thoroughly roused. "Break the window in, and help me to catch the rascal," cried he to Karl, who coolly seized a piece of wood, struck the panes so as to make the rotten framework give way, and cleared the opening at one leap. Anton followed him. The room was empty, so was the next, and in it an open window--the man was gone.

"After him!" cried Karl, and dashed on in pursuit, while Anton looked about the house and out-buildings. He soon heard the barking of a dog, and saw Karl capture the fugitive. Hurrying to his help, he held the man fast, while, with a kick, Karl sent the dog flying. They then contrived to force the steward back to the house, though he kept striking out violently all the way.

"Go to the tavern, and bring the gendarme and the landlord," cried Anton to the driver, who, undisturbed by all that had been going on, had meanwhile unpacked the carriage. The man accordingly drove leisurely off, and the fugitive being got into the room, Karl found an old cloth, and with it bound his hands behind his back. "I beg your pardon, sir," said he; "it is only for an hour or so, till the arrival of the Rosmin gendarme, whom we have appointed to meet us."

Anton then proceeded to examine the house, but there was nothing to be found but the merest necessaries; no books nor papers of any kind. It had doubtless been emptied already. A bundle projected from the coat-pocket of the prisoner, which turned out to be receipts and legal documents in Polish. In time, the driver returned with the landlord and the armed policeman. The landlord stood at the door in some perplexity, and the policeman explained in a few moments what remained to be done. "You must make a statement to the local judge, and give the man up to me. He shall go back in your carriage to Rosmin. You will do well to get rid of him, for this is a wild country, and it will be safer for you to have him at Rosmin than here, where he has friends and accomplices."

After a long search, a sheet of paper was found in a cupboard, the statement made and submitted to the policeman, who shook his head a little over the Polish composition, and the prisoner lifted into the carriage, the gendarme taking his seat beside him, and saying to Anton, "I have long expected something of the kind. You may have often occasion to want me again." The carriage then drove away, and thus the property came under Anton's administration. He felt as if cast on a desert island.

His portmanteau and traveling effects were leaning against a mud wall, and the Polish landlord was the only man who could give him and Karl any information or advice in their forlorn condition.

Now that the steward was fairly gone, the landlord grew more communicative, and showed himself serviceable and obliging. A long conversation ensued, and its purport was what Anton had apprehended from the warning given by the Commissary Walter and other Rosmin officials. The inspector had, during the last few weeks, done all he could in the way of spoliation, rendered daring by a report which had found its way from the town to the village, that the present proprietor would never be able to take possession of the estate. At last Anton said, "What that wretched man has done away with he will have to account for; our first care must be to preserve what is still to be found on the property. You must be our guide to-day."

They then examined the empty buildings. Four horses and two servants--they were gone into the wood--a few old plows, a pair of harrows, two wagons, a britzska, a cellar full of potatoes, a few bundles of hay, a little straw--the inventory did not take much time in drawing up. The buildings were all out of repair, not through age, but neglect.

"Where is the dwelling-house?" inquired Anton. The landlord led the way out of the yard to the meadow--a broad plain, gradually sloping down to the level of the brook. It had been a great pasture. The cattle had trodden it down into holes; the snouts of greedy swine had rooted it up; gray molehills and rank tufts of grass rose on all sides.

The landlord stretched out his hand. "There is the castle. This castle is famous throughout the whole country," he added, reverentially; "no nobleman in the district has a stone house like that. All the gentry here live in wood and mud buildings. Herr von Tarow, the richest of them, has but a poor dwelling."

About three hundred yards from the last out-building rose a great brick edifice, with a black slate roof and a thick round tower. Its gloomy walls on this treeless pasture-land, without one trace of life around, rose beneath the cloudy sky like a phantom fortress which some evil spirit had evoked from the abyss--a station from which to blight all the surrounding landscape.

The strangers approached it. The castle had fallen into ruins before the builders had finished their task. The tower had stood there for ages. It was built of unhewn stone, and had small windows and loop-holes. The former lords of the land had looked down from its summit on the tops of the trees, which then stretched far into the plain. They had then ruled with a rod of iron the serfs who cultivated their land, and toiled and died for them. Many an arrow had sped through those loop-holes at the enemy storming below, and many a Tartar horse had been overthrown before those massive walls. Years ago, a despot of the district had, in expiation of former sins, begun to add to the gray tower the walls of a holy monastery; but the monastery never got finished, and the useless walls had already stood there long, when the late count took it into his head to convert them into a lordly dwelling for his race, and to raise a house unparalleled for magnificence in the whole country.

The front of the house was added on to both sides of the tower, which projected in the middle. The intention had been to have a high terrace-road up to the castle, and the principal entrance had been made in the tower, and arched over; but the terrace never having been formed, the stone threshold of the main door was quite inaccessible without the help of ladders, and the wide opening was left. The window-spaces of the lower floor were merely closed up with boards, while on the second story were some window-frames of beautifully carved wood, in which large panes had once been placed, but they had got broken. In other windows were temporary frames of rough deal, with small panes of muddy glass let into them. A company of jackdaws sat on the top of the tower, looking down in amazement on the strangers, and every now and then one flew off, screaming loudly, to contemplate the intruders from a new point of view.

"A house for crows and bats, not for human beings," said Anton. "At least, I see no way of getting into it."

The landlord now took them round the building. Behind, where the two wings made a sort of horse-shoe, there were low entrances to the cellars and offices; beneath which, again, were stables, great arched kitchens, and small cells for the serfs. A wooden staircase led to the upper story. The door turned creaking on its hinges, and a narrow passage took them through a side wing to the front part of the house. There all was at least magnificently planned. The circular entrance-hall--an arched room of the old tower--was painted in mosaic, and through the great doorway-opening was seen a wide expanse of country. A broad staircase, worthy of a palace, led up to another round hall, with narrow windows, the second story of the tower. On each side lay suites of apartments: large, lofty, desolate rooms, with heavy oak folding-doors, and dirty plastered walls, the ceiling made of fir branches arranged in squares; in some rooms colossal green tile stoves, in other rooms no stoves at all; in some, beautiful inlaid floors, in others rude deal boards. An immense saloon, with two gigantic chimney-pieces, had merely a provisional ceiling of old laths. The castle was fitted for a wild Asiatic household, for hangings of leather and of silk from France, for costly woodwork from England, for massive silver services from German mines, for a proud master, numerous guests, and a troop of retainers to fill the halls and ante-rooms. The builder of the castle had looked back to the wealth of his wild ancestors when he devised the plan; he had had hundreds of trees cut down in the woods, and his hereditary bondsmen had kneaded many thousand bricks with their own hands and feet; but Time, the inexorable, had raised his finger against him, and none of his hopes had been realized. His ruin first, and then his death, occurred during the progress of the building; and his son, brought up among strangers, had, as fast as one fool could, hurried on the ruin of his house. Now the walls of the Slavonic castle stood with doors and windows gaping wide, but no guest spoke his good wishes as he entered; only wild birds flew in and out, and the marten crept over the floors. Useless and unsightly the walls stood there, threatening to crumble and fall, like the race that had raised them up.

Anton passed with rapid step from room to room, vainly hoping to find one in which he could even imagine the two ladies, who were looking forward to this house as their asylum. He opened door after door, went up and down creaking steps, disturbed the birds who had flown in through the open archway, and still clung to their last summer's nest; but he found nothing save uninhabitable rooms, with dirty plastered walls, or without any plaster at all. Every where draughts, gaping doors, and windows boarded up. Some oats had been shaken out in the large saloon; and a few rooms looked as if they might have been temporarily made use of, but a few old chairs and a rude table were all the furniture they contained.

At length Anton ascended the decayed staircase in the tower, and found himself on its summit. Thence he saw the whole pile of building below him, and looked far into the plain. To his left the sun sank down behind gray masses of cloud into the depths of the forest; to his right lay the irregular square of the farm-yard, and beyond it the untidy village; behind him ran the brook, with a strip of meadow-land on either side. Wild pear-trees, the delight of the Polish farmer, rose here and there in the fields, with their thick and branching crowns; and under each was an oasis of grass and bushes, gayly colored by the fallen leaves. These trees, the dwelling-places of countless birds, alone broke the monotonous surface of the plain--these, and at the verge of the horizon, on all sides, the dark forest mentioned above. The sky was gray, the ground colorless, the trees and bushes that bordered the brook were bare, and the forest, with its promontories and bays, looked like a wall that separated this spot of earth from the rest of humanity, from civilization, from every joy and charm of life.

Anton's heart sank. "Poor Lenore! poor family!" he groaned aloud; "things look terrible, but they could be improved. With money and taste every thing is possible. This house might, without prodigious expense, be metamorphosed by the upholsterer into a gorgeous residence. It would be easy to level the pasture-land around--to sow it with fine grass--to intersperse it with a few gayly-colored flower-beds--and to plant out the village. Nothing is wanting to change the whole face of the district but capital, industry, and judgment. But how is the baron to procure these? To make any thing of this place should be the task of some fresh and active life, and the baron is broken down; and thousands of dollars would be needed, and years would pass away before the soil would do more than pay the expenses of its culture, or yield any interest whatever on the capital sunk in it."

Meanwhile Karl was contemplating two particular rooms in the upper story with a knowing eye. "These take my fancy more than any of the others," said he to the landlord; "they have plastered walls, floors, stoves--nay, even windows. To be sure, the panes are a good deal broken, but, till we can get better glass, paper is not to be despised. We will settle ourselves here. Could you get me somebody who knows how to handle a broom and scrubbing-cloth? Good, you can; and now listen: try to bring me a few sheets of paper; I have got glue with me; we will first get some wood, then I will heat the stove, melt my glue, and paper up broken panes. But, above all, help me to carry up our luggage from the yard--and let us be quick about it."

His zeal communicated itself to the landlord; the luggage was got up stairs; Karl unpacked a case full of tools of every kind, and the host ran to call his maid from the public house.

Meanwhile horses' hoofs rang on the court-yard, and some well-dressed men stopped before the late steward's dwelling, and knocked loudly at the closed door. At a call from Anton, Karl hurried up to them.

"Good-morning," said one, in rather labored German; "is the steward at home?"

"Where is the steward? where is Bratzky?" cried the others, impatient as their prancing horses.

"If you mean the former steward," replied Karl, dryly, "he will not run away from you though you do not find him here."

"What do you mean?" inquired the nearest horseman; "I beg that you will explain yourself."

"If you wish to speak to Mr. Bratzky, you must take the trouble of riding to the town. He is in custody."

The horses reared, and their riders closed round Karl, while Polish ejaculations were heard on all sides. "In custody! On what account?"

"Ask my master," replied Karl, pointing to the doorway in the tower, where Anton stood.

"Have I the pleasure of speaking to the new proprietor?" inquired one of the party, taking off his hat. Anton looked down in amazement. The voice and face reminded him of a white-gloved gentleman whom he had met once before in a critical hour.

"I am the Baron Rothsattel's agent," replied he. The horse was pulled back, and the rider spoke a few words to his companions, upon which an older man with a fox-like face cried, "We are anxious to speak on private business with the late steward. We hear that he is in custody, and beg you will tell us why."

"He tried to evade by flight the surrender of the property to me, and he is suspected of dishonest dealings."

"Are his effects confiscated?" inquired one of the riders.

"Why do you inquire?" returned Anton.

"I beg your pardon," said the other, "but the man happens accidentally to have some papers that belong to me in his house, and it might embarrass me if I could not get possession of them."

"His effects are gone with him to town," replied Anton. Once more there was a consultation, and then the riders, bowing slightly, galloped off to the village, halted a few minutes at the public house, and disappeared where the high road turned into the wood.

"What can they want, Mr. Wohlfart?" inquired Karl. "That was a strange flying visit."

"Yes, indeed," replied Anton; "I have reason to think it remarkable. If I am not much mistaken, I have met one of the gentlemen before in very different circumstances. Perhaps that fellow Bratzky knew how to make himself friends through the mammon of unrighteousness."

The evening now wrapped castle and forest in its dark mantle. The servants returned with the horses from the wood. Karl led them into Anton's presence, made them a short Polish oration, and received them into the service of the new proprietor. Next came the landlord to look after them, bringing oats and a bundle of wood, and saying to Anton, "I recommend you, sir, to be watchful during the night; the peasants sit yonder in the bar, and discuss your arrival; there are bad men about, and I would not be sure that one of them might not stick a match into the straw yonder, and burn down the farm-buildings for you."

"I am sure enough that they will do nothing of the kind," said Karl, throwing another log into the stove. "A fresh breeze is blowing right on to the village. No one would be such a fool as to set his own barns on fire. We shall take care to keep the wind in this point as long as we are here. Tell your people that. Have you brought me the potatoes I asked for?"

Anton appointed the landlord to return the next morning, and the travelers were left alone in the desolate house.

"You need not heed that hint, Mr. Anton," continued Karl. "All over the world drunken rascals have a trick of threatening fire; and, after all, with reverence be it said, it would be no great harm. And now, Mr. Anton, that we are by ourselves, let us think as little as possible about this Polish affair--let us set to and be comfortable."

"I'm all right," said Anton, drawing a chair to the stove. The wood crackled in the green tiles, and the red glare threw a warm light over the floor, and flickered pleasantly on the walls.

"The warmth does one good," said Anton; "but do you not perceive smoke?"

"Of course," replied Karl, who was boring round holes in the potatoes by the firelight. "Even the best stoves will smoke at the beginning of winter, till they get accustomed to their work, and this great green fellow has probably not seen fire for a generation, so it is not to be expected that he should draw kindly at once. Be so good as to cut a bit of bread and hold it to the fire. I am getting our candles ready." He took out a great packet of candles, stuck one into each potato, cut off the lower half, and placed them on the table, and then produced the japanned case. "This is inexhaustible," said he; "it will last till the day after to-morrow."

"That it will," said Anton, cheerily. "I am wonderfully hungry. And now let us consider how we shall manage our housekeeping. What we absolutely want we must get from the town; I will make a list at once. We will put out one candle, though--we must be economical."

The evening was spent in plans. Karl discovered that he could make part of the necessary furniture out of the boxes and boards about, and the laughter of the two companions sounded cheerfully through the rooms of the starost's dwelling. At last Anton proposed that they should go to bed. They shook down straw and hay, unbuckled their portmanteaus, and produced some blankets and coverlets. Karl fastened a lock that he had brought with him into the room door, examined the loading of his carbine, took up his potato, and said, with a military salute, "At what time does major general the agent wish to be called to-morrow?"

"You good fellow!" cried Anton, reaching out his hand from his straw bed.

Karl went into the next room, which he had chosen for himself. Soon both candles were extinguished--the first signs of life which had shone for years in the forsaken dwelling. But in the stove the little Kobolds of the castle lingered long over the newly-kindled fire; they hovered in the smoke wreaths, they knocked at doors and windows in amazement at the proceedings of the strangers. At length they assembled in a corner of the old tower, and began to dispute as to whether or not the flames lighted this evening would continue to burn, and to cast henceforth their cheerful glow on meadow, fields, and woods; and as they doubted whether the new order of things had strength enough to endure, the smoke drove the bats from their home in the chimney, and they came flapping down stupefied on the summit of the tower, while the owls in its crevices shook their round heads and hooted in the new era.

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Chapter XXVIII

He who has always trodden life's macadamized ways, hedged in by law, moulded by order, custom, form, handed down from generation to generation habits a thousand years old, and who finds himself suddenly thrown among strangers, where law can but imperfectly protect him, and where he must assert by daily struggles his right to exist--such a one realizes for the first time the full blessing of the holy circle woven round each individual by his fellow-men, his family, his companions in labor, his race, his country. Whether he lose or gain in foreign parts, he must needs change. If he is a weakling, he will sacrifice his own manière d'être to the external influences around him; if he has the making of a man in him, he will become one now. The possessions, perhaps the prejudices, that he has grown up with, will wax dearer to him than ever; and much that once he looked upon as things of course, like air and sunshine, will become his most prized treasures. It is in foreign countries that we first enjoy the dialect of home, and in absence that we learn how dear to us is our fatherland.

Our Anton had now to find out what he possessed and what he wanted.

The following morning they proceeded to view the entire property. It consisted of the mansion-house, with the lands and buildings adjacent, and of three farms. About half the land was arable, a small part laid down in meadow; about half was wood, bordered with barren sand. The castle and the village lay about the middle of the great clearing; two of the farms were at opposite points of the compass, east and west, and both were hid by projections of the forest. The third farm lay toward the south, and was entirely divided by a wood from the rest of the estate. It joined on to another Polish village, had its own farm-buildings, and had always been separately cultivated. It occupied about a quarter of the plain, had a distillery on it, and had been rented for many years by a brandy-merchant, well to do. His lease had been extended by Ehrenthal, but the sum he paid was low. However, his occupancy was at present a good thing for the property, as it insured some return for one portion of it, at least. The devastated wood was under the care of a forester.

The first walk through the portion adjacent to the castle was as little cheering as possible: the fields were, generally speaking, not prepared for winter-sowing; and wherever the marks of the plow appeared, the land had been taken possession of by the villagers, who regarded the neglected property as their perquisite, and looked morosely at the foreign settlers.

For years they had done none of the work that their feudal tenure required of them, and the village bailiff plainly told Anton that the community would resent any return to old customs. He pretended he did not understand a word of German, and even Karl's eloquence failed to conciliate him. The soil itself, neglected and weedy as it was, turned out generally better than Anton had expected, and the landlord boasted of his crops; but in the vicinity of the wood it was very poor, and in many places quite unfit for culture.

"This is a serious sort of day," said Anton, putting up his pocket-book. "Harness the britzska; we will drive to see the cattle."

The farm where the cattle were quartered lay to the west, about a mile and a half from the castle. A miserable stable and the cottage of a farm-servant was all they found there. The cows and a pair of draught oxen were under his charge, and he lived there with his wife and a half-witted herdsman. None of these people understood much German, or inspired any confidence: the wife was a dirty woman, without shoes and stockings, whose milk-pails looked as if long unwashed. The farm-servant, and sometimes the herdsman, plowed with the yoke of oxen wherever they chose; the cattle fed on the meadow land.

"Here is work for you," said Anton; "examine the cattle, and see what you can find of winter provender. I will make an inventory of the building and implements."

Karl soon came to report. "Four-and-twenty milch cows, twelve heifers, and an old bull; about a dozen cows, at most, are in profit, the rest mere grass-devourers: the whole of them are a poor set. Some foreign cows, probably Swiss ones, have been brought over and crossed with a much larger breed, and the result is ugly enough. The best cows have evidently been exchanged; for some wretched creatures are running about, the rest keeping aloof from them: they can't have been here long. As to fodder, there is hay enough for winter, and a few bundles of oat straw; no wheat straw at all."

"The buildings are out of order too," cried Anton, in return. "Drive now to the distillery. I have carefully examined the conditions of the lease, and am better up in it than in most things."

The carriage rolled over a shaky bridge that spanned the brook, then through fields and an expanse of sand scantily covered with arenaceous plants, in whose roots a pine-seed had nestled here and there, stretching dwarf branches over the waste; then came the woods, with many a gap, where lay nothing but yellow sand, and on all sides stumps overgrown with heath and brambles. Slowly the horses waded on. Neither of the strangers spoke, as both were engaged in observing every tree that a fortunate chance had allowed to grow and spread better than the rest.

At length the prospect widened, and another plain lay before them, monotonous and forest-bounded like the rest. Before them rose a church. They drove past a wooden crucifix, and stopped at the court-yard of the farm. The tenant had already heard of their arrival; and perhaps he was better acquainted with the baron's circumstances than Anton could have wished, for he received them in a patronizing and self-sufficient manner, hardly taking the trouble to lead them into an unoccupied room. His first question, was, "Do you really believe that Rothsattel will be able to take possession of the estate? There is much to be done on it, and, from all I hear, the poor man has not got the capital required."

This cool demeanor exasperated Anton not a little; but he answered, with the composure that habits of business give, "If you wish to ask me whether the Baron Rothsattel will undertake the management of the estate, I have to say in reply that he will be all the better able to do so the more conscientiously his tenants and dependents perform their duties. I am here at present to ascertain how far you have done this. I have authority given me, by the terms of your lease, to examine your inventory. And if you value the baron's good-will, I recommend you to treat his representative more civilly."

"The baron's good-will is perfectly immaterial to me," said the inflated tenant. "But, since you speak of authority, perhaps you will show me your credentials."

"Here they are," said Anton, quietly drawing the document in question from his pocket.

The tenant read it carefully through, or at least pretended to do so, and rudely replied, "I am not very sure, after all, whether you have a right to look over my premises, but I have no objection to it; so go and inspect as much as you like." And, putting on his cap, he turned to leave the room, but Anton at once barred the way, and said, in his quiet, business voice, "I give you the choice of conducting me over your premises at once, or having an inventory drawn out by a lawyer. This last measure will occasion you unnecessary expense. I would besides remind you that the good-will of the proprietor is necessary to every tenant who wishes for an extension of his lease, and that yours will be out in two years' time. It is no pleasure to me to spend two hours in your society; but if you do not fulfill your contract, the baron will of course take advantage of it to break your lease. I give you your choice."

The tenant looked for a few minutes with a stupefied expression at Anton's resolute countenance, and at last said, "If you insist upon it, of course. I did not mean to offend." He then reluctantly touched his hat, and led the way into the court-yard.

Anton took out his tablets once more, and the survey began. 1. Dwelling-house: the roof out of order. 2. Cow-house: one side of the lower wall fallen; and so on. The survey was, on the whole, unsatisfactory; but Anton's business-like demeanor and Karl's martial aspect were not without their influence over the tenant, who gradually relaxed, and muttered out a few excuses.

When Anton got into the carriage again, he said to him, "I give you four weeks to rectify what we have found amiss, and at the end of that time I shall call again."

To which Karl added, "Will you have the kindness to raise your hat as you now see me do? This is the right moment for the ceremony. That's it! You will learn the proper thing in time. Drive on, coachman."

"When you return," continued Karl to Anton, "this man will be as obsequious as possible. He has grown bumptious on the farm."

"And the estate has grown the poorer because of him," said Anton. "Now, then, for the new farm!"

A poor dwelling-house on one side, a long row of sheep-pens on the other, a stable, and a barn.

"It is remarkable," said Karl, looking at the buildings from a distance, "the thatch has no holes, and in the corner there is a stack of new straw. By Jove! they have mended the roof."

"Here is our last hope," replied Anton.

As the carriage drew up, the heads of a young woman and a flaxen-haired child appeared for a moment at the window, then rapidly retreated.

"This farm is the jewel of the estate," cried Karl, jumping over the side of the carriage. "There are actually signs of a dunghill here; and there go a cock and hens--something like a cock too, with a tail like a sickle! And there is a myrtle in the window. Hurra! here is a housewife! here is the fatherland! here are Germans!"

The woman came out--a neat figure--followed by the curly pate, who, at the sight of strangers, put his fingers in his mouth, and crept behind his mother's apron.

Anton inquired for her husband.

"He can see your carriage from the field; he will be here immediately," said the wife, blushing. She invited them in, and hastily rubbed two chairs bright with her apron.

The room was small, but whitewashed; the furniture painted red, but kept very clean; the coffee-pot was simmering on the stove; a Black-forest clock ticked in the corner; on some hanging shelves stood two painted China figures, a few cups, and about a dozen books; and behind the little looking-glass on the wall there was a fly-flap, and a birch rod carefully bound round with red ribbon. It was the first comfortable room that they had seen on the estate.

"A song-book and a rod," said Anton, good-naturedly. "I do believe you are a good woman. Come here, flaxen-hair." He took the scared, stolid child on his knee, and made him ride there--walk--trot--gallop--till the little fellow at last got courage to take his fingers out of his mouth.

"He is used to that," said his mother, much pleased. "It is just what his father does when he is a good boy."

"You have had a hard time of it here," suggested Anton.

"Ah! sir," cried she, "when we heard that a German family had bought the estate, and that we had to keep things together for them, and thought they would soon come and perhaps drive over here, we were as glad as children. My husband was all day just like one who has been in the public house, and I wept for joy. We thought that at last there would be some order, and we should know what we were working for. My husband spoke seriously to the shepherd--he is from our part of the country--and they both resolved that they would not allow the steward to sell any more away. And so my husband told him. But weeks passed, and no one came. We sent every day to the village to inquire, and my husband went to Rosmin and saw the lawyer. But it seemed they were not coming after all, and that the estate would be sold again. Then, a fortnight ago, the steward came over with a strange butcher, and wanted my husband to give him the wethers; but he refused. At that they threatened him, and wanted to force their way into the sheep-pens; but the shepherd and my husband were too much for them; so off they went cursing, and declaring they would have the sheep yet. Since then a man has watched every night; there hangs a loaded gun which we have borrowed; and when the shepherd's dog barks, I get up, and am dreadfully frightened about my husband and child. There are dangerous men about here, sir, and that you will find."

"I hope things will improve," said Anton; "you lead a solitary life here."

"It is solitary indeed," said the woman, "for we hardly ever go to the village, and only sometimes on Sunday to the German village, where we go to church. But there is always something to be done about the house; and," continued she, somewhat embarrassed, "I will just tell you all, and if you don't approve, we can give it up. I have dug a little space behind the barn, we have hedged it in, and made a garden of it, where I grow what I want for cooking; and then," with increased embarrassment, "there are the poultry and a dozen ducks; and if you won't be angry, the geese on the stubble-fields, and," wiping her eyes with her apron, "there is the cow and the calf."

"Our calf!" cried the child, in ecstasy, slapping Anton's knees with his fat hands.

"If you do not approve of my having kept the cow for myself," continued the weeping woman, "we will give it up. My husband and the shepherd have had no wages since the last wool-shearing, and we have been obliged to buy necessaries; but my husband has kept an account of every thing, and he will show it you, that you may see that we are not dishonest people."

"I hope it will so appear," replied Anton, soothingly; "and now let us have a look at your garden; you shall keep it, if possible."

"There is not much in it," said the woman, leading them to the inclosed space where the beds were all prepared for their winter's rest. She stooped down, and gathered the few flowers remaining, some asters, and her especial pride, some autumn violets. Tying them together, she gave the nosegay to Anton, "because," said she with a pleasant smile, "you are a German."

A quick step was now heard in the yard, and in came the tenant with reddened cheeks, and made his bow to them.

He was a fine young man, with a sensible countenance and a trustworthy manner. Anton spoke encouragingly, and he readily produced his accounts.

"We will look over the stock now," replied Anton; "the books I will take with me. Come to me to-morrow at the castle, and we can arrange the rest."

"The horses are in the fields," said the tenant; "I drive one plow myself, and the shepherd's lad helps with the other. We have only four horses here; once there were twelve in the stable. We have of late cultivated little more than was necessary for ourselves and the cattle. There is a want of every thing."

However, the survey turned out cheering on the whole; the buildings were in tolerable repair, and the crops lately got in promised to keep the flocks through the winter. Last of all, the farmer, with a pleased smile, opened a door in his dwelling-house, and pointed out a heap of pease. "You have seen the straw and hay already," he said, "but here are the pease which I hid from the steward, thinking they belonged to you. Indeed, there was some selfishness in it," continued he, candidly, "for we were so placed that we got nothing, and I was obliged to think of some way of keeping the farm going in case the winter brought no help."

"Very good," said Anton, smiling; "I hope we shall understand each other well. And now to the sheep. Come with us, farmer."

The carriage rolled slowly along the fields, the tenant eagerly pointing out their condition. Not the fourth part of the land belonging to the farm was plowed; the rest had been in pasture for many years past.

As they approached the flocks, the only living creatures of any worth on the estate, Karl impatiently jumped out.

The shepherd slowly came to meet the strangers, accompanied by his two dogs, one an old experienced character, who walked at the same pace as his master, and looked with as much intelligence and discrimination at the new authorities; the other a young fellow, a pupil, who vainly attempted to maintain the aspect of calm dignity becoming his responsible calling, but kept running with youthful eagerness ahead of his master, and barking at the strangers, till a growl of rebuke from his wiser companion brought him back to propriety. The shepherd took off his broad-brimmed hat with all civility, and waited to be addressed. As a man of intuition and reflection, he perfectly knew who he saw before him, but it would have ill become one whose whole life had been spent in restraining precipitation on the part of sheep and dogs to have evinced undue curiosity.

The farmer introduced the strangers to him with a circular movement of his hand, and the shepherd made several bows in succession, to show that he perfectly understood who they were. "A fine flock, shepherd," said Anton.

"Five hundred and five-and-twenty head," replied the shepherd. "Eighty-six of them lambs, forty fat wethers." He looked round the flock for a sheep, who deserved to be presented as a specimen, and suddenly stooping, caught up one by the hind legs, and exhibited the wool. Karl was intent in the examination. They were great strong sheep, well fitted for the country, and far exceeded, both in condition and wool, what might have been looked for. "If they get plenty of food, they give wool," said the shepherd, proudly. "It is first-rate wool."

A yearling was at that moment thoughtless enough to cough. The shepherd looked disapprovingly at it, and said, "The whole flock is perfectly healthy."

"How long have you been in service here?" inquired Anton.

"Nine years," was the reply. "When I came, the creatures were like the poodles in town, all bare behind. It has taken trouble to bring them round. No one else has ever seen after them, but they have not fared the worse for that. If I could only always have had pea-straw for them, and this winter, common pease for the mothers."

"We must see what can be done," said Anton; "but we shall have to be sparing in our management this winter."

"True," said the shepherd; "but, however, this is good pasture."

"I can well believe," said Anton, smiling, "that your sheep have nothing to complain of. There are few fields here which your dog has not barked over for years. I have been delighted to hear how bravely you have defended the property of your new master. Have the people about often behaved ill to you?"

"I can hardly say, sir," replied the shepherd; "men are every where alike--they are not to be depended on. I would rather bring up a colly than a man." He leaned upon his staff, and looked with satisfaction upon his dog, who, true to his post, had been barking round the flock, and now came back to give his master's legs a confidential flap with his tail. "Look at this dog! When I have had a dog in training for two years, he is either good or not. If not, I send him away, and have done with him; if good, I can trust him as I do myself, so long as he lives. That boy yonder with the wethers I have had three years with me, and I can never tell the hour that some confounded freak or other may not come into his head, or that, instead of driving my sheep to the right, he may not run off to the left. That's why I say there's not much reliance to be placed upon men."

"And on whom do you rely in this world?" asked Anton.

"First of all on myself, for I know myself; then on my dog Crambo, for I know him too, and, besides, I trust as I ought." He looked up for a moment, then gave a low whistle, and Crambo again set out on his rounds. "And you, sir," continued the shepherd, "shall you remain with the baron?"

"I think so."

"May I ask as what? You are neither steward nor bailiff, for you have not yet looked at the wethers. The wethers should be sold; it's high time for it. So may I ask what you are to the new landlord?"

"If you want a name, you may call me his accountant."

"Accountant," said the shepherd, thoughtfully; "then I am to discuss my allowance with you."

"You shall do so the next time we meet."

"There is no hurry," said the shepherd; "but one likes to know how one stands. There is a pane broken in my room; the glazier will be coming to the castle, and I hope, Mr. Accountant, you will remember me."

Karl and the farmer now joined them. "To the forester's!" cried Anton to the driver.

"You mean to go to the forester's?" inquired the farmer.

"To the forester's!" repeated the shepherd, drawing nearer.

"Why does that surprise you?" inquired Anton from the carriage.

"Only," stammered out the farmer, "because the forester is a strange man. If the baron himself were to come, he would not surrender."

"Does he live in a fortress, then?" inquired Anton, laughing.

"He locks himself up," said the tenant, "and lets no one enter; he has a way of his own."

"He is a wild man of the woods," said the shepherd, shaking his head.

"The Poles say that he is a magician," continued the farmer.

"He can make himself invisible," cried the shepherd.

"Do you believe that?" asked Karl, much amazed.

"Not I, but there are plenty in the village who do."

"He is a good sort of man at the bottom, but he has his oddities," affirmed the farmer.

"I hope he will respect my position," rejoined Anton; "it will be worse for him if he does not."

"It would be better that I should speak to the forester first," suggested the tenant. "Will you allow me to drive thither with you? He is on friendly terms with me."

"With all my heart; take the reins, and we will leave the servant to manage the plow till we set you down again on our way-back. And now then for this dangerous character."

The carriage turned into a road bordered with young firs, and leading into the wood. The ground was again sandy, and the trees poor. They went on over stories and stumps till at length the wood stopped altogether at a plantation apparently about fifteen years old: here the tenant fastened the reins round the trunk of a tree, and begged the gentlemen to dismount. They walked on through a thicket of young trees, whose long spikes brushed their clothes as they passed, and filled the air with a strong resinous perfume. Beyond this the ground sank, green moss spread a soft carpet round, and a group of giant pines reared their dark crowns high in the air: there stood the forester's house, a low wooden building surrounded by a strong wooden fence, and further guarded by a triple hedge of young fir-trees. A little spring trickled under the fence, and gurgled among a few large stones, overshadowed by giant ferns.

Altogether it was a picture that could not fail to please in this district of sand and heath. No one was to be seen about, and there was not a trace of a footstep on the moss: it was only the barking of a dog from within that announced the dwelling to be inhabited. They went round the hedge till they came to a narrow door, which was firmly bolted.

"His bull-finch sits above the window," said the tenant; "he is at home."

"Call him, then," desired Anton.

"He knows already that we are here," replied the man, pointing to a row of small openings in the hedge; "look at his peep-holes. He is watching us; but this is always his way. I must give him a signal, or he will never open." Accordingly, he put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled three times, but there was no reply. "He is a cunning fellow," said the tenant, perplexed, whistling again so shrilly that the dog's bark changed into a howl, and the bull-finch began to flap his wings.

At last a rough voice sounded on the other side of the fence. "Who the deuce are you bringing with you?"

"Open, forester," cried the tenant; "the new gentry are come."

"Go to the devil with your gentry; I am sick of the whole race."

The tenant looked in perplexity toward Anton. "Open the door," said the latter, authoritatively; "it will be better for you to do of your own accord what I can force you to do."

"Force!" said the voice. "How will you manage that, pray?" The double barrel of a gun now made its appearance through a hole in the door, turning conveniently to one side, then the other.

"Your gun will not help you," was the reply; "we have that on our side which will henceforth be stronger in this forest than brute force, and that is law and our right."

"Indeed!" asked the voice. "And who, then, are you?"

"I am the agent of the new proprietor, and command you to open the door."

"Is your name Moses or Levi?" inquired the voice. "I will have nothing to do with an agent. Whoever comes to me as an agent, I set down for a rogue."

"A plague upon your hard head," cried Karl, in a towering passion. "How dare you speak so disrespectfully of my master, you crazy Jackboots you!"

"Jackboots!" said the voice. "I like that; that sounds more like fair dealing than any thing I have heard for a long time." The bolts were shot back, and the forester appeared at the door, which he shut behind him. He was a short, broad-set man, with grizzled hair, and a long gray beard, which hung down on his breast; a pair of keen eyes shone out of his furrowed face; he wore a thick shaggy coat, out of which sun and rain had expelled every trace of color, carried his double-barreled gun in his hand, and looked defiance at the strangers. "Who is bullying here?" said he.

"I am," answered Karl, stepping forward; "and you shall get something besides hard words if you continue in your insubordination."

"What sort of a cap is that you wear?" asked the old man, looking hard at him.

"Have you grown into a mere fungus here in your wood that you do not know it?" replied Karl, settling his soldier's cap more firmly on his head.

"Hussar?" asked the forester.

"Invalid," was the reply.

The old man pointed to a small strip of ribbon on his coat. "Militia," said he; "1813 and 1814."

Karl made a military salute. "All honor to you, old boy; but you are a rough one, notwithstanding."

"Well, you are not much like an invalid," said the forester; "you look wild enough, and know how to rap out an oath. So you are neither tradesman nor steward?" said he, turning to Anton.

"Now do behave like a sensible man," said the farmer. "This gentleman has been empowered to take possession of the estate, and to manage every thing till the family come. You will get yourself into sad trouble with your obstinate ways."

"Indeed!" said the forester. "Don't be anxious about me; I shall manage well enough. So you are an agent, are you?" said he, turning to Anton. "Of late years I have had enough of agents; and I'll tell you what," he went on, coming a few steps nearer, "you'll find neither books nor accounts with me. This is the state of things: For five years I, as the forester in charge of this wood, have been quarreling with agents. Each agent has put ever so much timber into his pocket, and at last the villagers have come from all the country round and carried off whatever they liked, and when I held my gun under their nose, they thrust a rascally bit of paper under mine, in which, forsooth, they had got leave from the agent. I had nothing more to say, and so I have just taken care of myself. There is but little game, but what I have shot I have eaten, and have sold the skins--for one must live. It's five years since I have touched a farthing of salary--I have paid myself. Every year I have taken fifteen of these trees. As far as to the clearing yonder, the wood is ninety years old. I reckon that they will last me about three winters longer. When the last is felled, I will shoot my dog, and choose out a quiet spot in the forest for myself." He looked down darkly at his gun. "I have lived here thirty years; I have buried my wife and my children in the German church-yard, and I don't trouble myself about what is to befall me now. So far as my dog's bark can be heard and my gun reach, the wood is in order; the rest belonged to the agent. That is my reckoning, and now you may do what you like with me;" and, much excited, he stamped the butt-end of his gun on the ground.

"I shall reply to what I have just heard," said Anton, "in the house and room which henceforth belongs to your master, the Baron Rothsattel." He stepped up to the door and laid his hands on its wooden bolt. "I take possession of this in the name of the new proprietor." Then opening it, he beckoned to the forester: "Keep back your dogs, and lead us in as you ought."

The old man made no opposition, but slowly preceded them, called down his dogs, and opened the house door.

Anton entered with his companions. "And now, forester, that you have opened the house," said he, "we will proceed to an arrangement at once. What has hitherto been done here by you can not be altered, and shall not be discussed; but from this day forth you will receive your regular allowance, and matters must be put on a different footing. I now place the forest, and all that belongs to the forest department, under your charge. Your duty now is to stand up for your master's rights, and from this time forward I make you responsible for them. I shall protect you as far as I can, and shall claim for you the protection of the law. We shall be severe in prosecuting all who damage this wood any further. This estate shall be better managed henceforth, and your new master expects that you will help him to do so, as a faithful and obedient man should. And there must be an end of this wild life of yours in the bush; we are fellow-countrymen, you know. You will come regularly to the castle and report the state of things, and we will take care that you shall not feel desolate in your old days. If you purpose honestly to fulfill the requirements I have just been making, give me your hand on it."

The forester had stood abashed, listening, cap off, to Anton's address, and he now took the hand offered to him, and said, "I do."

"With this shake of the hand, then," continued Anton, "I take you into the service of the present proprietor."

The forester held Anton's hand in both his, and at length exclaimed, "If I live to see things improve on the estate, I shall rejoice. I will do all I can, but I tell you beforehand we shall have a hard fight for it. Owing to the agents and the rascally management, the people on the estate are become a pack of robbers, and I am afraid that my old gun will often be obliged to have the last word of the argument."

"We will neither do wrong nor suffer wrong, and we must take the consequences," was the earnest reply. "And now, forester, show us your house, and then accompany us into the wood."

Anton then went over the little building: it was entirely of rough wood. The light fell dimly through the small windows, and the brown walls and blackened beams increased the darkness, and gave the room a mysterious aspect. It was difficult at first to distinguish the objects on the walls: antlers, dogs' collars, huntsmen's horns, whips, and stuffed birds. On the stove stood a small press with cooking apparatus.

"I cook for myself," said the forester, "and get what I want from the public house."

There were several birdcages in the windows, and a constant trilling and chirping going on within them. Near the stove sat a raven, whose rough plumage, and the white feathers about his beak and wings, proved his great age. He had drawn his head in between his shoulders, and seemed self-absorbed, but in reality his bright eye was observing every movement of the strangers.

Next came the bed-room, where several guns were hanging. A grating before the window proved that this was the citadel of the house.

"Where does that door lead to?" asked Anton, pointing to a trap-door in the floor.

"To a cellar," replied the forester, with some embarrassment.

"Is it arched?"

"I will take you down, if you will come alone."

"Wait for us," cried Anton to his companions in the room.

The forester lit a lantern, carefully bolted the door, and went first with the light.

"I had not thought," said he, "that any eyes but mine would see my secret in my lifetime."

A few steps led them into a narrow vault, one side of which had been broken through, and a low subterranean passage made, supported by stems of trees triangularly placed.

"That is my run," said the forester, holding the candle down, "and it leads into the young wood. It is more than forty yards long, and I was a great while excavating it. This is the way I creep in and out unobserved; and I may thank it that I am here still, for this is why the stupid villagers believe me a sorcerer. When they have watched me go into the house, and think they may steal in safely, I suddenly appear among them. Two years ago a band of them broke into my house, and it would have been all up with me but that I slunk out here like a badger. Do not betray to any one what I have just shown you."

Anton promised that he would not, and they went back into the little inclosure, where they found Karl occupied in fastening, between four blocks that he had driven into the ground, the wooden trough of a young fox. The fox, insensible to this delicate attention on the part of the hussar, snarled at him, rattled his chain, and tried all it could, under the board that Karl had placed across its kennel, to get at his hands.

"Do you want to kiss my hands, little red-head?" cried Karl, hammering away. "You are a pretty fellow! What a pair of soft truthful eyes you have, to be sure! Now, there, it's done; jump backward and forward as much as you like. He does what's told him, forester; a good-natured beast--something of your own character, comrade."

The forester laughed. "Do you know how to set about trapping a fox?"

"I should think so," said Karl.

"There are plenty more such fellows here," continued the old man; "if you like, we will go after them next Sunday."

And so they went together through the wood, all on the best terms possible. Anton called the forester to his side, and got much information from him. Certainly, he had nothing very cheering to tell. Of wood fit for cutting there was hardly enough for the use of the family and tenants. The old system of plunder had done its worst here. As they reached the carriage, the forester respectfully touched his hat, and asked at what hour in the morning he should come to the castle.

Anton rejoiced to have succeeded so well in concealing the feeling of insecurity which made his present position an irksome one to him.

"You see," said he to his faithful ally, as they both sat over the green tile stove at evening, "what disturbs me most is that I feel more ignorant and helpless than any of the servants about, and yet I have got to maintain their respect. These two last days have taught me how little mere good-will can do. Now, then, give me some sensible advice. What shall be our next step?"

"First sell off all the cattle that are out of profit, and instantly dismiss the good for nothing people who have them in charge. Bring cattle and horses to the farm-yard, that we may have them under our own eyes. What can be done in farming with our small means shall be done regularly, not hurried over. We must buy straw and oats for the present. Till next year, when a regular bailiff will be wanted, give me the charge of things; I shall not do much, to be sure, but more than any of your other people."

It was already late, when a quick step was heard on the stairs. With a great stable-lantern in his hand, and a face full of bad news, the landlord made his appearance in Anton's room. "I wished to tell you, sir, what I have heard. A German from Kunau, who has just passed through, has brought word that Bratzky never got to Rosmin yesterday."

"Never got there!" cried Anton, springing up.

"About two miles from Rosmin, in the wood, four riders fell upon the carriage. It was dark; the riders overpowered the gendarme and bound him, took off Bratzky and all his things, mounted him on one of the horses, and off with him into the bush. Two of them remained with the carriage, and obliged the driver to turn out of the road into a thicket, and there they staid two whole hours, holding their loaded pistols at the gendarme and the driver all the time. The driver said the horses were gentlemen's horses, and that the riders spoke like gentry. The gendarme was bruised, but otherwise unhurt, and they took your paper away from him."

Anton and Karl looked at each other significantly, and thought of the party of the day before.

"Where is the man who has brought the news?" asked Anton, snatching up his hat.

"He was in a hurry to get on before dark. To-morrow we shall hear more. Such a thing has not happened for years as mounted men falling upon a carriage with a gendarme in it. When a robbery has been committed, it has always been on foot."

"Did you know the riders who were in the village yesterday afternoon, and who were calling for the steward?" inquired Anton.

The host cast a sly glance at him, and seemed reluctant to answer.

"Nay," continued Anton, "you must have known them all; they belonged to this part of the country."

"Why should not I know them?" replied the landlord, in some perturbation. "It was the rich Herr von Tarow himself with his guests. A powerful man, Mr. Wohlfart, who has the command of the police on your property too. And as to what he wanted with Bratzky? Bratzky, as inspector, has had to do with the police, and has often been employed by the gentry in buying and selling horses, and in other ways too. If the head of the police wanted to speak to the inspector, why should not he? The Von Tarows are a clever set, who know what they are about in speaking and acting." So far the landlord, with much fluency, but his eyes and the expression of his countenance told a very different tale.

"You have a suspicion," cried Anton, looking fixedly at him.

"God preserve me from all suspicion!" continued the landlord, horrified at the idea. "And Mr. Wohlfart, if you will allow me to tell you my opinion, why should you go and suspect any one either? You will have enough to do on the property here, and will need the gentry round in many ways. Why should you make enemies for no purpose? This is a country where the gentlemen ride in parties, and then divide, put their heads together, and then start off in different directions. He is wisest who does not trouble himself about them."

When the landlord was gone, Anton said gloomily to Karl, "I am afraid that, besides our trouble with the property, much of a different nature is going on around us, which all our skill will not be able to set right."

This singular circumstance set the whole country in a ferment. Anton was often summoned to Rosmin in the course of the next few weeks, but his depositions led to no result, the authorities not succeeding in discovering the offenders, or in getting hold of the abducted steward.

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Chapter XXIX

Our two colonists spent the next few weeks in such active pursuits, that every night, when they threw themselves upon their beds, they were quite exhausted.

Karl had been duly installed as bailiff, and held the reins of management with a firm hand, and Anton had committed the care of the house and kitchen to a hard-working woman, whom he found in one of the German settlements around. The most difficult matter had been to establish tolerably satisfactory relations with the adjacent village; but Anton's calm decision had at all events prevented any outbreak of opposition. One of his first measures had been to appeal, in all cases of breach of trust or dereliction of duty, to the proper authorities. Karl's cavalry cloak attracted a few men who had served; and through these, the most civilized part of the community, the settlers gained some influence over others. At length, several voluntarily offered to become servants at the castle, or day-laborers on the estate.

Anton had written to the baroness, not disguising from her the state of the property, nor the unfriendly feeling of the district, and his own anxiety about the family moving thither in the course of the next winter. He had asked whether she would not prefer to remain till spring in the capital. In reply, he received a letter from Lenore, in which she told him, on the part of her parents, that they abode by their former resolve to leave the town, which had now become a painful residence to them all. She therefore begged him to have the castle put into a habitable condition as soon as possible.

Anton called out to his ally, "They are actually coming."

"They are, are they?" said Karl. "It is fortunate that we have heard of workmen--masons, joiners, locksmiths, glaziers, potters, and so on. If you will allow me, I will at once send a messenger off to Rosmin. If I could only get off this ugly brown paint from the door--it hides the beautiful oak carving. But lye won't stir it. And then how many stoves shall we want?"

An important conversation now began. "We must leave the whole lower floor unoccupied," Anton said, "closing up the windows with thick boards; but we shall have to put up a strong door in the hall, because one is constantly passing through it. These walls, too, can not remain as they are, and we have no one to trust to but the Rosmin mason."

"Since that is the case," said Karl, "I propose that we paint the walls ourselves. I am a dab-hand at marbling."

"You are?" replied Anton, looking at him with some anxiety. "No; I think we had better make all the rooms one color. What do you think of brown?"

"Hum--not bad," said Karl.

"I know it is a favorite color of Fräulein Lenore's. It must not be too dark, though, but a bright mixture of yellow, gray, red, and green, with, perhaps, a little black in it."

"Aha!" said Karl, disconcerted; "a peculiar sort of brown, I suppose."

"Of course," continued Anton, eagerly drawing his chair nearer; "we will mix it ourselves."

"That's my way," said Karl; "but I tell you beforehand, these chalk colors are the very deuce! You paint a blue, the next day you have white; you have the most beautiful orange in your brush, and when it has dried on the wall it is a dirty yellow."

"Between ourselves," replied Anton, "we shall not succeed very perfectly, but I think we shall manage to make things look tolerably comfortable."

The following day the hammering and painting began. The joiner and his men set up a workshop on the lower floor; above, the great brush of the painter kept unwearyingly passing and repassing over the walls, and white figures, with great aprons, carried buckets now up, now down. As for Karl, he seemed to have a dozen hands. Whenever he could get away from the farm, he painted woodwork and walls with all sorts of brushes. He ran round with a foot-measure, drove in nails and hooks for curtains, and the very next moment there he was again in the field or the stable, but every where whistling his soldier's songs and urging on the laborers. As the arrangements of the house progressed, his love of beautifying became more and more developed. He bought a quantity of oil-paint, which he found excellent, and displayed a decided talent for the art. He now ventured to give to several objects, which seemed to him qualified to receive it, the appearance of finely-polished wood, and, with the aid of a soft brush and a bunch of feathers, succeeded in producing wonderful effects. He even carried his brush and his beautifying into the farm-yard, and teased Anton into consenting to a general whitewashing of the mud walls. "They will dry in this weather just as well as in summer," said he. "My only regret is, that I can't wash the straw thatch." To make up for that, however, he was determined to give the two new potato-carts and the best plow a coating of beautiful blue oil-paint. "One must have something pleasant for the eye to rest on here," said he, by way of apology. "And it will pay for itself, for these Poles get on better with gayly-colored things."

The castle was temporarily arranged, and the arrival of the family expected on a cold December day. The sky had carried out Karl's wishes, most effectually covering the earth with a pure white mantle, and hiding many an eyesore from the expected party. The snow lay thick on pasture and sands, the summits of the pines wore white crowns, and the leafless shrubs glittered with frost-crystals. The ugly straw thatches were whitewashed to some purpose, the broken parapets of the bridge filled up. Each projection of the castle walls, the top of the tower, the whole roof, was capped with dazzling white, while the red-brown walls stood out in bold relief below. Within, it was a busy and exciting day. Wagons of furniture and stores were unpacked, and all arranged as well as the haste allowed. The farmer's wife and the housekeeper wove great garlands of fir-branches, and decorated the hall and the room doors. The sun set, and the silver landscape turned to gold, till the rising moon suffused it with a mysterious blue light. Several lamps were lit in the house, as many candles as possible placed in the apartments, the stoves all burned cheerily, and the fir-twigs filled the air with their fragrance. The gay curtains were drawn, and the open suite of rooms looked so habitable, that Anton asked himself in amazement how the labors of a few weeks could have wrought such a change as this. Karl had placed pitch-pans on both sides of the castle, and they shed a cheerful glow around.

Meanwhile all the dependents assembled in the hall--the forester in a new green coat, the memorial of his battles on his breast, a deer-hound at his side, stood in military attitude next to the German farmer and the shepherd. The housekeeper and the farmer's wife had put their best ribbons on their caps, and tripped to and fro in restless expectation. Karl, too, appeared in his hussar's frock.

Meanwhile Anton went once more through the rooms, and listened for the crack of the whip that should announce the baron's arrival. His own heart beat: for him, too, a new era was about to begin. After all, his life here had been a pleasant one enough hitherto: he and his trusty ally had felt themselves the masters of the castle, and had got through their anxieties cheerfully together. Now, however, Karl must take up his quarters in the farm-yard, while Anton, according to the wish of the baroness, was to occupy a room in the castle, so that he must come into daily relations with the family, and he now asked himself of what nature these would be. The baron was almost a stranger to him: how would he suit this baron? And he was blind too--yes, blind. Lenore had written him word that the surgeon gave no hope of the injured optic nerve ever recovering. This had been kept back from the sufferer, who comforted himself with the hope that time and skill might yet remove the dark cloud from his eyes. But Anton confided the truth to Karl, and was obliged to tell all the dependents that the baron was at present suffering from his eyes, and obliged to wear a bandage over them; and he read upon the faces of all that they felt this was a misfortune for the property. And his heart beat unquietly, too, when he thought of Lenore, with whom he should now be brought into constant contact. How would she and her mother treat him? He determined carefully to suppress what he now felt to have been idle claims, and so to behave from the first as to afford them no cause for mortifying his self-respect. And yet he could not help wondering whether they would treat him as a friend and an equal, or make him feel that he was a hired dependent. It was in vain that he said to himself that his own feelings made the latter arrangement desirable; he could not check the delightful visions that would arise of life led with Lenore on equal terms.

The crack of the whip was now heard in the village, and soon the family and establishment arrived. The farm-servants, the landlord, and a few of the villagers were grouped around the pitch-pans. The farmers rushed forward to open the carriage-door, and as Lenore jumped out, and her face was seen, the women pressed nearer, and the men broke out into loud acclamations. All looked in eager expectation at the carriage. But the welcome met with no return. The baron was got out with some difficulty, and with sunken head, supported by his wife and daughter, he toiled up the steps. The pale face of the baroness from behind him had only a mute glance for the tenants and servants--only a short nod of recognition for Anton, who proceeded to lead them to their suite of rooms.

"All very nice, Mr. Wohlfart," said she, with quivering lips; and as he remained standing and waiting for his first orders, she dismissed him with a wave of the hand, and the words, "I thank you." When the door had closed upon Anton, the baron stood helpless in the strange room, and the baroness broke out into loud weeping. Lenore leaned against the window, looking out into the snow-covered plain, with its black wall at the horizon, and great tears rolled silently down her cheeks. It was with a heavy heart that Anton returned to tell the people assembled that the family were fatigued and overcome, and would not be seen by them till the morning. Karl had the carriage unpacked, and led the old cook, who wept like her mistress, into the underground kitchen. None of the family reappeared that evening, and the light was soon put out in their rooms; but the pitch still glowed and flickered in the wind, and a black cloud rose above the window where the baron sat hiding his face in his hands.

Such was the entrance of this family upon their new estate.

"How beautifully Wohlfart has arranged every thing!" said Lenore to her mother the following day.

"These high rooms are dreadful," replied the baroness, wrapping her shawl around her; "and the monotonous brown of the walls makes them still more desolate!"

"It is surely time to send and ask him to come here and speak to us?" suggested Lenore, timidly.

"Your father is not yet in a mood to speak to him."

"Do not leave my father alone with Wohlfart," implored Lenore. "It would be horrible if he were to treat him rudely."

The baroness sighed. "We must accustom ourselves to pay to a stranger in our house a degree of attention and observance which will be irksome both to your father and to us."

"How will you arrange about the housekeeping?" asked Lenore, again. "Wohlfart will, of course, have his meals with us?"

"Impossible!" said the baroness, firmly. "You know what a melancholy thing our dinner is. Your father is not yet calm enough to be able to bear the daily presence of a stranger."

"Is he to eat with the servants, then?" asked Lenore, bitterly.

"He will have his table laid in his own room, and on Sundays we shall always invite him, and, if he is not disagreeable to your father, often in the evenings also. More would be troublesome to all parties. It is desirable to reserve at first a comfortable amount of freedom. Your father's state will be sufficient excuse."

She rang, and Anton was summoned. Lenore went to meet him, and with tearful eyes silently held out her hand. Anton was moved when he saw the traces of suffering in her mother's face. The baroness prayed him to be seated, and in well-chosen words expressed her gratitude for all he had done, and asked him both for information and advice. Then she went on to say, "My husband wishes to speak to you. I earnestly beg you to remember that the baron is an invalid. He has suffered fearfully in mind and body. He is never free from pain, and his helplessness distresses him inexpressibly. We are careful to avoid whatever may excite him, and yet we can not avert dark hours, nay, days. You, sir, will be considerate if his gloomy mood should affect you disagreeably. Time, they say, heals all. I hope it will restore him to peace."

Anton promised all possible consideration.

"My husband will naturally wish to be placed in possession of all the facts connected with this property, and yet I dread any painful impressions for him. Therefore, whenever you have any thing important to communicate, try to make the matter intelligible to me in the first instance. I may thus spare you much that is disagreeable. I shall have my writing-table carried into one of the rooms near yours, and I shall daily spend part of my mornings there. Lenore is her father's private secretary. And now, be kind enough to wait till I have announced your visit to the baron."

The baroness left the room. Anton looked down gravely. Lenore went up to him and said, as cheerfully as she could, "Brown walls, Wohlfart! my favorite color. You are not glad we are come, you ungallant man!"

"Only on your own account," replied Anton, pointing to the snowy plain. "Whenever I walked through the fields, I have always thought how lonely you would be here, and when I paced these great rooms of an evening, I have feared that your time would hang very heavily. The town is more than six miles distant, and even there you will find but little; the wretched lending-library will hardly satisfy you."

"I will draw," said Lenore; "I will do fancy work. Alas! I shall find it difficult, Mr. Wohlfart, for I am not skillful. I do not care for lace on either cuff or collar; but mamma, who is accustomed to have every thing so beautiful, and in such order--oh, how sorry I am for mamma!"

Anton tried to comfort her.

"We were obliged to leave the capital," cried Lenore; "we should all have perished if we had remained in that dreadful entourage. Our own property in other hands, cold, distant faces on all sides, every where false friends, smooth words, and a pity which maddened. I am delighted that we are alone here. And even were we to suffer cold and hunger, I could bear it better far than the shrugging of Madame Werner's shoulders. I have learned to hate my fellow-creatures," said she, vehemently. "When you have been with papa, I will come down, and then you must show me the house, the farm, and the village. I want to see where my poor pony is, and what the people about look like."

The baroness now returned, and led Anton into her husband's room. Helpless and confused, the baron rose from his chair. Anton felt the deepest compassion for him. He looked at his sunken face, bent figure, and the black bandage over his eyes. He warmly declared his ardent wish to be of use to him, and begged his indulgence if he had in any way erred in judgment hitherto. Then he proceeded to tell him how he found the estate, and what had been done up to the present time.

The baron heard the report almost in silence, only making a few short observations in return. But when Anton proceeded, with the utmost delicacy indeed, but still with the precision of a man of business, to state the obligations under which the baron at present lay, and his inadequate means of fulfilling them, the nobleman writhed in his chair like a victim on the rack. And Anton keenly felt how painful it must needs be to him to have a stranger thus introduced into his most secret affairs--a stranger anxious to spare his feelings, it is true, but at every moment betraying that anxiety, and so giving fresh offense. The baroness, who stood behind her husband, looked on nervously at the attempts he made to control his irritation, but at length she waved her hand so significantly that Anton had abruptly to break off his report.

When he had left the room, the baron flung himself back in the utmost excitement, and exclaimed, "You have set a trustee over me." He was perfectly beside himself, and the baroness vainly attempted to compose him.

Such was Anton's entrance into the family.

He too returned sadly to his room. From that moment he felt convinced that it would hardly be possible to establish a good understanding between himself and the baron. He was accustomed, in matters of business, to express himself curtly, and to be promptly understood, and he now foresaw long disquisitions on the part of the ladies, succeeded probably by no decision at all. Even his position with regard to them appeared uncertain. True, the baroness had treated him with the utmost graciousness, but still as a stranger. He feared that she would continue the great lady, giving just as much of her confidence as might be useful to herself, but warding off all intimacy by a cold politeness. Even Lenore's friendly voice could not restore his equanimity. They went over the premises silently and thoughtfully, like two men of business engaged in making an estimate.

Such as these first days promised was Anton's life for the next few months, anxious, monotonous, formal. He wrote, kept accounts, and ate alone in his room, and when invited to join the family circle the party was far from a cheerful one. The baron sat there like a lump of ice, a check upon all free and animated conversation.

Formerly Anton used to admire all the accessories of the family, the arrangement of their salons, and the elegant trifles around. Now, the self-same furniture stood in the drawing-room suite--even the little foreign birds had survived their winter journey--the same carpets, the same worsted-work, even the same perfume was there; but now the very birds seemed to him rather bores than otherwise, and soon nothing about the room interested him but the share he had himself had in putting it in order.

Anton had brought with him a profound respect for the polished tone, the easy conversation, and the graceful forms of social intercourse that prevailed in the family circle.

But, crushed and downcast as the Von Rothsattels now were, he could not expect the same light-hearted grace that had captivated him at Frau von Baldereck's parties. They had been torn away from their accustomed circle; all the external influences, and the excitement which keep the spirits elastic, and help us to vanquish sorrow, were wanting now, and he modestly confessed that he could afford no substitute for them. But there was more than this to disenchant him. When, after a silent evening, he returned to his own room, he often regretted that they took no part in much that interested him; that their culture, in short, was of a perfectly different order; and, before long, he took the liberty of doubting whether their culture was the better of the two. Almost all his reading was new to them, and when they discussed the newspapers, he marveled at their ignorance of foreign politics. History was by no means a favorite study with the baron, and if, for example, he condemned the English Constitution, he showed himself, at the same time, very little acquainted with it. On another evening, it came out, to Anton's distress, that the family's views of the position of the island of Ceylon widely differed from those established by geographers. The baroness, who was fond of reading aloud, revered Chateaubriand, and read fashionable novels by lady writers. Anton found Atala unnatural, and the novels insipid. In short, he soon discovered that those with whom he lived contemplated the universe from a very different point of view to his own. Unconsciously they measured all things by the scale of their own class-interests. Whatever ministered to these found favor, however unbearable to mankind at large; whatever militated against them was rejected, or at least pushed out of sight. Their opinions were often mild, sometimes even liberal, but they always seemed to wear an invisible helmet, visor up, and to look through the narrow space on the doings of common mortals; and whenever they saw any thing in these that was displeasing, but unalterable, they silently shut down the visor, and isolated themselves. The baron sometimes did this awkwardly, but his wife understood to perfection how, by a bewitching turn of the hand, to shut out whatever was unwelcome.

The family belonged to the German church in Neudorf; but there was no choir there, and no pew near the altar. They would have had to sit in the body of the church among the rustics: that was out of the question. So the baron set up a chapel in the castle, and sent every now and then for a minister. Anton seldom made his appearance at this domestic worship, preferring to ride to Neudorf, where he sat by the side of the bailiff among the country people.

He had other vexations too. A wine-merchant's traveler forced his way on one occasion through sand and forest into the very study of the baron. He was an audacious fellow, with a great gift of the gab, and a devoted lover of races and steeple-chases. He brought with him a whole budget of the latest sporting intelligence, and bamboozled the baron into ordering a pipe of port wine. Anton looked at the empty purse, cursed the pipe, and hurried into the audience-chamber of the baroness. It required a long feminine intrigue to effect the retraction of the order given.

The baron was displeased with his carriage-horses, which were no longer young, and, besides, of a chestnut color. This last peculiarity might, indeed, have been supposed immaterial to him now, but it had been an annoyance for years, his family having always had a preference for roans; nay, was there not an old distich to the following effect:

"Who rides thus through the fray alone? I ween a noble knight, The red drops fall from his gallant roan, With red is the saddle dight."

This was supposed to allude to some remote ancestor, and on this account the Rothsattels (red-saddles) prized roans above all other horseflesh; but, as the color is rare in handsome horses, the baron had never had the good luck to meet with them. Now, however, Fate willed that a horse-dealer in the district should just bring round a pair. The blind man evinced a delight which much affected the ladies. He had them ridden, and driven backward and forward, carefully felt them all over, took Karl's opinion as to their merits, and revolved a plan of pleasantly surprising the baroness by their purchase. Karl ran to advertise Anton of the impending danger, and he again entered the audience-chamber, but on this occasion he met with no favorable hearing. The baroness, indeed, allowed that he was not wrong in theory, but still she implored him to let the baron have his own way. At length the new horses were in all secrecy led to their stalls, and the purchaser gave, besides the chestnuts and all the money he had in his private purse, a promise of letting the horse-dealer have, after the next harvest, two hundred bushels of oats at an unreasonably low price. Anton and Karl, in their zeal for the estate, were highly indignant at this when it first came to their knowledge months later.

The forester had the misfortune not to be an especial favorite. The baroness disliked the abrupt manner of the old man, who, in his solitude, had entirely lost the obsequiousness to which she was accustomed. One evening a plan was disclosed of giving him notice, and replacing him by a younger man, who might be dressed in livery, and serve as a representative huntsman, the family having been used to a functionary of this kind on their late estate. Anton had some difficulty in concealing his annoyance while stating that, in the disturbed state of the district, the experienced man, who was feared by every scapegrace around, was of more use than a stranger. Lenore was on his side, and the plan was given up, with a look of resignation on the part of the baroness, and an icy silence on that of her husband. Both henceforth endured the uncouth old man with outward composure, but with visors down.

These were slight discords, indeed, such as must necessarily occur when we live with people whose habits of thought and action differ from our own; but it was no sign of contentment that Anton kept constantly repeating this to himself. Not only did Karl suit him in many ways better than the family, but so did the forester, and the shepherd too; and he sometimes felt with pride that he was other than they were--that he was one of the people. Lenore, too, was not what he had imagined her. He had always honored in her the lady of rank, and felt her cordial friendship a favor; but now she ceased to impress him as a distinguished person. He intimately knew the pattern of all her cuffs and collars, and very plainly saw a small rent in her dress which the careless girl herself was long in observing. He had read through the few books that she had brought with her, and had often, in conversation, overstepped the limits of her information. Her way of expressing herself no longer excited his admiration, and he would have been less indignant than of yore if his friend Fink had made inquiry as to her sense. She had less information than another girl of his acquaintance, and her tastes were not half so cultivated; but hers was a healthy, upright nature; she had quick feelings and noble instincts, and oh! she was beautiful. That he had always thought her, but his tender reverence long wrapped her image round with a sacred halo. It was now, however, when he saw her daily in her simple morning dress, in the every-day moods of this working world, that he first felt the full spell of her blooming youth. Yet he was often dissatisfied with her too. One of the first days after her arrival she had anxiously inquired how she could make herself useful in the house, and he told her that her superintendence in the kitchen, and exact keeping of accounts, might be of very great use indeed. He had ruled an account-book for her, and had had the pleasure of teaching her how to make entries in it. She threw herself warmly into the new pursuit, and ran into the kitchen ten times a day to see how Balbette was getting on; but her calculations were not much to be depended upon, and after having for a week conscientiously labored at the task, some days of sunshine came, and then she could not resist accompanying the forester on his rounds after game, or riding far beyond the boundary of the estate on her little pony, forgetting alike the cook and her book-keeping.

Again she purposed studying history and learning a little English under was getting on; but her calculations were not much to be depended upon, and after having for a week conscientiously labored at the task, some days of sunshine came, and then she could not resist accompanying the forester on his rounds after game, or riding far beyond the boundary of the estate on her little pony, forgetting alike the cook and her book-keeping.

Again she purposed studying history and learning a little English under Anton's superintendence. Anton was delighted. But she could not recollect dates, found the pronunciation of English impossible, and sauntered off into the stable, or went into the room of the bailiff, whose mechanical achievements she could watch with the utmost interest for hours at a time. One day, when Anton came to call her to her English lesson, he found her in Karl's room, a plane in her hand, working hard at the seat of a new sledge, and good-naturedly saying, "Don't take so much trouble with me, Wohlfart; I can learn nothing: I have always been a dunce."

The snow again lay thick on the ground, and millions of ice-crystals glittered in the sunshine on bush and tree. Karl had two sledges in order, one a double-seated one, the other a running sledge for the young lady, which, with her assistance, he had painted beautifully.

At the next morning conference Anton had to announce to the baroness that he must go in the afternoon to Tarow on some police business.

"We know the Tarowskis from having met them at the Baths," said the baroness. "We were quite intimate while there with Frau von Tarowska and her daughter. I earnestly wish that the baron should have some acquaintance in the neighborhood. Perhaps I may be able to prevail upon him to pay a visit with us to-day. At all events, we ladies will avail ourselves of your escort, and make an excursion thither."

Anton gently reminded her of the vanished Bratzky and his own suspicions.

"They are only suspicions," said the baron, soothingly, "and there can be no doubt that it is our duty to call. Indeed, I can not believe that Herr von Tarowski had any thing to do with the man's disappearance."

In the afternoon the two sledges were brought round. The baroness seated herself with her husband in the larger one, and Lenore insisted upon driving her own. "Wohlfart shall sit behind me on the seat," decided she.

The baron whispered to his wife, "Wohlfart!"

"I can not allow you to drive alone," calmly replied she. "Have no anxiety. He is in your service, besides; there is no great impropriety; and you and I shall be together."

The little bells sounded merrily across the plain. Lenore sat in the highest spirits in her little nutshell of a seat, and loudly urged on her horse. She often turned round, and her laughing face looked so lovely under her dark cap that Anton's whole heart went out toward her. Her green veil fluttered in the wind, and brushed across his cheeks, hung over his face, and concealed the view. The next moment his breath moved the ribbon round her neck, and he saw that only that slight silken covering lay between his hand and her white throat and golden hair. Absorbed in this contemplation, he could hardly resist the delight of gently passing his fur glove over her hood, when a hare jumped from its form close to him, shaking its ears threateningly, and significantly flinging its legs in the air. Anton understood the friendly hint, and drew back the fur glove; and the hare, pleased to have done a good turn, galloped off over the plain.

Our hero turned his thoughts into another direction. "This white road bears no trace of man's presence, no slides, no footprints; there is no life around to disturb the silent sleep of nature. We are travelers penetrating into regions hitherto untrodden. One tree is like another, the snow expanse is boundless, the silence of the grave around, and the laughing sunshine above. I wish we were going on thus the whole day through."

"I am so glad to drive you for once," said Lenore, bending back, and giving him her hand.

Anton so far forgot the hare as to imprint a kiss upon her glove.

"It is Danish leather," laughed Lenore; "do not give yourself the trouble."

"Here is a hole," said Anton, prepared to renew the attempt.

"You are very attentive to-day," cried Lenore, slowly withdrawing her hand. "The mood suits you charmingly, Wohlfart."

The fur glove was again stretched out to detain the hand withdrawn. At that moment two crows on the nearest tree began a violent dispute, screamed, croaked, and flew about Anton's head.

"Begone, you wretched creatures!" thought Anton, in his excitement; "you shall not disturb me any more."

But Lenore looked full and frankly at him. "I am not sure, either, that you ought to be so attentive," said she, gravely. "You should not kiss my hand, for I have no wish to return the compliment, and what is right for the one must be right for the other. Huzza! my horse, forward!"

"I am curious to know how these Poles will receive us," said Anton, resuming their former conversation.

"They can not be otherwise than friendly," returned Lenore. "We lived for weeks with Frau von Tarowska, and took every excursion together. She was the most elegant of all the ladies at the Baths, and her daughters, too, made a great impression by their distinguished bearing. They are very lovely and refined."

"He has eyes, though, exactly like those of the forester's fox. I would not trust him a yard out of my sight."

"I have made myself very smart to-day," laughed Lenore, again turning round; "for the girls are, as I said, lovely, and the Poles shall not say that we Germans look ill beside them. How do you like my dress, Wohlfart?" She turned back the flap of her pelisse.

"I shall admire no other half so much," Anton replied.

"You true-hearted Mr. Wohlfart!" cried Lenore, again reaching out her hand. Alas! the warning hare, the crows, would have been powerless to break the spell which attracted the fur glove to the Danish leather; something stronger must interfere.

When Anton stretched out his hand for the third time, he marveled to see it rise against his will, and describe a circle in the air, while he found himself outstretched in the snow. Looking round in amazement, he saw Lenore sitting by the overturned sledge, while the horse stood still, and laughed after his fashion. The lady had looked too much at her companion and too little at the way, and so they had been upset. Both jumped up lightly. Anton raised the sledge, and they were soon galloping onward once more. But the sledge-idyl was ended. Lenore looked steadily before her, and Anton occupied himself in shaking the snow out of his sleeves.

The sledges turned into a spacious court. A long, one-storied farm-house, whitewashed, and roofed with shingles, looked upon the wooden stables. Anton sprang out, and asked a servant in livery for the dwelling of Herr von Tarowski.

"This is the palace," replied the Pole, with a low obeisance, and proceeded to help the ladies out of the sledges. Lenore and the baroness exchanged looks of amazement. They entered a dirty hall; several bearded domestics rushed up to them, eagerly tore off their wraps, and threw a low door open. A numerous party was assembled in the large sitting-room. A tall figure in black silk came forward to meet them, and received them with the best grace in the world. So did the daughters--slender girls, with their mother's eyes and manners. Several of the gentlemen were introduced--Herr von this, Herr von that, all elegant-looking men in evening dress. At last the master of the house came in, his cunning face beaming with cordial hospitality, and his pair of fox's eyes looking perfectly harmless. The reception was faultless--on all sides the pleasant ease of perfect self-possession. The baron and the ladies were treated as welcome additions, and Anton too had his share of attention. His business was soon transacted, and Herr von Tarow smilingly reminded him that they had met before.

"That rogue of an inspector got off, after all," said he; "but do not be uneasy, he will not escape his fate."

"I hope not," replied Anton; "nor yet his abettors."

Herr von Tarow's eyes tried hard to look dove-like as he went on to say, "The fellow must be concealed somewhere about."

"Possibly somewhere very near," said Anton, casting a significant glance at the mean-looking buildings around.

Our hero looked in vain among the gentlemen present for the stranger he had previously seen, and charitably attributed to him good reasons for wishing to remain unseen by German eyes. However, to make up for him, there was another gentleman of a striking aspect, who seemed to be treated with especial respect. "They come and go, assemble and disperse," thought Anton, "just as the landlord said; there is a whole band of them to feel anxious about, not merely a few individuals." At that moment the stranger came up and began a courteous conversation. However unstudied the speaker's manner might appear, yet Anton remarked that he led the conversation, with the view of extracting his opinions and feelings as a German. This made him reserved; and the Pole, finding him so, soon lost his interest in him, and turned to the ladies.

Anton had now time to look about him. A Vienna piano-forte stood amid furniture evidently made by the village carpenter, and near the sofa a tattered carpet was spread over the black boards. The ladies sat on velvet seats around a worn-out table. The mistress of the house and her grown-up daughters had elegant Parisian toilettes; but a side door being casually opened, Anton caught a sight of some children running about in the next room so scantily clothed that he heartily pitied them. They, however, did not seem to feel the cold, and were screaming and fighting like little demons.

A fine damask table-cloth was now laid on the unsteady table, and a silver tea-kettle put down. The conversation went on most pleasantly. Graceful French <i>bon mots</i> and animated exclamations in melodious Polish blended occasionally with an admixture of quiet German. The sudden bursts of laughter, the gestures and the eagerness, all showed Anton that he was among foreigners. They spoke rapidly, and excitement shone in their eyes and reddened their cheeks.

They were a more excitable people, more elastic, and more impressionable than his countrymen. Anton remarked with amazement how perfectly Lenore seemed in her element among them. Her face, too, grew flushed; she laughed and gesticulated like the rest; and her eyes looked, he thought, boldly into the courteous faces of the gentlemen present. The same smile, the same hearty, natural manner that she had enchanted him with, when alone, she now lavished upon strangers, who had acted as highwaymen against her father's interests. This displeased him to the utmost. Then the saloon, so incongruous in its arrangements, the carpet dirty and torn, the children in the next room barefooted, and the master of the house the secret patron of a dishonest rogue, and perhaps worse still! Anton contented himself with coldly looking on, and said as little as he possibly could.

At last a young gentleman struck a few chords on the piano, and all sprang up and voted for a dance. The lady of the house rang, four wild-looking men rushed into the room, snatched up the grand piano, and carried it off. The whole party swept through the hall to an apartment opposite. Anton was tempted to rub his eyes as he entered it. It was an empty room, with rough-cast walls, benches around them, and a frightful old stove in a corner. In the middle, linen was hung on lines to dry. Anton could hardly suppose they meant to dance here; but the linen was torn down by one servant in the twinkling of an eye, while another ran to the stove, and was equally expeditious in blowing up the fire, and in a very few moments six couples stood up for a quadrille. As there was a lady wanting, a young count, with a black beard like velvet, and a wondrously beautiful pair of blue eyes, bound his cambric handkerchief round his arm, and with a graceful courtesy announced himself a lady. He was immediately led out by another gentleman. Their dancing, in spite of its fashionable character, betrayed at times the fire and impetuosity of their race. Lenore threw herself into it heart and soul.

Meanwhile the baroness was conversing with great animation with her host, and Frau von Tarow made it her occupation to amuse the baron. Here, then, were all the social forms, the keen enjoyment of the present, which Anton had so often admired, but now they only excited a cold smile. It did not seem to him creditable that a German family should be on terms of such intimacy with recent enemies--people who were probably at this very time plotting against them and their country. Accordingly, when the first dance was over, and Lenore, passing him, asked why he did not dance with her, he replied, "I am every moment expecting to see Bratzky's face appear in some corner of the room."

"We will not think of him at present," returned Lenore, turning away offended.

Dance followed dance, the heads of the young people swam, their curls hung down damp, and relaxed with their exertions. Another rush of bearded domestics, and iced Champagne was brought in. The dancers tossed it off standing, and immediately a cry rose on all sides for a Polish mazurka--the national dance. Now, then, the dresses fluttered wide and high; the dancers positively flew along; the ladies were tossed like balls from one partner's arm to another; and Lenore, alas! in the midst of it all.

Anton stood near the distinguished Pole, carrying on a spiritless conversation, and coldly listened to the praises the former liberally bestowed on the German dancer. The rapid movements and strong excitement that were natural to the Polish girls made Lenore wild, and, Anton regretted to see, unfeminine; and his glance wandered away from her to the rough walls, the dusty stove, in which an immense fagot was burning, and the ceiling, from which long gray cobwebs hung down.

It was late before the baroness broke up the party. The furs were brought in, the guests were wrapped therein, and the little bells sounded again cheerily over the snowy scene. But Anton was glad that Lenore now drove her father, and that he had to take care of the baroness. Silently he guided the sledge, thinking all the while that another whom he knew would never have swung to and fro in the mazes of the mazurka beneath the fluttering cobwebs, and in the house of her country's foes.

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Chapter XXX

Mr. Itzig was now regularly established in business. Whoever visited him passed through a much-frequented hall, and went up a not entirely clean staircase, at the head of which was a white door, on which a great plate revealed the name of "V. Itzig." This door was closed. It had a very massive China handle, and was altogether much more suggestive and imposing than Ehrenthal's had been. Passing through this door, the visitor entered an empty lobby, in which a shrewd youth spent the day as half porter, half errand-boy, and a spy besides. This youth differed from the original Itzig only by a species of shabby gentility in his appearance. He wore his master's old clothes--shining silk waistcoats, and a coat a little too large for him. He showed, in short, that the new firm was more advanced in matters of taste and toilette than the in many respects commonplace establishment of Ehrenthal. The visitor, advancing through the lobby, was received by Mr. Itzig in one of two small rooms, of which the first contained little furniture, but two strikingly handsome lamps--a temporary security for the unpaid interest of a note of hand. The second was his sleeping apartment; in it were a simple bed, a long sofa, and a large round mirror, with a broad gilt frame, an acquisition from the secret stores of the worthy Pinkus. Itzig himself was marvelously changed, and on dark days, in his dimly-lighted office, he might really--looked at from a little distance--have almost passed for a gentleman. His haggard face had filled out, his great freckles had faded away, and his red hair, through much pomade and skillful brushing, had grown darker and more manageable. He had still a preference for black; but his clothes were new now, and fitted him better; for Mr. Itzig had acquired a taste for externals. He no longer grudged himself good food--nay, he even allowed himself wine. Yet, insignificant as his new establishment was, Itzig only used it at night and during office-hours. His inclinations still led him to his old haunts at Löbel Pinkus's. Thus he led a double life--that of a respectable man of business in his newly-painted office, beneath the glare of his solar lamps; and when in the caravanserai, which fitted his taste far better, a modest sort of life, with red woolen curtains, and a four-cornered chest for a sofa. Perhaps this shelter suited him so exactly, because of his uncontested influence over the master of the house. Pinkus, to his shame be it spoken, had sunk into a mere tool of Veitel's, and his wife, too, was devoted in her allegiance to the rising man.

On the present occasion Itzig sat carelessly on his sofa, and smoked a pipe with an amber mouth-piece. He was completely the gentleman, and expected a visitor of distinction. The bell rang, the servant flew to the door, and a sharp voice was heard. Next there arose a dispute in the lobby, which moved Veitel to shut up his writing-table in all haste, and to put the key into his pocket.

"Not at home, indeed! He is at home, you wretched greenhorn you!" cried the sharp voice to the guardian of the door. Next some resisting body was heard to be thrust on one side. Veitel buried himself in an old mortgage. The door opened, and Hippus appeared, red-faced and much ruffled. He had never looked more like an old raven.

"So you deny yourself, do you? You tell that grub yonder to send away old friends! Of course, you are become quite genteel, you fool! Did one ever meet with such barefaced ingratitude? Because the fellow has swindled himself into two fine rooms, his former associates are no longer good enough for him! But you have reckoned without your host, my boy, as far as I am concerned; I am not to be got rid of so easily."

Veitel looked at the angry little man before him with an expression of countenance by no means friendly.

"Why did you make a scene with the young man?" he said, coldly; "he has done nothing wrong. I was expecting a visitor on business, and I gave orders to exclude all strangers. How could I know that you would be coming? Have we not settled that you should only visit me in the evening? Why do you disturb me during my business hours?"

"Your business hours, you young gosling, with your shell still hanging about you!" cried Hippus, still more irate, and threw himself on the sofa. "Your business hours!" he continued, with infinite contempt; "any hours are good enough for <i>your</i> business."

"You are drunk again, Hippus," answered Veitel, thoroughly roused. "How often have I told you that I will have nothing to do with you when you come out of the spirit-shop?"

"Indeed!" cried Hippus; "you son of a witch, my visit is at all times an honor to you. I drunk!" he hiccoughed out; "and with what, you jack-pudding you? How is a man to get drunk," he screamed out, "when he has not wherewithal to pay for a glass?"

"I knew that he was without money again," said Veitel, in exasperation. "I gave you a dollar quite lately, but you are a perfect sponge. It is a pity to waste a farthing upon you."

"You will prove, though, that it is not at all a pity," answered the old man, tauntingly; "you will give me ten dollars here on the spot."

"That I will not," cried Veitel. "I am sick of supplying you. You know our agreement; you are only to have money given you when you do something for me in return. And now you are not in a condition either to read or write."

"I am always good enough for you and such as you, even if I had had a ten times better breakfast," said the old man, more calmly. "Give me what you have got for me to do. You are become a covetous rascal, but I'll put up with you. I will forgive your having denied yourself; I will forgive your having become a presumptuous ass--making a show with lamps that were meant for your betters; and I will not deprive you of my advice, provided, be it understood, I duly get my honorarium. And so we will make peace, my son. Now tell me what deviltry you have in hand."

Veitel pushed a thick parchment toward him, and said, "First of all, you must look over that, write me out an abstract of it, and tell me what you think of it. It has been offered me for sale. Now, however, I am expecting some one, so you must go into the other room, sit down at the table, and get through your task. When it is done we will talk about the money."

Mr. Hippus took the heavy deed under his arm and steered toward the door.

"To-day I am going to oblige you again, because you are a good boy," said he, affectionately, lifting his hand to pat Veitel on the cheek.

Veitel tolerated the caress, and was going to shut the door, when the drunken old man turned round once more, and inquired with a cunning leer, "So you expect some one, my child? Whom do you expect, little Itzig? Is it a lad or a lady?"

"It is a money-matter," said Veitel, shrugging his shoulders.

"A money-matter!" repeated Hippus, with tender approbation of his associate. "Ay, you are great in them--an accomplished swindler. Truly he who gets money from you is lost; it were better for him to jump into the water at once, though water is a despicable element, you confounded little swindler you!" And, raising his head, he fixed his swimming eyes affectionately on Veitel.

"And yet you yourself are come to get money from me," replied Veitel, with a forced smile.

"Yes, I am determined," said Hippus, stammering. "I am not flesh and blood! I am Hippus! I am Death!" and he tried to laugh intelligently.

The door-bell rang. Veitel desired him to keep quiet, shut the door upon him, took up his amber pipe, and awaited his visitor.

A sword was heard to clatter in the lobby--a hussar officer came in. Eugene Rothsattel had become a little older since the last winter, his fine face was more haggard, and he had a blue ring round his eyes. He put on an appearance of indifference, which did not deceive Mr. Itzig for a single second, for behind that mask his experienced glance detected the fever peculiar to hard-pressed debtors.

"Mr. Itzig?" inquired the officer <i>de haut en bas</i>.

"Such is my name," said Veitel, rising carelessly from the sofa. Eugene looked at him uneasily. This was the very man against whom his father had been warned, and now fate had driven him into the same snare. "I have to pay a debt in the course of the next few days to certain agents," began the lieutenant, "gentlemen of your acquaintance. When I proposed to hold a consultation with them, I was informed by both that they had sold their claims to you."

"I bought them unwillingly," replied Itzig. "I am not fond of having any thing to do with military men. Here are two notes of hand, one for eleven hundred, and the other for eight hundred, making a total of nineteen hundred dollars. Do you recognize these signatures as yours?" he coldly inquired, producing the documents; "and do you acknowledge nineteen hundred to be the sum borrowed by you?"

"I suppose it must be about that," said the lieutenant, reluctantly.

"I ask whether you acknowledge that to be the sum that you have to pay me on these notes of hand?"

"In the devil's name, yes," cried the lieutenant. "I own the debt, though I did not receive the half of it in cash."

Veitel locked up the papers in his desk, and, with a shrug of his shoulders, said ironically, "At all events, I have paid the whole sum to the parties herein named. Accordingly, I shall summon you to pay me to-morrow and the next day."

The officer was silent for a while, and a flush slowly overspread his sunken cheeks. At last, after a hard struggle, he began: "I beg of you, Mr. Itzig, to give me a little more time."

Veitel took up his amber pipe and leisurely turned it round. "I can give you no further credit," said he.

"Come, Itzig, be reasonable," said the officer, with forced familiarity. "I shall very probably soon be able to pay you."

"You will have as little money in a few weeks' time as you have now," replied Veitel, rudely.

"I am ready to write an I.O.U. for a larger sum, if you will have patience."

"I never enter into any transactions of the kind," lied Veitel.

"I will procure you an acknowledgment of the debt from my father."

"The Baron Rothsattel would obtain as little credit with me as yourself."

The lieutenant angrily struck the floor with his sword: "And supposing I do not pay?" he broke out; "you know that I am not legally compelled to do so."

"I know," quietly replied Veitel. "Will you pay to-morrow and the next day?"

"I can not!" exclaimed Eugene, in despair.

"Then take care of the coat on your back," said Veitel, turning away.

"Wohlfart was right to warn me against you," cried Eugene, beside himself. "You are an obdurate--" he suppressed the last word.

"Speak your mind freely," said Itzig; "no one hears you. Your words are like the fire in my stove; it crackles now, in an hour it will be burned to ashes. What you say to me in private, the people in the street will say to you in three days' time if you do not pay."

Eugene turned away with a curse. On reaching the door he stood still for a moment, then rushed down stairs.

Veitel looked round triumphantly. "The son as well as the father! He, too, is safely noosed," said he to himself; "he can never procure the money. There is an end of the Rothsattels, and their Wohlfart will not be able to sustain them. When I am married to Rosalie, Ehrenthal's mortgages will be mine. That will be the time, too, for finding the vanished notes of hand among my father-in-law's papers. Then I shall have the baron completely in my power, and the estate will be mine."

After this soliloquy he opened the door that had shut out Mr. Hippus from the distinguished visitor--the sunken from the sinking--and he found the little advocate fast asleep over the deed. Itzig looked at him with hearty contempt, and said, "He grows burdensome. He said he was death; I wish he were dead, and I freed from him." Then roughly shaking up the old man, he screamed out to him, "You are fit for nothing but to sleep; why must you come here to snore? Go home; I will give you the deed when you are sober."

The advocate accordingly reeled away, promising to return the following afternoon. Itzig proceeded to brush his silk hat with enviable dexterity; he then put on his best coat, gave his hair its most graceful curve, and went to the house of his antagonist Ehrenthal. As he entered the hall he cast a shy glance at the office door, and hurried on to the staircase. But he stopped on the lowest step. "There he is, sitting again in the office," said he, listening. "I hear him mutter; he often mutters so when he is alone. I will venture in; perhaps I can make something of him." So he stepped slowly to the door and listened again; then taking heart, he opened it suddenly. In the dimly-lighted room sat a stooping figure in a leathern chair, a shapeless hat on its head. The figure kept constantly nodding, and muttering unintelligible words. How changed was Hirsch Ehrenthal in the course of the past year! When he last drove over the baron's estate, he was a stout, respectable-looking man, a fresh, well-preserved man, who knew how to stick in his breast-pin to the best advantage, and cut a figure in ladies' eyes. Now the head that was constantly nodding in nervous debility was that of an old man, and the beard that hung down from his furrowed face had been untrimmed for weeks. He was a picture of that most lamentable decay, when the mind precedes the body on the way to second childhood.

The agent stood at the door and looked in dismay at his former master. Then, advancing nearer, he said, "I wish to speak to you, Mr. Ehrenthal."

The old man continued to nod his head, and answered in a trembling voice, "Hirsch Ehrenthal is my name; what have you to say to me?"

"I wish to speak to you on important business," continued Itzig.

"I hear," returned Ehrenthal, without looking up; "if the business be important, why do you not speak?"

"Do you know me, Hirsch Ehrenthal?" said Itzig, bending down and raising his voice.

The man in the leathern chair looked at him with languid eyes, and at length recognized him. He got up in all haste, and stood, his head still nodding, with a glance full of hatred and terror in his eyes. "What do you want here in my office?" cried he, with a quivering voice. "How can you come before me? Get out, man! get out!"

Itzig remained stationary. "Don't scream so; I am not doing any thing to you; I only want to speak to you on important subjects, if you will be calm as a man of your years should be."

"It is Itzig," murmured the old man; "he wants to speak on important subjects, and I am to be calm. How can I be calm," screamed he again, "when I see you before me? You are my enemy; you have ruined me here and ruined me there; you have been to me like the evil spirit with the sword, on which hangs the drop of gall. I opened my mouth, you pierced me with your sword, the gall has reached my heart; I needs must tremble when I see you."

"Be quiet," said Itzig; "and when you are so, listen to me."

"Is his name Itzig?" mumbled the old man to himself. "His name is Itzig, but the dogs bark at him as he walks through the streets. I will not see you," he again exclaimed. "Get out! I loathe the sight of you: I would rather have to do with a spider than with you."

To this Veitel replied in a resigned voice, "What has happened, Ehrenthal, has happened, and it's no use talking of it. You behaved unkindly to me, and I acted against you; both are true."

"He ate every Sabbath at my table," growled the old man.

"If you remember that," continued Itzig, "why, so will I. True, I have eaten at your table, and on that account I am sorry to be on bad terms with you. I have always felt a great attachment to your family."

"You have shown your attachment, young Itzig," continued the old man. "You are he who came into my house, and killed me before I am laid in my grave."

"What nonsense are you talking?" continued Veitel, impatiently. "Why do you always speak as if you were dead, and I the evil spirit with the sword? I am here, and I wish your prosperous life, and not your death. I will so contrive that you shall yet occupy a good position among our people, and that they who pass you in the street shall again take off their hats to you, as they did before Hirsch Ehrenthal became childish."

Ehrenthal mechanically took off his hat and sat down again. His hair had grown white.

"There ought to be friendship between you and me," continued Veitel, persuasively, "and your business ought to be as mine. I have sent to you more than one man of our connection, and have told you my wishes through him, and Mrs. Ehrenthal, your wife, has told you them too. I am become a man who can rank with the best men of business; I can show you a safe capital larger than you imagine. Why should we not put our money together? If you will give me your daughter Rosalie to wife, I shall be able to act for you as your son-in-law."

Old Ehrenthal looked at the suitor with a glance in which something of his old cunning shone through his half-wittedness. "If you want my daughter Rosalie," replied he, "hear the only question I have to put: What will you give me if I give you Rosalie?"

"I will reckon it up to you at once," cried Veitel.

"You can reckon up a good deal, I dare say," said Ehrenthal, declining the statement, "but I will only require one thing: if you can give me back my son Bernhard, you may have my daughter. If you can not bring Bernhard out of the grave, so long as I have any voice left I shall say, 'Get out with you! get out of my office!' Get out!" screamed he, in a sudden transport of rage, clenching both fists against the suitor. Veitel quietly retreated into the shadow cast by the door, the old man sunk down again on his chair, and threatened and muttered to himself. Itzig watched him till his words again became unintelligible, when he shrugged his shoulders and left the room.

As he went up stairs to pay his visit to the ladies, he repeated the movement occasionally, to express his utter contempt of the poor imbecile below. He rang the bell, and was admitted by the untidy cook with a familiar smile.

Meanwhile Eugene drifted helplessly from one officer's room to another. He went to Feroni's; the oysters were flavorless, the Burgundy tasted like ink. Again he paced up and down the streets, the sweat of anguish on his brow. At last he sat down in a confectioner's shop, tired to death, and revolved every possible contingency. If Wohlfart were only here! But there was no time to write to him. These agents had put him off from day to day; it was only last night that they had both finally referred him to Mr. Itzig. But, though it was too late to write to Anton, might not this obliging friend have some acquaintance in the town? In recommending young Sturm, Anton had told him that the future bailiff's father was a safe man, not without substance. Perhaps he could get money from the father of a hussar now in the service of his family, if, indeed, the old man had any money. That was the question.

He turned to the Directory, and found John Sturm, porter, Island Street, No. 17. He drove thither in a drosky. A loud "Come in" was the reply to his hurried knock. The sore-pressed officer crossed the threshold of the porter. Father Sturm sat alone with his can of beer, a small daily paper in his hand. "A hussar!" cried he, remaining seated through very astonishment. The officer, on his part, was astonished at the colossal form now contemplating him, and both were silent.

"To be sure!" said the giant. "A hussar of my Karl's regiment--the coat is the same, the epaulettes the same; you are welcome, comrade!" and he rose. Then for the first time perceiving the metal of the epaulettes, he exclaimed, "As I live, an officer!"

"My name is Eugene von Rothsattel," began the lieutenant. "I am an acquaintance of Mr. Wohlfart."

"Of Mr. Wohlfart and of my son Karl," said Sturm, eagerly; "sit down, sir; it is an exceeding pleasure and honor to me to see you." He brought out a chair, and thumped it down in his zeal so as to make the door shake again.

Eugene was going to sit down. "Not yet," said Sturm; "I will first wipe it, that the uniform take no harm. Since my Karl went away, things are a little dusty here."

He wiped and polished up the chair for his visitor. "Now, sir, allow me to sit opposite you. You bring me tidings of my little fellow?"

"Only," replied Eugene, "that he is well in health, and that my father much values his services."

"Indeed!" cried Sturm, smiling all over, and rapping on the table so as to create a small earthquake in the room. "I knew, sir, that your father the baron would be satisfied with him; I would have given him a bond for that on stamped paper. He was a clever lad, even when he was that high," indicating with his hand a degree of smallness that belongs to no human being, even in the earliest days of its visible life.

"But can he do any thing?" he anxiously inquired, "in spite of--you know what." He held out his great fingers, and made confidential signs with them. "First and middle finger--it was a great misfortune, sir."

Eugene now called to mind the unlucky accident. "He has got over it," said he, rather embarrassed at the part the paternal affections of the giant made him play. "I came here to ask a favor."

"A favor?" laughed Sturm; "ask away, young baron; that is a simple matter. Any one from the house where my Karl is bailiff has a right to ask a favor from old Sturm. That is my view of the case."

"Well, then, Mr. Sturm, to make a long story short, I am called upon to make a heavy payment to-morrow, and I want the money for it. The debt has come upon me suddenly, and I have no time to communicate with my father. I know no one in this town to whom I can turn with so much confidence as to the father of our bailiff."

Sturm bent forward, and in his delight clapped the officer on the knee. "That was nobly said. You are a gentleman, who keeps to his own house, and does not go to strangers for what he can have from his own people. You want money? My Karl is bailiff at your father the baron's; my Karl has some money, so it is all right. How much do you want? A hundred dollars? Two hundred dollars? The money is there."

"I can hardly take courage, Mr. Sturm, to tell you the amount of the sum," said Eugene, embarrassed; "it is nineteen hundred dollars."

"Nineteen hundred dollars!" repeated the giant, in amazement; "that's a capital; that's a firm; that's what people call a fortune."

"So it is, Mr. Sturm," said Eugene, sadly. "And since you are so friendly toward me, I must own to you that I am heartily grieved that it should be so much. I am ready to give you a note of hand for it, and to pay any interest you may like."

"Do you know what," said Sturm, after some cogitation, "we will say nothing about the interest; you can settle that with my Karl; but as to the note of hand, that was a good thought of yours. A note of hand is pleasant, on account of the chances of life and death. You and I would have no need of such a thing; but I may die before my time. That would not matter, for you, who know of the transaction, would still be there. But then you might die, which, however, I have no fear of--quite the contrary; but still such a thing might be, and then my Karl ought to have your signature, so that he might come forward and say, 'My poor young master has written this, therefore pay.'"

"You will then have the kindness to lend me the money?"

"There is no kindness in it," said Sturm; "it is but my duty, as the thing is done regularly, and my dwarf is your bailiff."

Eugene was moved as he looked at the giant's laughing face. "But, Mr. Sturm, I want the money to-morrow."

"Of course," replied Sturm, "that is just what suits me. Come, baron, this way." He took up the candle, and led him into his bed-room. "Excuse things being so disorderly; but I am a lone man, and at my work all day long. Look here, this is my money-box." He drew out the iron chest. "It is safe from thieves," said he, with self-complacency, "for no one in the town can stir it but I, and no one can open it, for the lock is the masterpiece of the father of my dear departed wife. Few besides me can lift the lid, and even if many of them came, they would find it too tough a job for them; so you may believe that the money is safe here from rogues, and swindlers, and the like," said he, triumphantly. He was about to put the key into the lock. "Stop," he suddenly cried; "one word more. I trust you, baron, as I do my Karl--that of course; but just answer me this question: You really are the young baron?"

Now it was Eugene's turn to smile, and, putting his hand into his pocket, he said, "Here is my patent."

"Ah! many thanks," cried Sturm, carefully looking through the paper, and reverentially reading the names, then bowing, and giving it back with two fingers in the most respectful manner possible.

"And here," continued Eugene, "I happen to have a letter of Wohlfart's in my pocket."

"Of course," cried Sturm, looking at the address, "that is his living hand."

"And here is his signature."

"Your devoted Wohlfart," read the giant; "and if he writes that, you may be sure that it is true. So now the business is settled," said he, opening the box. "Here is the money. So, then, nineteen hundred dollars!" He took five great rolls out of the chest, held them comfortably in one hand, and gave them to Eugene. "Here are a thousand."

Eugene tried in vain to hold them.

"Just so," said the porter; "I will bring them down to the carriage. The rest I must give you in promissory notes. These are worth a little less than a hundred dollars, as of course you know."

"It does not signify," said Eugene.

"No," said the giant. "It can be mentioned in the note of hand. And now the matter is all settled." He closed the chest, and pushed it under the bed.

Eugene re-entered the little parlor with a lightened heart.

"Now, then, I will carry the money to the carriage," cried Sturm.

"The note of hand has yet to be written."

"True," nodded the giant; "we must do things in order. Just see, sir, whether you can write with my coarse pen. If I had known that I should have such a visitor, I would have brought a better one with me from Mr. Schröter's."

Eugene wrote out an acknowledgment, while Sturm sat by his can of beer, and looked at him in admiration. Then he accompanied him to the carriage, and said at leave-taking, "Greet my little lad heartily, and Mr. Wohlfart too. I have promised Karl to come to him at Christmas, on account of the Christmas-tree; but my health is no longer as good as it should be. I am forty-nine past."

A short time afterward, Eugene, writing to Anton, casually mentioned that he had borrowed nineteen hundred dollars from father Sturm on a note of hand. "Try to arrange the matter for me," said the letter; "of course my father must know nothing of it. A good-hearted, foolish fellow, that old Sturm. Think of something nice for his son the hussar--something that I can bring him when I pay you a visit."

Anton flung down the letter indignantly. "There is no helping them; the principal was right," said he. "He has squandered the money in golden bracelets for a mercenary <i>danseuse</i>, or at dice with his lawless comrades, and he now pays his usurer's bills with the hard earnings of an honest working-man."

He called Karl into his room. "I have often been sorry to have brought you into this confusion, but to-day I deeply feel how wrong it was. I am ashamed to tell you what has happened. Young Rothsattel has taken advantage of your father's good-heartedness to borrow from him nineteen hundred dollars!"

"Nineteen hundred dollars from my governor!" cried Karl. "Had my Goliath so much money to lend! He always pretended that he did not know how to economize."

"Part of your inheritance is given away in return for a worthless note of hand, and what makes it still more aggravating is the coolness of the thoughtless borrower. Have you, then, not heard of it from your father?"

"From him!" cried Karl; "I should think not. I am only sorry that you should be so vexed. I implore you not to make any disturbance about it. You best know how many clouds hang over this house; do not increase the anxiety of these parents on my account."

"To be silent in a case like this," replied Anton, "would be to make one's self an accomplice in an unfair transaction. You must immediately write and tell your father not to be so obliging in future; the young gentleman is capable of going to him again."

Anton's next step was to write Eugene a letter of serious remonstrance, in which he pointed out to him that the only way of giving Sturm tolerably good security would be the procuring the baron's acknowledgment of his son's debt, and begged that he would lose no time in doing this.

This letter written, Anton said to Karl, "If he does not confess to his parents, I shall state the whole affair to the baron in his presence the very next day after his arrival. Don't try to dissuade me; you are just like your father."

The consequence of this communication was, that Eugene left off writing to Anton, and that his next letter to his father contained a rather unintelligible clause: "Wohlfart," he said, "was a man to whom he certainly had obligations; only the worst of that kind of people was, that they took advantage of these to adopt a dictatorial tone that was unbearable; therefore it was best civilly to shake them off."

This opinion was quite after the baron's own heart, and he warmly applauded it. "Eugene always takes the right view of the case," said he; "and I too earnestly long for the day when I shall be able to superintend the property, and to dismiss our Mr. Wohlfart."

The baroness, who had read the letter out to her husband, merely replied, "You would miss Wohlfart very much if he were to leave you."

Lenore, however, was unable to suppress her displeasure; and, leaving the room in silence, she went to look for Anton out of doors.

"What are you and Eugene differing about?" she cried, as soon as she saw him.

"Has he been complaining of me to you?" inquired Anton, in return.

"Not to me; but in his letter to my father he does not speak as he ought of one who has been so kind to him."

"Perhaps this is accidental--a fit of ill-humor that will pass off."

"No, it is more, and I will know about it."

"If it be more, you can only hear it from himself."

"Then, Wohlfart," cried Lenore, "Eugene has been doing something wrong, and you know of it."

"Be that as it may," returned Anton, gravely, "it is not my secret, else I should not withhold it from you. I pray you to believe that I have acted uprightly toward your brother."

"What I believe little signifies," cried Lenore. "I am to know nothing; I understand nothing; I can do nothing in this wretched world but grieve and fret when others are unjust to you."

"I very often," continued Anton, "feel the responsibility laid upon me by your father's indisposition a grievous burden. It is natural that he should be annoyed with me when I have to communicate unwelcome facts. This can not be avoided. I have strength, however, to brave much that is painful, so long as you and the baroness are unshaken in your conviction that I always act in your interest so far as I understand it."

"My mother knows what you are to us," said Lenore. "She never, indeed, speaks of you to me, but I can read her glance when she looks at you across the table. She has always known how to conceal her thoughts; how she does so more than ever--yes, even to me. I seem to see her pure image behind a white veil; and she is become so fragile, that often the tears rush to my eyes merely in looking at her. She always says what is kind and judicious, but she seems to have lost interest in most things; and though she smiles at what I say, I fancy that the effort gives her pain."

"Yes, just so," cried Anton mournfully.

"She only lives to take care of my father. No one, not even her daughter, knows what she inwardly suffers. She is like an angel, Wohlfart, who lingers on our earth reluctantly. I can be but little to her, that I feel. I am not helpful, and want all that makes my mother so lovely--- the self-control, the calm bearing, the enchanting manner. My father is sick--my brother thoughtless--my mother, spite of all her love, reserved toward me. Wohlfart, I am indeed alone."

She leaned on the side of the well and wept.

"Perhaps it will all be for your good," said Anton, soothingly, from the other side the well. "Yours is an energetic nature, and I believe you can feel very strongly."

"I can be very angry," chimed in Lenore through her tears, "and then very careless again."

"You grew up without a care in prosperous circumstances, and your life was easy as a game."

"My lessons were difficult enough, I am sure," remonstrated Lenore.

"I think that you were in danger of becoming a little wild and haughty in character."

"I am afraid I was so," cried Lenore.

"Now, you have had to bear heavy trials, and the present looks serious too; and if I may venture to say so, dear lady, I think you will find here just what the baroness has acquired in the great world--dignity and self-control. I often think that you are changed already."

"Was I, then, an unbearable little savage formerly?" asked Lenore, laughing in the midst of her tears, and looking at Anton with girlish archness.

He had hard work not to tell her how lovely she was at that moment; but he valiantly conquered the inclination, and said, as coolly as he could, "Not so bad as that, dear lady."

"And do you know what you are?" asked Lenore, playfully. "You are, as Eugene writes, a little schoolmaster."

"So that is what he has written!" cried Anton, enlightened.

Lenore grew grave at once. "Do not let us speak of him. As soon as I heard his letter, I came here to tell you that I trust you as I do no one on earth, if it be not my mother; that I shall always trust you as long as I live; that nothing could shake my faith in you; that you are the only friend that we have in our adversity; and that I could ask your pardon on my knees when any one offends you in word or even thought."

"Lenore, dear lady," cried Anton, joyously, "say no more."

"I will say," continued Lenore, "how I admire the self-possession with which you follow your own way and manage the people, and that it is you alone who keep any order on the estate, or can bring it into a better condition. This has been upon my mind to say; and now, Wohlfart, you know it."

"I thank you, lady," cried Anton; "such words make this a happy day. But I am not so self-possessed and efficient as you think, and every day I feel more and more that I am not the person to be really of service here. If I ever wish that you were not the baron's daughter, but his son, it is when I go over this property."

"Yes," said Lenore, "that is just the old regret. Our former bailiff used often to say the same. When I sit over my work, and see you and Mr. Sturm go out together, I get so hot, and I throw my useless frame aside. I can only spend, and understand nothing but buying lace; and even that I don't understand well, according to mamma. However, you must put up with the stupid Lenore as your good friend;" and she gave him her own true-hearted smile.

"It is now many years since I have, in my inmost soul, felt your friendship to be a great blessing," cried Anton, much moved. "It has always, up to this very hour, been one of my heart's best joys secretly to feel myself your faithful friend."

"And so it shall ever be between us," said Lenore. "Now I am comfortable again. And do not plague yourself any more about Eugene's foolish ways. Even I am not going to do so."

Thus they parted like innocent children who find a pleasure in saying to each other all that the passion of love would teach to conceal.

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