A mournful silence lay upon the high Slavonic castle. The storm had raged itself to rest; the white blossoms floated silently down from the great fruit-trees in the fields, and lay pure and spotless on the ground like a white shroud. Where are ye, airy schemes of the blind man, which he has so striven, suffered, and sinned to realize? Listen, poor father; hold your breath and listen. All is still in the castle, still in the forest, and yet you can not hear the one sound of which you ever thought amid your parchments and your plans—the heart-throb of your only son, the first heir of the house of Rothsattel!



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Days of sorrow now passed over the castle, hard to endure by every one who dwelt within its walls. Disease lurked in the family like canker in a flower. Since the dark hour when the dying son had been carried into his father's presence, the baron had never left his room. His small measure of remaining strength had been broken; grief consumed mind and body. He would sit silently brooding throughout the livelong day, and neither the entreaties of Lenore nor the companionship of his wife availed to rouse him. When the fatal tidings were first communicated to the baroness, Anton had feared that the fragile thread that bound her to the earth would burst, and for weeks Lenore never left her side; but, to the astonishment of all, she rallied, her husband's state so claiming her care that her own sorrows and weakness seemed to pass away. She appeared stronger than before, and solely occupied with tending her husband: she was able to sit up for hours beside his chair. It is true that the doctor used to shake his head privately, and to tell Anton that this sudden improvement was not be trusted. As for Lenore, for the first few weeks after her brother's death she was invisible to all; and now, whenever she emerged from the sick-room, it was to answer inquiries for the invalids, or to send, through Anton, messages to the doctor.

Meanwhile, beyond the walls, a stormy spring had passed, succeeded by an unsettled summer. True, the property had no longer to dread the horrors of civil war, but the burdens that the times imposed fell heavy on the establishment. Daily the blast of trumpet and beat of drum was heard—castle and village alike had their complement of soldiers to support, and these were frequently exchanged. Anton had enough to do to provide for man and horse. The slender resources of the estate were soon exhausted, and, but for Fink's laborers, they never could have got on. Then there were all manner of interruptions to the work of the farm. More than one acre had been trodden down at the time of the siege. The men had become bewildered by passing events, and had lost their relish for regular employment. But, on the whole, order was maintained, and the plans laid down early in the spring were being carried out. The irrigation of the meadow-land prospered still better; the number of gray jackets went on increasing; and this body-guard of Herr von Fink were acknowledged throughout the district as a stout set, with whom it was well to be on good terms. Fink himself was often away. Having made and renewed the acquaintance of several officers, he threw himself heart and soul into military matters, and shared as a volunteer in the encounter in which the insurgents had been defeated. His defense of the castle had made him a marked man: he was equally hated and admired by the two conflicting parties.

Weeks had passed away since the relief of the castle, when Lenore appeared at the house door, before which Anton and the forester were holding a consultation. She looked across the court-yard, where a pump now stood, and over the palings, from which the earth had been cleared away, to the landscape, now bright with the fresh green of early summer. At last she said with a sigh, "Summer is come, Wohlfart, and we have not noticed it!"

Anton looked anxiously at her pale face. "It is delightful now in the woods," said he. "I was at the forester's yesterday, and since the rain the trees and flowers are in full beauty. If you would but agree to go out!"

Lenore shook her head. "What do I signify?" said she, bitterly.

"At least hear the news which the forester has just brought," continued Anton. "The man you shot was the wretched Bratzky. You did not kill him. If you have reproached yourself on that score, I can set your mind at rest."

"God be praised!" cried Lenore, folding her hands.

"That night when the forester came to us, he thought he had seen the rascal sitting in the bar with his arm tied up. Yesterday he was taken prisoner to Rosmin."

"Ay!" said the forester; "a bullet does a fellow like him no harm; he aims higher than that;" and he laid his own hand on his throat with a significant gesture.

"This has weighed on me day and night," whispered Lenore to Anton; "I have looked on myself as one under a curse. I have had the most fearful dreams and visions of the man as he fell, hands clenched, and the blood gushing from his shoulder. Oh, Wohlfart, what have we gone through!" And she leaned against the door, and fixed her tearless eyes on the ground.

A horse's hoof rung on the pavement. Fink's bay was led out.

"Where is he going?" hurriedly asked Lenore.

"I do not know," replied Anton; "he has been a great deal out of late; I see nothing of him the whole day long."

"What is he doing here with us?" said Lenore; "this unhappy house is no place for him."

"If he would only be careful," said the forester. "The Tarow people are mad at him; they have sworn to send a bullet after him, and he always rides alone, and late at night."

"It is in vain to warn him," added Anton. "Do be rational for once, Fritz," cried he, as his friend came out; "do not go riding alone, or, at least, not through the Tarow estate."

Fink shrugged his shoulders. "Ah! so our Fraeulein is here! It is so long since we have had the pleasure of seeing you, that our time has hung rather heavy on our hands."

"Listen to the advice of your friends," replied Lenore, anxiously, "and beware of dangerous men."

"Why?" returned Fink; "there is no straightforward danger to apprehend; and in times like these, there is no guarding against every stupid devil who may lurk behind a tree; that would be taking too much trouble."

"If not for your own sake, think of the anxiety of your friends," implored Lenore.

"Have I still friends?" asked Fink, laughing; "I often fancy they have become faithless. My friends belong to the class who perfectly understand the duty of composure. Our worthy Wohlfart, perchance, will put an extra handkerchief in his pocket, and wear his most solemn mien if the game goes against me; and another companion in arms will console herself still more readily. Out with my horse!" cried he, swinging himself on the saddle, and with a slight bow galloping away.

"There he goes, straight to Tarow," said the forester, striking his head as he watched Fink disappear.

Lenore returned in silence to her parents' room.

But late at night, long after the castle lights were all put out, a curtain was drawn back, and a woman listened anxiously for the sound of horses' hoofs. Hour after hour passed away, and it was morning before the window closed as a rider halted at the door, and, whistling a tune, himself took his horse to the stable. After a night of watching, Lenore hid her aching head in her pillows.

Thus months passed away. At length the baron, leaning upon his daughter's arm and on a staff, ventured out into the open air, to sit silently in the shadow cast by the castle walls, or to listen for every trifle which might afford possible scope for fault-finding. At these times his dependents in general would go a good deal out of their way to avoid him, and as Anton never did this, he was not unfrequently their scapegoat. Every day the baron had to hear, in return for his cross-questioning, "Mr. Wohlfart ordered this," or "Mr. Wohlfart forbade that." He eagerly found out what orders were given by Anton, that he might countermand, and all the bitterness and disappointment accumulated in the spirit of the unfortunate nobleman were concentrated in an impotent hatred to his agent.

Fink, for his part, took little heed of the baron, merely contracting his brows when he observed his quarrelsomeness toward Anton, and never saying more than "he can not help it."

Karl was the one who got on best with the baron, never calling him any thing but captain, and making an audible military salute whenever he had any thing to say, and this pleased the blind man. Indeed, the first token of sympathy for others which the baron evinced was elicited by the bailiff. A garden chair had been warped by the sun, and seemed on the point of coming to pieces. Karl, as he passed by, took it up, and with his clenched fist hammered it together. "You are not striking with your right hand, I hope, my good Sturm?" inquired the baron.

"Just as it happens, captain," replied Karl.

"You should not do so," remonstrated the invalid. "An injury like yours should make you careful; very often the pain returns after long years; you can not be sure that this may not be your case in after-life."

"A short life and a merry one, captain," replied Karl; "I do not look forward."

"That is a very useful fellow," said the baron to his daughter.

The corn ripened, the green fields turned to gold, the cheerful sounds of harvest began. When the first loaded wagon rolled into the farm-yard, Anton stood by the barn and watched the sheaves put in. He was joined by Lenore, who inquired, "What of the harvest?"

"As far as we could contrive to sow this year, the returns have not been bad. At least, Karl seems pleased with the crop, which exceeds our calculations," cheerfully returned Anton.

"Then you have one pleasure, Wohlfart," said Lenore.

"It is a pleasure for all on the farm; look at the steady activity of the men. Even the idle work well to day. But what pleases me most is your question; you have been so estranged from the farm, and all that concerns the property."

"Not from you, my friend," said Lenore, looking down.

"You must be ill!" eagerly continued Anton. "If I dared, I could scold you for having thought so little about your own health all this time; your pony is become quite stiff. Karl has often been obliged to use it, that it might not lose the use of its limbs."

"It may go like the rest," cried Lenore; "I shall never mount it again. Have pity upon me, Wohlfart! I often feel as if I should lose my senses; every thing in the world has become indifferent to me."

"Why so savage, Fraeulein?" said a mocking voice behind her. Lenore started and turned round. Fink, who had been absent more than a week, had joined them. "See that you send off Blasius," said he to Anton, without taking any further notice of Lenore. "The rascal has been drunk again; he flogs the horses till the poor beasts are covered with wales. I have a great mind to give them the satisfaction of seeing him punished before their eyes."

"Have patience till after the harvest," replied Anton; "we can not spare him now."

"Is he not a good-natured man in other respects?" timidly suggested Lenore.

"Good-nature is a convenient name for every thing that is morbid," replied Fink. "We call it good-nature in men and sensibility in women." He looked at Lenore. "How has the poor pony sinned, that you will never ride him more?"

Lenore blushed as she replied, "I find that riding gives me headache."

"Indeed!" said Fink, tauntingly; "you once had the advantage of being less delicate. I do not think this lachrymose mood is suitable for you; you will not lose your headache thus."

Lenore, quite subdued, turned to Anton: "Have the newspapers arrived? I came to ask for them for my father."

"The footman has taken them to the baroness's room."

Lenore turned away with a slight inclination, and went back to the castle.

Fink looked after her and said to Anton, "Black does not become her; she is much faded. Hers is one of those faces which only please when they are full and blooming."

Anton cast a dark glance at his friend. "Your behavior toward her has been so strange for the last few weeks, that I have often felt indignant at it. I do not know what your purpose may be, but you treat her with a nonchalance which does not offend her alone."

"But you too, Master Wohlfart, eh?" asked Fink, looking Anton full in the face. "I was not aware that you were this lady's duenna too."

"This tone will not avail you," replied Anton, more quietly. "I do right to remind you that you are behaving worse than ungently toward a noble creature who has now a double claim upon the tender consideration of us all."

"Be good enough to pay her that consideration yourself, and don't trouble yourself about me and my manner," returned Fink, dryly.

"Fritz," cried Anton, "I do not understand you. It is true, you are inconsiderate."

"Have you found me so?" interpolated Fink.

"No," replied Anton. "Whatever you have been to others, to me you have always shown yourself generous and sympathizing; but for this very reason it pains me inexpressibly that you should have thus changed toward Lenore."

"Leave that to me," returned Fink; "every one has his own way of taming birds. Let me just add, that if your Fraeulein Lenore be not soon shaken out of this sickly way of life, she will be utterly ruined. The pony alone will not do it, I know; but you, my son, and your melancholy sympathy, won't do it either; and so we will just let things take their course. I am going to Rosmin to-day; have you any commands?"

This conversation, although it led to no estrangement between the friends, was never forgotten by Anton, who silently resented Fink's dictatorial tone, and anxiously watched his bearing toward Lenore, whom Fink never sought nor avoided, but simply treated as a stranger.

Anton himself had some unpleasant experiences to go through. Much as he avoided communicating what was unwelcome to the baron, there was one thing he could no longer spare him, and that was the settlement of his son's debts. Soon after Eugene's death, numberless letters, with bills inclosed, had arrived at the castle, been given by Lenore to Anton, and then by him all made over, Sturm's note of hand included, to Councilor Horn, whose opinion and advice he craved to have respecting them. This opinion had now arrived. The lawyer did not disguise that the note of hand given by young Rothsattel to the porter was so informal that it amounted to nothing more than a mere receipt, and did not in any way bind the baron to pay the debt. Indeed, the sum was so great that immediate payment was out of the question. Then Anton himself had lent the young prodigal more than eight hundred dollars. As he drew out Eugene's note of hand from among his papers, he looked long at the handwriting of the dead. That was the sum by which his imprudence had purchased a share in the fate of this noble family. And what had this purchase brought him? He had then thought it a fine thing to help his aristocratic friend out of his embarrassments; now, he saw that he had only abetted his downward course. He gloomily locked up his own note of hand in his desk again, and with a heavy heart prepared for a conversation with the baron.

At the first mention of his son, the baron fell into a state of painful excitement; and when Anton, in the flow of his narrative, chanced to call the departed by his Christian name, the father's pent-up anger found a vent. He interrupted Anton by sharply saying, "I forbid you to use that familiar appellation in speaking of my son. Living or dead, he is still Herr von Rothsattel as far as you are concerned." Anton replied with great self-command, "Herr Eugene von Rothsattel had contracted debts to the amount of about four thousand dollars."

"That is impossible!" broke in the baron.

"The accredited copies of notes of hand and bills of exchange which Councilor Horn has procured, place the matter beyond doubt. With regard to the largest debt, one of nineteen hundred dollars, the certainty is the more complete, as the lender, the father of the bailiff Sturm, happens to be a man of peculiar uprightness. A letter to me from the departed expressly acknowledges this obligation."

"Then you knew of this debt," cried the baron, with increasing anger, "and you have kept it back from me! Is this your much-vaunted fidelity?"

It was in vain that Anton sought to explain the circumstances of the case. The baron had lost all self-control. "I have long ago found out," said he, "how self-willed your whole line of conduct is. You take advantage of my situation to get the disposition of all my means; you make debts, you allow debts to be made, you draw money, you charge it to my account, just as you see fit."

"Say no more, baron," cried Anton. "It is only compassion for your helplessness which at this moment prevents me from answering you as you deserve. How great that compassion is, you may infer from the fact that I will endeavor to forget your words, and still ask you for your decision: will you or will you not acknowledge your late son's debts, and give legal security to the porter Sturm, or to his son, your bailiff?"

"I will do nothing," cried the baron, beside himself, "that you require of me in so peremptory and pretentious a tone."

"Then it is useless to speak to you any longer. I implore you, baron, to reconsider the affair before you pronounce your final decision. I shall have the honor of receiving your ultimatum this evening, and I hope that ere then your sense of honor will have triumphed over a mood to which I should not wish a second time to expose myself."

With these words he left, and heard the poor baron upsetting chairs and tables in his wrath. Scarcely had he reached his room when the confidential servant appeared, and asked for the deeds and account-books, which had hitherto been kept in Anton's room. Silently the latter made them over to the affrighted domestic.

He was dismissed, then—rudely and summarily dismissed; his uprightness questioned: this breach was final. It was a bitter hour. Even now, while indignantly pacing up and down, he felt that this insult offered him was a punishment. True, his aim had been pure, and his actions blameless; but the enthusiastic feelings which had led him hither had not availed to establish proper relations between him and the baron—those of employer and employed. It was not the freewill, the rational choice of both, that had brought them together, but the pressure of mysterious circumstances and his own youthful romance. And thus he had claims beyond what his situation gave him, and by these the baron was oppressed and cumbered.

These reflections were interrupted by Lenore's sudden entrance. "My mother wishes to speak to you," she cried. "What will you do, Wohlfart?"

"I must go," said Anton, gravely. "To leave you thus, with your future so uncertain, is what I never could have believed possible. There was but one thing which could have induced me to part from you before I had made over the property into stronger hands. And this one thing is come to pass."

"Go!" cried Lenore, in utmost excitement. "All is crumbling around us; there is no help to be looked for; even you can not save us; go, and free your life from that of our sinking family."

When Anton joined the baroness, he found her lying on the sofa. "Sit down beside me, Mr. Wohlfart," whispered she. "The hour is come in which I must impart what, to spare myself, I have reserved for the hour when we speak most openly to each other—the last hour spent together. The baron's illness has so affected him that he no longer appreciates your faithful help—nay, your presence aggravates his unhappy state. He has so hurt your feelings that reconciliation is become impossible. Even could you forget, we should consider the sacrifice you would be making far too great."

"I purpose leaving the property on an early day," replied Anton.

"I can not," continued the baroness, "atone for my husband's offenses toward you, but I wish to give you an opportunity of revenging yourself in a manner worthy of you. The baron has attacked your honor; the revenge that I, his wife, offer you, is to assist him to retrieve his own."

Hitherto the baroness had spoken fluently, as was her wont in society; now she stopped, and seemed to lack words.

"Years ago," she said, "he pledged his word of honor, and—and broke it in a moment of desperation. The proof of this is probably in the hands of some low man, who will use this knowledge to ruin him. That I should communicate this to you at a time like this will show you the light in which I regard your connection with our house. If it be possible to restore his peace of mind, you, I know, will do it." She drew a letter from under the pillow, and placed it in Anton's hand.

Anton took it to the window, and saw with surprise that it was in Ehrenthal's handwriting. He had to read it twice before he could master its contents. In a lucid interval the imbecile had happened to recall his former dealings with the nobleman, and wrote to remind him of the stolen notes of hand, to demand his money, and to threaten the baron. The letter was full, besides, of laments over his own weakness, and the wickedness of others; and what its confusion left unexplained was cleared up by the copy of a note of hand—probably from the draught of one agreed upon by the baron and Ehrenthal, for the letter mentioned the existence of the original, and threatened to use it against the baron.

Folding up the letter, Anton said, "The threats which Ehrenthal connects with the copy inclosed need not disturb you, baroness, for the note of hand seems to have no signature, and the sum which it represents is a small one."

"And do you believe that it is a true statement?" asked the baroness.

"I do," was the reply. "This letter explains to me much that hitherto I never could understand."

"I know that it is true," whispered the baroness, in so low a voice that Anton scarcely heard it, while a faint blush overspread her face. "And you, Mr. Wohlfart, will you endeavor to get back the stolen papers for us?"

"I will," replied Anton, earnestly. "But my hopes are small. The baron has no existing claim upon these missing documents. They belong to Ehrenthal, and an understanding with him is necessary in the first instance. It will be difficult to bring about. And again, I very imperfectly understand the circumstances, and must request you to try and inform me of all you can connected with the robbery."

"I will endeavor to write to you," said the baroness. "You can draw up a list of the questions you wish answered, and I will do so as well as I can. Whatever may be the result of your efforts, I now thank you with all my soul. Our house will never pay the debt it owes you. If the blessing of a dying woman can shed a brightness over your future, take it with you on your way."

Anton rose.

"We shall not meet again," said the invalid; "this is our final leave-taking. Farewell, Wohlfart! this is the last time I shall see you on earth." She held out her hand. He bent over it, and, deeply moved, quitted the room.

Yes, she deserved to be called a noble lady. Her nature was noble, her insight into the character of others clear, and her mode of recompensing Anton's zeal dignified—very dignified. In her eyes, at least, he had always worn a powdered wig and silver knee-buckles.

In the evening Fink's step was heard in the corridor, and, entering Anton's room, he cried, "Halloo, Anton, what's up now? John slinks about as if he had broken the great china vase; and when old Barbette saw me, she began to wring her hands."

"I must leave this house, my friend," returned Anton, gloomily. "I have had a painful scene with the baron to-day." He then proceeded to relate it, and concluded by saying, "The position of this family was never so desperate as now. They need the command of twenty thousand dollars to avert new misfortunes."

Fink threw himself into a chair. "First of all," said he, "I hope you availed yourself as little as possible of this fine opportunity of being angry. We won't waste words over the scene; the baron is not accountable; and between ourselves, I am not surprised. I have seen all summer that you could not retain your romantic connection with this family. On the other hand, it is plain that you are indispensable as father-confessor to the ladies, and confidential man of business to all the people around. And I need not tell you that your sudden departure cuts up many a plan of mine. But now for the question, What will you do?"

"I shall return as soon as possible to our own capital," replied Anton. "There I shall be engaged for some time in the interest of the Rothsattels. My official relations to them cease from this very day, and as soon as the baron's family estate is sold, I shall consider my moral obligations to them canceled."

"Good!" said Fink; "that's all right. If you ever set pen to paper again on their behalf, it can only be from a sense of compassion. Another point is that Rothsattel has brought a curse upon himself by his folly, for without you things can't go on as they do for another month. Now, then, Master Anton, comes the question, What will be done here?"

"I have thought of that the whole day," returned Anton, "and I do not know. There is only one possible plan, and that is, that you should undertake that part of my office which Karl can not fill."

"Thank you," said Fink, "both for your good opinion and your friendly offer. You have been, excuse me, a good-natured fool. I am not of that stamp. In a week's time I should be under the unpleasant necessity of maltreating the baron. Have you no other plan to propose?"

"None," cried Anton. "If you do not with all your heart and soul undertake the management of the property, all that we have effected during the last year will be undone, and our German colony will go to ruin."

"It will," said Fink.

"And you, Fritz," continued Anton, "have, through your intimacy with me, become involved in its fate, and are thus in danger of losing too."

"Spoken like a book!" said Fink. "You run off and leave me here tied and bound. I'll tell you what—wait for me here; I will first of all speak a few words to Lenore."

"What are you going to do?" cried Anton, holding him fast.

"Not to make love," replied Fink, laughing. "You may rely upon that, my boy!" He rang the bell, and requested an interview with Fraeulein Lenore in the drawing-room.

When Lenore entered with eyes red from weeping, and only maintaining her composure by a strong effort, he politely advanced and led her to the sofa.

"I abstain from commenting upon what has passed to-day," began he. "We will assume that my friend's presence in the capital will be more desirable for your family interests than his stay here. From all I hear, this is really the case. Wohlfart leaves the day after to-morrow."

Lenore hid her face in her hands.

Fink coldly continued: "Meanwhile, my own interests require that I should attend to them. I have spent several months here, and acquired a share in this estate. For this reason, I request you to be the bearer of a message from me to your father: I am prepared to purchase this estate from the baron."

Lenore started and rose up, wringing her hands, and exclaiming, "For the second time!"

"Be kind enough quietly to hear me," continued Fink. "I by no means intend to play toward the baron the part of angel of deliverance. I have less of the angelic nature about me than our patient Anton, and feel in no way inclined to make any offer to your father that will not advance my own interest. Let us look upon each other as opponents, and my proposal, as it really is, prompted by self-love. My offer, then, is as follows: The price of this estate, if reckoned at a sum that would secure the baron from loss, would amount to more than a hundred and sixty thousand dollars. I offer him the outside of what I consider its present worth—that is, I will accept all its liabilities, and pay the baron twenty thousand dollars in the course of twenty-four hours. Till next Easter, I should wish to leave the castle in your hands, and to remain here as your guest, if this could be arranged without inconvenience. In point of fact, I should generally be absent, and in no way burdensome to you."

Lenore looked wistfully in his face, which was at this moment hard as that of a genuine Yankee; the remnant of her composure gave way, and she burst into tears.

Fink quietly leaned back in his chair, and, without heeding her, continued: "You see I offer you a loss, probably that of half of your inheritance. The baron has been so precipitate in investing his capital in this property that his family must needs suffer, for the market-price of it, in its present state, would assuredly not exceed my offer. I should be acting dishonorably if I disguised from you that, properly cultivated, it would probably be worth twice as much in a few years' time, but not, I am firmly convinced, under the baron's management. Had Anton remained, it might have been possible, but that hope is over. I will not conceal from you either that Wohlfart has even proposed to me to occupy his situation."

Lenore, in the midst of her sobs, here made a deprecating gesture.

"I am glad," continued Fink, "that we are of the same mind on that subject. I considered the proposal quite out of place, and rejected it at once." He then stopped, and looked searchingly at the girl before him, whose heart was torn by his words. He spoke harshly to her, he for whose smile, whose kindly glance she would have done any thing. He mentioned her father with ill-concealed contempt; his language was that of a hard egotist; and yet his offer seemed a blessing in her helpless condition, and with the second-sight of a loving heart she divined a meaning in it that she did not fully understand, but which shone into her abyss of sorrow like a distant ray of hope. However he might phrase it, this offer proceeded from no ordinary motives; and her convulsive sobs giving way to quiet tears, she tried to rise from the sofa, but sank to the floor near his chair, the very picture of sorrowful submission. "You do not deceive me," murmured she; "do with us what you will."

A proud smile passed over Fink's face as he bent over her, wound his arm round her head, pressed a kiss on her hair, and said, "My comrade, I will that you should be free." Lenore's head fell on his breast; she wept, softly supported by his arm; at last taking her hand, he pressed it tenderly. "Henceforth let us understand each other. You shall be free, Lenore, both as regards me and all others. You are losing one who has shown you the self-sacrificing tenderness of a brother, and I am glad that he is leaving you. I do not yet ask you whether you will share my fate as my wife, for you are not now free to answer as your heart dictates. Your pride shall not say me nay, and your 'yes' shall not lessen your self-respect. When the curse that lies on your house is done away with, and you are free to remain with or leave me, your decision shall be made. Till then, an honorable friendship, comrade mine!"

And now Fink went on in another voice: "Let us think of nothing but our property; dry up those tears, which I am not fond of seeing in your blue eyes, and impart the business half of my proposal to your father and mother. If not before, I request an answer by this time to-morrow."

Lenore went to the door, then returned, and silently offered him her hand.

Slowly Fink returned to his friend's room. "Do you remember, Anton," asked he, "what you told me of your patriotism the day of my arrival here?"

"We have often spoken on the subject since then."

"It made an impression on me," continued Fink. "This property shall not fall again under a Bratzky's sceptre. I shall buy it if the baron consents."

Anton started. "And Lenore?"

"She will share her parents' fate; we have just settled that." He then told his friend the offer he had made.

"Now I hope that all will end well," cried Anton. "We shall see."

"What a purgatory for the sinner up stairs! I am glad I don't hear his groans!" said Fink.

The following morning the servant brought each of the friends a letter from the baron's room; the one of apology and thanks to Anton, the other of acceptance to Fink. These they read, and then silently exchanged.

"So the matter is settled," cried Fink, at length. "I have run half over the world, and every where found something to object to; and now I bury myself in this sand-hole, where I must kindle a nightly fire to scare the Polish wolf. As for you, Anton, raise your head and look before you, for if I have found a home, you are going to where the best part of your heart is; and so, my boy, let's go over your instructions once more. Your first commission is to find certain stolen papers. Think, too, of the second. Do what you can to secure to the family the little they have saved in this quarter, and see that their old estate, when sold by auction, is bid up to a price that will cover all mortgages. You must go, I see, and I do not ask you to remain at present, but you know that, under all circumstances, my home is yours. And now, one thing more. I should be sorry to lose the bailiff; employ your eloquence to induce your trusty Sancho to remain here, at least over the winter."

"No one knows as yet that I am leaving," replied Anton; "he must be the first to hear it. I am going to him."

The dirty dwelling which Mr. Bratzky once occupied had changed, under Karl's management, to a comfortable abode, which had only one drawback, that of being too full of useful things, and smelling strongly of glue. Often and often Anton had sat in it to rest and refresh himself by Karl's cheery ways, and as he glanced at each familiar object, his heart sank at the prospect of leaving his faithful, unexacting ally. Leaning against the joiner's table in the window, he said, "Put your accounts by, Karl, and let us have a serious word or two."

"Now for it," cried Karl; "something has been brewing for a long while, and I see by your face that the crisis is come."

"I am going away, my friend."

Karl let his pen fall, and silently stared at the grave face opposite him.

"Fink undertakes the management of the property, which he has just bought."

"Hurrah!" cried Karl; "if Herr von Fink be the man, why, all's right! I give you joy, with all my heart," said he, shaking Anton's hand, "that things have turned out thus. In the spring I had other foolish notions. But it's all regular and right now, and our farming is safe too."

"I hope so," said Anton, smiling.

"But you?" continued Karl, his face growing suddenly grave.

"I go back to our capital, where I have some business to do for the baron, and then I shall look out for a stool in an office."

"And here we have worked together for a year," said Karl, sadly; "you have had all the pains, and another will have the profits."

"I go back to my proper place. But it is of your future, not mine, dear Karl, that I am now come to speak."

"Of course, I go back with you," cried Karl.

"I come to implore you not to do so. Could we set up together, we would never part; but I am not in a position for this. I must seek another situation. Part of the little I possessed is gone; I leave no richer than I came; so we should have to separate when we got home."

Karl looked down and meditated. "Mr. Anton," said he, "I hardly dare to speak of what I do not understand. You have often told me that my old governor is an owl who sits on money-bags. How would it do," stammered he, in embarrassment, working away at the chair with one of his tools, "that if what is in the iron chest be not too little for you, you should take it; and if any thing can be made of it—it is very presumptuous of me—perhaps I might be useful to you as a partner. It is only an idea, and you must not be offended."

Anton, much moved, replied: "Look you, Karl, your offer is just like your generous self, but I should do wrong to accept it. The money is your father's; and even if he gave his consent, as I believe he would, such a plan would involve great risk. At all events, his substance would be better invested in your own calling than in one you might enter into out of love for me; so it is better for you, my friend, that we part."

Karl snatched his pocket-handkerchief, and blew his nose violently before he asked, "And you won't make use of the money? You would be sure to give us good interest?"

"Impossible," replied Anton.

"Then I'll go back to my father, and hide my head in some hayloft about home," cried Karl, in high dudgeon.

"That you must not do," said Anton. "You have become better acquainted with the property than any other; it were a sin to throw that knowledge away. Fink wants a man like you; the farm can not possibly spare you till next summer. When we came here, it was not to benefit ourselves, but to improve the land. My work is over; you are in the midst of yours, and you will sin against yourself and your task if you forsake it now."

Karl hung his head.

"One thing that used to distress me was the meagre salary that the estate could afford you; that will be changed now."

"Don't let us speak of that," said Karl, proudly.

"We ought to speak of it," returned Anton, "for a man does wrong when he devotes the best gifts he has to an occupation that does not adequately repay him. 'Tis an unnatural life; and good results can scarcely be expected, take my word for that. I therefore beg you to remain, at least till next summer, when, owing to the extended scale of farming operations, an experienced inspector may occupy your post."

"Then," said Karl, "may I go?"

"Fink would always like to keep you; but should you leave him, remember, Karl, our frequent conversations during the past year. You have become accustomed to a life among strangers, and have all a colonist's claims to a new soil. If higher duties do not urge you home, your place is to remain here as one of us. If you leave this estate, buy land from the Poles. You, with the plowshare in your hand, will be still a German soldier, for the boundary of our tongue and our customs is gaining upon our enemies." So saying, he pointed to the east.

Karl reached out his hand, and said, "I remain."

When Anton left the bailiff he found Lenore at the door. "I am waiting for you," cried she; "come with me, Wohlfart; while you remain here, you belong to me."

"If your words were less friendly," replied Anton, "I might fancy that you were secretly glad to get rid of me, for I have not seen you so cheerful for a long time. Head erect, rosy cheeks; even the black dress has vanished."

"This is the dress I wore when we drove together in the sledge, and you admired it then. I am vain," cried she, with a mournful smile. "I wish that the impression you carry away with you of me should be a pleasant one. Anton, friend of my youth, what a mystery it is that, on the very first day free from care that I have known for years, we must part. The estate is sold, and I breathe again. What a life it has been of late years! always anxious, oppressed, humbled by friend and foe; always in debt, either for money or services: it was fearful. Not as far as you were concerned, Wohlfart. You are my childhood's friend; and if you were in trouble of any kind, it would be happiness to me if you would call me, and say, 'Now I want you; now come to me, wild Lenore.' I will be wild no longer. I will think of all you have said to me." Thus she ran on in her excitement, her eyes beaming. She hung on his arm, which she had never done before, and drew him in and out of every building in the farm-yard. "Come, Wohlfart, let us take a last walk through the farm which was once ours. We bought this cow with the white star together," cried she; "you asked for my opinion of her, and that pleased me much."

Anton nodded. "We neither of us were very sure about it, and Karl had to decide."

"What do you mean? You paid for her, and I gave her her first hay, consequently she belongs to us both. Just look at this lovely black calf. Mr. Sturm threatens to paint its ears red, that it may look a perfect little demon." She knelt down beside it, stroked and hugged it, then suddenly starting up, she cried, "I don't know why I should make so much of it; it is mine no longer; it belongs to somebody else." Yet there was mirth in her tone of pretended regret. "Come to the pony now," she said; "my poor little fellow! He has grown old since the day when I rode after you through our garden."

Anton caressed the favorite, who turned his head now to him, now to Lenore.

"Do you know how it happened that I met you on the pony?" said Lenore to Anton over its back. "It was no accident. I had seen you sitting under the shrubs. I can tell you so to-day; and I had thought, 'Heavens! what a handsome youth! I will have a good look at him.' And that's how it happened as it did."

"Yes," said Anton; "then came the strawberries, then the lake. I stood there and swallowed the strawberries, and was rather inclined to tears; but through it all my heart was full of delight in you, who rose before me so fair and majestic. I see you still in fluttering muslin garments, with short sleeves, a golden bracelet on your white arm."

"Where is the bracelet gone?" asked Lenore, gravely, leaning her head on the pony's mane. "You sold it, you naughty Wohlfart!" The tears stood in her eyes, and she stretched out both hands to him over the pony's back. "Anton, we could not remain children. My heart's friend, farewell! Adieu, girlish dreams! adieu, bright spring-time! I must now learn to go through the world without my guardian. I will not disgrace you," she continued, more calmly. "I will always be steady, and a good housekeeper. And I will be economical. I will keep the book with three long lines down its sides once more, and put every thing down. We shall need to be saving even in trifles, Wohlfart. Alas! poor mother!" And she wrung her hands, and looked sad again.

"Come out into the country," suggested Anton; "if you like it, let us go into the woods."

"Not to the woods, not to the forester's," said Lenore, solemnly, "but to the new farm; I will go with you."

They walked across the fields. "You must lead me to-day," said Lenore. "I will not give you up."

"Lenore, you will make our parting very painful to me."

"Will it be painful to you?" cried Lenore, much pleased. Then immediately afterward, shaking her head, "No, Wohlfart, not so; you have often longed in secret to be far away from me."

Anton looked at her with surprise.

"I know," cried she, confidentially pressing his arm, "I know it very well. Even when you were with me your heart was not always with me too. Often it was, that day in the sledge, for instance; but oftener you were thinking of others, when you got certain letters, that you always read in the greatest hurry. What was the gentleman's name?" asked she.

"Baumann," innocently replied Anton.

"Caught!" cried Lenore, again pressing his arm. "Do you know that that made me very unhappy for a long time? I was a foolish child. We are grown wise, Wohlfart; we are free people now, and therefore we can go about arm in arm. Oh, you dear friend!"

Arrived at the farm, Lenore said to the farmer's wife, "He is leaving us. He has told me that his first pleasure here was the nosegay that you gathered for him. I have no flowers myself; they don't flourish with me. The only garden on the estate is here, behind your house."

The good woman tied up a small nosegay, gave it to Anton with a courtesy, and sadly said, "It is just the same as a year ago."

"But he is going," cried Lenore, and, turning away, her tears began to flow.

Anton now shook hands heartily with the farmer and the shepherd: "Think kindly of me, worthy friends."

"We have always had kindness from you," cried the farmer's wife.

"And fodder for man and beast," said the shepherd, taking off his hat; "and, above all, consideration and order."

"Your future is secured," said Anton; "you will have a master who has more in his power than I had." Finally, Anton kissed the farmer's curly-headed boy, and gave him a keepsake. The boy clung to his coat, and would not let him go.

On their return, Anton said, "What makes our parting easier to me is the future fate of the property. And I have a prevision that all that still seems uncertain in your life will be happily settled ere long."

Lenore walked in silence by his side; at length she asked, "May I speak to you of the present owner of this estate? I should like to know how you became his friend."

"By not putting up with a wrong he did me. Our intimacy has remained unshaken, because, while I willingly gave way to him in trifles, I always abode by my own convictions in graver matters. He has a high respect for strength and independence, and might easily become tyrannical if he encountered weakness of judgment and will."

"How can a woman be firm and self-reliant with such a one as he?" said Lenore, cast down.

"No doubt," replied Anton, thoughtfully, "this must be much more difficult for a woman who passionately loves him. Every thing that looks like temper or self-will he will rudely break down, and will not spare the conquered; but if opposed by a worthy and modest nature, he will respect it. And if I were ever called upon to give his future wife a counsel, it would be this, that she should carefully guard against whatever might pass for bold or free in woman. The very thing that might make a stranger agreeable, because easily establishing a familiar footing between them, is just what he would least esteem in her."

Lenore clung closer to Anton as he spoke, and bent her head. They returned in silence to the castle.

In the afternoon Anton went once more over the estate with Karl for companion. Hitherto he had always felt that he was living in a strange land; now, when about to leave it, this seemed a home. Wherever he looked, he saw objects that had for a whole year engaged his attention. He had bought the wheat with which this field was sown; he had ordered the plow with which that servant was plowing; here he had roofed-in a barn; there he had improved a ruinous bridge. Like all who enter upon a new field of labor, he had had numberless plans, hopes, projects; and now that he was suddenly called upon to relinquish these, he first discovered how dear they had been. He next spent an hour in the forester's house. As they parted, the latter said, "When you first laid hand on this door, I little thought that the trees around us would stand so safe, and that I should ever live again among my fellow-men. You have made dying difficult to an old man, Mr. Wohlfart."

The parting hour came. Anton took a short and formal leave of the baron; Lenore was quite absorbed in sorrow, and Fink affectionate as a brother. As Anton stood by him, and looked with emotion at Lenore, he said, "Be at ease, my friend; here, at least, I will try to be what you were." One last hand-clasp, one last farewell, then Anton jumped into the carriage. Karl seized the reins. They drove past the barn into the village road; the castle disappeared. At the end of the wood Karl halted. A troop of men were there assembled—the forester, the farmer, the shepherd, the Kunau smith, with a few of his neighbors, and the son of the Neudorf bailiff.

Anton joyfully sprang down and greeted them once more.

"My father sends me to bid you farewell," said the bailiff's son. "His wounds are healing, but he can not leave his room." And the Kunau smith shouted out as a last farewell, "Greet our countrymen at home for me, and say that they must never forget us!"

Silently, as on the day of his arrival, Anton sat by the side of his faithful Karl. He was free—free from the spell that had lured him hither—free from many a prejudice; but while as free, he was as poor as a bird of the air. He had now to begin life over again. Whether the past year had made him stronger or weaker remained to be proved. On the whole, however, he did not regret what he had done. He had had, gains as well as losses; he had helped to found a new German colony; he had opened out the path to a happy future for those he loved; he felt himself more mature, more experienced, more settled; and so he looked beyond the heads of the horses which were carrying him homeward, and said to himself, "Onward! I am free, and my way is now clear."



CHAPTER XXXIX.

It is evening. Sabine stands in her treasure-chamber before the open cupboards, arranging the newly-washed table-linen, and again tying rose-colored tickets on the different sets. Of course, she knew nothing and guessed nothing. Her white damask shines to-day like silver; the cut-glass cover, which she lifts from the old family goblet, rings cheerily as a bell, and the vibrations thrill through the woodwork of the great presses. All the painted heads on the china cups look singularly cheerful to-day. Doctor Martin Luther and the sorcerer Faust positively laugh. Even Goethe smiles, and it is impossible to say how amused old Fritz appears. Yet Sabine, the sagacious mistress of the house, knows not what these know. Or does she guess it? Hark! she sings. A merry tune has not passed her lips for long; but to-day her heart is light, and as she looks at the shining display of glass and damask, something of their brightness seems to fall upon her, and, low as the notes of the wood-bird, a song of her childhood sounds through the little room. And from the cupboard she suddenly moves to the window, where her mother's picture hangs over the arm-chair, and she looks cheerfully at the picture, and sings before her mother's face the self-same song that once, from that very arm-chair, that mother sang to the little Sabine.

At that moment a cloaked figure is gliding across the ground floor. Balbus, who is superintending the great scales, stands in the arched room, casts a half glance at the figure, and thinks to himself, with surprise, "That is rather like Anton." The porters are closing a chest, and the eldest, turning round accidentally, sees a shadow thrown by a lantern on the wall, and, leaving off hammering for a moment, says, "I could almost have fancied that was Mr. Wohlfart." And in the yard a vehement barking and leaping is heard, and Pluto runs in frantically to the servants, wags his tail, barks, licks their hands, and, in his own way, tells the whole story. But even the servants know nothing, and one of them says, "It must have been a ghost; I have lost sight of it."

Then the door of Sabine's room opens. "Is it you, Franz?" said she, interrupting her song. No one answered. She turned round, her eyes fixed wistfully upon the figure at the door. Then her hand trembled and clasped the back of the chair, while he hurried toward her, and in passionate emotion, not knowing what he was doing, knelt down near the chair into which she had sunk, and laid his head on her hand. That was Anton. Not a word was spoken. Sabine gazed on the kneeling form as at some beatific vision, and gently laid her other hand on his shoulder.

She does not ask why he is come, nor whether he is free from the glamour that led him away. As he kneels before her, and she looks into his eyes, that tenderly and anxiously seek hers, she understands that he is returning to the firm, to her brother, to her.

"How long you have been away!" said she, reproachfully, but with a blissful smile upon her face.

"Ever have I been here!" said Anton, passionately. "Even in the hour when I left these walls I knew that I was giving up all of joy—all of happiness that I could hope to know; and now I am irresistibly impelled to come and tell you how it is with me. I worshiped you as a holy image while living near you. The thought of you has been my safety when far away. It has protected me in solitude, in an irregular life, in great temptation. Your form has ever risen protectingly between me and that of another. Often have I seen your eyes fixed upon me as of yore—often have you raised your hand to warn me of the danger I was in. If I have not lost myself, Sabine, I owe it to you."

And again he bent over her hand. Sabine held him fast and whispered, "My friend! my dear friend! we must both feel that we have dreamed and struggled—that we have resolved and overcome. What must you not have suffered, my friend!"

"No," cried Anton, "it was not the same suffering nor the same strength. I saw and reverenced you at the time when you were silently conquering yourself. I was a weak, willful man. I do not know what would have become of me had not your memory lived in my soul. When far away, the influence you exerted over me went on increasing, and only because I thought of you became I free."

"And how do you know that it may not have been the same in my case?" asked Sabine, looking lovingly at him.

"Sabine!" cried Anton, beside himself.

"Yes, that is your own noble face," cried she. "Alas! in your features, too, I can read the traces of an iron time." She rose. "We have heard of your heroic deeds, though you sent us nothing during the whole long year but a short message."

"Could I venture to do more?" broke in Anton, eagerly.

Sabine nodded archly. "We have, however, watched for tidings that reached us through your friends. Oh! when I, in the midst of these safe walls, thought of my friend exposed to every assault of the enemy! Wohlfart! Wohlfart! I rejoice that I see you again."

"Another has the property now, and the care of the defenseless family," replied Anton.

"It is the ordering of Providence," cried Sabine; and looked with delight on the newly-returned one.

In the uniform tenor of her domestic life, she had for many years had a cordial liking for Anton. Since he had left her, she had found out that she loved him, and had hidden the feeling in her heart. No trace of her love nor her renunciation had appeared in the regular household. Hardly had she by a look betrayed the struggle going on within. Now, in the rapture of meeting, her feelings broke out. She looked at Anton in beaming delight, thinking of nothing but the joy of having him with her again, and not remarking the traces of a different feeling in Anton's pale features. He has found her indeed, but only to lose her again forever.

Still does Sabine hold his hand, and now she leads him through the corridor to her brother's study.

What are you doing, Sabine? This house is a good house, certainly, but not one in which people feel poetically, are easily moved, open their arms at once, and press new-comers to their heart. It is a straightforward, prosaic house, where requests are made and refused in few words; and it is a proud and rigid house besides. Remember this, it is no tender welcome to which you are leading your friend.

This Sabine felt, and delayed a moment before she opened the door; but her resolve was taken, and, holding Anton's hand in hers, she drew him in, crying to her brother with a beaming face, "Here he is; he is returned to us."

The merchant rose from his writing-table, but he remained standing by it; and his first words, coldly and peremptorily spoken, were these: "Release my sister's hand, Mr. Wohlfart."

Sabine drew back. Anton stood alone in the middle of the room, and looked at the principal. His strongly-marked features were aged during the last year, his hair had grown gray, the lines in his face had deepened.

"That I should enter here at the risk of being unwelcome," said Anton, "will show you how strong my desire was to see you and the firm once more. If I have excited your displeasure, do not let me feel it in this hour."

The merchant turned to his sister. "Leave us, Sabine; I wish to speak to Mr. Wohlfart alone." Sabine went up to her brother, and stood erect before him. She said not a word, but with a bright glance, in which a firm resolve was plainly visible, she looked full into his frowning face, and then left the room. The merchant looked gloomily after her, and turned to Anton. "What brings you back to us, Wohlfart?" said he. "Have you failed to attain what your youthful ambition hoped for, and are you come to seek in the tradesman's house the happiness that once seemed inadequate to your claims? I hear that your friend Fink has settled himself on the baron's property; has he sent you back to us because you were in his way there?"

Anton's brow grew clouded. "I do not appear before you as an adventurer," said he; "you are unjust in expressing such a suspicion; nor does it become me to submit to it. There was a time when your judgment of me was more friendly; I thought of that time when I sought you out; I think of it now, that I may forgive your injurious words."

"You once said to me," continued the merchant, "that you felt yourself at home in my house and firm. And you had a home, Wohlfart, in our hearts and in the business. In a moment of effervescence you gave us up, and we, with sorrow, did the same with you. Why do you return? You can not be a stranger to us, for we have been attached to you, and, personally, I am deeply indebted to you. You can no more be our friend, for you have yourself forcibly rent the ties that bound us. You reminded me, just when I least expected it, that a mere business contract alone bound you to my counting-house. What are you seeking now? Do you want a place in my office, or do you, as appears, want much more?"

"I want nothing," cried Anton, in the utmost excitement—"nothing but a reconciliation with you. I want neither a place in your office, nor any thing else. When I left the baron, I felt that my first step must be to your house, my next to seek employment elsewhere. Whatever I may have lost during the past year, I have not lost my self-respect; and had you met me as kindly as I felt toward you, I should have told you in the course of our first hour together what you now demand. I am aware that here I can not stay. I used to feel this when far away, as often as I thought of this house. Since I have entered its walls and seen your sister again, I know that I can not remain here without acting dishonorably."

The merchant went to the window, and silently looked out into the night. When he turned round again the hard expression had left his face, and he looked searchingly at Anton. "That was well spoken, Wohlfart," said he at length, "and I hope sincerely meant. I will be equally open toward you in saying that I still regret that you have left us. I knew you as an older man seldom knows a younger; I could thoroughly trust you. Now, dear Wohlfart, you are become a stranger to me; forgive me what I am about to say. An unregulated imagination allured you into circumstances which could not but be morally unhealthy. You have been the confidant of a bankrupt and a debtor, who may have retained many amiable characteristics, but who must have lost, in his dealings with unprincipled men, what we here in this firm call honor. I gladly assume that your uprightness refused to do any thing contrary to your sense of right; but, Wohlfart, I repeat to you what I have said before: any permanent dealings with the weak and wicked bring the best man into danger. Gradually and imperceptibly his standard becomes lowered, and necessity compels him to agree to measures that elsewhere he would have peremptorily rejected. I am convinced that you are still what the world calls an upright man of business, but I do not know whether you have preserved that proudly pure integrity, which, alas! many in the mercantile world treat as mere pedantry, and to have to tell you this makes your return painful to me."

Anton, white as the handkerchief he held, with trembling lips replied, "Enough, Mr. Schroeter. That you should, in the first hour of meeting, say to me the most bitter thing one could possibly say to an enemy, convinces me that I did wrong to re-enter this house. Yes, you are right. I never, during my year of absence, lost the sense of the danger you speak of. I ever felt it the greatest misfortune to be unable to esteem the man by whom I was employed. But I dare make answer to you, with pride equal to your own, that the purity of the man who carefully shrinks from temptation is worth little; and that, if I have gained any thing from a year of bitterness, it is the consciousness of having been tried, and knowing that I no longer act as a boy, from instinct and habit, but from principle, as a man should. I have gained a confidence in myself that I had not before; and because I know how to respect my own character, I tell you that I perfectly understand your doubt; but that, since you have given it utterance, I look upon all ties between us as by yourself dissolved, and leave you, never to return. Farewell, Mr. Schroeter!"

Anton turned to go, but the merchant hurried after him, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Not so fast, Wohlfart," said he, gently; "the man who saved me from the stroke of the Polish sword must not leave my house in anger."

"Do not recall the past," replied Anton; "it is useless. It is you, not I, who have mixed up injury and indignation with our meeting; you, not I, who have annihilated the power of old recollections."

"Not so, Wohlfart," said the merchant. "If by my words I have offended you more than I intended, make allowance for my gray hairs, and for a heart full of painful anxiety the past year through, and full of anxiety, too, on your account. We do not meet as we parted; and whenever friends have a mutual misgiving, let them openly express it, that they may stand and start clear. Had I valued you less, I should have kept back my thoughts, and my greeting would have been more polite. Now, however, I bid you welcome." And he held out his hand.

Anton took it, and repeated the word "Farewell."

The merchant held his hand firmly, and said, with a smile, "Not so fast; I can not let you go just yet. Remember that it is your oldest acquaintance who now entreats you to remain."

"I will remain, then, this evening, Mr. Schroeter," said Anton, coldly.

The merchant led him to the sofa, and began to communicate the present state of the firm. It was no cheerful picture that he drew, but it proved his entire confidence, and helped to allay the sting of his harsh reception.

Gradually Anton became absorbed in the business details, eagerly went over calculations, and unconsciously began to speak of the business as though he still belonged to it. Once more the merchant held out his hand with a melancholy smile. Anton now grasped it cordially, and the reconciliation was complete.

"And now, dear Wohlfart," said Mr. Schroeter, "let us speak of yourself. You once confided to me some particulars connected with your exertions in the baron's cause, and I impatiently cut you short; I now entreat you to tell me all you can."

Anton accordingly proceeded to mention all matters that admitted of being publicly talked of, and the merchant listened with the utmost attention.

"And now," said he, rising from his seat, "allow me to touch upon your future. After what you have said, I will not ask you to spend the next few years with me, welcome as your help would prove just now, but I beg that you will leave it to me to look out for a fitting post for you. We will not be in too great a hurry about it. Meanwhile, spend the few next weeks with us. Your room is empty, and just as you left it. I find, from what you tell me, that you have occupation cut out for you for some months to come. If, in addition to this, you are inclined to help me in the counting-house, your help will be very welcome. As for your relations with my family," he gravely continued, "I fully trust you. It is a positive necessity to me to prove this, and hence my present proposal."

Anton looked down in silence.

"I am not imposing on you any painful ordeal," said the merchant; "you know the habits of our household, and how little opportunity there is of much conversation. For Sabine, as well as for yourself, I wish a few weeks of your olden way of life, and when the time comes, a calm parting. I wish this on my sister's account, Wohlfart," added he, candidly.

"Then," said Anton, "I remain."

Meanwhile Sabine was restlessly pacing up and down the drawing-room, and trying to catch a sound from her brother's study. Sometimes, indeed, a sad thought would intrude, but it did not find a resting-place to-day. Again the fire crackled and the pendulum swung; but the fir-logs burned right merrily, throwing out small feux de joie through the stove door, and the clock kept constantly ticking to her ear, "He is come! he is there!"

The door opened and the cousin came bustling in. "What do I hear?" cried she. "Is it possible? Franz will have it that Wohlfart is with your brother."

"He is," said Sabine, with averted face.

"What new mystery is this?" continued the cousin, in a tone of discontent. "Why does not Traugott bring him here? and why is not his room got ready? How can you stand there so quietly, Sabine? I declare I don't understand you."

"I am waiting," whispered Sabine, pressing her wrists firmly, for her hands trembled.

At that moment footsteps were heard nearing the room; the merchant cried out at the door, "Here is our guest." And while Anton and the cousin were exchanging friendly greetings, he went on to say, "Mr. Wohlfart will spend a few weeks with us, till he has found such a situation as I should wish for him." The cousin heard this announcement with intense surprise, and Sabine shifted the cups and saucers to conceal her emotion; but neither made any remark, and the lively conversation carried on at the tea-table served to disguise the agitation which all shared. Each had many questions to hear and answer, for it had been a year rich in events. It is true that a certain constraint was visible in Anton's manner while speaking of his foreign life, of Fink and the German colony on the Polish estate, and that Sabine listened with drooping head. But the merchant got more and more animated; and when Anton rose to retire, the face of the former wore its good-humored smile of old, and heartily shaking his guest's hand, he said in jest, "Sleep well, and be sure to notice your first dream; they say it is sure to come to pass."

And when Anton was gone, the merchant drew his sister into the unlighted ante-room, kissed her brow, and whispered in her ear, "He has remained uncorrupted, I hope so now with all my soul;" and when they both returned to the lamp-light, his eyes were moist, and he began to rally the cousin upon her secret partiality for Wohlfart, till the good lady clasped her hands and exclaimed, "The man is fairly demented to-day!"

Weary and exhausted, Anton threw himself upon his bed. The future appeared to him joyless, and he dreaded the inner conflict of the next few weeks; and yet he soon sank into a peaceful slumber. And again there was silence in the house. A plain old house it was, with many angles, and secret holes and corners—no place, in truth, for glowing enthusiasm and consuming passion; but it was a good old house for all that, and it lent a safe shelter to those who slept within its walls.



CHAPTER XL.

The next morning Anton hurried to Ehrenthal's. The invalid was not to be spoken to on business, and the ladies gave him so ungracious a reception that he thought it unwise to afford them any inkling of the reason of his visit. That very day he had notice given to Ehrenthal's attorney, by Councilor Horn, of twenty thousand dollars being ready in hand for the discharge of Ehrenthal's claims to that amount. As for his other demands, unsupported as they were by documentary evidence, they were to be referred to proper legal authorities. The attorney refused to accept the payment offered. Anton accordingly took the necessary steps to compel Ehrenthal at once to accept it, and to forego all claims that he had hitherto urged in connection therewith.

It was evening when Anton drew on an old office coat, and with his quickest business step proceeded to the house of Loebel Pinkus. He looked through the window into the little bar, and, seeing the worthy Pinkus there, put a short matter of fact inquiry to him: "Mr. T. O. Schroeter wishes to be informed if Schmeie Tinkeles of Brody has arrived, or is expected here. He is immediately to proceed to the firm on business."

Pinkus returned a cautious answer. Tinkeles was not there, and he did not know when he might come. Tinkeles often announced himself, and often he did not. The thing was uncertain. However, if he saw the man, he would give the message.

The next day the servant opened Anton's door, and Schmeie Tinkeles stepped in. "Welcome, Tinkeles!" cried Anton, looking at him with a smile.

The trader was astonished to see Anton. A shadow passed over his sly face, and a secret disquietude was traceable through all his voluble expression of joy. "God's miracle it surely is that I should see you again before me in the body. I have often inquired at Schroeter's house, and have never been able to find out whither you were gone. I have always liked to deal with you; we have made many an excellent purchase together.

"We have had our quarrels too, Tinkeles," suggested Anton.

"That was a bad business," said Tinkeles, deprecatingly. "Now, too, there is a sad look out for trade; the grass grows in the streets; the country has had a heavy time of it. The best man did not know, when he went to sleep at night, whether he should have a leg to stand on in the morning."

"You have got through it, however, Tinkeles, and I presume you have not found it so bad, after all. Sit down; I have something to say to you."

"Why should I sit down?" said the Jew, distrustfully, as Anton shut and bolted the door. "In business one has no time for sitting down; and why do you bolt the door? Bolts are not wanted; business disturbs no one."

"I have something to say to you in confidence," said Anton to the trader. "It will do you no harm."

"Speak on, then, but leave the door open."

"Listen to me," began Anton. "You remember our last conversation when we met upon our travels?"

"I remember nothing," said the broker, shaking his head, and anxiously looking at the door.

"You gave me some good advice; and when I tried to hear further, I found you had vanished."

"These are old stories," replied Tinkeles, with growing disquiet. "I can't recall them now. I have something to do in the market; I thought you wanted to speak to me on business."

"It is business about which we are treating, and it may be a profitable business for you," said Anton, significantly. He went to his writing-table, and, taking out a roll of money, laid it on the table before Tinkeles. "This hundred dollars belongs to you if you give me the information I want."

Tinkeles slyly glanced at the roll and replied, "A hundred dollars are all very well, but I can't give you any information. I know nothing; I can not remember. Whenever I see you," he irritably went on, "bad luck follows; whenever I have had any thing to do with you, it has brought me trouble and vexation."

Anton silently went to his desk and laid another roll of money by the first. "Two hundred dollars! They are yours if you give me the information I need," said he, drawing a square around them with a piece of white chalk.

The Galician's eyes fastened greedily upon the square, to which Anton kept silently pointing. Tinkeles at first pretended indifference, but his eyes grew gradually keener, his gestures more restless. He shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and tried hard to shake off the spell that bound him. At length he could bear it no longer; he reached out his hands for the money.

"Speak first," said Anton, placing his own hand on it.

"Do not be too severe with me," implored Tinkeles.

"Hear me," said Anton. "I want nothing unfair—nothing which an honorable man need object to. I might perhaps expose you to a legal examination, and get at what I want without cost, but I know of old your objections to law, and therefore I offer you money. If you were amenable to other motives, it would be enough to tell you that a family has been made unhappy because you did not tell me more long ago. But this would be useless with you."

"Yes," said Tinkeles, candidly, "it would be useless. Let me see the money that you have put up for me. Are there really two hundred dollars?" continued he, looking greedily at the rolls. "Very well, I know they are right. Ask me what you want to know."

"You have told me that Itzig, Ehrenthal's former book-keeper, was plotting to ruin Baron Rothsattel?"

"Has it not turned out as I said?" asked Tinkeles.

"I have reason to assume that you spoke the truth. You mentioned two men. Who was the other?"

The trader stopped short. Anton made a feint of removing the money.

"Let it lie there," entreated Tinkeles. "The other is named Hippus, according to what I have heard. He is an old man, and has lived a long time with Loebel Pinkus."

"Is he in business?"

"He is not of our people, and not in business. He is baptized. He has been a barrister."

"Have you ever had any dealings with Itzig?"

"God preserve me from that man!" cried Tinkeles; "the very first day that he came to town he tried to open the cupboard in which my effects were. I had trouble to prevent him from stealing my clothes. I have nothing to do with such men."

"So much the better for you," replied Anton; "now hear me out. The baron has had a casket stolen, in which most important documents were kept. The robbery took place in Ehrenthal's office. Have you chanced to hear of it? or have you any suspicion as to who the thief may be?"

The Galician looked restlessly around the room, at Anton, at the money, and then, with closed eyes and a resolute tone, replied, "I have not."

"This, however, is just what I want to hear; and the money is for him who gives me information respecting it."

"If I must speak, then," said the Galician, "I must. I have heard that the man named Hippus, when drunk, has screamed, and has said, 'Now, then, we have the red cock; he is done for; owing to those papers, he is doomed.'"

"And you know nothing more?" asked Anton, in painful suspense.

"Nothing," said the Galician; "it was long ago, and I understood but little of what they said to each other."

"You have not earned the money," returned Anton, after a pause; "you have told me scarce any thing. However, that you may see the stress I lay upon obtaining information from you, take this hundred dollars; the second will be given when you can put me on the track of the thief or the lost papers. Perhaps that is not out of your power?"

"It is," said the Galician, positively, weighing the one roll in his hand, and contemplating the other. "What Itzig does, he does so as not to be overlooked; and I am a stranger in the place, and have no dealings with rogues."

"See what you can do, however," replied Anton. "As soon as you hear any thing, bring me word, and this money is yours. I need not caution you to avoid exciting Itzig's suspicions. Do not let it appear that you know me."

"I am no child," answered Tinkeles; "but I fear that I shall not be of use to you in this matter."

With that he withdrew, having hid the money in the folds of his caftan.

Anton had now heard the name of the man who had probably committed the robbery. But the difficulty of obtaining the missing documents without legal aid seemed greater than ever. Meanwhile, he would risk a bold step. He would enter into negotiations with Itzig himself, and make the best use he could of the small amount of knowledge he had gained from the Galician.

Itzig's shrewd boy opened the door to him. Anton stood opposite his former schoolfellow, who knew of his return from the baron's estate, and was prepared for this visit. The two men looked at each other for a moment, both seeking to read the countenance and manner of the other, and to arm themselves for the coming conflict. There were some things that they had in common. Both were accustomed to maintain a calm exterior, and to conceal the point at which they were aiming. Both were accustomed to rapid induction, careful speech, and cool reserve. Both had, in voice and manner, something of the formality which business gives. Both were to-day in a state of excitement, which reddened Anton's face, and even suffused Veitel's gaunt cheek-bones.

But the clear glance of the former encountered one that was unsteady and lowering; the honest earnestness of his manner was met by a mixture of presumption and obsequiousness. Each felt that his opponent was dangerous, and gathered his full strength. The conflict began. Itzig opened it in his own way. "It is a pleasure to me to see you again, Mr. Wohlfart," said he, with sudden friendliness of manner; "it is long since I have been fortunate enough to meet you. I have always taken a great interest in you; we were schoolfellows; we both came to town the same day; we have both got on in the world. I heard you were gone to America. People will talk. I hope you will remain in town now. Perhaps you will return to Mr. Schroeter's office; they say he much regretted your departure." In this way he ran on, really intent to discover from Anton's aspect the purport of his call.

He had made an error in pretending not to know where Anton had been of late, for his avoidance of the name of Rothsattel firmly convinced Anton that he had cause for peculiar circumspection regarding it.

Availing himself of this mistake of Veitel's, Anton replied as coldly as though he had not heard a word of the former's introductory flourish, "I am come, Mr. Itzig, to consult you on a matter of business. You are acquainted with the circumstances connected with the family property of Baron Rothsattel, now about to be judicially sold."

"I have the sort of general information respecting it," replied Veitel, throwing himself back resolutely against the corner of the sofa, "that people have on such subjects. I have heard a good deal about it."

"You have yourself for many years, in Ehrenthal's office, conducted transactions with the baron relative to his estate, and therefore you must have exact information on the subject," returned Anton. "And as Ehrenthal is too great an invalid to enter upon business topics, I now apply to you for this information."

"What I heard in Ehrenthal's office when book-keeper there, I heard in confidence, and can not impart. I am surprised that you should ask me to do so," added Itzig, with a malicious glance.

Anton coldly replied, "I ask nothing that need interfere with the sense of duty you profess. I am simply anxious to know in whose hands the mortgages on the estate now are."

"You can easily ascertain that by reference to the mortgage-book," said Veitel, with well-assumed indifference.

"You may perhaps have heard," continued the persevering Anton, "that some of the mortgages have changed hands during the last few months, and, consequently, the present possessors are not entered in the book. It is to be presumed that the deeds have been bought to facilitate or to impede a purchase at the approaching sale."

Hitherto the conversation had been a commonplace preamble to a serious contest, something like the first moves in a game at chess or the beginning of a race. Itzig's impatience now made a decided advance.

"Have you a commission to buy the estate?" he suddenly inquired.

"We will assume that I have," replied Anton, "and that I wish your co-operation. Are you in a position to give me information without loss of time, and will you undertake the measures rendered necessary by the sale of the mortgages?"

Itzig took time to consider. It was possible that Anton's only purpose was to secure the property to his friend Fink, or to the baron himself. In this case he was in danger of losing the fruit of his long scheming and bold deeds. If Fink, by his wealth, covered the baron, Itzig lost the estate. While thus perplexed, he remarked that Anton was watching him, and decided, with the subtlety of a bad conscience, that Anton had heard of his plans, and had some ulterior purpose. Possibly this commission to buy was but a feint. Accordingly, he hastened to promise his co-operation, and to express the hope that he might succeed, at the right time, in discovering the present possessor of the mortgages.

Anton saw that the rogue understood him, and was on his guard. Changing his mode of attack, he suddenly asked, "Do you know a certain Hippus?" and keenly observed the effect of the query.

For a moment Itzig's eyelids quivered, and a slight flush suffused his face. As if he was trying to recollect the name, he tardily replied, "Yes, I know him. He is a decayed, useless creature."

Anton saw that he had struck home. "Perhaps you recollect that, about a year and a half ago, a casket belonging to the baron, and containing deeds and papers of great importance to him, was stolen from Ehrenthal's office."

Itzig sat still, but his eyes glanced restlessly to and fro. No stranger would have observed that symptom of a bad conscience, but Anton remembered it in the boy Veitel, when accused at school of some petty theft. Itzig, he saw, knew all about the papers and the robbery.

At length, the agent replied in a tone of indifference, "I have heard of this; it occurred a short time before I left Ehrenthal's."

"Very well," continued Anton; "these papers could have no value for the thief himself. But there is reason to believe that they have found their way into the hands of a third person."

"That is not impossible, but I should hardly think it likely any one would keep up worthless papers so long."

"I know that these papers are extant—nay, I know that they are being used to the baron's prejudice."

Itzig writhed upon his seat. "Why do you speak to me upon these subjects?" said he, hoarsely.

"You will soon discover my drift," said Anton. "I know, as I before said, that the papers are still extant, and I have reason to believe that you may discover their possessor. You can gain any information you may still want respecting them from Hippus."

"Why from him?"

"He has, in the presence of witnesses, made use of expressions that plainly prove him to be acquainted with their purport."

Itzig ground his teeth, and muttered something very like the words "Drunken rascal."

Anton continued: "The casket and papers are the baron's property; and as he is less intent upon the prosecution of the thief than on the restoration of the papers, he is prepared to pay a large sum to any one who procures them."

"If," said Itzig, "the baron lays so much stress upon the recovery of the casket, how came it that so little fuss was made about it at the time of its disappearance? I never heard of the police being applied to, or of any steps being taken in connection with it."

This insolence enraged Anton. He replied indignantly, "The robbery was accompanied by circumstances which made an inquiry painful to Ehrenthal; the casket disappeared from his locked-up office, and it was probably on that account that no legal investigation was made."

Itzig rejoined, "If I remember aright, Ehrenthal informed his friends at the time that the investigation was given up out of consideration to the baron."

Anton keenly felt this home-thrust, and could hardly command himself as he replied, "It is possible that the baron may have had, at the time, other reasons for letting the subject drop."

Now, then, Veitel felt safe. He read in Anton's suppressed anger how necessary secrecy was felt. It was a bona fide offer; the baron was in dread of the thief. Recovering all his composure, he quietly went on to say, "As far as I know Hippus, he is a lying sort of fellow, who often gets drunk. Whatever he may have said in his cups will not, I fear, help us much in recovering the papers. Has he given you any sufficient ground for applying to him?"

Now, then, Anton had reason to be on his guard. "He has, in the presence of witnesses, made use of expressions which prove that he is acquainted with the papers, knows where they are to be found, and purposes to make use of them."

"That may be enough for a lawyer, but not enough for a man of business," continued Veitel. "Do you know his exact words?"

Anton parried the question, and struck at his opponent by saying, "His statements are known exactly by me and by others, and have occasioned my visit to you."

Itzig had to quit this dangerous ground. "And what sum will the baron spend in the recovery of these papers? I mean to say, is it an affair that is worth the outlay of time and trouble? I have a great many other matters on hand. You could hardly expect me to devote myself, for the sake of a couple of louis-d'or, to the search of any thing so insignificant and difficult to find as papers that some one has hidden."

Years ago, when the two were traveling together to the capital, where they now met as opponents, it was the Jew-boy who was in search of papers on which his childish folly fancied his fortune dependent. At that time he was ready to buy the baron's estate for Anton, and now it was Anton who was in search of important documents, and who applied to him for the baron's property. Veitel had discovered the mysterious receipt he then looked for; he held the baron's estate in his hands, and his destiny neared its fulfillment. Both thought at the same moment of the day of their common journey.

Anton replied, "I am authorized to treat with you as to the sum; but I would observe that the matter is a pressing one. I therefore entreat you to inform me whether you are prepared to deliver the documents to the Baron Rothsattel, and to be employed in our interest as regards the purchase of the mortgages."

"I will make inquiries, and consider whether I can serve you," coldly replied Veitel.

Anton rejoined as coldly, "How much time do you require to make up your mind?"

"Three days," said the agent.

"I can only give you four-and-twenty hours," said Anton, positively. "If, in that time, you have not informed me of your intention, I shall, on the baron's behalf, take every possible step to procure the papers, or to convince myself of their destruction, and I shall use my present knowledge respecting their abstraction and hiding-place to discover the perpetrator of the felony." Then taking out his watch, he said, "To-morrow, at the same hour, I shall call for your reply."

And so the important interview ended. As the door closed behind Anton, Itzig's resolve was taken. "Only one week," muttered he, "to my betrothal to Rosalie! The following day I shall find the notes of hand in a corner of Ehrenthal's office. Then Rothsattel and his friends must come to an arrangement upon my own terms. By the threat of a legal investigation, and of making the baron's misconduct public, I can force this Wohlfart to any thing I like. Only a week! If I hold out so long, the game is mine."

When Anton returned at the expiration of the four-and-twenty hours, he found the office closed. He called again in the evening: no one at home. The following morning the shrewd youth appeared at the door, and informed him that Mr. Itzig was gone on a journey, that he might perhaps return that very hour, but might, on the other hand, be absent for some days.

Anton knew, from his fluency, that the youth spoke according to orders given.

He next went to an official, who had the reputation of being one of the cleverest detectives in the town—cautiously disclosed the essentials respecting the stolen casket—expressed his suspicions of the robbery having been effected by Hippus, under Itzig's directions—and revealed the incomplete warnings of the worthy Tinkeles. The detective listened with attention, and at length said, "Out of all the inadequate information that you have given, the name of Hippus interests me most. He is a very dangerous character, and hitherto I have not exactly known how to get at him. On account of swindling and petty rascalities, he has often been punished, and the police have their eye upon him. I will do all I can for you, so far as he goes. I will have him and his effects searched this very day. I tell you beforehand we shall find nothing. I am further prepared to repeat this search in the course of a few days, at the risk of lowering my character in the eyes of the brave Hippus; for our trick of making thieves feel safe by means of superficially searching them may indeed answer with novices, but would never avail with this old hand. It is certain that we shall find nothing at our second search."

"Of what use can the measure be to me, then?" asked Anton, in a tone of resignation.

"Of more than you fancy. It may further your game with the agent Itzig; for, generally speaking, the effect of a search is to make the parties uncomfortable. And though I am not quite sure how Hippus will take it, I am inclined to believe it will perplex him. That may help you on. I will see, too, that the first search be clumsily and ostentatiously made. Fortunately, he has now a settled abode again; for some time he has had a respite from us, and has grown bold. I hear, too, that he is getting old and feeble. All this may help you to catch Itzig one way or other."