Problematic Characters Part 49

"Carlo had been carried to an Asylum at the South, and I was left alone here at Berkow, devoting myself entirely to the education of my Julius, who was then five years old, and for whom I had secured Bemperlein as a teacher and a friend, thanks to Oldenburg's recommendation. The baron came less frequently than formerly, but still quite frequently, as I thought. It seemed to me that a tender note mingled at times with his friends.h.i.+p, and hardly had I noticed this than I thought it my duty to point out to him, as gently as I could, that his visits were probably too frequent. This was perhaps very ungrateful in me, but we women find it very difficult to be grateful to those whom we do not love.

"Next day Oldenburg had left the country. No one knew where he was.

Somebody reported him, six months afterwards, in Paris; a year later he was seen in London. He was here, and there, and everywhere, carried about by his wild heart and his insatiable thirst for information.

"Thus four years had elapsed and little had changed in my position. I thought but rarely of Oldenburg; I had nearly forgotten him. I yielded then--now three years ago--to the persuasions of my cousin and his wife to accompany them on a trip to Italy. One evening as we were in the Coliseum Oldenburg suddenly stood before us. 'At last!' he said, pressing my hand. He pretended to have met us quite accidentally; but he confessed to me afterwards that he had heard in Paris, I know not from whom, of our proposed journey, that he had followed us from Munich and missed us everywhere, till at last he had overtaken us here. I must confess I was heartily glad to meet him, and was a little gratified to find that it was not quite accidental. Everything combined to give Oldenburg a good reception. We easily become attached even to strangers in travelling; how much more welcome is the friend of our youth whom we unexpectedly meet with abroad? Oldenburg had travelled all over Italy, and knew the painter of every altar-painting in every church and convent. His instructive conversation contrasted most markedly with the stupid talk of my relatives, and besides, Oldenburg had by this time polished off the rough edges of his character in the intercourse with good society. His manner was, in spite of his almost extreme abandon, as you now see it, thoroughly aristocratic. In a word, he now impressed me in a manner which I would have believed impossible before. It was not love that I felt for him, but it was more than the cool friends.h.i.+p which I had so far offered him alone. But, strange enough, the more I felt my secret antipathy, which I had cherished from early childhood, give way to an almost cordial attachment, the harsher and colder became his manner towards me. When we were all together, he addressed his conversation almost exclusively to my cousin, and treated me like a spoilt child, who is only indulged to keep it from crying. This offended my vanity; and this offended vanity, and the jealousy I began to feel of my cousin, made me try in good earnest to win Oldenburg's affection, which I feared I had lost by some unknown cause. This produced an entire revolution in Oldenburg's manner. He overwhelmed me with attentions; he seemed completely to forget Hortense, and whenever we were alone he exhibited a pa.s.sion which first made me wonder and then frightened me. And yet he avoided any open declaration, and left me continually in doubt whether this was one of the mad freaks in which he still quite frequently indulged, or the expression of a deep-rooted attachment. It was impossible not to admire Oldenburg at that time. His genius unfolded its most brilliant powers. He was the soul of every society; they vied with each other who was to have him, and as he spoke French, English, Italian, and I know not how many languages, with fluency, every nation seemed to be willing to admit him as one of their own. And yet he made me the queen of every festivity, he compelled all to do homage to me; he displayed the treasures of his richly stored mind only to lay them at my feet;--what wonder that I could not long remain indifferent, and that I soon fancied I loved him? Without openly encouraging him, I let him go on, and permitted him, when we were alone, to treat me with the familiarity of our childish years; when we met in company, to show me all those attentions which we generally accept only from a declared lover."

"Hush, Melitta, I think I hear somebody in the garden."

"I heard nothing."

"Are we quite safe here?"

"Quite so. But let us go into the house; it seems to me the night dew is beginning to fall."

They rose and went arm in arm towards the steps which led from the terrace into the garden. As they came down the last step, a man suddenly stood before them. The meeting was so unexpected to Oswald and Melitta that they involuntarily started back. But it was impossible to escape it, and besides, Mr. Bemperlein--for it was he, and no one else--had already recognized them, as the stars had come out in full splendor, and the light from the window of the garden-room fell directly upon their faces.

"Great heavens, madam! what brings you here?" cried Mr. Bemperlein.

"And I ask that of you," said Melitta; and then to Oswald, whose arm she was still holding, in a low voice: "Be calm, darling, he will not betray us."

"Julius has not had an accident? Speak, Mr. Bemperlein, I have no secrets for--Oswald."

Mr. Bemperlein seized Oswald's hand and pressed it, as if he wished to say: Now I know all, you may rely on me.

"No," he said, "Julius is well and hearty. But I have received a letter from Doctor Birkenhain, who says that Baron Berkow's condition is such that they expect his end every day. It is not thought that he will recover his consciousness before he dies; but Doctor Birkenhain thought it his duty to let you know how matters stand. I presume at least that this is what the enclosure means. I brought it myself, so that you may dispose of me at once, if you should decide to go on. The carriage in which I came is still at the door; I cut across the garden."

The three had reached the garden-room by this time. Melitta had drawn her arm from Oswald's and gone up to the lamp to read the letter which Bemperlein had brought. Oswald saw her turn very pale, and her hand which held the letter tremble nervously. Bemperlein stood there, turning his eyes from Oswald to Melitta, and back again from Melitta to Oswald, like one who has been suddenly roused and cannot convince himself whether what he sees is reality or a dream.

Melitta had read the letter. "There, Oswald," she said, "read and tell me what I must do."

Oswald glanced at the letter, which summoned Melitta, as Bemperlein had presumed, to start immediately for Birkenhain if she wished to see her husband once more before his death.

"You must go, Melitta, beyond doubt," said Oswald, folding up the letter. "You would never forgive yourself if you neglected this duty."

Melitta threw herself pa.s.sionately into his arms: "I meant from the beginning to go, but I wanted you to confirm my decision," she said. "I shall start to-night, instantly. Will you go with me, Mr. Bemperlein?"

"That is what I came for," said Bemperlein. "We have prepared the whole plan. If we start in an hour we shall reach the ferry by sunrise. On the other side we can take post-horses to B----, and thence go by railway. Thus we reach Birkenhain day after to-morrow, at the latest."

"You dear, good friend," said Melitta, taking both of Bemperlein's hands in her own and pressing them cordially.

"Pray, pray, madam," cried Mr. Bemperlein, "quite on the contrary--I mean--only my duty, nothing more."

"I will get ready at once," said Melitta, taking a candle. "You stay here, Oswald. If any one should see you here, you will have come with Bemperlein. But no one will see you."

Melitta had left the room. Soon the silent house awoke to the sound of hurried steps, of doors which were hastily opened and closed, and of low voices speaking anxiously one to another.

Of the two men, neither dared for a time to break the silence. Both felt the strange nature of the position in which they suddenly found themselves, especially Bemperlein, who had not yet been able to recover from his surprise. Melitta stood so unattainably high in his eyes that he found it absolutely impossible to comprehend how any mortal could attain so high; and yet he was so accustomed to look upon everything she did as undoubtedly right and good, that he dared not make an exception of this case.

"We meet quite strangely again, Mr. Bemperlein," Oswald said at last.

"Yes indeed, yes indeed!" replied Mr. Bemperlein. "My coming here was neither expected nor desired, I understand that perfectly. The poor lady! But what courage! What decision! I have always said she is not made of common clay. A real blessing that Doctor Birkenhain had the good idea not to write to her directly. Thus I can do something, little though it be, for her support."

"You happy man!" said Oswald "You can work for her and help her, while I can do nothing but wish her a pleasant journey, and then fold my hands idly in my lap."

"I really pity you with all my heart, really," said Mr. Bemperlein. "It is a hard task which you are expected to perform; but where there is much light there is also much shade. We will write diligently. You shall hear of every step we take. And then, I hope, our journey will not be long, and especially I trust we shall find Baron Berkow dead when we get there."

"You hope that? And yet you seem to think it important to go there?"

"a.s.suredly!" said Mr. Bemperlein. "There are certain sad duties which must be performed--not to please the world, which could, and might not, blame us if we left them unfulfilled, nor for the sake of others whom we could benefit by what we do, but because of the respect we owe to ourselves. But you know all that, of course, much better than I do. You have yourself advised this journey, although you lose most by it. It must be a terrible sensation to be thus suddenly torn from one's paradise! Strange, strange! The more I think of it, the more natural it seems to me. Yes, yes; that you should love this glorious woman is perfectly natural, is,--I might say, so logical that the contrary would be sheer nonsense. Everybody must love her, and the n.o.bler the soul is that loves her the deeper the love. Your heart is a n.o.ble heart, your soul harmonizes with all that is beautiful, hence you cannot but love, love with all your heart and soul this best and most beautiful of all women. And on the other side: Is she not free? If not before men, certainly before the Judge who looks into the heart? Did she ever love her husband? Could she love him, sold as she was by her own father to a man who bought her with money, at a time when she was too young still, and too innocent even to suspect such villany? Oh! it makes my blood boil to think of it! I am so glad it has all come about in this way! I congratulate you most heartily. I am a plain, insignificant man, and would never have dared to lift up my eyes so high; but when I see another man boldly and bravely stand on that eminence my heart fills with admiration, which is perfectly free from envy, and once more I wish you joy and all blessings with my whole heart!"

Mr. Bemperlein seized both of Oswald's hands and pressed them warmly.

His eyes filled with tears; he was deeply moved.

"And I thank you with all my heart," said Oswald, touched. "The good opinion of a man whom I esteem is worth a thousand times more to me than that of the whole stupid world. The world will condemn our love, but the world knows nothing of justice."

"No," said Mr. Bemperlein, "and yet it does judge us, and we have to submit to its sentence whether we choose or not. And this thought alone casts a deep shadow on the sunny pictures of such pure, disinterested love. But I will not make your head heavier at such a moment, when it is no doubt heavy enough. Fortune favors the brave and the strong. You are bold and strong; you are doubly so since you love, and faith is said to be able to move mountains. What faith can, love surely will not find impossible. But hus.h.!.+ there comes the baroness."

The door opened, and Melitta appeared in her travelling costume. Old Baumann stood by her.

"I am ready, dear Mr. Bemperlein," she said, and then throwing herself into Oswald's arms: "Farewell, darling, farewell!"

CHAPTER XI.

The Baroness Grenwitz had more than one good reason for not taking Oswald with them on their projected trip to Heligoland, and during the three days' visiting at all the neighbors, she had considered maturely how she might manage this without compromising her dignity. She was delighted therefore when Oswald, at her return,--the day after Melitta's departure,--eagerly seized upon her question: If he would not prefer using the time of their absence for his own recreation. She was still more delighted when he went so far as to express his intention not even to remain at the chateau, but to make an excursion, perhaps over the island, which he had not yet seen, or perhaps to Berlin, where he was expected by friends. Anna Maria was so enchanted with this unexpected result that she did not trouble herself about the motives that might have influenced Oswald, nor about his sombre, absent manner, and the indifference with which he witnessed the preparations for their journey, and with which he even took leave of Bruno on the day of their departure. Perhaps he was angry because they did not invite him; perhaps he did not know where he was to stay. At all events, he would not remain at the chateau, and perhaps he might actually have his knapsack on his back at one gate, while the family coach with the four heavy bays and the silent coachman was grandly rolling out at the great portal.

But Mr. Albert Timm was allowed to stay. He had no such absurd pretensions as the haughty Dr. Stein; he was easily satisfied; and then he could work so comfortably in the lonely house, and it was so important to have the plats completed promptly. Mademoiselle had been ordered to provide everything for Mr. Timm. Strangely enough, it had never occurred to the baroness that it might not be considered quite proper to leave a young girl of twenty and a young man of twenty-six in a lonely chateau with only a handful of servants, who were under the control of the young girl. The virtuous lady would have turned up her nose, she would have thought it unpardonable, if she had been told that young Count Grieben and Emily von Breesen had been left alone in a room for five minutes, but the surveyor, Albert Timm, and the housekeeper, Marguerite Hoger--good Heavens! what was the use troubling one's self about such people? that would have been asking too much! And Marguerite had not even a father or a mother to whom one might have been answerable--she had no relations whatever--how can one be expected to be responsible for a person who is standing quite alone in the world?

They had, however, asked Mrs. Jager to see from time to time that the orders of the baroness were strictly carried out. Mrs. Jager was an excellent lady, consequently Marguerite was under excellent supervision.

Little Marguerite was under such excellent supervision that Albert could not sufficiently praise the wise foresight of the baroness.

"I wish they would never return," he said to the pretty Genevese as they promenaded in the garden arm in arm; "I wish they would capsize between Heligoland and the Downs, where it is deepest and we could live here, in clover, to the end of our lives. What do you think, little Margerite, would you like to be the wife of Albert Timm, Esquire, owner of Castle Grenwitz, etc.? Wouldn't it be famous? Then I would keep you a carriage and horses, and even a housekeeper, which you could plague as they plague you now."

"I am content with little if I can it share with you."

"n.o.ble thought! But better is better, and--well, we'll see all that when we are married."

"And you will marry me, really? Ah, I can it believe scarcely! Why should a man, _comme vous_, to whom the whole world is open, marry a poor girl who not even is handsome?"

"That is my business. And besides, you are richer than I am. Three hundred dollars----"

"Three hundred twenty-five dollars," said Mademoiselle Marguerite.

"All the better--that is something to begin with. If I add my own fortune"--Mr. Timm felt in his pocket and produced a few coins--"we have three hundred and twenty-five dollars, seventeen silber-groschen and eightpence. That is quite a capital."