TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER XIX—THE COUNTESS’S BOUDOIR.

CHAPTER XX—MASKS AND DOMINOES.

CHAPTER XXI—‘A SCOUNDREL, YOU SAY?’

CHAPTER XXII—‘WILL YOU? WON’T YOU?’

CHAPTER XXIII—A GOLDEN GIFT.

CHAPTER XXIV—THE STORY OF THE SHADOW.

CHAPTER XXV—SATANELLA.

CHAPTER XXVI—A GOOD SAMARITAN.

CHAPTER XXVII—TWO AND TWO.

CHAPTER XXVIII—‘VOGUE LA GALORE!’

CHAPTER XXIX—IN THE EYRIE OF ADLOFSTEIN.

CHAPTER XXX—EVANGELA’S MESSAGE.

CHAPTER XXXI—THE DEVILS WAGES.

CHAPTER XXXII—A PACKET OF PAPERS.

CHAPTER XXXIII—LIGHT AT LAST.

CHAPTER XXXIV—SPENT LIKE A SHADOW.

CHAPTER XIX

THE COUNTESS’S BOUDOIR.

The worst of persistency in following one’s own way in opposition to the advice of soberer and wiser persons is that there is usually a penalty to be paid for it afterwards; and the penalty that Evangela had to pay for that evening’s dissipation was one that she w~as destined to feel the weight of for many a long day. She was one of those people with an immense fund of pluck and endurance, who can hold out for a long time against physical pain, and she was inclined to consider real enjoyment well worth a little suffering; but the strain that she had undergone had been no trifling one, and, with all her fortitude, she hardly knew how to brace herself up to the effort that was necessary to hide her prostration on the day after the dance.

It was the last day of the visit at Rothenfels, and Evangela, who had been resting all the morning, came at the close of the winter afternoon along the darkening corridor, and entered the Chinese salon. The room was lighted by shaded lamps, but it was deserted; and so was the great salon, the scene of last night’s dancing. From the billiard-room, however, came the sound of gay voices and the click of balls; and Evangela made her way to the doorway, where, unseen by the gay party within, she stood for a moment watching the game that was going on. It was a variation upon billiards that Melanie had often described to her, and everybody was playing. Thekla stood at the end of the table with the cue in her hand, and Count Gabriel d’Ecoronata at her elbow, advising her how to aim so that her ball should cannon and bring back one belonging to the other side in its return; and St. Evremonde, who was evidently the captain of the other side, was leaning over the table, laughing, and making some mystic passes so as to disconcert the Counts influence. Most of the party were smoking, the women as well as the men, and Evangela noticed the dainty way in which Melanie, as she talked to Count Marcel d’Ecoronata in one of the great window recesses, was holding her cigarette between her rosy finger-tips, and blowing out delicate little ringlets of smoke into the air.

It was an animated and brilliant scene, and the comfortable warmth of the air, and the cheerfulness of the lights after the darkness and the coldness of the corridor outside, were inviting; but Evangela, in her weariness of mind and body, was hardly in the mood for it just then, and she was reluctant to be drawn into a game which she knew she would not be able to play.

As she hesitated, she heard a few soft faint notes of a piano in the distance, and she drew back from her post of observation. ‘Schumann,’ she said to herself, as she returned through the deserted rooms; and there came from the Countess’s boudoir the sound of a softly-played prelude. ‘Who can there be in this house who is able to play Schumann like that?’ Her trained musical ear told her that the touch was that of a master hand, and her surprise was great when she saw seated at the piano no other person than the Baron Adlofstein.

He was all by himself, and his fingers were wandering capriciously over the keys, playing snatches of airs and songs as they came into his head. He did not hear Evangela’s entrance; and as she slipped silently into a big easy-chair behind him, he played a more decisive strain, and began to sing.

It was one of Schumanns songs that Evangela knew; she had heard it before, but never like this. Adlofstein had a mellow baritone voice, and it had been sufficiently trained to enable him to modulate it pleasingly; but what struck Evangela with wonder and admiration was the intensity of feeling and passion in the voice. She was by nature musical, as few people are without long training, and she was peculiarly susceptible to emotion expressed in music. Music was to her not merely a sense, it was another life, and under its influence the reserve and self-control that characterized her in everyday life were liable to be completely swept away. She trembled as she listened now; her heart beat quickly and strangely, and the colour rushed to her cheeks and the tears to her eyes. The song was ended, the symphony had died away, and the player paused. Evangela, leaning forward in her chair, did not move or speak, and in her gaze, intent though it was, there was no apparent power; but by that magnetic sense, which sometimes speaks more forcibly than anything else, Adlofstein had become aware that he was not alone. He turned suddenly, and when he saw who it was who had come into the room, it was only the habit of self-control which he had all his life practised that enabled him to restrain an exclamation of consternation and annoyance. As it was, his face betrayed no emotion; but its expression became a shade sterner and more impassive than usual, and there was a moment of uncomfortable silence before he spoke.

‘I had no idea you were here, mademoiselle,’ he said abruptly.

Evangela’s nerves were overstrung and her mind was overwrought, and the harshness of his voice, in such marked contrast to the music she had been listening to, gave her a shock, as if from an unexpected douche of cold water. She had much ado to keep the tears out of her eyes; and instead of summoning up her pride to resent the discourtesy of his manner, as at another time she would probably have done, she said rather unsteadily :

‘I don’t know why you should seem so much annoyed, Baron Adlofstein. I came here to be quiet and enjoy the music; but if it disturbs you I will go away.’

Adlofstein left his seat before the piano, and came quickly towards her. The tone of her voice informed him at once that something was wrong; but in the subdued light of the shaded lamps he could not see her face clearly until he was quite near; then he observed with dismay the havoc that suffering had wrought in it.

‘You are ill,’ he said accusingly. ‘You are not fit to be out of bed. Why will you behave so foolishly?’

He brought her a footstool as he spoke; and as he placed it for her feet to rest upon, Evangela thanked him with a grateful glance.

‘It really rests me more than anything to sit quietly here and listen to your singing,’ she said. ‘Won’t you go on?’

‘Did you sleep at all last night?’ demanded Adlofstein, standing over her, and paying not the slightest attention to her request.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered uneasily. ‘I prefer not to think about it.’

‘I know what that means,’ said Adlofstein grimly; ‘you were awake the whole night through.’ He paused for a moment, and then he said seriously : ‘Don’t you know that, by refusing to take care of yourself now, you run the risk of losing your health for all your life— even if you don’t lose your life itself?’

Evangela gave a little sigh. In her exhaustion and depression just then life seemed more of a burden than a boon, and the threat was not so very formidable; but to Adlofstein, of all people, she was not going to admit this, and she said as stoutly as she could :

I am all right, thank you; and I have been resting. I was resting here. It is very delightful to be able to play and sing as you do. How have you managed it? You must practise a great deal.’

‘Yes. It is a resource to me in the long winter evenings at Adlofstein, when we are often snowed up for weeks together.’

‘Don’t you find that very lonely and depressing?’

‘No; I think I rattier like it. I am not a sociable person, as you know; and my spirits are never particularly gay. 1 have my books and my piano and my dogs to turn to when I feel inclined ; and that is enough for me. I can do very well for a while without my horses and my gun, which are the only other things in the world that I care for.’

Evangela noticed that he mentioned no human being whom he seemed to count worth caring for, and she looked grave for a moment; but she made no comment on this significant fact.

‘You play the’cello as well as the piano, don’t you?’ she said, after a pause. ‘How do you manage for an accompanist? Does the Baroness play?’

‘The Baroness!’ he ejaculated; and then he laughed. ‘No; the Baroness does not play— except sometimes “The Maiden’s Prayer” or a polka, with the loud pedal down all the way through. I am obliged to do without an accompanist at home; but when I go to the Stillen-heims’, the Baroness Stephanie sometimes plays for me.’

Evangela longed to ask how Stephanie Stillenheim played. She did not imagine that she could be a very sympathetic accompanist, and she wanted to know Adlofstein’s opinion of her; but she divined that questions on this point might not be convenient to him, and she only said :

‘I am sure that must be very pleasant. I used to enjoy playing accompaniments for my father very much.’

‘You are accustomed to play accompaniments?’

‘Yes. My father played the violin a good deal, and we used to have delicious long evenings over Beethoven’s sonatas, and Mozart’s— ah, yes! I don’t wonder that you can enjoy the long winter evenings if you can fill them up with music. I wish you would go on now— but I suppose it is no use asking you?’

‘Not the least. I merely opened the piano to see if it was as execrably out of tune as the one in the salon, and it is not much better. I am not in the mood for music now; and, besides, there is something that I want to say to you, for which there will probably not be another opportunity. You are leaving tomorrow, are you not? and I leave tonight-’

‘To-night!’ exclaimed Evangela, surprised.

‘Yes, to-night. The shooting is over, and there is nothing else for me to stay for. I think of going abroad to travel for some time, and I must make my arrangements at once, but before I leave here I should like to settle one matter. You remember what you said to me on the subject of the quarrel between me and Baron Bertemilian? Well, I have thought over it, and I see that there is just a possibility that your view may be the right one. If it is’— he paused, and then went on with a colder inflection of voice—‘if it is—well, you said you would not envy me my feelings, so I had better not force them upon you. I am by no means convinced that it is a certainty, but your conviction on this point, added to certain indications not in themselves bearing upon it, which I have lately become aware of, have made me less sure of my ground than I was; and since I see that there is a possibility that I may be wronging the innocent and letting the guilty go free, I have come to the conclusion that my only course is to cease from hostilities. I shall withdraw my challenge, and leave Baron Bertemilian free to live what life, and make what friends, he pleases. Will you tell him this? or would you rather that I did so?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Evangela, too much overwhelmed at the moment to find words.

‘As you think best—’

‘The interview is likely to prove somewhat embarrassing to us both, I fancy,’ remarked Adlofstein coolly, ‘but that does not matter. I think the most straightforward course will be for me to speak to him myself. I will do so some time before I leave.’

He spoke in a practical, business-like way, and in his grave, impassive face and deliberate manner there was no indication that the transaction was one that would cost him any sort of effort or sacrifice. He was a proud man, and it was no easier to him to bend his pride to confess that he might be in the wrong than it would have been to any other proud man; but when Adlofstein saw what was right to be done, it was not any consideration of personal inconvenience or pain that would withhold him from doing it. Evangela could not know that he had spent as sleepless a night as she had done, and that this calm front was merely the mask for a sense of defeat and failure so bitter and humiliating that it amounted to despair, but an instinct that was finer than sight or hearing gave her some perception of the truth. She guessed what this renunciation of his purpose meant to him, and a great timidity came over her all at once—the involuntary tribute of a woman’s admiration and respect for a strength which is greater than hers.

‘I can never tell you how thankful I feel for this,’ she said falteringly; ‘I am so glad, both for your sake and for Baron Bertemilian’s, if this miserable misunderstanding can really be put an end to. I have felt all along that if you could know him as I do, you would never have suspected him of such a monstrous thing. Oh, I am glad, so extremely glad, to think that it is over!’

‘You must not suppose,’ said Adlofstein coldly, ‘that I am ever likely to be friends with Baron Bertemilian. That is impossible! Even if he were willing to forgive me, which I do not wish or expect—considering all that has passed, it is impossible that he should—we should always be antagonistic in our natures. It is scarcely likely that I shall ever wish to cross his doorstep, or he mine, but I can promise that I will leave him alone in future.’

‘You will never be sorry for it,’ said Evangela earnestly. ‘It is more of a concession than I ever expected you would make, and I respect and honour you for it most sincerely. Baron Adlofstein. A strong will is a splendid thing in a man, but it is never more splendid than when it enables its possessor to face a difficult position, and do the right thing at the expense of a surrender. That is a truer nobleness, a more real generosity-’ She broke off suddenly. Steps were approaching from the side of the Chinese salon as she spoke, and now someone appeared in the entrance. It was Baron Bertemilian.

He had come in with some coffee and cake for Evangela, but when he saw who was with her, he stopped short, and the lines of misery and constraint in his face at once asserted themselves.

‘Melanie told me that she had seen you go in here, Fraulein, and I thought you might like some gouterl he said very stiffly, as he observed the sudden break in the conversation which his entrance had occasioned.

‘Oh, thank you—thank you f said Evangela hastily. ‘Please may I have it here?’

She motioned to a little table close to her elbow as she spoke, but her eyes were upon Adlofstein, and meeting a glance which asked as plainly as words whether she wished the explanation to take place then and there, she bent her head in assent.

‘Don’t go just now Ramn Bertemilian—that is, if you can

———text unreadable———

reason which I believe you know, though it is not the ostensible one for which I sent you a challenge. I thought I was justified in the conclusion that I came to, and nothing of any import has occurred to disprove the grounds that I had; but as I have no absolute evidence to go upon, I see that I may have been wronging’ you. This young lady’—he bowed to Evangela—‘has been doing her best to convince me that I have done so, and she has succeeded so far that I promised her that before I left tonight I would seek an interview with you. I wish to tell you that, if I have made a mistake,

I regret it, and that, in the absence of any further evidence against you, I will cease to molest you in the future.’

Baron Bertemilian had changed colour two or three times during this speech, and the nervous working of his face as he glanced from Adlofstein to Evangela, and back again at Adlofstein, was painful to witness. He evidently did not know what was coming, and he dreaded what it might be; but when Adlofstein came to the end, a sudden flush of colour flashed over his features, and his blue eyes looked steadily into his enemy’s face.

‘On my side, then,’ Adlofstein went on, ‘I will carry on the quarrel no longer. I withdraw my challenge, and retract what I have said against you—I will do so formally if you wish; and if—if it is ever proved that you are as innocent as the Fraulein says, I can only say that I shall deeply regret the wrong I have done you. That is all I have to say.’

The nervous flush on Bertemilian’s finely-cut features had mounted higher and higher, and his eyes glittered strangely. He was plainly in a state of intense excitement.

‘It is a tardy reparation,’ he said w’ith passionate bitterness. ‘Your enmity—totally unprovoked on my part—has cost me dear. It has lost me wife, friends, reputation, and all that makes life worth living. For the last two years every drop of happiness in my cup has been turned to bitterness by you; and now— now, when the poison has done its work, do you suppose that it can ever be atoned for? Oh!’ he cried, passionately clenching his hand and menacing his adversary with it—‘oh that I had been a free man, and able to show what was in me! Oh, if I had not been bound by family ties, I would have shown you what I could do! Then I would have treated you as you deserved, and neither you nor any other man would have dared to say that I was a coward!’

Adlofstein listened to this outburst with an unmoved countenance. It was not his habit to betray excitement under the influence of emotion, and he was apt to look upon any exhibition of it with a certain disdain, as an evidence of a want of self-control. He was not in the least moved by Bertemilian’s passionate denunciation, and it aroused no answering feeling of resentment in him; but Evangela, greatly perturbed by this unexpected reception of the olive branch, dreaded lest it should lead to a renewal of the quarrel, and she hastened to interpose.

‘Baron Adlofstein has said that, if he has wronged you, he deeply regrets it,’ she said, rising hurriedly from her chair, and laying her hand upon Baron Bertemilian’s sleeve with an appealing gesture. ‘He has acted under a misapprehension, and it is not his fault if he has been deceived. In offering to withdraw from the quarrel now, he does all that he can do. Will you not accept his offer of peace?’ ‘Yes, I accept it; I have no choice,’ said Bertemilian gloomily; and then, his face clearing a little, he added more peaceably : ‘and it is easier for me to do so, because I believe he has been deceived. There has been foul play somewhere, and someone who has had a spite against me has sought to gratify it by setting him against me. I accept your explanation, Baron Adlofstein; and here is my hand upon it.’ He held out his hand as he spoke; but Adlofstein hesitated to take it, and Evangela’s heart leapt up with sudden fear.

‘Upon my honour, Adlofstein, I had no part nor share in your father’s unhappy fate,’ said Bertemilian earnestly; ‘I swear to you that I am in no way responsible for it. I should not dare to hold out my hand to you if I were.’

But even without this assurance the chivalrous instincts which he had inherited from many generations of knightly forefathers would have proved too strong for Adlofstein, and before Bertemilian had done speaking he had given his hand to his enemy. Evangela breathed freely once more; and now for the first time she became conscious of a sense of strain. Adlofstein saw her turn white to the lips, and he hastened to lead her back to her chair.

‘You were not fit for this; I ought to have waited/ he said with compunction, as he handed her the p of coffee; but she shook her head, smiling ‘It i II right, and I am so glad—so very glad; ana now I am going to tell Melanie. It will be such news for her f She went out with the Baron, and Adlofstein was left alone. He remained standing for some moments in silent thought, a. deep line between his brows making his rugged features look even sterner than usual. He was still standing thus, when the curtain over the door leading into the corridor was pushed aside, and the little three-year-old girl, who was the only child of the house, came staggering in. She was a charming golden-haired little fairy, with soft rosy cheeks and starry blue eyes, and she . had made friends with many of the party, whose pet she was; but, oddly enough, out of all the gay company, it was Adlofstein who was singled out as her chosen favourite. She toddled up to him now, and fearlessly caught hold of his hand, with a confident demand for his society.

‘I must say “Good-bye” to you, Lola; I am going away,’ he roused himself to say.

‘Coming back again’ said the lisping childish voice in happy confidence.

‘No, Lola; I am not coming back—at least, not for a long time. Not before you will have quite forgotten me. I am going very far away.’

The little creature clung to him and protested. He sat down in the chair that Evangela had left empty, and let her climb upon his knee, and nestle up to him in her pretty little way; but as he looked down at the golden head, rubbing itself confidingly against his waistcoat buttons, there surged over him a tide of such sorrowful bitterness that the expression of his face was in strange contrast with the innocent glee of the unclouded baby face.

‘Never, never, never!’ he said under his breath, with fierce intensity of passion—‘never for me! I must renounce everything; and I know now what that means. Oh, my God! if I could have been spared this!’

Half an hour later Adlofstein left the Castle. He did not see Evangela again before he left.

She had gone to her room to rest when he was saying his good-byes, and he would not allow her to be disturbed.

‘I will say “ Good-bye ” to her for you, Louis,’ said St. Evremonde gaily. ‘I shall be going to Vienna to-morrow, and I hope to have the pleasure of travelling with the Bertemilians part of the way, so I shall have plenty of opportunities.’

St. Evremonde watched his cousin closely as he spoke, and Adlofstein’s appearance of indifference did not at all satisfy him. He did not know of his cousin’s reconciliation with Baron Bertemilian, but he had heard something of a mysterious interview in the boudoir; and coming as it did after the events of the previous day, and the strange closeness of association with the English lady into which accident seemed to have thrown Adlofstein, the incident gave him ground for considerable disquietude of mind. He had almost got over his qualms about the packet that he had discovered, and its loss was a salve to his conscience for not having delivered it to its rightful owner. How could he give it when it was lost? and who was to know that he had had anything to do with it? If ever it came to light—which Heaven forbid!—it would be easy for him to deny all knowledge of it. If it did not come to light—well, whatever happened, he had done his duty. He had warned his cousin against the snake in the grass, and if Adlofstein chose to disregard the warning, that was his affair. St. Evremonde had persuaded himself that, having done his part, he might rest in peace with an easy mind; but now came this new cause of alarm. It was true that the grounds for it seemed slight; but St. Evremonde reflected that in a matter of such consequence it was impossible to be too careful.

‘She is a charming creature/ he said to himself at the end of his cogitations; ‘and sometimes she is positively enchanting. If Louis were to become interested in her, there is no saying what he might not do; but that must be prevented. And I think —an involuntary smile crossing his handsome features— I think l can prevent it. I imagine I am not mistaken in supposing that I can, if I choose, make myself more interesting to her than Louis; and if she is interested in me, then good-bye to his chances! I shall be sorry to have to cut you out, my dear Louis; but if my interests demand it, there will be no help for it. And in love and war all is fair/

CHAPTER XX

MASKS AND DOMINOES.

‘And do you mean to say that you have heard no more than that?’ exclaimed Clothilde, with a gleeful sparkle in her little brown eyes and a generous smile on her broad face. ‘Kind Gottes! what a convent life you lead here! Shut up in this old house, you see nothing, you hear nothing, and you do nothing. How can you stand it?’

It was the Sunday after the return of the Bertemilians from Rothenfels, and Clothilde Muller, having constructed from the recitals of Thekla a pretty little romance, had straightway gone to impart it to the person who would, she knew, be most affected by it—Stephanie Stillenheim.

‘It is true, then, the report that I have heard,’ said Stephanie anxiously, ‘the quarrel between Baron Adlofstein and the Bertemilians has been made up?’

‘Yes, yes, it is true enough; but that is not all—that is not a quarter! Ach Gott! You shall hear! I have it on the best authority. That silly little Thekla, you know, comes to see me, and she is so bursting with pride and conceit that she cannot hold in anything. She is a perfect sieve, and 1 have got the whole thing out of her. I will tell you all.’

Clothilde was as good as her word, and she might have been an eye-witness of all that had passed at Rothenfels, so detailed and circumstantial was her account and so accurate her conclusions. Her imagination had been so effectively seized by the fact that Evangela’s influence over Adlofstein had been strong enough to make him risk his life and make up the quarrel for her sake, that she was not misled by any side-issues; and it was Adlofstein, and not the Marquis, who was the hero of her story.

Stephanie listened and commented, with a desperate attempt to appear careless and unconcerned. She knew that Clothilde’s relentless eyes were probing her inmost feelings, and the knowledge tortured her. Oh that the smiling, spiteful creature would go, that she might be left in peace to think over her misery and realize what it all meant!

Clothilde took her leave at last, and Stephanie stood at the window watching her go’ down the street—a square, jaunty figure in expensive furs, with a new feather in her hat, and all her skirts waggling behind her. There had been a fall of fine, dry snow in the middle of the day, and now the late afternoon sun was shining across the Platz with an intensely yellow glow that threw deep blue shadows over the snow, and made the little spire of the town-hall glitter like a pinnacle of diamonds. It was a brilliant winter afternoon, and the gay dresses of the country folk, who had come in for the morning Mass, and were now hurrying to get their shopping done, made the Platz unusually bright and picturesque; but Stephanie had no eye for it. Her heart was filled with a bitterness that was like poison, and her face was livid.

She followed Clothilde with her eyes across the Platz, and from her pale, thin lips there breathed a malediction that was venomous in its intensity:

‘You came here to gloat over my disappointment, you detestable creature! Well, you are ugly and stumpy yourself, and, with all your money, you can’t avoid growing old. May you, too, know some day what it is to have your last chance of happiness taken from you!’

This was the sting of the news that Clothilde had imparted with such zest. It swept from Stephanie the last lingering hope of her youth, and she was left with her miserable life, wasted in the past and desolate in the future, without provision, and without resource. She was barely eight-and-twenty, but she looked older than many an Englishwoman of eight-and-thirty, and she was absolutely helpless to do anything for herself. Like too many of the daughters of the poorer Austrian nobility, she had looked to marriage as the one provision possible for her, and that failing her, she had nothing to fall back upon but the precarious charity of a distant relation. Her hope of marrying Adlofstein had been vague indeed, since it was based upon nothing more than the mere fact that he visited at their house, and was generous to her father and kind to her. But he visited nowhere else, and, besides putting up with her vile accompaniments, was occasionally seen out walking with her and her brother, and that was quite enough to set the townspeople making innuendoes which were inexpressibly flattering to Stephanie’s vanity, and soothing to her self-love. She did not think that Adlofstein had ever seriously contemplated the thought of marrying her, but she was always hoping that he would, and the vague possibility which was not even a probability had been to her like a sustaining fact.

Now all that was over, and it was this English girl, so young and fresh, and such a contrast to herself in every way, whom he was going to choose. That Clothilde’s story was true, Stephanie did not for a moment doubt— that it was over-coloured she did not suspect. She believed it all, and she recognized that so far as she was concerned the mischief was irremediable. Adlofstein would never marry her now; nobody would ever marry her. She was a gambler who had staked her all upon one throw, and she had lost.

‘I wish I were dead!’ she cried, throwing herself upon the floor in a passion of despair.

‘I wish I had never been born! Why should I be born, an ugly, pug-nosed little scarecrow who could never have a chance of a husband? Such wretches had better be strangled at their birth! Oh, how I curse—how I curse the day that I was born!’

She got up at last, exhausted by her passion, and her mood changed suddenly.

‘It will be a fine revenge for Melanie and Thekla for all that I have done against them. How pleased they will be, and how all the town will laugh at me! That Clothilde will write an epigram upon it, I dare say; she did when the Werner girl lost her lover, and she hates me worse than the Werner. Oh, how shall I endure it? And then that English girl —that is the worst of all—to see her triumph and happiness under my very nose! Adlofstein will bring her to the Greifenburg for the winter, and he will be as regardless of trouble and expense in doing up the place for her comfort and pleasure as his father was before him when he fitted up Schloss Adlofstein for his English wife. He will think nothing good enough for her. I know Louis von Adlofstein. He is reserved, he is cold, he has never loved a woman yet; but when he does love, it will be in no half-hearted fashion. He will idolize his wife; he will devote himself entirely to her; he will be the most delightful husband in the world, and she will be the luckiest woman. Oh, what a life might have been mine! and now—now-’

She clenched her hands until the nails ran into the flesh, and she felt a fierce satisfaction in the pain.

‘But I don’t want to die! No, no, not yet —not yet! I have not pretty features or a rose-leaf skin; but I have will, and I have wit, and where there is a will, even without wit, there is a way. Adlofstein shall never marry that Englishwoman. I will stop it somehow, I swear it! How, how ?’

The sun had set, and the room was growing dark, and still Stephanie stood at the window. Her passion was past, but her purpose did but deepen as she grew calmer, and sought for a scheme that might help her.

‘The Baroness!’ she said at last. ‘They say she is mad, but I don’t believe it. She is cunning enough, at any rate, and she hates her stepson like poison. She would join with anyone against him, and she might know of a clue. I will go and see her. And then, when the summer comes and the summer gaieties begin, who knows what opportunities I may not have? At present there is nothing to be done. He is away, she is ill, nothing is going on. I will wait.’

Stephanie did well to possess her soul in patience, for that winter was a long one, and it was absolutely uneventful. Adlofstein remained away, St. Evremonde was in Vienna, and Evangela was under the doctor’s care most of the time. The strain that she had received was not so serious as to give cause for any alarm, but it involved a good deal of care and nursing, and her convalescence was a slow and tedious affair. The Bertemilians were exceedingly kind to her. The Baron, in his gratitude to her for what she had done for him, was ready to overlook the sickliness that would otherwise have been a crime in his eyes, and Melanie was the kindest and most devoted of nurses. Still, it was for Evangela a dreary time, and she was thankful when the winter was over, and she felt health and happiness returning with the lengthening days of spring.

The spring, when it came, came suddenly, and with a rush. The valleys were all at once flooded with hot, life-giving sunshine, and under it the snow had soon melted away, except from the peaks of the higher mountains, which would keep their glittering mantles until June or July. Everything seemed bursting into green in a moment, and the meadows by the riverside were bright with the most exquisite spring-flowers. Visitors from all parts began to arrive at the big Kurhaus on the Schwarzen-berg, and there was a talk of masks and dominoes in the town.

Stephanie met Clothilae one brilliant afternoon, when the band was playing on the Freiheit before the Bertemilians’ house, and learned from her three pieces of news. The first was that Adlofstein had returned from his travels; the second, that St. Evremonde was among the visitors at the Schwarzenberg; and the third was an announcement that had set the whole town buzzing with excitement, that a grand masked ball was to be given, up at the Kurhaus, on the Schwarzenberg. It was a public ball, which everyone would be sure to attend, and Stephanie instantly made up her mind that this should be the beginning of her campaign.

‘The Bertemilians will be there, of course,’ she said to herself; ‘and if he is there too —he who so much hates anything of that sort — then I shall know. I must be there—I must see; and if I can, I must do something for myself.’

Stephanie took out her purse and looked into it. The solitary florin that was there was intended to provide supper for that night; but it was not for this purpose that the money went. It was just enough to purchase some cheap gray stuff to make a domino with; and Stephanie took her parcel home, and locking herself into her room, so that she might be secure from the importunities of her father and brother when supper-time should arrive, set to work to cut out her domino.

The Kur-Anstalt, on the top of the conical peak known as the Schwarzenberg, was a tiny watering-place, and was little known out of Austria; but its buildings were on an ambitious scale, and its great dancing-salon was a noble room. On the night of the masquerade it was a blaze of light and glitter. Under the huge dark flags of all nations that were suspended round the walls of the room a crowd of about six hundred people were assembled, and the scene was brilliant and fantastic beyond description. Sweeps and demons jostled angels and snow-queens; and brigands and harlequins were mixed up in the strangest medley with Court ladies and plain dominoes; and on every side were grotesque masks of bears, wolves, boars, and foxes.

Stephanie, in the effective disguise of a gray bat, was among the first arrivals; and it was not long before her careful scrutiny of every comer was rewarded by the sight of the figures of three girls in rosebud-figured dominoes, who moved like princesses among the rest. Stephanie recognized them at once.

‘Rose-queens,’ she said to herself. ‘All three dressed alike; only the colour of the roses in their hair is different. The tall one with the pink roses is, of course, Thekla : which is the English girl—the one with the white or the one with the deep-red roses?’

The three girls were following the Baron up the room, Thekla’s excitement escaping her in a burst of delighted exclamations and conjectures.

‘There is the Muller in the blue mantle spangled with stars—I am certain that is she. But, ah! who is that short, stumpy little figure in gray—such an ugly gray—with bat’s wings ? Mon Dieu! would one believe that any woman would choose to wear such a repulsive disguise? Ah, she is gone! Did you see her, Melanie?’

But Melanie’s attention at that moment was given to Evangela.

‘You know, my dear/ she said with animation, ‘when anyone guesses who you are, and wants to dance with you, he comes up and writes you your name in your hand; and then you must say or write his, if you know it, and if you do not. he must write it himself. You will see—look!’

A man in a Mephistophelian costume of black and red came forward at that moment out of the crowd, and bowed low before Melanie. She smilingly extended her hand, and watched while with his finger he traced the characters of her name upon it; then, evidently recognizing him, she bowed, and took his arm to join in the dance that was going on. Thekla was soon engaged in the like negotiations; and Evangela, in the seat which the Baron had found for her at the top of the room, was following them rather wistfully with her eyes, and wondering whether she would have any dances at all. when she became aware of an intent gaze fixed upon her, and saw a mask in a gorgeous and fantastic domino of red, white and blue, with a crilt crown, round which the word ‘ Paris’ stood out in silver letters. He had been standing a little apart from the crowd watching the scene, as if he did not care to take part in it; but as he met her glance he came up, and stood bowing before her.

‘The Queen of the White Roses has taken a befitting flower as an emblem/ he said. ‘Am I not right in thinking that I see the English flower?’

Evangela assented; but she did not recognize the slight and elegant figure in the flowing robes. Whose voice was it that sounded familiar to her, and yet was strange?

‘You do not recognize me, I see,’said the cavalier; ‘yet I should like to petition for a dance. Allow me f He took her hand, and with his faultlessly-gloved finger traced the word ‘ Victor,’ then paused.

‘Victor!’ thought Evangela; ‘there are heaps of Victors in the town, but I have never given myself the trouble to take any interest in them, nor they in me. Which of them would ask me to dance?’

But as he wrote another letter she looked up suddenly : ‘Oh, how stupid of me! I knew your voice quite well. It was your speaking German that puzzled me.’

‘And may I have the honour of a dance?’

Evangela assented gladly; and as she laid her hand upon his sleeve, she felt a thrill of girlish elation that her first partner should be a man so courtly and distinguished as the Marquis de St. Evremonde. It was girlish elation, and girlish elation only, that she felt during that dance, and under its influence she came out of her usual cloak of shyness and reserve, and shone with a brightness and sweetness of spirit that charmed St. Evremonde. But it was not for nothing that he had graduated in the art of flirtation; and when he set himself to please, as he did to-night, the odds were heavily in his favour that he would make the impression that he desired.

‘That was delightful!’ he said, as he piloted her back to her place under the wing of the Baron. ‘You will give me another later on, won’t you? I suppose I must not ask for the next?’ ‘ No,’ said Evangela, with a blush, that she was glad to remember was effectually hidden by her mask; ‘there are other ladies with whom you want to dance.’

‘With whom I have to dance, you mean. Well, duty first, and pleasure afterwards. I shall sustain myself with the hope of another waltz like this before supper.’

There was nothing in the words—they might have been spoken in the merest gallantry; but something in St. Evremonde’s tone had power to make Evangela’s pulses quicken. She sat with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes in her place, and she was smiling involuntarily at the thought of the further pleasure to come, when she felt a sudden touch upon her elbow, and a few words were sharply hissed into her ear:

‘Let the English rose beware of the dark-brown domino with the eagle’s feathers; he will bring her trouble and misfortune. Don’t neglect this warning.’

Evangela turned quickly to see who had spoken; but she could see only the ugly gray figure with flapping bat’s wings that Thekla had pointed out as it glided away into the crowd. She looked round her in utter bewilderment. Who was it who had spoken to her? and what did the enigmatical warning mean? There had been a ring of intense earnestness in the words which forbade the supposition that they had been spoken merely in an idle jest— the speaker had evidently been thoroughly, bitterly in earnest; and Evangela was impressed with a strange fear. A brown domino with eagle’s feathers—she had seen no such costume; she did not believe there was one in the room; but even as she looked she saw it, and it was coming straight up to her. A toweringly tall figure in loose brown robes, and —yes, big brown feathers, fastened by a diamond brooch into the hood of the domino. Were those eagle’s feathers? Evangela gazed at them as if under the influence of a spell—yes, no doubt they must be; but who could their wearer be? The instant that he spoke she knew.

‘The rose of England was never more appropriately worn than by you to-night, Fraulein,’ he said, in a voice which, though feigned, did not mislead her for a moment.

‘Did you choose it because of your nationality?’

‘I am not the only person who has chosen that emblem to-night,’ said Evangela, altering the tone of her voice to see if she could not conceal her identity; ‘there are two other rose-queens in the room, you will see.’

‘Yes; but neither of them is an English rose. They are near the rose; but neither of them is the rose. You see, you cannot conceal your identity from me, Fraulein; and now, do you guess mine? I do not suppose you do.’ Evangela hesitated. Her mind was full of that extraordinary warning. Who was it who could have known that Adlofstein would come straight up to her the moment that he entered the room?

‘I think I do,’ she said rather nervously.

‘Do I not see before me a tower of strength, with eagle’s feathers for a crown?’

‘So you know eagle’s feathers when you see them? I should hardly have thought you would.’

And, indeed, without the clue that she had received, Evangela could scarcely have distinguished the feathers, though she ought to have recognized Adlofstein by his great height, which was far above everyone in the room.

‘Since you know who I am,’ he said abruptly,

‘will you dance with me? You are dancing to-night, are you not?’

‘Oh yes!’ said Evangela, standing up in some surprise; ‘but I did not know that you ever did dance.’

‘I do not often, certainly; but I scarcely think I have quite forgotten how, and I should like to try this waltz, if you don’t mind.’

It was on the impulse of the moment that he had made the request, and he inwardly abused himself for his folly as he took her hand.

‘Why am I doing this, which I know to be sheer madness?’ he asked himself. ‘I shall have to pay dearly for it, I know; yet for this once I will allow myself what would be denied to no one else. I must find out how things stand with regard to St. Evremonde. If I could know that she was safe from him, I think I could then make up my mind to forego all and keep away/

Adlofstein had said truly that he had not forgotten how to dance. It was not really so very long since he had given it up, and his ear for time and music stood him in good stead. Evangela found that she was in safe hands, and dense though the crowd in the middle of the room was, she was so skilfully steered that she was never jostled or bumped. Her spirits rose every minute—she was enjoying the evening much more than she had expected; but when they were halfway down the room for the second time, Adlofstein suggested that she should stop to rest.

‘You ought not to go on until you are out of breath/ he said. ‘Suppose we stop for a moment here; you will be under the shelter of the British flag.’

Over the recess into which he had piloted her the dark folds of the Union Jack were indeed waving, and Evangela, whose powers were not yet in very perfect working order, found the breathing-space not unwelcome.

‘You have been ill since I saw you last; and you are not very strong even now, I think?’ Adlofstein said interrogatively.

This was a somewhat unfortunate remark, as it was a weakness of Evangela’s to believe that her physical strength was her strong point, and to resent any imputation upon it.

‘Oh, I assure you I am quite well now,’ she exclaimed eagerly. ‘Please don’t think you need stop dancing because of me. Shall we go on now?’

‘Well, no; not if it depends upon my inclination,’ said Adlofstein. ‘We will certainly go on if you prefer it; but I should like to stand here for a few minutes and see the fun.

I have not looked at any of the costumes yet, and perhaps you could tell me who some of the people are. You have been here longer than I have.’

‘I think that your cousin, M. de St. Evre-monde, is one of the most striking figures here. You have recognized him, of course?’

‘No; I have not,’ Adlofstein answered quickly. ‘I only came into the room a few minutes ago, and you were the first person whom I recognized. Which is St. Evremonde?’ ‘He has a tricolour domino—red, white, and blue, with a fleur-de-lis band round the border, and a crown with the word “ Paris ” written on it. There he is—don’t you see him?—standing on the other side of the room. He is not dancing, and I think he is looking at us.’

‘I see him. Certainly, it is a magnificent costume; but what on earth is the meaning of it? The city of Paris does not seem a very appropriate impersonation for a gentleman; but perhaps—is it possible-’ He stopped short, his eyes flashing even through his mask.

‘It is possible that he may have had a double entendre in his mind,’ remarked Evangela unsuspectingly. ‘The costume has a classic reminder in its draperies, and perhaps it is a masculine Paris in French garb that he is personating.’

The words so innocently spoken hit the mark with such manifest precision that they seemed to Adlofstein to go through his heart like a knife-thrust.

‘In that case,’ he said, turning full upon her with a piercing glance, that sought to look through the thin silk that concealed her features and to read their expression—‘in that case, who is Helen?’

Evangela’s heart suddenly began to beat uncomfortably fast, and she felt as if her face were on fire beneath her mask. What had she said to rouse in Adlofstein such an intensity of emotion ?

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I see no Helen here; and I should not think that any girl would care to choose such a part. To appear as the fairest woman in all the world would be rather an assumption.’

‘She would be an unfortunate woman, whoever she were,’ said Adlofstein, with the earnestness of absolute conviction. ‘It would be a position full of peril, and nothing but trouble and discord could come of it.’

Evangela felt all her pulses leap up with anger and vexation. Why was her innocent pleasure to be spoilt like this with hideous warnings? First it was Adlofstein himself against whom she was to be on her guard, and now it was St. Evremonde.

‘I cannot imagine what you can possibly mean by speaking to me in this way, Baron Adlofstein,’ she said with deep annoyance. ‘It is not the first time; but I beg that it may be the last. It is nothing to me what your cousin’s character may be; but I do not care to hear him vilified by you, and I will not listen to it!’

Adlofstein was silent. The band was playing the theme of the waltz for the last time, and he seemed to be listening to it. It was one of Strauss’s most enchanting melodies; but he could never hear that gay measure again without recalling the sense of overwhelming dismay and hopeless heart-sinking that was for ever associated with it in his memory. The mischief was done, then. She cared for St. Evremonde —she cared so much that she would listen to no warning; and whoever tried to force the truth upon her would seem in her eyes nothing but a slanderer and reviler.

‘You misjudge me, Miss Wynne,’ he said at last with singular quietness. ‘It is not for me to vindicate myself from your accusation—I fear that the’ vindication will come only too surely in hard fact and experience. My cousin is my cousin; and since he is my friend as well, it is not likely that I should go out of my way to revile him. We all of us have our faults, and because I know his, and would fain put you on your guard against them, that is no treason against him, I think. On the contrary, he is the one man in the world for whose welfare I am concerned; and he could tell you, if he chose, that I have given him good proof of it.’

The band was striking up the last chords, and people were moving back to their places. Adlofstein offered Evangela his arm to lead her up to the top of the room, and they moved slowly with the stream.

‘I thought,’ said Evangela in the most indifferent tone she could assume, ‘that your horses and your dogs, your gun and your’cello, were the only things in the world that you cared about.’

She spoke quietly, but she was tingling all over with resentment, and if she could have found anything more bitter to say, she would have said it. She thought that she had never disliked anyone so intensely as she disliked Adlofstein at that moment, and her hand rested unwillingly upon his sleeve as if she hated even so light a contact. It was in St. Evremonde’s interest, then, that he was concerned, and he had doubtless administered a warning to him also—or would do so at the first opportunity.

He was afraid lest his cousin should get entangled—bah! Why should she let such stupid thoughts spoil her evening? In a few minutes she would be quit of this gloomy and disagreeable man, and then she would make haste to banish the remembrance of him and his insinuations from her mind. What was he saying now?

‘You know me as little as you do St. Evre-monde, Miss Wynne. I wish the one was likely to matter as little as the other.’

‘I think neither matters in the least,’ Evangela said dryly, and she turned her head away as if she found the masks more interesting than the conversation. As she did so she encountered St. Evremonde’s gaze. He was standing by the wall under a drooping flag of black and yellow, and he had been watching them intently for some time.

‘Who was that tall man she was with?’ he asked himself, and an uncomfortable conviction began to assail him as he noted the lines of the figure in the loose brown domino.

‘The eagle has descended from his perch and interests himself in flowers, you perceive,’ whispered a voice in his ear; and, turning, St. Evremonde found a short gray figure in the ugly disguise of a bat at his side.

‘Who are you, and what do you mean?’ he said harshly. ‘This is not a place in which the Baron Adlofstein would be likely to show himself. Do you pretend that that is he in the brown domino?’

‘Can one mistake?’ was the answer. ‘Is there anyone else of that height and build in the place? Besides, I have it from a sure source that he was to be here, and that a brown domino with eagles feathers was to be his disguise. It is true that this is not the place in which one would expect to see him,’ she went on, as St. Evremonde made no answer; ‘but does not that make the thing all the more significant? You are surely not unaware of what all the town is talking about?’

‘What is that?’ demanded St. Evremonde sharply.

‘Why, that there is likely to be another English Baroness reigning at Adlofstein soon! It was not for nothing, it appears, that the Baron saved the life of the English Mees at Rothenfels, and made up his quarrel with the Bertemilians—what! did you not know that? Oh yes! A reconciliation has been effected, and everyone says that it is the beaux yeux of the English cousin that were the cause.’

‘It is nothing but gossip,’ said St. Evre- monde contemptuously; ‘there is not the slightest foundation for it, and I do not believe a word of it. Who are you, you ill-omened creature of the night, that you make it your business to go about repeating such idiotic tittle-tattle? I tell you there is not a word of truth in it!’

But in his voice and manner the signs of perturbation and annoyance were much too evident to escape the perception of so shrewd a person as Stephanie, and she was satisfied that her hint had not been thrown away.

‘Bats are not so blind as they seem,’ she said oracularly. ‘They can see in a half-light what is invisible to others. But the time will come when this will be clear enough to all the world. You will see!’ and without waiting for a reply she flitted away.

Stephanie, intently on the watch for any indication that might help her in her game, had observed that St. Evremonde’s first choice of a partner had been Evangela. She had overheard his parting petition for another dance, and had noticed that he had not danced again himself, but had been intently watching his cousin; and remembering what she had heard from Thekla through Clothilde, she had rapidly put two and two together, and had arrived at the conclusion that it might not be difficult to make him into a formidable ally. She was an acute reader of character, and she judged that, if St. Evremonde were already interested in the English girl, it might only need a touch to make pique at the idea of being cut out by someone else stimulate him into rivalship. It was a lucky guess that Stephanie had made—how lucky she did not quite know, since she was not aware how strong were St. Evremonde’s other motives for opposing his cousin—but her random shot had hit the mark at a most opportune moment. St. Evremonde was the more disquieted by her hints that they were so much in accordance with his own conclusions.

‘He has come to the ball—a ball, which of all entertainments is the least suited to his tastes and habits; and he has danced with her —he who never dances!’ St. Evremonde said to himself. ‘And it is the talk of the town, is it? The thing is getting serious!’

The ‘Quadrille a la Cour/ a dance much like the ‘Lancers/ was going on, and the combination of costumes was so picturesque as to be well worth watching; but St. Evremonde looked at it without seeing. A waltz was to come afterwards, and he waited for his opportunity.

CHAPTER XXI

‘A SCOUNDREL, YOU SAY?’

‘One more turn round the room, mademoiselle? Dare I venture? Ah, you are too good! I am only afraid of being again betrayed into the indiscretion which gave my cousin Adlofstein such deep offence at Rothenfels. You have no idea how furious he was with me for causing you to over-exert yourself then; I don’t think he has really forgiven me yet.’

The waltz was half through, the music was quickening, the crowd getting denser every moment, and Evangela was breathless with the speed at which she was being whirled round the room; but she did not wish to stop, and St. Evremonde’s reference to his cousin roused all the persistency that was in her.

‘It was no concern of his/ she said indignantly, ‘and he had no right to interfere. I can decide for myself what I can do and what I cannot do/

But even as she spoke she felt a sudden failure of force which disquieted her, and had it not been for a sense of inconsistency, she would at once have requested her partner to stop. The rapid motion, the surging crowd, the lights and flowers, the hot air, the music and the excitement, all combined to strain too far her weakened system. She felt as if her heart would stop beating and she must suffocate, but she struggled to overcome the sensation, hoping that in a few moments it would pass off.

The result was that when she reached the bottom of the room she was incapable of speech, and she collapsed utterly. St. Evre-monde suddenly felt that she had become’a dead weight upon his arm, and she had very nearly fallen away from him before he realized that anything was wrong. They were close to the entrance, and there was a little clear space about the door through which the evening air came in refreshingly. St. Evremonde gave a stifled exclamation when he discovered what had happened, and then he cast a hasty glance round. There was no one very near, and the people who were standing about were entirely occupied in watching the dancers. He hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. It was such an opportunity as he could not have hoped for, and he could not afford to lose it. By calling in a third person he would not only sacrifice it, but he would be putting himself in the wrong as well. She would revive in the air. He passed his arm strongly round the half-unconscious girl, and, partly dragging, partly lifting the slight figure, he made his way unobserved to the balcony outside. There was nobody there except a few waiters, who were standing about, and at one end, where it hung over the precipitous slope of the mountain, the balcony was quite deserted. St. Evremonde carried her there, and the cool evening air blowing in through the trellis had the reviving effect that he hoped for.

He removed the stifling mask, and in the dim light of a rose-coloured lamp that hung from the wall, and vied unsuccessfully with the brightening moonlight from outside, he saw a quiver of her lashes and a tinge of returning colour in her cheek which reassured him. He dropped on one knee, alternately fanning her and chafing her hands, and as he did so he looked intently at the delicate, refined face, and became conscious of an emotion to which he had long been a stranger. What was it that he felt sweeping over him like a purifying and revivifying breath? It took him back into his early youth : it blotted out the smirching years that had rolled between, and it reminded him— of what? When had he felt like this before?

Ah! not since- But he broke off from a train of thought which was painful. She was coming to herself. She had opened her eyes, and was gazing in wonder and bewilderment around.

‘Ah r she said suddenly, ‘I have fainted again. How foolish—how wrong! I am an idiot!’

‘Ah, no, no! don’t blame yourself!’ exclaimed St. Evremonde eagerly. ‘It is entirely my fault. Ah! my dear mademoiselle, if you knew what distress I have been in—how I have been reproaching myself. Adlofstein is right. I am an inconsiderate egoist, a thoughtless wretch, and I can never forgive myself!’

Evangela had withdrawn her hands from his clasp, and he was standing over her; but before she could answer him he had turned sharply round to confront a waiter who had come up.

‘Do I want anything? Yes. A bottle of champagne and ices. What! you haven’t any champagne? Then bring any good wine that you have. Supper for two here, and be quick about it.’

The man hurried away, and St. Evremonde turned to Evangela and laid his hand upon her arm just in time to prevent her from rising from her chair.

‘No,’ he said, ‘you must not go back into that hot room just yet, and before you go you must take some restorative. Ah! you will find that I can be as inexorable as Adlofstein himself. For a few minutes, at least, you must remain here and resign yourself to my care. Oh, Baron Bertemilian? I will make it all right with him. Look, I will write a line on this card to explain that you were feeling faint with the heat of the room and that I am taking-care of you out here. I will send it to him by the waiter, and he will be quite satisfied.’

But Evangela was not satisfied, and there was a light in her eyes which showed it. St. Evremonde saw that she had not the slightest intention of falling in with his arrangements.

‘Ah, mademoiselle,’ he said reproachfully, ‘I see that my cousin has been successful!’

‘Successful! In what way? What do you mean?’ asked Evangela in surprise.

‘He has succeeded in his efforts to prejudice you against me. Ah, yes! I know that he has tried, and I can guess what he would say— but if you really knew! Adlofstein is an excellent fellow in his way, and he and I have always been good friends; but he is inclined to be hard and unsympathetic, and I fancy there are few people who would be likely to show him anything but the merest outside view of their characters. It amuses me sometimes when I see how well he imagines that he knows me, to think what strangers we really are to each other.’

‘I should think that must often happen in life,’ said Evangela, rising from her chair. ‘It is strange, when one comes to think of it, how little of one’s real self is known to anybody. The disguise under which everyone is parading here to-night is much more easily seen through than the everyday one that we all wear. By the way, my mask is gone! Where is it? Did you take it off ?’

‘Yes, mademoiselle. I wanted you to have as much air as possible. Here it is. But, ah! don’t put on the hideous thing just yet. It is not necessary in this quiet corner. You see I have thrown off mine, too. I wish for no disguise at this moment. Let us see each other as we really are.’

The light of the crescent moon was shining through the black woodwork of the balcony trellis, and in the valley far below was a sea of iridescent mist. Down there was Lindenthal, but it was deeply hidden, and the pine-crested mountain-tops rose feathery out of the mist, like fairy islets in an unreal world. To Evangela it seemed as if it were a moment of moments that came like a dream out of the realms of romance. From the dark woods that clothed the mountain - slopes there came a faint, mysterious sighing that bore a delicious fir-scented fragrance upon its breath, and St. Evremonde’s voice in her ear was like some irresistible spell.

‘Stay for one moment!’ he urged—‘just for a moment, since we are here! Ah, here is the waiter with some supper. You will not take any? But a little wine you will—you must, you must indeed! I will not let you go back until you do. Sit down for one instant, mademoiselle!’

He was so much in earnest that, in order to satisfy him, Evangela said she would take a little wine, and she sat down for a moment on one of the chairs drawn up to the little table. It was only for a moment, but in that moment occurred an incident which filled her with vague discomfort and alarm. St. Evremonde sat opposite to her, and poured out the sparkling wine; but as he handed it to her she chanced to raise her eyes, and she suddenly met a glance that sent a cold shiver through her.

A tall figure passing between the red lamp and the small table had cast a shadow over the white cloth and the supper things spread upon it, and, looking up, Evangela saw Adlofstein gazing at her. He was standing with his mask in his hand, the hood of his domino pushed back, and his towering figure erect and stately in the folds of the sombre drapery; but it was the expression of his eyes that struck Evangela —a look of surprise and pain, of reproach and condemnation. It was the look which a man might wear who had come suddenly upon some scene of desecration, and, without understanding what it meant, Evangela felt herself turn suddenly sick and cold at heart. Adlofstein turned away and passed back into the ballroom. It was but for a moment that he had paused, and St. Evremonde had not noticed the shadow; but for Evangela it remained, darkening everything irretrievably. She raised the glass to her lips with a hand that trembled so much that she could hardly keep the contents from spilling; and after she had tasted the wine, she put it down with every vestige of colour gone out of her face.

‘What is the matter?’ asked St. Evremonde, perceiving her sudden agitation, and looking round for the cause. ‘Have you seen anyone? Ah!’—as his eye followed her fascinated gaze, and he saw Adlofstein disappearing through the doorway—‘Adlofstein! Did he see us? But what does it matter if he did?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Evangela nervously, ‘I am sure I don’t know why it should matter, but his look frightened me.’

‘Ah, why?’ he asked, offering her his arm as she rose once more from her chair. ‘Do not be frightened—I assure you there is no cause.’

There was a slight pressure of the crowd as they passed into the ballroom, and St. Evremonde glanced down at the small gloved hand that rested on his arm.

‘Trust to me,’ he said in low but impetuous tones; ‘I will take care of you. And you need not be afraid of my cousin. While my hand can hold a sword, neither he nor any other man shall have power to hurt you. I promise you that!’

He spoke with an earnestness which was genuine enough, for he was getting to hate the man whom he had wronged, and he longed to have a cause of quarrel against him; but his knightly offer did not meet with quite the reception that he could have wished.

‘Oh, please do not talk about swords!’ Evangela said with a sudden change of tone.

‘You do not know how odd and unnatural that sounds to English ears in these days! Of course, I know that I really have no cause to be afraid of Baron Adlofstein. What could he possibly do to me? It was only a momentary feeling; I shall think nothing of it to-morrow.’

In the light and brightness of the crowded ballroom the chill of apprehension that had affected her so strangely was passing off, and St. Evremonde had the tact to fit his manner to her altered mood.

‘Ah!’ he said, ‘to-morrow. Are you looking forward to to-morrow? For my part, I should like to-night to continue indefinitely; but, alas! it is already over. This is the last JVlasken-bal that is beginning now, and then comes the unmasking. There will be one dance more, and I should have liked to have asked you for it, but I fear you will not venture again.’

‘I don’t think that I shall dance any more to-night,’ said Evangela, in the most matter-of-fact tone that she could command. ‘I have been rather imprudent already, I am afraid.’

‘And it is I who am to blame. Ah, Baron Bertemilian!’ St. Evremonde exclaimed, as the Baron, wearing an amused and somewhat significant smile, came up to them, ‘how shall I excuse my indiscretion? I have tried to make amends by taking the best possible care of mademoiselle; I would not suffer her to return to this hot room until she was entirely restored.’

Baron Bertemilian bowed his acknowledgment.

‘Impossible for her to have been in better hands,’ he said graciously. ‘I owe you my best thanks.’

‘Let me add mine, too,’ said Melanie.

St. Evremonde had not appeared to recognize Melanie yet this evening; but she was standing by now in a costume exactly like Evangela’s, and as she spoke in her natural voice, it was impossible to mistake her identity. St. Evremonde turned and bowed to her, and uttered one or two commonplaces such as ordinary politeness demanded; but he did not ask her to dance, and Melanie soon perceived that the omission was intentional. Evangela noticed it also, and looked on with wonder and concern. How was it that St. Evremonde had not asked Melanie to dance once? Why did he not ask her now, when the opportunity was so plainly there? Ah! it was gone! The music had begun, and Melanie had instantly accepted a partner in a grotesque disguise who had come up to offer himself. St. Evremonde was left standing alone with Baron Bertemilian.

‘Are you not going to dance any more, Marquis?’ asked the Baron.

‘Well, no; I think not,’ St. Evremonde replied languidly. ‘My energies are pretty well exhausted, and this is the last dance; it is sure to be too crowded to be agreeable. Ah f he exclaimed, with a rapid change of tone, his eyes following the movements of a couple who were approaching the top of the room, ‘who is that—that gray figure disguised as a bat? She spoke to me earlier on in the evening, and I cannot imagine who it can be. Do you know?’

‘That gray bat?’ said the Baron, with a laugh that was anything but respectful. ‘That is the charming Stephanie von Stillenheim!’

‘Stephanie!’ exclaimed St. Evremonde— ‘she! I wonder why—ah! yes, of course— she would have a motive—I see now I And she is dancing, in the name of all that is wonderful! When it is not Damenwahl f The Baron laughed, highly amused by this cruel, though well-worn, witticism.

‘It is remarkable, certainly/ he said. ‘And who is the happy man, her partner? I do not think I know him; but he has rather a distinguished air.’

It was a tall man in a red, blue, and white domino with whom Stephanie was dancing, and they diverged from the crowd, and whirled quite close past the two men who were watching them.

The Marquis scrutinized them closely, and his nostrils dilated slightly.

‘Very odd! The fellow uses a scent that I thought no one had except myself/ he said, with a look of perplexity not unmixed with annoyance; ‘and he reminds me of somebody —something about his figure, and the way he carries himself. Is it—ah, no; surely not!— but I do believe it is! Oh, the scoundrel!’

‘Who do you think it is?’ inquired Baron Bertemilian with intense curiosity. ‘A scoundrel, you say?’

St. Evremonde turned to him, shaking with suppressed mirth.

‘You would laugh if you knew; but I am afraid I must not enlighten you. It is only a guess, after all, and I may be wrong.’

‘Ah, do tell me!’ said Bertemilian eagerly.

‘I assure you that you may rely upon my discretion!’

St. Evremonde glanced round, laughed again, and then, bending towards his companion, said a few words in a tone audible to no one else.

‘No!’ said the Baron, with a start. ‘Oh, surely that cannot be!’ and then he, too, burst into a laugh of irrepressible amusement.

‘I am almost certain,’ said St. Evremonde. ‘See, here they come again. Yes, it is; there is no doubt!’

‘I wonder if she knows?’ said the Baron. ‘If the fellow is taking her in, she ought to be warned—don’t you think so?’

‘Oh, I don’t know! I expect Stephanie knows pretty well what she is about, and she should be old enough to take care of herself. I should not interfere upon her account, though I might have something to say to him—confound his impudence! And that reminds me— I have been here long enough, and I do not care to stay for the unmasking. I must take my leave of the ladies.’

He turned to Evangela, who was sitting by herself close by.

‘Good-night, mademoiselle. I trust you will quite have recovered from the effects of my thoughtlessness by to-morrow. If I may, I will give myself the pleasure of calling in the afternoon to see how you are.’

Melanie, returning from her rapid tour of the room, overheard what he said as she sank breathless into her chair by Evangela, and she said, in a voice that had a little harsh ring in it: ‘Oh! are you going? I think your cousin, Baron Adlofstein, is leaving also. He was looking for you with his mask in his hand. Here he is.’

St. Evremonde glanced up hastily, and saw Adlofstein approaching with ominously level brows. He did not wish to be confronted with his cousin just then, and he hoped that, seeing what company he was in, Adlofstein would pass on; but he had forgotten that there had been a reconciliation. That part of Stephanie’s information received unpleasant corroboration, as Adlofstein paused, and bowed formally to Baron Bertemilian and to the ladies before he addressed his cousin.

‘St. Evremonde, are you disengaged for to-morrow morning?’ he asked quietly. ‘There is a matter that I wish to speak to you about. It is a matter of importance. Will you come and see me to-morrow morning?’ o St. Evremonde knew only too well what the matter probably was, and he had an uncomfortable conviction that he had come to a crisis in his fortunes; but he allowed no evidence of discomfiture to appear in his good-humoured assent.

‘Oh yes!’ he said pleasantly; ‘I will come— certainly I will come. I also have a communication to make. You are going? Au revoir, then.’

Adlofstein pushed his way to the door through the motley throng. The flaring lights, the hot, excited faces, and the hoarse roar of voices, drowning the wail of the violins, produced upon him the effect of a scene of utter heartlessness, of mirthless laughter, and mock gaiety—a pandemonium which he would never willingly enter again.

He breathed more freely when he found himself outside; and throwing off his domino, he left it to be brought after him in his carriage, and started to walk down the road. It was nearly two o’clock, and the moon had sunk. There was very little light, and the woods and mountains were like black shadows under the great vault of the starlit sky; but at a bend of the road, where a clearance had been made in the trees, the buildings perched upon the mountain-cone became visible, and the Kurhaus, with its many windows blazing with light, shone out like a beacon in the setting of the solemn night-scene.

Adlofstein stopped short in his rapid walk, and stood still to look at the long line of illuminated windows. There was no breath of wind on the mountain-side, and the sighing of the pines was hushed. The night silence was unbroken, for the sounds of revelry going on in the distant ballroom did not reach to this quiet spot; but in Adlofstein’s ears they were echoing still with maddening persistency, and before his eyes was one scene which shut out all others.

The long dark balcony with its lines of coloured lights, the moonlight shining through the lattice, and in the angle at the end those two together—St. Evremonde and she. She to be sitting out there alone with him, for every curious eye to gaze at—what did it mean? What could it mean but one thing? She would not realize the difference between English and Austrian notions in the matter of etiquette, and it was no fault of hers to be there; but she cared for him, there could be no doubt about that now. She would listen to nothing against him; and she had repaid with scorn and disdain the warning of one who would have given his heart’s blood to serve her. Adlofstein recalled with bitterness the coldness with which she had parted from him—the tone of scarcely concealed dislike in her voice. For months he had been thirsting to see her face again—in Italy, Spain, France, and England it had haunted him; it had come between him and the finest sights in the world, and he had hurried through them as through a penance, to be got through as quickly as possible. At last he had reached home—for this!

Adlofstein stood still, a strong soul wrestling with anguish. One hope suggested itself, and he caught at it. St. Evremonde should choose —he should choose between pleasure for the moment and wealth for all his life. To-morrow should decide it.

CHAPTER XXII

‘WILL YOU? WON’T YOU?’

St. Evremonde had said that he was coming on the afternoon after the Masken-bal to see Evangela, but Evangela was resolved that she would not be there to see him; and immediately after the middle-day dinner, while Melanie and Thekla were making the careful toilette that they always considered necessary when they were expecting visitors, she hurriedly put on her walking things, and went out unobserved into the woods.

It was an exquisite June day, and the Rauschenbach ravine, towards which Evangela’s steps had led her, was at its loveliest. The gardens round the little cottages were gay with flowers, the banks of the deep lanes were white with the starry blossoms of the wild service-tree, great bushes of lilac filled the air with perfume, and at every step some new loveliness of blue and green and gray came in sight; but Evangela was little in the mood for enjoying it to-day. Her heart was heavy with the thought of the cloud that had arisen between her and Melanie, and all the way she was fighting against the recognition of what she knew that it really meant. She went on and on along the mossy track that wound with the stream through the valley, till her wanderings brought her at last to a place in the Nadd-wald that she well remembered. The felled tree on which the three girls had rested that day when St. Evremonde had come to them in the wood was still lying with the sunshine upon it on the thick brown carpet of fallen needles, and Evangela sat down on it, and looked up at the grim outlines of the Castle on the spur of the Gabel at the head of the valley.

‘What is the use of pretending to myself that I don’t know what is the matter, when I do know ?’ she said suddenly. ‘She told me that she did not care; but he had given her good reason to care, and she must have changed her mind. Well, I do not care for him. He is nothing to me, and never can be; but with Melanie it is different. It would be a suitable marriage for her, and she has a right to expect that he should ask her. He ought not to have gone out of his way to pay her so much attention as he has done unless he meant something. He thinks that he owes something to me because of what I did for him at Rothenfels, and of course his appreciation is very pleasant for me; but am I, merely for the gratification of my own selfish vanity and enjoyment, going to let Melanie be made miserable? No; I hope I am not such a wretch! If I loved him there might be some excuse for me; but I don’t—and I won’t! Not when Melanie does; and he has given her encouragement to do so. I won’t even think about him.’

It was not so easy, however, Evangela found, to keep her thoughts from recurring to the scenes and incidents of the night before; and even while she made her valiant resolution, the vision of the dimly-lighted balcony, and St. Evremonde’s face bending over her in such concern, was upon her mental retina. She had the means of distraction at hand, however, in a letter from Aunt Anastasia, which had lived, opened, but unread, in her pocket for some days.

She took it out now, and with a little prick of remorse at the stagnation of her interest in the old life, she unfolded the closely-written sheets :

‘My very dear Evangel a’ (was Aunt Anastasia’s conscientious beginning),

‘Your uncle and I are both of us exceedingly glad to hear that you are enjoying yourself so much, that your cousins continue to be so kind to you, and that you are regaining your health. We shall never regret, since it has turned out so fortunately for you, that we put all selfish considerations on one side, and thought only of your welfare, though, of course, it was a little hard upon us to give you up to others, and to have to take a stranger into our house instead.

‘We have suffered much through that dreadful Miss Mills; but now, I am thankful to say, we have got rid of her, and I trust we may never be afflicted with such a creature again. Would you believe it, my dear? that unprincipled woman actually tried to prejudice my own husband against me! She complained to him of all sorts of grievances (which were purely and entirely imaginary), and represented to him that I was worrying her to fiddle-strings. Worrying her to fiddle-strings, my dear! That was the elegant expression she made use of. Of course your uncle Philip told me all, and I repeated to him several derogatory and unflattering things that she had said to me about him, so the little minx did not gain much by her slyness. I had no comfort out of her at all, for it was her delight to sit upstairs in her room all day long trimming her bonnets and altering her gowns. What she wanted with so many clothes I can’t conceive, unless she went out without my knowledge—for she never cared to come anywhere with me; but when I went up to her room to speak to her, I almost invariably found her on her knees at her devotions, so of course I could not say a word. If there is anything that I do utterly abominate and abhor, it is hypocrisy ! Well, at any rate, we have got the woman out of the house now, and I have had her room well washed and scrubbed after her. I suppose I must look out now for someone to replace her for a time—it will be impossible to get a worse, that is one comfort, though your uncle does say there are as bad fish in the sea as ever came out of it—but it is a comfort to me to remember that our summer holiday will be coming on soon, when of course it will be much better for us to be free to go away and leave the servants on board-wages; and then it will not be so very long before your visit to the Bertemilians comes to an end, and you will be coming back to England. You will come to us, of course, dear? And I hope you will always remember that there is a home for you here-’

Evangela dropped the sheet without reading further.

‘No/ she said, with a heavy sigh, ‘that is no home for me, and never can be/

She sat quite still, with the letter on her knee, and her eyes gazing into the sunlit solitudes of the woods; but it was into her future life that she was in reality looking, and the prospect seemed gloomy.

The Baron had, indeed, told her that if she liked to prolong her stay until the end of the year she would be welcome, and at the time, this had seemed a reprieve. She had embraced it gladly, and Melanie’s warm, sisterly affection had seemed a sure guarantee of happiness as long as she stayed; but now this chilly mist which had been silently and imperceptibly rising all through the winter had come between her and her friend, and she felt the ground which had seemed so sure crumbling beneath her feet.

The sound of wheels in the road below her made her look up suddenly, and through the leafy screen of tender green that fringed the pine-wood, she saw a well-appointed barouche, drawn by a pair of spirited chestnut horses, coming into sight. There was only one occupant of the carriage, and as it came nearer Evangela caught her breath as she recognized St. Evremonde.

He was going to Adlofstein, of course, to see his cousin. He had not been to the Berte-milians, then, and her flight had been needless; but, oh! if he were to look up and see her now! She sat without moving hand or foot, so motionless that she might have been carved out of one of the pine pillars on every side of her; and St. Evremonde, who was deep in thought, would never have seen her, though his eyes were turned upon the wood, which he was remembering as the spot where he had first come upon the trio. But Rudolph, the old Kutscher of Adlofstein, knew those woods too well for any unusual apparition in them to escape his long-sighted old eyes, and from his place of vantage on the box he instantly descried the bit of bright colour which the mellow sunlight made, shining upon the scarlet lining of Evangela’s black cloak. He twisted himself round to point it out to the Marquis, and the next moment St. Evremonde jumped out of the carriage and left it to go on at a slower pace towards the Schloss, while he ascended the bank on foot.

‘I find you here, mademoiselle P he exclaimed, as he came up, slightly breathless, but with a very becoming flush of pleasure and interest on his handsome features — ‘here where first I had the pleasure of meeting you. I was looking for the place as I came past; but I never should have seen you had not old Rudolph pointed you out—your dress is so dark, and you kept so still. Ah, I am fortunate indeed to have found you!’

The exultation that was plainly audible in his tone brought a deeper shade of colour into Evangela’s cheeks; but she answered with self-possession :

‘I did not .expect to see you here, monsieur. I thought that you were going to see your cousin in the morning, and you said you were going to visit the Bertemilians this afternoon.’

‘The Bertemilians!’ he repeated. ‘Ah, no! You know, mademoiselle, that it was not to see the Bertemilians that I said I was coming. As for my cousin, I am afraid that I should have put him off till afterwards had he not ensured my coming by sending his carriage for me. It was my intention to go on to Lindenthal this afternoon—but not to see the Bertemilians. It was you that I wanted to see, and you—did you come here to avoid me? Oh, mademoiselle!’

Evangela said nothing, but the colour faded out of her face, leaving her pale, and she raised her eyes to his with a glance of grave surprise. St. Evremonde recognized that mere trifling would serve him nothing with her. and he was impelled to say more than he had intended.

‘Won’t you sit down here for a few moments?’ he said, pointing to the fallen tree at her feet. ‘I wanted to see you because there is something that I wish to say to you—something which concerns my happiness, and perhaps— may I dare to hope it?—yours also. You are not altogether indifferent to me, I hope, mademoiselle?’

‘No, monsieur! answered Evangela, her eyes widening a little; ‘I look upon you as a friend, but naturally more of a friend to the Bertemilians than to me.’

‘Ah, but there you make a mistake. It is not so. It is only your modesty that says so. Surely you must know that I admire you ten times more than either of the Bertemilians? Ah, now you look angry. Why should it vex you? After what has happened, is it not the most natural thing?’

‘No, monsieur—and I wish you would not say it! It does not please me to hear you say it at all.’

‘Not when I tell you that I love you?’

‘No, no, no! You ought not to say that! You do not really mean it/

‘But I do mean it—I mean it most ardently! I have given my whole heart to you, my sweet English dove, and I must have yours in return —I must indeed! Will you not give it me?’ He tried to take her hand, but the effect of his mounting passion upon Evangela was strange. She recoiled a little.

‘It is not right of you to speak like this, M. de St. Evremonde! You know—you must know in your heart, that this is only a passing feeling.’

‘I swear to you that it is not! It is not a passing feeling, and it is not a sudden feeling. Ever since that day at Rothenfels, when you stretched out your hand to save me from a miserable end, you have been in my thoughts. You have taken possession of my heart, and I cannot live without you. Will you not accept my devotion?’

‘It is impossible.’

‘Impossible! Why is it impossible? Is it impossible for you to love me?’ he asked.

‘Yes — I think so. I am very sorry, monsieur.’

‘Mon Diett,, mademoiselle!’ said St. Evre-monde with an agitation which was very far from being feigned. ‘This is a blow indeed! You do not perhaps realize what it is to me to hear you say this. Is there, then, some obstacle? Do you love someone else?’

‘Oh no,’ said Evangela quickly.

‘Ah! if that is the case, then I can hope. I will not take an answer now. I will wait, and in time you may read your heart differently. If you knew how much I love you, I cannot believe that you would reject me.’

The yellow sunlight, streaming through a gap in the pines on the edge of the wood, fell full on Evangela’s slight, black-robed figure, and lighted up the scarlet lining of the cloak which fell in full folds about her. Her face, under the shadow’ of her great black hat, was ivory wdiite, but there was a soft rose flush on either cheek, and her beautiful dark eyes were full of light. St. Evremonde’s passion gathered strength as he looked at her.

‘You are very cruel to me, mademoiselle! You will not give me a word of hope before I go ?’

‘It would be of no use,’said Evangela firmly.

‘It would—and 1 will get it still! My cousin is waiting for me—not too patiently, I expect— and I must go now; but I shall see you again, and soon. Till then, adieu! Adieu, Evangela, and may Heaven soften your hard heart!’

Evangela was, perhaps, not so hard-hearted as she seemed. The kiss that he pressed upon her hand before he left her had power to thrill her strangely, and as she stood in the magic of the summer sunshine and the strong, sweet fragrance of the pines, there opened suddenly before her eyes a new vista in her life—new hopes, new possibilities. But Melanie? Evangela caught her breath suddenly as she thought of her friend, and the secret grief which she realized now with fuller and deeper insight. She remembered Melanie’s face with the look upon it that she had seen last night, and as she thought of it her lips trembled, and the tears rushed into her eyes. She flung herself upon her knees upon the brown carpet of fallen pine-needles, and the tears that Aunt Anastasia believed were not hers to shed rained down her face.

‘O God!’ she prayed passionately, ‘keep me from this—keep me from this! Let me suffer if I have to. I can bear it. But let me never, even in ignorance, cause disappointment and loss and sorrow that will shadow the life of anyone whom I love. Let me not act, or wish to act, so as to ruin the happiness of a sister woman.’

Melanie’s happiness depended upon St. Evre-monde. If Evangela had entertained any doubts about that before, she had none now. Her own affections were not involved, and as she knelt among the pines, she made up her mind that they never should be.

‘He has not behaved well to her; he has not treated her fairly—therefore he is not good. A man like that is not to be trusted, and for my own sake alone, without considering her, it would be better for me to have nothing to do with him. As it is, there can be no question about it. My course is clear, and yet it is hard. If he really loves me, and I should be throwing away a good gift that I shall never have offered to me again-’

A light breath of wind that had sprung up from the south came softly stirring the branches of the pines. It died away like a sigh in the tree-tops, but as it went, it fluttered a thin sheet of paper that lay in a patch of sunshine near the old log. Evangela’s attention was caught by it, and, mechanically reaching out her hand to pick it up, her eyes fell upon a sentence in Aunt Anastasia’s stiff, pointed handwriting that she had read before.

‘It will not be so very long before your visit to the Bertemilians comes to an end, and then you will be coming back to England. You will come to us, of course, my dear-’

Evangela let the letter fall again. She looked for a moment blankly along the serried lines of the pines to the point where St. Evre-monde had disappeared, and the frowning rock of Adlofstein, with its gray towers steeped in the June sunshine, blocked the view; then, hiding her face in her hands, she burst suddenly into irrepressible sobs, and cried heartily and unheroically.

CHAPTER XXIII

A GOLDEN GIFT.

When St. Evremonde, a little out of heart from the check he had just received, and a good deal out of breath from the steepness of the ascent, arrived in the courtyard of Schloss Adlofstein. he encountered his cousin’s two little white dogs, who flew at him, yapping and snarling, and making the most unfriendly demonstrations towards his legs; and he was about to vent some of his ill-humour by administering correction to them, when he perceived the presence of their master.

Adlofstein was standing on the top of the high flight of steps between the eagles before the great doors of the Castle, and from his look it was clear that he had learned the cause which had sent the carriage back empty.

‘What a toil it is to get up here!’ St. Evremonde observed with some petulance. ‘I have not an atom of breath left to mount those interminable steps up to your room; besides, I cannot stay long. Shall we go into the garden? I have something very particular to say to you.’

‘And I also to you, my friend,’ said Adlofstein sarcastically. ‘It is why I sent my carriage for you. I thought you had forgotten your appointment for this morning.’

‘Mon Dieu! my dear Louis,’ expostulated St. Evremonde; ‘what could you possibly expect? I did not get to bed until about three this morning, and, naturally, I was not up till twelve.’

‘I see—naturally. Well, you are here now, at any rate, and you have something to say to me; may I hear what it is?’

They had passed through a massive archway in the wall, and St. Evremonde turned and looked at his cousin with a smile as brilliant as the glowing gardens that they were pacing.

‘It is a piece of news,’ he said, ‘and you are the first person to hear it. To begin with, do you guess what has kept me this afternoon— with whom I have been in your woods? Yes, I see you do. Well, it was the charming English heroine, and it is about her that I desire to speak to you.’

Adlofstein stopped short suddenly, and faced his cousin with an ominously intent gaze.

‘Yes, go on,’ he said briefly. ‘What have you to say about her?’

‘Only that I have arrived at a point to which I have been tending for some time. I feel that I cannot do without her, so completely has the little witch enslaved me! Last night in the balcony—did you see us?—things went pretty far; but this afternoon, when we were all alone in the woods-’ St. Evremonde paused, and looked away to the blue peaks in the sunny distance with an inscrutable smile on his lips— the smile of a man musing on some recollection that is altogether pleasant.

‘This afternoon! What happened this afternoon?’ Adlofstein asked, breaking a short and startled pause. ‘Explain yourself, St. Evremonde; I insist.’

‘Well, I let her perceive the feelings with which she has inspired me, and she’ — St. Evremonde turned his smiling eyes full upon his cousin’s face—‘she—well, I think I have no reason to despair.’

Adlofstein’s eyes flashed, and he returned the glance with one of undisguised anger and disdain.

‘Do not be too confident,’ he said, in a voice of concentrated hostility. ‘She may be susceptible and weak—most women are, I suppose, when a handsome man who flatters them is in the case—but she is young and inexperienced, and I am not going to stand by and see her youth and inexperience taken advantage of. In the end it can only lead to disappointment and heartbreak-’

‘Why?’ asked St. Evremonde, interrupting him coolly. ‘Do you think, then, that I shall make such a bad husband as all that?’

‘Husband!’ repeated Adlofstein, with a start.

‘Do you mean, then—are you so much in earnest as that? You would really marry her?’

‘What else can I do?’ asked St. Evremonde, with a touch of gloom. ‘Oh, I assure you, my friend, I understand the situation perfectly! It is you who do not understand. You do not realize how deeply my feelings are involved. And, after all, she is so good, so sweet, so charming! Do you not think I might do much worse?’

Adlofstein was silent. He looked straight before him without a sigh, and after a brief pause St. Evremonde went on quickly :

‘Of course she has no money, and that, if it had not been for your generous provision for me, would have been an insuperable difficulty; but that provision makes all the difference, and I feel that the greatest part of the boon that you bestow on me is in enabling me to marry for inclination instead of for necessity. She will make me happy; and when she is my wife-’

He broke off suddenly, startled by a crash at his side. Adlofstein had been standing by a large vase that was filled with flowering plants, and a convulsive movement of his hand had sent it toppling from its base on to the ground, where it lay in a hundred pieces. ‘Mon Dieu, my friend! that is an unfortunate accident. How did it happen?’ exclaimed St. Evremonde in a voice of concern. ‘What a start you gave me!’

‘Never mind about the vase—what does it matter?’ said Adlofstein impatiently. ‘What were you saying? When she is your wife—so you have already presented the golden gift?’

‘The golden gift? What do you mean? Ah, I see! A pretty conceit—very apt! But, my dear Louis, you do not congratulate me; and you speak as if you were displeased. Of course I know that it is not quite the sort of alliance that I might have made; but you do not object, do you ? You are not opposed to it?’

‘It would be no use if I were, I suppose? I do not think you are in the least suited to her; and I cannot believe that you will make her happy. However, if she thinks so, and she loves you-’

‘Extraordinary taste on her part, isn’t it?’ said St. Evremonde, with a laugh; ‘ but there is no accounting for taste in these matters. And now you had something to say to me, had you not? What is it? for I must not stay much longer, since I have an engagement that I must keep.’

‘After what you have told me, there is no need for what I meant to say,’ said Adlofstein with an effort. ‘And yet, I don’t know—I intended to warn you that I was not going to stand by and suffer you to play fast and loose with this young lady. Perhaps it is as well even now that you should know that there is somebody who is determined to watch over her interests.’

‘I am much obliged to you, my dear Louis,’ said St. Evremonde, showing a touch of offence at last; ‘but the moment that she consents to become my wife her interests will be mine, and afterwards- Well, I expect that I shall be as kind to her as most men are to their wives.’

They had reached the archway at the end of the terrace that opened into the courtyard of the Castle, and St. Evremonde turned to say-good-bye. Adlofstein returned his greeting almost mechanically, and he made no response to the last remark; but his face was so ashy gray that St. Evremonde felt a momentary touch of compunction. The thrust had indeed gone home.

‘I shall be as kind to her as most men are to their wives.’ The words echoed in Adlofstein’s ears after St. Evremonde was gone, and it was as if he had been dealt a blow that left an agonizing, maddening pain.

‘She is mine—mine; meant for me, as I was meant for her!’ was the silent cry of his stricken heart. ‘She does not know it—she does not love me; but she would. Such love as mine compels its return; and I could have made her happy as no one else can ever do. She belongs to me by that bond of affinity that drew us together the first day that we met. I felt it hen without knowing what it was, and it grew closer and stronger each time that I saw her, until that day when I carried her in my arms, and I knew! Oh, my darling, my darling! And I must give her up to St. Evremonde.

‘St. Evremonde—St. Evremonde! he is to have everything, even this; and I must be crushed utterly, that his happiness may rise upon the ruins of mine! It is not enough that he is to take my place here and succeed to all that I possess, he must also win the woman whom I love, and make me the instrument of his doing so. He could not marry her but for my promise; and since her happiness is involved, since she loves him, I cannot alter it. I cannot thwart him without injuring her, and that I will never do. He will be her husband—St. Evremonde-’

Adlofstein recalled the word so lightly uttered by his cousin, and the dark-red blood flushed his face as he thought of all that it meant. He realized it all—his imagination spared him nothing, and he was consumed with a sense of wrong and anguish that seemed too intolerable to be borne. He looked round upon the peaceful beauty of the gardens with eyes that burned, and then, as if to seek escape from the inexorable blow of fate that had found him there, he turned his back upon it, and hurried into the house.

Blitz and Spitz were on guard before the door, and they flew up the stairs in front of their master, and tumbled over each other in the doorway of his sitting-room in their anxiety to be first; but the uproar that followed as Blitz jumped into the coveted chair, and Spitz pulled him out by the tail, was speedily suppressed.

‘Get out, you little wretches,’ said Adlofstein, unsympathetically ejecting them both. ‘Must you, too, emulate the greed and heartlessness that is the way of the world? Get along with you, then, and go to the mistress to whom you really belong. I will have none of you.’

The unruly pair fled with lowered tails and drooping ears before the sentence of dismissal; and closing the door behind them, Adlofstein shut himself in—a rich man beggared of happiness.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE STORY OF THE SHADOW.

‘But, Melanie! My dear creature! What has come to you? And to you, too, Vangela?

Both of you as glum and as unmoved as stones, with this delightful pleasure in prospect—is it possible that you have not taken it in, that the Marquis is giving a “peek-neek,” and that we are invited?’

Thekla had come in glowing with the intelligence, and she stood aghast to see it fall flat where she had counted upon the utmost enthusiasm and excitement.

‘I find for my part,’ observed Melanie languidly, ‘that “ peek-neeks ” are a mistake when there is a mixed lot of people like one has here. The Stillenheims are invited also, you say? I do not think that I shall care to go.’

‘Melanie!’ cried Thekla in horrified reproach.

‘Oh, of course you and Vangela will go! There is no reason why you should not,’ said Melanie coldly.

‘No, Melanie. If you stay at home, I shall stay with you/ Evangela said quickly; ‘I really do not care to go to this picnic, and I would ever so much rather stay with you. Do let us arrange it so, and then Thekla can go with Stephanie Stillenheim.’

‘Thank you, my dear Vangela!’ replied Thekla angrily; ‘and what if I don’t like to go with that horrid Stephanie? Really and truly, I should like to shake you both. A week ago you would have been mad with joy at such an idea, and now here you are turning up your noses at it. What is the matter with you?’

What, indeed, was the matter? Melanie knew but too well. She was jealous of her friend, and she secretly despised and hated herself for it—yet she could not help it. For a long time she had fought against it; but, in spite of herself, the demon of jealousy had taken possession of her, and now it was like a poison in her heart, filling her with bitterness and envy. She hated Evangela, whom she had always believed to be so true a friend. She hated St. Evremonde, whom she loved. She hated herself; there were times when she felt as if she hated all the world. It had been a miserable experience for her. The visit to Rothenfels had left behind it a phantom of doubt and misgiving that had haunted her all through the winter, and the masquerade on the Schwarzenberg had come as a climax, which had enlightened her as to the state of her feelings and the signification of St. Evremonde’s altered manner.

Under these circumstances, the picnic organized by the Marquis could only be the mockery of a pleasure for her—yet the day, when it came, brought with it a gleam of hope and brightness. It was St. Evremonde’s picnic, to arrange as he pleased; why, then, did he not choose Evangela for his companion during the drive? There were three carriages, and three persons in each; but Evangela was in the first, while St. Evremonde jumped into the last with Melanie and Stephanie Stillenheim. Evangela had said that she did not care to go, and she had evidently meant it. She had run away on the afternoon when St. Evremonde was expected, and had stayed away the whole time that he would have been likely to have remained, had he come. Was it possible that she did not care for him, and that there was still a hope—still a chance of the happiness that had seemed so hopelessly gone? Melanie leant back in her place opposite St. Evremonde, with her soft golden hair lighted up by the sunshine, and her beautiful amber eyes shining; and as she met his glance of admiration, the cloud that had hung darkly over her for so long lifted a little.

It was a gloriously bright and beautiful summer day, and the Rauschenbach Valley, through which their route took them, was like a dream of beauty under the sky of cloudless blue. As they passed the Castle, Stephanie turned to look at it.

‘There is no Schloss in the country that has a more splendid situation than Adlofstein,’ she said with a stifled sigh; ‘look how imposing it appears from here—so strong and stately, is it not? And the gardens—how beautiful! But how is it that Baron Adlofstein is not of our party—your cousin, monsieur? I should have thought that you would not have failed to secure him.’

‘Adlofstein!’ repeated St. Evremonde with a laugh; ‘do you consider that he would be an acquisition to the party, Baroness? I don’t think this sort of thing is much in his way.’

‘As much as a bal masqtid, don’t you think?’ said Stephanie. ‘I should not be surprised at seeing him anywhere after that; and since there is as much attraction to-day, I quite expected that he would have joined us.’

St. Evremonde perceived that Stephanie spoke with intention, and remembering the remarks of the gray bat, he was annoyed.

I am sorry that you should be disappointed,’ he said with malicious courtesy; ‘I am sure that if he had known that you were coming, it would have been a sufficient incentive to have brought him on an even more uncongenial excursion. I regret a thousand times that I did not happen to mention it. But, oh, my dear Baroness!’ he exclaimed, turning to Melanie, ‘here we are at the foot of the Gabel, and I see that some of the party are alighting to walk through the woods—do you not think it is a good idea? It will be pleasanter than driving along the zigzag road in the very eye of the sun/

At the fork of the mountain just beyond the Castle, the road began a winding ascent. It was so gradual, and so splendidly engineered, that the horses might have trotted all the way up to the top of the precipitous mountain barrier; but it was a long way, and there was a short-cut for foot-passengers through the woods. It was more for the sake of variety and diversion than in order to spare the horses that St. Evremonde suggested the walk; but he had his own ends, that he was on the watch to serve, and he manoeuvred for an opportunity.

Evangela had come to the picnic with a firm determination to keep well out of St. Evre-monde’s way, and she was more than satisfied with the arrangements for the drive. When she got out to walk, and saw Melanie, with all her old brightness come back, setting forth amongst the foremost of the walkers with St. Evremonde by her side, she told herself that she had done right; and she took care to remain well in the rear of the party. She thought that she was perfectly safe, and she lingered a little to gather some blue anemones that she saw shining like stars out of the green of the wood; but as she came back to the path, she saw with dismay that St. Evremonde was coming back in search of her, and that all the others were out of sight.

‘Ah, mademoiselle!’ he exclaimed, ‘you look quite idyllic with those blue flowers against your white dress; but you forgot to consider our feelings when you strayed away from us. We thought that we had lost you altogether, and have been giving ourselves up to all sorts of melancholy conjectures.’

‘Have you had to come back to look for me?’ asked Evangela with concern. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Are you?’ he said, with a sudden change of tone; ‘I am not. I have been longing to see you ever since that day in the woods of the Rauschenbach—can you not imagine that I have? I have arranged this party simply and solely in order that I might have an opportunity of speaking to you, and what better chance could I ask than this that fate has given me? Ah, do not quicken your steps—stay for one moment f ‘The others will be waiting,’ said Evangela desperately; ‘I must go on.’

‘What does it matter about the others? But they won’t have to wait. You may be easy about that. The carriages will take twice as long to get round as we shall. I want my answer, Vangela—I cannot be kept any longer in suspense. Tell me, did you fully understand what I said to you the other day? I think perhaps you did not?’

‘Yes, I did/ said Evangela, raising her eyes and looking at him from under her black lashes with a troubled but steady gaze. ‘I understood but too well, M. le Marquis, and I am very sorry ; but what I said then I must say again now.’

‘But, Vangela, that is not the answer that I want, and I will not take it! I love you, and I ask you to become my wife. You do not mean to say that you refuse me?’

‘Yes, monsieur.’

‘You will not marry me?’

‘No.’

‘No—no?’ he exclaimed in blank dismay. ‘You say “ no,” mademoiselle? Ah! you cannot mean it? Stay!’ putting his hand on her arm to arrest her as she was about to move on, ‘you must hear me—you must have compassion on me! I throw myself at your feet— I am completely at your mercy! Dictate to me your own terms, but withdraw that cruel “ no ”! You must not say “ no ”!’

St. Evremonde had, indeed, thrown himself upon his knees upon the rough path before her, and Evangela felt as if she had suddenly been transplanted into the middle of some melodramatic play. The perfection of his get-up, and the dust and stones on which he was sacrificing it, struck her with a sense of discomfort and incongruity. She was divided between amusement and distress; but distress prevailed.

‘Please get up, M. de St. Evremonde,’ she said imploringly. ‘I am sorry beyond measure for this, though I don’t think it has been my fault. I should not be at all a suitable wife for you, and I am sure the day will come when you will be glad that I had the sense to see it. You will forget me very soon, and marry someone who is more worthy of you.’ ‘Never! never!’ said St. Evremonde, with fervour. ‘I shall never forget you. I shall never see any woman more worthy. I am not worthy of you. That I know; but I mean to win you. I will have no one but you, and you shall have no one else but me!’

He was looking at her with his handsome face alight with passion, and he meant every word that he said. He saw the slender figure in the white gown under a sky of purest blue, with the starry blue flowers in her hand and in her belt against the soft blue haze of the wooded background; and at the moment he felt a fascination whose strength made him feel able to bear down any opposition that she was capable of making. He had never taken into account that a simple impressionable girl like this should be able to withstand him when he was really in earnest, and he did but think her the more adorable for her shy resistance. Evangela was indeed moved. She could not hear the ring of passion in his voice and not recognize it for the real thing. It touched her as the real thing alone could have done, and she was moved and startled. A mist seemed to rise before her eyes, and she could not speak, but the thought flashed across her mind : ‘This is real love, and I am going to refuse it—will it ever come near me again?’

Look!’ said St. Evremonde, springing to his feet, and taking both her hands in his, as he thought he saw her wavering. ‘Look! You see the towers of Adlofstein rising through the trees down there—you saw the gardens as you came past—the fertile valley, the far-reaching woods, the splendid estate that stretches for miles over the mountains? Well, it will be mine some day—a day which cannot be very far off—and I offer it all to you! Adlofstein has made his will in my favour, and he will never marry now. He is not likely to live long, and it is virtually mine now; but I care nothing for it without you. You shall share it with me.’

‘Please do not go on, M. de St. Evremonde,’ said Evangela in great agitation. ‘It is quite useless, and nothing that you can offer can make any difference.’

But he did not seem to hear her.

‘Think,’ he said forcibly—‘think of all that you would gain : wealth, rank, and a husband who would be devoted to you! You would be happy—you would indeed! And think, if you refuse all this, what remains for you. What have you to look to when you leave the Berte-milians? Have you a home? Have you friends? Is there anybody who will ever do for you what I would?’

It was the whisper of Evangela’s own heart that St. Evremonde was putting into words, and the appeal had power to move her. She did not love him. Even when he had attracted her most, there had always been something which had repelled her—some underlying current in his nature which every now and then gave her a sense of vague shrinking and distrust — and when he spoke of Adlofstein and the advantages that he expected to reap at his death, she could not repress a shudder. She shrank from him, and yet she was fascinated, and in her inexperience of her own heart she might have yielded had she acted on the impulse of the moment. But she had fought out her battle, and come to her decision in that conflict with herself on the floor of the Rauschen-bach pine-wood, when her love for Melanie had been the deciding factor; and now, when she might have been tempted to reverse it, the remembrance of Melanie’s brightened face, as she had seen it that very morning, came to weigh down the balance and turn the scale against St. Evremonde.

The Marquis, watching the changing expression of her face, saw that he was making no way, and recognized with a thrill of anger and perturbation that he was dashing himself against a dead wall. A half-formed fear, which had entered his mind at Rothenfels, and had been laid to rest, at once recurred to him now, and a sudden jealousy took possession of him that deprived him for the moment of judgment and self-control.

‘You said there was no one else—you assured me of that,’ he said accusingly. ‘But it seems to me that there is something—some difficulty—to make you so obdurate. There is some person who stands in my way?’

Then, as Evangela was silent, he said abruptly: ‘Tell me, has my cousin Adlofstein ever said anything to you?’

Evangela looked up with a start. She immediately thought of the warnings that Adlofstein had thrown out about his cousin, and her cheeks crimsoned at the remembrance. She said nothing; but St. Evremonde saw the involuntary admission in her eyes, and was completely misled.

‘He has! I see he has F he exclaimed impetuously. ‘Of course, I knew that he was in love with you, and that you were probably aware of it; but, then, I thought you also knew the circumstances of the case. Do you not know—has he not told you—that he can never marry? He has sworn that he will not perpetuate the curse that hangs over his branch of the family, and he is not likely to break his oath. Do you know what the curse is? Adlofstein would fain forget it; but the knowledge of it is like a continual horror before his eyes—’

‘Please stop, M. de St. Evremonde; I assure you that you are under a complete misconception. Baron Adlofstein has never given me the slightest reason for supposing that—that he has any interest in me, and I have never for an instant imagined such a thing. I beg of you not to enter into any family secrets under that delusion/

St. Evremonde looked searchingly at her for a moment, and did not believe her. He saw that she was blushing from chin to brow, and he was convinced that she was keeping something back.

‘1 will not tell you what was the wickedness which brought this awful curse upon the House of Adlofstein,’ he said; ‘indeed, it would not be fit for you to hear. But you ought to know, and you shall know, its nature, for without that you can hardly understand Adlofstein’s position. There is insanity in his family—oh, that is nothing—that is not it. There-is insanity in many families, but not as it is in this one. For two hundred years it has gone on, ever since the unspeakably wicked life that called down the curse, and in the third and fourth generation it breaks out always in some terrible form. For two generations there is peace, and the representatives of the house may be men of high moral character and absolute sanity; but in the third generation the taint never fails to come out. It generally shows itself in the form of melancholia or hypochondria; then in that man’s successor it develops into homicidal madness, and you have some awful act of cruelty and crime. Mademoiselle, the Baron Lothar, Louis’s father, was the only living representative of the third generation, and after years of brooding misery he died. You know the circumstances of his death. And now Louis is the sole representative of his race in the fourth generation.’

The sun was shining gloriously in the cloudless blue; the great gray rocks jutting out through the green on the hillside were warm with glowing patches of red and yellow in the mellow light, and on every side was a glory of light and colour, with the stately towers and turrets of Adlofstein rising in the midst. St. Evremonde had paused to note the effect of his disclosures, but it was not what he had intended. The story was to Evangela a revelation—the explanation of all that had seemed strange and inexplicable in Adlofstein, and she was gazing at the scene before her with a sharp sense of the sadness of human pain set in the midst of Nature’s loveliness—of the mockery of these great possessions to the man who stood shadowed by so awful a gloom. St. Evremonde could not fathom her thoughts, but her long silence made him uneasy, and he was dissatisfied with the impression that he had made.

‘It is no wonder that, knowing what he does, Louis should feel bound never to marry,’ he said, breaking at last into her abstraction. ‘I am not a superstitious man myself, and I should not be inclined to attach undue importance to old legends and traditions, but the facts in this case are too stubborn to be disregarded, and they are not to be accounted for by any mere theory of accident or coincidence. Do you know what was the record of Louis’s greatgrandfather? He was a man singularly like Louis in appearance and disposition—his portrait used to hang in the dining-room, but Louis has had it taken down and banished to some unused room—and up to middle life his mind was unshadowed except by a certain melancholy which was occasioned by the sudden and tragic death of his father under strange and inexplicable circumstances. The existence of the taint in him was never suspected until he married; but then the demon broke loose. It showed itself at first in the abuse of his great personal strength, which he used to inflict suffering upon others—on animals first, then on human beings. He rode his horses till they dropped; he beat his dogs to death; he tortured every living creature that he could get hold of. Then on his unfortunate wife and children, and the members of his own house, his insane delight in cruelty found vent, and he subjected them to every torment that a fiendish imagination could suggest. In the end he became a raving maniac, and, after murdering his wife, he flung himself from the battlements of the Castle keep, and was dashed to pieces on the stones of the courtyard. His brains were scattered over the stone eagles. That was the history of Wladislas von Adlofstein, Louis’s great-grandfather, and a hundred years back another ancestor had a history as terrible-’

‘Ah, hush, hush! Do not tell me any more!’ cried Evangela, with a gesture of horror and indignation. ‘I have heard enough, and too much! Why do you tell me these frightful details, M. de St. Evremonde? Do you think that I am not sufficiently sorry for your cousin already? Oh, what an appalling inheritance to be heir to! And he believes it all—I know he does. Oh, I am sorry for him!’

The effect of the story was the very opposite of what St. Evremonde had counted upon. If he had wished to invest his cousin with the attributes of a hero who should fill the imagination of a girl like Evangela, he could scarcely have done it more effectively. A man singled out for misfortune and isolated among his fellows, yet enduring it in stern silence and dignity—this was the character in which Adlofstein now appeared to Evangela, and the hint which St. Evremonde had thrown out of his feelings towards her only added to the interest of this heroic and unique position. She had repudiated the idea with the vehemence of absolute conviction; but the suggestion had been made, and as it had its foundation in truth, it was hardly likely that her eyes would remain for long blind to the reality. St. Evremonde had blundered strangely in that interview, and for the rest of the day he was in an evil frame of mind.

‘Mille diablcs f he said to himself, as they joined the rest of the party, and he took his place by Melanie; ‘what is the explanation of it—that she loves someone else? And that someone is Adlofstein, of course. Well, we shall see. But if she is forced to take me, after all, as I intend, it will be the worse for her! She shall pay for this, and dearly! For the present she shall see what it is to have the devotion which was offered to her given before her eyes to another. There is no lever that can move a woman so effectively as the passion of jealousy; and there is jealousy between those two, unless I am much mistaken. Through Melanie I will win Evangela.’

To the pursuance of this design St. Evremonde devoted his whole energy during the remainder of the expedition, and for Melanie the day was a brilliant success, which came to an end all too soon. The simple repast in the little Thee-garten of the village Gasthaus, the exploration of the quaint old church and Stadthaus, and the drive home through the pine-forests, where the deer fled before the carriages, and the glare of the charcoal-burners’ piles vied with the glow of the sunset through the trees—there was nothing to chronicle in all this; but it was not without its fateful influence on the members of that pleasure-party.

Evangela was very silent during the long homeward drive; but it was because she had much to think about. The tender lights of green and rose in the western sky were dying out as they crossed the Gabel, and the sentinel pines on the crests of the hills around were blackening every moment. The Rauschen-bach ravine was in deepest shadow, and the gray towers of Adlofstein were barely visible amongst the hanging woods; but high up in the western turret a light was shining through the stone mullions of an oriel window. There Adlofstein was sitting alone- Evangela looked back as they drove on through the deepening twilight towards the lights of Lindenthal, and into her heart there stole the first strange stirrings of an awakening that as yet she dreamed not of.

CHAPTER XXV

SATANELLA.

It was an unusually gay summer at the Schwarzenberg, and the Bertemilians, no longer shadowed by the cloud that had isolated them for so long, walked in the full sunshine of the society that they delighted in, A certain Grand-Duke had come to stay at the Kurhaus to try the waters, and in his suite was Count Gabriel d’Ecoronata, the elder of the two brothers whom the Bertemilians had met at Rothenfels. He had been a very decided admirer of Thekla’s; and interest was not the word to express that young lady’s state of mind when she learned that he was coming to stay for an indefinite time in the neighbourhood.

On Wednesdays and Saturdays the band, instead of playing on the Freiheit immediately under the Bertemilians’ windows, now played up at the Schwarzenberg; and on those days everybody of consequence in the town and neighbourhood was to be seen promenading on the broad gravelled walk cut out of the mountainside just below the Kurhaus.

Evangela did not look forward to these afternoons with the enthusiasm of the other two. She enjoyed the music, for the black-avised Kapell-meister was a real musician, and he knew how to vary his Strauss with Chopin and Wagner; but she disliked the monotonous promenade along the terrace, and on Sundays it was especially uncongenial to her. She could not have stayed away, however, without preventing the two girls from going; and seeing what a delight and satisfaction it was to them, she had not the heart to do that. She only stipulated that they should never expect her to stay for the dance inside the Kurhaus which sometimes closed the Sunday fete; and Melanie made the less difficulty about promising this, as those dances were not generally patronized except by the townspeople.

But what troubled Evangela most was the conduct of St. Evremonde. She had been afraid that there must be some awkwardness, at least, in having constantly to meet and talk to him as if nothing had happened, and it was a relief to her at first to find that he had so readily and completely given her up to return to his old allegiance. This was what she wished; and though it did perhaps cost her a momentary pang to see Melanie’s happiness, and think that it might have been hers, yet she never really grudged it. St. Evremonde had once or twice come perilously near to touching her heart; but her own instinct and loyalty to her friend together had kept the citadel, and she had never loved him.

She recognized this more and more clearly as the summer went on, and she learnt to know him better. By accident or design he was always with the Bertemiiians, and his devotion to Melanie was so marked that it was universally supposed that she was the attraction. For some time Evangela thought so, too; and as long as she believed that, she was quite willing to saunter about at the musical parades with Baron Bertemilian, while Melanie walked with the Marquis, and Thekla with Count Gabriel. To Evangela St. Evremonde’s manner was always consistently formal and polite, and she was content that it should be so; but this acquiescence did not please him at all, and as time went on, and he was no nearer to his object, he chafed under his ill-success. Then Evangela became aware that something was wrong. Her clear eyes saw that Melanie’s high spirits were forced and unnatural; she had intervals of despondency and petulance, and she was never really happy. Thekla was too much absorbed in her own concerns to notice much; but Evangela could not help drawing conclusions that made her uneasy, and at last the day came when her eyes were opened to the real state of the case.

It was a hot Sunday afternoon in August, and Evangela had been marching up and down the obnoxious terrace, meeting the same people and exchanging commonplace remarks until she was tired out. She got Baron Bertemilian to take her at last to a seat on a little knoll close by, where a clump of trees gave some shade, that she might rest; and there he left her, promising to return to fetch her in a few minutes.

Evangela, left to herself, leaned back on the rustic bench, listening to the band music, and gazing at the great plain of Southern Germany, which stretched from the foot of this outlying spur of the mountains towards the horizon as far as the eye could reach. A soft blue haze that hung low over the plain had in the distance the effect of a misty strip of sea, and Evangela was looking at it, with a sudden longing for the wholesome freshening salt-water of which its delusive blue reminded her, and thinking that she would bring Melanie here that she might gain an idea of the appearance of the sea, which she had never seen, when she heard a voice and a step close behind her—not Melanie’s. She turned quickly, to see St. Evremonde bending over the back of the bench; and something in his manner and expression filled her with vague discomfort and alarm.

‘You did not hear me coming, mademoiselle?’ he said, making his way to her side. ‘You were so absorbed in your day-dream! I hope I did not startle you.’

‘Oh no,’ she said hastily; ‘I thought it might be Baron Bertemilian. I was expecting him to come and fetch me, but I think perhaps he has forgotten. I am going to look for Melanie.’

‘No!’ he said, with a sudden resolute ring in his voice; ‘you are not going to be so unkind. Do you not see that I want to speak to you? I have been waiting in vain for a chance, for I do not know how long, and I am not going to be cheated of this. I implore you to stay here.’

It was more of a command than an entreaty, and as he had seated himself beside her, and laid his hand with some force upon her arm, Evangela had no choice but to comply.

She sat quite still, and she turned rather pale; but she looked at St. Evremonde with a steady brightness in her eyes, and a slight straightening of the lines of her mouth that was not encouraging. He looked at her in silence for a moment, and the perception of her strength of will compelled his admiration, while it angered him.

‘You are very hard, mademoiselle/ he said at last. ‘Hard and cold as your own icy winter, and nothing thaws you. I do not believe you have any heart at all.’

‘No?’ said Evangela calmly. ‘Well—perhaps not. It does not matter.’

‘Unfortunately it does matter!’ St. Evremonde said bitterly; ‘it matters very much to me, who have the misfortune to love you. Yes, Vangela,’he said with a sudden change of tone, ‘I love you, and do what I will, I cannot get over it. I cannot live without you, and you must—you shall—relent! Listen to me-’

‘I will not!’ exclaimed Evangela, springing up and facing him with anger and condemnation in her eyes; ‘how dare you speak to me like this, M. le Marquis, after all that has passed between you and my cousin? Or, if it is true, as you say, that you love me, how could you act so as to lead her to believe that it was for her that you cared?’

‘I care nothing for her or for what she believes/ he said impetuously; ‘I care nothing for anybody but you; and I would dare anything that would win me what I have set my heart upon. I hoped that I might pique you into caring for me, that I might forget you—I don’t know what I hoped—but I know now that, if the first were possible, the second was not. Let me assure you, however, that you have no cause to be jealous of Melanie.’

‘Then, you have merely been amusing yourself with her all this time.’

‘Do not look so indignant; it was entirely on your account. I tell you that I love you, and you alone. Melanie is nothing to me, nor ever can be.’

‘I hope not, indeed!’ said Evangela with quivering lips and dilated eyes. ‘She deserves a better fate. You are not worthy of her, sir, and I hope she will find it out. So you thought you could recommend yourself to me by trifling with my friend’s happiness. I think you are incapable of understanding a true woman, and you do not deserve to have one for your wife.’

‘And is this your answer to me? Is this the return I am to have for all that I have laid at your feet—my title, my fortune and my heart—is this the treatment you accord me : anger and scorn and insult? Mademoiselle, I have not deserved it at your hands!’

St. Evremonde was white with rage; but he had not lost sight of his end, and he made a great effort to control his resentment. It was not entirely in vain. The tone of just indignation and wounded feeling in which he had expressed his passion would have made an impression upon a less tender heart than Evangela’s, and by disappointment and reproach she was easily touched. She burst suddenly into tears.

‘Why will you persist in paining yourself and me?’ she said imploringly; ‘will you not understand that it is in vain? And to make others unhappy, too, is worse than useless. I am sorry for you, monsieur—I am indeed! and I do not wish to be ungrateful or unkind; but I do not love you, and I can never marry you. Never—never! It is necessary that you should be convinced of that.’

St. Evremonde was convinced. As he stood there in the silence of utter fury, he recognized his absolute impotence. He was baffled, and by this girl who stood before him with trembling lips and tears in her eyes. At this moment— the moment when he saw that she was unattainable—she was in his eyes more charming and desirable than ever before, and he hardly knew whether he loved or hated her most. The obstacles in his way had inspired him with some real feeling, which might, while it lasted, have been worthy of the name of love. It was at least the nearest thing to it that he was capable of; but at the moment he was consumed with rage and disappointment, and he needed all his powers of self-control and diplomacy to refrain from giving vent to his feelings in furious threats and reproaches.

The sound of approaching footsteps breaking into the tense silence made Evangela start, and she glanced round nervously.

‘The Baron!—oh, please leave me! I do not want him to know-’

It is not Bertemilian; it is Adlofstein,’ said St. Evremonde suddenly. ‘What the deuce is he doing here? No, do not move! Do not stir—he will see that you have been crying. Wait one moment.’

He was standing by her side, and he moved quickly in front of her as he spoke. Evangela’s face was averted, and St. Evremonde instantly saw the advantage which was to be gained from the situation. To Adlofstein this would naturally appear in the light of a lovers’ meeting, and as he went past St. Evremonde met his searching glance with a smile that was intended to deepen the impression. It was a significant smile in which the gratification of a successful suitor seemed to mingle with apologetic amusement that deprecated, and yet was good-humouredly tolerant of, an interruption— and it was well for Evangela’s peace of mind that she did not see it. As it was, some inkling of the misleading nature of the situation came over her the moment that Adlofstein had gone past, and she looked after the tall, retreating figure with strange misgivings at her heart.

‘Please go away, M. de St. Evremonde,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Leave me! leave me! please leave me!’

St. Evremonde bowed. He looked at her fixedly for a few seconds without suffering the muscles of his face to change, and then, with another formal bow, he walked away—not without dignity.

He was dismissed, and his mortification and resentment were without bounds; yet, even while his vanity and self-esteem were still stinging with the rebuff that he had received, there was one thought that brought consolation: in the very moment of defeat, accident had brought Adlofstein that way, and about the impression he had received there could be no mistake.

‘He saw her alone with me—he saw it as I meant him to see it; and I saw his conclusion. After this I shall be able to make him believe anything I like, and if I choose—if I choose?’

St. Evremonde paused, and his handsome face was for a moment disfigured by a very ugly smile, as he reflected upon the possibilities of revenge that presented themselves to his mind.

‘Shall I go to him now?’ he asked himself.

‘No, I think not! Better leave that little scene to work out its own effect. It will do so without any help from me.’

He walked slowly towards the Kurhaus, and as he entered it a waiter came up to him with a telegram in his hand.

‘For monsieur’ he said, with a bow and a flourish of his napkin. ‘It came half an hour ago, and I have been searching for monsieur’

‘Where is my valet?’ demanded St. Evremonde with a frown. ‘Why did he not bring it to me at once?’

‘Pardon, monsieur! I believe that Monsieur Alphonse said that he had your gracious permission to go out this afternoon. He had an engagement-’

‘Sacristi! What has that to do with it? He has no business to be out of the way when I want him. Send in search of him at once, and tell him to come and pack up. I have to leave this place to-night.’

The telegram that he had just received was, in fact, an immediate summons to Vienna, and it meant an even more complete break-up of his plans than was involved by the reverse he had just sustained. St. Evremonde was in an evil humour, and Alphonse had a bad time of it when, after some delay, he appeared; but when he had vented some of his spleen upon his valet, St. Evremonde was able to review the situation more calmly, and he perceived that the turn that affairs had taken was not altogether unfavourable to him. He could trust Evangela to keep her own counsel, and, after what he had seen, Adlofstein was not likely to make any more advances. The inferences were all in his favour if he left now, and there was nothing to be got by staying on. Yes, on the whole, it was rather a good thing that he should be called away at this point with an indisputable reason to give for it.

Meanwhile, Evangela had made her way to her own party on the terrace. The Baron was nowhere to be seen, and Melanie came to meet her with a clouded and reproachful countenance.

‘In heaven’s name, Vangela, my dear child, where have you been?’ she asked peevishly.

‘Papa has been called away on business, and you know he does not care for us to be up here in this crowd without you or him. The Duke and his suite have gone in, and all the best people have left. I have been searching for you everywhere.’

St. Evremonde had deserted Melanie suddenly and unaccountably that afternoon, and she was more cross than usual. The walk home would have been an uncomfortable one but for Thekla, who was in high spirits and had a great deal to say. Amongst her communications was one that had power to awaken interest even in Melanie.

‘Think only!’ she said with a gay laugh; ‘they say that the Stillenheim has an admirer! Yes, actually! I have heard it whispered for some days in the town—Clothilde has been almost out of her mind with curiosity and jealousy—but I did not believe a word until this afternoon. And this afternoon I have had to believe, for it was my own eyes that told me.’

‘What? What did you see? Tell us quickly!’ said Melanie eagerly.

‘Well, you know that at the far end of the promenade there is a little path leading down into the woods? Well, after papa left us, and you were talking to somebody or other, Count Gabriel and I happened to be standing there, and we went just a little way-’

‘Thekla!’ exclaimed Melanie upbraidingly.

‘It was only a very little way, and it is not fair to blame me when I am telling you of my own accord’—pouting. ‘Well, we went, anyhow, and when we got to the bend of the path where you can look right down to the fountain, we saw—what do you think?’

‘Stephanie,’ said Melanie promptly. ‘And who else?’

‘That is just what we could not make out, and what no one knows. It is a most mysterious thing. They were sitting on the wooden bench by the fountain, and they had their backs to us. They must have thought that they were quite safe; but I knew Stephanie in a moment from that odious little short-waisted jacket of hers that makes her look such a deformity, and her old hat with the summer trimming on.’ Thekla glanced at Evangela and giggled. ‘I knew her well enough; but the question was, who was he? He was tall and well dressed—that much I could see; and he had an elegant figure, too elegant for anybody in the town, so he must be one of the gentlemen staying up at the Schwarzen-berg—but who? I could not remember having seen anyone at all like him; but of course it is difficult to judge from a person’s back unless you know him pretty well.’

‘Did Count Gabriel not know?’ asked Melanie.

‘He said he did not; but I am not sure. I believe there is some joke. He laughed and laughed when I told him who the lady was. Ach! how he laughed! and I also. Oh, it was fun! We amused ourselves famously.’

Melanie gave a slight, involuntary sigh, and Evangela looked grave, but for another reason. She thought that Thekla, in the plenitude of her youthful prosperity and enjoyment, was a little hard-hearted towards those who were not so fortunate as herself, and she felt suddenly sorry for Stephanie. Evangela herself had often been inclined to be too severe upon the faults and failings of others, for she had that mind at leisure from itself which is apt to see and criticize; but something that had come into her life recently was teaching her to sympathize at last, and she was able to realize something of the tragedy which might be going on in the breast of the ugly, stumpy, spiteful little person who was so universally disliked and despised.

‘Poor Stephanie!’ she said softly. ‘I hope it is someone nice. She has had so little happiness and so much hardship, one would be glad for some brightness to come into her life. It would be really charming if someone were to care for her and make her happy now at last.’

‘At the eleventh hour!’ laughed Thekla, with a pretty little moue, which somehow took off from the edge of her mockery, and made it seem quite innocent. ‘Mon Dieti! but think of the poor man! Who can he be who has such taste?’

‘I suppose from this that we are to conclude that she has given up all thoughts of Adlofstein?’ remarked Melanie.

‘Adlofstein—bah! there was never anything in that. He has never cared for her except in the way of friendliness and commiseration— perhaps also in opposition to us—and she knew it. She has known it all along quite well. But that reminds me—Adlofstein was up here this afternoon. Did you see him? Yes?’

Thekla turned to Evangela and paused, with a curious glance, that brought the colour into her cousin’s cheeks.

‘I did see him in the distance,’ she said hastily—’ that is, I knew he was here. I hardly saw him, really.’

‘Why, what could have brought him here?’ exclaimed Melanie. ‘He hardly ever comes up. Oh! it would be to pay his respects to the Grand-Duke, I suppose?’

‘No doubt,’ said Thekla; ‘and very late he has left it, too. Count Gabriel observed that it was hardly civility coming at this time of day; but of course everybody knows what Adlofstein is, and that it is no use expecting him to behave like a reasonable Christian person. He was very graciously received by His Serenity, it seems; but he took it coolly enough. Heavens! he is a strange creature. Clothilde and I were standing near the grand entrance after the Duke and his gentlemen had gone in, and Adlofstein came up from somewhere in the grounds, and ordered his horse to be brought round. He was riding, and he had to wait a few minutes. Mein Gott! if you could have seen his face! He looked as black as thunder; and you would have supposed that the Duke had refused him an audience, instead of having been so especially cordial, as Count Gabriel told me he was.

He did have the grace to bow to me, but without a smile or a word. He was riding a black horse, a very spirited animal, and he had a great fight with it at starting. It reared, and it kicked, and it jumped—a detestable brute—and Clothilde and I were frightened out of our lives! We thought he would certainly be thrown; but he kept his seat, as if he and his horse were one piece. He conquered the brute at last, and then he galloped down the road like the wind.’

‘A black horse, very powerful and big?’ asked Melanie. ‘Ah, that must be the black mare that St. Evremonde was telling me about! Her name is Satanella, and she deserves it, the Marquis says; she is so untamably fiery, and so vicious. Adlofstein will persist in riding her; but St. Evremonde says that he would not be surprised at an accident happening any day.’

‘I don’t believe that he would be sorry, either,’ said Evangela. ‘M. de St. Evremonde is a cold-hearted man, and I suspect that he secretly hates his cousin.’

‘But, Vangela!’ cried Melanie, turning upon her in utter astonishment.

It was the first time that Evangela had ever said anything against the Marquis; but she spoke now with the force of an intense conviction, and she was prepared to stand to her guns.

‘It is true,’ she said earnestly; ‘I feel it is true, and I believe it is right to tell you. He is not a good man, Melanie; he is selfish, he is cold-hearted, he is designing, and I believe he is false!’

‘Who—Adlofstein or St. Evremonde?’ asked Melanie, with a little unnatural laugh that was hard and mirthless. ‘Listen, Thekla, to this description of a monster. Do you recognize the original ?’

Thekla made no response; and it was plain that she did not hear. Her eyes were fixed upon a distant point of the road, which wound zigzag down the mountain, and her whole attention was taken up by something that she saw at the bottom, where the white line swept into the valley. She gazed as if spellbound for a moment, and then turned to the others with a panic-stricken countenance.

‘Look—look down there! A riderless horse galloping to the towrn! It is Adlofstein’s black horse — it must be! Ach Gott! If it is an accident—if he is killed!’

It was a diversion with a vengeance, and the girls strained their eyes to look, forgetting all else.

‘I cannot see anything,’ said Evangela anxiously.

‘It has gone; it is in the town by now,’ said Thekla, and then, after a moment’s awe-stricken pause, ‘A ch Kinder / what shall we do now? I dare not go on along this road!’

She glanced apprehensively down the hill as if she feared that at the next turn might be something terrible — a heap of something mangled, blood-stained, unrecognizable; a sight too appalling to face.

‘We had better go back to the Kurhaus, and send down help, hadn’t we?’ suggested Melanie.

‘Yes; one of us,’ said Evangela; ‘but we can’t leave Baron Adlofstein alone, unaided, dying perhaps, until help comes. Thekla, you go back and bring help. You and I will go on, Melanie. You are not afraid? I know you are not a coward, Melanie!’

‘N—n—no,’ replied Melanie doubtfully; ‘certainly I am not a coward, except when I am frightened or when it is something very horrid! But I must say- Oh, Herr Je! she is gone; I must follow her, I suppose!’

CHAPTER XXVI.

A GOOD SAMARITAN.

Evangela sped down the hill at the top of her speed, and Melanie, who followed at a more moderate pace, soon lost sight of her. When she came up with her, it was at a sharp bend of the road near the bottom of the hill; and there at the corner, where there was a heap of newly-cut stones by the roadside, she saw her cousin bending over something dark and motionless that lay stretched out upon the stones.

‘Ack, Vangela!’ said Melanie in a horror-stricken whisper, as she crept up to her side, ‘what a dreadful sight! Look! his arm is all twisted up under him, and there is blood coming from his forehead. How horrible!’

‘I am afraid his arm is broken’ said Evangela in a choked voice; ‘and he has fallen with his head on the stones. He is very badly hurt— he is quite insensible. Oh, is there nowhere nearer than Schwarzenberg where we can get help?’

I don’t believe that help will be of any use,’ said Melanie, gaining courage to bend down and peer into the bloodless face of the unfortunate man; ‘he is the colour of death, and I believe he is beyond help. Yes, he is dead, I am sure. Oh Je! oh Je! oh Je! how fearful for us to have a dead man upon our hands. Evangela was kneeling upon the ground, and with a pang of dread she lifted the nerveless hand that lay on the stones. Was the pulse beating at all? She could not feel it.

‘Oh, hush, Melanie!’ she said almost angrily; ‘how can you go on like that I He is not dead; he is only in a swoon, and we ought to try to revive him. If we had water! Oh, there is a stream higher up, and here is my little folding-up cup. I will go and get some.’ ‘I go with you, then,’ said Melanie with decision. ‘I do not remain here all by myself in the company of the corpse.’

‘We cannot both leave him. You go, then; I will stay,’ said Evangela. ‘Yes, go!’ as Melanie looked uncomfortable. ‘I would just as soon stay; I am not in the least afraid.’ Melanie, her conscience eased by this assurance, darted off, thankful to get away, and Evangela was left alone with the helpless and prostrate figure on the lonely roadside. She watched with breathless anxiety for some sign of returning life, and as none came she began to fear the worst, and a wave of overwhelming sorrow and pity swept over her.

‘With all his faults, he is a brave man, and a true gentleman,’ she thought; ‘and that this should be the end! No one will mourn for him; no one will shed a tear for him. That crazy stepmother who does nothing but revile him all day long; the Marquis, who is waiting to get possession of his estates, and calculating upon them beforehand—there is no one else.’

Her eyes were blinded by a sudden mist that seemed to come before her, and she did not notice that her tears were falling fast upon the hand she was still holding in her own; but as her vision cleared, she was startled to see that Adlofstein had opened his eyes, and was gazing at her with an expression of intense pain and utter bewilderment.

‘What has happened?’ he asked; ‘has the curse fallen upon me at last, and am I indeed mad, or am I only dreaming?’

Evangela was horribly startled by his words, but in a moment she had grasped their meaning, and she realized, as she had never done before, the depth and darkness of that shadow of fear which was always hanging over him.

‘You have had an accident/ she answered with inexpressible pity in her heart; ‘you have been thrown from your horse, and I am afraid you are very much hurt; but we have sent for help, and I hope it will be here soon/

Adlofstein turned his head that he might see her better. The fierce mental torture which had driven him to the verge of madness in the last hour had been exchanged for bodily suffering scarcely less agonizing, but he had opened his eyes to find bending over him the sweet face of his dreams, with a look that he had never thought to see upon it; her eyes were full of tears—tears for him—and she was holding his hand and speaking to him in the soft tones of the tenderest pity and kindness. He closed his eyes again suddenly. Yes, of course it was a dream—a brief dream of heaven in the midst of torment. Yet her touch upon his hand was something tangible, and his fingers closed upon • hers with a sudden return of nerve and strength that held fast when she would fain have withdrawn her hand. It was herself, then, her real self, and for the moment it was a real heaven of happiness that seemed given him; then all at once he remembered the scene that he had witnessed but half an hour ago, and his heaven vanished. • With all the distinctness of grim reality he saw again the vision that had been burnt in upon his mental retina — the picture of Evangela, in her white dress, alone under the trees with St. Evremonde, and he standing over her in an attitude of proud possession. That smile, that look of St. Evre-monde’s! Adlofstein gave a quick, impatient gasp at the recollection, and, suddenly relaxing his hold of the slender hand that he held, he flung it from him as if it were something burning and stinging, and tried to turn himself away.

Without understanding what the action meant, Evangela saw that the shift of position cost him an agony of increased pain, and she longed to do something that should afford him relief.

‘Your arm is doubled up under you, and your whole weight is on it,’ she said in distress; ‘if you could only get it free! Perhaps if I could lift you a little—’

She knelt down upon the stones as she spoke, and tried to put her arm under him.

‘Don’t touch me!’ he said authoritatively; ‘I will not have it; I am too heavy for you; I can raise myself.’

He made the effort the next moment, but it was unsuccessful. The additional pressure upon his broken arm sent a shoot of agony through him, and before he could get the injured limb free, he sank back upon it, and his head fell heavily upon the sharp stones. He lay still with closed eyes for some moments after this, but presently he opened his eyes, and, meeting Evangela’s distressed gaze, a curious smile crossed his features.

‘Don’t look so miserable! This is a hard pillow; but bodily hardship is nothing to mental torment. It is even rather a relief. When I came to myself just now, I believed that I was in hell. That is the popular conception, I imagine — a subtle combination of bodily and mental torture! I wonder if the real thing— supposing there is such a thing—could possibly be worse than this?’

The soliloquy, which seemed to escape from him as if involuntarily, was scarcely audible, and Evangela thought he was going to swoon again.

‘I must do something for you,’ she said desperately. ‘I am not. going to leave you like this for another instant. At any rate, you shall have something softer than those stones to rest your head upon.’

She made a pillow for him with her lap, and as she did so she exerted all her strength to raise his shoulders a little.

‘Now, now,’ she said breathlessly, ‘can’t you get your arm out now? Let me move it— there it is. Now I hope it will be better.’

It was better. Adlofstein lay still for a moment, exhausted by the pain of the wrench, and then an expression of relief came over his haggard features. Instead of the sharp-edged flints that had been cutting into his cheek, he had the soft and silky folds of her white gown for a pillow; his injured arm was stretched out by his side, relieved from the weight that had been crushing and racking it, and on his forehead he felt the light touch of her cool hand.

‘Your head is burning!’ she said pityingly.

‘It must be aching intolerably, and the sun on this road is simply blazing. What can Melanie be doing? She went to get some water; but she has been gone so long. I do wish she would come.’

‘I don’t!’ he said, with unexpected energy.

‘I am comfortable now, and I don’t wish for any change. Let me have a few moments of peace and happiness. They will be over only too soon, and they will never come again as long as I live. You are sorry for me, I think?’ ‘Indeed I am,’ she said, her eyes filling with intense sympathy as she met his upward look.

He moved his head restlessly upon her knee and sighed heavily.

‘I believe you can understand me and the position in which I am placed as no one else can. I dare say you know something of what my life is; perhaps you would be even more ready to make allowances for me, if you knew more. But, at any rate, it is some comfort to know that I have a share of the compassion that you don’t grudge to any wretched and unlucky creature. I am a proud man, and I do not want pity from the world—I could not stand it—but your pity—yes, I am not ashamed to plead for that!’

‘But it isn’t pity—it is something very different,’ said Evangela, feeling as if she could not possibly express what she meant, and yet impelled to try. ‘One might pity a person who was unfortunate through his own fault; but in a stand against circumstance, a struggle to master fate, instead of being mastered by it, it isn’t pity that is called for. It isn’t the fortunate people, who have everything made smooth and easy for them, who have the best opportunities in life. They miss more than they gain. The burdens and misfortunes of life have an ennobling influence that may be of inestimable value when they are rightly borne, and one doesn’t pity—one rather envies and admires— those who have the most opportunities for attaining that—the finest nobility.’

Evangela had spoken with kindling eyes straight out of her heart, and Adlofstein was secretly thrilled to see himself regarded in such a light; but he chose to answer with an appearance of cynicism and indifference.

‘You had better not think of any such nobility in connection with me. I have never gained any good out of my troubles.’

‘Haven’t you?’ asked Evangela quietly.

‘Perhaps you don’t know. I don’t know. You may, or you may not. But you might—I am sure of that! It is in you to do it if you chose/

She said this, and the instant she had said it she regretted it. She had been carried away to utter her private judgment of Adlofstein—a judgment that she would not have confided to Melanie or anyone. She had told him what was in her heart; she had let him see the place that he occupied in her esteem, and now- she asked herself why she had done it. What had possessed her to do it? A sudden unaccountable shyness came over her, and she looked round with a longing to escape; but at that moment she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and, to her relief, she saw Melanie coming down the road.

Adlofstein had been silent for what had seemed like a long time; and his eyes studied her face with a grave and sorrowful expression that was quite new in them.

‘I should have liked to have justified your impression. But you do not know-’ he began, and then he became aware of Melanie’s approach, and broke off suddenly.

Melanie took in the altered aspect of the situation with a look of surprise and consternation, and she shrank back on meeting Adlofstein’s glance, as if she were more afraid of him smashed up and alive than she had been when she thought him smashed up and dead.

‘Here is the water,’ she said, creeping up, and sheltering herself behind Evangela as much as possible. ‘I had to go an immense way for it; the stream was so dried up. That is why I have been so long. A carriage is coming from the Kurhaus. I saw it on the road behind me, and it will be here almost directly.’

Adlofstein was almost dying of thrist, and he drank gratefully from the cup that Evangela held to his lips. He lay quite silent while Evangela bathed his forehead with what was left of the water, in a vain endeavour to stanch the blood which was flowing freely all the time; but when the carriage arrived, he roused himself, and exerted all his energies to quell the commotion of which he was made the: centre.

A Vienna doctor, who chanced to be staying at the Kurhaus, was in the carriage; but besides him had come Thekla, Auguste von Stillenheim, and several other people, who were intent upon offering hospitality to the victim of the accident. Auguste von Stillenheim was especially persistent in pressing his invitation, and he added that if he had been able to find his sister she would certainly have seconded him. But Adlofstein was uncompromising in his refusals, and he insisted on being taken to his own house.

‘Adlofstein is too far off?’he said. ‘Very well; then I will go to Greifenburg. That is as near as anywhere, and there is a room always ready there. To the Greifenburg, coachman,’ he commanded; ‘and you, doctor, come with me—no one else.’

The doctor took his seat in the carriage beside his patient, who looked white and ghastly enough as he lay back upon the cushions. Evangela was standing on the dusty bank by the side of the road, and as the carriage started Adlofstein looked round in search of her. He saw the slender figure standing apart upon the dusty green, with a wistful gaze riveted upon him; and then his glance fell upon her dress—the white dress with red stains upon it. All down one side it was as if it had been deeply dyed, and Evangela had turned away from the group in order to avoid attracting attention. The horses were beginning to trot, and the doctor, who had his hand upon the Baron’s wrist, turned to him inquiringly as he felt the sudden leaping of his pulse.

‘The motion is too much for you,’ he said.

‘Shall I tell the man to drive slower?’

‘No, thank you,’ Adlofstein answered shortly, and until the bottom of the hill was reached he did not say a word; then he turned, and surveyed his companion with a long and searching look. It was the strong, benevolent face of a clever and sensible man that he saw, and he was apparently satisfied by his scrutiny.

‘Do you think I am going to be ill?’ he inquired abruptly.

The doctor hesitated.

‘Not necessarily; but, of course, it will be some time before you will be able to use your arm again, and for the present I should recommend you to go to bed, and stay there. Do you think you will be as comfortable at Greifen-burg as at your other house?

‘Yes, quite. Perhaps more so, since my stepmother will be out of the way; and I can send for anything that I want. I have had a blow on my head; it has been bleeding very much, I see. Do you think that I may be in for the effects of a concussion?’

‘It is possible,’ said the doctor unwillingly.

‘Let me look into your eyes—yes, the pupils are much dilated. You will have to keep as quiet as possible for the next few days. It may be very slight, but after any shock of this sort, rest and quiet are always advisable.’

Adlofstein was silent, and the stern lines of his face deepened into greater gloom as he gave himself up to the consideration of the sombre possibilities that lay before him. He made no further remark until they reached the town; but then, as they drove past Dr. Hempel’s house, and the doctor suggested that they should call for him, he roused himself from his abstraction.

‘No!’ he said decisively; ‘I will not have him. You can arrange it with him, can’t you? I want to be treated by you this time. Hempel has crazes, and he is inclined to put everything down to some preconceived notion of his own.

He knows my family history, and he has made up his mind that I-’ He paused for a moment, and then said abruptly, ‘You have been long enough at the’ Schwarzenberg to have heard some of the gossip of the place, no doubt. Perhaps you have learnt something of the Adlofstein history?’

‘Something/ the doctor answered briefly.

‘People say that my father destroyed himself in a fit of hypochondriacal insanity, and that the disease is likely to burst out more violently in me. It has descended from father to son in past generations, and always with increased virulence. Now, if this mischief is in me, I should think that a concussion of the brain would be enough to bring it out, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes/ replied the doctor dryly. ‘And if you particularly want to bring it on, you had better go on thinking and talking in this morbid fashion. It is the surest method.’

‘I must unburden my mind of this. I can tell you, because you are a stranger, and I think you can keep your own counsel. Hempel can’t. I want to tell you that, until lately, I have always refused to believe that I was menaced by this danger. Of course, I know there has been insanity in the family in the past. My great-great-grandfather was a homicidal maniac, and he destroyed himself in a fit of raving madness; but that was long ago, and there has been so much fusion with healthy and untainted sources ever since, that every indication of disease or weakness seemed to have disappeared. Until my father’s death, I was firmly persuaded that the taint had died out; and even after that, for a long time I would not believe that it was a voluntary act on his part. I fought against conviction, and hoped against hope, and persuaded myself that it was that form of murder that we call the American duel. But lately circumstances have occurred to shake my faith. I have been persuaded of the innocence of the man who I believed was my father’s secret enemy, and I have noticed indications in my own health. I have had terrible illnesses that were not to be accounted for by any natural causes, and I saw what Dr. Hempel’s opinion was.’

‘Humph! I happen to be a brain-doctor myself. Tell me what your symptoms were. I should like to hear them.’

Adlofstein described them with clearness and precision, and the doctor listened with profound attention.

‘Have you any reason to think that there is someone in your household or among your friends who might have a motive for administering poison to you?’ he asked at last. Adlofstein started.

‘That solution has been suggested to me before,’ he said, ‘but I do not think it can be a possible one. There is no one in my household who would in any way be benefited by my death that I know of.’

‘Who is your heir?’

‘Count Brandenberg, who lives at Vienna, is my next of kin; but he is a distant relative, and he will not succeed me. I have left my estates by will to another cousin, the Marquis de St. Evremonde.’

‘Does the Marquis know that?’

‘Yes, he knows it. I see what you are thinking of; but he is above such a suspicion. Besides, it was not until after my second attack of illness that I thought of making my will in his favour; and he had never expected anything of me before. I am certain of that. It was he, too, who suggested that it might have been poison that was the cause of that attack.’

‘He thought of poison, did he?’ said the doctor thoughtfully. ‘Ah, indeed! H-m-m! Well, I suppose it was not he—and yet I do not give up my theory. What did Hempel think?’

‘I believe he did hazard a suggestion that my first illness might have been caused by poison, whether accidentally taken or not; but, you see, the second attack was so utterly different—I saw that he had given up the idea.’

‘It doesn’t say much for his reasoning powers, then,’ remarked the doctor dryly. ‘It was just that difference that should have excited his suspicion. If the first attack had been an outbreak of disease, is it natural that it should have been followed by another of such an entirely opposite nature? And what, on the other hand, is more natural than that a poisoner, finding that one attempt on your life had failed, should try another kind of poison next time? Judging from your description, I should say that the poison used in the first instance was a metallic one—perhaps arsenic, which is very easily obtainable in this country; and in the second it was a narcotico-irritant—strychnine in all probability.’

‘My God!’ exclaimed Adlofstein, showing for the first time signs of agitation; ‘is it possible, is it indeed possible, that I have been enduring this torment without cause; that it is from the work of some enemy’s hand, and not from any defect in myself, that I have suffered? But no! it is impossible. No one could be so cruel, so fiendish!’

‘You must not agitate yourself now,’ said the doctor with professional authority. ‘I warn you that much may depend upon your keeping clear of excitement for the next few hours and days. Here we are, I suppose, and quite time, too. This conversation has gone on long enough.’

The carriage, crossing the great drawbridge, drew up before the entrance of the grim old fortress, and for the next half-hour the doctor’s energies were fully taken up by the emergencies of the present. He did his work of setting and bandaging with a promptitude and skill which impressed everybody, and Adlofstein was confirmed in his conviction that he was in the hands of a man of no ordinary capacity. When all his arrangements were completed and his orders carried out, the doctor came to the bedside of his patient, and said abruptly:

‘One word before I leave you, Baron Adlofstein. I have come to this place for my holiday, and not to work; but I am interested in your case, and I will undertake the direction of it on one condition—that is, that you will obey my orders implicitly, and that you will wait until I give you permission before you attempt to exercise your brains. You must dismiss the matter that we were discussing entirely from your mind for the present. Afterwards I will go into it with you, and I shall not be surprised if we come upon some clue that will be a sufficient proof of the correctness of my theory. But at present you must banish every thought about it from your mind.’

‘I will try,’ answered Adlofstein. ‘And in fact, I think I shall be able to. I feel very sleepy/

‘H -m-m, do you? Yes, I suppose so. Then I will bid you good-bye. I shall be here again early to-morrow morning. And in the meantime let me tell you one thing for your comfort : I have had as much experience of mad people and brain troubles as most men in my profession, and I should say that I have seldom come across anyone of whose perfect sanity I could feel more assured than yours. To have preserved your balance of nerve as you seem to have done with this horror of madness hanging over you for so long—nearly two years, you say?—is a pretty strong proof of sanity. It would argue that your mental poise was unusually firm, your power of self-control exceptional; and if we can prove, as I think we shall, that it was through poison that those mysterious illnesses were caused, then your safety is established/

‘How so?’ inquired Adlofstein breathlessly.

‘Because, had there been any unsoundness in your brain, it would have manifested itself then. Any lowered state of health is enough to bring on brain disease where there is a predisposition to it, and poisons, especially the metallic poisons, are a strain that no tainted constitution can stand. If the seeds of insanity had been in you, you could not have escaped the effects of poison. You might have lived, but it would have been as a hopeless lunatic. I am convinced that it was poison that you suffered from, and I see that you have escaped, therefore I feel justified in reassuring you. Now, rest on that for the present, and leave the matter in my hands. I will see you through.’

The strange doctor—he turned out to be a well-known specialist in Vienna—was a man who knew his business. He had cheered his patient into a sense of security and support ‘ that was a blessed relief, and he left him to sink into a long and dreamless sleep.

‘Splendid physique — striking intellectual power,’ the doctor mused as he climbed the hill back to the Schwarzenberg. ‘An interesting case, and no more tendency to insanity than I have. What fools some people are, to be sure! I expect the father was not mad, either; but it would be hard to prove that. I will go into that poisoning business and see what I can make of it. Arsenic and strychnine, I think. We shall see. Halloa I whom have we here? Another accident? No; of course that is the girl who was looking after him with so much good sense. English girl. Anything between them, I wonder? If there were, that excitement would be accounted for; the sleepiness was too long in coming.’

Melanie and Thekla, holding a council of state over Evangela’s stained frock, had prevailed upon her to come into the woods and linger there until the light should have failed and the visitors from the Schwarzenberg have gone by, so that she might reach home without exciting more observation than necessary. The destruction of the dress was the feature of the accident that had impressed Thekla most, and even as the doctor passed she was bewailing it.

‘It is quite ruined, I am afraid. How’ melancholy! how shocking!’

‘Never mind,’ said Evangela, looking down;

‘it doesn’t matter.’

‘Not matter! Your best gown—your beautiful spun-silk fete dress! She says it doesn’t matter !’

‘But, Thekla, of course not!’ exclaimed Melanie. ‘It is not worth a thought in comparison with what she has done. I tell you she has played the part of a heroine, and a sister of charity would have been nowhere by the side of her. Oh, my dear,’ she exclaimed with all. her old generous warmth, ‘ I .did admire you! I am a wretched coward myself, and the sight of blood always makes me feel faint; but I was proud of you! As for the dress, I dare say if we soak it well in cold water it will wash all right.’

‘No, Melanie/ said Thekla seriously; ‘don’t delude her with vain hopes. Perhaps if there had been only one or two spots it might have been possible to have got them out, but look at it — drenched, soaked! Oh Je, oh Je! the lovely silk! It will never come out! Human blood is the very worst, I have often heard it said; it leaves an indelible mark!’

‘An indelible mark/ Thekla said; but there was something more precious than silk or satin on which a mark had been made that day—was that to prove indelible?

CHAPTER XXVII

TWO AND TWO.

The summer was over, and September had come to an end, but Evangela was still staying with the Bertemilians, and there was no thought of her leaving. She did not want to leave— indeed, she dreaded the day of departure, which must at last come, with an intensity for which she could not have accounted even to herself; but had she wished ever so much to return to England at the appointed time, she could hardly have done so when it came.

Melanie was ill. St. Evremonde had gone away without a word or sign, and the long strain of anxiety and uncertainty which had shown itself in her unwonted petulance and peevishness had ended at last in blank disappointment and despair. She went on wearily with the pleasuring for a short time to satisfy Thekla, and then she broke down suddenly with a sharp attack of illness, that for some days put her life in danger. Evangela nursed her with such loving sympathy and devotion that the barrier that had risen up between them was completely broken down, and during her recovery, which was slow and tedious, Melanie clung to her cousin with all her former affection. She would hardly spare her for a moment from her bedside, and there was no question of her leaving before the end of the winter.

The Grand-Duke and the gentlemen of his suite were still staying at the Scnwarzenberg, and as the glorious summer weather had not yet broken up, the gaieties up there went on as before; but the Bertemilians were seen there no more. Baron Bertemilian had formed an opinion that Melanie’s illness had been brought on by too much pleasuring, and he expressed his determination not to have the other two ill on his hands from the same cause. When he went up to attend upon the Grand - Duke, therefore, he went alone, and Thekla had to be content with the music on the Freiheit, where she met the townspeople, but never the distinguished visitors at the Schwarzenberg. She was in despair—nor did she keep her despair to herself.

‘It is desolating,’ she said, coming one hot afternoon into Melanie’s room, where there was a refreshing draught of air from the wide-open windows, and a pleasant, subdued light that came through the yellow awning spread outside—‘it is quite desolating! Yes, I have been to the music; but who cares for the stupid society down here? Up at the Schwarzenberg there was a dance last night, and some of the gentlemen came in and danced—such accounts Clothilde has been giving me! Really, it was too tantalizing, and I could not stand it any longer, so I came away.’

Evangela was sitting at one of the open windows, through which the strains of the march in ‘ Lohengrin’ floated in with soft distinctness, and she had been reading aloud to Melanie; but now she turned to look at Thekla. That distressed damsel, in the daintiest of white gowns, and a hat smothered in pale-pink roses,, had thrown herself upon a chair near the door, and was a refreshing vision of prettiness and freshness in the sick-room. The grace of her tall and slender figure was a little spoilt by a waist that was even smaller than fashion demanded; but her little flower-like face, with its delicate drawing and brilliant colouring, was so pretty that nothing could spoil it—not even the expression of disgust and vexation that clouded it now.

Evangela laughed as she looked at her.

‘Why, what has happened to put you out so much now, Thekla?’ she asked, in the tone in which she might have addressed a charming spoilt child.

‘Oh, I don’t know! Everything, I think. It is so deadly dull down here; and when there is so much going on up there, it is too provoking! The visitors will be going away before long, and then, of course, everything will be as flat as ditchwater again. Do you feel any better to-day, Melanie?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Melanie wearily; ‘I only know that I am tired to death of hearing your complaints. Grumble, grumble, grumble, from morning to night, because you can’t be all your time up at that detestable Schwarzenberg! Have you nothing else that you can talk about?’

‘Is there any news in the town?’ asked Evangela, hastily interposing in order to avert a squabble. ‘You haven’t been there for several days, and I am sure you must have heard something fresh this afternoon.’

‘No; nothing,’ answered Thekla sulkily. ‘What is there to hear? But wait : yes; there is a great Geklatsche about Baron Adlofstein. The strange doctor has given out that he is rapidly getting well, and that he will soon be able to go out; but no one is allowed to see him, and some people say that he has gone perfectly mad. Ach, yes’—brightening perceptibly under the stimulus of a really exciting piece of news— ‘they say so indeed! The town is full of it. Frau Hempel is furious that he has chosen this other doctor from Vienna instead of her husband. Dr. Hempel goes there; but everybody knows that he has no voice at all really in the management of the case, and he has been giving out some very plain hints about it. He says that Adlofstein knows that he (Dr. Hempel) has had fears about his sanity, and so he has got this stranger, who will swear through thick and thin that he is of sound mind. Frau Hempel says that she thinks somebody ought to write to inform Count Brandenberg about it. He is the next heir; and, of course, if it could be proved that Adlofstein was really mad, it would be to his interest to have him shut up. It is not fit that a great property like that should continue in the hands of a madman.’

‘Gott in Himmel/’ exclaimed Melanie, with a long-drawn breath of excitement; ‘what a fate it would be to befall that proud Adlofstein!

What a change of fortune—what a fall! He who is to-day the head of that noble house, with castles and lands, and unlimited wealth at his command, to end as a wretched maniac, confined in some miserable hole, and owning nothing, not even the chains that he wears!’

‘It would serve him right, and I should not be sorry,’ said Thekla, with unqualified satisfaction. ‘He has made us suffer, and now it is his turn. He will lose everything that he has —everything, everything; and he will eat out his heart in captivity, until he becomes a wild, dangerous maniac, beaten by the keepers and loaded with chains. Oh, it will be retribution ! I shall be glad, glad—yes, heartily glad; and I would not raise my little finger to save him!’ Thekla’s eyes were shining like stars, and her little head was thrown back as if she meant what she said. It was such a little head; that was the consideration that chiefly excused her in Evangela’s eyes as she looked at her, and realized how hard and merciless these small, kitten-like natures may be.

‘It is fortunate,’ she said coldly, ‘that you are not the judge of what people deserve. You cannot understand natures that are different to your own; and you do not know what their temptations are, nor what they have to suffer.

Adlofstein has probably suffered more in one day than you in all your life. I am sure his sins have been more than expiated, and I do not believe that this awful fate will come upon him/ But the picture that Thekla had drawn, exaggerated and improbable as she knew it to be, had been too much for Evangela. She tried to command herself, but her face was burning and her lips were quivering; and feeling that her composure was deserting her, she turned away and hastily left the room.

‘Thekla, you have no business to talk like that!’ said Melanie fretfully. ‘Look : you have driven Evangela out of the room! She is disgusted with you; and I am sure I don’t wonder. You can’t think how bad it sounds for a young girl to be expressing herself with that sort of murderous violence and demoniacal fury.’

But the admonition fell upon deaf ears. Thekla was gazing fixedly at the glass doors through which Evangela had disappeared, and her attention was entirely taken up by the consideration of a new’ idea. She was silent for a whole minute, but at last she said softly :

‘Do you think she is in love with him?’

‘In love—with whom?’ asked Melanie, sitting upright in bed, with a wild look in her large and unnaturally bright eyes.

‘In Gottes Namen! lie down this moment, Melanie; and don’t look at me like that! With Adlofstein, of course. Oh, I know: you have supposed it was St. Evremonde; but I have known all along that you were making a mistake there. St. Evremonde may have made love to her—I am convinced that he did—but she never cared for him, and she never encouraged him. Stephanie has said from the beginning that she liked Adlofstein, and was doing her best to get him; but of course everyone thought that was only her ridiculous jealousy. I laughed at the idea when Clothilde told me, but now—I am not so sure. You know he saved her life when she risked it for St.. Evremonde; and then that adventure on the Schwarzenberg the other day—she did not care akreutzer about her frock. It may be—it may be!’ She paused for a moment, and then added, with a little chuckle of intense amusement : ‘If it is so, and he recovers, and wants to marry her, how wild Stephanie will be! It would be rather nice for us to have Vangela settled as mistress at Adlofstein—we should be there continually, of course—but what a blow for Stephanie! Sancta Maria! it would be a pretty ddnouement! It is too good a match for Vangela, really. You and I are not likely to do so well; but I would put up with that for the sake of the triumph over Stephanie.’

But Stephanie has got another string to her bow now, hasn’t she?’

‘Oh, that has come to nothing! She never goes up to the Schwarzenberg now; and no doubt the man is gone. And even if he hadn’t —my dear girl, what do you think they are saying in the town? I wouldn’t dare to whisper it before Vangela, she would be so horrified— but they say—Clothilde told me—that that man was—think only—the Frenchman, St. Evremonde’s valet! It seems that he got admission into the Maskenbal somehow or other, and she danced with him, and since then she has been going into the woods to meet him constantly! Did you ever hear of such a thing?’

‘I could quite believe it of her,’ said Melanie reflectively; ‘but it is very mad of her. If old Stillenheim got to hear of it, he would half kill her, and then send her to a nunnery.’

‘No fear! he has not got enough money, and the nuns would not take her without a good round sum. A woman like that—imagine only what an upset she would make in a nunnery! She would have the whole place in an uproar in a week. No, what Clothilde thinks is that she will run away with him.’

‘With a servant—a French valet! Pfui! ‘She is so mad to get a husband that she would take anyone, my dear; and they say he is very handsome, and even distinguished-looking. The fear is, of course, that he wont marry her. That would be—mein Gott / that would be terrible! She is running a risk. The extraordinary thing is, what can have attracted him? Such a very ugly woman, with neither youth nor money! It is for her rank, I suppose; but even that hardly explains it.’

‘What I desire to know,’ said Melanie, with a sudden recollection of her duties as duenna,

‘is where you get all these ideas from? It is not proper for you to know anything at all about these things, and here you are, more at home on the subject than I am myself; I declare I believe you know a great deal more than I do. It is perfectly shocking! How dare you let Clothilde gossip to you about such things!’

‘There you are F pouted Thekla angrily; ‘always the same! You wait until I have told you everything, and then, when you have got the cream of the news, you begin to scold! I declare I will never tell you anything again! You may go on in your blind ignorance—you and your Miss Propriety. It is all the same to me.’ Melanie retorted. Thekla replied that she was a liar, and a storm ensued; in two minutes they were engaged in a quarrel of such violence that Evangela came rushing in to restore the peace, which, in Melanie’s weak and feverish state, was of great importance. She had not stopped to obliterate the tell-tale traces that the tears had left on her pale face, and Thekla was confirmed in her conclusion.

‘Yes, yes,’ she said to herself; ‘depend upon it, I am right. Another piece of news. Dear me ! life is very interesting for a person that has eyes in her head. But I shall not tell Clothilde about this—she might make mischief. Stephanie’s affairs will be a sufficient exercise for her tongue for the present.’

Stephanie Stillenheim had not made her appearance at the music on the Freiheit that afternoon. Whether she knew or guessed that gossip was busy with her name, no one would have found it easy to say, but it was very evident that she shunned the society of her neighbours more than usual. On that September afternoon, while the music was going on, and Thekla was discussing her doings with Melanie, Stephanie was walking swiftly through the deserted Anlagen down by the river, with a letter in her pocket, which she pulled out and read as soon as she reached a spot where she was sure of being unobserved.

It was a letter that she had received several days before, and she had read it over so many times already that she knew its contents by heart, and yet she read it over again now. It was a love-letter—the first and only one that had ever been addressed to her—and it was therefore natural that it should claim her fullest interest and attention; but when she looked up, it was with a bitter and contemptuous smile that expressed little satisfaction.

The letter was from Alphonse Laroche, St. Evremonde’s French servant, and it was written in language that was as fine and flowing as the long-tailed letters and the fantastic flourishes of the pretentious-looking signature.

Stephanie was not enough of a French scholar to distinguish the illiterate mistakes in the high-sounding and flattering phrases, and the grandiloquent professions of admiration and devotion; but she felt that there was no ring of sincerity in them, and they did not take her in for a moment.

What does he hope to get?’ she asked herself bitterly as she folded up the sheet and replaced it in its envelope. ‘I had my object to gain in seeking his acquaintance, and I have gained it—but he? Why does he want me to marry him, I should like to know? He is in earnest about that, I can see plainly—he is not deceiving me there—but what is his object? If I had money or any chance of money, I could understand it, but I have not. As for what he says about the fascination of my manner, the adorable wit and cleverness which has so much deeper a charm than mere beauty—pooh!’ she laughed bitterly; ‘what man ever fell in love with wit and cleverness when bright eyes and a clear complexion were wanting? That is all nonsense! He does not love me—no one ever has loved me or ever will, and I am not such a fool as to expect it; but he is willing to marry me, and Adlofstein never will. I cannot go on with this miserable life much longer; almost anything would be better as a change, and nothing could be much worse. I should have a husband—a handsome husband—I, whom all the world has begun to laugh at as a hopeless old maid; he would be bound to provide for me, at any rate, and he might be kind to me. He might—and then, again, he might not; there is a look of the monkey-tiger in his eyes sometimes : he might be fiendishly cruel, and I should be utterly and entirely in his power. I might be ten times more miserable than I am now. Oh! I don’t know what I shall do.’

Stephanie was on the brink of a precipice, and she knew it; but she was so utterly hopeless and reckless that she was ready to cast reason and common-sense to the winds, and commit herself to the downward plunge in sheer desperation. She gazed drearily into the clear, nut-brown water of the river, which was reduced by the long droughts of summer to a shallow stream, and was singing a mere murmur of its usual song as it trickled among the big stones at the bottom of its bed. On the other bank the walls of the Greifenburg rose massive and gray, with the cannon-balls embedded deep in the solid block of masonry that still seemed to shadow the church and guard the outskirts of the town. Stephanie looked up at the stately old stronghold, and as she looked, the image of its owner rose up before her, and the desperation that was in her gathered force and intensity.

‘He could have taken me out of all this misery—he could have made me happy, rich, prosperous, and envied by all—rbut he is in love with that English girl, and he will never think of anyone else now. Oh, why was I ever born! If I were a Christian—a real Christian, such as saints are made of—I suppose I should have been resigned to my fate, and I should have given myself up to good works among the poor—though that is not so easy when you haven’t a kreutzer to spare, and you know that the poor despise you for being even more wretchedly hampered than they—but I am no saint, and there are only two courses left open to me. I must either commit suicide, or else make up my mind to revenge myself on this world, that has no place for me in it, by living on, just to do as much mischief as I can, and by concentrating all my powers on the task of making other people as unhappy as myself! I choose to do the latter; I have begun in that course, and I will carry it out to the end. If I am not to know happiness through Adlofstein, he shall know wretchedness through me! It shall make a difference to him that I am in the world! Thanks to Frau Hempel and Laroche, I have discovered the weak place in his armour. I can put two and two together, and if it means ruin and despair to him, what is that to me? Let him beware— from this moment I go on without hesitation and without mercy!’

And gathering up her skirts with a convulsive grasp of her thin hand, she pursued her way along the river, and walked steadily in the direction of Schloss Adlofstein.

CHAPTER XXVIII

‘VOGUE LA GALORE!’

The sun was setting behind the distant mountain-peaks as Stephanie reached the Castle, and when she was shown into the English salon, which was the Baroness’s favourite sitting-room, the last intensely golden rays were streaming in through the great bay-window which looked out over the terraced gardens to the west. For a moment she stood still in the middle of the long room, which in her eyes was such an abode of luxury and splendour. It was a noble room, and it was crowded with rare and costly things; and as Stephanie glanced from the tall mirrors reflecting the glow of light and colour outside to the velvet carpet in which her feet sank deep, she gave an envious sigh. It was all his, and it might have been hers—now whose was it going to be? St. Evremonde’s or Count Brandenb’erg’s?

She sat down in one of the blue-and-gold chairs; and while she waited for the Baroness to appear, her mind was busy with the information that she had obtained by an accident through Laroche.

She had consented to dance with the Frenchman at the Maskenbal without knowing who he was—she was reckless enough for that—but she would scarcely have given him encouragement to continue the acquaintance had it not been for a chance remark that he had made as he stood with her watching the little scene between Adlofstein and St. Evremonde at the end of the evening. It was only a hint of the knowledge that he had gained through the perusal of his master’s papers that Laroche let drop; but Stephanie seized upon it, and would not rest until she had got out of him the fact of the existence of the will. She had tried hard to make him bring the document to show her; but this, though he had contrived to bring about several meetings on the strength of it, he had reasons of his own for objecting to do. The wily Frenchman had been careful not to betray the secret of his interest in her, and Stephanie had been obliged to be satisfied with his assurance that Adlofstein had left everything to the Marquis; but this, she at once saw, was enough, in combination with what she already knew, to serve her purpose.

The Baroness was long in coming; on the rare occasions when visitors came to see her, she always considered it necessary to retire to make a grande toilette, and the operation took time. She appeared at last, scented, powdered, and bedecked, and dressed in the inevitable blue silk; she was full of airs and graces and little affectations, and she kept up such a flow of voluble conventionalities that for some time Stephanie found it impossible to get a word in. The Baroness seemed quite content to hear herself talk, and she did not allow time for anything but monosyllabic replies; but at last Stephanie found her opening.

‘Yes, you have no idea—you can really have no idea—of the solitude in which I live here,’ the Baroness said, as she thanked her visitor for about the tenth time for coming to take pity on her. ‘It is really charitable of you, my dear Baroness. I assure you that I have not exchanged a word with anyone but my servants for the last fortnight-’

‘Ah, it is just a fortnight since Baron Adlofstein’s accident, isn’t it?’ Stephanie interposed hastily. How unfortunate that was! And he has been so ill since! There is a rumour in the town that his brain has been affected, and that, though he is recovering as far as bodily health goes, his mind has been permanently wrecked—had you heard it, Baroness?’

‘How should I hear?’ the Baroness answered, with a gleam in her eyes that betrayed her rising excitement. ‘As I have been telling you, nobody ever comes near me but my servants; and as for that cold-hearted Adlofstein, he would keep me shut up in a dungeon if he could. But if you think it is news to me to hear that he is mad—pooh! Do you suppose that I have lived in this house all this time without knowing it? So they are finding it out now, are they? Ha! I wish they would shut him up in a dungeon.’

‘More unlikely things than that have happened,’ said Stephanie meaningly. ‘And yet— do you really think he is mad? I know you have often said so; but could you bring forward any proof ?’

‘Proof! Yes; any number of proofs!’ replied the Baroness vehemently. ‘ But what proof do you want, when the thing itself is there? He knows it himself; and he has said to me in almost as many words that he will never marry because of it.’

‘Ah! he said that, did he?’ said Stephanie, raising her eyebrows slightly. ‘But, do you know, I think he has changed his mind about that lately. You know I have told you about that English miss, whose life he was the means of saving at Rothenfels? I told you what a designing little creature she was, and how she was making a dead set at Adlofstein, and that I thought he might very likely fall into her snares. Well, I was right. It has fallen out as I foresaw it would. He is in love with her; and if he recovers from this illness, he will marry her. Nothing will stop him, you will see!’

She watched the Baroness narrowly as she spoke, and she was surprised that the outburst of angry violence that she had been expecting did not come. The little faded woman sat still in her place, and did not flame up; but her eyes shifted restlessly in their sockets as she glanced furtively round the room, and her fingers, which had been playing with a lace-edged pocket-handkerchief, gave a convulsive movement, which suddenly tore the flimsy thing in two.

‘He will marry her? You think so? He will bring a wife here to turn me out? Ah, you are mistaken! You do not know Louis! When he has once made up his mind, he does not change. He has told me that he will not marry, and I know why. He dare not! He knows— he has known from a boy—the shadow that overhangs this house, and he fears it. He will not, like his father, bring a woman under its blighting influence. He may wish to, but he never will. I tell you, you do not know him.’

‘Perhaps not/ said Stephanie; ‘but I know this—that when a man is in love, as I know Baron Adlofstein is, you can never tell what he will do. It makes all the difference in the world; and I think, if you knew what happened at the time of the accident, you would not feel so positive/

She described the scene that her brother had witnessed on the Schwarzenberg road, and the part that Evangela had taken in it; and during the narrative the Baroness’s restless fingers were so busily at work upon the little square of lawn and lace that lay upon her knee, that it was soon rent into the smallest fragments.

‘These English girls!’ Stephanie concluded, with a sneer; ‘you do not know what they are like! They are afraid of nothing, and they will go far. See how she contrived to make the acquaintance of Baron Adlofstein the very first time that she met him—without any introduction, and while he and her friends were still at daggers drawn—and how she has managed to keep it up! At Rothenfels, at the Maskenbal> and now this—I tell you she will go on, and she will succeed. She will be Baroness Adlofstein yet!’

‘Never, never!’ cried the Baroness, starting to her feet, and scattering all the little shreds of lace and lawn on the carpet. ‘I am Baroness Adlofstein, and there shall never be another! There ought not to be another, and there shall not be! See here,’ she said, darting to the other side of the room, and throwing open the panel of an ebony cabinet containing some large volumes. ‘You see those books—the books that I keep for my own private reading? They are not novels, they are not magazines; they are the books that my stepson reads—medical books, scientific books, books on heredity. All the German ones I bring down here, and I read them whenever he is safely out of the way. The English ones I cannot read, and the French ones I cannot make much of; but the German writers tell me as much as it is necessary to know. It was through going up to his room, and finding out what he was reading, that I discovered what his mind was running upon; and I have read, too. I know nearly as much as he does of these things. I dare say you have thought that I was only a silly, frivolous woman, who would be interested in nothing but romances and poetry-books. He does, I know; but it is a mistake. I know a great deal, and I can act upon what I know.’

Stephanie sat astounded in her place. Was this woman mad, or was she not? It had always been supposed that she was eccentric and of weak intellect, and it was certain that she was sprung from a stock that was strongly tainted with insanity of the imbecile type; but there was clearly no imbecility in her. Even in her most nervous moments, when her self-control was weakest—and that was always when her stepson was in question—there was no sign of vacuity or inanity about her, and she never lost sight of her purpose. The guiding motive of her mind was evidently an abiding dislike and distrust of Adlofstein, and a desire to be free from his control; and while she congratulated herself upon a state of things so favourable to her schemes, Stephanie wondered what could be the cause of it. The next words enlightened her on this point.

‘My life has been spoilt through entering this wretched family,’ the Baroness continued; ‘and I tried to prevail upon the late Baron to set me free. He did not suit me, and I was tired of him in a year. I told him that it would drive me mad if it went on; but he would not listen to me, and he kept me caged here, going nowhere and seeing scarcely anyone, for six years. For six years—think!—for six years that martyrdom went on; and in the end—it was not I who went mad, but he!’ She paused, with her eyes intently fixed upon her listener’s face, and she seemed to be trying to make out her thoughts.

‘I know,’ said Stephanie soothingly. ‘It was terrible—terrible; but you must not think of it any more. It is over now.’

‘Then Louis/ the Baroness continued—‘he was mad with grief for a time, and I thought that he was going the same way as his father, or worse. He has had terrible attacks, but he has always got over them hitherto; and as long as he lives, here I am caged. He pretends that I am not. He says I may go where I like—to Vienna, or any watering-place that I may choose to fix upon; but if I did, he might never let me come back—and, besides, that is not what I want. I want to have my rights—I want to have the disposition of my own money, which my husband ought to have left to me; and that Louis will never give me. I know that in his lifetime it is useless to expect it; but when his fate comes upon him, as sooner,or later it surely will, then there will be a change, and I shall be rewarded for my long patience. I shall have my money, and I shall be mistress here—a real mistress.’

Stephanie looked at her in astonishment. What could have put this idea into her head?

‘But the heir,’ she said; ‘have you forgotten him? Count Brandenberg is the next heir; and if there is no will, he will inherit.’

Wes; the estate,’ said the Baroness confidently; ‘I know that will go to him. But the house, and the furniture, and the money, that will be mine. It is my clear right, and I shall demand it. He will not refuse it me, I know. I know Count Brandenberg; he was one of my admirers when I was a girl.’

‘But what if Count Brandenberg, though he is the next heir, does not inherit? What if Baron Adlofstein has made a will leaving his property to someone else? That is what he has done—I happen to know; and I came here to-day to tell you. Adlofstein has made his will, and he has left everything to the Marquis de St. Evremonde.’

‘A will—a will! He has made a will; and without my knowledge! I mpossible, impossible! I will not believe it!’

The Baroness had been standing by the open cupboard, with a big volume that she had been showing Stephanie still in her hands; but now she let it drop with a crash upon the floor, and, flying across the room, she caught hold of her visitor by the arm.

‘Tell me/ she said breathlessly, ‘what makes you think—what makes you fancy-’

‘I know it/ said Stephanie. ‘I have it from a sure source—from someone who has seen the will, and who is prepared to swear to its existence. St. Evremonde has it in his possession, and everything is left to him.’

‘There is no mention of me at all in it, then?’ gasped the Baroness.

‘That I cannot be sure of; but I do not think so. Everything to St. Evremonde—that was what I was told, and my informant could have had no motive for misleading me.’

‘Oh, the wretch—the wretch! And to St. Evremonde, that selfish, conceited little impertinent whom I detest! I should get nothing out of him; I should be worse off than before. Oh, it must not—it shall not be! What shall I do to prevent it? Is there nothing I can do?’ ‘ There is one thing,’ said Stephanie slowly, ‘one course that is open to you; and I should certainly adopt it in your place. Everybody in Lindenthal is saying that it ought to be done, and you are the best person to do it. Why not write to Count Brandenberg? He will be on your side, and you say you can trust him to agree to your demands. If you tell him all that you know; all the stories about Adlofstein —how he has got this brain-fever, and a brain doctor in attendance upon him; how Dr. Hempel, his regular attendant, says that he is mad, and that he has already had two attacks, and how everybody in Lindenthal is saying the same; and then you tell him about this will in St. Evremonde’s favour, and about the designs of the English girl—if you do that, the Count will take some step. He will see that it will be to his interest that Adlofstein should be recognized for what he is—an insane person cannot make a will, do you see?’

‘Yes, I see!’ said the Baroness, and in her pale blue eyes there gleamed a flame that betokened the fullest intelligence. ‘I see—and I will act! This is my revenge that I have been looking for, and I will take it—oh yes, I will take it! I will write at once to Branden-berg, and I will put the facts so that he shall not fail to be convinced. Oh, I am grateful to you, Fraulein, for telling me all this—how shall I thank you enough?’

‘You owe me no thanks at all,’ said Stephanie deliberately. ‘I am interested in the matter, and I will help you by all the means in my power. Do you want to know why? It is because I hate that English girl, and I am determined that she shall not succeed in her design—she shall not marry Adlofstein. She loves him, but she shall not make him happy. Instead of that, she shall bring misery and ruin upon him ; and when it is done, she shall know that she was the cause. Now, Baroness, you know what my motive is. It is strong enough, I assure you, and if you care to accept my help, I will work with you. I think that between us we could achieve our purpose.’

‘But this is delightful—delightful! It could not be better. Ah, how much I am obliged to you, my dear Fraulein! It is so satisfactory to know that I have such an ally. I am sure that this English miss must be detestable. Yes, we will work together. We will begin now. At once I will make out a copy of the letter to Count Brandenberg.’

The Baroness brought out paper and writing materials, and, placing herself at a table near Stephanie, stuck the end of her pen into her mouth as a means of inspiration.

Now,’ she said, ‘what shall I say?’

But before any ideas had begun to flow, there came an interruption to the proceedings in the form of a visitor, and old Josef, throwing open the door, announced the name of the Vienna doctor who was in attendance upon Baron Adlofstein.

He came forward, bowing to the two ladies, and glancing round the room with keen and observant eyes from behind his big spectacles.

‘I have come to report to you how my patient is going on, Baroness,’ he said, when the first formal greeting was over, and the Baroness, in compliance with very marked signs from Stephanie that it would be politic to hear what the doctor had to say, had begun to thaw slightly in her demeanour towards him. ‘He has, I believe, no other relative in the neighbourhood, and I am sure you will be glad to hear that he is making all the progress that could be desired; the recovery will be complete, and he will be able to go out and return here in a few days, if he wishes.’

The Baroness’s face did not light up at this announcement, and she shook her head until all the little tufts and hanging beads upon her cap waggled and waved.

‘Ach! my poor stepson!’ she sighed. ‘It is so difficult for strangers to understand his case. I can well believe that you think the recovery will be complete; and if he had been well before—but that is just where it is.’

‘So f said the doctor sharply; ‘you know something then, Baroness, and you think—tell me exactly what you think. I am his medical attendant, and it is necessary that there should be no secrets from me. Perhaps this young lady-’

He glanced at Stephanie, as if he contemplated the advisability of her leaving the room. But Stephanie, who had been taking note of his physiognomy and manner with some misgivings, was uneasy as to what he might ferret out of the Baroness if he were left alone with her, and she answered quickly:

‘Oh, Baroness Adlofstein can tell you nothing that I do not know. I am in the family secrets—am I not, Baroness?’

‘Ach so!’ said the doctor blandly, and Stephanie hoped he did not see the warning look with which she telegraphed to the Baroness to be on her guard.

The signal, however, was not lost upon the doctor, and it was entirely wasted upon the person for whom it was meant. Nothing could prevent the Baroness from entering upon her grievances against Adlofstein when that subject was once started, and with such an excellent listener as the doctor, she did not know how to stop.

‘She is a little mad,’ Stephanie said to herself, as she listened to the railings of the Baroness, and chafed to see the impression that she was making upon the silent and receptive doctor. ‘She is mad upon this subject; and, of course, he sees that. But her being mad is no argument that Adlofstein is not, and with Count Brandenberg upon our side—I wish this man would go.’

The torrent of abuse was exhausted at last, and the doctor got up. He had stayed twenty minutes, and in that time, while committing himself to nothing, he had completely probed the character of the Baroness, and had arrived at an exact understanding of her sentiments towards her stepson.

‘Baroness, you are placed in a position of an exceedingly trying nature,’ he said politely, as he withdrew. ‘You have my most profound commiseration—but you are not without resources, I perceive. You are interested in medical and scientific subjects, I see, and who studies them can never be dull.’

His searching glance, travelling round the room and taking every detail in, had noted the two heavy volumes lying on the floor, and as he went out he stooped to read their titles. The Baroness did not seem to like the compliment at all, and she made haste to disclaim it, and to explain that the books were not for her reading, but the Baron’s; but the doctor saw in the eagerness of her disclaimer only a com formation of his conclusion, and the inference had its place in the diagnosis that he went over in his mind as he passed out through the great hall of the Castle.

‘A curious case; remarkable characteristics. Hair crisp and wary, eyes pale and washed-out-looking, voice raucous, face sallow and anxious, hands nervous and restless. Torn-up handkerchief on the floor—some recent emotion, probably—some bits still sticking to her dress. Vanity strongly developed—powder and rouge and cosmetics—arsenic and belladonna among them, no doubt. Then those medical books, borrowed from the Baron, of course, and secretly studied during his absence. Yes, yes; I think I shall not find it difficult to make out the proof that I want. I am very much mistaken if we haven’t a case of folie circulaire here.’

The doctor was gone, and Stephanie tried to rally from the oppression of spirit that had come over her during his visit. She had recognized that he would be an opponent of no ordinary kind, and her heart sank as she asked herself what she and the poor, crazy Baroness could do against the weight of his authority. But then she reminded herself of Count Bran-denberg, and all the interests that he would have at stake, and she gathered together her wits and her energies to concentrate them upon the composition of the necessary letter.

‘You will post it yourself, will you not, my dear Fraulein?’ said the Baroness, giving her the letter under the impression that she was the author as well as the writer of it; ‘and a thousand thanks for your good offices! You have helped me much, and you must continue your aid. If the answer to this letter is favourable, I propose that we do not remain inactive here. We will go to Vienna—I will see Count Brandenberg; I will take refuge with him from Adlofstein. Ah! do not anticipate difficulties; there will be none. Adlofstein himself has proposed it to me, and he suggested that I should have any companion I liked to go with me. I will claim the fulfilment of his promise now, and we will go to Vienna for the winter. We will enjoy ourselves; we can combine business and pleasure, and it will be an agreeable change.’

Go to Vienna for the winter! Go with Adlofstein’s money, and use it to plot and cabal against him! Well, why not? Stephanie asked herself, with a cynical smile, as she took her way homewards with the sealed letter in her pocket. Why not? There were distinct attractions in the proposal, and what was there against it? Honour, conscience? bah! it was too late in the day to think of such scruples as those; they were thrown overboard long ago. Expediency was her guide now, and it was a more serviceable beacon than the old-fashioned lights. Yes, she would go to Vienna! She would keep the Baroness up to the idea, and Adlofstein should furnish the means. That would be a leap indeed out of the groove of existence whose monotony had become so intolerable; and who could tell what might turn up out of it?

The Baroness was crazy and whimsical, but she was not unmanageable—at least, not by anyone who understood her, Stephanie thought, and she was ready to take that risk. As for the rest-

‘It is not my fault that I am what I am!’ she cried out in passionate indictment of circumstance, as she passed between the hanging woods, in the scented summer dusk. ‘It is not my fault—not my fault! I was not meant to be like this, I know that! But my life has made me so, and why should I bear the whole burden of the wrong? Let others feel a share of it! To Vienna, then, and vogue la galcre.’

CHAPTER XXIX

IN THE EYRIE OF ADLOFSTEIN.

A full month had gone by since the accident upon the Schwarzenberg, and if the Vienna doctor was to be believed, Adlofstein was no longer an invalid. He had left Lindenthal to return to his castle in the mountains, but the whispers of the Hempel party continued to gather force and confidence every day, and before long there came news that caused the excitement to burst out in a flame. The sudden and mysterious departure of the mad Baroness for Vienna, with Stephanie Stillen-heim for demoiselle de compagnie, had created somewhat of a sensation in the little gossiping town; but it was nothing to the excitement which was felt when a rumour of their proceedings leaked out.

Count Brandenberg had taken the matter even more seriously than Stephanie had expected, and when he was once convinced of the existence of a will, he lost no time in pushing forward operations. He was an extravagant man, who lived beyond his means and had few scruples, and some heavy losses that he had sustained at play made him the more desperate at the prospect of losing the rich inheritance which had several times already seemed within his grasp. He wrote to Dr. Hempel requesting his assistance, and he also employed a lawyer to collect evidence in other quarters. It was inevitable, therefore, that the knowledge of what was going forward should become public property, and as there was such good foundation for the reports, they were not far from the truth.

Thekla was one of those persons who, under such circumstances, must gossip or die, and, though she had more than a suspicion that the subject was a painful one to Evangela, she could not resist the temptation to repeat all the rumours and conjectures that the tongues of the town were busy with.

‘Think only’ she said, bursting in upon her one afternoon as she sat alone, while Melanie was having her after-dinner sleep. ‘Imagine what has come out now. They say that the reason why Count Brandenberg is instituting proceedings against Adlofstein, and pursuing them with such inveterate hostility, is because he has discovered that Adlofstein has made a will to disinherit him and leave everything to St. Evremonde. Dr. Hempel says that this is quite natural—that people when they become insane always take a dislike to their natural heirs, and it is an additional proof against Adlofstein that he should have done it. Of course the Count is furious, and he is ready to go to any lengths. Papa says the position is becoming serious, and he would not like to be in Adlofstein’s shoes now. All the old family scandals and misfortunes have been raked out, and are in everybody’s mouth—such stories, my dear!—and all sorts of ridiculous tales about Adlofstein himself are every day being added to the collection. Sapristi! What must he be feeling like if he knows? The annoyance and disgrace of being so talked about must be inconceivably galling to a proud man like him, and, then, the possibility that lies before him— it would be enough to drive many a sane man mad, papa says. Mon Dieu! It is certainly a punishment. I am almost sorry for him, though he is our enemy.’

It was, perhaps, the sight of Evangela’s face that wrung the last words out of Thekla—a concession to the compunction that touched even her shallow and thoughtless nature when she saw how deep her words had gone. Evangela listened as if fascinated, and she made no comment; but when the story was done she stole out of the house and into the woods like some wounded creature. It was an oppressively hot and sultry afternoon, and in the house Evangela felt as if she would be stifled, but under the pines it was easier to breathe. She wandered on, hardly knowing whither her steps were leading her, until at last she found herself in a narrow defile, which she had never explored before. It was the far end of the Rauschenbach ravine, which forked off from the cul-de-sac of the Gabel to the left of Schloss Adlofstein, and the deep rift in the mountain - side became narrower, and wilder, and more picturesque at every step. Evangela found herself shut in at last in a sort of little dell, where a young and graceful pine, poised on the bare gray rock, seemed to keep guard over the source of the stream, which fell in a little waterfall, like a silver string from the precipice; and she looked up, feeling the soothing solitude and seclusion of the place even through her trouble of mind.

It was wonderfully picturesque — but how sombre! The woods were indigo, the sky overhead leaden black. Evangela, unaccustomed to the suddenness of the thunderstorms of those mountains, had taken no heed of the heavy, blue-black clouds that had been gathering behind the hills; but now they had spread over all the sky, and the storm was on the point of breaking. Even as she looked, a flash of lightning swept like a sheet of whiteness across the heavens, and illumined with an intense and startling brilliancy the distant mountains and the furthest recesses of the woods. It was succeeded after a few seconds of silence by a prolonged and overwhelming peal of thunder, which sounded as if it were right overhead, and some heavy drops of rain came splashing slowly through the trees.

The electrical forces of the storm had been gathering for weeks, and the explosion was a terrible one. Evangela had been out in a thunderstorm before, but this was the first time that she had seen five thunderstorms going on at once all round her. On every hill a separate battle seemed to be raging, and every moment some fresh peak was flashing out in the glare of pink fire that preceded the roar of its artillery. It was a much more glorious sight than any battle would have been; but when the storm really reached the point where she stood, and the lightning seemed to wrap the mountain round, and the thunder crackled overhead as if the very heavens were splitting, it became impossible to regard it any longer from the aesthetic point of view. The rain was coming down pelting and hissing like rods, and Evangela was obliged to beat a speedy retreat. She ran down the hill as fast as she could, and did not stop until she had reached the rough cart-track at the bottom, which led under the back-windows of the Schloss to the road down the valley. There was no shelter anywhere near, except at the Schloss, and Evangela would scarcely have thought of seeking it there; but before she reached the road, she saw someone hurrying up the hill to meet her. It was Adlofstein himself, and as she recognized him she uttered an involuntary exclamation of relief. She had been thoroughly startled by the violence of the storm, and she would have welcomed the sight of any human being at that moment; but Adlofstein seemed an especial tower of strength, and she clung to the arm which he offered her with a sudden sense of perfect safety and protection.

‘What were you thinking of, to be lingering in the woods when such a storm as this was coming on?’ he asked, as he covered her up with a cloak which he had brought with him; and the close-clipped English words had never sounded so welcome or so homelike in her ears as in this racket of the elements.

‘How did you know that I was out?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘You saw me from the windows ?’

‘One of my foresters did as you passed half an hour ago; but it was only just now that the fool mentioned it to me. And were you coming to my house for shelter when I met you?’

‘Well—no,’ Evangela confessed truthfully;

‘I was going to try to get home as quickly as possible. Melanie is ill, and I have been away from her too long already.’

‘You will have to remain away a little longer. I could not think of allowing you to go on through this storm. It is not fit for any human being to be out in.’

‘You ought not to be out in it, I am afraid,’ said Evangela, with a sudden realization of the risk to his scarcely - recovered health. ‘Oh, Baron Adlofstein, when you have been so ill! I had forgotten that, I was so glad to see you; but I do hope you are not running a risk on my account.’

‘Thank you,’ he said briefly. ‘You may make your mind easy about that. I can stand any amount of exposure to weather, and my arm is practically all right again. I only keep it in a sling as a matter of precaution. So you were glad to see me?’

For a moment his heart seemed filled with sunshine. The light of welcome in her eyes had been so unmistakable—the clinging confidence of her hand upon his arm was so inexpressibly dear-—but it was only for a moment. He had brought her by a short way through the gardens, and as he spoke they had reached the spot which would for ever remain associated in his memory with the announcement that St. Evremonde had made to him there. She belonged to him; she was engaged to him, and she loved him. That scene upon the Schwarzen-berg had left him in no doubt of that, and the shadow deepened in his eyes at the intolerable remembrance.

He said no more till they stood within the shelter of the castle doors, and it was in silence that he helped Evangela to divest herself of her dripping cloak; but as he did so she glanced up into his face, and saw for the first time the deepened impress that suffering had left there. She looked at him with a shock of dismay and distress, thinking of the illness that he had just come through, and only in part comprehending; and then their eyes met, and in that silent exchange of glances she felt some unknown force that had more power to make her tremble than the lightning flashes that were lighting up the sky outside.

For the space of some five seconds they remained thus, as if under the influence of some strange, strong spell; and Evangela locked her shaking hands together, and vainly tried to break the silence. She could find no word to say, and Adlofstein, with a sharply-suppressed sigh, broke the pause at last.

‘I am afraid,’ he said in a voice whose matter-of-fact tone fell like a shock upon her ear, ‘ that you must be very wet, and, with the Baroness away, I can do nothing for you. What is to be done? Shall I call one of the maids?’

‘Oh no!’ Evangela said hastily; ‘I am not really wet. Your cloak has protected me; and, besides, I must not stay—look! I think it is clearing a little. I shall be able to go on directly.’

She moved hastily nearer to the door and looked out; but the signs of clearing that she spoke of were far to seek. The rain was coming down in torrents; and though the thunder seemed to be rumbling further off, the lightning was still playing incessantly over the hills.

‘Not for another half-hour,’ said Adlofstein decisively. ‘The storm will have passed over by then, and I will drive you back to Linden-thal. You will get there quite as soon as if you started to walk now, with the roads all turned into rivers; so it will really be no delay. And now, do pray come in, and let me shut the doors. Those steps are not a particularly safe place for you to be standing on when the lightning is flashing about like this.’

‘It seems a pity to lose such a glorious view,’ said Evangela; but she complied with the request, nevertheless.

Adlofstein closed the massive doors of iron-bound oak, and for a few minutes they seemed in darkness; but as Evangela’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw by the light that came from a great stained window up above that they were in a magnificent old baronial hall, and she looked round with rising interest and admiration, taking in all the details —from the great branched horns above the coats of arms that were painted on the panelled walls, to the chamois-skins upon the floor, and the empty armour, that looked like the figures of ghostly knights keeping guard.

‘Oh, what a beautiful old hall!’ she exclaimed.

‘This is much finer than Rothenfels, and much older, surely? There is a gallery up there in the roof, I see; and what a stately staircase!’

‘Those are the main stairs; but there are others all over the house, leading into the turrets and towers, and winding about in the most irregular and perplexing fashion. Yes; it is an old house. Most of it dates from the earlier half of the fifteenth century; and it has all the characteristics of that time—the tremendous long passages, and thick walls, and reckless waste of space everywhere. There are said to be secret rooms in the walls somewhere, but nobody now knows where. The secret of their position and the means of getting at them has been lost.’ He paused for a moment, and then, struck by a sudden idea, he asked if she would care to go over the castle. ‘It might interest you while you have to wait,’ he said; ‘and I should be pleased to show it you. Would you like it?’

Evangela hesitated. She wanted to go, and her face expressed as much, and yet she hesitated.

‘Are you thinking of Mrs. Grundy?’ Adlofstein asked abruptly. Never mind her now. There is no place for her here, and there is no earthly reason why you should not come; I would not ask you if there were. Please do not refuse/ he added more gravely. ‘You will see it all often enough in the time to come, no doubt; but I should like to think that it was under my guidance that you saw it first/

He led the way up the wide and shallow steps of the carved staircase, and Evangela followed, doubting no longer, but with a vague and troubled wonder at her heart. What was that future possibility to which he alluded with such pain in his voice? She did not understand; but she shrank from asking or thinking out an explanation, and she kept silence.

Adlofstein took her first through a long suite of unused reception-rooms upstairs, where the walls were hung with family pictures; and while he was showing her the portraits of his ancestors, and the celebrities who had been their friends and contemporaries, she remembered the portrait of which St. Evremonde had spoken to her, which he said his cousin had moved out of the dining-room : she wondered if it were here, and, if it were, whether Adlofstein would point it out to her. It was there—a big picture in a dark corner of a small room at the far end of the suite, and it was the last that the Baron showed her. He just mentioned that it was the portrait of his great-great-grandfather, and no more, and then he walked to the window and looked out.

The storm was passing over; but the sky was still as black as ink, and a jagged fork of pink flame flashed from it, and tore through the curtain of black cloud, throwing a lurid glare into the room. In the intense light, the dark, cruel face that Evangela was gazing at seemed to flame into sudden life, and she was startled by the expression of the eyes that looked at her. The features were like Adlofstein’s, she saw the resemblance; but they were much handsomer and much less stern, and the expression stamped upon them was altogether different. It was so unlike that it stamped the face with a totally opposite character; and Evangela turned to look at his descendant with an involuntary exclamation of relief.

‘It is not in the least like,’ was all she said; but Adlofstein started violently as he heard it.

‘Who has told you?’ he began hoarsely; and then he checked himself, and said bitterly : ‘But why do I ask? Of course it was St. Evremonde. He has told you a great deal, I suppose?’

The bitterness in his voice was intense; but it was not more intense than the pain, and the ring of it went to Evangela’s heart. She did not realize all that it meant; but she remembered with regret and compunction what St. Evremonde had betrayed to her, and she felt that in listening, even unwillingly, she had done Adlofstein a wrong. She was carried away suddenly and completely by the sympathy and regard that had been gathering for so long in her heart; and without stopping to think what it was that impelled her, she moved a step towards him, and stretched out both her hands to him.

‘He has told me nothing—I know he coula tell me nothing—that could in the least lower you from the place of respect and honour which you hold in my esteem, Baron Adlofstein.’

He took her hands, and for a moment he retained them in a close grasp, as he read the life-giving message in her eyes and drank in the blessed assurance. Then, as in the truth and loyalty of her face he saw what might have been, and knew that it never could be, he relaxed his hold, and let her hands drop.

‘Thank you,’ he said, with an effort for self-command that made his voice sound suddenly cold and strained. ‘It is something to know that I have your friendship, and I thank you for the assurance of it. But now come away from here; there are more interesting rooms than this, and if you like tragedies, you can see the scenes of them.’

He took her up to the keep in the central tower, from the battlements of which the unhappy man whose portrait she had just been looking at had hurled himself; he showed her the dining-room in which he had shot his guest, and the library in which another ancestor had been found destroyed by the fumes of charcoal —he showed everything, and spared neither his hearer nor himself any detail of the tragic record.

‘You see,’ he remarked, with a melancholy, but cynical, smile, ‘with all these traditions clinging about it, this house is not a particularly inspiriting residence for the descendants of our family, and it is just as well that I shall be the last. For other people these old memories throw no such haunting shadows; and my successor here-’

He paused, and looked searchingly at her. Should he speak to her of what she was no doubt aware—that it would be St. Evremonde who would rule here after him? Perhaps she was thinking about it all the time, and rejoicing in her heart for him and for herself; but no— in her pale and wistful face there was no gleam of anticipation, and he repented the jealous thought almost before it was formed. She was not thinking of St. Evremonde, and the remembrance of him at that moment was intolerable; he would not bring in his dividing name.

‘I am saddening you with these gloomy old histories/ he said, with a sudden change of tone.

‘Yet there is one other story that I should wish you to hear through me rather than through anyone else. Will you come in here?’

He pushed open the door of a room which was connected with the rest of the house by a narrow winding stair, and beckoned to her to enter.

‘In this room my father came by his death two years ago—how, nobody knows.’

It was the room high up in the western turret, which corresponded to the one that Adlofstein had appropriated for his own use, and it was left exactly as it had been when the late Baron had occupied it. Nothing had been touched, and even the massive silver sconces on the writing-table were there still, with the half-burnt candles in them. xAxllofstein, standing motionless in the middle of the room, could picture it all as he had seen it—the helpless figure leaning forward in the chair, the smoking pistol among the writing-things, the flickering candles, and the wild, terrified face of the distracted wife at the open window. His memory recalled the whole dreadful scene as vividly as if it were again being enacted before his eyes, and his expression was so sternly sad that Evangela knew what he was thinking of. She was moved to the very depths of her nature, and, unable to speak, she crossed the room and looked out of the window. She turned with a start at the sound of Adlofstein’s voice.

‘I suppose I must accept the theory that everybody else believes in,’ he said at last in strangely level tones. ‘Everybody said that it must have been a case of melancholia ending in suicide, but I would never admit it. I was so certain that there was no such miserable tendency in him. You saw his portrait just now among the others—did it strike you as a weak face?’

‘Ah, no! no indeed!’ said Evangela, recalling the refined and thoughtful face, with brow and features only less massive than Adlofstein’s own, which had been among the first that he had shown her.

‘I would not believe that his mind could have given way, but some explanation of the deed I had to find, and I thought I had found it. I vowed that I would clear the imputation of insanity from his name—here, by his dead body, I vowed it—but I have had to give it up; you made me do so.’

Evangela looked at him with deepened respect as she realized how great must have been the effort that he had made in giving up the hope he had clung to, and owning himself in the wrong.

‘I do not believe that you will ever have cause to repent it,’ she said firmly. ‘You were wronging an innocent man then, and on such a course as that there could be no blessing, but now—’

‘Now?’ he said quietly—‘now? Do you imagine that there is any blessing on me now ?’

‘I don’t know!’ she cried, opposing his cynical calm with passionate earnestness; ‘but I think there must always be a blessing on those who accept their troubles nobly, and try to do right in spite of everything, and that blessing is in your reach if you only choose it. And then the truth may come to light in a way that you do not dream of, and it may prove to be something quite different from what you fear.’

‘What could it possibly prove to be?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose it could not have been murder? It isn’t possible that the Baroness might have gone out of her mind before, instead of after, the crime? He was sitting at this table, you said?’

‘Yes—like this and Adlofstein seated him self suddenly in the great unwieldy chair that was drawn up before the writing-table, and, letting himself sink forwards, he dropped his head until his face was buried in his arms.

‘Like this,’ he said, ‘with a hole in his right temple, and the pistol still smoking on the table where his hand had dropped it—there. No, it was not anybody else who could have fired that shot; he must have done it himself. Perhaps,’ he added as he lifted his head, ‘you may hear some day that I have been found in the like position.’

‘You know that I shall not,’ Evangela contrived to say.

‘Not while I retain possession of my senses. You may be sure of that! I have thoughts that are vile enough, but I hope that cowardice and disloyalty to the old family of which I am the last representative are not among them. I should not like you to think that they were, and that is why I am troubling you with this painful subject now. If ever you hear that anything of that sort has happened to me, you will know that it will not have been my conscious act; it will be because the sword that hangs always suspended over my head will have snapped its hair.’

He paused, waiting for an answer, but none came, and something that he saw in her face made him spring up from his chair and hurry to her side.

‘Forgive me!’ he cried remorsefully. ‘I do not know what possesses me to go on like this.

I see that it tortures you, though why it should I do not know. I don’t deserve that you should care in the least what becomes of me, and I have no right to bring you into the shadow that has fallen upon me. Come away from here. See, the storm is rolling away, and it will be bright again directly. I will have the carriage brought round to take you home. But first, if you won’t mind a climb up the other turret-stair, and a reek of tobacco at the end, I should like to show you a portrait of my mother. She was English, like you, and in some of your ways you remind me of her. I want you to see what she was like.’

The way to the other turret led them through the drawing-room, and Evangela had recovered her composure and self-possession enough to notice the familiar touches of beauty and comfort about the room that made it look like a transplanted bit of England. She uttered an exclamation of surprise and appreciation as she passed through.

‘It was done for my mother,’ said Adlofstein. ‘She always remained faithful to her English habits and preferences, and my father wanted to do everything he could to make up for having taken her away from her own country. He was entirely devoted to her, and I don’t think that anybody could have been happier than they were so long as she lived. The fatal mistake that he made was in his second marriage. How he could have chosen anyone so different—but you will see.’

The climb up the turret-stairs was long and steep, and the loopholes that pierced the tremendous thickness of the walls admitted only a dim and gloomy light; but it appealed to Evangela’s imagination more than all the rest, and the book-lined eyrie, with its wide prospect of sky and mountain, which they reached at last, was for her the culminating point of interest.

Adlofstein took her straight up to the picture, which hung over the open fireplace, where a bright wood-fire was burning.

‘There it is,’ he said. ‘And you can see it well now. This is just the right light for it.’

The late afternoon sunshine, breaking low down through the clouds, was shining in through the wet panes of the mullioned window, and in its brightening ray Evangela saw a young, smiling face, with masses of soft, fair hair, and clear gray eyes that were luminous with intelligence and resolution—a characteristic face that was scarcely to be called beautiful, and yet was fresh, and sweet, and charming, and typically English.

‘What a charming face! But how young!’ was Evangela’s involuntary exclamation. ‘It must have been taken when she was quite a girl?’

‘When she was two-and-twenty. She died before she was twenty-four, but I have heard my father say that she scarcely looked more than eighteen then, and my remembrances of her are of a personality that was essentially youthful — a joyous, girlish spirit that was always sunny and bright, and cloudlessly happy.’

Evangela glanced from the grave, careworn face of the speaker to the radiant girl’s face in the picture, and thought how strange it seemed that they should be mother and son—her face remaining perpetually young and smiling, and his so deeply stamped with painful thought and experience. If she could have known what his life was to be—if she could have looked into the future-

‘Are you considering whether it is necessary to perjure yourself by discovering some likeness to me?’ inquired Adlofstein, breaking into her meditations as he noticed her glance at himself.

Evangela glanced at him again, and blushed. There was no likeness in feature—the grossest flattery could have discovered none; but she had noticed that his eyes were those of the picture over again, the same steely gray colour, so full of light and fire, and so expressive of energy and determination. They were English eyes, and she had noticed them the first time she saw him, but she was not going to tell him so.

‘You were brought up in England, weren’t you?’ she asked with a quick change of subject. ‘You must have learnt the language when you were quite young, to speak it as you do.’

‘It is my mother-tongue, you see,’ he answered. ‘My mother spoke nothing else to me from my babyhood, and when she died I was sent to England for my education. I was practically English when I returned.’

‘And your father—did you never see him all that time?’

‘Oh yes; he came over to see me, and I came here for my holidays pretty often. He and I were deeply attached to each other, and all the years that I was in England I was looking forward to the hope of coming home to live with him. But when the time came he had met the Baroness. He married soon after, and from that hour she began to sow dissension between us. There was never any peace in the house afterwards.’

He paused, looking mournfully into the heart of the glowing fire before which they were still standing, and then, impelled by the sympathy which he felt none the less strongly because it was unspoken, he went on to speak of the trouble and disappointment which had followed upon his father’s second marriage. He knew that he had a listener who could understand him as no one else ever would again, and as he unlocked the barriers of his reserve to speak of things to which for so long he had never referred, his eyes were riveted upon the slender figure leaning with bent head, and one supporting hand resting on the carved mantelpiece of black oak. The face of his girl-mother smiled down upon them both from above, but she would remain to him, while this other girl-face would not, and Adlofstein studied every line of the graceful pose to print it upon his memory for the empty days to come when she would be gone, and his hearth would be graced no more by her presence. She might stand here again in that very attitude, she might come often to this room and read the books that he had left, but it would not be in his time, and for him there was only this one hour.

The time went too fast, and the sound of the carriage rattling into the courtyard came up through the open window before either of them was ready for it.

‘Yes, it is the carriage—you want to go?’ said Adlofstein, answering her question before she had asked it.

‘I must,’ she said; but she gave an imperceptible sigh, and her eyes wandered round the room, lingering over every detail—from the open piano to the bookshelves, and the little white dogs dozing before the fire. Adlofstein followed her glance.

‘Now you know what an untidy den I live in,’ he said.

‘I like it,’ she answered. ‘I like it even better than the charming drawing-room downstairs ; and books scattered on every side don’t look untidy to me. You must read a great deal.’

‘I have nothing else to do indoors, but they are not the sort of books that would interest you/ he said hastily, as she took up one of the volumes lying on a little table. ‘Here is a shelf of English books—you might like some of these.’

‘Ah, English books—how pleasant and homelike they look! Yes, I know and love some of those. Books and a piano—no room can look quite satisfactory without those; but this has other charms. The window’s looking to the sunset, and the mountains, and the English fireplace, and the dogs basking in the warmth —yes, it is the most comfortable room in the house, and the dogs know it.’

‘They are like their master,’ said Adlofstein.

‘They like a fire on a dull day, even in summer —but, oh, take care!’ he exclaimed, as Evangela stooped to give a farewell pat to the dog that occupied the place of honour in the chair; ‘he is a snappy little beast.’

But the warning came too late. Blitz, reasoning, from his experiences of the Baroness, that all women were objectionable, had from the first regarded the intrusion of the feminine element into his master’s domain with an eye of deep distrust and disapproval, and he had been keeping a suspicious and malignant watch upon the course of affairs. He had made up his mind that it was a matter which admitted of no compromise, and the moment that the chance was afforded him, he manifested his disapproval in a practical and unmistakable manner. When Evangela, with a hasty movement, withdrew her caressing hand, there were two little holes on the edge of her palm where his sharp white teeth had met, and she looked as discomfited as any dog need have wished.

The effect upon Adlofstein, however, was not so satisfactory, and Nemesis followed speedily upon the deed in the form of his master’s toe, the full force of which Blitz experienced for the first time in his life, as he was ignominiously expelled from the room. Spitz, partly from alarm for his own safety, partly from a desire not to lose the opportunity of triumphing over his brother, followed of his own free will, making such a clatter and row in chase of the insulted and crestfallen Blitz as to increase the speed of his descent; and the two dogs, tumbling full pelt after each other, nearly upset a grave and spectacled individual who was halfway up the dark and narrow staircase. The doctor had seen the carriage waiting before the door, and, unable to conjecture what it was for, he feared lest Adlofstein should be contemplating some rash proceeding, and was on his way to put in a protest. He found the door of Adlofstein’s room open, and he supposed that there would be no one there; but looking in to ascertain, he stood arrested, and with raised eyebrows of amazement took in the unexpected and confounding spectacle of his grave and misanthropical host standing with a young lady, whose hand he was holding and pressing against his lips.

The doctor recognized the young English lady whose fortitude on a previous occasion had attracted his attention, and, concluding that he would find himself altogether de trop, was preparing to beat a hasty retreat, when Adolfstein looked up and called him in.

‘Doctor, is that you?’ he said. ‘Come in, and see what that brute of a Blitz has done! He shall wear a muzzle all the days of his life after this. But that won’t help to undo this mischief, unfortunately. Come and give us your advice.’

The doctor was still not a little puzzled by the situation; but his equanimity and self-possession were effectually restored by the appeal to his professional instincts, and as soon as he saw Evangela’s hand, he perceived that the affair was not quite so extraordinary as he had supposed.

‘Ah!’ he said. A bite, and it has drawn blood; but you have taken the precaution of sucking the wound, I see, and the animal is in a healthy condition, isn’t he? There is really no cause for alarm, I think.’

Evangela protested that she was not in the least alarmed, and explaining to the doctor how it was that she had taken refuge from the storm, she added that she must not keep the horses waiting any longer, and hurriedly took her leave.

‘Ah! it was for you, then, that the carriage has been brought out, Fraulein,’ observed the doctor, as he accompanied them to the hall.

‘I was not sure that my patient might not be going off on some imprudent expedition on his own account, and I was coming up to put a veto upon it.’

‘It won’t hurt me to drive as far as Lindenthal,’ said Adlofstein quickly.

The doctor looked at him scrutinizingly, and his gray eyes twinkled in spite of himself.

‘Oh, so you do want to go, do you? Well, I suppose a wilful man must have his way, and it won’t do you any particular harm that I am aware of.’

‘Particular harm!’ he repeated to himself, as,

Evangelas remonstrance having been borne down, he looked after the carriage in which Adlofstein had taken his seat by her side. ‘No; on the contrary, I should say that it is a particular good that is to be looked for.’

CHAPTER XXX

EVANGELA’S MESSAGE.

The Grand-Duke had prolonged his visit to the Schwarzenberg to the extreme end of the season; but the end had come at last, and a final farewell fete was given out in his honour. Thekla, rendered more listless and discontented than usual by the knowledge of this embittering fact, had thrown herself languidly into her chair at the breakfast-table one morning, and was pouring out the cream and coffee with the air of a martyr who is not long for this world, when the Baron announced that he was going to the fete to take leave of the Grand-Duke, and that she and Evangela might accompany him if they liked.

Thekla was at once in a seventh heaven of delight, and she rushed instantly to prepare a special toilette. Melanie was not well enough to go, even if she had wished to, and Evangela would infinitely have preferred to stay with her; but she could not have done so without keeping Thekla also at home, and this was out of the question. She went up with Thekla and the Baron, but it was with a very heavy heart, and little expectation of pleasure.

It was an especially gay féte, and crowds of people, who had come to see the last of the Grand-Duke, were walking about the terraces and promenades. The band played nothing but waltz tunes, and the brilliant sunshine on the white coats of the officers and the gaily-coloured dresses of the ladies made a charmingly picturesque scene in the setting of the dark pines; but Evangela was little in the mood for enjoying it. In that crowded hour at Schloss Adlofstein, and the too brief drive through the sunlight in the rain-freshened woods afterwards, she had learnt beyond any possibility of further doubt or mistake a certainty, which before that she had been strenuously striving to disguise from herself. She knew then that she loved Adlofstein; and she knew it even more certainly now that her heart had been wrung by fresh reports of the plots and calumnies which were every day gathering strength against him.

In the midst of her gay surroundings she was thinking with sick misery of the deepening danger that menaced him; and the strains of the violins, with their mockery of mirth, made her heavy heart ache intolerably. The hot, wearisome afternoon, with its glare of light and colour, and babel of chatter and laughter, seemed interminable; but it came to an end at last, and as the sun was setting behind the pines, the carriages began to come round for the visitors who had been to the Grand-Duke’s levee.

Evangela was standing watching the departures, when she suddenly saw a carriage that she recognized. The black horses so splendidly matched, the old gray-haired Kutscher, and the eagle and coronet on the panel. Yes, that was the Adlofstein carriage—was he here, then? She repressed the startled exclamation into which she had nearly been betrayed, and turned to Thekla, who was standing by her; but at that moment Clothilde Muller, who had been gossiping with Thekla, broke off the subject of her discourse with a remark which was an answer to the question that Evangela was about to ask.

‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, as she, too, caught sight of the carriage that had just come up,

‘there is the Adlofstein barouche, with the English horses. A smart turn-out, isn’t it? None of the others come up to it. Poor Stephanie Stillenheim! no wonder she admires it so. But who would have thought of seeing Adlofstein here to-day?’

‘Is he here?’ asked Thekla, her face sobering suddenly. ‘No; you don’t say so!’

‘Yes. Look! there is his carriage; and I have seen him. He did not come till rather late, and he is still with the Grand-Duke.’

‘Ach /’ said Thekla, ‘imagine his coming up here and facing everybody, after all that has been said! Do you know what sort of a reception he had?’

‘No; but they have been talking for some time. They say that His Serenity is particularly friendly with him, and perhaps that is why he comes. But, Mein Gott! if people were saying such things about me, I think I should want to hide my head in the lowest hole that I could find, rather than come out on an occasion like this, with everybody staring and nudging and shrinking away, as they did when he came through the crowd this afternoon. He appeared not to notice; but I expect he did, he looked so stern. I declare, his face frightened me.’

‘I don’t wonder 1’ remarked Thekla. He has always frightened me in his best days; and what must he be now!’

‘That brain-doctor remains all the time at Adlofstein, I hear,’ continued Clothilde; ‘and they say that he is really acting as a sort of keeper, and that there is no doubt that Count Brandenberg will win his suit. He’has already instituted it; and the amount of evidence that has been collected is really startling. What do you think about it, Fraulein?’ she asked, turning suddenly to Evangela, upon whom she had been keeping an observant eye ever since the introduction of Adlofstein’s name. ‘You are supposed to be rather a friend of this mad Baron, I believe,’ she added maliciously.

‘Yes; I am a friend of Baron Adlofstein’s,’ Evangela answered with disdainful frankness.

‘I do not believe one single word of the calumnies and slanders that are being spread about against him. It hurts me to hear them; and since that is the case, and you know it, I can hardly think it very good taste on your part to repeat such gossip in my presence.’ Clothilde had once called Evangela the Beggar Princess. She had given the nickname in scorn; but there were times when the perception of its appositeness came upon her with an irritating conviction of inferiority. There was a distinction about the Bertemilians that was evident in an even greater degree in their English cousin—a distinction which she, for all her riches, could never hope to attain, and she writhed under the recognition of it now in Evangela’s quiet disdain.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’ she said bitingly.

‘I had no notion that matters had gone so far, or else, you may be sure, I would not have said a word. It has been a subject of common talk, of course, the tender interest that you were supposed to take in him; but I did not know how much ground there was for it.’

‘How dare you tell such lies, Clothilde?’ said Thekla, interrupting her indignantly; ‘and when you know that they are lies, too! There has been no such talk, and you know very well that there is also no ground for it. Can you not understand that the ways of English girls are different from ours? I will not have you tease Evangela in this tiresome way; I want her to be in a good humour for the dance to-night.’

‘For the dance? What do you mean, Thekla?’ asked Evangela, with a startled glance. ‘You are not staying for the dance?’ ‘Just to-night!’ pleaded Thekla. ‘It is the last night, and the Grand-Duke and the gentlemen of his suite are going to look in. They have asked us to join their party to look on at the dancing—only to look on, Vangela—surely you won’t mind that?’

‘Ach! only to look on, with the waltz-music in your ears and Count d’licoronata pressing you to dance! That is a likely thing, isn’t it?’ laughed Clothilde.

‘Well, if I do dance, Vangela need not. She can just sit quietly in her place; and it won’t be any more wrong to listen to dance-music in a room than here out of doors. It is really the same thing exactly, and I do beg you, Vangela, not to make any difficulties about it, because if you do, papa will make it an excuse for taking us home, that he may go to the Casino.’

But this was a concession that Evangela did not feel herself called upon to make. She had always refused to attend the Sunday dances, and to-day, of all days, she would not break her rule. She was longing with sick desperation to get away, and Thekla argued and coaxed in vain. She took to scolding at last, and Clothilde interposed with a sneer and a taunt about the want of attraction that the company seemed to have for the Miss now that she saw which carriages were going off; but Evangela remained unmoved. In the midst of the dispute Baron Bertemilian came up, and before Thekla could stop her, Evangela had appealed to him :

‘Baron Bertemilian, Thekla tells me that you are thinking of staying for the dance to-night— but I would so much rather not! Please let me find someone to go back with now, and you and Thekla stay on. I want to get back to Melanie; and among all the people returning to Lindenthal, I can easily find someone to walk with.’

‘Fraulein Wynne wishes for an escort to Lindenthal?’ said the voice of someone passing, who had overheard the last words; ‘may I offer myself?’ And turning with a sudden leap of her heart at the sound of the well-known tones, Evangela saw Adlofstein standing by. ‘I am driving through the town, and can offer a seat in my carriage,’ he said, addressing the Baron; ‘and I will put the Fraulein down at your door, if that will do?’

He did not draw his heels together with a click and a bow in the rectangular fashion of the white-coated Austrian officers. He stood quite straight, looking stately and rather stiff, like the Englishman that he was; and Evangela noted it with a thrill of appreciation which made itself felt even through the gladness with which she welcomed his rescue. But it was to Baron Bertemilian, and not to herself, that he had made the offer; and the Baron, who was fingering his white moustache in some perplexity, and looking with scarcely suppressed amusement from her to Adlofstein, suddenly became dubious as to what might be the English code of etiquette under such circumstances.

‘You are most obliging, Baron Adlofstein,’ he said politely, ‘and I am very much indebted to you for your courteous offer; but it is for the Fraulein to say whether she will accept it or not. What do you say, Fraulein Vangela? Will you accept Baron Adlofstein’s escort, or would you prefer to remain for the dance with us?’

‘I will go with Baron Adlofstein,’ replied Evangela promptly, and, raising her eyes, she saw Adlofstein, who had been looking grim during her silence, holding out his hand with a flash of satisfaction in his eyes.

The horses were chafing to be off, and another carriage was waiting its turn behind; and Adlofstein made no apology for haste. The affair seemed settled in a moment, and in the next he had taken his place beside Evangela and driven off.

‘He handed her in for all the world as if she were a veritable princess,’ Clothilde commented in reporting upon it afterwards. ‘Pity that Stephanie wasn’t there to see! However, one can write—there is always that comfort!’

Clothilde stood too much in awe- of Baron Bertemilian to venture upon any remark before him; but Thekla, who had been looking on in the silence of stupefaction, broke out into ejaculations as the carriage disappeared from view.

‘Amazing—incredible! She actually trusts herself to go alone with that dreadful man, who may turn into a raving maniac at any moment! Most people think he is mad already—and she is not afraid i Ach Gott /’

‘Most people are fools, and Vangela is a sensible girl,’ said the Baron with severity.

‘Baron Adlofstein is no more mad than I am, and I won’t have you, Thekla, joining the common mob of scandalmongers who are trying to injure him. I have no particular cause for standing up for Baron Adlofstein, as all the world knows, and he has treated me badly enough; but he is one of us, all the same. He is the descendant and representative of a family compared to which your modern Counts, like Rothenfels and d’Ecoronata, are mere mushrooms, and he is the last of the old and noble name. I don’t like to see him with a pack of canaille all setting upon him, and hounding him on to destruction; and they had better not come to me with their slobbering tongues. I will have no part in it!’

A strong sense of noblesse oblige, combined with the esprit de corps of his order, had inspired the Baron with a magnanimity that rose above the natural force of his character, and instead of the petty triumph that offered itself, he had chosen to stand up for his former enemy and take his part. He alone of all the visitors from Lindenthal had gone up to Adlofstein with a friendly greeting that afternoon, and, strange as he would have thought it a short time ago, Adlofstein had been grateful for his support. Adlofstein had, indeed, betrayed no sign that he felt the isolation and obloquy of his position; but he had not failed to observe the impression that his entrance had created, and to find himself so shunned and dreaded, even by people whom he regarded with indifference and contempt, had roused all the cynical scorn and bitterness that was in his proud soul.

‘You are not afraid to trust yourself with me, then, Miss Wynne?’ were his first words to Evangela, as they drove swiftly down the steep incline.

He spoke abruptly—so abruptly that he startled Evangela, who in the awakened consciousness of her feelings towards him was overcome with terror lest she should do or say anything that would betray her—lest she should already have done so in the irrepressible gladness with which she had accepted his escort. Adlofstein saw her turn pale, and misread the meaning of her startled glance.

‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, with sudden intense bitterness, ‘you do shrink from me—I see you are like the rest! You believe the reports that are going about. Well, I suppose it is natural; but I hoped that you-’

‘I—I!’ exclaimed Evangela, every atom of self-consciousness chased away in an instant;

‘you think that I believe those slanders—you suppose that the plots of your enemies have power to shake my respect and confidence in you? Oh F—with a little gasp of indignation—

‘I think you might have known me better F ‘I hoped—I kept hoping against hope—that you might not desert me, but I could not know,’ he said with suppressed emotion. ‘I did not know what they might tell you—and they say that if you only throw enough mud, some of it is sure to stick.’ He gave a restless and impatient glance round. The horses were getting over the ground so swiftly that the interview would be all too short, and he gave an imperious order to the coachman to slacken speed. ‘I have had one accident on this road, and I don’t want another/’ he said; ‘let the horses walk down the hill.’ Then he turned again to Evangela. ‘There has been enough mud thrown on me lately to convince and alienate most people, and now I find how few friends I have. My relations seem to have gone against me in a body/

‘Not M. de St. Evremonde?’ said Evangela quickly. ‘Surely he has not?’

‘Ah, St. Evremonde—no. He is in Vienna now, doing all that he can in my interest/

‘Ah, well. At least I am glad of that/

‘Yes, I suppose you are/ said Adlofstein, with a frown which was caused by a cruel contraction of the heart. ‘But it is what you would have expected of him, isn’t it? Since I have made him my heir, and that will would not stand if I were to be disabled from having any voice in the disposition of my property, it is his own interests as well as mine that he is defending. You knew that he was to be master at Adlofstein after me—he told you that, of course, didn’t he ?’

Of course? Why should he say ‘of course? What could Adlofstein know of the motive that had induced St. Evremonde to tell her what she was so much ashamed of having heard? The sudden disquieting question flashed across Evangela’s mind, but she could not find courage to put it into words. Her cheeks flamed at the mere thought of Adlofstein’s discovering what St. Evremonde’s pretensions had been, and she made no answer.

‘Of course,’ resumed Adlofstein, correctly construing her silence into an admission. ‘And that reminds me; I have been shamefully remiss in not offering my congratulations before. You must have known that it could be no secret from me that you were going to make St. Evremonde happy—most happy he ought to be—and you must have wondered at my failure in politeness the other day when I was taking you over the house that in the natural course of things will be your home some day.’

Evangela gasped. She tried to speak, but she felt as if she were choking, and Adlofstein went on in level tones :

‘I did not take the opportunity that was so manifestly the appropriate one, but you must make some allowance for the moods of a misanthropic old bachelor, and not believe that it was through any want of cordiality or goodfeeling, or because I did not appreciate my cousin’s good fortune. I do completely realize that, and I hope he will be worthy of the trust that you honour him with. Believe me, though I say it late, it is my earnest wish that you and he may be happy-’

He broke off suddenly as he perceived the desperation in Evangela’s face, and saw her raise her hands to her ears.

‘What is the matter?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Have I been so unfortunate as to offend you in some way?’

‘Oh yes, you do offend me—you offend me deeply! you shock me! you insult me, Baron Adlofstein!’ she said, struggling with the uncontrollable sobs that shook her.

‘I insult you! How?’

‘By saying such a thing—by thinking it, even! Oh, I know you do not mean to insult me—forgive me for saying so—it is that I do not know what I am saying—I am so hurt—so vexed!’ she gasped incoherently. ‘There must be some wretched mistake! but how could you make such a mistake? How could you think that I cared—for a moment—for M. de St. Evremonde?’

Adlofstein had been sitting bolt upright in his place with his eyes fixed upon her before, but now he made a sudden movement so as to command a direct view of her face, turn it which way she would.

‘Are you not engaged to him?’ he asked shortly, almost harshly.

‘Engaged to him? To M. de St. Evremonde?’ said Evangela, shrinking as if he had struck her. ‘No! oh no, no! You surely have not been thinking that?’

‘I have/ he answered briefly.

There was a moment’s pause, and then Adlofstein continued in strangely forced tones :

‘He told me—I don’t know what he told me exactly, but he made me think that he had won your love, and he said that he was going to marry you. And then I saw you with him under the trees at the Schwarzenberg, the day of my accident — don’t you remember?—and he was standing as an accepted lover might have done, close to you, and smiling : I thought that he must just have spoken then. And you tell me that he is not your lover—that you are not betrothed to him? You don’t love him? You never have loved him?’

‘Never—never!’ Evangela cried passionately. ‘I liked him at first in a friendly, girlish sort of way. I liked him and I admired him, but I never, never loved him, and the very first time that he spoke to me of love, one day that he met me by accident in your woods — the day after the Maskenbal, it was —I told him that I never should.’

‘That was the day; that very afternoon he came to me and told me that you were going to be his wife.’

‘He had no right—none whatever; for I had never given him any encouragement, and I had refused him. I was not so certain of my feelings as I was afterwards, but some instinct made me say no, and I distrusted him because I considered that he had behaved badly to another girl. He asked me again one day when he had made up a party to go to Friedenwald over the Gabel. He found me by myself in the short-cut up the mountain, in a place where the towers of your Castle are visible, and when I would not listen to his professions, he tried to tempt me by telling me how rich and great he expected to be—how at your death he was to succeed to your estates, and how he did not think he would have to wait long. Then I saw what a wretch he was, and I began to dislike him. Afterwards, when he got hold of me again at the Schwarzen-berg, I knew that I hated him, and I almost told him so. He had been persecuting me, and I had been crying, and, then he saw you coming, and he said you must not see, and he moved quickly and placed himself in front of me. I don’t know why he did it.’

‘He did it on purpose—damn him!’ said Adlofstein in a low voice of such concentrated passion that Evangela quailed as she heard it.

‘He wanted to make me think that you were his, and he achieved his purpose! I was nearly mad with misery and despair, and he knew it—he must have known it! But what was his motive for keeping me on such a rack? I nearly killed myself that day in the recklessness of my despair—was that what he hoped for?’

Adlofstein was frightfully agitated, but the habit of self-command, so long and so rigorously exercised, asserted itself now, and he checked himself suddenly.

The old coachman, in obedience to the order he had received, was driving with as much moderation as his spirited horses would allow, but it was too fast for Adlofstein. He glanced hastily round, and when he saw how near they were to the town, he gave an order to the man to pull up.

‘We shall be at your door in a few minutes at this rate, and I have to go off to Vienna by the first train to-morrow. I am obliged to go there on this miserable business, and I don’t know when I shall have an opportunity of seeing you again—perhaps never—but I must know about this—I must speak to you! Will you get out of the carriage and walk with me down the hill? There is a path through the woods from this bend of the road, and the carriage can wait for us at the foot of the hill. Let me help you out.’

He was in a mood of desperation that seemed as if it would brook no opposition, and Evangela offered none. She let him hand her out and lead her into the wood, and as they walked along the pine-needled track, she waited with a wildly-beating heart and a sickening sense of suspense to hear what more there was to be said. Adlofstein was silent, and it seemed to her that in the very crisis of his emotion he had regained the self-command and the restraint that he had so resolutely imposed upon himself, and that the barrier of his reserve was for ever to remain a dividing wall between them. But when they had reached a glade that was out of sight and hearing from the road, Adlofstein spoke, and though his manner was more collected, his voice betrayed that the tumult of his mind was still unsubdued.

‘I believe I can guess the motive that made St. Evremonde scheme to make me suppose that you were promised to him,’ he said bitterly.

‘I could not tell it you without giving an explanation that I have no right to make, but if it is what I suppose, it appears to me that I am singularly unfortunate. Most men are punished for their vices, but it is the few efforts at well-doing that I have made that seem destined to bring destruction upon my head; and it is my friend—mine own familiar friend in whom I trusted—who has lifted up his heel against me. Ever since we were boys together I have been St. Evremonde’s friend and ally, and I have always done what I could in his interest. I have helped him out of his scrapes, forgiven him his inconsistencies, and begrudged him nothing; and now, after I had bestowed on him the greatest mark of trust and confidence that lay in my power, by constituting him my heir, and giving him one of the finest estates in the country, this is his return. Yes, my experience has certainly been unfortunate. I meant to be kind to my father’s widow by keeping her under the shelter and protection of my roof, instead of placing her under the confinement and restriction that would have been the only alternative. For Stephanie Stillenheim, too, I have tried to do what I could. I have never refused to help Baron Stillenheim when he has been in difficulties— and it has been often—and I had provided for Stephanie in my will, and now she and my stepmother are both caballing with my enemy against me, and blindly sacrificing their own interests in their malicious desire to injure me.’

‘They will not succeed,’ said Evangela with conviction.

‘1 don’t know. They may not be able to consign me to that living death which is what they aim at—to that fate which is the cruellest that can befall any human being—but they can inflict obloquy and injury upon me. They have injured me irreparably already; they have made me a reproach among my fellow-men, and every sad and disgraceful page in our family history has been laid open for the amusement of the idle and curious world. I had much to endure before, in my own secret knowledge of these things, but they have brought scorn and derision upon me, and heaped up my misery tenfold. They have rewarded evil for good, and now I feel as if there were no such thing as faith or loyalty left in the world. I would fain serve you if ever the opportunity were permitted me, but now I shall hardly dare. Perhaps if I did, you would turn against me then?’ ,

He paused, and looked at her with a gaze of almost stern intensity; but Evangela had turned her face away. Adlofstein had in the bitterness of his heart said cruel things to her before this, and she had felt them keenly; but this was a stab which she was not prepared for, and it wounded her to the quick. She did not know how to bear it, and, with whitening lips, she moved away from him; but he put out his hand and detained her.

‘No, I ought not to have said that!’ he said hastily. ‘Forgive me! I did not mean it; I do not believe it. My faith in humanity must be shaken indeed before I can doubt your truth and loyalty. You are my friend, are you not? and you will remain so? I may count upon you?’

He had taken her hand in his, and the passionate pleading of his voice compelled her to answer. She could not speak; but she raised her eyes, and Adlofstein saw the agonized love-light shining through her tears. He gazed for a brief space—while one might count ten— and then in a moment, before he quite knew how it had happened, she was in his arms, and her face was hidden against his breast.

‘But, oh, Evangela!’ he said at last, breaking with a heavy sigh the brief silence of mutual comprehension—‘oh, Evangela, my dear, my darling! I fear that I have been very much to blame. I have no right to hold you thus against my heart, for I can never be your husband. I had resolved that I would never tell you that I loved you, because I knew that I could only bring you sorrow. You know the curse that throws its shadow over me, and you know that I can never expose wife and children to the risk of what might happen.’

‘I know,’ said Evangela, without raising her head; ‘but I am glad that you have told me that you love me. It will always be a comfort to me to know that as a certainty; and perhaps it will comfort you to remember that there is one person to whom you are more than all the world. As long as I live I shall love you, and no one shall ever take your place in my heart.’

‘Do you love me as much as that?’ asked Adlofstein, kissing, with unaccustomed lips, her hair, her brow, her cheeks, and thrilled to the uttermost point of sensation by the sweetness of a joy that had never been discounted by any baser foretaste—‘do you indeed?’

‘You do not know how I love you!’ she cried, suddenly throwing her arms round his neck, and clinging to him in the very abandonment of passion. ‘I love you—oh, I love you —I love you! I would give my life to make you happy; but all that I can do is to leave you. Oh, it is hard—it is bitterly hard f Adlofstein was silent for a few- moments. He held her close, and he was tasting a happiness that he had never thought to know; but the expressions that chased each other across his stern face were alternately sorrowful, pitying, and remorseful.

‘I am a selfish brute to have brought this upon you,’ he said at last. ‘I never thought that you could care for me like that; but I have been to blame—I have been terribly to blame. I ought to have endured my own trouble in silence, and kept far away from you, so that there might be no risk of the shadow falling on you and blighting your bright, innocent life.’

‘You could not have prevented it,’ said Evangela. ‘I think that the mischief must have been done in the very beginning—that evening on the ice when you knocked me down—you remember?’

‘Yes, I remember. It was not a propitious beginning.’

‘You saved my life afterwards; but even before that my mind was always full of you. I thought that I did not like you; but I see now how mistaken I was, and I think it must have been the cause why M. de St. Evremonde’s proposals were so impossible. Ah, no! you must not blame yourself. It was to be, and I would not have had it otherwise. But now let me go, Baron Adlofstein; we must part, and go our different ways in the life marked out for us.’

‘Let you go, when I know what it means?’ he said rebelliously. ‘You say it so easily; but you do not know what you are saying! If by giving up everything that I have in the world—name, fortune, lands, everything but honour—I could keep you, I would make the sacrifice this moment. I would do it without hesitation—nay, gladly; but to give you up, to lose you in the very hour that I have found yOU—it is too much! I do not know how I am to do it.’

‘You will do it if you feel it to be right,’ said Evangela, her voice shaking a little in spite of herself. ‘I should not have been afraid; but it is not for me to decide—it is for you ; and I will accept your decision, whatever it may be.’

Adlofstein saw that she would face any risk for his sake, and a groan was wrung from him.

It was a moment of sore temptation, and his soul was filled with yearning; but the honour which he had kept unstained all his life was not to be tampered with, and he could not violate principles that had become a part of himself.

‘I have no right to drag others into my own peril,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I might do it, but it would be a sin.’

‘Then, you must leave me. But first you must promise me one thing : You must not let your love for me spoil your life; instead of that, it can, if you will, strengthen, and ennoble, and beautify it. Promise me that the wealth of love and kindness which you would have poured out upon wife and children, if they had not been denied to you, shall not be starved and wasted, but only turned into other channels, which shall bring joy and happiness to others—promise me, Baron Adlofstein.’

‘Let me hear my name—my Christian name —that I never hear from loving lips now. Let me hear it from yours once.’

‘Promise me, Louis,’ she said softly; and the exquisite sweetness of her tender intonation seemed to go straight to his heart and pierce it.

‘I would promise you almost anything that you asked for like that—even the impossible, which this very nearly is. I promise you, however, that I will do my best to live and die as I think you would wish me to. Ah 1 must we indeed go?’

Evangela was walking on; she felt that her strength would not stand the strain much longer, and she would not linger; but as they came in sight of the road, where the horses were waiting and champing their bits, she said hurriedly :

‘I could not bear to think of your life, which ought to be an example of nobleness and beneficence in the world, being spoilt, and your nature becoming cold, and bitter, and hard. I shall not let mine be spoilt; and I shall try to find content, even though, after I go back to England, I know that I shall probably never see you again. But I shall never forget you— never cease to love you, or to pray for you; and I shall be lonely all my life for your sake.’

‘Ah, you must not say that!’ he said sadly.

‘I do notask it; I could not wish it. You are so young, and life is all before you; it is best that you should forget me, and I hope you will. In the years to come you may very well meet someone whom you can love, who will be infinitely more worthy of you than I should have been; and if you should, I could only rejoice. I want you to be happy.’

Evangela did not answer. They had reached the road, and he was helping her into the carriage. The fiery horses, chafed with their long waiting, dashed at full speed along the level ground, where the linen factories flanked the town, and already they were entering the streets. When next Adlofstein spoke, it was in a different tone :

‘You must not be surprised if half the people we meet turn to stare at us,’ he said cynically. ‘I find that I am an object of general interest, as a sort of dangerous wild beast that may be caged up and lost to view any day. I knew that I was not popular among these good people, who are accustomed to regard with suspicion everyone who is not exactly like themselves; and perhaps they do not love me any the more for my foreign extraction. But what I have done to provoke them to rise up and clamour for my destruction I do not know/

‘You go to Vienna to-morrow?’ said Evangela suddenly. ‘And when shall you come back—when shall I see you again?’

There was very little time left; already the carriage was speeding past the Freiheit, and in the archway under the Austrian eagle there was someone looking out. It was Marie, the girls’ fille de chambre, and she was gazing with eyes of wonder and curiosity at the spectacle of the Fraulein again brought home in the Adlofstein carriage.

‘When shall you come back again?’ Evangela repeated insistently.

‘I don’t know. It is quite uncertain. A week, a fortnight, a month—perhaps not before Christmas—perhaps never. It depends upon when the suit begins, and how it ends. And when I do come back—if I do—I must not seek to see you. For your sake, if not for my own, I am bound to keep away from you. It is certain that the less you see of me, the more likely you are to be able to forget; which is what all your friends would wish. We may meet, but after this it must be as strangers/

As strangers! The words fell coldly and cruelly upon her ears, as the carriage drew up before Baron Bertemilian’s door.

‘You see that it must be so?’ Adlofstem said urgently. ‘It is my duty to think of your happiness, your future; and I could only blight it. I fear that I have already done you wrong, but it shall go no further. This is the end.’ ‘Yes/ said Evangela, with a blank look in her eyes. ‘I suppose so. Good-bye/

He took her hand; and Marie, who was watching with all the curiosity of her class, stood by and stared; but there was nothing to see, and it seemed to her that the Baron’s manner was cold and formal, and that his leave-taking was unnecessarily abrupt.

Evangela had disappeared with the c’ameriera into the house, and Adlofstein drove on alone to his empty home. He did not once look back, and his face was stern and set; but his soul was torn by a tempest of conflicting feelings. He had gained something that day which he had never hoped or dreamed could be his, but he was not to enjoy it. She loved him —she had told him so herself—and the sweetness of it came over him again like some taste of perfect happiness. He looked up into the evening sky where the stars were beginning to tremble softly through the misty air, and a strange youthful freshness seemed to come over his spirit—the revivifying breath of faith, and hope, and love. For a few seconds a perfect joy had been his; but the agony of the renunciation was worse to endure than anything that had gone before, and now he was left with a sense of utter desolation. What had become of the old reflections, by the aid of which he had been used to brace himself up to a stoic endurance of his lot? He was but a single unit in the vast universe, an insignificant atom whose tiny span of life would soon be over, and whose individual sufferings counted for nothing in the merciless march of Nature’s Juggernaut: it was not worth the wrestle with matter, and it was best to cultivate a dull indifference, a cynical acceptance of what could not be altered. This was a philosophy in which he had often sought to find solace; but it failed him utterly now, and in the fierce flame of a spiritual need its maxims shrivelled up like sticks of straw in a furnace.

Adlofstein drove through his beautiful Raus-chenbach Valley with his hand over his eyes, and he saw again the look of blank despair on Evangela’s face as he had parted from her. He had brought that look there; he had wrought sorrow and disappointment in her life, and he could do nothing to shield her. His hand, which lay idly upon his knee, clenched itself suddenly, as he thought of the hard necessity which might compel her to go out into the world to battle for a livelihood, while he, with all the wealth that he would fain have endowed her with, and the devotion with which he would have served and sheltered her, was powerless to help her.

Was there nothing that he could do—nothing —nothing? he asked himself as he looked into the clouded prospect. Yes; there was one thing: he could provide against poverty for her in the future; and if she was poor now, the time would come when she would find herself rich. He would make a new will, and St. Evre-monde should not be his heir this time; he and Stephanie Stillenheim had forfeited their claims by their baseness and treachery, and they should be left out. Count Brandenberg should come in for the estates, and he should provide for the Baroness out of them; but Evangela should have the rest.

‘Yes,’ said Adlofstein at last, with something like a gleam of satisfaction in his weary eyes. ‘Every kreutzer of my personal fortune shall go to her. I will do that; I will do it without delay as soon as I get to Vienna. And then to fight Brandenberg; the doubts that he has raised must be settled before all the world before I can dispose of my property as I wish, and I will have it out with him; it will be the more worth doing, that it will be for her sake as well as my own.’

CHAPTER XXXI

THE DEVILS WAGES.

It was night on the banks of the Danube; and the brilliantly lighted streets of Vienna were filled with gay crowds on their way to the theatres and music-halls. It was a fete-day in December, and though it was yet early in the evening, the great theatre in the Ringstrasse was already filling with people who were anxious to secure good places.

The boxes and reserved seats were still most of them empty, for it wanted nearly half an hour before the opera was to begin; but in Count Brandenberg’s conspicuous loge on the upper tier there were two ladies who had come with the Count, and were attracting general attention.

Two months had elapsed since the Baroness and Stephanie had come to Vienna, and they were there still. The preliminaries to the suit that Count Brandenberg was instituting were still pending; and Adlofstein, who, now that the question had been raised, was determined to have it decisively settled, had given no hint of his changed intentions. Meanwhile, the Baroness was bent upon enjoying herself, and so long as she could get the Count to entertain her, she was in no hurry to depart. She appeared every night in his box at the theatre; and as she liked to get the full benefit of the privilege, she insisted upon going early. Tonight she sat, as usual, well in front, leaning her thin arms upon the cushions, fanning herself with all the antique graces practised in her youth, smirking, smiling, and bowing, and evidently enjoying herself mightily, as she found herself a centre of interest and attention. Stephanie sat by her, and saw how, after a glance at the Baroness, all the officers in the pit were directing their opera-glasses upon her; but she did not look happy. The suit that Count Brandenberg was instituting against his kinsman were creating a sensation in Vienna, and Stephanie shared with the Baroness the notoriety that she had always craved for. Her plot was succeeding beyond her hopes, and for two months she had been plunged in a life of pleasure and novelty; but she had gained little satisfaction or enjoyment out of it, and her anxious, unhappy face was more pinched and hungry-looking than ever. The cloud which hung over her spirits to-night seemed especially heavy. A glimpse that she had caught of her ‘ own face in the theatre cloak-room had given her a shock of repulsion, and seeing that by the side of hers the Baroness’s faded features looked almost pretty, she had reflected bitterly that there would probably not be any other woman in the theatre so ugly and ill-dressed as she was; but this was a familiar experience, and long use had made her almost callous to it.

The sense of utter depression that weighed upon her and robbed her of all power of enjoyment was not to be accounted for by so trivial a cause as this—what, then, was it? Was it that anonymous letter that had reached her by the afternoon post? She had it in her pocket now, and while the overture was being played she withdrew to the back of the box, and took it out, examining it again, to see if she could discover some clue to its meaning and origin. There was no beginning and no ending; and the note consisted merely of a few lines scrawled in a feigned hand in illiterate French:

‘You are committing an enormous blunder in making an enemy of Baron Adlofstein! You are attacking a benefactor, and playing into the hand of an opponent. In Baron Adlofstein’s ‘ will your name is down for a large sum—sixty thousand florins. Go on raising doubts about his sanity, and whether you succeed or not in the present, you will make that will of no effect in the future. Count Brandenberg is sure to dispute it, and you will not get sixty half-kreutzers from him. Be warned! Draw back before it is too late, and spare no effort to undo the mischief that you have begun. It is the advice of one who knows, and who wishes you well.’

Who had written that letter, and how much truth was there in the amazing statement that it contained? It seemed to be written in a feminine hand, and it bore the Vienna postmark; but Stephanie knew no woman in Vienna who could have any grounds for sending her such a message, and she puzzled her brains over it in vain. Then the communication itself —could it be true? If it were true! Adlofstein was a generous man, and Stephanie knew how often, and how liberally, he had helped her father. She knew, too, that it had been in a great measure out of sympathy and commiseration for her that he had done so, and this was the sole foundation that she had had for the hopes with which she had tried to delude herself. And now that those airy castles, which she had always known to be baseless, had completely crumbled away, was it possible that all the time there was a solid structure prepared for her, and that she, in her blindness, had been working to undermine it?

Sixty thousand florins! Why, it was wealth —it was riches! Stephanie’s eyes brightened at the thought of all that it would mean to her —the respect, the comfort, that it would ensure her; the opportunity of turning the tables upon those who had been insolent to her; the satisfaction with which she would fling money into the faces of the poor people who all these years had never thought it worth while to say ‘Ich kuss die Hand’ to her; and then she remembered what she had done, and her face clouded into a heavier gloom. It was too late now! She could not draw back—Count Brandenberg would not, even if she wished to, and Adlofstein would never forgive her. There was nothing for it now but to go on in the course that she had begun; but it was with a miserably heavy heart that she accepted, the conviction.

Stephanie had brains enough; and though the spiritual part of her nature had suffered atrophy-through long neglect, she was still not altogether without heart. She had said to herself,

‘Evil, be thou my good,’ and had deliberately set herself to act up to that principle; but the devil’s wages are apt to have an unsatisfactory flavour in the tasting, and the shadow of doubt and fear that rested on her in the brilliantly-lighted theatre this evening made her feel chilled to the heart, and more really wretched than any forlorn outcast in the starving streets.

‘Bah!’ she said impatiently to herself, ‘it is the reaction from an amount of excitement that I am not accustomed to; it is a physical malaise —nothing more—and it will pass off! I will not let myself give way to it.’ And she roused herself from her foreboding thoughts to return to the front of the box, and seek distraction in the scene before her.

‘Ack, Stephanie!’ cried the Baroness, leaning forward with a sudden gleam of recognition in her eyes; ‘do you see anyone whom you know? I do! See, the Marquis de St. Evre-monde—there he is, in the front of all those men. He is looking at us; he recognizes us— ah!’ And she waved her fan and nodded her head until all the little spires and spangles that she loved to wear were set waggling in quivering agitation.

‘But, Baronin,’ remonstrated Count Branden-berg hastily, ‘do you think it is advisable to notice him? He will be coming up here to speak to you, if you don’t take care; and he is our opponent. He has come to Vienna on purpose to fight us, and we don’t want to have any more to do with him than we can help.’

‘Pooh! what does it matter?’ replied the Baroness. ‘We are stronger than he, and he knows it! But you need not fear his coming up. He will not come—see, he has turned away, and he is making some sneering remark to that man with the decorations who is standing by him—little wretch! He has never troubled himself to pay any attention to me, or even to treat me with ordinary civility; but he is going to pay for it now—yes, and heavily!— he shall see that his insolence will have cost him something—will he not, Stephanie?’

But Stephanie had not been attending to the Baroness, and she did not hear. She had seen St. Evremonde as he was pointed out to her; but at the same time her eyes, wandering at the back of the theatre, had caught sight of another face that she recognized—a darker, swarthier face than St. Evremonde’s—and for that face she looked again, as if she were impelled by some sort of fascination.

It was Laroche, St. Evremonde’s valet, and it was natural enough that he should be in Vienna at the same time as his master; he had a habit, too, of following the Marquis to the places of amusement that he frequented. Stephanie knew that; but what was the meaning of the look that she had surprised upon his face as she saw him looking at her—that look of mingled greed and fury? Stephanie gazed at him in wonder and mystification; and then all at once a light broke in upon her, and her fingers clutched convulsively at the scrap of paper in her pocket.

Of course it was he—Laroche—who had sent her that letter! Of course—of course! Who else had the opportunity of studying the provisions of Adlofstein’s will—who else had an interest in her concerns? And now it became clear what had been the attraction which had made him seek her out; and the difficulties that he had made about bringing the will for her to see were also accounted for. The whole mystery was explained now.

‘Of course, of course, of course!’ Stephanie said to herself in an agony of rage and bitterness; ‘I see it all now! That was why he was so anxious to get me to consent to a secret marriage—it was that he might get hold of this money that he had private knowledge was coming to me—then I should have been in his power, and he would have had the spending of it! I knew that there must be some explanation of this sort, and that all the nonsense that he talked was nothing but a blind; and yet I was deluded enough almost to believe him! I had almost persuaded myself that there might be one man—just one among them all—who could see in me myself something to care for! Oh, idiot! fool! deluded, suicidal lunatic that I have been!’

It was indeed true, then. Adlofstein had intended to leave her this royal legacy—had put her down for it in his will. Stephanie saw how one fact confirmed and proved another, and she perceived that if she had suffered things to take their natural course, without interfering at all, the probabilities were that she would have come into the enjoyment of ease and competence and independence—all that she most coveted. Adlofstein was not likely to marry—even when her jealousy of Evangela had been hottest, she had known how potent were the obstacles that stood in the way—and Dr. Hempel had the poorest opinion of his constitution. But she had thrown away the gift that fortune might have brought her; she had cancelled it by her own act, and had made utter wreck and failure of her fortunes. Stephanie saw it all now, and, with this consciousness, there came to her a perception of herself as she really was. As she realized the generosity and kindness of the man whom she was trying to ruin, and the baseness of her return, her conscience smote her at last, and, seeing how she had allowed the black, ingrained spots of her nature to spread and corrode like some loathsome disease, she sickened with a dull sense of disgust and despair.

‘I wish I was dead!’ she thought, as she turned to see the curtain rise.

The overture to Offenbach’s last and lightest operetta had come to an end, and the lights in the theatre were lowered. The crowd of faces faded out, and all eyes were turned upon the stage in expectation of the opening scene; but the curtain did not rise, and suddenly, as they watched it, the people saw it blow to one side like a sail caught by the wind, and disclose a terrible transformation - scene behind. The whole stage was in flames, and in an instant the cry of ‘Fire!’ rang through the building, and a panic began.

The great theatre was crowded from gallery to basement, and all the hundreds who had been sitting in such smiling order a moment before sprang from their seats at once in a mad rush for the doors. There was no attempt made to allay the panic or to mitigate the danger. The fire-proof sheet, that should have been let down to shut off the stage from the rest of the theatre, was either forgotten or out of order; the reservoirs of water over the stage were never thought of; and in two minutes a cloud of flame and smoke was belching out from behind the curtain, and filling the theatre with a dense blast of suffocating heat. From a thousand throats at once there came the terrible, panic-striking cry of ‘Fire!’ and in the corridors and passages behind there sounded already the groans and screams of men and women who were being knocked down and trampled to death in the rush for the doors.

‘Come, come F cried Count Brandenberg, throwing open the door of his box with a shaking hand. ‘The whole theatre will be in flames directly—there is not an instant to lose F

He rushed out first himself, and Stephanie followed. The Baroness could not run quickly enough to keep up with them, and when she came to the place where the corridor converged with another leading to the main staircase, she drew back in horror.

The only exit for the occupants of- that tier was a single narrow doorway, barely two feet wide, and before this outlet was gathered a terrified, desperate crowd, men, women and children, all pushing, and pressing, and fighting, in a maddened struggle for life. The doorway was jammed with an impassable barrier of crushed and dying humanity, and as the panic-stricken wretches behind pressed upon it, and tried to struggle over into safety, the appalling heap became ever higher and deeper. Count Brandenberg was amongst those who thrust the most desperately forward, and Stephanie pressed close behind him, holding on to his coat for security.

‘Oh, help me! help me, Count Brandenberg!’ she cried suddenly, as she felt herself being carried off her feet and wrenched away. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, help me!’

‘I cannot,’ he said between his set teeth.

‘I cannot help myself, even. If you can manage to hold on to me-’ But Stephanie never heard the end of his sentence. As he was speaking, a great hulking, heavy-featured man, with bloodshot eyes and a face brutalized by terror, brought down his fist upon Stephanie’s hands with a force that crippled her wrists and compelled her to let go. He thrust himself into her place, and she saw Count Branden-berg, pressed forwards by this brute, try to mount the human heap in the doorway. He made a desperate effort to get over, but the footing was impossible, and he struggled in vain. He went down suddenly, and the fellow behind him leaped upon his body, only to fall the next instant himself, as someone else pressed him down.

It was evident that through this death-trap escape was impossible, and, sickened with horror and fear, Stephanie tried to turn round and make her way back out of the crowd. Then she found that this was impossible, too.

‘Let me pass!’ screeched a woman with a beautiful, convulsed face, who was fighting like a tigress, and had blood running down the white shoulders from which her dress had been torn away. ‘Let me pass, I say, you ugly, stumpy little wretch! I have a husband and five children at home, and I will get through!’

Stephanie could not answer. Another maddened creature, who was taller than she was, had got her sharp-pointed elbow on her chest, and was pressing with such merciless force that she thought it must smash through the bone. Through the box-doors, that had been thrown open all along the corridor, came the red light of the flames, and with it poured dense volumes of hot and stifling smoke that seemed to have a maddening effect upon the suffocating wretches upon the edge of the crowd. They pressed more and more desperately forward, and, thrust against the wall, Stephanie felt her ribs giving and her life being crushed out. Ten minutes ago she had wished herself dead, but now that death in all its horror was upon her, she shrieked out an agonized appeal for aid.

‘Adlofstein! Adlofstein!’ she cried, and then she flung up her arms suddenly and went down under the living tide. o All over the theatre the same horrible scenes were being enacted, and in the upper galleries, which had been densely packed with spectators of the lower classes, the block was worst of all. It was impossible for a single person to get through the doorways, which were almost immediately heaped up with human beings, and the hopeless struggle, the darkness, the frightful heat, and the suffocating smoke, seemed to throw the people into literal madness; they turned upon each other, and bit and tore like wild beasts.

Down in the pit it was no better. Those officers and men who were near the entrances managed to get out, but St. Evremonde had been in the very front, and by the time he reached the nearest doorway it was hopelessly blocked. He pushed his way in among the struggling crowd as senselessly as the rest, but when he got near the crushing-point he realized that he was only pushing on to certain destruction, and he turned round, and with infinite difficulty fought his w’ay back. Bruised and bleeding and torn, he re-entered the burning theatre, and stood for a moment to regain breath and look for some outlet that might afford a chance of safety. He could see none, and horror and despair came upon him.

‘My God!’ he muttered miserably. ‘Can it be that I have got to die? Now—now, in the full strength of my manhood, and by this horrible death!’

The whole theatre was on fire by this time, and long tongues of flame were licking all round the painted and gilded woodwork of the boxes and galleries. Scraps of drapery and bits of burning wood were beginning to fall, like flakes of fire, into the pit, and nowhere was there a spot where it was possible to stand with any certainty of safety for a moment. As St. Evremonde looked, he saw a maddened soldier spring from the blazing woodwork of the topmost gallery and fall with a sickening crash among the stalls. A woman followed his example, and then another and another from every side, till the floor was strewn with broken bodies, lying in heaps where they fell.

St. Evremonde was almost fainting with horror and heat and suffocation. He must fly somewhere—somewhere, out of this flaming Inferno. He would be burnt up alive if he stayed, and if he must be burnt, it would be better to be suffocated first. From a small doorway by the side of the stage he saw clouds of smoke rolling in dense volumes, and he resolved to try a rush through. It was the musicians’ entrance, and if they had escaped that way, there was just a chance that he might be able to do so also. The way was now clear, and he dashed down the aisle between the chairs, dodging the burning fragments that were falling from the roof, and leaping over the smoking patches on the floor. He had almost gained the railing which fenced in the space reserved for the musicians, when his flight was arrested, and he was very nearly brought headlong to the ground by something that caught at his foot. At the same moment, through the roar of the fire and the screams and groans of agony that rose above it, he heard a shrill voice that he recognized, and, recovering from the stumble, he turned and saw a woman who had raised herself from the floor, and was clinging to his knee—a woman in such a wretched plight, so dishevelled, and torn, and blackened, and scorched, that it was hard to believe that she could be the Baroness Adlofstein.

It was the Baroness, however, and as soon as she recognized St. Evremonde she cried out to him to save her.

‘Save me, M. de St. Evremonde! I have broken my leg in jumping from that box, and I cannot move without aid. Take me with you, away from this frightful place where I am being slowly roasted to death F

St. Evremonde tried in vain to disengage himself from her clutch.

‘Let me go F he said desperately. ‘I cannot possibly save you—no mortal can save you— and you are depriving me of the last chance of safety that remains for myself! Let me go, or, by Heaven, I will use force to make you F ‘I won’t let go F said the Baroness, with a mad gleam in her eyes. ‘I will never let go! and, since you won’t save me, you shall stay and keep me company! Pleasant company has always been such a necessity to me, and you have given me so little of yours, my dear Marquis. You can’t refuse me now!’-

And, laughing wildly, she threw herself upon him, and clutched him with a grip that was like grim death. She was perfectly mad at that moment, and she had the superhuman strength of madness. St. Evremonde struggled in vain to free himself, and when he found that it was impossible, the hidden ferocity that was in him broke loose, and he struck her a furious blow upon the head; even as he did it, however, he knew that it was useless. His chance had gone, and this fiend of a woman, who had murdered her husband and attempted her stepson’s life over and over again, was now become the instrument of his own destruction. Was it Nemesis that had come up with him at last to avenge his perfidy towards his cousin? If he had denounced this woman as he ought to have done, and given up the Baron’s letter when it fell into his hands, this fate would never have come upon him—she would not have been in Vienna now, nor he.

Dimly and vaguely the thought formed itself in his tortured brain; and as he stood swaying and tottering where he was, conviction and remorse came home to him. The Baroness had fallen away from him, and she lay insensible on the ground, with her ghastly face lighted up by the red glare from above; but it was too late for St. Evremonde to save himself now, and he was only able to stand where he was, desperately clutching at the back of a chair for support. The musicians’ doorway had burst into wild flames, and the whole theatre was one raging red-hot furnace. A blast of smoke and flame swept over St. Evremonde, stifling and scorching him, and from every side a fiery doom closed in upon him. Gasping and choking, he made a supreme effort to stand upright and retain a hold upon his failing senses.

‘I am dying—I who thought to inherit Adlofstein’s estates! I was so sure—so sure; and, after all, it is I who am to die, and he to live! He will go on living—Vangela will go on living—all the world will go on living, without me. I shall be blotted out—wiped out of existence, and forgotten, as though I had never been! How strange it seems! Strange! it is impossible—it is absurd! I must be dreaming, and a horrible dream it is; but dreams do not last, thank Heaven! and the morning will come-’

H is thoughts broke off, as hands, feet, and brain failed him all at once; and slipping down to the floor, he lay at full length by the side of the huddled figure of the Baroness. A burning brand that dropped from the roof fell on his face—the handsome face which had been the most gallant and gay in all Vienna—and it hissed upon his cheek, searing and burning until the very bone was charred away; but he did not feel it. For St. Evremonde the night had come.

Among the few persons who were fortunate enough to get out alive from the immense holocaust, St. Evremonde’s servant, Laroche, was one. He had been standing at the back of the pit, close to the entrance, when the alarm was given; and having been one of the first in the rush, he had escaped with no worse effects than a few cuts and bruises. When he was quite convinced of his own safety, he returned to the main entrance of the theatre, and anxiously inquired for news of his master; but he could gain none. The number of people who were to be seen descending the broad flight of stairs was terribly small, and presently the stairs were empty. No more came; but the cries and groans of those who were caged in the dark and narrow passages above became every moment more piteous and agonizing. The roaring and crackling of the fire filled the air with deafening sound, like the raging of a storm at sea, or some monstrous wild beast got loose; but the shrieks and groans of the dying victims pierced through it, and rang above it with an indescribably dreadful effect. Laroche listened for a few minutes, and then as it grew worse and worse, and no one at all was seen to come out any more, he could endure it no longer, and, clapping his hands to his ears, he turned and fled.

As he rushed out of the theatre he knocked up against a tall man who was passing in the street, and, turning, he recognized the towering figure of the Baron Adlofstein. He uttered a cry of appeal, and, catching hold of his arm, began to pour out a string of incoherent questions.

‘Oh, M. le Baron! were you in the theatre? Did you get out safe? Have you seen my master? Oh, tell me : have you seen .M. le Marquis?’

‘No/ said Adlofstein, shaking off the excited Frenchman. ‘But I have not been in the theatre; I have only just come. Have you any reason to suppose that your master was going to this theatre to-night?’

‘He was there; I saw him, for I was there myself, and I only just managed to escape with my life! He was there, and Count -Branden-berg, and the Baroness Adlofstein, and the Baroness Stephanie were there, too; they were in the box nearest to the stage, on the upper tier, and I have seen none of them come out. I fear they are in there now.’

In there! Adlofstein turned to the pandemonium of smoke and flame and deafening sound with a look of horror in his eyes.

‘Good God! you think they are in there now? They are being burnt alive, and we are doing nothing to save them! Is there nothing that can be done?’

The soldiers of the Sanitary Corps had been at work dragging out the crushed victims in the doorways and saving people from the windows; but their lamps and torches had been extinguished by the furious rush of air and smoke, and the flames were belching out of the windows now. There were no more living figures to be seen, and the work of rescue was being given up. The fire-engines were playing energetically upon the building; but it was in order to prevent the flames from spreading along the street. The theatre itself was doomed, and the rescuers were coming out, saying that it was dangerous to remain within the walls any longer, as the roof might fall in at any moment.

Adlofstein stood silent for a moment, looking up at the black mass of the theatre, which stood out against the night sky—a solid block still, though the red light was glowing through the windows, and the flames were beginning to curl through the roof. He owed nothing to Count Brandenberg, or Stephanie, or St. Evremonde; they were all his enemies, and the Baroness was as bitter an enemy as any of them; but as he looked at the burning theatre, and realized their danger, there came upon him, with strange and pressing clearness, the recollection of his promise to Evangela, and the heroic standard that she had required of him, and in a moment his course seemed clear.

‘The upper tier, you said?’ he said hastily. ‘I will go and see if I can find them; there may still be a chance and before Laroche had realized what he meant to do, he had rushed up the stairs and disappeared into the smoke.

The horrified valet gazed after him in astonishment and dismay.

‘He is lost!’ he ejaculated. ‘He is lost to a certainty, unless he comes out in two minutes!’

He posted himself as near as he dared to the entrance of the theatre, and watched anxiously for Adlofstein to reappear; but he did not come.

The fire-engines were playing upon the building in full force all the time, and the eddies of smoke were mingled now with columns of fiercely-hissing steam; but the inside of the theatre had become like a flaming furnace, and no sound was to be heard proceeding from it beyond the roar of the flames and the rush of air to feed them. Then all at once there came a fearful explosion and a tremendous crash—the gasometer had exploded, and the roof of the theatre had fallen in.

There was a dead silence for an instant in the densely-packed crowd outside; then, as the fire burst out again from the ruins like a sheet of flame, a deep groan went up into the night sky.

‘They are all gone!’ cried Laroche, wringing his hands in a paroxysm of horror and dismay —‘ the Marquis, Count Brandenberg, the two Baronesses, and Adlofstein himself—all gone F

The theatre went on burning all through the night, and the waggons of the Society of the Red Cross were at work until the gray dawn crept over the tops of the houses; but it was work for the dead, and not for the living. Four smoking walls and a heap of burning ashes was all that remained of the great theatre and of the nine hundred who had perished in it. The tragedy had been played out.

CHAPTER XXXII

A PACKET OF PAPERS.

The light of the burning of the Ring Theater was extinguished, but the smoke of it went up for days, and it threw a shadow which darkened not only all Vienna, but the whole kingly and imperial realm. Those officers of the army who had filled the privileged place reserved for them in the pit, had been gathered from all parts of the country, and there was hardly a single town in any of the provinces that had not some stricken household.

It was through an account in the Vienna paper that the tidings of the disaster first reached Lindenthal, and Baron Bertemilian told his daughters about it, but he would not allow them to read the paper. The descriptions, he said, were shocking and horrible beyond conception, and he took the precaution of burning the newspaper before he left the house, in order to make sure that they should not learn the ghastly details. But Thekla had an errand that took her into the town that morning, and she had only to go to Clothilde to learn all. She came back in half an hour with a scared face, and sank down on a chair by the door entirely overcome.

‘Oh!’ she said, covering her face with her hands; ‘oh, Melanie! oh, Vangela! I feel ill— I feel sick! I have just been to the Mullers’, and Clothilde brought me the paper with the account of the burning of the Ring Theater in it. She made me read it—oh, children, such sights! such scenes! such awful horrors! Papa told us nothing; one might have thought it was a trifling accident—but this! Oh, I never read of anything so dreadful! I cannot get the idea of it out of my mind. The screams are in my ears, the flames before my eyes! Oh, frightful—frightful! Nine hundred people burnt to cinders, and nothing left of them —not even the bones!’

Evangela listened with a white face, a great dread coming into her heart. Adlofstein was in Vienna; had he gone to the theatre that night? But she had to rouse herself from her own fears to attend to Melanie, upon whom Thekla’s tragic account had produced the most disastrous effect. Her thoughts had taken the same direction as Evangela’s, and she was thrown into a state of nervous anxiety and agitation which, in her weak health, she was utterly unable to control.

‘Did you see any names in the paper, Thekla?’ she asked wildly. ‘Were there any of our friends among those who perished? Oh, tell me quickly! Was St. Evremonde there?’

‘Of course not! Why should he be? In all Vienna, why should he have chosen to visit that particular theatre that night?’ said Thekla, trying to reassure her. ‘There were hardly any names given in the paper; they were reserving the list, they said, until it could be drawn up with some certainty. At present it is very difficult to ascertain who was there, but they will probably be able to tell to-morrow. Ach Himmel / what a list it will be! but we need have no fear that St. Evremonde or any of our friends will be on it, for it was in the galleries and unreserved seats that the loss of life was so terrible. The fire, it seems, broke out before the play began, and most of the boxes were unoccupied/

Evangela joined with Thekla in trying to distract and reassure Melanie, but she herself could find no relief from the weight of anxiety which pressed like the sure foreboding of evil upon her heart; and when in the afternoon Tomas came to her room with a message from the Baron, saying that he wished to speak to her alone, she knew at once that he was the bearer of evil tidings.

She found the Baron waiting for her in the slip of a room between the dining-room and salon, which was only used for meals, and as she entered, he came forward and closed the door behind her with a grave and troubled face.

‘Sit down, Fraulein,’ he said, placing a chair for her. ‘There is terrible news in the town; I have just heard it, and I have come home straight, lest it should reach here before me, and come upon you without any preparation. I dread the effect upon Melanie in any case.’

‘What is it?’ asked Evangela, with lips so parched and dry that she could hardly form the words.

‘St. Evremonde is dead. He was at the Ring Theater on that fatal night, and he was not among those who escaped. He must have perished in the flames—it is terrible to think of! And Melanie—oh, Fraulein, I have said nothing; but I have had my suspicions as to the cause of this illness of hers. She is like her mother, and trouble of mind saps her vitality at once. Will this news break her heart?’

‘Oh, poor Melanie—poor, poor Melanie F cried Evangela, clasping her shaking hands; and the Baron was confirmed in his fear.

‘You think she was in love with him?’ he said gloomily. ‘I knew that he had been paying her attention, but latterly-’

‘Oh, he did not behave well—he was not worthy of her; but yet I am afraid that this news will be a terrible shock to her. Are you sure—is it quite certain that it is true? How has it come ?’

‘Baron Stillenheim has received a letter from the valet of the late Marquis, and I fear that there is no doubt about it. There was more bad news in the letter, for it was to convey the tidings that Stephanie was amongst the lost that the man wrote to Baron Stillenheim. He had been at the theatre himself, and he had seen Count Brandenberg, and the Baroness Adlofstein, and Stephanie, in one of the boxes nearest to the stage. They have all been burnt.’

‘Baroness Adlofstein—Stephanie — burnt— burnt to death?’ cried Evangela, recoiling. ‘Oh, how terrible! how terrible! Is it really true?’

‘I fear it is only too true—and that is not all. The man says that Baron Adlofstein is also among the missing. He had not gone to the theatre; but he was outside when it was burning, and he insisted upon going in to try and rescue his friends. Laroche saw him go up the stairs, and dash into the midst of the smoke and fire, and he never came out again. In a few minutes after he had gone in, the gas exploded and the roof fell in, and he must have perished with the rest.’

The blow had fallen, and Evangela grasped the back of her chair in a blind attempt to steady herself under it. She did not cry out, as she had done on hearing of the fate of Stephanie and the Baroness; but her face became white to the lips, and it seemed to Baron Bertemilian that her stony silence was worse than the tears that he had been afraid of.

‘He died nobly,’ he said at last. ‘The others lost their lives through accident; but he sacrificed his in a gallant attempt to save his friends.’

‘H is friends?’ said Evangela, with a strange smile. ‘They were not his friends. They were his enemies, all of them—and that was why he did it. Yes, he died nobly; but, oh, he is dead!’ She caught her breath in a desperate attempt to check the intolerable pain of realization. Adlofstein was dead, and she would never see his face again. It was gone out of the world, burnt up to ashes; the eyes that had smiled at her, the lips that had kissed her—burnt— burnt!

I hope he did not suffer much!’ she thought, with a terrible choking sensation in her throat.

‘He would not have time to think of me, and for him, no doubt, it is best. There will be no more pain or sorrow or disappointment for him any more. It is all over now, and he has died nobly ; but I cannot realize it yet. I must not, for I must not give way. There is Melanie to be thought of/

It was, indeed, upon Evangela that Baron Bertemilian had depended to break the shock of the news to Melanie; and she did not fail him. She bore up marvellously, he thought, and he only hoped that Melanie would have as much self-command. Melanie, however, was made of different stuff. Gently and sympathetically as Evangela told her the terrible news, she broke down utterly under the shock, and fell into a wild hysterical outburst of ungovernable grief. She clung to Evangela in her sorrow, knowing that she shared in it; but she cried until she was ill, and when night came she fell asleep, entirely worn out and exhausted.

She had entreated Evangela to come and sleep with her that night, and Evangela lay by her side, but did not sleep. She lay awake in the dark, with wide-open eyes, and she was perfectly still and tearless; but she listened to the regular breathing of her sleeping companion, and the noise of the passing vehicles in the street, with nerves strung to the extremest tension of endurance; and from the agony of realization that surged over her, she could find no relief.

There was not much traffic along the Land-strasse after dark, and the most belated of the cars and carts had clattered past before eleven; but in the middle of the night there came a sound of horses’ hoofs echoing on the hardened snow, and a carriage went by at a speed that made Evangela start. That was not the jogtrot of hired jades plodding on to the crack of the whip—that was the rapid pace and spirited action of Adlofstein’s thoroughbreds, and it must be he who was returning from the station. Ah no! not he—his carriage, but never more he. Some lawyer or business person, probably; or perhaps, even, the new heir coming to take possession of his unexpected inheritance. The new master of Adlofstein! Evangela was stabbed by the thought, and with a sudden low cry she buried her face in her pillow, shaken with the sobs and tears that came at last.

If she had only known, however, it was no lawyer or caretaker, or new owner greedy of possession, who was driving past. Adlofstein had invited his new-made friend, the Vienna doctor, to spend Christmas with him at Adlofstein, and it was to meet him that the carriage had been sent. The news of the disaster at Vienna had brought consternation and desolation to Adlofstein. All the household had been attached to the grave and silent master, from whom they were always sure of kindness and consideration, and no one had felt the blow more deeply than Rudolf, the old Kutscher. The poor old man was almost heart-broken; but he was religiously determined to carry out the last order that he had received from the Baron, and he had duly driven to the station to meet the expected guest. He went with a heavy heart, but he came back almost out of his mind with joy; for the first person he had seen on reaching the station had been his master himself, and it was Adlofstein as well as the doctor who drove through Lindenthal that night.

Laroche had made a mistake, but it had been a very natural one, since Adlofstein had not come out by the main entrance to the theatre, at which the valet had been watching for him. He had gone up to the doorway in which Count Brandenberg and Stephanie had lost their lives; but seeing that rescue was impossible, and warned by a shout from the soldiers who were leaving, he had made his escape by a ladder from a back-window, just in time to save himself before the roof fell in. He had stayed in Vienna over the Sunday which saw’ the public funeral accorded to the unrecognizable victims of the disaster; and that melancholy duty done, there was nothing to detain him there any longer, and he had come down with the doctor. The attack upon him was at an end, for the promoters of it had all been swept away, and he had therefore nothing more to fear; but it was in no jubilant or triumphant mood that he returned. He had burnt his hand and arm rather badly, and he was obliged to wear it in a sling. His servants thought it was because of the pain that he looked so grave and melancholy; they could not conceive that the fate of his declared enemies could cause him any regret. The poor vain, unhappy woman who had brought discord and misery into the house was gone, and her voice would be heard no more within the walls which she had so often complained of as a prison; yet there was no one to fill her place, and Adlofstein would be more than ever solitary now. Count Branden-berg he had always regarded with indifference, Stephanie with pity, and his feelings towards them were not altered by what had occurred; but of St. Evremonde he could not think without emotion. He had sinned against him unpardonably, it was true; but to be cut off in the midst of his gay and gallant youth by so terrible a death! It was a punishment so cruel that it silenced condemnation, and almost blotted out the memory of his perfidy.

Adlofstein had brought down with him from Vienna a packet of papers which Laroche, on hearing of his safety, had sent to him with a note explaining that he had found them amongst his late master’s effects, and that, as they seemed to belong to him, he had kept them out of the other things which he was sending to the Marquis, the dead man’s elder brother. Laroche had no longer any interest to gain in keeping the paper that he had stolen from St. Evremonde; but he was shrewd enough to guess that it was not for nothing that his master had been so much interested in keeping it back, and as he had not the least regard for his memory, whereas Adlofstein had always been liberal in his treatment of him, he put the letter into the packet with the will.

Adlofstein remembered that he had given the will to St. Evremonde to keep, and concluding that it was only this that Laroche had found, he put the packet into his pocket without examining its contents. It was not until he was back at Adlofstein that he opened it.

‘Yes; I thought so/ he said, as he took up the will, which happened to come first to his hand. ‘It is that old will, and it is doubly worthless now. I may as well tear it up. Poor St. Evremonde! how little I thought— ha! what is this?’

He started violently as his eyes fell upon another enclosure, directed to himself in the handwriting which had once been so familiar and welcome; and he took it up with a glance of astonishment at the evidences of tampering —made glaringly apparent now by Laroche’s additional manipulations—in the seals.

‘For my son, Louis Wilderich, Freiherr von Adlofstein. To be opened in the case of my sudden or violent death only,’ he read; and then, with quickened pulses, he unfolded the sheet, and the message that St…Evremonde had intercepted met at last the eyes for which alone it had been intended.

Adlofstein read the simple address that was so dear and well remembered, ‘My dear boy,’ and the first few lines, with their touching expressions of strong affection, and paused, with his hand over his eyes. Yes, it was indeed his father’s voice that spoke to him— generous, tender, self-sacrificing and chivalrous as he had always been; and as he read, the image of the grave, finely-cut face, with its impress of true dignity and nobility, rose up before Adlofstein as clearly as if it were again present to his actual vision. He gave a heavy sigh, and then, turning the page, read on. He read without pausing now—quicker and quicker, his eye rushing over the lines, and his heart beating faster and faster.

The doctor, left to his own devices for the afternoon, was engaged in a little business of his own, when he was interrupted by a message from the Baron begging him to come up to his room immediately.

The summons was an urgent one, and the doctor was startled by it. He hurried up the spiral staircase as fast as he could, and when he entered the turret-room and saw Adlofstein’s face with a deep flush on either cheek and a strange glitter in his eyes, his first impression was that he must be ill.

‘I have received a message from the dead/ said Adlofstein in a voice of intense agitation.

‘No/ he said, perceiving the expression of alarm on the doctor’s countenance, I am not raving! I am not mad, though there has been enough to make me so. I am quite in my sober senses; and it is this letter, which was written to me by my father before his death, but which has only now reached me, which contains the message. It explains the mystery of his death. It clears up everything, and leaves no doubt at all. He was murdered— murdered by his wife!’

‘Ha! the Baroness!’ exclaimed the doctor, with a flash of excitement. ‘Of course—of course! Why didn’t I think of it? How was it that nobody thought of it before?’

‘Miss Wynne did—that young English lady who was here in the great thunderstorm. You saw her up here when that little brute of a dog had bitten her hand—you remember?’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said the doctor, with a suspicion of a smile.

‘I had been showing her over the house, which I thought was one day to be her home, since I had made M. de St. Evremonde my heir, and I believed then that she was promised to him; and when I took her to the room in which my father met his death, and told her the story of it, she suggested that solution— that the Baroness had gone mad before, instead of after, the crime, and that she might be the author of it. I did not think it possible, and I never gave a second thought to the idea; but she was right. It was the Baroness who shot him—I see it now. In this letter my father says that he knew she was subject to homicidal mania—but read it! I should like you to know all the facts, and to judge from your own point of view.’

The doctor took the paper, and read it carefully through. He looked over it once more with deepened interest and attention, and when he had finished his second perusal, he looked up, and said :

‘There is no doubt at all. The wonder is that it has never come out before—that she should never have done or said anything to betray herself. But mad people are often very cunning, and in cases of this kind, where the insanity is probably brought into action by a wave of nervous force recurring at long intervals and manifesting itself in one point only, are especially liable to escape detection. No doubt there have been many mysterious crimes that have had this explanation at the bottom of them. It had not occurred to me to account for your father’s death in that way; but I knew that there was a homicidal tendency in the Baroness, for it had shown itself in two attempts to poison you.’

‘You really think, then, that those illnesses of mine were caused by poison?’ asked Adlofstein.

‘I was convinced of it from the beginning; and now I can give you positive proof of the fact. When you left me this afternoon, I ventured to take the liberty of going into the Baroness’s room, and I made a little investigation of a set of bottles that I found hidden away in a cupboard. They were the bottles from which she was probably in the habit of replenishing the pots in her dressing-case, and most of them were the ordinary pernicious toilet requisites that women insist upon dabbling with; but amongst them I discovered one bottle that had no business to be there.’ The doctor produced, as he spoke, two small bottles from his pocket, and held them out. One had a small quantity of whitish powder in it; the other was nearly full of a clear liquid. ‘ This preparation of arsenic,’ he said, brandishing the first bottle in the air, ‘might be accounted for in a collection of cosmetics, since silly women are given to poisoning themselves for the sake of their complexions, and in this country the pernicious practice is especially prevalent. I knew from the redness of the Baroness’s eyes that she was guilty of it, and that she was inclined to overdo it. That she possessed and knew the uses of this drug, when the symptoms of the first attack that you had so much resembled those of arsenical poisoning, would have been in itself a suspicious fact. But this other bottle clinches the matter. Your second attack was caused by strychnine poisoning, and it was out of this bottle that the dose was taken. Luckily, it was not a heavy one, and she either never dared to repeat it or had not an opportunity. You see, she got the bottle from the chemist in Lindenthal, and he has put the date, “November 16, 1880”— three days before the date of your illness. It is sufficiently conclusive, you see; and had she been living now—however, she has gone to her account-’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Adlofstein quickly; ‘poor wretched woman! And one does not know how much she was to be blamed. Perhaps she was not responsible at all.’

‘H-m-m!’ said the doctor dubiously. ‘I am not so sure about that. However, there is certainly no means of ascertaining it now. Better let the matter rest, if it were not for the obligation of clearing your father’s memory; that, of course, must be done. But by what means has this letter come into your hands, and where has it been all this time?’

Adlofstein’s manner changed suddenly, and his brow clouded into a stern severity which it had not worn while he was speaking of the Baroness.

‘That is what I am not able to tell you,’ he said briefly. ‘I received it before leaving Vienna yesterday from the servant of the Marquis, a French valet named Laroche, who sent it me with a will which I had made in my cousin’s favour. He says that he found them both amongst the effects of his master, and I knew that St. Evremonde had the will; but how he came into possession of this I cannot say. I can only conjecture that, when he was staying at my house in Lindenthal last winter, he must have come across it in some hole or corner where it had lain unsuspected since my father wrote it/

‘Ah, no doubt!’ remarked the doctor. ‘But why, when he had found it, should not the Marquis have handed it over to you at once— a document that was so clearly intended for you, and evidently of such importance?’

Adlofstein did not answer; but his eye fell upon the will, which was lying side by side with the other paper, and his stony silence was more expressive than words.

‘H-m-m!’ murmured the doctor significantly. ‘It appears to me that M. de St. Evremonde — h-m-m, h-m-m! Pardon the question if it is an impertinent one—but you mentioned that you had been led to believe that the young English lady was betrothed to him : was that the case?’

‘No. He wished to marry her, but she would not have him.’

‘Ha! sensible woman!’ said the doctor emphatically. ‘She deserves a better man than he was.’

There was a short silence, during which Adlofstein seemed lost in thought, and the doctor was taken up in the contemplation of the prospect out of the window.

‘Well,’ he said, turning round suddenly at last, with an irrepressible twinkle in his eyes,

‘and now, I suppose, your next step will be to VOL. ii. 40 go and see this young English lady, and explain all this to her?’

Adlofstein threw a startled glance upon him, and the flush on his cheek deepened visibly.

Do you think-’ he said hurriedly; and then he broke off, and began again. ‘Doctor, I can trust you, not only as a friend, but as a medical man, and I will put the decision into your hands. I love that young lady, and I want to marry her. Until to-day I have believed that I had no right to ask any woman to link her life with mine; but now- What is your real opinion?

Tell me, and I will be guided by it. I know that she loves me—may I reach out my hand to take the happiness that marriage would bring me?’

‘By all means. I should say that she was just the wife for you.’

‘That is not the point which I feel the most bound to consider,’ said Adlofstein, relaxing into a smile, nevertheless. ‘The question which I ask you to decide is whether I am a suitable husband for her?’

‘It is she who will decide that question, I imagine,’ remarked the doctor, with a smile; and I have not much doubt which way. I think that you will make a model husband, and I congratulate her in advance. Mind!’ he added, suddenly becoming grave, ‘it might have been otherwise through no fault of yours; and had I believed that there was any risk, you may be sure that, however great my friendship and esteem for you, I should not have disguised it from you. I tell you frankly, that had the late Baroness been your mother I should not have dared to encourage you in this step. But that lady’ — glancing at the portrait above Adlofstein’s head—‘that lady, whose clear gray eyes I see again in you, is of a type as sound and wholesome and good as the charming girl you mean to marry.’

‘The charming girl you mean to marry.’ The doctor’s last words struck upon Adlofstein’s ear with their full significance. Was it possible that life could in a moment be so completely changed for him? Was it credible that he might now enter upon the realization of the happiness which had seemed for ever out of his reach?

He made a restless movement of irrestrain-able impatience, and glanced hastily out of the window. There was still a quarter of an hour before sunset, and fast riding would bring him to Lindenthal in ten minutes. It was not too late to pay a call.

‘1 am going out,’ he announced abruptly; and he did not wait to hear the doctor’s comment.

The doctor made it to himself, as he stood at the turret-window and watched his host riding down the valley.

‘So M. de St. Evremonde had made him think that she was engaged to him, had he? And he had kept back that important paper, and put it with the will in his own favour. H-m-m! not much mental arithmetic required to put two and two together here, I think. It strikes me that this flare-up of a theatre has resulted in a very good riddance for Baron Adlofstein. That scheming and dissembling Marquis; that greedy and unscrupulous heir, Count Brandenberg; and the wretched, crazy Baroness and her malicious coadjutor. A most excellent riddance of bad rubbish; and that Baroness was the best riddance of all! He would not have known what to do with her; and, indeed, it was a puzzling case. Was she mad at all, as madness is counted? It seemed to be only that one point, and it is impossible to tell even in regard to that, how far she was influenced by wicked temper and spite. There might have been some blot on the brain that made her irresponsible—a blot on the brain. Ach / what an interesting head it would have been to have examined; but that, of course, is impossible now. Even the skull must have been calcined to powder. It is sad—a discovery lost to science—nothing in the world can be sadder than that!’ And the doctor’s meditations ended in a sigh.

CHAPTER XXXIII

LIGHT AT LAST.

Baron Bertemilian was seated in his office den, busily engaged in stamping and signing his papers and Actes; and it was somewhat of a shock to his nerves when Tomas came upon him with the announcement that Baron Adlofstein was waiting in the salon to see him on particular business.

The tidings of Adlofstein’s safe return had reached the town at an early hour in the morning, and everybody had been busy all day recounting the story of his fortunate escape, and magnifying the gallantry of his action, after the fickle fashion of the multitude. Baron Bertemilian had himself brought the news to the girls, and he had been pleased and glad to be the bearer of what he knew would be new life to one of them; but he was unable to imagine what could be the -meaning of this speedy descent of his former foe upon himself, and it was with feelings of some anxiety and misgiving that he went to the encounter. Had Adlofstein discovered some new mare’s-nest now ?

But when he entered the salon, and saw the tall Baron standing with his arm in a sling, his natural courtesy and kindliness asserted themselves to the exclusion of all past injuries, and he went up to him with unaffected cordiality.

‘We are truly glad to welcome you back amongst us, Baron Adlofstein! It was only this morning that we heard of your escape; but I assure you that you have come back to Lin-denthal quite in the character of a hero. No one can talk of anything else but your gallantry and your wonderful escape. Will you not sit down?’

Adlofstein scarcely seemed to hear. He remained standing, and he retained the hand which Bertemilian had offered him in a grasp whose vice-like grip was bewildering and unaccountable to the other.

‘Bertemilian,’ he said, in an agitation the signs of which he could not altogether subdue, ‘1 have been through a great deal since I saw you last, and my small adventure in the unhappy Ring Theater disaster is the least important of what has happened to me. I have received a letter which was written to me by my father before his death, but which never reached me till this morning; and this letter makes clear what was the manner in which he must have come by his death. It was the Baroness who murdered him. She had twice tried to do it before; and now that we have the clue, the explanation is obvious. I have come here to ask you to forgive me for the mistaken vengeance that I tried to visit upon you. I cannot say how deeply I repent it now.’

‘It was an unhappy mistake; but you were misled. I am sure it was not your fault,’ said Baron Bertemilian nervously, but with a very friendly response to the grasp of his late adversary’s hand. ‘Do not speak of it any more, I beg. You did apologize before, you know.’ ‘Yes, I did. I did it because your cousin made me, and I am glad of that now. But that was not enough, and I will make fuller amends than that. Everybody shall know now how it was, and how entirely I was in the wrong. Your cousin told me that the misery that I inflicted was the means of shortening your wife’s life, if it was not the cause of her death, and that, of course, you can never forgive-’

‘Oh, I don’t know—you must not think of that. She was always very delicate,’ said the Baron quickly. ‘At any rate, I don’t attribute the blame to you. It was that fiend of a woman whose vile misrepresentations were really at the bottom of the whole mischief. She deceived the Baron, your father, and she deceived you, and she deceived my poor wife. It was she who killed your father then—she did it! What a devil! You know, Baron, I do not believe that she was mad at all. There was too much cleverness in her madness, and I think that she was full of guile and wickedness.

I am convinced that she set your father against me by things that she said of me, and there was not the slightest foundation for them.’

‘It was certainly through hints dropped by her that I was led to fix upon you as the cause of my father’s destruction. She was extraordinarily cunning, but whether she was in her right mind or not can never be known now. She is dead, and she came to a frightful end.’ ‘Yes,’ said Bertemilian, and in his own mind he added that it was richly deserved, but aloud he only said : ‘ Count Brandenberg and Stephanie von Stillenheim also, and the poor Marquis. It is very terrible, but at least I am glad that you are not included.’

‘You thought that I was included—did you all think so?’ asked Adlofstein.

‘Yes, we all thought so/ replied the Baron. He seemed as if he were inclined to add something more, but he was irresolute about it, and he checked himself.

‘Your cousin, the English young lady—she, too, believed that I was dead?’

‘Yes, she believed it. I had to tell her, and I assure you, Baron-’

‘I know what you would assure me of/ said Adlofstein, as Bertemilian hesitated and broke off again. ‘She would be sorry to hear that I had perished.’ And then he, too, paused.

Baron Bertemilian waited, divining what was coming next, but resolved not to commit himself to any indiscretion, and Adlofstein had to find an opening for himself.

‘Baron Bertemilian’ he said, breaking the silence at last in another tone, ‘that letter that I have told you of has changed my outlook in more ways than one, and I had another purpose in coming here to-night besides that of acknowledging my error to you. Perhaps you may have guessed—you may have seen, that I—that your young cousin—that we-’ He paused, more disconcerted by the unexpected difficulty that he found in expressing himself than he would have believed possible, and the other could hardly repress a smile at the confusion and incoherence which sat so oddly upon him; but he would make no attempt to help him out, and Adlofstein finished up with the abruptness of desperation. ‘The fact is, Baron Berte-milian, I am in love with your cousin, and if she will have me, I want to marry her.’

‘You surprise me, Baron,’said Bertemilian gravely. ‘I thought it was an English friendship, and perfectly Platonic.’

‘It may have been in the beginning,’ returned Adlofstein, smiling now himself, ‘on her side, perhaps; it never was on mine. But until I received that letter which has proved beyond a doubt that my father did not take his own life in an insane impulse, I had made up my mind that I must never marry. You can understand my reasons. Now, tell me, Baron Bertemilian : do you object to me as a suitor for her?’

‘I? You mean on that ground? Most certainly not! I never, even when I was most angry with you, imagined that there was any foundation for the gossip that has been circulated, nor have I ever encouraged it. Other people have not been so scrupulous. And look here, Adlofstein : while we are on the subject, I really must tell you that Stillenheim is an ungrateful monster! I know something of what you have done for him, and, if you will believe me, that fellow has done more to try and injure you in the agitation that Brandenberg got up against you than any other person in the town. But I suppose that you will go on dragginghim out of the mire, all the same?’

‘He is one of us,’ said Adlofstein apologetically. ‘I don’t like him, but how can I see him go under when it is in my power to prevent it? And now that he has lost his daughter— but never mind him! You won’t oppose my suit, then?’

‘Oppose it! On the contrary, I assure you that you have my best wishes. It is a piece of extraordinary good-fortune for her, and I shall be glad if my daughters do as well. Such a match is not easily found, and I am sure you will make her happy. Not that I have any authority in the matter, however. She has relations in London who are closer akin than I am, cousins, I believe, and you must go to them if you want sanction. But I rather imagine that these young English misses have a way of deciding these matters for themselves. Frau-lein Vangela is of age, and if her heart is as much set upon you as I suspect, I do not fancy that it will matter much what the cousins may think!’

‘I hope you may be right, Baron Bertemilian,’ said Adlofstein abruptly; ‘may I see her now ? I am in a state of suspense which I find hard to bear. If I might see her alone, and speak to her just for a few minutes—’

‘ But certainly! I will send her to you at once; lieber Gott! I have been in love myself, and I know what it is.’

The Baron went out smiling and in high good-humour, and he was not long about his mission. He thought, when he found Evangela alone and unsuspecting, that he would set about it diplomatically, but at the first hint of who was in the salon she took flight, and he was left, laughing and amused, to explain matters to the other two girls.

Evangela flew through the entresol as if on wings. Ever since the news of Adlofstein’s safety had reached her, her senses had seemed to be reeling in the shock of the tremendous reaction, and she hardly knew how to endure the desperate longing with which she pined to assure herself by sight and hearing that the wonderful news was really true; yet, when she reached the salon door, she paused and stood irresolute, with her hand upon the handle.

What had he come for, and how were they to meet? she asked herself with a sudden sick sinking of the heart. The emotion which had been pulsing so wildly through her in her blissful contentment that he was still in the world, and that she was going to see the face and hear the voice that she had thought had passed for ever out of her life, was arrested by the remembrance of the sentence that he had pronounced at their last parting. ‘We may meet, but it must be as strangers/ he had said, and he had meant it. He would abide by it inexorably, and he would expect her not to fail in her part. She must not fail!

The light was growing dim in the big, bare room, and Adlofstein, standing by one of the square windows that looked out on to the street, was waiting in an agony of impatience. He came forward eagerly as the door opened at last and Evangela entered, but he was suddenly chilled and checked by the tone of her calm greeting.

‘It is really you, Baron Adlofstein? We are all very glad to welcome you safe back from Vienna/

‘Evangela/ he said in a faltering voice, is that all you have to say to me? I have not come here and asked to see you merely in order that we might exchange conventional greetings.

I have come- Oh, Evangela!’ he exclaimed, interrupting himself suddenly as he perceived in her pale face the traces of what she had been through; ‘what is the matter? You have been ill!’

He held her hand in his, and drew her nearer to the window in order that he might see her face more distinctly.

‘What has happened?’ he asked anxiously; ‘are you ill? Tell me!’

‘They told me that you had been in the Ring Theater,’ she said almost inaudibly; ‘and I thought that you were lost—that you had perished.’

‘Yes? And that was all? That was enough to pull you down like this—you grieved so much for me!’

‘I never knew before what anguish meant. It seemed so certain, and it was so dreadful a stroke. I thought that I should never see you again, and even now I can hardly dare to believe-’

‘That it is not the ghost of myself that you see! But I will soon convince you. I am here in actual enough flesh and blood to take you in my arms, and hold you to my heart once more. Yes, Evangela, I dare to do that; for I have come back with a new hope and a changed outlook. A letter from my father, which only came into my hands to-day, has altered the world for me. He did not kill himself, and the last doubt as to his sanity has been removed. He was murdered, and your conjecture was the right one — it was the Baroness who did it. You must read the letter—I have brought it for you to see—and then you will tell me what you decide. Is there still light enough for you to see?’

The last red glow of the winter sunset was lingering on the snowy houses across the road, and by the faint reflection that came in through the open window Evangela read the letter that Adlofstein gave her. When she looked up, her eyes were shining through tears; but she said nothing.

‘You have read it—you see how it was?’ said Adlofstein, scanning her face anxiously.

‘And now, Evangela, my fate lies in your hands. Tell me what it is to be. My doctor confirms me in the new prospect that I have begun to dream of, and he is a clever man of immense experience, who ought to know. He has found out that the illnesses from which I suffered were caused by poison, administered to me by the Baroness.’

‘Poison! The Baroness!’ Evangela interrupted in surprise and horror. ‘She tried to poison you?’

‘Yes, twice. It was her madness. I attributed both attacks to constitutional inherited tendencies; but the doctor assures me that there was no cause for my fears, and he has discovered the bottles that she used. That evidence and this letter have made me feel a free man at last; and now—now-

Evangela, will you come to me? Is it too great a risk that I should be asking you to face in taking me for your husband? You would not be afraid-’

‘Afraid!’ said Evangela. And as he took her in his arms, and felt rather than heard her answer, it seemed to Adlofstein that in that moment alone he gained a rich recompense for all the trials and privations of the clouded past.

‘I suppose I must wait to claim you until you are back again in England with your relations?’ he said, as he awoke to considerations of time and place, and the perception of how much his stay would seem to the Bertemilians to have exceeded the few minutes that he had demanded.

‘I must come to England to make you my wife.’

‘And I am to go myself, and leave you behind—no!’ Evangela answered vehemently. ‘No, no, no! That I will never consent to. I have so nearly lost you once—and now shall I put the sea between us? No; don’t ask me. It is more than I could endure!’

Adlofstein looked at her with a smile for a moment, divided between the gratification of a lover and the amusement of a practical man; then a possibility occurred to him—a possibility so delightful, so bewilderingly enchanting, that he hardly dared to contemplate it.

‘In that case,’ he said half jestingly, ‘if you really cannot trust me out of your sight, I think you had better marry me at once—as soon as the necessary arrangements can be made, that is—and I shall then have the right to go with you to England. We might make it our wedding-tour.’

‘We might!’ replied Evangela, with the promptness of entire approval. ‘It would be a charming plan. And, Louis!’ she added, looking up at him with an irresistible smile in her happy eyes, ‘I think I shall not tell Uncle Philip and Aunt Anastasia that we are coming. It will be a delicious little surprise for them.’

CHAPTER XXXIV

SPENT LIKE A SHADOW.

It is a very mysterious thing, Philip!’ said Mrs. Dabley, dividing her attention one afternoon between the Major and a new parlourmaid from the country, who was being initiated into the mysteries of civilization. ‘A very mysterious thing! We have not heard from Evangela for more than three weeks, and then it was only a few hurried lines with no news at all. I wrote a long letter to her, telling her all about Anna Maria and the awful bother we had with that girl, and she has never made any answer. Don’t you think it is rather strange?

‘Oh, I don’t know! I expect it’s all right. No news is good news, you know,’ said the Major, who never wasted an opportunity for bringing in an aphorism that was instructive, and did not trouble himself to go in search of novelty or originality.

He was standing with his back to the diningroom fire, enjoying his afternoon pipe, and he seemed more interested in surveying the operations of the bewildered parlour-maid than in the speculations of his wife concerning Evangela.

‘It is a very mysterious thing,’ he said, ‘that there is a right and a wrong way of doing everything, even in such a simple thing as the folding of a tablecloth, and servants invariably seem to hit upon the wrong way. Now, I am convinced that I could have shown that girl a much better way of folding up that cloth— simpler, and better, and quicker.’

‘I dare say, my dear; people always think that their own particular way is the best,’ said Mrs. Dabley repressively; ‘but it does not always follow that they are right. And I do beg that you will allow me to teach this girl in my own way, and not go preaching to her about rectangles and parallelograms, as you did to the last. You know how that ended!’

‘That girl was a fool!’ said the Major, with a look of annoyance. ‘She was a fool or a knave— I am not sure what is the feminine equivalent of a knave, but whatever it is, she represented it. The idea of anyone supposing that a man of my position and character would take to cursing and swearing at a parlourmaid —it is preposterous! But as to my theories, if you would only listen-’

‘They are all the same, dear, these girls, and it is a pity to waste your theories upon them. But we were speaking about Evangela. Do you know, I am really very much surprised at not having heard from her for so long, and I am beginning to be afraid that something may have happened. We have never heard from her since that dreadful Ring Theater disaster. Of course it is not likely that she was in it, since she is so far from Vienna; still, it is not impossible that she might have gone there, and it makes one uneasy. Now, Sarah Anne! How often must I tell you that the proper way to bring in cards is upon a salver, and not held with a corner of your apron between your finger and thumb? Who is it?’

Mrs. Dabley took the visiting-cards that the unsophisticated waiting-maid presented to her, and, after a glance at the inscriptions, she turned with an expression of alarm and bewilderment to her husband.

‘Oh, Philip! who are these people? Baron and Baroness Adlofstein—I do not know who they are. Have you met them somewhere?’

‘Never heard the name before,’ said the Major, inspecting the cards as if he thought he might deduce some theory from the quality of the paper and print. ‘They are foreign cards, I should say.’

. ‘It is a foreign name, and naturally the cards would be foreign, too. Somehow, I do seem to remember having seen the name somewhere, though I can’t think where. Sarah Anne!’— appealing to the retiring domestic—‘it isn’t anyone whom you have seen here before, is it?’ But Sarah Anne, being the fifteenth parlourmaid since Evangela’s departure, naturally had no clue to her identity, and was therefore able to throw no light upon the subject.

‘They must be some friends of Evangela’s who have come to England,’ said Mrs. Dabley, turning to the perplexed Major. ‘I think I remember that name occurring in some of her letters. Yes, I remember now—it was Baron Adlofstein who challenged Baron Bertemilian to fight a duel, and persecuted him so abominably because he refused.’

‘Good gracious, Anastasia! And he is in our drawing-room now!’ exclaimed the Major, in some perturbation. ‘He is a dangerous character, I should think.’

But he saved Evangela’s life afterwards, and the quarrel was made up—don’t you remember? No doubt he and his wife have come to England on some business or other, and Evangela has asked them to call here. She may have given them a packet to bring; that would account for her not having written.’

‘Well, you are keeping them a long time waiting; I think you ought to go in, Anastasia.’

‘Are you not coming, too?’ asked Mrs. Dabley, as she rose.

‘I think I will come in presently. It will be best for you to reconnoitre first,’ said the gallant Major. ‘They may have come for subscriptions—Polish subscriptions, eh? Don’t you think that is possible? And if there is only one of us, we shall get off with half a crown. Otherwise it would very likely have to be five shillings.’

Mrs. Dabley still hesitated.

‘I feel rather nervous about going to face these people. I know nothing about these foreign barons and baronesses, and the Austrian nobility, I have always heard, are particularly courtly and exclusive. I wish you would go instead of me, Philip.’

‘Oh, nonsense, Anastasia! that would never do,’ said Major Dabley hastily. ‘Do go 1 they will think that you are dressing up all this time.’

Mrs. Dabley gave a hasty glance into the glass to ascertain that her cap was straight, and then she moved to the door; but before she had reached it, a serious difficulty occurred to her, and she turned back with a dismayed countenance.

‘Philip, supposing neither of them can speak a word of English, what shall I do then?’

‘Talk French to them, I suppose,’ replied the Major hard-heartedly.

‘I can’t!’ she said, with a hasty remembrance of an evil and confused quarter of an hour she had once spent with a dressmaker who was too genuinely fresh from Paris. ‘Besides, it would be German, and not French, that would be their language.’

‘Oh, the Austrians talk French quite as much as German; and they understand English too, a great many of them. Do go, Anastasia! It is really shameful to keep them waiting like this !’

Thus adjured, Mrs. Dabley went forth to the ordeal, and her lord and master remained behind to await the issue. But presently, through the door of communication between the two rooms, he heard sounds which filled him with such lively curiosity that he resolved to venture forth himself. Peals of merry laughter, and exclamations of astonishment and delight, inspired him with confidence; and deciding that there must be some joke or mistake, he advanced boldly into the room.

‘Evangela!’ he exclaimed when he saw his niece, and then he stood confounded at the vision of the tall and stately man with whom his wife was shaking hands.

The bewildered Major seemed unable to take in the situation, even when it had been explained to him, and Mrs. Dabley was at once restored to her accustomed level of superiority and complacency by the advantage which a few minutes had given her over her spouse.

‘Good gracious—Baron and Baroness Adlofstein!’ he ejaculated. ‘It is you, Evangela? But I can’t understand it at all! Do you mean to say that you are married—you are really married?’

‘You see, my dear, I was right when I told you that there was a mystery somewhere,’ remarked Mrs. Dabley.

‘I am really married, Uncle Philip!’ Evangela answered delightedly. ‘Three times over, I assure you. Twice in church, and once at the Embassy at Vienna.’

‘It is perfectly in order,’ said Adlofstein more seriously. ‘All, that is, except your permission,

Major Dabley; and for having dispensed with that, we have now come to entreat your forgiveness.’

It seems to me, Evangela,’ said Adlofstein to his bride, as they took their way in the evening to their hotel— it seems to me that they are extremely kind people, and that it would have been a very happy home for you to have come back to; they would evidently have been glad enough to have had you. Are you sure that you haven’t made a grand mistake in having for ever put it out of your power? Are you not already beginning to repent having saddled yourself with a grumpy old ogre of a husband, who will want to carry you off from this great centre of civilization, and keep you all to himself in a castle in the wilds, where you will be buried alive?’

Evangela only smiled. She was very far from repenting, for the peaceful valley over which the gray towers of Adlofstein kept guard was the home and haven of her choice, and she needed no one but her husband to make her happy.

But the solitude that he jestingly spoke of proved an empty threat. U nder the reign of its new mistress a new order of things -was instituted at Schloss Adlofstein, and it became a very different place from the gloomy and isolated eyrie that it had been. Many friends gathered round the ideally happy home that grew up within its old gray walls, and the lofty reception-rooms echoed once more to the sounds of gaiety and festivity. Among all the guests that came, there was no one more frequent or more welcome than Melanie de Bertemilian. Adlofstein, who knew how her life had been clouded through St. Evremonde, was full of kindness and consideration towards her, and he filled a brother’s place to her. After Thekla’s marriage to Count d’Ecoronata, Melanie found a second home at Schloss Adlofstein; and it was she who one day laid in Adlofstein’s arms the infant son come to take the place of the heir who had proved so unworthy both of him and of her.

After the rain the clouds return again, and the ills and woes of life Adlofstein would have to face like other men; but he feared them not. He had held the cup of happiness to his lips, and had drunk deeply of it; the gloom which had clouded his spirit had given place to faith and hope, and his life was changed. The spell of the old curse had been broken; and the shadow of the sword which had for so long hung over the heritage of Adlofstein was spent and gone—it had fled, and vanished utterly, like the mists before the morning sun.

THE END.