When I arrived at the hotel in Zutphen, I was surprised to find a letter awaiting me from Rudolf, who was still travelling through the provinces of Guelderland and Overyssel with his troupe, which was now performing at Laren fair. It ran as follows—

“If you wish to prevent Francis from committing the greatest folly she has yet been guilty of in life, try to meet me at the ‘Half-way House,’ between Zutphen and Laren, to-morrow morning about nine o’clock.”

I promised myself I would not neglect this appointment. I then sent for Overberg, who confirmed all I had heard from Rolf, and explained many things I thought inexplicable. It was Van Beek who had pushed matters to extremities, and he (Overberg) had been quite willing to grant any reasonable delay. He told me one thing I was still ignorant of. A lawyer had sent into Van Beek a copy of a codicil to Aunt Sophia’s will, drawn up by her order on the eve of her death, by which she bequeathed to her grandniece, Francis Mordaunt, a yearly income of three thousand florins in case she did not marry Jonker van Zonshoven; and I was bound to pay this pension on condition she made no marriage without my consent. A very far-seeing woman this aunt of mine! I charged Overberg to make known this codicil, and to hand over to Francis the packet which he had found amongst the General’s papers. He had sent it to the Castle, but too late; Francis was already gone. I requested him to do his best to find her out, and to deliver it into her hands.

Next morning, when I arrived at the appointed place, a little country inn, the landlady told me that a lady and gentleman were already awaiting me upstairs. I hastened into the large assembly-room, and at the bottom of it I could perceive Rudolf and Francis, almost hidden behind a platform which had been erected for the musicians. Francis stood with her back to the door at which I entered. I wished to give her warning of my presence, but I could not speak; and as I advanced all of a tremble, I heard Rudolf saying to her—

“Nonsense, my dear! you have no idea of the sort of life you wish to lead. You talk of liberty and independence; but I tell you it is slavery and the whip into the bargain. Do you know our bed-room is in the stable with the horses? Do you think the women are much respected because they are so politely assisted to mount their horses during the performance? I can tell you Madame Stonehouse herself is not spared by her gracious husband. And you would cast in your lot with us, susceptible and haughty as you are!”

“There’s nothing else I can do,” replied Francis. “I can manage a horse, but I cannot become a governess and undertake the care of young children any more than I could earn my bread with my needle. I will not be guilty of the sin of suicide. I have a duty to fulfil in life, though to me life is but a martyrdom. And this is my only resource.”

“But, you foolish girl, why don’t you seek a reconciliation with your Cousin van Zonshoven? You would then have all a woman could wish for—your castle back, a beautiful fortune, and a husband who would love you truly. Upon that I’ll wager my head.”

“Yes; he’s a man of rare loyalty, indeed, and has shown himself such!” she answered with a choking voice.

“Bah! at the worst he has only acted a little insincerely; white lies, my dear, white lies may be pardoned. Forgive him his peccadillo. He will have much to forgive in you, as you have confessed to me yourself. Tell him you are sorry for what you have said. He will then embrace you and all will be well.”

“It is impossible, I tell you; it is too late.”

“Why too late, Francis?” I exclaimed, as I stepped forward, unable to restrain myself any longer.

“Leopold!” she cried, turning deadly pale, and covering her face with her hands.

“Francis,” I went on gently, “nothing is changed; I still regard you as my betrothed wife.”

And saying this I tried to take her hand in mine. But the touch pained her; she sprang back as if she had received the discharge of an electric battery.

“Your betrothed! You have given me to understand this by the manner in which I have been treated!”

“It grieves me to the heart, Francis—I cannot tell you how much. I come now from a sick-bed, and what the lawyers did whilst I lay insensible in the fever was in opposition to my wishes, and quite contrary to my intentions.”

“And was it contrary to your intentions to cause my grandfather the shock which led to his death?”

“Most certainly it was, and I did my utmost to prevent it; but you would not assist me, and afterwards it was too late. It was the executors carrying out the last will and testament of the deceased, and it was out of my power to interfere with them. And if the consequences hastened your grandfather’s death, you cannot blame me, Francis. For after a calm consideration of all the facts, you will be bound to agree that I was a better friend both to him and to you than you have been to yourselves. Because of a little misunderstanding which I could easily have explained, you have brought all this trouble on yourself, and caused me the most acute suffering. Still all may be well.”

“All may be well! Oh, Leopold, Leopold! how can you say so, when the gulf between us is so wide,” she replied, with a profound sigh. “You threatened me with force, and you have meanly carried that threat into execution! You had it in your power to drive me to extremities, your one fixed idea being to compel me to marry Aunt Roselaer’s heir. I have heard this so often I am sick of the subject; and though I acknowledge you are right from a worldly and material point of view, I had given you credit for better things. Don’t you understand, that were I to marry you now under constraint, I should tug at my chains until they made life unbearable to us both, or until they broke!”

“I agree with you, Francis, if you regard our engagement in this light, and I release you from your promise.”

“Thank you, but I had already taken measures which render such generosity on your part unnecessary. I am going to travel about in the world, and I have taken steps to separate myself from the past entirely. I have made my contract with Mr. Stonehouse, to whom Rudolf is to introduce me as soon as he arrives here to sign the same.”

“Your Uncle Rudolf came here, my dear, to dissuade you from such a step; and if you are awaiting the arrival of Mr. Stonehouse, you will have to wait a long time,” responded Rudolf, coolly. “Did you think me such a fool, Francis, as to assist you in your insane idea?”

“Then you never delivered my letter to your master?”

“Certainly not, I did much better. I warned your Cousin Leopold that you were going to commit a folly which would lead to your inevitable ruin.”

“Oh, I see! this is another plot against me. Enough; as I cannot trust any one but myself, I will ride off at once and ask to see Mr. Stonehouse in person.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” I said, authoritatively, seeing that she rose to depart. “The General is dead, Rudolf civilly dead, and I am consequently, in the eyes of the law, your nearest male relation. Therefore I forbid your entering this abyss, from whence no one ever rises again, in the flower of your age.”

“What am I to do?” she cried passionately, yet with an accent of submission in her tone.

“You have simply to return to the Werve,” I answered, “where you will find a friend actively preparing for your reception.”

“A friend!” she repeated, in astonishment.

“Yes, Rolf; who is to stay there until further orders. Don’t be afraid—I shall not importune you with my presence, for I am going to travel.”

This latter declaration seemed to make a great impression on her. She regarded me with a strange kind of look, and replied in a tone of voice which betrayed something more than pride and anger—

“In very sooth, Leopold, you are going to travel? Well, then, I will stay at the Werve. Farewell.”

And she escaped from the room quickly, shutting the door after her. We soon heard the pawing of her horse outside, and we trusted she would ride back to the Castle.

“Ought I not to follow her?” Rudolf inquired of me.

“No; any mistrust on our part would offend her.”

“She is in an unusual state of excitement, and such a reckless rider. Only lately she had an accident.”

“That’s true; for Heaven’s sake follow her! But if you should be recognized yourself?”

“Never fear, I am too well disguised for that. In my present dress I made more than one visit to the Werve during my father’s last illness. I have pressed his hand on his death-bed; and he has given me his signet ring. Out of prudence I do not wear it on my finger, but like this, in my bosom, attached by a cord round my neck. And Francis,” he cried in triumph, “has accepted assistance from me during these last days of trial. When the Kermis at Laren is over, we shall leave this country; and I shall never more set foot on my native soil,” he added, sadly, as he mounted his horse; and pressing my hand for the last time, took an eternal farewell of me.