It was in the evening hours of one of the next following days when two ladies were seated in the garden saloon of the chÂteau; one was the Baroness Grenwitz, and the other a young lady who had ridden over from her seat in the neighborhood to pay a visit. The glass door which led from the room into the garden was wide open, and showed immediately before them a large lawn enclosed by tall trees, in the centre of which a Flora, carved in sandstone, had now for a century and a half poured stone flowers from her cornucopia. Within the room, which lay towards the north, it was almost dark already; but outside, the evening light was still lying warm on the green turf and the magnificent beech-trees and oaks; and the outlines of the two ladies, as they sat near a table pushed into the door, were sharply defined against the bright background.

A greater contrast than that which they formed could hardly be imagined. The Baroness Grenwitz was scarcely forty years old, but her large, cold gray eyes, which she always fixed long and piercingly upon those with whom she conversed, her lofty stature, far exceeding the ordinary height of women, and especially her peculiar way of dressing, made her sometimes look almost ten years older than she really was. Whether from love of extreme simplicity, or, as others would have it, from a love of economy which degenerated into avarice, she preferred materials more famous, like the wedding-dress of the worthy wife of the Vicar of Wakefield, for their durability than for other showy qualities, and she chose a way of having her dresses made which could not be called old-fashioned, because there never had been such a fashion in existence. The first impression which she generally made was that of imposing dignity; the careful observer noticed, moreover, in her always perfect carriage, and especially in the unfailing quietness of her deep, sonorous voice, and her carefully chosen language, which was scrupulously free from any vulgar expression, a consciousness of the impression she produced, and a desire not to break the charm by any fault of hers.

We cannot say with certainty whether the lady who was with the baroness really was overawed by her stately appearance, or merely appeared to be so; this much only was evident, that she endeavored at that moment to assume an air which harmonized neither with the expression of her features nor with the costume which she wore. She was dressed in a riding-habit of dark green velvet, which she had tucked up sufficiently not to be troublesome in walking, and not to hide her small feet in their elegant little boots. The tight-fitting dress set off to great advantage the well-rounded outlines of her youthful form; and the little round hat, now lying with the gloves and the whip on a small table near by, must have been exceedingly becoming to the well-shaped head with the rich brown hair, which, simply parted in the middle, was falling in rich waves over forehead and ears, and was then gathered up behind in a wreath. She is seated opposite the baroness, who is a pattern of industry, and sews zealously on a piece of linen, which may possibly become a napkin, while the visitor is busy embroidering a cipher in another napkin. This is strange kind of work to be done in a riding-habit, and the lady does not seem to be particularly fond of it; at least she quickly throws up her head, when the baroness rises in order to look for something in another part of the room, and shows a pretty face, with soft, child-like features, and large brown eyes, full of moist tenderness. Just now, however, the face bears rather the expression of a wilful school-girl, when her rigid teacher's back is turned for a moment.

"What were you saying, my dear Anna Maria?" asked the lady, bending once more over her work as the baroness turned round.

"I was asking, dear Melitta, whether you had enough red yarn?"

Melitta looked as if she were going to say, "More than I want!" but she contented herself with the reply: "I think I have enough."

The baroness had taken her seat again and continued the conversation, which had been interrupted for a moment.

"Then there if little hope of complete recovery?" she said.

"Little or none," replied Melitta, "especially now, since his violent attacks have ceased. Doctor Birkenhain writes that only a miracle can save Carlo from insanity, and I presume that means simply, he is irrevocably lost."

"It is a sad fate which the Almighty has decreed for you, my poor Melitta," said the baroness.

Melitta shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing.

"It was in this very room," continued the baroness, taking it apparently for granted that the subject could not be in any way painful to Melitta, "that I saw Berkow the last time. I must confess that I could not overcome a slight suspicion already, on the evening on which he had that disagreeable quarrel with your cousin Barnewitz, when Baron Oldenburg tried in vain to make an end to the trying scene."

Melitta von Berkow did not seem to be specially delighted with this evidence of the admirable memory of the baroness; she became restless, and asked, apparently without knowing what she was saying:

"Have you heard from Oldenburg?"

"The baron came back a week ago."

"Oh!" cried Melitta, in a tone which made the baroness look up from her work.

"What is the matter, Melitta?"

"I am so awkward," said the latter, and pressed a tiny drop of blood from a finger of her left hand. "So Oldenburg is back again? What brings him back to us? Has he found Egypt as tiresome as our own country here?"

"The contracts with his tenants expire next November, like some of our own. I presume that was the cause of his return. He seems to have become a greater misanthrope than ever. Griebenow, one of our men, met him in the forest; he has not been here yet."

"Well, my dear Anna Maria, you will not mind, I am sure, that want of attention on his part; you never were very good friends, I believe."

"I am not aware that Oldenburg ever desired to be a friend of mine. He never had any friends. A man who openly scoffs at all religion, who forgets the honor of his caste and the interests of his equals so far as to speak in the National Assembly and at every meeting in favor of all innovators; a man who apparently only comes among us in order to laugh at us--such a man has only to blame himself if we bestow our interest and our sympathy upon others who deserve it better."

"Well, I should not have thought that he was ever made to feel the want of interest in himself. Nor will he be left without it now. I never could understand why all the world took so much trouble about a man who minds the world as little as he does."

"That is easy of explanation, dear Melitta. The Oldenburgs are one of our oldest families; we cannot look on with indifference when the last scion of such a race becomes a plebeian."

"Oldenburg will never be a plebeian," said the younger lady, with some warmth.

"Why, dear Melitta, you take the baron's part very warmly. Would you also defend his immoral way of living, and his love affairs with which he has enriched the chronique scandaleuse of this and other districts?"

"I have never done anything immoral, as far as I know, nor approved of it," said the visitor, with greater heat than before. "And as for Baron Oldenburg's private life, I do not presume to judge it, because I know nothing of it. However," she continued, after a short pause and in a much quieter tone, "I should really be astonished if Oldenburg were such a Don Juan as people make him out to be. You must admit, my dear Anna Maria, that he has neither the beauty nor the address which are commonly expected in such a character?"

"Now that is a point on which I do not presume to judge," said the baroness, with an effort to be ironical. "I leave that to you young people."

"Young people!" exclaimed Melitta, laughing. She let her work fall into her lap, and leaned back comfortably in her chair, looking at the baroness, who worked on industriously, and showing much humor blended with a goodly share of malice. "Young people? Do you know, dearest Anna Maria, that I shall be thirty this very year? My Julius will be twelve next month--only four years younger than your Helen. By the way, how is the child? Is she to remain forever in the boarding-school in Hamburg? How long has she been there now? Two--no, it is already three years! and not once has she been back here all that time! You will not know your own child any longer, dear baroness."

"The boarding-school is so very superior, everybody praises it so highly, that I should blame myself if I did not leave the child there as long as I can. But you seem to have forgotten, dearest Melitta, that we saw Helen last year at Ostend; and since you seem to have such a longing for the young lady, I will tell you in secret that you will be able to see her here at Grenwitz this summer."

"This very summer? Why see there! Has that any connection with Oldenburg's return? Pardon my indiscretion! But I recollect that some years ago, when the baron came back from his first great journey, you said a match with Oldenburg would perhaps not be objectionable to you."

"Then I did not know the baron as I have unfortunately learnt to know him since. Nor would that fall in with my husband's wishes, who, I believe, has promised Helen half and half to somebody else."

"To somebody else? Not to your worthy cousin Felix?"

"As I said before, I know nothing positive about it; Grenwitz is very reserved; but I almost guess so, from the fact that he has procured for Felix a year's leave of absence, and he is going to spend that year here. They say his health is very much impaired."

"I hope not as much so as his fortune," said Melitta, dryly.

"His fortune? What do you know of his circumstances?"

"I only repeat what the world says. You must agree, my dear, that if the chronique scandaleuse has something to say about Oldenburg, it is far more eloquent about Felix, and the lieutenant surely has furnished topics enough."

"Felix is very young."

"Not younger than Oldenburg."

"Five years."

"One would not think so upon looking at him. But then he has lived rather fast."

"One could really imagine, my dear Melitta, that Felix was nearer to you than he really is. Candidly, I should like to know what you think of this match, if Grenwitz should not abandon the project."

"Well, then--I should consider it a misfortune, a very great misfortune, and in proportion as Helen is beautiful and innocent; what in all the world can suggest to the baron such a match? For I shall never believe that a mother could consent to such a union, which cannot fail to make her daughter inexpressibly unhappy."

Melitta had risen and cut the air with her riding-whip, as if she wished to say: That is what he deserves, who offers to aid in such a piece of rascality. Her tall, slender form looked a different being from her who had been timidly bending over her work or negligently reclining in her easy-chair. Even the features of her face seemed to change, and to become sharper, older; the fire in her large eyes blazed forth ominously. The mention of this match had evidently struck a chord in her soul which vibrated painfully through her whole system. She continued in the same excited tone:

"Felix is notoriously a fast young man. How can such a man feel love? And even if Helen's beauty, her youth, and her innocence should for a time get the better of his exhaustion, that would not last long. A man like him, thoroughly blasÉ, never becomes again a real man, and can Helen ever love such a person? And is life worth anything without love? And can you prevent all the misery that must needs spring from such a match? I know----"

The young wife suddenly stopped and walked rapidly up and down the room. Then, after a short pause, she said:

"And what external advantages can such a match have? Felix has satisfied his excessive vanity at the expense of his fortune as well as of his health. His estates are mortgaged beyond their real value; and he has, as far as I know, no expectations."

"Except that in case Malte should die, which God prevent! he would inherit the Grenwitz fortune," said the baroness.

"Ah! indeed," replied Melitta, with a strange emphasis. This last remark of the baroness had presented the whole matter in a new light to the generous woman; it was a ray like the light from the dark lantern of the thief, which falls upon the strong-box he is about to steal. But she took good care not to let the baroness see what was going on in her heart, and continued in an unconcerned tone, throwing herself once more into the easy-chair:

"I hope Malte will not be so kind to the creditors of Felix as to die before his time. I see he is getting stronger visibly, and if you would only give the boy a little more liberty----"

"Liberty!" exclaimed the baroness. "Must I hear that word again? I give him as much liberty as a sensible mother ought to give her child. My opinion is that a man who, like Malte, will have a large fortune at his command, cannot learn too soon to obey, to economize, and to deny himself all that is superfluous and unnecessary. We have in our nephew Felix an example of the sad effects of too great indulgence."

"That is very true," said Melitta; "but----"

"We had, if I am not mistaken, agreed to avoid all discussion on the subject of education," said the baroness, with a smile of superiority. "I know what I am doing, and I hope, with the help of God, to carry it out successfully."

"By the way, did I tell you that I mean to send my Julius, a few days hence, to the college at Grunwald?"

"What a venture again!" replied the baroness. "That is the kind of public education, as they call it, which Baron Oldenburg enjoyed when he was young, and you see what the results are. To be sure, private tutors have their dark sides also."

"You have a new one, I believe?" said Melitta, who had risen and was leaning against the door-frame. "How is he?"

The baroness shrugged her shoulders.

"But what a question, to be sure," said Melitta, laughing. "He is probably like all the rest: terribly learned, awkward, pedantic, a bore. Bemperlein, Bauer--they are all after the same pattern. I should know a tutor at a hundred yards. Ah! who is that young man, crossing the lawn there with Bruno?"

The question remained unanswered, for at that moment Mademoiselle Marguerite entered the room, and the baroness rose to give her some orders. Melitta turned round, but the baroness had left the room with the words, "Pray excuse me!" Melitta was alone, and had to find the answer to her question for herself. She drew a little back behind the door and examined the form of the unknown young man.