For when he returned on the next following day, towards evening, from a long absence to the village, he found a carriage and two horses standing before the door of Mother Carsten's cottage. This was so very unusual an event in this secluded part of the world, that Oswald at once presumed something extraordinary must have happened. Women and children, and the few men who were not out fishing, stood staring around the carriage and the door of the cottage. They wanted to know if Stephen, Mother Carsten's father, was really going to die this time, or whether the young doctor whom Mother Carsten had sent for a few hours ago, would once more save him in spite of his fearful cough.

This was what Oswald learned when he came in their midst. They stood there with troubled faces, and were very talkative, contrary to their usual habit. For Father Stephen was the patriarch of the village, honored by all, even by Oswald, who, forgetful of his incognito, at once hastened into the house and the sitting-room. The white-haired old man sat there pale and languid, but apparently out of danger--thanks to the opportune assistance of Doctor Braun, who was just trying to escape from the expressions of gratitude with which he was overwhelmed by Mother Carsten, her daughters, and half a dozen other women.

"Welcome!" he said to Oswald, as the latter entered, "Welcome indeed, for I have a commission for you; will you permit me to deliver it at once, as my time is short?"

The doctor took Oswald unceremoniously by the arm and led him out of the house.

"Pardon my impatience," he said, as they were walking down the beach arm in arm, "but you see I am running away from the thanks of these good people; and secondly, I look upon you, although we have, to my regret, met only once before, as an old acquaintance, for you have been very much in my thoughts since we met last at Mother Claus' cottage. But now for my message! You probably do not know that the Grenwitz family have all returned from their great journey, which I had prescribed a few days ago."

"No!" said Oswald, very much astonished.

"How should you know it, to be sure, in this secluded village, inhabited only by rude ichthyophagi? Enough, they are all back! The baron--so says reliable Anna Maria had a terrible attack of fever in Hamburg. The doctor who was called in declared it would be madness to undertake a sea-voyage under such circumstances, and advised a return home. Anna Maria, who had always opposed the journey, approved highly of his advice--bref! they packed the whole family, Miss Helen included, into the old family coach, and here they are back again since last night! Of course they sent immediately for me. I have been there this afternoon, and when I accidentally mentioned that I would have to come to this village, the baroness begged me to tell you that they would be delighted at Grenwitz to see you once more within the old walls of the chÂteau. I replied that it gave me very particular pleasure to execute their commission, and that I would offer you my carriage and my company, if you were ready to return with me--an offer which I herewith most respectfully beg leave to repeat."

Doctor Braun said this cheerfully and with much animation, as was his wont, fixing his gray eyes, with the bright brown stars, steadily upon Oswald. "I am not very welcome, I see; you need not conceal it from me!" he added.

"Not at all," replied Oswald, "I mean I know very well to distinguish the messenger from the message, as Achilles did when they stole his BrisÆis."

"And who is the beautiful BrisÆis they have stolen from you?" asked the doctor.

"Solitude!" replied Oswald.

"Well, I do not blame myself much for that," said the other, laughing; "solitude is like the perfume of poisonous plants, sweet, but intoxicating, and in time downright fatal, even for the strongest constitutions. Will you follow my advice? Let the fair BrisÆis go her way unhindered, wherever she wants to go; take a seat in my carriage, and let us drive to Grenwitz, where you will, moreover, find a girl that will make you cry out, at first sight: Here is more than BrisÆis!"

"Miss Helen?"

"Miss Helen--also a Greek name, and one of better sound than the other. But the sun, or rather Helios, is lowering his chariot, and my horses are becoming impatient. You will come?"

"Certainly!" said Oswald.

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later the carriage with the two young men was already rolling swiftly towards Grenwitz, which was only an hour's distance off. Oswald had been compelled to promise Mother Carsten that he would soon come back again. Old and young had crowded around him with great cordiality, calling Good-by, sir! after him, and thus showing that without any effort on his part he had succeeded, during the short time of his stay there, in winning the favor of the harmless good people in a high degree.

The evening was extremely beautiful. The sun was hanging like a red ball on the horizon and poured a magic light over the lonely landscape. In the tall heather the cicadÆ were chirping; right and left, while above the swallows were swiftly shooting to and fro in the clear soft air. Oswald felt for the first time almost cheerful again, and had to admit that the wise man by his side was right in saying that the pleasures of solitude were paid for too dear.

"How sorry I am," he said, "that we have not been able to carry out our intention of meeting more frequently."

"L'homme propose et Dieu dispose," replied Doctor Braun. "We must try to do better hereafter. You will remain, I am told, for some time in this neighborhood, and I also will probably not move to Grunwald as soon as I had intended."

"You mean to settle there?"

"At least for a time. I am in competition here with an excellent man, who has certainly far more experience than I have, but who still suffers by the good luck I have had in some cases where I have cured my patients, and because the world is ever running after something new, though it may not be any better than what they had before. Two physicians, however, is too much for this neighborhood; my colleague is old and has to support a large family; I am young and as yet only engaged to be married--consequently it is for me to make room for him."

"That is very generous."

"It may look so, but it is not quite so generous. I only pour out the good water because I hope to find it still better. My future father-in-law is one of the first physicians in Grunwald. Half of his practice I shall certainly fall heir to when he retires, which he contemplates doing. My future wife is at home in Grunwald, and as every fish is most comfortable in its own little pond, and as I am, besides, heartily tired of the company of Cyclops and Ichthyophagi--well, you see my generosity does not go very far, after all."

"Would it be indiscreet to ask you the name of your lady?"

"Not at all: Miss Roban."

"I have often had the pleasure of meeting Miss Roban in company, when I lived in Grunwald. My worthy friend, Professor Berger, used to call her the only swan in an enormous flock of geese."

"You lived some time in Grunwald?"

"I have but just left it, after having led a most idyllic life in the shady, silent street of the good old town for half a year, and after having passed through my examinations under Berger's auspices."

"But--I fear you will complain of my indiscretion--what induced you, when you once had that bridge of the blind and the lame behind you, to prefer the still life of a tutor in a noble family to a sphere of action in a larger circle? You have evidently all the qualifications for the latter, while here it is simply impossible for you to develop your full powers?"

"What induced me?" replied Oswald; "I hardly know myself. This only I know: I always had an innate horror of what the world calls a permanent place; then the influence of Professor Berger, who advised me earnestly not to tie myself down before my time, but first to wander a few years about in the world. My present engagement actually binds me to do so, as soon as my pupils shall have wings able to bear them abroad."

"Do you know, I fear, or rather I hope, you will not be able to carry out the plans of your eccentric friend as far as he intended?"

"Why?"

"Because--pardon me if I am too candid--because you are here in a false position, which must sooner or later become unbearable. Such a position is good only for one who cannot stand on his own feet, and is compelled to lean upon others; one who is accustomed from childhood up to subordinate his will to that of others, or rather, one who has no will and no opinion of his own. You are nothing of the kind. You are far too important for these people. They annoy you, and vice versÂ. You think the baroness, what she really is, an ambitious, proud, avaricious person, stupid in spite of her reading; the baroness thinks you, what you are not, an immensely conceited, supercilious fool. You live in the same house, you eat at the same table, and yet you have no more points of contact than if a world lay between you. You stay together because neither of you chooses to say the word that will part you till the moment comes when one or the other will be compelled to utter it. Am I right?"

"I cannot deny it."

"You see! And the matter will be worse and worse."

"Why so?"

"Till now you had in this house of fools only one noble being whom you could love and pity, that admirable boy, Bruno; now, when you return, you will find there a second client. I fear the poor girl has been dragged away from her idyl, at the Hamburg boarding-house, in order to play the principal part in a family tragedy. I fear there is a terrible tempest ready to break upon the fair head of the unfortunate girl. As I know you, you will try to ward off the blow and you will be disconsolate if you fail. You look at me with open eyes, and I see that you know as good as nothing of the secrets of the family with whom you have been living now for three months. The thing is this: Anna Maria lives in constant fear of the death of the baron, because, as soon as he dies, she loses not only an old husband, but also the prospect of laying up quite a fortune out of the surplus of her revenues. That is why Malte is of less importance to her. Nevertheless, she fears for him also, because at his death the entail passes out of the family, and into the hands of a younger line, of which Felix Grenwitz, an ex-lieutenant and well-known rouÉ, is the representative. And now comes the deviltry: to secure her influence even after the death of the baron and of Malte, Anna Maria has concocted a match between Miss Helen and her excellent cousin Felix. The poor child knows nothing as yet of this interesting project; but I fear the great Felix knows all the more. He is coming to Grenwitz in a few days--as the baroness says, to recover his worn-out health, far from the exciting life of the city, in the peaceful retirement of country life. In a word, it is the usual misÈre of Credit and Debit, the ordinary farce in which an innocent doll-baby is trained and prepared, and you will have the happiness to be allowed admittance to this sublime performance."

"That shall never be," exclaimed Oswald.

"Then you will give up your place."

"I suppose I must--or----" a tempest of passion filled Oswald's soul. He thought of unhappy Marie, who now frequently appeared to him in his dreams, with her hands crossed on her bosom, and looking like a martyred saint; he thought of Melitta, who had been sold by her own father! Now the rascality was to be repeated--before his eyes.

"Never, never!" he said.

"Then you will give up your place?"

"No; at least not till I have defeated that plan in some way or other--before I have done all in my power to defeat it!"

"But what do you think you can do? My dear friend, generosity is a virtue which has to be examined very closely, lest the crown of the hero, of which we dream, changes into a fool's cap! Think of the noble knight of La Mancha, and how his knightly body was beaten and bruised for his benevolent intentions!--And then, are you sure that the Andromeda, whose Perseus you propose to become, really desires to be liberated? I do not know Baron Felix--perhaps he is better than his reputation; I never said two words to Miss Helen--perhaps she is by no means as good and sweet as she is beautiful."

"She is so, rely upon it," cried Oswald, warmly.

"It is well for you, you are not thirty yet!" laughed the doctor.

"Why?"

"Because you know what happens to enthusiasts at that time of life, according to Goethe? They die--on the same cross which they have been dragging through life so far. But here we are at the gates. Will you permit me to set you down here? I have to make a visit in the village and this is the nearest way; if I went through the castle it would detain one too long. Day after to-morrow I shall be in Grenwitz. I hope your pulse will be calmer then. I told you before: Solitude is simply poison for your system. Adieu!"