MEMOIRS 
 
 OF
 

 
 MEMOIRS 
 
 MARIE VON ARNHEIM. 
 
 WRITTEN BY HERSELF. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM- THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT. 
 
 " No change, no pause, no hope ! yet I endure." 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 LONGMA^J, BROWN, GREEN AND LONGMANS. 
 1848.
 
 PRINTED BY RICHARD AND JOHN E. TAYLOR, 
 RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.
 
 TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 THE manuscript, of which I now present to the 
 British public a faithful translation, was placed 
 in my hands three years ago by a very dear 
 friend, with the following words : 
 
 " Let her wishes be fulfilled ; let her Memoirs 
 go abroad, that others may profit by the sad ex- 
 perience of her life ; but do not publish them in 
 Germany, where she has been known and loved. 
 One, and only one, other restriction I lay upon
 
 you before these Memoirs see the light my eyes 
 must have closed for ever." 
 
 The time appointed has already come. I have 
 wept over the grave of my early and beloved 
 friend, and have since fouDd in the sacred duty 
 he imposed an occupation, often painful in the 
 extreme, and at all times mournful, but not the 
 less congenial to. the tone of feeling excited within 
 me by his loss. 
 
 The motives which have led me to execute my 
 trust in this country may appear to need expla- 
 nation, and this can be simply given as follows. 
 Although not the land of my birth, I have spent 
 in England the greater portion of my life ; it has 
 long since become the home of my affections, and 
 its tongue the language of my heart. But besides 
 these considerations, I have been further directed, 
 and finally decided in my choice, by the belief that
 
 Vll 
 
 in England, next to my own country, the tone of 
 thought and feeling which pervades the following 
 pages will find the most perfect comprehension 
 and the quickest response. 
 
 February 1st, 1848.
 
 MEMOIRS 
 
 OF 
 
 MARIE VON ARNHEIM 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 AT length my resolution is fixed ; at length I have 
 gained courage to look with firm and searching 
 gaze into the past ! To look at it ? What else 
 have I seen through eight long years of agony ? 
 Of what else have I thought, dreamt, but that 
 terrible past? Aud now I am about to declare 
 all, to tell to the world that which heretofore has 
 been unuttered, which even in this moment seems 
 to me almost unutterable. 
 
 I have hitherto allowed myself to be deterred
 
 from writing the history of my life by two con- 
 siderations : first, by my own repugnance to give 
 tangible form to that which even in thought and 
 memory overwhelms me ; secondly, by the dread 
 lest the few yet remaining of those who once loved 
 me, and who by me are still adored, should in any 
 way discover who was the miserable subject of the 
 narrative. The first obstacle I have overcome 
 through a sense of duty yes, let not any one, 
 when further acquainted with my story, turn back 
 and look with idle mockery upon the words; a 
 sense of duty compels me to hold up as a warning 
 to all similarly constituted with myself the fate 
 which has been mine which might, under simi- 
 lar circumstances, if unwarned, be theirs. As to 
 the second objection, have I really any just grounds 
 to fear discovery ? In laying bare the inmost re- 
 cesses of a guilty heart in making myself for the 
 first time clearly, fully known do I not become 
 at once disguised in spirit to the eyes of all who 
 ever knew me ? For if in the wasted, shrunken 
 form which bends over this paper the lifeless
 
 hollow eye, the livid cheek upon which days of 
 remorse and nights of anguish have left such 
 furrows as are seldom found even upon the aged 
 face none could trace identity with the once 
 beautiful and graceful, and still youthful Marie ; 
 still less in the defaced and fearful mental portrait 
 herein unveiled could they recognise her whom in 
 their blindly fond and tender affection they once 
 looked upon as an angel of goodness and of truth. 
 No ; I am safe, and may speak freely, without 
 danger of adding another sorrow to those my sin 
 has inflicted upon all I loved; and truly, faith- 
 fully, so far as words can do so, will I disclose my 
 tale. 
 
 Reader ! I would ask your pity and your prayers, 
 but that ere this reaches your hand, the soul which 
 guides mine will be where human pity can no 
 longer soothe nor prayers avail. Thither must 
 thou one day follow, remember this, and be 
 merciful ! 
 
 B 2
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MY father was the only son of a nobleman re- 
 siding in the duchy of Baden. His mother, an 
 Italian lady of extreme beauty and talent, died 
 soon after his birth j but her place was well sup- 
 plied by a maiden sister of my grandfather's who 
 resided in the house, and watched over the early 
 years of the bereaved child as though he had been 
 her own. When still very young he was sent to 
 be educated in England, where, amongst other 
 branches of science, he' made himself in some 
 degree acquainted with medicine ; not indeed with 
 the design of making it a profession an in- 
 dependent fortune rendering this unnecessary 
 but merely as a matter of taste, and with a view
 
 to usefulness amongst the peasantry in his own 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 When little more than of age he married the 
 daughter of a village pastor, a Saxon girl, whom 
 he met at Dresden, whither she had come on a 
 visit to some friends. She was very lovely and of 
 pleasing manners, possessed an affectionate heart 
 and a sweet temper ; but her education, as is not 
 unusual in Germany amongst women in the mid- 
 dle class, had been almost entirely confined to the 
 acquirement of such knowledge and habits as are 
 considered likely to prove useful in the daily rou- 
 tine of domestic life. The young couple spent the 
 first year of their married life with my mother's 
 parents in the village of * * *, about twenty miles 
 from Dresden. Feeling it to be his duty to re- 
 side upon his own estates, my father afterwards 
 fixed his abode at the family mansion in the duchy 
 of Baden, within a mile of the little town -of * * *, 
 where, besides the endearing associations of early 
 recollection and the charm of extreme beauty of 
 scenery, he had the happiness of being near his
 
 earliest and most devoted friend, the Count von 
 Ehrenstein, who with his family occupied a castle 
 within a short distance. 
 
 I almost shrink from the attempt to describe 
 my father, for I feel that his peculiar nature was 
 made up of elements too delicate, too ideal, to be 
 easily conveyed to the mind by words. Were it 
 even in my power to portray him truly as he 
 appeared in daily life, as husband, father and 
 friend a personification of intellectual and moral 
 harmony and purity such as a poet might delight 
 to imagine I should be met with doubting looks, 
 and the word unnatural would assuredly be applied 
 to the description, as it so often is to that which 
 is only uncommon. 
 
 He was a truly noble being, rich in the nobility 
 of both head and heart. Truth was his idol not 
 in a limited sense but that eternal truth which 
 is the essence of all that is good and beautiful in 
 art and nature. He had an extraordinary power 
 of extracting what was best from all things. His 
 
 "" 
 
 fine imagination could revel in the dreamy mysti-
 
 cism of German metaphysics, no less than in the 
 refined wit and seductive sentimentalism of the 
 French school of philosophy, charmed by the 
 talent and ingenuity there displayed, and yet un- 
 tainted by nay, it appeared nearly unconscious 
 of the contaminating influences which they al- 
 most invariably exercise over hearts less pure and 
 minds constructed of less simple elements. Alas ! 
 he forgot that from the same flower whence the 
 bee innocuously sips honey, rank poison may be 
 distilled. He dreamed not that the studies, which 
 to him were only sources of elevating thought and 
 ennobling sentiment, could exert any injurious 
 influence on his child ! 
 
 He knew little of the world, for his own abs- 
 tracted and ideal nature had preserved him from 
 its evil influences ; nor was he practically aware of 
 the temptations to which each and all, according 
 to their various characters, are exposed in their 
 journey through life. He became, a father whilst 
 
 still himself a mere child in real knowledge of 
 
 *? 
 
 man's strange and inconsistent nSure. Truth
 
 appeared to him so distinct in all its graceful 
 loveliness, that he knew not how any could fail 
 to see, to love, and to choose it. " Why," said 
 he, "fetter a child with dogmas of theology and 
 wordy principles, when Nature speaks to him of 
 the glory of its great Creator, and the intuitive 
 perception of the exquisite harmony of all things 
 teaches the lesson of universal love ? No, my 
 children shall be untrammelled ; never will I say 
 to them, this or that you must believe; never 
 shall my poor and meagre language dare to inter- 
 pret the voice of God to their souls." Such was 
 the determination of my father, and to it he 
 adhered strictly. My mother, a careful and busy 
 housewife, had no idea that a woman's duties as 
 wife and mother could extend beyond an affec- 
 tionate attention to the personal comfort of her 
 family and a cheerful happy contentment of de- 
 meanour. Thus she was grieved at seeing the 
 distaste which I early testified to all household 
 occupations, and often manifested an irritation, 
 otherwise foreign to her nature and habits, upon
 
 finding me seated in a corner devouring a book, 
 whilst other employments of infinitely greater 
 importance in her eyes were neglected. At such 
 times my father ever took my part ; and upon one 
 occasion having expressed his opinion and wishes 
 with more decision than usual, my mother gave 
 up the point, and I was left thenceforward to the 
 peaceful enjoyment of my own tastes. 
 
 I was my parents' eldest child at home ; their 
 first, a daughter, had been born within a year 
 after their marriage, whilst they were still at my 
 grandfather's house; and before its appearance 
 they had allowed themselves to be persuaded to 
 promise that it should at once be consigned to 
 the care of my mother's parents, who would 
 thus in some degree be indemnified for the loss 
 of their own daughter. From this time the little 
 exile had never visited her father's roof. Three 
 children followed in rapid succession, but all died 
 immediately after birth ; and when at length, just 
 as my eldest sister had attained her tenth year, I 
 entered the world, much anxiety was naturally felt 
 
 B5
 
 10 
 
 on my account, lest I too should share a like fate. 
 Would to God that I had ! 
 
 Three years after iny birth my mother bore a 
 son. Well do I remember that morning, when 
 awakened by a bustle and hurrying to and fro in 
 the house, and finding myself, contrary to custom, 
 quite alone, I lay in a state of fear and trem- 
 bling, now putting my head under the bed-clothes, 
 now peeping out into the grey dawning light to 
 see whether anything were visible. At length the 
 nurse appeared, and with a radiant countenance 
 exclaimed, " You have a brother, Fraulein Marie ! 
 get up quickly and come to kiss him." 
 
 " You have a brother ! " how did the words 
 echo through my childish heart ! How, even at 
 this moment, can I recall the delicious entrancing 
 sensations with which I sprang up, and without 
 waiting to be dressed bounded into my mother's 
 room ? She lay there, pale but happy-looking, and 
 by her side, so rolled up as scarcely to allow a 
 glimpse of the tiny face, my brother ! Who can 
 say that a child does not feel ? As I was held up,
 
 11 
 
 and bent forward with a mixed and indefinable 
 sensation of awe and longing to kiss the sleeping 
 babe, a love sprang up in my soul which through 
 life has been in death will remain unchanged.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE birth of my brother was the first sera in my 
 existence. Every previous recollection is dim ; 
 but from this epoch all is clear and vivid. The 
 sudden awakening of my heart to a lively and 
 entirely new emotion had the effect of rousing all 
 my latent faculties. I have often heard my father 
 say, that from the moment I had seen my brother 
 I seemed to become a thinking, reasoning being. 
 I no longer wearied my nurse and mother by 
 taxing their invention for amusements. To look 
 at my baby brother was a never-ending source of 
 enjoyment; and by the tender solicitude which 
 I manifested about all his little wants and com- 
 forts, my poor mother was led to form anticipations 
 in regard to me which were destined never to be
 
 realized ; and my character, by afterwards develop- 
 ing itself in a direction entirely different from 
 what she could have wished, caused her much 
 disappointment and vexation. As might be ex- 
 pected, the passionate love with which I regarded 
 the little Alfred met with its reward in a full 
 return. He grew up a delicate, fragile being, com- 
 bining the soft and exquisitely fair complexion, 
 the golden hair and deep blue eye of his Saxon 
 mother, with the dreamy, melancholy, yet kindling 
 expression which characterized his more southern 
 father. In his playful moments you would have 
 said that such had been the ideal of Domenichi- 
 no's soft and graceful infant cherubs ; and again, 
 when grave, and he was often so, with his 
 pensive eye fixed, not upon anything visible, yet 
 not, you felt, upon vacancy, there was that in his 
 gentle, noble, loving countenance which suggested 
 the idea that here might Raphael have found a 
 model, worthy as aught of earthly mould could be, 
 for an infant Christ. He soon became as insepa- 
 rable from me as my shadow; and my parents,
 
 14 
 
 seeing the watchful care with which I hung 
 around him, learned to trust me with a charge for 
 which by my age I should scarcely have seemed 
 fitted. 
 
 When I was about six years old, my mother 
 sent me one day with a little basket containing 
 some wine and choice fruits to the cottage of a 
 poor sick woman who lived about a mile distant. 
 As it was summer, and the day warm and sunny, 
 she allowed me to take Alfred with me; and it 
 would be difficult to say which of us most enjoyed 
 the expedition, or whether the invalid were not 
 more grateful for the kindly attention from her 
 landlord's children than for the delicacies they 
 brought to tempt her appetite. As we loitered 
 along the road in returning, now sitting down to 
 rest, now plucking the wild flowers which my 
 father loved, to make a nosegay for him, I heard 
 a shout as of alarm at a distance, and looking up 
 saw two or three persons rushing along the road 
 behind us. A confused sense of danger came over 
 me, not for myself, but for my precious charge. I
 
 15 
 
 seized him in my arms and hurried towards home, 
 fortunately not far distant, whilst the shouts became 
 louder, and " Mad dog, mad dog ! " resounded in 
 my ears, and, child though I was, conveyed to my 
 mind a sense of indescribable horror. Fear lent 
 me wings, and love gave me strength. I stopped 
 not, nor glanced backwards, until screaming 
 " Save him, save him ! " and fainting, but still 
 holding the terrified child with a death-like grasp, 
 I sank at my mother's feet. 
 
 It was some weeks before I recovered from this 
 over-exertion of my childish strength and spirits. 
 A slight fever confined me to my bed for several 
 days, and during this time it was found necessary to 
 allow Alfred to be constantly with me. So severe 
 had been the shock upon my nerves, so entirely 
 had terror for him taken hold upon my imagina- 
 tion, that whenever he was absent my eyes wan- 
 dered restlessly about ; and it was only when he 
 re-appeared, that a quiet, satisfied smile took the 
 place of anxiety ; and only with his hand in mine, 
 or his little head resting on the pillow by my side,
 
 16 
 
 could I gain a few moments' repose. This inci- 
 dent, if possible, increased my affection for him ; 
 and the sweet child seemed to be in some degree 
 aware of what I had done, and all I had suffered 
 for him. When I read for even at that early 
 age books had supplanted dolls and playthings 
 in my heart, and occupied nearly all my time 
 little Alfred sat beside or played about me, now 
 calling my attention to some new discovery by 
 the ringing joyous laugh with which he welcomed 
 it, now almost painfully arresting my thoughts 
 by one of the deep, peculiar sighs heard at times 
 even in the cradle of those upon whom Nature 
 has bestowed the dubious gift of extreme sensi- 
 bility. 
 
 My education at this time, and always, was 
 conducted according to my father's peculiar opi- 
 nions. The greater part of each day was spent 
 with him in the study of Latin and Greek, and 
 he gave me also a thorough knowledge of niy own 
 and of the Italian and French languages. I was 
 in the constant habit of reading history with him,
 
 and as to general literature was left entirely to my 
 own fancy, untrammelled by restrictions of any 
 kind. I wish not here to enter upon the subject 
 of education at large; too much has been said 
 and written upon it already; and this and that 
 theory is taken up and applied indiscriminately 
 to individual characters, when a careful study of 
 the qualities of each, and an adaptation to their 
 separate requirements, would do more good than 
 any artificial plan taken at random from the most 
 carefully devised treatise. 
 
 Whether any other plan than that adopted by 
 my father might have wrought out, so far as I 
 was concerned, a different result, I can only con- 
 jecture ; yet surely, my father ! you knew not 
 what you did, when without one word of caution, 
 without a fixed principle, ignorant of man's nature 
 in general and still more ignorant of all which 
 peculiarly marked my own, you left me to drift 
 among the perilous shoals of metaphysical specu- 
 lation, bewildered by the mists of a vague though 
 fascinating scepticism. The false and dreamy but
 
 18 
 
 often poetical forms of a merely sentimental re- 
 ligion enchanted and lured me from those simple 
 truths which might have guided and saved me, 
 and then left me to sink, and rise no more ! Yet 
 wherefore, my beloved father, do I blame you ? 
 you did but leave me as you yourself had once 
 been left. Ypur simple, true and beautiful na- 
 ture found its way through all in safety : how 
 then should you have feared that from the same 
 fountain whence you drank a pure and life-giving 
 stream, your child your Marie, could imbibe 
 poison ?
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IT would be impossible for me to give any idea of 
 the perfect happiness in which my days were now 
 spent. It seemed as if, except through sympathy 
 with others, sorrow could never touch our home. 
 I attended my father when he visited the poor, 
 who all loved me, because I felt and sympathized 
 with all. The children flocked around me when I 
 entered the village; the old people blessed me; 
 and oh, how my heart exulted in the happiness 
 which I felt it was mine to bestow ! 
 
 My brother's nature was singularly precocious, 
 and in him I had soon a companion in most of 
 my studies, who made them appear more delight- 
 ful than ever. We read out of the same books, 
 assisted each other in clearing up difficulties, and
 
 became daily more idolatrously attached to one 
 another and to our parents, and more loving to- 
 wards the whole world. 
 
 When I was about eleven years of age, and Al- 
 fred eight, the Count von Ehrenstein died, leaving 
 my father guardian to his only son, who was but 
 a little older than myself, and had been my playfel- 
 low from the earliest time either of us could re- 
 member. He was a bright, joyous being, as keenly 
 alive to ideal beauty as ourselves, full of genius, 
 and of a high and manly spirit, which was never 
 long depressed by outward circumstances. It 
 was not that he wanted depth of feeling; but, 
 gifted with an extraordinary elasticity of mind, 
 uninterrupted health, and an imagination so vivid 
 and fertile that the slightest touch upon any of 
 its chords was sufficient to wrap his whole being 
 in a music of its own, and banish for the time 
 every thought unconnected with its self-created 
 harmony, it was impossible that outward things 
 could long subdue or even vex him. As my 
 father loved him tenderly, and preferred con-
 
 21 
 
 tinuing the home education which his own parent 
 had commenced especially as by this means his 
 widowed mother was not deprived of the comfort 
 of his society he now became the companion of 
 our studies, as he had long been the partaker 
 of our amusements. For some weeks his coun- 
 tenance bore traces of sincere sorrow, for he had 
 been deeply attached to his father ; but by degrees 
 his buoyant spirit regained its natural element, 
 and in the new arrangements which brought him 
 to us daily Alfred and I found a fresh source of 
 happiness. 
 
 There was much in Eugene's character which 
 rendered him a peculiarly desirable companion 
 for us ; he had the same poetry of nature, there 
 was no jarring of taste or sentiment, and he had a 
 boundless power of sympathy, which enabled him 
 to offer it even when that which called it forth was 
 foreign to his own experience. Thus, although to 
 his healthy spirit the constitutional melancholy 
 which at times hung over us was at first a my- 
 stery, he never used against it the coarse arms of
 
 22 
 
 ridicule with which some well-meaning and even 
 good-natured persons seek to combat a temper of 
 mind which they can neither comprehend nor 
 excuse. His bright countenance carried in itself 
 a charm which even without the aid of words 
 began to work its magic spell ; and before he had 
 been long by our side, even in our gravest mo- 
 ments, we were listening in wrapt ecstasy to some 
 of the chivalrous feats of his latest hero, or join- 
 ing in a merry peal of laughter as he exhibited 
 the last effort of his pencil in burlesque illustra- 
 tion of some humorous subject. 
 
 I will here mention a few occurrences which 
 took place during these blessed years, tending to 
 show the state of our feelings towards each other. 
 To some they may appear trivial, but to me it has 
 ever seemed that the merest trifles connected 
 with the development of the childish or even 
 infant mind and heart are not unworthy the 
 attention of the grey-haired man. Besides, I 
 may be forgiven for lingering yet a moment 
 amidst the hallowed memories of youth. Its
 
 23 
 
 hopes have perished, its rainbow visions vanished, 
 and the flowers which burst forth in its early 
 spring into untimely luxuriance withered ere the 
 summer's dawn ; yet so sweet, so lovely were 
 they, that even in death they retain a faint per- 
 fume a holy beauty which sometimes lulls my 
 weary senses into a temporary oblivion of all that 
 I would fain forget for ever.
 
 24 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OUE house was situated upon a slope command- 
 ing a splendid prospect of the pine- clad mountains 
 of the Black Forest. At the foot of the garden 
 flowed a clear and rapid river, and my father had 
 taken advantage of a sudden winding in its course 
 to form a little bay or basin for the convenience 
 of the family in bathing. A magnificent weeping 
 willow overshadowed this spot, and here we used 
 to sit and read during the long summer days ; and 
 our happiest hours being spent under its shade, 
 Eugene had long since named the friendly tree our 
 " Paradise." One day, about a year after the death 
 of the Count von Ehrenstein, as I pushed aside 
 the branches to enter, I saw Alfred standing upon 
 the seat and busily occupied in carving something
 
 25 
 
 upon the bark. " Don't look yet, Marie ! don't 
 look till I tell you to do so," he cried, hearing my 
 step. 
 
 I stood watching the swan as it glided over 
 the water in the sunshine, until he said, " Now, 
 Marie, now look !" 
 
 I did so, hut only saw his name and my own, 
 inclosed within a rude imitation of a wreathed 
 serpent. I smiled, and looked inquiringly at 
 him. 
 
 " I was sitting here alone, Marie," he said, 
 " and thinking over our happy life, and wondering 
 what might be before us, and whether we could 
 ever feel otherwise towards each other than we do 
 at present; it seemed to me impossible that we 
 should become changed, and I felt that our love 
 and our life are inseparable. Then as I thought 
 of all the hours spent under this tree, everything 
 pleasant and everything sorrowful that ever hap- 
 pened rose up like living things around me. For 
 a moment it appeared to me as if they were real ; 
 and then all passed away, and a sense of desola- 
 
 c
 
 26 
 
 tion came over me, such as I had never experienced 
 before. For the first time I knew what the words 
 ' the past ' mean, and that a time must come when 
 everything would be 'the past/ I became very 
 sad, and the idea occurred to me that our tree 
 would live when we were no more, and that I would 
 like to carve our names upon it, and wreathe them 
 with what papa told me yesterday was the emblem 
 of eternity ; and then I was so happy ! " 
 
 "And forgot me!" said a voice behind us. 
 We turned, and met a reproachful glance from 
 Eugene. 
 
 " No, dearest Eugene, we did not ; indeed we 
 did not forget you, nor ever shall/' I said. 
 
 He made no answer, but taking out a pen- 
 knife began working on the tree, and in a few 
 moments his name appeared carved within the 
 charmed circle, itself forming an inner one around 
 our names. " Now," he said with triumph spark- 
 ling in his dark eyes, "now you cannot forget 
 me!" 
 
 Not long after this my brother one evening
 
 27 
 
 showed signs of illness; his cheek was flushed, 
 although his limbs shivered ; and my father, find- 
 ing next morning that he had every symptom of 
 fever, desired that I should be entirely separated 
 from him. This rendered me inconsolable ; never 
 having been a day, seldom an hour, apart from 
 this loved brother since his birth, I knew not how 
 to live without him ; and in leaving him thus in 
 sickness it seemed to me that I was giving up a 
 sister's privilege. My mother indeed was with 
 him constantly, and nursed him with all a mo- 
 ther's tenderness and love; but even this failed 
 to comfort me; for it seemed to me that whilst 
 she performed her duty I neglected mine, and I 
 was miserable. Eugene, who shared in all my 
 anxiety, and desired no less than I to be with the 
 invalid, tried to console me, and thought we were 
 both most hardly used ; but so far as he was con- 
 cerned I saw clearly that my parents had acted 
 rightly. 
 
 " You are not his brother, dear Eugene, as I 
 am his sister," said I one day, as we sat under 
 
 c2
 
 28 
 
 the willow- tree, after Alfred's illness had endured 
 a week, and loss of sleep and anxiety had begun 
 to tell upon my cheek. 
 
 "Look there," said Eugene, pointing to the 
 names carved upon the bark; "am I not his 
 brother?" 
 
 " Yes," said my father, who just then came to 
 seek us, "you will, I trust, ever be brothers in 
 love and confidence, dear Eugene ; but remember 
 that you are the only son of a widowed mother, 
 and that in .wilfully running any risk which might 
 rob her of her last earthly hope, you would be 
 acting with an egotism little worthy of yourself, 
 and which might involve your friend ah" your 
 friends here in sorrow and self-upbraiding." 
 
 The poor boy looked down discountenanced, for 
 he now felt that in the desire to see his friend he 
 had forgotten the duty he owed to his gentle and 
 affectionate mother. He was silent ; but I clasped 
 my hands round my father, and said passionately, 
 " Let me go to him, papa ! I shall die if you do 
 not ; the infection could not do me so much harm
 
 29 
 
 as this miserable anxiety, which will not let me 
 sleep or rest one moment ; I cannot, indeed I can- 
 not endure it longer, I must see him." 
 
 " You shall then, Marie ; and rest assured that, 
 had your brother needed your care, I never should 
 have hesitated to admit you to him. As it was, 
 I wished to spare your youth the chance of an 
 illness, which might prove very trying to one so 
 delicately framed as yourself; but perhaps I was 
 to blame in forgetting that the throbbings of af- 
 fection in a young heart may become as wild and 
 dangerous as those of fever itself. Come, I will 
 take a middle course, you may look at Alfred, 
 but for his sake as well as your own, you must 
 not approach him nearly, nor remain more than a 
 few minutes in his room." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, thank you, papa ; I will re- 
 member ! " I exclaimed, breaking away and flying 
 towards Alfred's door. I opened it gently and 
 passed in. He lay upon the bed apparently 
 sleeping, paler and thinner than I had ever seen 
 him, and by his side sat my mother quietly occu-
 
 30 
 
 pied in sewing. The slight noise I made caused 
 her to look round. 
 
 " Marie ! " she exclaimed in an accent of asto- 
 nishment and alarm, and " Marie ! " at the same 
 moment cried Alfred, awakened by the sound, his 
 pale face becoming crimson with delight, " Oh, 
 my own darling Marie ! " 
 
 In a moment my father's injunctions, my own 
 resolution to obey him, the fear of injuring the 
 invalid, all were forgotten, and I was beside him, 
 our lips closely pressed together, and our arms 
 tightly clasped around each other's necks. 
 
 The consequences were such as might be ex- 
 pected I took the fever and suffered much more 
 severely than Alfred had done. For three weeks 
 I hovered unconsciously between life and death. 
 But my time was not yet come. Slowly and with 
 a feeling of extreme languor I began to recover; 
 but it was long before I was able to resume my 
 former employments or even to leave my room. 
 Eugene was not allowed to see either of us until 
 all danger of infection was over; and when at
 
 31 
 
 length my father put a period to our quarantine, 
 we agreed to see each other first under the willow, 
 already hallowed by so many tender recollections. 
 It was a silent meeting \ our hearts were too full 
 for words, for the idea which we had all so lately 
 realized of possible separation for ever had given 
 something of a holy character to the nature of our 
 love. We were happy, but it was some days be- 
 fore our young spirits recovered their tone or even 
 Eugene could laugh as was his wont. He how- 
 ever was the first to do so, and with the influence 
 which he had ever the power of exercising over us, 
 he soon drove away all traces of depression ; and, 
 excepting that we now better knew the depth of 
 the love we bore each other, we became as we had 
 been before. 
 
 Our next trial arrived from Eugene's side. A 
 brother of his father's, living at Vienna, expressed 
 a strong wish that he and the Countess should 
 pay him a visit, and it was determined that they 
 should set out the ensuing spring. This was a 
 sad blow to us all. In vain Eugene's mother and
 
 32 
 
 guardian represented to him the enjoyment he 
 would find in new scenes and in companionship 
 with his young relations. He could not imagine 
 pleasure unconnected with his friends here, and 
 he was quite sure that his cousins would only 
 make him more melancholy by reminding him 
 that he had had playfellows so much dearer. 
 
 His ardent spirit almost chafed one day under 
 an attempt of mine to console him by alluding to 
 the pleasure we should find in writing to each 
 other. 
 
 " Ah, Marie ! I fear you care little for me," he 
 said reproachfully ; " whilst Alfred is with you my 
 absence will scarcely be felt." 
 
 I could not speak, but the large drops rolled 
 down my cheek, and my heart swelled with a 
 feeling it had never known before. 
 
 " Marie," said Eugene with deep emotion, " if 
 you could know how dearly I love you, how my 
 very soul is bound up in yours, and how I feel 
 when I see that Alfred is all the world to you, 
 and that you can be happy without me ! And
 
 33 
 
 then I picture to myself how you will soon be a 
 woman, and a beautiful one; and how you may 
 love some one else, besides Alfred, better than you 
 do me and then I shall die." 
 
 " Eugene, you are unkind ; I shall never love 
 any one better than I do you, except Alfred, and 
 even now I believe I hardly know which I love 
 best. Dear, dear Eugene, you too are my bro- 
 ther ; do not talk again as you have done just now ; 
 you hurt me deeply." 
 
 " Forgive me, Marie, forgive me for loving you 
 too much," he said tenderly, kissing away the 
 tears as they rolled down my cheeks. He then 
 left me to meditate over what he had said, of my 
 soon becoming a woman, and loving some one 
 else better than himself and to come to the firm 
 conviction that no such event could ever under 
 any circumstances take place. 
 
 c5
 
 34 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE day before Eugene set out he brought over 
 and consigned to my charge two pet birds and a 
 beautiful Italian greyhound, which had always at- 
 tended his footsteps to our house; at the same 
 time he put upon my finger a ring, with one large 
 bright diamond sparkling in its centre, saying, 
 " When you look at that, Marie, let it remind 
 you of my love ; it is not less pure and imperish- 
 able." 
 
 I know that some will smile doubtingly at 
 hearing such language from the lips of a boy 
 little more than fifteen years of age; but those 
 who do so know not a boyish nature as it may be ; 
 still less can they understand it as it was in one, 
 the very essence of whose being was poetry, and
 
 35 
 
 whose early acquaintance with the story of the 
 heroic deeds of chivalry, and with the gentle yet 
 powerful influence whence they derived their 
 source, had enabled him long since to understand 
 by what name to call the delightful but restless 
 feeling which had taken possession of his heart. 
 
 For some days after the departure of our friend 
 we were as miserable as even he could have de- 
 sired. For the first time in our lives my father 
 had to complain of inattentive pupils ; but he did 
 so gently and kindly, for he knew the cause, and 
 perhaps was inwardly not displeased to see this 
 sign of affection towards our young companion. 
 Nor were we alone dispirited and unhappy : the 
 little birds sat upon their perch with ruffled fea- 
 thers, eyeing askance the strange hand which 
 offered them food, and seeming too sad even to 
 attempt to seek relief in their own sweet notes. 
 
 Carlo (as the greyhound was called) showed his 
 usual affection for us all, but it was melancholy 
 to see how the poor fellow would run to the door 
 each time it opened, with eager expectation, only
 
 36 
 
 to return with his tail between his legs and his 
 head almost touching the ground; whilst his 
 joyous bark of welcome for him who was looked 
 for, but who did not enter, subsided at the same 
 time into a low pitiful whine. He would then 
 look up into Alfred's face or mine, lick our hands, 
 and, crouching close to our feet, lie down until 
 another sound at the door aroused him to fresh 
 hope and fresh disappointment. 
 
 The first occurrence which enlivened us was 
 the arrival of a letter from the traveller, who had 
 reached Munich, and seemed to be enchanted in 
 spite of himself with the fresh beauty of the city 
 and the wonders of art which it contained. His 
 letter, one of the few precious relics of those happy 
 times which I have retained, lies beside me, and I 
 will transcribe a part of it as being peculiarly cha- 
 racteristic of his tone of thought and feeling : 
 
 " The country through which we passed in 
 coming here is very beautiful, but, wanting you, 
 the sunshine seemed less bright, the grass less 
 green, and the concert of the birds less melodious
 
 37 
 
 than they used to be; and although mamma thought 
 the April lights and shades flitted over the land- 
 scape as a painter's hand would have guided them, 
 to me they seemed dull and monotonous, as I com- 
 pared them in memory with the far lovelier effects 
 often produced upon the wood and mountain, dell 
 and river, about our own dear Paradise by the 
 Claude-like light of an autumnal sunset. Once, 
 as a sudden turning in the road brought us with- 
 in view of a beautiful cascade, foaming over pre- 
 cipitous rocks, and scattering its spray over the 
 rich and luxuriant foliage of the trees and shrubs 
 which grew on its verge, there to hang glittering 
 like variegated jewels in the sunshine, I was quite 
 enchanted; and accustomed to know no joy un- 
 connected with your loved presence, I exclaimed, 
 ' Marie \' A kiss from mamma recalled me to 
 my senses, and she said with one of her sweet 
 smiles, ' Here is only your mother, Eugene but 
 you are your mother's all/ There was more in 
 her tone of voice, as she uttered this, than in the 
 words themselves; and I was very sorry; for I
 
 38 
 
 felt that, whilst indulging my own selfish regrets, 
 I had neglected my dear, kind, tender mother; 
 and so ever since I have tried to be cheerful, and 
 not to let her think my heart is all at * * *; 
 and the very effort has been its own reward, for I 
 do already feel happier, and begin to look forward 
 hopefully to the time when we shall meet again. 
 
 " I am trying to keep a journal, and it may per- 
 haps give you a faint idea of what I enjoy faint, 
 indeed ! for what are words when one wants to 
 express feelings ? One piece of sculpture I must 
 mention, for I have just returned from gazing 
 upon it until my whole soul was so filled with its 
 ideal beauty, that no other image than that of 
 Marie could have found a vacant spot there. It 
 is a torso, supposed to represent Ilioneus, one of 
 the sons of Niobe, at the moment when falling on 
 his knees; with upturned face and outstretched 
 arms, he endeavours to avert the dart of Apollo, 
 about to be hurled against him. Exquisite, 
 beyond all description exquisite, is that model 
 of youthful grace, of soft and almost feminine
 
 loveliness. Marie ! were you here, you would 
 gaze and gaze until the form had become perfect 
 in your imagination you would see the young 
 and angel countenance full of prayer and mortal 
 anguish the tender limbs rounded in Nature's 
 finest mould, thrilling already at the fancied touch 
 of death you would hear the cry of deep despair- 
 ing agony ; and echoing it, with tears bitter almost 
 as those of Niobe herself, you would spring for- 
 ward, throw your arms around the beauteous boy, 
 and strive to shield him with your life. My eyes 
 remained rivetted upon the statue till the fiction 
 of the poet had become an absorbing and o'ver- 
 whelming reality. It was the touch of the cold 
 marble which first awoke me from my vision ; and 
 startled and ashamed of my excitement I looked 
 around happily the room was empty. Is it not 
 strange that every outward expression of strong 
 emotion should be accompanied by a feeling simi- 
 lar to that which ought only to be the attendant 
 upon evil thoughts and actions ? One can scarcely 
 fancy it to be natural, and yet we see it in chil-
 
 40 
 
 dren at so early an age, that it seems as though 
 it must be an instinctive provision made by na- 
 ture to save those who feel deeply and passionately 
 from unveiling their inmost thoughts before the 
 cold eye of the apathetic or vulgar observer, who 
 would see but matter of ridicule in all that to us 
 appears most sacred. * * * 
 
 Mamma calls me, dearest Marie ; and I must 
 hastily say farewell. Ever your own 
 
 " EUGENE. 
 
 Eugene had been several months gone, and we 
 continued to have long and most entertaining let- 
 ters from him. His cousins were good-natured, his 
 uncle kind, and at Vienna there was always some 
 novelty to charm away the hours unoccupied by 
 masters or study. At his uncle's house he met 
 with the most distinguished literary and scien- 
 tific characters of the day : his hospitable doors 
 were always open to foreigners from every nation. 
 Englishmen were especial favourites ; and Eugene 
 wrote that the early and well-grounded know-
 
 41 
 
 ledge of their language, which had been imparted 
 to him by my father, had enabled him, without 
 any difficulty or hesitation, to make himself un- 
 derstood, and fully to enjoy the conversation which 
 was often carried on entirely in that tongue at the 
 Count Von Ehrenstein's table. Yet notwithstand- 
 ing all the fascinating allurements which met him 
 in the great city, his heart seemed to yearn to- 
 wards his own quiet home, and the friends of his 
 childhood and youth who still remained there. 
 His affection (as all true and deep affection does) 
 but increased with absence, and nothing could 
 exceed the disappointment which he felt when, 
 at the expiration of the term originally fixed upon 
 for their visit, his mother consented to remain for 
 at least another year. To Alfred and me this 
 news was a grievous blow; but our minds were 
 diverted from dwelling upon it, before very long, 
 by what was to us a most unexpected event, 
 namely, the birth of a little sister, who was wel- 
 comed as a child of their old-age by my parents, 
 whilst by my brother and myself her arrival was
 
 42 
 
 hailed with unbounded delight. There was no 
 end to our conjectures as to what she would be 
 like, or to our anticipations of all the happiness 
 we should find in this new treasure. 
 
 On one of those beautiful days which some- 
 times visit us towards the close of autumn, ere 
 the winter frosts set in, when all is so bright and 
 genial that one almost fancies summer has arisen 
 again from her light slumbers to cheer and bless 
 us with a farewell smile, ere sinking into her long 
 and unbroken rest, I was sitting under the shade 
 of our favourite tree absorbed in Jean Paul's 
 " Titan." It was here that I always loved to bring 
 his works, for it seemed to me as if the breathings 
 of his pure, gentle and loving nature became a part 
 of the universal harmony, and found an echo in the 
 song of the birds, the murmur of the river, and the 
 sighing of our graceful willow. Suddenly the spell 
 by which I was entranced was broken by the joyous 
 voice of Alfred, as he exclaimed, " Marie, Marie, 
 we are going to Dresden! is not that delight- 
 ful ?" and he clapped his hands with childish glee.
 
 43 
 
 I looked up amazed. 
 
 " It is true, indeed ! papa told me himself that 
 he had business there, which would detain him for 
 some months; and he says he will take us too. 
 Oh it is so delightful ! and we shall see a great 
 many places ; but there is one thing, and when I 
 looked sorry about it, papa said, ' There is always 
 something we should like changed, however happy 
 we may be/ Mamma and little Agnes will not 
 go ; mamma thinks baby too young ; and beside 
 this, she says she would rather remain at home, as 
 she should not care for seeing everything as we do. 
 But after all, baby is always sleeping now, and 
 when we come back mamma says she will be quite 
 different, able to know us all, and love us." 
 
 At this moment the dinner-bell sounded; and 
 returning to the house, we found my mother 
 seated in an easy-chair at the head of the table, 
 for the first time since her confinement, and 
 greeted her return amongst us with heartfelt 
 pleasure. 
 
 We had but just commenced dinner when the
 
 44 
 
 servant handed a packet of letters to my father. 
 As he read he cast an anxious glance towards my 
 mother. 
 
 " What is it, Edward ?" she said ; " have you 
 received bad news ? Don't be afraid to tell me the 
 truth, for I am quite strong now." 
 
 " It is from a friend of your father's, my love, 
 who announces mentions that he has been very 
 ill." 
 
 " That is not all, Edward," said my mother ; 
 " I see by your face that there is something more, 
 and worse : do tell me all at once \" 
 
 " Yes, dearest Anna, I will ; it would be vain to 
 strive to conceal it from you ; there is indeed sad 
 news your kind, good father is no more \" 
 
 My poor mother, whose feelings were very vio- 
 lent, became greatly agitated; for although five- 
 and-twenty years had elapsed since she had left 
 her parents' roof a young and happy wife, still in 
 her simple and affectionate nature her love for 
 them had remained unimpaired by the many new 
 and tender claims upon her heart.
 
 45 
 
 When in some degree recovered and sufficiently 
 composed, my father read the letter to her, and 
 said, "Your mother will be very desolate now, 
 dear Anna ; we must write at once and offer her 
 a home here. She can meet us at Dresden, and 
 we may all return together." 
 
 "Yes, dear Edward; my poor mother will be 
 happier with us than she could be elsewhere. But 
 Barbara?" she added in a dubious and inquiring 
 tone. 
 
 " She, of course, must come too," answered my 
 father; and I thought I heard a quick though 
 smothered sigh.
 
 46 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I HAVE before said that I had never seen my sis- 
 ter, neither had I heard much of her. When my 
 father returned about three years previous to this 
 time from a visit to my grandfather's, whither he 
 had been called by business, Alfred and I had as- 
 sailed him with questions relative to our unknown 
 sister, to which he had replied with an air of con- 
 straint, and even of sorrow, at that time quite in- 
 comprehensible to us. To Alfred's eager inquiry, 
 whether Barbara resembled me, he answered sim- 
 ply in the negative, and we could not either then, 
 or at any. subsequent period, win from him the 
 slightest description of her appearance, manner or 
 disposition. Young as we then were, this extra- 
 ordinary reserve upon our father's part could not
 
 47 
 
 fail to astonish us. Our own hearts yearned to- 
 wards our sister, and we felt an intense interest in 
 all that concerned her, which was rather heightened 
 than subdued by the mystery which our parent's 
 evident disinclination to speak upon the subject 
 cast over it. But nothing occurred in any way 
 calculated to enlighten us. We often spoke to 
 each other of Barbara, and sometimes ventured to 
 express to our father the earnest desire we felt 
 to see and know her, and the hope that ere long 
 this might be gratified. But years passed by 
 without any prospect of its fulfilment ; and ex- 
 cepting when mentioned by Alfred or myself, our 
 sister's name was never uttered in the family 
 circle. Now, when my grandfather's death occa- 
 sioned an allusion to her long-delayed return, it 
 was made in a manner so very different from what 
 would have appeared natural to parents when con- 
 templating a speedy reunion with an absent child, 
 that all our former surprise and curiosity was re- 
 awakened. 
 
 " How very strange it is/' said Alfred to me on
 
 48 
 
 the evening of this day, " that we should know so 
 little of our sister ! I wonder why papa did not 
 tell us more of her, and what can be the reason 
 that he sighed when he spoke of her coming 
 home. Do you not feel pleased, Marie, at the 
 thought that we shall see her at last, and have 
 her here always ? She too will be happier when 
 restored to her home, than she can be living 
 so far away from us all. However kind other 
 relatives might be to me, I think I should al- 
 ways have considered it as little better than 
 banishment to live as she has done, removed to 
 such a distance from parents, and sisters and 
 brother." 
 
 I participated fully in all Alfred's sentiments ; 
 and scarcely a day, or even hour now passed, in 
 which we did not in some way allude to Barbara's 
 arrival, and project plans to increase her happi- 
 ness, and ensure to her, from the first moment, 
 the feelings of a welcome and beloved member 
 of our family. 
 
 It had been arranged that we were to be joined
 
 49 
 
 at Dresden by my grandmother and Barbara, and 
 this joyous anticipation was alone wanting to per- 
 fect the delight with which my brother and I had 
 looked forward to our journey. We spent hours 
 daily in studying plans for our route, in order 
 that we might be enabled to visit all within our 
 reach that was interesting ; but when it was finally 
 arranged that our sister was to form one of the 
 party in returning, as each day spent upon the 
 road must necessarily postpone the meeting which 
 we longed for, we entreated my father to permit 
 us to go direct to Dresden, and keep all our visits 
 to other places for the journey homewards, as we 
 should then have the additional enjoyment which 
 our newly-found sister's presence would afford. 
 My father listened to our eager entreaties and 
 arguments without interruption. He was, I am 
 sure, pleased that we should use them ; but there 
 was something sorrowful in the smile with which 
 he looked upon us in answering, "You forget, 
 dear children, that the routes we have already 
 laid out for our journey to and from Dresden are 
 
 D
 
 50 
 
 so circuitous, and include so many points of in- 
 terest, that it would be quite impossible for us to 
 embrace, in our homeward course alone, all you 
 desire to see, without occupying much more time 
 than we can afford to give to it. It is very natural 
 and right that you should wish Barbara to share 
 your pleasures, but I fear the plan is not feasible. 
 We must for the present let all remain as it has 
 been arranged : perhaps at some future time you 
 may be able to revisit the same scenes in company 
 with your sister." 
 
 The sadness of the smile with which my father 
 began this speech, and the sigh which followed its 
 conclusion, did not pass unobserved by us; and 
 again the oppressive sense *of mystery in some way 
 connected with our unknown sister, though how 
 or of what nature we did not even attempt to 
 divine, recurred. But other and more pleasing 
 feelings quickly dispelled this painful one: the 
 day of our departure was now fast approaching, 
 and preparations for the journey, together with 
 farewell visits to the poor people in the neigh-
 
 51 
 
 boiirhood, who were inconsolable at the prospect 
 of our six months' absence, left us little time for 
 reflection.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BEFORE commencing a new epoch in my life, I 
 may here remark, that if, in describing my own 
 and n\y brother's earlier years, I have not thought 
 it necessary to mention the little fits of childish 
 passion and waywardness to which we sometimes 
 gave way, the omission has not been caused by 
 any desire that we should appear to have been 
 faultless, but rather by the feeling that such oc- 
 currences are in nowise characteristic, being com- 
 mon to all our race, at an age when a strong will 
 has outstripped the development of the reason 
 and the affections. But I must not pass over in 
 equal silence a certain impetuosity of temper, and 
 a daring hardihood of action and opinion, which, 
 as I grew older, manifested themselves, though at
 
 53 
 
 rare intervals, in my own character, and which, 
 had they been justly estimated, might have sug- 
 gested to those around me that the usually calm, 
 smooth exterior of my daily conduct was far from 
 being the result of a passionless nature, but rather 
 of a depth of feeling which the mere ordinary 
 occurrences of every-day life were insufficient to 
 ruffle. 
 
 I cannot however now call to mind having at 
 any time given way to this deep-seated vehemence 
 of temperament through considerations of a merely 
 personal or selfish nature ; nor do I think that 
 motives so unworthy could at any time have roused 
 me thoroughly. But my emotions were almost 
 uncontrollable when I heard of, or saw, injustice 
 done to others, the strong tyrannizing over the 
 weak, the coarse callous and worldly torturing and 
 trampling upon the being born for the promotion 
 of the highest interests of humanity, who through 
 the very delicate nobleness of his spiritual, and 
 the fine-spun texture of his physical nature, has 
 neither the power of enforcing his own due su-
 
 54 
 
 premacy, nor, were he possessed of such, the will 
 to use it. 
 
 Many a time, when reading the lives of those 
 men of genius whose names must live on the 
 roll of fame so long as the world itself endures, 
 and who, as a general rule, have been as much 
 distinguished by their sufferings as by their ta- 
 lents do I recollect to have thrown down the 
 volume in an agony of passionate indignation, 
 and burst forth into a torrent of vehement ac- 
 cusations against their persecutors, accusations 
 which even a sense of their impotence failed at 
 first to restrain. 
 
 Such, for instance, Were the excited feelings with 
 which I read of the immortal Dante, banished 
 from his country, and pursued from city to city 
 by misfortune, of the gentle Tasso, persecuted 
 almost to madness, imprisoned, calumniated, and 
 at length, worn out by the effects of all this cruel 
 treatment, dying at the very moment when the 
 tardy laurel was about to wreathe his brow, of 
 Domenichino, done to death by jealous malevo-
 
 65 
 
 lence, of the glorious Mozart, in whom the very 
 genius of divine harmony seemed embodied almost 
 from his birth, obliged to submit to a thousand 
 indignities at the hands of the mean-spirited and 
 tyrannical ecclesiastical prince, who knew not that 
 the possession of such a subject was the brightest 
 jewel in his crown. 
 
 Excepting however when thus strongly excited 
 under some such peculiar influences, I appeared, 
 I believe, like my brother, an amiable and docile 
 child. 
 
 But I was yet untried. The atmosphere of 
 love surrounded me, my wishes were gratified, my 
 thoughts uncontrolled; and my nature leading 
 me to find my own happiness in promoting that 
 of others, and in the cultivation of refined and in- 
 tellectual tastes, the better parts of my character 
 were drawn to the surface; and the deep source 
 of ill the total want of any fixed principle in 
 religion and morals was unthought of and un- 
 felt either by myself or others. I acted purely 
 upon impulse, and, circumstanced so fortunately
 
 56 
 
 as I happened hitherto to have been, it was but 
 natural that the impulses to which I was exposed 
 should generally have been in a right direction.
 
 57 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AT length the morning arrived on which we were 
 for the first time to leave our happy home ; and, 
 forgetting for the moment all our joyous anticipa- 
 tions, with tears and sobs we took leave of our 
 mother and little Agnes. 
 
 It would be vain for me now to attempt any 
 description of the places through which we passed 
 upon oui' route, or even of the impressions which 
 they left upon my mind. Other and far different 
 recollections throng around, and press upon, and 
 stifle me; and I feel that the momentary and 
 mournful relief which I have found in dwelling on 
 my childish years, ere entering upon the torturing 
 remembrances of my seared and blasted youth, is 
 about to pass away from me for ever. One little 
 
 D5
 
 58 
 
 incident I know not why occurs to me with 
 peculiar vividness, and as it exemplifies my own 
 and my brother's imaginative temperament, I 
 shall here mention it. 
 
 It had been arranged by my father that our 
 way should lie through Egra, as Alfred and I 
 felt a strong desire to visit the scene of Wallen- 
 stein's death, the circumstances of which had just 
 been freshly imprinted upon our minds by Schil- 
 ler's graphic pen. Upon our arrival there we 
 found that the house in which the tragical event 
 had taken place, and which is now, as then, inha- 
 bited by the burgomaster of the town, was freely 
 exhibited to strangers. Soon after this had been 
 told us, Alfred, looking very serious, said, " Papa, 
 is it not kind in the burgomaster to let travellers 
 see his house at all times ? How troublesome the 
 family must find it ! But do you think he would 
 let me go into the fatal room alone, and in the 
 night-time ? I should so much like to be there 
 alone in the dark." 
 
 " In the dark, my dear ! why do you wish that ?"
 
 69 
 
 "Because, papa, then I should seeWallenstein." 
 " See Wallenstein ! how so, my dear ?" 
 " Why, papa, if I were to go whilst the glaring 
 sunlight was shining into the room, with a num- 
 ber of people around me, and an old woman 
 standing by my side, and rhyming over her stupid 
 story, like the one who teazed us so the day we 
 went to the castle at Heidelberg, I should only see 
 you all, and a room like any other room, and a 
 bed like any other bed ; but I could not see Wal- 
 lenstein, and hear his noble voice, and the clash 
 of swords, and look upon it all as Schiller did : 
 I am quite sure that before Schiller wrote the 
 death of his hero, he visited that room alone and 
 by night." 
 
 " But, my child," said my father smiling, " if 
 you went quite in the dark, you could not observe 
 the staircase by which the murderers entered, nor 
 the position of the bed, nor the window, or door, 
 or anything in short ; you might just as well shut 
 your eyes here and fancy it all." 
 
 "Then," said the boy thoughtfully, "I think
 
 60 
 
 it would be better to have just a very small flicker- 
 ing light, placed in a corner ; one might imagine 
 it to be Wallenstein's night-lamp." 
 
 " Well, dear, since you so much wish it, if the 
 burgomaster has no objection, all shall be arranged 
 as you like." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, papa ! And will not 
 you come too, Marie?" he added, glancing to- 
 wards me with a sweet smile : " I should not care 
 to go without you!" 
 
 The proposition delighted me ; for the same 
 idea had occurred to myself, although, my more 
 advanced age rendering me sensible to the ridi- 
 cule it might excite, I had refrained from men- 
 tioning it. No objection was raised to our scheme 
 by the good-natured burgomaster and his family ; 
 and accordingly that evening, hand in hand, with 
 throbbing hearts and stealthy steps, we hurried 
 to our mysterious rendezvous. 
 
 The door of the house was opened by an invi- 
 sible hand, and by a faint light we were guided 
 to the staircase; no person appeared, no sound
 
 61 
 
 was heard, as we noiselessly glided along, with- 
 out stop or hesitation, till we found ourselves in 
 the room which we felt to be that we sought. 
 The door closed behind us, and we were alone ! 
 
 Our first glance was at each other our next, a 
 fearful and quickly withdrawn one towards the 
 bed. The curtains' were closed, and by the almost 
 dying glimmer of a solitary night-lamp, which 
 hung in the centre of the room, we distinguished 
 a sword and helmet thrown carelessly, as if by the 
 hero's own hand, upon a chair beside the couch. 
 Breathlessly, in silence, we waited how long I 
 know not with what emotions, what visions, I 
 shall not attempt to describe : until my father, 
 wearied, and rendered uneasy by our protracted 
 absence, at length opened the door, and entering 
 found us clasped in each other's arms, sobbing, 
 and excited to a degree which rendered him se- 
 riously alarmed for the result. 
 
 [The narrative of the unfortunate Marie was 
 here, as she tells us, interrupted by a severe and
 
 nearly fatal illness. Upon resuming her pen, 
 apparently before health was completely re-esta- 
 blished, the recollections of the critical period of 
 her early life, which commenced during her stay 
 at Dresden, seem to have been so intense and 
 painful as almost to have overturned her reason. 
 Her narrative at this place becomes a mere tissue 
 of wild and incoherent allusions to the lost hap- 
 piness of her former life, the misery of the present, 
 and the hopelessness of the future. 
 
 The translator therefore finds it necessary, in 
 order to preserve the thread of the narrative, to 
 insert here some extracts taken from a Diary kept 
 by Marie during her absence from home. In 
 doing so, he means to confine himself strictly to 
 such passages as bear directly upon her story. A 
 fresh and youthful spirit breathes throughout the 
 whole; and in following the writer through the 
 dreary waste of her after existence, memory has 
 often wandered back to this smiling oasis for 
 relief.]
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Pirna Saxon Switzerland, October 31, 18 . 
 YESTERDAY I experienced, and from one and the 
 same object, both disappointment and pleasure, 
 and each of these in a high degree ; but, strange 
 to say, the disappointment contrary to what sage 
 moralists teach us to expect here below as to the 
 order of their precedence and their relative dura- 
 tion took the lead and was the least lasting ! 
 and by the way it seems to me that these same 
 moralists are very much given to maligning this 
 little world of ours, and that in more ways than 
 one. Now for my part I am determined to see 
 it with my own eyes, and trust to my own ex- 
 perience; and till this latter greatly change, I 
 shall, in spite of all their melancholy views, call
 
 64 
 
 this earthly home of ours a happy, bright, and 
 lovely place. 
 
 But to return to the subject of my disappoint- 
 ment and my pleasure, which these lofty specula- 
 tions threaten to drive out of my head. Of the 
 Saxon Switzerland I know not that I had formed 
 to myself any very definite idea; but judging 
 from my impressions of it at first sight, it seems 
 to me that a more inappropriate title, or one more 
 calculated to give rise to false expectations, could 
 hardly have been devised, calling forth, as it does, 
 visions of Nature in her grandest forms of concen- 
 trated sublimity. The traveller, as he approaches 
 with his mind full of pictures of gigantic moun- 
 tains enveloped in eternal snows, of stupendous 
 cataracts and boundless glaciers glancing coldly to 
 the sun, is destined to a sad revulsion of feeling 
 on coming at length upon a set of fantastically 
 formed rocks, and hills of a very moderate size, in 
 some places rising abruptly from the plain, and 
 in others gently undulating and richly clothed 
 in wood, with the Elbe wending its muddy way
 
 . 65 
 
 around their base. In short, the first glance gave 
 rise in our case, as I suppose it must in every 
 one's, to feelings of intense and unmingled disap- 
 pointment. By degrees however, as the unhappy 
 designation became disentangled in our minds 
 from the objects it is so ill-suited to characterize, 
 we began to admire the fanciful variety of shape 
 and colouring which Nature has here flung care- 
 lessly around, and to feel a singular charm in the 
 unique beauty of the scene. Some snow has fallen 
 last night for the first time this season, and we 
 have thus had the pleasure of surveying the land- 
 scape this morning under a new and, I should 
 think, a peculiarly advantageous aspect. How- 
 ever this may be, it was at least the means of 
 suggesting to Alfred just now, as he stood on the 
 top of the Bastei, the whimsical idea that he who 
 first misnamed this fantastic region must have 
 been influenced by some shadowy recollections of 
 the snowy ranges of the Alps seen in miniature 
 through the wrong end of his telescope. * *
 
 66 
 
 Tomorrow we proceed to Dresden, where we 
 hope to find Barbara. In less than twelve hours 
 I shall have pressed a sister in my arms ! Does 
 she long to know us as we to know her ? Surely it 
 must be so ; yet how strange it is that she should 
 never have written to me ! I have so often longed 
 to write to her, and been restrained only by the 
 thought that, as she was so much older than I, 
 it was her part to begin a correspondence ; whilst 
 my doing so might appear obtrusive. Had I 
 been Barbara, I think I should have made an 
 effort to become acquainted with my younger 
 sister. But she thinks of me, no doubt, as of a 
 child; this, I am sure, must be the reason of 
 her silence. When she sees that I am almost a 
 woman, she will be surprised, and perhaps sorry 
 that she had not loved me sooner. Yet why should 
 I suppose poor Barbara does not love me merely 
 because she does not write, when I, who have 
 neither written to her nor seen her, can already 
 love her so dearly ? I will no longer indulge in a 
 suspicion so painful to myself and unjust towards
 
 67 
 
 her. Besides she may have written much of Al- 
 fred and me to my father. Yet no, this can hardly 
 be, or surely he would have told me of it. How 
 very strange it all appears ! but tomorrow I shall 
 see her she will see us all, and then at last will 
 learn to love us. 
 
 Dresden, November 1st. 
 
 Today disappointment has come to us again, in 
 a more definite form, and of a kind far more diffi- 
 cult to bear than our last ; but pleasure, and that 
 too of a deeper character, will soon, I hope, fol- 
 low. 
 
 Alfred and I, as we entered the city this fore- 
 noon, could scarcely enjoy its beauty for beau- 
 tiful it is so entirely were we preoccupied by 
 thoughts of our sister. On reaching the hotel we 
 listened with breathless eagerness for the answer 
 to my father's inquiries after those whom we so 
 anxiously hoped to meet. 
 
 "Madame * * * has not yet arrived," said 
 our host, "though apartments were engaged for 
 her upwards of a week since."
 
 68 
 
 A letter was in waiting for my father, to say that 
 a slight indisposition, joined to the dislike she felt 
 to remain longer than necessary in the city, had 
 decided my grandmother not to leave home until 
 near the time we should be returning to Baden. 
 
 All this was a great sorrow to us. Our hearts 
 had been fixed on having Barbara with us here ; 
 it would have added so much to our enjoyment 
 that she should have seen everything along with 
 us ! My spirits were so completely damped, that 
 when my father and Alfred proposed an immediate 
 visit to the picture-gallery we have so long de- 
 sired to see, I could not bring myself to accom- 
 pany them. But, truth to tell, I am afraid I was 
 a little out of humour as well as grieved, and that 
 it was not merely the disappointment of not find- 
 ing Barbara here upon our arrival which depressed 
 me, but also that I was hurt at not hearing from 
 herself; nay, there was not even a message in the 
 letter, which my father read aloud, not a single 
 expression of regret at the delay. 
 
 Can she indeed be so indifferent to us ? Oh
 
 69 
 
 no, I cannot, will not believe it ! there must be 
 some other reason ; she does not know how much 
 we love and long for her. I wonder if she urged 
 grandmamma to come at once ? Oh, how I would, 
 if in her place, have prayed and entreated that 
 there should be no delay. To me every hour 
 would have seemed a week, and every week a year. 
 But perhaps Barbara does feel as I do; perhaps 
 she has entreated in vain ; or it may be that, less 
 selfish than I, she has unhesitatingly given up 
 her own wishes rather than oppose those of one 
 whom she must look on as a mother. Yet why 
 not say this ? How is it that she does not feel 
 that this apparent indifference may wound us ? 
 It would have been so easy for her to write one 
 line but one line I ****** 
 
 November 3rd. 
 
 At length I have visited the Gallery. Oh that 
 I might dip my pen in the beams of yon glorious 
 autumnal sunset, ere I write the name of the 
 ( e Madonna di San Sisto ! " I feel as if every
 
 70 
 
 attempt to describe this sublime work, or my own 
 emotions as I looked upon it, must be utterly vain 
 and fruitless. It threw me into a sort of ecstasy ; 
 and as I gazed, spell-bound, upon those heavenly 
 eyes, it seemed to me as though I too were raised 
 aloft, and floating with her far beyond earth and 
 all sublunary things. Yet was it not mere beauty 
 of form or feature which thus enchanted me; of 
 these I thought not ; and perhaps, so far as they 
 alone are concerned, it might be possible to meet 
 with models even more excellent in the eyes of 
 many. It was an expression of the softest femi- 
 nine purity, grace, meekness, and withal of dig- 
 nity the evidence of an intellect at once sub- 
 limely contemplative and intensely penetrating 
 the perfect and harmonious blending of the wo- 
 man and the mother, with a higher nature, an 
 angelic essence and more, far more than my poor 
 pen can describe, which shed over the whole a 
 surpassiog loveliness a softened yet transcendent 
 glory, whose enchantment created around me a 
 very paradise of delight.
 
 71 
 
 November 28th. 
 
 In compliance with my father's desire, Alfred 
 and I, on our visits to the Gallery, sometimes re- 
 strain our first impulse, and pause before the works 
 of Correggio, Murillo, Titian, &c., in all of which 
 I find myself feeling an ever-increasing interest ; 
 but we never return home without feasting our 
 eyes upon our prime favourite, who still exer- 
 cises over us in the midst of all an unrivalled 
 and quite peculiar sway. I now begin to observe 
 (what during my first visit I scarcely saw) the 
 minor details of which this exquisite composition 
 is made up. Amongst these however I must not 
 reckon the infant Christ, which I now think no- 
 wise inferior in grandeur of conception to the 
 Madonna herself. The subject is surely one of 
 even greater difficulty, as it might be supposed 
 almost impossible to reconcile the sublime cha- 
 racter of divinity with the soft and yielding 
 gracefulness of infancy the form and features of 
 the human child, with the glorious expression of 
 the incarnate God. These to us appear incom-
 
 patibilities in the contemplation of which our 
 weak imaginations falter and are lost. Yet all 
 this has the immortal Raphael achieved and 
 more; for in the deep and mournful glance, full 
 of half-upbraiding yet long-suffering meaning, 
 which the Holy Child casts forth upon a world of 
 sin and sorrow, one already sees the germ of that 
 feeling which afterwards led the Saviour-Mediator 
 to pronounce the words as He hung upon the 
 cross, " Father, forgive them, for they know not 
 what they do !" 
 
 Beneath, with upturned and admiring gaze, 
 appear two cherubs, the very perfection of childish 
 loveliness, and yet so entirely dissimilar from Him 
 who excites their wonder and adoration, that the 
 attention has scarce been attracted towards them, 
 when it pauses in new bewilderment at the mighty 
 genius which has thus, as it were, in the same 
 moment embodied two conceptions of heavenly 
 beauty in the infant form, at once so entirely 
 different and yet so exquisitely harmonious. *
 
 73 
 
 March 30th. 
 
 At last my grandmother has named a definite 
 time for her arrival. On the day after tomorrow 
 we are to expect her and Barbara; and as we do 
 not leave Dresden until the second week in May, 
 we shall still have a month to show our sister 
 whatever is to be seen here; and perhaps, after 
 all, it may prove that our disappointment has not 
 been without its advantages, as our own experience 
 will now enable us at once to introduce her to all 
 that is best worth notice. How much I shall en- 
 joy watching her countenance as the glories of the 
 Madonna burst upon her for the first time ! 
 
 April 1st. 
 
 It is over ! the long-desired meeting has taken 
 place, I have seen my sister. Can it Oh can 
 it be that I have such an one ? At length all is 
 explained would that it had for ever remained 
 a mystery ! Dear father, well might you sigh, 
 well might you look sorrowful ! Barbara my 
 sister Alfred's sister ! Can it indeed be so ? 
 Was it for such a moment, as that which revealed 
 

 
 her to my sight, that I have longed so earnestly ? 
 How I shrank and shuddered in her embrace ! 
 The words of welcome, ready to greet a dear and 
 loving sister, died away upon my lips ; and so 
 complete and terrible was the revulsion which 
 took place within me, that unable to endure it I 
 was escaping from the room, when my eye met 
 Alfred's, and its expression and the excessive 
 paleness of his countenance alarmed me and ar- 
 rested my flight. For a moment I almost thought 
 he would have fainted ; but as I approached him, 
 by a violent effort he recovered himself. 
 
 Dear, dear brother ! I could myself endure all 
 that I feel to be before us, but to see you thus 
 tried ! 
 
 [This portion of the Journal is much blotted, 
 as if with tears.] 
 April 5th. 
 
 I still feel as one in a painful dream, struggling 
 to awake, but alas ! struggling in vain. For the 
 first time in our lives have Alfred and I shed 
 bitter tears together over a real sorrow, a sorrow
 
 75 
 
 from which we see no escape, to which there can 
 be no end. ******* 
 I now begin to feel that, in order fully to enjoy 
 works of art, it is necessary to have a heart at ease 
 and a mind tolerably free from care. These are 
 no longer ours will they ever be again ? Every- 
 thing seems changed. If whilst standing before 
 one of our favourite pictures I for a moment forget 
 that I have a sister, how quickly am I reminded 
 of it by that sharp darting sensation which almost 
 deprives one of breath, as some dreaded, painful 
 thought suddenly recurs to the memory; and 
 forthwith the image of Barbara takes the place 
 of the beautiful creation of the artist. 
 
 April 6th. 
 
 This morning, immediately after breakfast, my 
 father told Alfred and me to prepare for a walk, 
 and I saw by his countenance that he was about to 
 speak to us upon the subject at present uppermost 
 in all our minds. It was evidently very painful 
 to him to do so ; and we had proceeded some dis- 
 tance, before, with an apparently strong effort and 
 
 E2
 
 76 
 
 a voice in which deep emotion was expressed, he 
 thus began. 
 
 " It must often have appeared extraordinary to 
 you, my dear children, and even unnatural, that I 
 should have hitherto spoken so little to you of 
 Barbara. I could not fail to perceive your sur- 
 prize that I should not have participated more 
 warmly in the affectionate feelings with which 
 you were prepared to welcome one whose intimate 
 relationship ought to have rendered her dear to us 
 all, and who, from the fact of her long-continued 
 absence, seemed entitled to a double portion of 
 our interest and regard. What formerly appeared 
 incomprehensible to you is now, no doubt, ex- 
 plained." 
 
 He paused for a few moments, and as we did 
 not speak, he continued : 
 
 "Sometimes within the last few days I have 
 felt a doubt as to the wisdom of the course I 
 pursued in allowing your young imaginations 
 spontaneously to form conceptions of a kind to 
 heighten the disappointment which has unex-
 
 77 
 
 pectedly fallen upon you. If I have erred in 
 this, it was with a good intention. I did not feel 
 myself at liberty in any way to prejudice your 
 minds against your sister, by representing her to 
 
 you as she appeared to me on my visit to . 
 
 Besides, I was not without hope that her feelings 
 might have been softened by the death of her 
 grandfather, who loved her most sincerely, and 
 ever treated her with unvarying kindness ; whilst 
 in the three years which have elapsed since I had 
 seen her, I thought her mind might have opened 
 and improved. In both these expectations I have 
 been deceived. Barbara appears to me now, in 
 all respects, the same as when I first saw her. 
 She has not even, I find, made an effort at self- 
 improvement, by pursuing a light course of study 
 which I laid down for her at that time, and to 
 which I have since repeatedly by letters recalled 
 her attention. But however disheartened and dis- 
 tressed by all this, I do not yet 'despair. Barbara 
 has had few advantages ; she has been the spoiled 
 darling of an old couple, kind-hearted and amiable
 
 78 
 
 in the extreme, but of very limited refinement and 
 cultivation ; and her other companions have been 
 confined to persons of an inferior grade, whose 
 only aim has been to natter her self-love. Thus, 
 being accustomed always to consider her own 
 wishes, and to be made a first object with all 
 around her, she has naturally become self-occu- 
 pied and lamentably inattentive to the feelings of 
 others. Let us hope that, when placed in an at- 
 mosphere more conducive to the healthful growth 
 of the affections, and in a situation where she will 
 have an opportunity of witnessing the happiness 
 the only pure happiness, as you well know, my 
 dear children of loving and living for others 
 rather than ourselves her character may un- 
 dergo a complete change and become in all re- 
 spects such as we would have it. Meanwhile we 
 must bear with her, and always remember that 
 if she is to be won to love, it must be by love on 
 our part, if she is to learn self-control and self- 
 forgetfulness, it can only be by perceiving the 
 happiness which flows from these sources. Alfred,
 
 79 
 
 Marie, my beloved children, will you promise to do 
 all in your power to produce these happy results ?" 
 
 " I will, I do promise, dearest father \" said 
 Alfred. 
 
 " I will endeavour to do what you wish," was 
 my more undecided answer; for although deter- 
 mined to do my utmost towards the fulfilment of 
 his desires, I felt doubtful as to my own strength, 
 and did not dare to utter a positive promise which 
 I felt I might be unable to fulfil. 
 
 April 28th. 
 
 How strange and incomprehensible to myself 
 is my present state of feeling ! When apart from 
 my sister, my father's words recur with all the force 
 of truth to my mind, and again and again do I 
 resolve to act according to their intent. But once 
 more in Barbara's presence, and especially when 
 perceiving its effect upon Alfred, I forget all, and 
 find my spirit rising and my temper almost break- 
 ing bounds at each fresh instance of her inordi- 
 nate vanity and extreme selfishness. How painful 
 it is to feel thus I who would love everything !
 
 80 
 
 Whence come these bitter, angry feelings to- 
 wards a sister too ? Ah, that is worse than all : 
 were she not my sister, I think I could far better 
 endure it. Yet why not endure what, after all, 
 must be borne, calmly and as I ought? How 
 nobly my father bears and forbears, yet how suf- 
 fering he sometimes looks ! And grandmamma, 
 how simple and goodnatured she is ! Notwith- 
 standing the amiability I know her to possess, I 
 often expect to see her angry at the inconceivable 
 impertinence of Barbara's manner the more dis- 
 graceful as it is offered to one singularly kind and 
 gentle, and who has besides been as a mother to 
 her through life. My blood often boils as I look 
 on, whilst the good old lady only smiles, and lets 
 the offence pass without a word of rebuke. 
 
 May 5th. 
 
 Barbara has now been with us a month ; can 
 it indeed be but one short month ? To me it 
 seems a year, an age. I have lost my interest so 
 much in everything, that I have not of late felt 
 disposed to write. This evening I will strive to do
 
 81 
 
 so ; perhaps in the effort I may be able in some 
 degree to rid myself of feelings now lying like 
 lead upon my spirits. Yet how express them ? they 
 are so new, so terrible ! It seems to me as if my 
 mind had been with harsh and sudden movement 
 transported into some gloomy region, hitherto un- 
 known, where, bewildered by strange sights and 
 sounds and influences, it vainly struggles to re- 
 gain the home of peace and love which something 
 tells me it has lost for ever. * * * * 
 
 How strongly have I been sometimes attracted 
 towards mere strangers, and felt at once that I 
 could love them ; I knew not asked not why. 
 Now I have learnt to know another feeling, and 
 Oh what a hateful one ! Yet surely this cannot be 
 I cannot hate my sister. No, no, I have not so 
 quickly reached that odious point ; that were not 
 possible. My father told me I should love her, 
 cherish her, bear with her. As to the two last 
 yes, I admit their obligation, and will, if I can, 
 obey ; but to love \ Is love then matter of choice ? 
 
 E 5
 
 82 
 
 or, granting that it were so, ought we indeed 
 choose to love that which in its very nature is 
 unloveable ? Do not virtue, truth and goodness 
 form the only firm and legitimate basis upon 
 which to ground our love ? Without these, can 
 we should we give affection ? It is not, I feel 
 (and upon this point I have examined myself 
 strictly) it is not Barbara's face and person 
 being unattractive and ungraceful in the ex- 
 treme ; it is not her manner, wanting in every- 
 thing that one desires to see in woman ; it is not 
 the coarse loud voice, the disagreeable accent, or 
 anything merely extenlal which thus affects me ; 
 it is a something inward which I know not how 
 to define, which even were she beautiful as an 
 angel would, I am persuaded, force me to shrink 
 from her. I do not know whether this may arise 
 from any intrinsically bad qualities, or whether it 
 may not be simply the absence of good ones, 
 together with the total want of appreciation for 
 everything I love. The good, the beautiful, the 
 true, are ideas of which she has not the most
 
 83 
 
 distant conception ; nay, they are subjects of ridi- 
 cule to her, enjoyed and indulged in directly in 
 proportion to the pain which she perceives it in- 
 flicts upon us. Dear Alfred suffers even more 
 than I, and I feel that he must long continue 
 to do so : he is more delicately organized, more 
 sensitive to external influences than myself. Her 
 vulgar impertinence and coarseness make him 
 tremble and turn pale, and quail before her. I 
 do not think it is in his nature to hate, but he 
 can never be happy in the constant presence of 
 one unloved. I see him shudder as she enters 
 the room, and, like myself, he seldom speaks be- 
 jre her. The topics which have ever made our 
 sual conversation with my father, cannot be 
 lentioned before one whose presence is an an- 
 tidote to every pleasing sentiment. 
 
 May 7th. 
 
 Tomorrow we leave Dresden. Oh, with what dif- 
 feelings from those with which we entered 
 ! How changed is everything ! Even that to 
 which I looked forward with delight, but one short
 
 84 
 
 month ago, lias now become a source of torture. 
 Alfred and I have hitherto avoided going to the 
 picture-gallery or other public places with Bar- 
 bara; indeed she has preferred sauntering about 
 the town, and loitering in shops, to visiting any of 
 our favourite haunts ; but today, when we wished 
 to bid adieu to the Madonna which we leave as 
 a beloved friend, with whom for months we had 
 lived in daily and delightful converse Barbara 
 proposed to accompany us, partly, I believe, in 
 order to show off a new and gaudy dress, but 
 principally, I fancied, because she knew full well 
 that we did not desire to have her as a compa- 
 nion. Hearing her express this intention, anger 
 and vexation got the better of all my good reso- 
 lutions, and I sat down gloomily, declaring that 
 for my part I should not go ; but at that moment 
 my father's eye met mine ; I remembered all he 
 had spoken, and without uttering another word 
 prepared to set out. 
 
 Barbara walked through the gallery after her 
 usual manner in public, staring at every one, and
 
 85 
 
 making silly observations in so loud a voice as to 
 attract universal attention and occasion a smile 
 wherever she appeared. She leaned upon Alfred's 
 arm, as I did upon my father's; and before we 
 had been five minutes in the rooms, the face of 
 my poor brother was dyed a deeper crimson than 
 it had ever worn before. I heard him say to her, 
 in a low tone, "0 Barbara, pray do not speak 
 so loud, every one is looking at us ! " 
 
 " I do not care for being looked at, I am not 
 ashamed to be seen," she answered unblushingly 
 in a conceited tone, and with a glance round the 
 room, which called forth another only half-sup- 
 pressed laugh. 
 
 I heard my father sigh, and thought I read upon 
 his countenance an expression of shame and dis- 
 tress which I had never seen before. Meanwhile 
 we had reached the Madonna, and the soul-piercing 
 glance of those heavenly eyes produced upon me 
 its usual magical effect, how soon, alas ! to be 
 dispelled. 
 
 " Is that dull, dingy-looking thing the beauti-
 
 86 
 
 ful Madonna of which you talk so much ?" was 
 uttered sneeringly in my ear. 
 
 I could not speak, anger would have choked 
 me had I attempted it, but I darted upon her a 
 look in which all I felt was plainly written. Tears 
 sprang to Alfred's eyes, but by a violent effort he 
 restrained them, and we turned away. And thus 
 we parted from our idol ! 
 
 Since we came home, hardly a word has been 
 spoken, except by Barbara ; she has talked of the 
 dresses of the people she saw, and with still 
 greater interest of her own, making sundry allu- 
 sions to the effect of her striking appearance ; 
 and she has besides shown more of the "eldest 
 sister" in her manner to me than before I 
 suppose in retaliation for the contemptuous look 
 which I gave her in the gallery. I bore this pa- 
 tiently, if the silence of scorn and disgust deserve 
 the name of patience. I fear it was but a poor 
 and forced endurance. 
 
 Now in my room alone and sorrowful, all 
 angry feeling is subdued. The joyous anticipa-
 
 87 
 
 tions with which I first entered these walls the 
 remembrance of the tender love with which I 
 longed to embrace a sister, and which gave itself 
 unasked to one unknown all return upon me 
 with a softening influence ; and the desire to love 
 and make my sister happy seems absolutely ne- 
 cessary to my own peace. Here, father, I renew 
 my promise, and say once more, and from the 
 depths of my heart, " I will endeavour to fulfil 
 your wishes." 
 
 [This is the last entry in Marie's Journal. Up 
 to the period of the arrival of her sister she had 
 been in the habit of writing in it almost daily, 
 and in a manner which indicated a lively interest 
 in everything noticeable which came under her 
 observation. It would appear however, after- 
 wards, as if the presence of one so painfully 
 uncongenial to her ardent and poetic tempera- 
 ment had oppressed her spirits, and made her 
 indifferent to passing events. 
 
 The account she has given from memory, in the
 
 88 
 
 narrative to which we now return, of the unhappy 
 state of her feelings towards her sister, both at 
 the time of her arrival and afterwards, proves how 
 lamentably she had failed in her efforts to fulfil 
 her father's wish.]
 
 89 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 UPON our return home we found my mother 
 and little Agnes perfectly well ; the latter grown 
 a lovely creature eight months old. Already 
 golden curls peeped from beneath her cap, and 
 her countenance displayed all the intelligence we 
 had been led to expect. In the first ecstasy of 
 receiving my mother's embrace, and in witnessing 
 the half shy, half playful glances of the sweet 
 child, I almost forgot that everything was not 
 still as it had been before. Alfred and I had so 
 /many things to see, and old associations thronged 
 so happily into our hearts, that for some days we 
 had scarcely a moment to dwell upon anything 
 disagreeable. We forgot Barbara in her absence, 
 and even her presence failed to weigh us down
 
 90 
 
 as it had done upon the journey and at Dresden. 
 The birds sweetly welcomed us with their song ; 
 the swan seemed to rear its head with a more grace- 
 ful sweep than ever, as it swam towards the crumbs 
 we threw to it ; the willow had shot out fresh 
 branches, and the flowers already perfumed our 
 Paradise with all its wonted summer sweetness. 
 
 "Surely all this cannot change," said Alfred, 
 as he threw himself upon the seat about a fort- 
 night after our return, whilst an expression of 
 exquisite enjoyment diffused itself over his deli- 
 cate features. But what in this world is un- 
 changeable ? 
 
 We now recommenced our former course of life, 
 and my father strove earnestly to find some sub- 
 ject of interest for Barbara, which might arouse in 
 her a desire for improvement but in vain ; she 
 complained of the dulness of the place, and formed 
 acquaintances in the village amongst persons of 
 a lower station than ourselves, who thought they 
 were honoured in knowing my father's daughter, 
 although they cared not for herself individually.
 
 91 
 
 This gave her parents serious uneasiness, but she 
 heeded no expostulations. At home, she said, she 
 had always been accustomed to companions, and 
 she had no idea of spending the day in a house 
 where there was nothing spoken of but stupid 
 books, and where the very canaries were thought 
 of more consequence than herself. 
 
 To Alfred and me the disposition of her time in 
 the manner just alluded to was infinitely agree- 
 able. Each day proved to us more and more 
 strongly that Barbara's habits and tastes were 
 too firmly fixed to be influenced by us ; and after 
 having made a few abortive efforts to interest 
 her in our pursuits, we resigned the task as 
 hopeless. 
 
 " I feel that it is not right, Marie," said 
 Alfred one day, " and yet I cannot help rejoicing 
 that, being such as she is, Barbara declines read- 
 ing with us, and prefers other society to that of 
 her own family. Oh that she were different ! 
 that she could indeed enjoy with us all that we 
 love and prize ! It is so strange, so unnatural,
 
 92 
 
 to have a sister whom we cannot either love or 
 admire. I at least must ever feel it thus ; for," 
 added he, looking at me with inexpressible affec- 
 tion, " that word and my own Marie had become 
 so connected in my thoughts and heart, that it 
 seems to me almost impossible to give the same 
 loved name to one so different from you in all 
 things as Barbara." 
 
 We now recommenced our studies more vigo- 
 rously than ever ; and, encouraged by my father, I 
 made full use of his permission to read freely 
 whatever chanced to fall in my way. The insa- 
 tiable thirst after knowledge of every kind which 
 had characterized my early years only increased 
 as it was indulged ; and each fresh discovery in- 
 troduced me to new fields of inquiry, and laid 
 open new springs of thought. Thanks to our 
 pleasing and exciting occupations, Alfred and I 
 found our time pass henceforward with much less 
 unhappiness than we had anticipated. Indeed 
 my brother often said to me, that, although our 
 home was not what it had been before Barbara's
 
 93 
 
 arrival, still he thought we had in fancy exagge- 
 rated the evils of that event ; and that should her 
 taste for the society which she met in the village, 
 in preference to that of her own home, continue, 
 we should not have any right to complain. 
 
 At the end of two years the oft-postponed 
 period of Eugene's return was at length defi- 
 nitely fixed, and the idea of meeting him once 
 more after so long a separation occupied all our 
 thoughts. 
 
 He came a tall, handsome, elegant-looking 
 youth but still our own Eugene ; his fine mind 
 developed, as well by intercourse with men of di- 
 stinguished attainments, as by a steady perseve- 
 rance in a judicious and extensive course of study. 
 Although already celebrated for poetic talent, and 
 admired and encouraged by those whose opinion 
 was most valuable, he was with all this unspoiled. 
 Flattery and applause seemed to have fallen power- 
 less upon one whose heart was protected by early 
 and deep affections, and whose mind, however 
 conscious it might be of power in comparison
 
 94 
 
 with many others, was yet more sensibly aware 
 of its inability to fulfil its own conceptions. 
 
 The family of the Count von Ehrenstein had 
 been known and distinguished for generations, 
 and therefore Eugene's youthful efforts in poetry 
 and painting became at once " the fashion." 
 Every one desired to see him, and once seen he 
 was not likely to be forgotten or neglected. He 
 returned to us the idol of the Viennese ladies, 
 distinguished by the notice of the Emperor, and 
 gratified, as any youth of his age must have been, 
 by success ; but, as I have said, in nowise injured 
 or altered in heart. 
 
 His manner was more finished and elegant, but 
 not less unpretending and unaffected, than before, 
 and his tastes were equally simple. He told us 
 stories of what he had seen and heard supplemen- 
 tary to his previous correspondence, for pen and 
 paper could not by any means have sufficed to 
 give a description of all that had presented itself 
 to his observing eye. He had made sketches 
 without number, both of places and persons, and
 
 95 
 
 always apparently with reference to our gratifi- 
 cation ; thus in the most artless manner letting 
 us see that we had never been absent from his 
 thoughts that all his hopes for the future, as 
 well as all his happiest reminiscences, were con- 
 nected with what he, as well as we ourselves, had 
 always considered " Paradise."
 
 96 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IT had so happened that, on each of the first two 
 days after his return, Eugene had only an hour to 
 remain with us, and he did not then see Barbara, 
 Alfred and I had of course mentioned to him in 
 our letters the joyous expectation of finding our 
 sister at Dresden, and I had afterwards simply 
 told him of her arrival, without comment of any 
 kind. I could not bring myself to speak of my 
 bitter disappointment, still less could I affect to 
 find a happiness in my new relationship which 
 had no existence in my heart. 
 
 Eugene was thus entirely ignorant of the change 
 which had passed over our home ; and as the day 
 of his arrival drew near, and I read the overflow- 
 ing expressions of affection with which those of
 
 97 
 
 pleasure mingled, at the prospect of finding a new 
 friend in Barbara, my spirit sank at the thought 
 of having to present to him as my sister one whose 
 character and demeanour rendered her only an 
 object of ridicule to those uninterested in her, and 
 of shame and sorrow to all with whom she was 
 connected. 
 
 As he entered the room where Alfred and I sat 
 alone, on the third morning after his arrival, his 
 countenance evinced more than its usual expres- 
 sion of mirthful, humour ; and seeing that some- 
 thing had occurred to amuse him, I expected to 
 hear him recount some little incident with all his 
 characteristic comic talent. 
 
 , " Marie," he said, laughing, " who was the 
 strange being, still more strangely apparelled, 
 whom I met going out of your gate just now ? I 
 do not recollect ver to have seen anything like 
 her either here or elsewhere." 
 
 I was silent. He looked surprised at my gra- 
 vity, and turning to my brother said, " Can you 
 tell me, Alfred, who this mysterious personage 
 
 p
 
 98 
 
 may be, the very mention of whom has banished 
 the smile from Marie's lip, and the rose from her 
 cheek ? Why you too look grave," he continued, 
 glancing from one to the other with surprise; 
 " what can be the matter with you both ? You 
 do not know whom I mean ; for to think of her 
 and to be grave at one and the same time is, I 
 should say, nearly impossible. And yet, poor 
 creature, it is not at her person that I laugh 
 for that she is not accountable it is only at her 
 extraordinary choice of colours, and of looks ! 
 she gave me one so irresistibly bewitching as I 
 passed" 
 
 " Cease, dear Eugene," I exclaimed, almost 
 gasping; and with a desperate effort I added, 
 " she is my sister ! " 
 
 He started, and every trace of mirth vanished 
 from his countenance as he repeated, "Your 
 sister ! " 
 
 "Yes, my sister, Eugene; I meant to have 
 spoken of her to you today." 
 
 He looked at me for a moment with an ex-
 
 99 
 
 pression in which doubt straggled with sympathy 
 and sorrow -, then seizing my hand, he imprinted 
 upon it an ardent kiss, and saying in a low voice 
 " Forgive me," hastily disappeared. 
 
 The next day Eugene came as usual, and joined 
 us in our favourite retreat, but said not a word of 
 Barbara. He had brought with him a volume of 
 Shakespear, with the intention of reading to us 
 an admirable translation of Hamlet ; and we sat 
 down, expecting a great enjoyment, as our young 
 friend read like a true poet, entering into the 
 spirit of each part and character with a truth 
 and delicacy which showed how entirely he could 
 appreciate the genius of the immortal author. 
 He had just commenced the splendid passage 
 where Hamlet seems to hold converse with the 
 tempting spirit of self-destruction, when a rust- 
 ling amongst the boughs arrested our attention. 
 We looked up, and Barbara appeared ! Had the 
 ghost of Hamlet's father itself 'stood before us, 
 we could not have been more instantaneously and 
 thoroughly petrified ; for, deterred by the nature 
 
 F2
 
 100 
 
 of our pursuits, she had never before penetrated 
 to this sanctuary. 
 
 " Barbara ! " I exclaimed involuntarily. 
 
 " Well, Fraulein Marie ! I suppose you think 
 no one has any right to pleasant company but 
 yourself. I need not have wondered so much at 
 your fondness for the willow-tree and books!" 
 and she laughed sarcastically. 
 
 The blood flew to Eugene's cheeks, and his eye 
 glanced proudly on the intruder, as, subduing my 
 indignation, I only replied by calmly pronouncing 
 our companion's name. 
 
 " Oh, the Count Eugene von Ehrenstein ! I 
 met you on the road yesterday, but I suppose you 
 did not know who I was." 
 
 " No, indeed I did not," replied Eugene with a 
 very peculiar emphasis, intelligible enough to us, 
 though not to her. 
 
 " Well, I suppose you will not have any objec- 
 tion to read for me as well as for Marie," she said, 
 with a look intended to be very fascinating, but 
 which seemed to call forth a feeling of disgust
 
 101 
 
 almost too strong for control in him for whom it 
 was intended. 
 
 " Shall I go on ?" he said, turning to me. 
 
 My first impulse was to answer in the negative, 
 but remembering my father's desire to excite or 
 awaken if possible some taste for better things in 
 Barbara, I restrained it, and begged of him to 
 continue. He did so, but the charm was broken ; 
 the tone of his voice was altered; the abandon 
 with which he had given himself up to the spirit 
 of his subject was gone. To us it seemed as if 
 the very genius of Shakespear himself had eva- 
 porated, and left nought behind but empty and 
 unmeaning words. For the first time in our lives 
 it became a relief when Eugene's voice ceased ; 
 for the first time we longed to leave our Paradise. 
 
 As we rose to go away, Barbara said, looking 
 round, " This is a very nice place, I think I shall 
 come here often. My father wants me to read, 
 but reading to one's self is such a stupid thing ! 
 I would rather hear you." And she cast another 
 meaning glance at Eugene, who vainly strove to
 
 102 
 
 conceal his increasing aversion, and hastily took 
 his leave. 
 
 For a considerable time past, as I have already 
 endeavoured to show, our home had been sadly 
 changed; but it was on this day more particu- 
 larly, as I now feel, that the heavy chain which 
 has so long lacerated my wretched soul became 
 inextricably closed around me.
 
 103 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HENCEFORTH Barbara took her place as regularly 
 as we did ourselves under the willow when the 
 weather permitted, and in the room appointed for 
 study withindoors when it rained. Nor was this 
 all ; after a few days she commenced a practice of 
 setting out every morning, about the time Eugene 
 might be upon the road, to meet and accompany 
 him in his walk. He bore this quietly for some 
 time, but at last told us that he could no longer 
 join us at any given hour. He did not mention 
 the reason, but this we could only too easily 
 divine, even without the clue afforded jM/oy 
 
 observing that he constantly variedJM^Bodes of 
 
 ^^^^^^^ 
 approach ; now taking short cvflpKw 'circuits, in
 
 104 
 
 order to avoid that which he evidently felt to be 
 an intolerable trial of his patience. 
 
 This line of conduct on his part seemed greatly 
 to incense Barbara, and she began to manifest an 
 increased irritability and even violence of temper, 
 which broke out upon all occasions, towards Alfred 
 and myself especially, but not unfrequently to the 
 servants and little Agnes also. Her bitterest ran- 
 cour was evidently against myself; but as my 
 spirit was one not capable of tame endurance, 
 she soon found that in contests with me she was 
 always the greater sufferer. She became pas- 
 sionate, spoke in a loud voice, and made use of 
 coarse expressions ; whilst I, on the contrary, ever 
 retained an apparently smiling calmness. I could 
 not have answered in her own language, for it 
 was one perfectly new to me, and such as my 
 lips could not have been brought to utter under 
 any circumstances ; but whilst outwardly cool, 
 my blood boiled, and a deep concentrated dislike, 
 ever increasing, and perhaps too little restrained,
 
 105 
 
 vented itself in biting sarcasms, which would once 
 have seemed foreign to my nature, but which I 
 was now quite unable to control. 
 
 But let me hasten over this painful subject. 
 Years of bitter remorse and humiliation have 
 quenched the spirit of aversion, amounting some- 
 times almost to loathing, with which I at that 
 time contemplated my sister's selfishness towards 
 all, and her especial cruelty towards my beloved 
 brother. Feeling as I now do, were it not incon- 
 sistent with the necessary course of my narrative, 
 I would cease to dwell upon her faults. Yes, I 
 would much rather let the entire guilt fall with- 
 out palliation on my own head, and thus leave no 
 inlet for mercy towards myself, even in the heart 
 of the most compassionate, than seek to render 
 
 odious the being whom Ah ! not yet 
 
 not yet need I utter those terrible words ! * 
 ********** 
 
 Seeing that she could not succeed in vexing 
 me, Barbara now turned her full spleen against 
 Alfred, through whom she knew I could be made 
 
 F 5
 
 106 
 
 to suffer far more than by anything done to my- 
 self individually. She tormented the gentle boy 
 in every way that malice and low cunning could 
 devise; she threw out insinuations which were 
 not sufficiently marked to be repelled, and which 
 yet made the colour mount to his cheek, and 
 caused him to writhe under his father's interro- 
 gatory glances. She resolutely kept her place 
 amongst us, and almost entirely gave up her 
 favourite friends in the village, in order that she 
 might the more effectually annoy us, and enjoy 
 moreover the pleasure of seeing Eugene, whose 
 appearance, notwithstanding the difference in their 
 ages and the utter incompatibility of their natures, 
 had inspired her with a strong sentiment of admi- 
 ration. 
 
 One day, a few hours after a scene more painful 
 than any which had yet taken place between Bar- 
 bara and me, I was sitting in the saloon with 
 my mother and Alfred when Eugene entered. 
 His countenance was more than usually grave, 
 and there was a restless agitation in his manner
 
 107 
 
 which he vainly strove to overcome by speaking 
 upon indifferent subjects. 
 
 Having waited for some time, and finding that 
 there was no probability of our being left alone, 
 he came close to me, and bending down, as if to 
 look at the drawing to which I had been putting 
 a few finishing touches, he said in a low and tre- 
 mulous voice, ' ' Marie, may I see you alone ? there 
 is something of which I wish particularly to speak 
 with you." 
 
 With a fluttering heart I arose, and saying I 
 would walk with him in a few minutes, I escaped 
 to my room, there to endeavour to calm the emo- 
 tion excited by his words. 
 
 I do not think I had ever actually said to my- 
 self that I was one day to be Eugene's bride ; but 
 unconsciously I had learnt to love him, and in 
 every undefined prospect of the future he bore a 
 part. 
 
 As he spoke, the gravity of his manner, and the 
 passionate though subdued tenderness expressed 
 in his voice and eye, had at once revealed to me
 
 108 
 
 all that filled his soul ; and overpowered by those 
 thrilling, half painful, half delicious hopes and 
 fears which throng into the young heart when 
 a love which has long lain within it, latent and 
 unacknowledged, suddenly awakens into full life 
 and irresistibly asserts its dominion, I threw open 
 the window and leaned forwards to catch the pass- 
 ing breeze. 
 
 My eye wandered over the lovely scene which 
 lay stretched out before me, bathed in the bril- 
 liant summer sunshine. Every spot was familiar ; 
 all animated by some fond and tender childish re- 
 collection ; and as these, one by one, arose before 
 me, the spirits of the past and future, mingling, 
 hovered over me ; their low sweet voices chaunted 
 forth blessings, and their mild influences, pene- 
 trating to my inmost feelings, softly stilled their 
 tumult, and shed over me a sense of holy and 
 exquisite peace. 
 
 " Eugene," I murmured, " I am thine ! Alfred, 
 my loved brother, you are ours we shall be 
 happy ! Oh, how happy ! " At this moment
 
 109 
 
 my eye was suddenly arrested. The figure of 
 Barbara, emerging into view, passed slowly along 
 the path, which skirted the river's bank. 
 
 Why did my heart stand still and sicken at the 
 sight? Why did my limbs tremble not now 
 with love and hope but with fear, dark and in- 
 definable, but not for this the less terrible ? Why 
 did I press my hands upon my eyes, as if to hide 
 for ever the vision which appeared before me at 
 this moment, like an omen of death ? 
 
 Why ? say I now ? Spirits of the past and fu- 
 ture, did I hear ye aright ? Did ye indeed mock 
 me with your blessings ? or was it my fond ima- 
 gination that deceived me? Did I but fancy a 
 hymn of blessing in the funeral wail ye murmured 
 o'er me ? Alas ! alas I***** 
 ********** 
 
 A gentle knock at the door, and Eugene's voice, 
 asking if I were ready to accompany him, aroused 
 me from this trance-like state > and not daring to 
 cast another glance upon the scene without, chilled 
 in heart and sorrowful, I prepared to rejoin him.
 
 " How sad you look, dear Marie," he said ten- 
 derly and half reproachfully, as I took his arm. 
 Reason had already begun to assert her rights ; 
 and ashamed of the folly of giving way to vague 
 fears and gloomy forebodings, apparently so pue- 
 rile and imaginary, I tried to smile, and looking up 
 encountered a glance so full of love, so ardent and 
 impassioned, that my eye fell beneath it, and every 
 other thought and feeling was lost in tumultuous 
 emotion. 
 
 It was some time before Eugene spoke. Then, 
 in a voice almost inaudible, he said, " Marie ! need 
 I now say, I love you ? In childhood and in youth 
 you have been to me as a star of promise. You 
 must have seen you must know this ; but the 
 time is now come when for my own, for all our 
 aakes, I must speak. We are as yet very young 
 many would perhaps say too young to know 
 our own hearts ; but I know mine have known 
 it long too well ! Marie, beloved Marie, speak 
 to me ! " 
 
 I was unable to answer in words, but involun-
 
 Ill 
 
 tarily the hand which he had grasped returned 
 the pressure of his own. One rapid glance was 
 interchanged between us, and he was satisfied. 
 
 After a little time Eugene became somewhat 
 more composed, and continued : " I know that 
 many will accuse me of following the dictates of 
 a headstrong passion, in thus seeking to involve 
 you at so early, and it might seem premature an 
 age, in obligations which only death ought to ter- 
 minate. In part I plead guilty to the charge. I 
 do love you, Marie, with an ardour which can ill 
 brook silence and uncertainty. I have hitherto 
 lived upon hope, but this alone can no longer 
 suffice. Since my return since I have found 
 in the companion of my childhood all, far more 
 than my most sanguine anticipations led me to 
 expect I have felt that suspense was no longer, 
 endurable, and again and again I have longed to 
 throw myself at your feet, and implore you to give 
 me your heart ; or, if this were impossible, to send 
 me far from you at once, and for ever ! But you 
 do not cast me from you you accept my love/'
 
 112 
 
 he exclaimed, pressing my hand to his bosom and 
 gazing into my face with an expression of intense 
 rapture. 
 
 Ah Eugene ! was this hour of bliss indeed our 
 own, or is it but a dream of which I write ? 
 
 " When I asked you to speak to me, dearest 
 Marie," Eugene proceeded presently, " it was with 
 the intention of giving you reasons for my con- 
 duct sufficient, as it seemed to me, fully to justify 
 it, and prove that I have not been influenced by 
 any purely selfish motive. I would now fain for- 
 get these ; I would not have any painful associa- 
 tions mingle with my present happiness. Neither, 
 feeling as I now do, could my lips utter a thought 
 derogatory of one who calls you sister. But you 
 do not, you will not require further explanation, 
 dearest ! Wherefore seek for cold and prudential 
 reasons for pursuing that which, loving and trust- 
 ing each other as we do, seems to be the only 
 natural course. Why longer feign indifference ? 
 Why not at once assume in the eyes of all a 
 position which must place us beyond the reach of
 
 113 
 
 the humiliating annoyances from which we daily 
 suffer ? May I then entreat your father's consent 
 to our immediate betrothal ? Dear, dear Marie, 
 say that I may ! " 
 
 I could not summon words for a reply; none 
 indeed were needed, for he had read my heart ; 
 and now, talking of the future the bright, hope- 
 ful future we pursued our way along all our 
 most favourite, because the least-frequented paths. 
 
 As Eugene was anticipating with all the fervid 
 poetry of his nature the delight we should find in 
 visiting other lands, and enjoying together, and 
 as if through the medium of one soul, the rich 
 beauties of nature, art, and literature which they 
 contain, I interposed, " But, dear Eugene, I trust 
 that wherever we may hereafter go, my father will 
 permit Alfred to accompany us ; you must never 
 ask us to separate; I could not be happy, even 
 by your side, apart from him." 
 
 A slight shadow passed over Eugene's open 
 brow, but it quickly disappeared, and he said 
 smiling, "Marie, I believe it would not be pos-
 
 114 
 
 sible to conceive a greater proof of the intensity 
 of my love than that of its having the power to 
 render me even momentarily jealous of one so 
 dear to me as Alfred I cannot help fearing that 
 I shall never have the first place in your heart." 
 
 " Eugene, I cannot hear you speak thus," I 
 replied ; " each of you must let me love the other 
 without jealousy. But surely you could "not like 
 to think that Alfred should be left to the tender 
 mercies of such a one as Barbara? Our father 
 has ever been a devotedly affectionate parent, but 
 he does not know all that goes on here, and his 
 own nature is so good and gentle that it is diffi- 
 cult to make him understand that any one can be 
 unamiable and unkind. My mother is necessa- 
 rily much engrossed by household cares ; and, so 
 that we have a good appetite, and neither colds 
 nor other ailments, she takes for granted that we 
 are quite well, and sees no reason why we should 
 not also be quite happy. Barbara restrains her- 
 self in their presence from everything except cun- 
 ning inuendoes, of which my father only under-
 
 115 
 
 stands enough to puzzle him, and Alfred enough 
 to make him miserable. How then could I leave 
 him ? " 
 
 "You could not, and you ought not/' said 
 Eugene ; " and believe me, dearest, Alfred's hap- 
 piness shall ever be precious to me as my own." 
 
 By this time we had reached the cross-road lead- 
 ing to our own house, and I saw my father coining 
 towards us. 
 
 " I must leave you now," I said, in answer to 
 his look of inquiry ; " and you will find me some 
 time hence under the willow." 
 
 He left me and joined my father, whilst I turned 
 into the cottage of a poor woman by the way-side, 
 whose siek chjjd I had promised to visit this day. 
 I strove to amuse the little creature as usual, but 
 my mind wandered in spite of every effort, and 
 the stories of enchantment, fairies and genii, which 
 were generally at my command in the greatest 
 profusion, all vanished at the touch of the power- 
 ful magician whose influence was at this moment 
 paramount in my breast.
 
 116 
 
 It was rather a relief to me to hear the village - 
 clock announce that an hour had sped away, and 
 thus having fulfilled, however unsatisfactorily, my 
 promise to my little friend, I was at liberty to 
 rejoin Eugene. I had scarce put aside a branch 
 of our favourite tree, when he caught me in his 
 arms. " My own ! " he cried and never had I 
 seen so glorious an expression on his countenance. 
 Love and youth and hope beamed there, and gave 
 to it a character of inspiration as he clasped me to 
 his bosom and said, " He consents, Marie ! on this 
 day fortnight we ." A slight noise alarmed us, 
 and turning round we beheld Barbara ! rage 
 and malice appeared upon her countenance. She 
 looked at us for a moment and disappeared. " She 
 is gone to tell your father of my delinquency," 
 said Eugene, laughing, whilst he pressed me 
 closer to him : " yesterday it might have been of 
 some little consequence, but today I defy her, and 
 all the world too." 
 
 When we met at dinner the same afternoon my 
 father kissed me tenderly, and Alfred welcomed
 
 117 
 
 Eugene and me with his own sweet and peculiar 
 smile. My mother's eyes glistened, for she had 
 been reminded of her youthful home, and the 
 day of her own betrothal. Barbara's countenance 
 alone was sullen and malignant, for her tale had 
 met with a different reception and solution from 
 what she had anticipated, and she appeared to wish 
 to seem unconscious of our presence. For our 
 parts, we were too happy to heed hers.
 
 118 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE next fortnight glided away almost imper- 
 ceptibly, and at length the day arrived upon which 
 the whole neighbourhood were to assemble to 
 bear witness to the vows hitherto spoken only in 
 secret. 
 
 As I entered the breakfast-room at the usual 
 hour in the morning, my father pressed his lips 
 to my forehead, and whispered a blessing; my 
 mother stopped in the midst of sundry orders to 
 a servant, to give me her affectionate greeting; 
 and Alfred kissed me with silent but deep emotion. 
 Barbara alone proffered no kindly wish ; and as I 
 saw that her eyes were swollen with weeping, and 
 that she looked as if she had not slept, for the 
 first time I pitied her. The contrast between my
 
 119 
 
 own position and hers forcibly struck me : I saw 
 her misused (if one may say so) by Nature ; utterly 
 devoid of every charm and grace which woman 
 loves to call her own, a stranger to the hearts of 
 her own family, an object of dislike or ridicule 
 to all besides; whilst I, beloved and accounted 
 beautiful, had been accustomed from my earliest 
 childhood to see every face brighten as I ap- 
 proached : an idol in my home, I was now about 
 to become the bride of the man admired above all 
 others by my unhappy sister. 
 
 I thought over all this; I forgot under the 
 softening effect of happiness that no such con- 
 trast, except as an injustice, was felt by her ; that 
 in her own eyes she was fair, and all perhaps 
 more than I appeared to be in those of others. 
 Yes, I can truly say that from my heart I pitied 
 her, and once more (alas ! how often had similar 
 resolutions been forgotten) determined that I 
 would strive for the future to pursue a line of 
 conduct more conciliatory and suitable to our 
 relative positions.
 
 120 
 
 I remembered having often heard my father 
 express his firm belief that there was not any 
 human being, however degraded, upon whom a 
 uniform course of kind treatment might not in 
 time produce a softening effect, and work changes 
 almost miraculous. Conscience told me that I 
 had never steadily tried such influence with regard 
 to Barbara, although I had often desired to do so. 
 "But I will forthwith," I said inwardly, rising 
 from table, whilst my heart swelled with that de- 
 lightful sensation which conquest over self always 
 inspires. 
 
 I followed Barbara out of the saloon, and had 
 glided after her into her room before she had 
 time to perceive or to prevent me. When she at 
 length became aware of my presence, she grew 
 red with passion, re-opened the door wide and 
 pointed significantly towards it, but did not speak. 
 I quietly closed it, and not taking further notice 
 of me, she began to busy herself at the glass in 
 arranging her hair. 
 
 " Barbara," I said. She made no answer. I
 
 121 
 
 went over to her side and gently placed my hand 
 upon her arm. 
 
 "Barbara," I began, and although she shook 
 me off with an angry movement I continued, 
 " let this day which gives me a bridegroom give 
 me also a sister." 
 
 She made no answer, and I went on. "I have 
 never told you how dearly I loved you before we 
 had yet met. Hear it now : Alfred and I loved 
 you, longed for you, more than I can express 
 more than you perhaps could now believe when 
 you were still unknown to us. Why did you 
 close your heart against your brother and sister 
 from the first ? Why would you not love us, and 
 let us love you as we wished ?" 
 
 I paused for breath, and looking earnestly into 
 her face thought I could discern there a slight 
 expression of softened feeling. 
 
 Struggling with my own agitation, and hoping 
 to improve the moment, I said again, " Barbara, 
 I feel that this is a turning-point in both our 
 lives, and upon you it depends how we shall 
 
 G
 
 122 
 
 stand towards each other in future. I confess 
 that I have done wrong ; I have not sufficiently 
 considered your feelings and the differences in 
 our education; forgive me say you will try to 
 love me, and I will do the same by you." 
 
 " What ! the beautiful Marie, the angel of good- 
 ness, the country's pride, ask for my love ! " she 
 cried, with a bitter sneer ; and with a passionate 
 gesture flinging away the arm with which I had 
 almost unconsciously encircled her, she vehe- 
 mently added, " and pray for what am I to give it ? 
 Is it because my younger sister has deprived me 
 of the affection of father, mother and brother, and 
 has caused me to be slighted by all who should 
 be my friends? or is it because she has won 
 the heart of the man I love, and calls him today 
 her bridegroom, who but for her wiles might have 
 been my own?" 
 
 Under other circumstances I might perhaps 
 have been tempted to smile at these words, and 
 the bearing which accompanied them ; but the 
 feeling which had led me in the first instance to
 
 123 
 
 follow her still predominated, and in the same 
 earnest spirit I pursued my efforts at reconcilia- 
 tion. 
 
 " I am not so much in fault as you suppose, 
 Barbara/' I said ; " inasfar as I may have erred, 
 I am ready to acknowledge the error, and endea- 
 vour for the future to make reparation. Let the 
 past be forgotten. Once more then, Barbara, I 
 ask are we to be friends and sisters ?" 
 
 " Never, never. You my friend and sister ! 
 Serpent sorceress I detest you!" and with a 
 countenance distorted by passion she pushed me 
 towards the door. 
 
 " It is well, Barbara," I said slowly, and with 
 a calmness which surprised myself; "the decision 
 is made, and remember, it is yours" 
 
 Strange and inconsistent as it may appear, I 
 left my sister's room relieved rather than vexed 
 by her obduracy. In acting as I had done, I had 
 obeyed an impulse of pity born of my own hap- 
 piness; but even whilst urging a reconciliation, 
 and I believe at the moment heartily desiring it,
 
 124 
 
 I dreaded the results of its being realized, per- 
 suaded as I was that any true and lasting har- 
 mony between characters so entirely dissimilar 
 must be perfectly unattainable.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE guests began to arrive before I had had time 
 to recover from the effects of the scene which I 
 have just described; but in the midst of warm 
 congratulations and good wishes, I soon forgot 
 ic very existence of Barbara, and Eugene and I 
 
 jame bride and bridegroom*. 
 
 My father had invited all his poorer neighbours, 
 and prepared for them a plentiful repast upon 
 tables laid out in the garden, at the same time 
 that the richer guests were feasted withindoors. 
 
 Little Agnes flitted about, now here, now 
 
 * It may be necessary to apprize the English reader, that 
 after betrothal, a ceremony generally conducted in Germany 
 with much more pomp and publicity than that of marriage, the 
 parties bear the names of " bride and bridegroom."
 
 126 
 
 there, the very perfection of infantine beauty, and 
 divided the attention of the company with our- 
 selves. She greatly resembled what Alfred had 
 been at the same age; she had the same golden 
 ringlets floating over an exquisitely fair neck, the 
 deep azure eye, set as it were in liquid light, the 
 same transparent and ever-varying complexion, 
 but more vivacity. Alfred had at times, even as 
 a child, an expression of extreme humour, and as 
 a boy he showed a quick perception of the ludi- 
 crous. He could in some moods be excited to 
 merriment by the merest trifle, but the cast of 
 his countenance was habitually serious. He was 
 easily depressed, and had never what could be 
 called high animal spirits. Agnes, on the con- 
 trary, was bright and buoyant; full of life and 
 health and beauty, she really looked like a thing 
 " fresh from fairyland." 
 
 She was now three years old, and, from having 
 been brought up exclusively amongst elder per- 
 sons, remarkably forward in mind, without being 
 in the smallest degree what is termed old-fashion-
 
 ed. She was consequently the pet and darling, 
 not only of her own home, but of the whole neigh- 
 bourhood, with one exception. Next to Alfred 
 and myself, this sweet child seemed to be the prin- 
 cipal object of Barbara's dislike ; and so conscious 
 did she seem to be of the feeling, that a cloud 
 always overspread her open brow when her elder 
 sister appeared ; and stealing to my side, as if for 
 protection, she would frequently whisper, tf Marie 
 must not leave poor Agnes alone with her," lay- 
 ing an emphasis on the last word, and looking 
 furtively in the dreaded direction. 
 
 On this festal day Barbara did not appear, al- 
 though my father had gone himself to seek her ; 
 but I believe her absence was felt to be a relief by 
 all parties. She sat in her room, but not alone. 
 As I left my chamber, prepared for a walk with 
 Eugene and Alfred, the door of Barbara's room 
 was opened by a servant, who happened at that 
 moment to be passing out, and I saw the daughter 
 of the postmistress sitting apparently in very 
 earnest conversation with my sister.
 
 128 
 
 Delighted to escape from the crowd, we ram- 
 bled over hill and dale, sitting down upon the 
 green sward under the shade of a tree when 
 fatigued, and talking, as young people often do, 
 of the past and the future, rather than of the 
 present. 
 
 My father had strongly advised Eugene to 
 travel during the ensuing two years, as until the 
 expiration of that period he would not permit us 
 to marry. Eugene was just at an age to derive 
 benefit from visiting foreign countries, and his 
 guardian conceived that the amusement and 
 change would prevent his feeling too deeply the 
 separation from me. It had therefore been de- 
 cided that he should go to England, France, Italy, 
 and perhaps to Greece. 
 
 Eugene seemed to suffer much ere he could 
 bring himself to consent to this arrangement, 
 but he felt that he ought not to dispute the wishes 
 of his best friend. In writing to me a faithful 
 account of all he should see, and in noting down 
 particular places which we might hope to visit
 
 129 
 
 together at some future day, he promised himself 
 the chief alleviation of absence. 
 
 Engrossed by these subjects, so interesting to 
 ourselves, we thought not of our guests until the 
 lengthening shadows warned us that the hour 
 had passed when we ought to have been at home 
 to take our places in the dance. We returned 
 with all speed, and found the company wondering 
 at our absence, but by no means disposed to be 
 severe upon a little lack of ceremony in the hero 
 id heroine of the day. The dance now com- 
 lenced, and it was not until very late that all 
 lad departed and left us to repose, wearied by 
 the excitement we had undergone. 
 
 I had almost forgotten to mention one little 
 incident which took place during the day. As I 
 stood half-concealed in a window, some time after 
 the ceremony of our betrothal, I heard a lady say 
 to a gentleman with whom she was conversing, 
 " Is Fraulein Marie Count von Arnheim's eldest 
 daughter, or has he another married?" 
 
 " She is not the eldest," was the reply, " there
 
 130 
 
 is another; fortunately she is not present to- 
 day." 
 
 " Why so ?" 
 
 "Because as one of the family she demands 
 some share of attention, and to bestow it upon 
 her is almost impossible." 
 
 " How can that be ? surely the sister of Marie 
 cannot be unattractive ?" 
 
 " Unattractive is a poor and unmeaning word 
 as applied to her," returned the gentleman ; " and 
 yet as to features, Fraulein Barbara is not so plain 
 as to be very remarkable. For my own part I have 
 seen persons of much more decided ugliness em- 
 bellished into absolute beauty by an expression of 
 intellectual and moral superiority ; but never have 
 I met with one whose appearance influenced me so 
 painfully, or towards whom I felt so insurmount- 
 able a repugnance." 
 
 " How strange ! " answered the lady ; " can 
 Marie's sister be indeed such as you describe?" 
 
 " Strange it is," replied her companion, " but 
 not the less true. Yet were you to ask me why I
 
 131 
 
 am repelled by Fraulein Barbara von Arnheim, I 
 believe I could scarcely tell you ; even as I might 
 find it difficult to explain precisely why I am at- 
 tracted iii an equal degree by her sister. It is not 
 merely for her personal grace and beauty that we 
 all love Marie ; the tenderness she inspires is but 
 a reflection of that which dwells within her own 
 breast. She is loved because she loves ; whilst Bar- 
 bara is loathed, and her presence felt as an evil in- 
 fluence, not alone for her ugliness, nor yet for the 
 frequent malignity of her expression, but because 
 one feels instinctively that in her entire being 
 there does not exist one spark of that holy spirit 
 of love which pervades Marie's nature, and lights 
 up her countenance with the immortal and change- 
 less beauty of the heart." 
 
 Almost sinking into the earth with shame at 
 lis too true picture of my sister shame unmi- 
 tigated by any sense of pleasure at the opposite 
 md flattering remarks made -on myself I was 
 inexpressibly relieved when, by the removal of 
 the speakers to another part of the room, I was
 
 132 
 
 enabled to escape from my humiliating position 
 unobserved. 
 
 It had been arranged that the Countess von 
 Ehrenstein should pass the period of her son's 
 absence at Vienna ; Eugene was therefore to take 
 her there, and then to set out for England. 
 
 During the remainder of his time at home he 
 was constantly with us ; all study was given up, 
 for so many old haunts had to be visited, and so 
 much had to be said, that there was no leisure left 
 for books ; and as we were usually very diligent, 
 my father made no objection upon the present 
 occasion to a few weeks of holiday. 
 
 Barbara avoided us as much as possible; but 
 when we met at table, or in passing through the 
 house, or by chance on the road, a malicious smile 
 crossed her face, or a taunting expression was 
 uttered by her, and sometimes with the effect of 
 ruffling for a moment the happy course of our 
 thoughts and feelings. She had renewed her 
 walks to the village, and her intimacy with her 
 old acquaintances there; and although this dis-
 
 133 
 
 pleased my father, it was to us, as before, a great 
 relief. 
 
 As the time of Eugene's departure approached, 
 we observed that he became very much out of 
 spirits. On the evening before he left us, as we 
 sat upon a sofa apart from the rest, he said, 
 " Marie, I do not know why I feel so cast down. 
 Two years will, I know, soon pass over; yet lat- 
 terly it has appeared to me, whenever I think of 
 it, as an immense abyss which may swallow up 
 all my dearest hopes and wishes. I cannot un- 
 derstand it. My nature is hopeful I am not 
 used to dream of ill. Loving and trusting you 
 entirely, why do I feel thus ? Is it, my beloved, 
 the shadow of some frightful evil hovering over 
 us which thus affects me ? or can it be that it is 
 only the inevitable pain of parting, vaguely pro- 
 jected into the future, and magnified by my, for 
 once, ill-boding imagination t" 
 
 " Think not of it, dearest Eugene," I answered ; 
 " what should we fear ? we are young, we love 
 each other, and are without enemies."
 
 134 
 
 " Without enemies ! " said he, " ah no ! we have 
 an enemy ; and this is what haunts me." 
 
 "Fear her not, Eugene, we are beyond her 
 power ; she cannot, dare not harm us." 
 
 " I must fear her," he replied ; " there is a 
 depth of malice in her glance at times which 
 makes me tremble when I think that I am to 
 leave you near her. I feel strongly, in spite of 
 my better reason, that she may in some way in- 
 jure us, although I know not how." 
 
 " Never, dearest Eugene, never ! With our 
 knowledge of her character, are we not forearmed 
 against every attempt to do us ill ?" 
 
 " I hope so," he answered sadly ; " but forgive 
 me, my own love, for tormenting you with these 
 melancholy forebodings, which I ought myself 
 rather to endeavour to overcome and forget." 
 
 I tried to cheer him, and spoke hopefully of the 
 future. 
 
 " Marie," he said, " you do not know how I 
 feel ; I have always been aware that your love for 
 me was subordinate to a stronger feeling; you
 
 135 
 
 would not, I believe, forsake me for another 
 lover, but your affection for Alfred has scarcely 
 left room in your heart for the return of a passion 
 ardent and devoted as mine, and which is ren- 
 dered apprehensive by its very devotedness." 
 
 " Again, Eugene !" said I, interrupting him; 
 " I thought we were to have no more upon that 
 subject." 
 
 He smiled mournfully, shook his head, and re- 
 mained thoughtful and silent. Conscious of the 
 depth of my love for Eugene, I was grieved and 
 wounded by this groundless charge of coldness; 
 yet, upon reflection, it appeared to me far from 
 unnatural that a passing emotion sufficient to 
 occasion it should have arisen in his impetuous 
 nature. My affection for Alfred had been the 
 predominant feeling of my life; this fragile and 
 sensitive being had from the moment of his birth 
 twined himself around every chord and fibre of 
 my heart. He hung upon and clung to me, as 
 though I were necessary to his very existence ; 
 and even at the exciting period to which I have
 
 136 
 
 been alluding, I believe that for him I could 
 willingly have sacrificed every consideration of 
 my own personal happiness.
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 FOR the first three months after Eugene's depar- 
 ture his letters arrived regularly on the appointed 
 days. He had been detained at Vienna by the 
 illness of his mother, who caught cold upon the 
 journey; and it soon appeared that her constitu- 
 tion, weakened by long delicacy and sorrow, was 
 giving way. Her son watched by her side with 
 all the tenderness of a woman, and wrote at first 
 with anxious fears, and afterwards with hopeless 
 sorrow as to the result. Within three months 
 after they left us, she was laid in the family vault 
 beside her husband, and Eugene, overwhelmed 
 with grief, was for a time silent. 
 
 His first letter, after that in which the melan- 
 choly event was announced, spoke of his intention
 
 138 
 
 to start immediately for England, and a subse- 
 quent one bore the Dresden postmark, from which 
 town he was speedily to proceed to Hamburgh 
 and so by sea to London. Henceforth he desired 
 us to direct to him under cover to a friend of his 
 late father's in England, whose address he enclosed. 
 
 We now watched impatiently for news of his 
 arrival, but none came; day after day and week 
 after week passed without bringing tidings of the 
 wanderer, and all the letters which we sent to him 
 remained unanswered. 
 
 We obtained newspapers bearing dates corre- 
 sponding to those on which we supposed he might 
 have sailed, thinking that the mention of some 
 fatality at sea might perhaps throw light upon the 
 mystery; but nothing of the sort appeared. A 
 horrible suspicion that Eugene might have been 
 murdered in some remote situation, and all trace 
 of the deed lost for ever, occurred to me frequently; 
 but I strove to overcome it, and hoped on day by 
 day, until even the youthful hope of seventeen 
 became well nigh exhausted.
 
 139 
 
 One day as I was walking along the road, and 
 meditating upon Eugene's strange and incompre- 
 hensible silence, a sudden turn brought me face 
 to face with the daughter of the postmistress. I 
 stopped to speak to her, as I had always been 
 in the habit of doing, and I was surprised to 
 see that she blushed, and hesitated, and stam- 
 mered, so as almost to prevent her being able to 
 answer some simple inquiry I made after her 
 family. Pitying her embarrassment, which I at- 
 tributed to her intimacy with Barbara and to her 
 feeling conscious that it could scarcely be ap- 
 proved of by us, I did not detain her, and passed 
 on. Before I reached home however, the girl's 
 extraordinary discomposure and the subject of 
 my previous reflections had, by no unnatural pro- 
 cess, become closely connected in my mind, and I 
 hastened to my father's study. 
 
 " Father," I said eagerly, " I have discovered 
 the mystery " 
 
 " What mystery 1" he asked. 
 
 " That of Eugene's silence. Barbara and her
 
 140 
 
 friend the postmistress's daughter are the cause 
 of it." 
 
 " What can you mean, Marie ?" 
 
 "They have stopped his letters I am sure 
 of it ;" and I told him of my meeting with the 
 girl, and of her strange embarrassment. 
 
 He looked aghast, and exclaimed, " How can 
 you harbour such a suspicion, Marie of your 
 sister too?" 
 
 "I could imagine the worst of Barbara; she 
 would do anything to gratify her own bad 
 feelings." 
 
 " Marie, I am ashamed of you ! I will not 
 listen to this," he replied ; " I was wrong to do so 
 for a moment. Never let me hear a word of this 
 kind again from your lips." 
 
 "Father," I said beseechingly, "does it not 
 seem more likely that Barbara should have done 
 this, than that Eugene should have forgotten us ?" 
 
 " Neither seems probable to me," rejoined my 
 father ; " if Eugene lives, and still loves you, we 
 shall some time hear of him ; till then let us not
 
 141 
 
 debase ourselves and others by unworthy sus- 
 picions." 
 
 This was an instance of a singular peculiarity 
 in my father's character, which may have already 
 attracted the reader's notice. He never would 
 take for granted aught but good in others ; and 
 where individual traits of the reverse showed 
 themselves undeniably, he believed only because 
 he saw, and exactly what he saw no more. That 
 which to any one else would have appeared but 
 a natural conclusion drawn from observation 
 by common sense, he shrank from as an un- 
 warrantable suspicion, which he would have been 
 criminal in allowing himself to form. Thus 
 although he had seen in Barbara instances of a 
 selfish, vain and vindictive spirit, yet as my sug- 
 gestion was unaccompanied by any direct proof, 
 he would not listen to or regard it. 
 
 As I was leaving the room he called me back, 
 saying, " Marie, I can make every allowance for 
 your feelings, tried as they have been of late, but 
 I could not forgive your ever alluding in future to
 
 142 
 
 this subject to any one; promise me that even to 
 Alfred you will not mention it." 
 
 "0 father! do let me tell him, he suffers so 
 much ; and this would be such a relief to him," I 
 said imploringly. 
 
 " He has no right to such relief; I cannot allow 
 it ; give me your promise, Marie." 
 
 With a heavy heart I promised ; but although 
 forbidden to impart to my brother the comfort I 
 possessed myself, I was now able to speak less 
 mournfully upon the subject ; and perhaps, with- 
 out any intentional swerving from my promise, 
 there may now and then have been something 
 in my words which guided his thoughts in the 
 right direction; for his spirits improved, and he 
 did not brood over the fate of his friend so 
 gloomily as before.
 
 143 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ABOUT this time my parents began to see more 
 of the neighbouring gentry than had been for- 
 merly their habit. In this their object was, I 
 think, to divert my own and Alfred's thoughts 
 from dwelling too much upon the melancholy 
 subject of our friend's disappearance ; and they 
 were besides anxious to overcome an extreme re- 
 serve in my brother's manner toward strangers, 
 which my father knew might prove troublesome 
 to him if he should ever be forced into contact 
 with the world. We did not however often 
 leave our own home. My father had during 
 his boyish residence in England acquired a 
 taste for the cheerful and social evening meal 
 customary in that country, in preference to the
 
 144 
 
 more substantial one usual in his own; and as 
 this was always accompanied by intelligent con- 
 versation, and followed by music, of which we 
 were all passionately fond, we had almost every 
 night a few guests. 
 
 Amongst others we had a frequent visitor in 
 the young Baron von Sternberg, a nobleman whose 
 property lay within a few miles of our own. He 
 had been educated in France, and had recently 
 returned, a showy, volatile, heartless man of the 
 world. He had paid me marked attention, but of 
 course without receiving any encouragement, for 
 several months before my betrothal ; and he had 
 often, after the celebration of that event, been 
 a source of merriment to Eugene, who well knew 
 how little cause for jealousy he had in such a 
 rival. 
 
 My public acceptance of another suitor at 
 once put a stop to his disagreeable attentions ; 
 but shortly after it became generally known that 
 Eugene had disappeared, they were renewed with 
 an audacity which surprised and displeased me.
 
 145 
 
 No coldness on my part seemed to daunt him; 
 and it was rather a relief to me when he one day 
 demanded a private interview, and thus gave me 
 an opportunity of at once, and decidedly, declining 
 his addresses. He left no argument untouched 
 by which he might hope to shake my fidelity to 
 my lost lover, and did not even hesitate to asperse 
 the noble character in which I felt, and told him 
 I could never cease to feel, unshaken and entire 
 faith. 
 
 He then tried, with cold and inhuman uncon- 
 cern, to convince me of the probability of Eu- 
 gene's death; and while horror at the bare idea 
 froze my blood and deprived me of the power of 
 speech, he went on to repeat tale after tale of tra- 
 vellers who had disappeared in like manner, the 
 mystery of whose dreadful fate had either never 
 been cleared up, or had only been penetrated after 
 the lapse of years. 
 
 My silence, I believe, led him into the misap- 
 prehension that he was making some impression, 
 and had even a fair chance of success; until at 
 
 H
 
 146 
 
 length, being worked up to the highest pitch of 
 indignation, and every other feeling giving way, I 
 arose, exclaiming, " Baron von Sternberg ! had I 
 never been the bride of the Count von Ehrenstein, 
 never would I have been yours." And so I left 
 the room. 
 
 Piqued by my conduct for he was incapable 
 of any deeper emotion he henceforth assumed an 
 air of disdain in my presence, and commenced a 
 series of jattentions to a pretty, artless young gir>> 
 the heiress to a large estate, who was on a visit 
 in our neighbourhood. 
 
 Scarcely had one short month elapsed after my 
 rejection of his addresses, when we were all pre- 
 sent at the betrothal of this innocent child she 
 was but fifteen with the man whom, though so 
 utterly unworthy, she trusted and adored with all 
 the fervour of youth's first love. 
 
 I could with difficulty restrain my tears, as I 
 looked at the soft eyes of the youthful bride, as 
 she turned them on her bridegroom with an ex- 
 pression which, had there been a heart in his
 
 147 
 
 bosom, must have fixed and bound it to her for 
 ever. Shortly afterwards they were married, and 
 at the end of a few months, during the course of 
 which time an expression of care and deep sor- 
 row had gradually spread itself over the fair face 
 of the young wife, a carriage with closed blinds 
 passed our gates, in which wretched, hopeless 
 and forsaken she was borne to her father's 
 house. 
 
 Her worthless husband, secure of her wealth 
 and tired of her presence, had disappeared the 
 day before, taking with him the wife of a gen- 
 tleman in the neighbourhood; whilst for her 
 whom he thus basely abandoned was left a letter, 
 couched in terms of the coldest and most heart- 
 less politeness, in which he recommended her to 
 return at once to the home of her childhood and 
 forget him, as he would never see her more. 
 
 Poor girl ! the year of her marriage had scarcely 
 . elapsed ere she slept in the tomb of her fathers, 
 her broken heart at rest for ever. 
 
 But to resume my own story. About a month
 
 148 
 
 after my formal refusal of the Baron's addresses, 
 I was greatly distressed one morning at missing 
 the ring which had been the pledge between Eu- 
 gene and myself of our betrothed faith. I re- 
 membered having given it to Agnes to play with 
 on the preceding evening, as I had frequently 
 done before; and being much engaged with a 
 book, I had not observed that she did not return 
 it to me. Upon questioning her next day, she 
 could only tell that she had been rolling it upon 
 the table, when Alfred called her to look at some 
 pictures, and she forgot all about it. 
 
 The house was searched, the servants were exa- 
 mined, but in vain; the ring was lost, and no 
 light ever thrown upon its mysterious disappear- 
 ance.
 
 149 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 I FEEL it to be necessary to the object I have in 
 view, in giving this history to the world, to make 
 some allusion here to the condition of my own 
 mind, with respect to religion and morality, at 
 the period of which I am now treating. Perhaps 
 by the one word confusion this state may be 
 better explained to the reader than by whole 
 pages of description. 
 
 I had read, though in a desultory and su- 
 perficial manner, many of the most celebrated 
 systems of so-called philosophical theology, now 
 leaning to one, now to another, but upon the 
 whole feeling most attracted by that of Spinosa. 
 
 There was in the sublime conception of a uni- 
 versal soul, co-extensive with and pervading all
 
 150 
 
 things, that which pleased my fancy and charmed 
 my imagination ; whilst in the plausible simplicity 
 of this one grand mystery my understanding found 
 a rest and refuge from the manifold and, as I then 
 weakly thought, embarrassing minutiae of all the 
 more accredited religious faiths. It seemed to me 
 as if nothing could so tend to promote love and 
 harmony on earth as this belief, that one all-pene- 
 trating essence actuated all. It was a universal 
 brothership, if I may use the expression, and 
 must, I falsely fancied, effectually protect those 
 who adopted it from every evil and selfish feeling. 
 Vain fool ! I had yet to learn the impotence of 
 mere philosophical fancies in controlling an ill- 
 regulated mind and self-directed will. 
 
 As our characters developed, it became apparent 
 that, although in many things we resembled each 
 other, there were strong points of difference be- 
 tween my brother and myself. He already showed 
 a disposition similar to that of our father : he 
 had the same simplicity, and the same innate 
 sense of truth and goodness. Where I reasoned
 
 151 
 
 and moralized, he felt and meekly believed. Thus, 
 although a precisely similar course of education 
 was pursued with regard to us both, entirely dif- 
 ferent results were produced. He delighted in 
 metaphysical speculation equally with myself, but 
 with him it took a somewhat different direction. 
 Thus whilst I rejoiced in giving full scope to every 
 faculty of my mind, and from the earliest period 
 of my life entered boldly and rashly upon subjects 
 of the deepest import even such as have puzzled 
 the matured intellect of man in all ages his 
 thoughts took a more limited range, and were 
 connected chiefly with the affections and their 
 development. He would, for example, talk with 
 me untiringly of the mysterious sympathies which 
 exist between ourselves and our fellow-creatures, 
 of the instinctive perceptions of congeniality which 
 enable some persons, without any process of rea- 
 soning or any previous knowledge, to recognize 
 at a glance those whom they. may love and trust, 
 and from whom they may unhesitatingly look for 
 sympathy a sixth sense, as it were, granted to
 
 152 
 
 those whom a delicate organization, unsuspicious 
 confidence, and utter want of worldly wisdom, 
 render liable to become a prey to the numerous 
 class in whose eyes sensibility is weakness, and 
 ignorance of the world matter for contempt. He 
 could in short dwell for ever upon all the myste- 
 ries of 'that most mysterious of all things, the 
 heart of man, and find there subjects of profound 
 contemplation ; but, equally timid by nature as I 
 was fearless, he shrank from the venturous dis- 
 cussions into which I would sometimes have led 
 him. 
 
 The origin and permission of evil, and similar 
 mysteries, he thought it vain and injurious to 
 attempt to treat metaphysically. "Why brood 
 over such things, dear Marie?" he would say, 
 " seeing it is so obvious that we can never in this 
 world understand them. Is it not sufficient for 
 us to know that, if there be a God (and who can 
 doubt that there is ?), all that He does must be 
 right and just. You frighten me sometimes with 
 your theories, and indeed I wish you would not
 
 153 
 
 read so many of those learned books, which, so 
 far from being of use to you, seem only cal- 
 culated to confound one's notions of good and 
 evil." 
 
 H 5
 
 154 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 OUR minds were however soon destined to be re- 
 called from such speculations as those I have just 
 been alluding to; and all power of enjoyment, 
 whether in study or in our ordinary recreations, 
 was taken from us by the increasing miseries of 
 our home. 
 
 So long as our spirits drooped beneath the 
 weight of anxiety for Eugene, Barbara left us in 
 comparative quiet, and seemed satisfied, without 
 using any special endeavour to annoy us ; but no 
 sooner did she perceive that we had in some de- 
 gree recovered from our anxiety, and were once 
 more able to wear the semblance of happiness, 
 than she recommenced her former system of an- 
 noyance, and seemed to have laid out a plan for
 
 155 
 
 tormenting us still more ingeniously malicious 
 than any she had hitherto pursued. 
 
 Even the illness and death of my grandmother, 
 which took place about this time, failed to awaken 
 her to any better state of feeling ; nor, although 
 the kind-hearted old lady's last thoughts were 
 bestowed upon this ungrateful object of her long 
 and unwearied affection, did my sister manifest 
 any sign of sorrow at her loss. 
 
 Once more her unwelcome presence was reso- 
 lutely imposed upon Alfred and myself at all hours 
 and in all places. Her half-uttered insinuations 
 against us both, but especially against him, be- 
 came more frequent than ever ; and though before 
 me she was kept under some control, she never 
 allowed even a momentary absence on my part to 
 pass without distressing my poor brother either 
 by petty malice or violent abuse. 
 
 The consequences were soon apparent. The 
 gentle, loving boy became peevish and irritable, 
 and his finely strung nervous system being un- 
 tuned, he sometimes even gave way to passion,
 
 156 
 
 and his health visibly declined. Once he was 
 so much provoked, that for the first time he 
 made a complaint to his father. "But never, 
 never will I speak to him again on the same 
 subject," said he afterwards to me ; " nothing 
 shall tempt me to do so, however great the pro- 
 vocation I may receive. I thought as I looked 
 into my father's face that it seemed changed, 
 that he had grown thin and pale; he groaned 
 so heavily and looked so sorrowfully, and I fan- 
 cied even reproachfully, as he answered, ' Do you 
 think, Alfred, that you alone suffer?' O Marie, 
 if you had heard the depth of anguish in his voice 
 as he uttered these words ! I could not speak ; I 
 could only kiss his hand and hasten away, ashamed 
 of having selfishly pained with my own sorrow one 
 already so depressed. No, never shall he hear a 
 word of similar complaint from me again." 
 
 " But he shall from me ! " I exclaimed pas- 
 sionately : " What right has Barbara to poison 
 the happiness of a whole family ? She shall be 
 sent away, and that instantly." And unheeding
 
 157 
 
 Alfred's efforts to detain me, with all the impe- 
 tuosity of my nature, I flew to seek my father. 
 
 " Father," I said, " we cannot live any longer 
 in the house with Barbara she will kill Alfred ! 
 she is a wicked creature, and does not deserve to 
 be amongst us." 
 
 He looked at me with astonishment. " Is that 
 my Marie ?" he said seriously. 
 
 " I do not know what I am, father," I replied 
 hurriedly ; ' ' it makes me almost mad to see Al- 
 fred so wretched, and you too every one. We 
 were so happy before she came. Oh send her 
 away, and let us be again as we were." 
 
 " Send her away, Marie ! never ; she is my 
 child, as you are ; I owe her the same duty, and 
 I am conscious of having badly fulfilled it. We 
 have all erred alike in this. Had we been more 
 uniformly kind and affectionate to her since she 
 came amongst us, all might now have been dif- 
 ferent." 
 
 I was going to speak, but he stopped me. 
 
 " No more, Marie, no more ! " he said, turning
 
 158 
 
 away; and, as I knew his inflexibility when he 
 believed himself to be in the right, I felt that 
 further remonstrance would be vain. 
 
 I returned to Alfred, whom I found leaning 
 dejectedly out of the open window of the saloon. 
 
 As I entered he was signing deeply; he did 
 not at first perceive me, and I heard the half- 
 uttered words, "It must be leave them all 
 father, mother, Agnes, Marie, dear Marie ! " and 
 he covered his face with his hands, whilst large 
 tears trickled through his fingers and watered 
 the rosebuds which clustered luxuriantly within 
 the open window-frame. 
 
 " What do you say about leaving us, Alfred ? " 
 I said. 
 
 He raised his head mournfully : " I am going 
 away I cannot stay here ; I will go somewhere 
 and offer to aid in teaching at a school. I dare 
 say some one would give me lodging for the as- 
 sistance I should be able to afford, and I might 
 pursue my own studies also." 
 
 " And leave me, Alfred ?"
 
 159 
 
 " I should leave you if I stay, for I should die. 
 You do not know what I suffer. Sometimes I 
 think of the torture invented by that tyrant, who 
 smeared the body of his wretched victim with 
 honey, and placed it in the sun to be stung by 
 insects until death relieved him. It seems to me 
 at times as if I too were receiving a sting at every 
 pore ; for what lesser species of torment could 
 give any idea of the venomous malignity which is 
 daily consuming my very life ? I must go away 
 I have no choice." 
 
 " If you go, Alfred, I go also ; I cannot live 
 without you." 
 
 " Yes, you can, dear Marie ; you must not leave 
 our father and mother ; and darling Agnes would 
 then have no one to protect her. You have more 
 of the man's spirit than myself," he said with a 
 sad smile ; " you are not so easily crushed, and 
 Barbara is afraid of you." 
 
 " You must not, you shall not go, Alfred ; say 
 that you will not, at least for a time. Perhaps 
 my father may speak to her, although he did not
 
 160 
 
 promise ; and I will never, if I can help it, leave 
 her alone with you." 
 
 I pleaded so hard that he gave way at length, 
 and this terrible evil seemed for the present 
 averted. 
 
 We never knew whether my father spoke to 
 Barbara or not, but for some days she seemed to 
 be more upon her guard, and did not strive with 
 such pertinacity as usual to counteract our endea- 
 vours to avoid her.
 
 161 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ABOUT a fortnight after the occurrences I have 
 just related, I had been sitting in the garden with 
 Alfred for some time, and was returning to the 
 house to look for a passage in a book, in reference 
 to something we had been reading together, when 
 I heard the piercing shrieks of little Agnes. 
 
 I flew in the direction of the sounds, which 
 appeared to come from Barbara's room ; the 
 door was locked. "Marie, Marie, come to me," 
 I heard, " she will kill me ! Barbara, stop ! 
 I will not tell you who, but I will never say 
 it again, if you will let me go ! " cried the 
 poor child, her screams of agony and terror 
 mingling with the sound of blows inflicted by a 
 rod.
 
 162 
 
 " Barbara ! you wretch ! " I exclaimed, " open 
 the door instantly." 
 
 She took no notice ; and as I heard the little 
 voice become weaker and weaker, I grew frantic. 
 I screamed, I stamped with fury ; until at length, 
 yielding to my violent efforts, the bolt gave way 
 and the door burst open. 
 
 Oh what a sight met my eye ! upon the floor 
 lay my darling sister, stripped naked, her delicate 
 skin covered with blisters and bleeding, and her 
 beautiful form writhing under the blows which 
 Barbara was still inflicting without mercy. 
 
 I took her in my arms never had I felt such 
 a conflict within me. Tenderness, love, and pity 
 for the trembling little sufferer, seemed to melt 
 my very soul, and at the same time deep abhor- 
 rence and concentrated rage threatened to arrest 
 the torrent of my life-blood. 
 
 " Fiend ! " was the only word I could utter, as 
 I cast one glance at her distorted countenance, 
 upon which fear now seemed to struggle with 
 passion.
 
 163 
 
 "I will cure her of turning me into ridicule I" 
 I heard her mutter as I left the room. 
 
 I carried the poor child to my own bed, where 
 she always slept, and laid her there, with closed 
 eyes, and, from exhaustion, apparently insensible 
 to pain. 
 
 She had not spoken after I lifted her, but it 
 was evident, from the convulsive effort to clasp 
 her little arms around my waist, that she was 
 aware of her deliverance, and to whom she 
 owed it. 
 
 I lay beside her ; I felt the palpitation of her 
 fluttering little heart, as like a frightened dove 
 she still pressed close to mej and it seemed to 
 me as if I only then for the first time knew how 
 much I loved her. 
 
 Presently our old nurse came in, and listened 
 with exclamations of horror, and almost doubting 
 wonder, to my tale. The affectionate old woman 
 wept and beat her breast, and seemed inconsola- 
 ble, as I showed her the swollen and discoloured 
 form of her youngest darling. I sent her to
 
 164 
 
 desire one of the servants to look for my father, 
 who had gone to visit some poor people in the 
 village ; and never can I forget his countenance 
 as he listened to the fearful story. He buried 
 his face in the pillow, and deep sobs broke, as it 
 were, from his inmost soul. 
 
 My mother next came in, and Alfred but I 
 need not dwell upon their feelings. 
 
 What passed between my parents and Barbara 
 at this time I never knew; she looked sullen, 
 spent her time almost entirely with her village 
 companions, and neither spoke much nor was 
 much spoken to, when obliged to meet her family. 
 
 Poor Agnes was for several days confined to 
 bed, where my mother and I watched by her side 
 continually. 
 
 Barbara's cruelty was, as far as we could collect 
 from the child, occasioned by the following cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 Some of the servants happened to remark 
 rather freely upon Barbara's personal appearance, 
 both as to her looks and style of dress, a day or
 
 165 
 
 two previously, when Agnes, unknown to them, 
 was within hearing. What was said seemed to 
 have made an impression upon the child's fancy, 
 and next morning, peeping into the saloon where 
 Barbara sat along with my mother, she repeated 
 in a roguish yet half-frightened manner some of 
 the ludicrous observations she had recently over- 
 heard; and then, seeing her sister rise with an 
 expression of excessive anger, and move towards 
 her, the poor child became terrified and ran 
 screaming to her mother's side for protection. 
 
 My mother tried to appease Barbara's anger, 
 and thought she had succeeded. But her wrath 
 was only smouldering, as the event proved. It 
 so happened in the afternoon, when Alfred and I 
 were, as I have said, in the garden, the servants 
 all out of doors, and both my father and mother 
 absent from the house, that Agnes and her maid 
 were alone in the saloon, when the latter, wishing 
 to speak to one of the other servants, fixed the 
 child carefully upon a chair at the piano-forte 
 and left her, as she herself called it, to " make a
 
 166 
 
 song." Presently something was thrown over her 
 head, and she felt herself lifted up and carried 
 away quickly she at first thought by Alfred or 
 me, and laughed without fear, until she found 
 herself standing before Barbara in her room. 
 Dreadfully alarmed she screamed and flew to the 
 door. " You cannot get out, my little lady I" she 
 said ; " and now come and tell me who bid you 
 say to me what you did this morning." 
 
 " Let me out, let me out !" cried the child : 
 " No one bid me say it, and if they had I would 
 not tell you." 
 
 "You shall tell me who dared to speak so 
 impertinently of me: tell me this moment, or 
 I will beat you with this," she said, holding up 
 a rod, and shaking her roughly. 
 
 "You may kill me, but I will not tell you," 
 said the child resolutely. 
 
 "We shall see," said Barbara, beginning to 
 strip the struggling child : " Once more will you 
 tell me ? " she cried, when this operation was 
 finished.
 
 167 
 
 " Never ! but I will tell Mamma of you ; and 
 if you beat me now, I will just say it all again, 
 and over and over again and you are " 
 
 This attempted repetition of the offence excited 
 Barbara to fury. Without waiting longer she 
 proceeded to put her threat into execution, and 
 the heroic little creature might have fulfilled her 
 resolution to the letter, but for my timely inter- 
 vention. She said to her nurse a few days after, 
 whilst caressing her, " nurse, I am so glad I 
 did not tell her who it was I had heard say that 
 naughty thing for Marie says it was naughty. 
 She would have beaten you then instead of me/'
 
 168 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AGNES gradually recovered strength, and was 
 soon again sporting amongst us with all her 
 former vivacity; though her dread of Barbara 
 seemed, as was natural, greatly increased. The 
 sound of her voice or step startled the poor child 
 in the midst of her most favourite plays, and sent 
 her cowering to our side foj; safety. 
 
 Meanwhile Barbara seemed to have recovered 
 entirely from all feeling of the odium which her 
 conduct had excited. She resumed her malicious 
 demeanour towards Alfred, and showed increasing 
 ingenuity in her modes of torment. 
 
 One day I found Agnes sitting upon her bro- 
 ther's knee, and holding Eugene's dog, who was 
 whining piteously, in her arms. Tears were fall-
 
 169 
 
 ing like rain from her eyes as she said, " 
 Marie, look at his foot ! Barbara trod upon it ; 
 and when poor Carlo howled, and could not move 
 out of her way, she crushed him with her foot 
 against the wall ; look how his paw bleeds ! he 
 cannot walk at all." And she sobbed more than 
 ever. 
 
 The next morning I had risen early and was 
 sitting in my room, reading Jean Paul's touching 
 memoir of Charlotte Corday, with my heart full 
 of admiration for the high-minded and enthu- 
 siastic heroine, when I was interrupted by the 
 sweet voice of my little sister. I went over and 
 kissed her rosy cheek, which she had just raised 
 from the pillow. 
 
 a I have been awake for some time, Marie, and 
 I want to ask you a question I have been thinking 
 about." 
 
 " What is it, dear V 
 
 "Do you think there is a God, Marie?" she 
 said mysteriously; "Mamma and nurse tell me 
 there is." 
 
 i
 
 170 
 
 " Most people believe that there is, dear ; but 
 why do you ask ?" 
 
 "Because if there is a God, and if he makes 
 everything, as Mamma says, and if he is very 
 good, how could he have made Barbara?" and 
 her voice sunk to a whisper. 
 
 " I do not know, dear ; but if indeed there be a 
 God who creates everything, He must have a rea- 
 son for all that He does." 
 
 " I do not see what reason there could be for 
 making Barbara," said the child thoughtfully. 
 
 She was silent for some moments, and then 
 said, "Well, Marie, if there is any God, I am 
 sure there must be two ; a good one who made 
 Papa and Mamma, and you and Alfred, and 
 nurse, and all the pretty flowers and birds ; and 
 a bad one who made Barbara and all the bad 
 people and nasty things." 
 
 " You are too young to think about this, dar- 
 ling," I said, " and it is time that you should rise." 
 I called her nurse and went into the garden. 
 
 Her words had made a strange impression upon
 
 171 
 
 me : that wonderful and incomprehensible my- 
 stery, the origin and permission of evil, which had 
 baffled sages since the beginning of the world, 
 and often almost maddened my own brain, was 
 already presenting itself to, and perplexing, this 
 infant mind. 
 
 " And thus it is to be ever !" I said; "we are 
 all only children, and always children ; an infant 
 scarce four years of age has, in a moment, come to 
 a conclusion not less plausible than those reached 
 by the wise and learned after years of profound 
 contemplation and laborious search. Is there a 
 God ? and if there be, and He is good, why does 
 she exist ? Can the life of such a being be pleasing 
 in His eyes ? Can He desire that she should live, 
 to destroy the moral health and life of an entire 
 family ? But if there is none, then are we either 
 the blind instruments, or else the arbiters, of our 
 fate." I dare not pursue the tortuous windings 
 through which my ill-regulated and graceless 
 mind wandered on this momentous day; surely 
 some demon was at hand to urge me onwards to 
 
 t 2
 
 172 
 
 destruction. Before I was aware of danger or 
 temptation, one vivid thought had flashed across 
 my wild and darkened imagination; and by its 
 lurid glare I saw a future for me and mine, serene 
 and cloudless as my early years, bright and en- 
 chanting as our youthful hopes. Reader, canst 
 thou give that thought a name ? * * * * 
 [Here follow wild expressions of remorse for 
 the past, of despairing anticipations for the fu- 
 ture, and incoherent attempts at prayer. After 
 an apparent lapse of some days, the unfortunate 
 Marie thus resumes her narrative.]
 
 173 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ON the afternoon of that same fatal day I was 
 sitting under the willow, with throbbing temples 
 and a fevered pulse, when my brother came to 
 me, bearing on his countenance an expression 
 such as I had never seen there before. Wounded 
 pride, deep and humbled feeling, anger and de- 
 spair by turns struggled for the mastery, as he 
 said, " It is all over now, Marie ! I will go 
 tomorrow ; do not urge me any more ; I will 
 I must go I am disgraced." 
 
 " What do you mean, dearest Alfred ? you 
 cannot be disgraced." 
 
 " I am, Marie Barbara made me mad just 
 now ; and when she placed herself mockingly be- 
 tween me and the door, I believe I pushed her
 
 174 
 
 too roughly aside ; I saw her fall against the stove, 
 and a smile of triumphant malice overspread her 
 face as I escaped from the room. I met my 
 father in passing to my own, and he asked me 
 what was the matter. I answered ' Nothing ;' but 
 I had not been more than a few minutes there 
 when he sent for me. Barbara was with him, 
 her shoulder uncovered, and her face expressive 
 of joyful triumph. ' Alfred \ 3 said niy father 
 Marie, his voice was so cold and severe 
 ' has a son of mine raised his hand against a 
 woman, and that woman his own sister?' and he 
 pointed to a black mark on the upper part of her 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Now, Marie, I am sure I did not cause the 
 mark I did not push her hard enough for that, 
 nor did she fall heavily enough to account for it. 
 She must have done it herself afterwards." 
 
 " And did you not tell him so ?" 
 
 "I felt it impossible to utter a word; I am 
 disgraced for the first time in my life. I dare 
 not stay; I might do the same, or worse, again.
 
 175 
 
 No, it is all over." He laid his folded arms 
 upon the table before him and buried his face 
 in them. 
 
 I was silent, but my thoughts were busy. Pre- 
 sently Alfred raised his head. " And this once 
 was Paradise ! " he said ; " Paradise lost to me 
 for ever ! " 
 
 " Not for ever," I said, throwing my arms 
 around him ; " say not for ever, my own darling 
 brother." 
 
 " Ah, Marie, Eugene should have been here 
 ere this, and then all would have been so differ- 
 ent ! Now" and here an unnatural smile illu- 
 minated his pale and melancholy countenance 
 "now, unless Barbara marries, there is no hope 
 for us." 
 
 There was hope, but none that I could utter ; 
 I strove to comfort him ; I assisted in planning 
 his flight ; I suggested a means by which we 
 might correspond. All was. arranged for his 
 departure the next morning very early, and we 
 returned to the house.
 
 176 
 
 I went to my room ; I felt sick and dizzy with 
 excitement ; I started as I caught a glimpse of 
 my face in the glass; but my mind was made 
 up. 
 
 " Yes, Alfred was right, it is all over ! " I said, 
 as I walked rapidly to and fro. " If there were 
 one human being, or even a brute animal, made 
 happier by her existence, I might hesitate but 
 there is not one ; her parents suffer, but they can- 
 not love her ; her infant sister escaped destruction 
 only by a hair's breadth at her hand ; her bro- 
 ther, an angel till she crossed his path, is driven a 
 houseless wanderer from his home. The servants 
 and the villagers abhor her ; even the beggar be- 
 comes silent and withdraws his outstretched hand 
 as his eye lights upon that cold unsympathising 
 countenance, and the very dog makes a circuit 
 to avoid her. Wherefore should she live ? The 
 woman who rid her country of a tyrant has been 
 called a heroine. What her country was to her 
 and more, oh ! ten thousand times more, is Al- 
 fred to me. I will, I must save him I"
 
 177 
 
 Having made this dreadful resolve, I began to 
 consider by what means I should be able to 
 execute it, and these too soon presented them- 
 selves. Would that I had paused even for a 
 day, that I had not in frenzied madness rushed 
 upon my doom ! In the midst of my fearful 
 meditations, a long-forgotten incident of my 
 childhood rose like a dream before me. I re- 
 membered once, when about four or five years 
 old, as I was at play in my father's study whilst 
 he read, I took up a bottle which lay upon the 
 table, and succeeded with some difficulty in ex- 
 tracting the cork. Liking the smell, and fancying 
 that the taste must be still better, I raised the 
 phial with the intention of putting it to my lips, 
 when my father's hand dashed it to the ground, 
 and at the same moment I was pressed wildly 
 to his bosom. "My child! my child!" he ex- 
 claimed ; " O God, I thank thee ! That would have 
 killed you, Marie ! " And again and again he 
 embraced me, as though I had been restored from 
 the dead. 
 
 i5
 
 178 
 
 The bottle was strong and had not broken : it 
 had been replenished, and often in my childish 
 years had I read the word " Poison" written in 
 large characters upon the label. 
 
 This with other medicines (for in extremely 
 small quantities it was a medicine) was kept in 
 my father's study in a chest which opened with a 
 spring, the secret of which was known only to 
 him and to myself. 
 
 It was already becoming dark, and I knew that 
 in a few moments the bell would summon us to 
 tea. I went to the study door, gently opened it, 
 and looked in : the room was empty, and enter- 
 ing I quickly approached the chest, took out 
 the bottle, and read the fatal word by which its 
 contents were designated. I carried it to the 
 window, and by the failing light poured several 
 drops upon a piece of sugar. I replaced the 
 phial, shot the spring, and glided hastily out of 
 the room. In descending the stairs something 
 touched my foot I almost fell through terror, 
 and my heart throbbed with increased violence.
 
 179 
 
 It was only Carlo. " Pshaw ! already a coward \" 
 I whispered to myself, as the dog licked my 
 hand and fawned upon me with his usual affec- 
 tion. 
 

 
 180 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 UPON entering the saloon I found all prepared for 
 tea, and only our own family present. A heavy 
 cloud hung over every face save that of Barbara ; 
 there, gratified malice had lent an unnatural 
 glow of animation ; she was unusually talkative, 
 and seemed to feel herself entitled by her late 
 triumph to assume even more than ordinary airs 
 of superiority. 
 
 I sat down to make the tea as usual, and with 
 a trembling hand dropped the piece of sugar into 
 the cup that I designed for Barbara ; then giving 
 it to my father, I requested him to pass it to her. 
 He was reading at the time, and did not look up, 
 or appear to have heard me, as he at once raised 
 the cup to his lips.
 
 181 
 
 " Stop !" I cried, starting forward in an agony 
 of terror. He looked up with some surprise, and 
 1 made a strong effort to regain composure. " You 
 take no sugar," I stammered out in a choking 
 voice ; " that is Barbara's." 
 
 "Well, dear," he said smiling, as he passed 
 the cup to her, " for once sugar would not have 
 poisoned me." 
 
 "No," I said with an unnatural laugh, "I 
 believe I am nervous, and very foolish." 
 
 " You look pale and ill," he answered tenderly, 
 supposing that distress at Alfred's disgrace had 
 thus affected me. 
 
 " What a very strange taste that tea has \" 
 exclaimed Barbara presently, after having emptied 
 her cup at a draught. 
 
 " I do not perceive it," said my father, " but it 
 may be so, as much rain fell last night and the 
 water is sometimes injured by it. But Marie, 
 my love," he added anxiously, "surely you are 
 not well : what is the matter ? you change colour 
 every moment."
 
 182 
 
 " I am not quite well I feel a little faint I 
 think the room is hotter than usual ; I will take 
 a turn in front of the house." 
 
 I rose hastily, and with trembling steps quitted 
 the saloon. 
 
 As I opened the hall-door and stepped out, my 
 soul became at once entranced into forgetfulness 
 of everything by the scene which met my eye. 
 Nature had always a peculiar power over me, 
 and, strange as it may appear, I had never felt 
 its sublime influence more strongly than at this 
 terrible moment. 
 
 A flood of moonlight bathed the surrounding 
 landscape, showing with singular distinctness in 
 the distance the picturesque range of the moun- 
 tains of the Black Forest ; whilst the valley se- 
 parating them from us presented an appearance 
 which I had rarely seen before, and never in the 
 same perfection. It was a species of mirage 
 formed by a dense mist, which rose out of, and 
 as it were carpetted, the ground, giving to it the 
 character of a beautiful and extensive lake. So
 
 183 
 
 perfect was the deception, that in the undulating 
 ripple upon its magic surface one saw, or fancied 
 one saw, distinctly the shadows of the tall poplars 
 and waving pines which formed its boundaries. 
 On one side lay the village as if in sleep, but the 
 sound of joyous music floated towards us on the 
 light and balmy breeze, and showed that happy 
 hearts were still awake there. 
 
 For a moment my bosom swelled with that 
 intense rapture of existence known only in the 
 fulness of youth, as I gazed upon this exquisite 
 scene. It was but for one moment. In the 
 next an icy hand seemed laid upon my bound- 
 ing spirit one dreadful word seemed whispered 
 in my ear I started, and passed onward. Pre- 
 sently I heard a step behind me; I turned and 
 saw the little Agnes, her golden ringlets fluttering 
 in the breeze, and her cherub face turned upwards 
 as she gazed fixedly upon the moon. She looked 
 so sweet, so innocent, so lovely, that in a pas- 
 sion of tenderness I threw my arms around 
 her. Never before had she refused my embrace ;
 
 184 
 
 now she struggled, broke away, and disappeared 
 amongst the trees. 
 
 "What!" I thought, "is the brand of Cain 
 already on my brow, or does the angel purity of 
 infancy give instinctive warning at the approach 
 of guilt ? No, it cannot be why should I think 
 so ? I am not a guilty one not for myself have 
 I done it. The title of murderess belongs not to 
 me," I said passionately ; " Charlotte Corday was 
 no murderess, nor am I : I have but crushed a 
 reptile, which would have poured its venom upon 
 the souls of all I love ; and Oh how I love them ! " 
 I added, as I saw my father slowly approaching. 
 
 He stopped, and passing his arm around my 
 waist, he gently turned me toward the moonlight : 
 " My child ! " he said softly, with a thrilling ten- 
 derness which melted my very heart. 
 
 I would have thrown myself upon his bosom 
 I would have died there; but something whis- 
 pered, " What ! pollute thy father with a mur- 
 derer's touch ? Wretch, forbear ! " I turned away 
 and rushed from him, as if pursued by evil spirits.
 
 185 
 
 " Am I mad ? " I thought, " or was there indeed 
 a voice?" Again it whispered, "The voice of 
 God ! " I had not gone far ere my dress was 
 gently pulled; I started, and looking fearfully 
 around saw Agnes by my side. 
 
 " Marie," she said, and her childish voice had 
 in it a tone of deep solemnity ; " Marie, it was the 
 good God who made all this \" 
 
 I could not speak I hurried on. 
 
 " Sister," she said again very gently, and I 
 heard a low sob, " are you angry with me ? Why 
 do you not speak to your own Agnes ?" 
 
 I raised the child in my arms, I pressed her 
 in anguished tenderness to my breast, and kissed 
 
 4 
 
 away the tears which were beginning to moisten 
 her soft cheek. 
 
 " Agnes was only playing when she ran away 
 from her darling Marie just now; I thought 
 you were angry when you did not speak to me," 
 whispered the sweet child, as we walked on by the 
 river side. 
 
 How long we may have continued here I know
 
 186 
 
 not, when Agnes began to shiver, and begged of 
 me to go home, as she felt very cold. She had 
 come out with her head uncovered, and in her 
 light evening dress; and I had not observed, in 
 the fever of my own thoughts, that the heavy 
 dew had already saturated her hair and dress. 
 I turned towards the house, and had nearly 
 reached it, when all at once a succession of 
 piercing shrieks and a violent ringing of bells 
 resounded through the air. To my ear it seemed 
 as if a thousand demons were let loose : my first 
 impulse was to fly ; the second and uncontrollable 
 one led -me to the room whence the screams, now 
 subsiding into low moans, proceeded. 
 
 I entered, and there upon her bed lay my 
 sister my victim ! Her hair torn and disordered, 
 her face convulsed, her limbs distorted in all 
 the agonies of death. By her side stood my 
 father, striving to force some remedy between her 
 clenched teeth, whilst my mother and nurse were 
 rubbing her already cold and stiffening form to 
 restore warmth.
 
 187 
 
 For a moment I stood there, stunned. As I 
 have heard that in battle men have suddenly lost 
 a limb, or received a vital wound, without a feel- 
 ing of pain or consciousness, so was it with me, 
 while the iron entered into my soul which was to 
 sear it for ever. I cannot I never could recall 
 one thought as having occurred to me in that 
 hour, or one sensation, save that of a sudden 
 curdling, an icy dullness passing through my 
 blood, and checking the fevered rush with which 
 it had been flying through my veins for the last 
 few hours. 
 
 " Marie," said my father, looking up hastily, 
 "get a bath prepared: quick quick, or it will 
 be too late!" 
 
 The sound of his voice seemed in some degree 
 to loosen the spell which bound me, and mecha- 
 nically I moved to obey him. I was at once calm 
 and self-possessed ; I felt nothing ! The bath 
 was prepared, but not before JBarbara was un- 
 conscious ; a convulsive twitching of the muscles 
 alone gave signs of life.
 
 188 
 
 "It is too late," said my father, as lie bent 
 over her, and a tear fell from his eye. " Unfortu- 
 nate girl, it must be the cholera ! I did not think 
 it had yet approached so near us. She is gasping 
 for breath Marie, dearest, support her ! " 
 
 Quietly, coldly, I placed myself behind her, 
 and laid her head upon my bosom; it was but 
 for a moment, a few gasping struggles, one long 
 spasmodic convulsion which almost raised her on 
 her feet, and the wretched Barbara fell lifeless 
 into the arms of her murderess !
 
 189 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 I HAVE little recollection of the time immediately 
 following what I have related, and of that little 
 nothing is clear or distinct. I never heard that 
 doubt as to my sister's death being occasioned 
 by cholera was expressed by any one at that time, 
 and the panic which always accompanied the first 
 appearance of this fearful scourge reigned in the 
 village and throughout the country. But as day 
 after day passed and no similar case occurred, 
 although the disease was within twenty miles of 
 us, the dread it had inspired gradually subsided ; 
 and the poor people, as I afterwards found out, 
 ventured to utter whispers as to the strange pro- 
 vidence which had sent the awful messenger into
 
 190 
 
 our district but to carry off one, and that one a 
 person despised and disliked by all. 
 
 I believe I appeared perfectly calm throughout ; 
 I knew neither sorrow, fear, nor repentance, and 
 this absence of all emotion rendered it easy for 
 me to act my part in such a manner as to escape 
 all suspicion. 
 
 It was not to be supposed that my parents 
 could feel regret at losing such a child, nor did 
 they feign it. The servants, and especially the 
 nurse, seemed to find some difficulty in disguising 
 their joy. Little Agnes, childishly ignorant of 
 any necessity for deception, danced and sung, and 
 played with increased vivacity ; she whispered to 
 me one day, pointing to the room which had been 
 Barbara's, " I am not afraid to go in now, Marie ; 
 there is now no one there to beat me ;" then put- 
 ting her mouth close to my ear she said, " I think, 
 Marie, the good God sent Barbara away." Alfred 
 too seemed to recover health and spirits in an in- 
 conceivably short period : about a month after the 
 catastrophe he said to me, " How strange it was
 
 191 
 
 that Barbara should have been taken away the 
 very day I had determined to leave home ! I hope 
 it is not wrong to feel so happy. Poor creature, 
 she was much to be pitied she was so unloved 
 by every one ; and then," he added shuddering, 
 " she had such a dreadful death." 
 
 " Do not talk about her any more, dear Alfred," 
 I said hurriedly. 
 
 " No," he answered, " we will try to forget her. 
 Oh if Eugene would but come home, how happy 
 we should be now !" 
 
 Happy ! the word sounded like a knell in my 
 ears. To be happy, that all might become so, I 
 was a murderess. The end, so far as others were 
 concerned, seemed to be accomplished ; but for 
 myself was I, could I ever be happy ? As yet, 
 I was in a state resembling torpor; my body 
 indeed moved like an automaton, and my mind 
 went through a daily round of mechanical duties, 
 but my heart was dead within. 'Since that fatal 
 moment when my feelings, raised to their utmost 
 pitch by feverish excitement, had been at once
 
 paralyzed by the sight of my writhing victim, 
 I had known no emotion ; even love for my pa- 
 rents, for Alfred, and for Agnes, seemed to have 
 stagnated, and I felt as if no circumstance of life 
 could again awaken either joy, hope, fear, or even 
 sorrow in my bosom ; but I was mistaken. 
 
 One day as I was sitting in my chamber alone, 
 unoccupied, and in that state of gloomy inanity 
 which had now become habitual to me, a servant 
 came to tell me that the daughter of the post- 
 mistress wanted to speak to me. 
 
 I sent for her, and she entered with downcast 
 eyes and faltering step; her form had become 
 thin and angular, and the healthful bloom upon 
 her cheek had faded. She fell upon her knees, 
 covering her face and sobbing bitterly. 
 
 "What is the matter, Theresa?" said I. 
 
 "0 Fraulein, how shall I tell you? Forgive 
 me, oh forgive me." 
 
 " I think I know what you have to say, Theresa ; 
 tell me the truth that is the only reparation you 
 can now make."
 
 193 
 
 " Fraulein Marie, I did not wish to do it 
 indeed I did not ! but she besought and prayed 
 me, and promised to make my fortune, and to 
 get Wilhelm a good farm from her father when 
 we married, and at last I consented; but I 
 have never had a day's peace since. I thought 
 of the good, kind young Count, and all he must 
 suffer; and of you, Fraulein, who were such an 
 angel to the poor ; and many a time at night, 
 when darkness was around me, I determined to 
 come the very next day and tell you all; but 
 when light returned, fear of Fraulein Barbara 
 and shame prevented me. When I heard of her 
 awful death, I could not help thinking that it 
 was a judgment for her sinful conduct, and I ex- 
 pected every day that the same would happen to 
 myself. Oh if you knew how wretched I have 
 been, what fearful visions have haunted me, you 
 would think I had been sufficiently punished, and 
 forgive me. There are the letters," and she placed 
 them before me. " Fraulein Barbara burned yours, 
 and all others intended for the Count, but I never 
 
 K
 
 194 
 
 gave into her hands any of those which were ad- 
 dressed to you; I told her I always destroyed 
 them at once ; but in truth I kept them, hoping 
 that some day I might give them to you." 
 
 I received the packet in silence. The sight of 
 Eugene's handwriting, the proofs of his existence 
 and faithfulness thus afforded me, at once aroused 
 all my torpid feelings, and restored to me the full 
 sense of all I once had been of all I had now be- 
 come. So entirely did my own thoughts engross 
 me, that I forgot the presence of the poor girl who 
 lay a humble suppliant at my feet ; until, miscon- 
 struing my silence, she embraced my knees and 
 sobbed out imploringly, " Fraulein Marie ! you 
 were always good, and kind, and gentle ; say you 
 will forgive me ! do not be hard-hearted now ! 
 you never wronged any one you do not know 
 what it is to He awake during the long dark night 
 with only the eye of God upon you terrified by 
 the stillness and starting at every sound longing 
 for light, yet when it comes afraid to meet it 
 shrinking from every eye, yet unable to bear soli-
 
 195 
 
 tude. Oh if you could know all this, you would 
 forgive me, and not -add your anger to all my 
 other sufferings." 
 
 " / / forgive you ! " I cried with a wild 
 laugh ; then recollecting myself, I added in a 
 hurried tone, "Yes, yes, I do forgive you only 
 leave me away ! quick, quick, leave me ! " And 
 I almost pushed her out of the room, locked and 
 bolted the door, and flung myself upon the bed. 
 
 " If I could know ! Yes, at last I do know all 
 I am again awake, never more to rest on earth. 
 Oh that I were dead ! beloved Eugene, now you 
 are indeed lost to me never, never shall the 
 arms of a murderess press you to her bosom; 
 never shall the warm throbbings of love in your 
 pure heart find an unworthy echo in those of 
 guilt and remorse in mine. And I fancied myself 
 a heroine I thought I did well ! that I had a 
 right to wipe out the existence of a fellow-crea- 
 ture, because to me that existence seemed a blot 
 upon the face of creation. I thought to give 
 murder a new name, and hallow it. O God ! 
 
 K2
 
 196 
 
 there is a God ! I would not acknowledge him in 
 his love I must learn to know him in his ven- 
 geance. Eugene, father, mother, brother, sister, 
 I have lost you all ! "
 
 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV, 
 
 REPEATED knocks at the door, of which in the 
 distracted state of my mind I was at first scarcely 
 aware, at length fully aroused me, and I got up. 
 
 " Marie," said the voice of Alfred in a joyous 
 tone, " are you asleep, or have Eugene's letters 
 so absorbed you that you have neither eyes nor 
 ears for any one else ? It is my turn to be jealous 
 now I think," he said laughing, as I opened the 
 door. 
 
 " I knew it, I knew it/' he cried, as his eye 
 glanced over the table. " I saw Theresa come in 
 and go away, and at once conjectured the cause 
 of her visit. I have long suspected foul play in 
 this quarter, but thought it would be wrong to 
 mention my suspicion while it was yet without
 
 198 
 
 proof. Marie, now we shall be happy ! " And 
 he threw his arms around me. " But how is this ? 
 you have not opened the letters, and you look 
 very ill dearest, the surprise was too much for 
 you." 
 
 " Yes, I was obliged to lie down ; I could not 
 see to read at first I will try now." 
 
 With trembling hands I proceeded to open the 
 letters: the first had been written a few days 
 subsequent to the last which had reached us, 
 and bore the Hamburg post-mark. Those which 
 followed in succession expressed only surprise at 
 not having heard; then gentle reproaches, and 
 afterwards serious alarm. For six months Eu- 
 gene seemed to have written regularly from va- 
 rious parts of England, and then came letters 
 to different neighbours, begging for a line to say 
 whether any dreadful calamity had befallen our 
 family. 
 
 These of course had all been unanswered ; and 
 then there was one to my father, seemingly writ- 
 ten in a state of the utmost distraction of mind,
 
 199 
 
 saying that if within a week he did not receive an 
 answer, he would set out and travel day and night 
 until he reached us. 
 
 This was one of the letters which Barbara had 
 read, and she immediately wrote an anonymous 
 epistle to Eugene, which he afterwards enclosed to 
 me with the following words : 
 
 " Is this the end of all ? Marie, was it for 
 this I trusted, adored you ? It is, it must be 
 false, yet why your silence? Why suffer me to 
 wander for months without one word ? For God's 
 sake say it is false ! to lose my faith in you, is 
 to lose it in human nature ; whom could I trust 
 if you have deceived me angel as you seemed 
 in beauty and in truth ? I will not upbraid 
 you ; I well know I deserved not the bliss of 
 calling you mine; but he, does he deserve it? 
 there is madness in the very thought. Marie 
 beloved beyond all expression beloved ! write to 
 me, say it is a foul slander; but if it be not, 
 then do not write, let me not again see that hand- 
 writing which has power to make my heart throb
 
 200 
 
 to bursting; send me then the ring of our be- 
 trothal; mine I will keep, to remind me that I 
 once was happy. Farewell !" 
 
 This being sent under cover to my father had 
 passed through Barbara's hands, and thus at once 
 the mystery of the disappearance of my ring was 
 accounted for. The anonymous epistle ran as 
 follows : 
 
 " A friend of the Count Eugene von Ehrenstein 
 feels constrained to let him know, that his be- 
 trothed bride has forgotten her vows, and openly 
 encouraged the attentions of the young Baron von 
 Sternberg. The supposed misery of the forsaken 
 lover forms a daily source of amusement to the 
 happy pair, as they rove about the country alone, 
 or sit in the garden looking at the name of the 
 Count Eugene, carved along with that of his false 
 mistress upon the favourite tree. The writer of 
 this is sorry to communicate such unpleasing 
 news, but it is better that the Count should know 
 what is going on, than fancy himself loved, when 
 he is only laughed at,"
 
 201 
 
 " Poor Eugene," said Alfred, " how he must 
 have suffered ! how shall we discover him ?" 
 
 My father wrote immediately to the bankers in 
 Paris, London and elsewhere, on whom Eugene 
 had letters of credit, but failed entirely in obtain- 
 ing any account as to where he might at present 
 be. We could only ascertain that several months 
 previously he had called on his Parisian banker, 
 and taken away all the money to which he re- 
 mained entitled. He had neither been seen nor 
 heard of since, and none of the persons applied 
 to had the slightest idea of what were his in- 
 tended movements. Thus all trace of him was 
 lost, and we were again involved in doubts as to 
 his very existence. 
 
 To me Eugene's continued absence was a re- 
 lief; I was resolved never to marry him, and I 
 felt that a meeting, in which he should become 
 aware of the fraud practised upon us both, could 
 only occasion fresh and unavailing misery. My 
 brain reeled as I read his heart-rending expres- 
 
 K 5
 
 202 
 
 sions of anguish, but I could not weep. The foun- 
 tain of my tears seemed closed for ever : the solace 
 of the unhappy was denied to the guilty.
 
 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 I HAVE often wondered how my life held out 
 during that time. A constant fever preyed upon 
 me inwardly ; the refreshing sleep of youth and 
 health was unknown to me ; and when, wearied 
 with gazing upon the terrible visions of my 
 waking hours of darkness, my eyes closed for 
 a few moments, horrors unspeakable seemed to 
 surround me, and in wild despair I started to 
 a shuddering remembrance of all the dreadful 
 
 One night I found myself sitting up in bed 
 and struggling with Agnes, who tried to hold me 
 with her little arms, and cried- bitterly. 
 
 "What is it where am I ?" I screamed. 
 
 " Marie, you said such terrible words,
 
 204 
 
 you cried, ' Do not look at me with your horrid 
 eyes 1 I did not do it who says it ?' " 
 
 " I had a fearful dream, dear ! go to sleep 
 again " 
 
 " O Marie, you frightened me so, and you 
 pushed me away from you ; I had nearly fallen 
 out of the bed." 
 
 I held the dear child to my bosom, and kissed 
 her till she fell asleep. I then got up and struck 
 a light ; never again would I dare to sleep in the 
 same room with any one. I had felt a kind of 
 comfort in having this innocent being like a 
 protecting angel by my side I must henceforth 
 give it up. What right had I to consolation 
 of any kind ? how had I dared to retain her so 
 long? 
 
 The following day I told my mother that I 
 would not allow Agnes to sleep, with me any 
 more, as I was restless at night and disturbed 
 her. This caused no surprise : Eugene's pro- 
 tracted absence, and all that had occurred respect- 
 ing it, sufficiently accounted for any symptoms of
 
 205 
 
 ill-health ; and my father had already observed 
 the feverish excitement which appeared about me, 
 and remarked that it was only natural. 
 
 Poor Agnes herself urged imploringly that she 
 might be allowed to remain. She had slept with 
 me ever since our return from Dresden, and this 
 separation from me seemed to her a species of 
 banishment, and so like a punishment, that she 
 could not by any means be reconciled to it, and 
 looked sorrowful all day. 
 
 At night I took her to the nurse's room, where 
 a bed had been prepared, and undressed her 
 myself. 
 
 " I shall not sleep here, I am sure/' she sobbed; 
 " indeed, sister, you might have let me stay with 
 you ; you did not disturb me much, and I like 
 you to disturb me, and let me kiss you when you 
 are ill and cannot sleep ; and I do not like to be 
 here at all," she said with a fresh burst of tears. 
 
 "Agnes, darling, do you not like to do what 
 Mamma and I wish ?" 
 
 " Yes I do sometimes/'
 
 206 
 
 " If you really love us, you should always, and 
 we wish you to sleep here." . 
 
 " But indeed, sister, I cannot sleep I know 
 I cannot." And the innocent child fell fast asleep 
 in the midst of her sobs and protestations: but 
 oh, what a night was mine ! 
 
 It was only a few weeks after this, that one 
 evening the dear child complained of headache 
 and sickness ; she was feverish and restless all the 
 night, which I passed by her bedside, and next 
 morning the complaint manifested itself as scarlet 
 fever of the most malignant kind. Her throat 
 was swollen, her skin almost purple, and her 
 suffering from pain and difficulty of breathing 
 seemed to be very great. 
 
 Her parents hung over her in speechless an- 
 guish, and they would have separated me from 
 her ; but even had life been precious, I would not 
 thus have preserved it. As it was, I held her to 
 my heart, I put my lips to hers, I would have 
 sucked away the poison from her blood, but 
 death so sweetly found would have been too great
 
 207 
 
 a blessing for such a one as I. The curse which 
 I had wrought upqn myself and mine had but 
 begun. Agnes was the first victim ; she died in 
 my arms, and a smile of love still struggled 
 through her last agonies as she looked upon 
 me. 
 
 Beautiful being ! " She seemed to come from 
 some far land/ 3 and could not find a home here. 
 Had she left us a year earlier, I believe I should 
 have suffered far more. As it was, wretchedness 
 had not left me much to lose ; so far as I was 
 concerned, the world must ever be to me a dreary 
 wilderness. I now felt that the power of loving 
 was yet mine as intensely as ever ; but as it had 
 once been the spring of all my joy, the life-giving 
 principle of my happy existence, so now it had 
 become the very source of all my torment. I felt 
 as if ever on the brink of a precipice ; one word 
 might hurl me to the depths below, and make me 
 an object of abhorrence where I had till now been 
 one of deep and devoted affection ; could I ever 
 again rejoice in this love ? Oh no, I owed its
 
 208 
 
 continuance merely to deception that vile de- 
 ception which had always been abhorrent to my 
 nature, but to which I was henceforth irrevoca- 
 bly condemned. Every day, every hour, each 
 moment, I must wear the mask, and disguise 
 my heart from those nearest and dearest to me. 
 Never more could the voice of sympathy console 
 me ; I was alone alone for ever in the dark and 
 dismal solitude of guilt. 
 
 Such was the language of remorse and despair ; 
 yet there were times when I felt only pity for 
 myself, and could have wept, had tears been per- 
 mitted me, as I bewailed my miserable fate. 
 I recalled the long-continued and extreme pro- 
 vocation which had tempted me to commit the 
 fatal deed the ill-regulated state of my thoughts 
 and affections, if not generated, at least fostered 
 by the unsuitable system of my education the 
 feverish excitement, amounting almost to mad- 
 ness, under which I had been hurried onwards. 
 I felt that no dislike on my own account, no 
 selfish motive, but deep, all-engrossing love for
 
 209 
 
 others had guided my hand j and at such times 
 remorse became for a moment extinguished in 
 pity, but only to resume its sway with increased 
 power.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 ALFRED felt his little sister's death most keenly. 
 He had not seen her during her illness ; and for 
 some days afterwards my father would not allow 
 him to come into the room with me, lest any 
 infection might still cling to me. When we met 
 at last he wept bitterly. 
 
 " Marie, how dull the house seems !" he 
 said ; " sometimes in the night I think I hear 
 her sweet little voice, and start up to listen ; and 
 then all seems so still, so deathlike ! How she 
 used to run to meet us when we entered the 
 house ! and when we were sitting in our Para- 
 dise for it was Paradise again how pleasant it 
 was to see her laughing eyes peeping through 
 the green boughs ; she looked just like a little
 
 211 
 
 cherub which she is now ! I wonder if she can 
 see us." 
 
 These sentences dropped from my brother's lips 
 uninterrupted by me, whilst his tears continued 
 to fall fast. He could weep all except my mi- 
 serable self found that relief; but in the general 
 grief, the dry eye and burning cheek, which might 
 have told of guilt and anguish, passed unobserved. 
 
 Meanwhile my nights became more fearfully 
 disturbed, and I was obliged to keep a lamp 
 burning, and try to read or walk about my room, 
 until exhaustion forced me to lie down and sleep 
 and dream again. Once I was awakened by 
 my own screams from a vision too horrible to 
 write. I started up my lamp was extinguished ; 
 terror, too strong for endurance, too powerful for 
 control, overcame me. I fled to Alfred's room, 
 the door of which was opposite to my own, and 
 shrieking I know not what, I threw myself upon 
 the bed of the startled boy. 
 
 " Marie, is it you what is the matter ? " 
 
 " Barbara look ! there she is, close beside me.
 
 212 
 
 She threatens me look, look ! " And I buried my 
 face in the bed-clothes, as if I could thus shut 
 out the phantom conjured up by my own imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 " You are dreaming, Marie," said Alfred, put- 
 ting his arms around me ; " awake ! Barbara is 
 not here ; how can she be here ? rouse yourself, 
 and remember she is dead." 
 
 His words recalled me to myself. 
 
 "Dead! yes, I recollect it was a dream;" 
 and I shuddered. 
 
 " Go back, and try to sleep again, dear sister," 
 said Alfred. 
 
 ". No, no, let me stay here ; I cannot go back, 
 I will sit^>eside you ; let me stay ! " 
 
 " Surely if you wish it ; but do you then lie 
 down, and let me watch you." 
 
 " Oh no, I could not sleep, I do not want any 
 more sleep ; I will sit here beside you." 
 
 Presently he was again asleep ; calm and peace- 
 ful as an infant slumbering he lay there, nor 
 stirred until, as the first rosy beam of sunlight
 
 13 
 
 glanced through the half-open window- shutter 
 and fell across his eyes, an exquisite smile played 
 over his face, and he awoke. 
 
 "0 Marie, I have had such a delightful 
 dream/' he said ; " I thought Agnes appeared to 
 me, with her golden hair grown very long and 
 floating around her like a beautiful cloud; she 
 smiled just as she used, only even more sweetly, 
 and said with her soft silvery voice, ( Dear brother 
 Alfred, do not cry any more for me ; do you know 
 where I am ?' and I said, stretching out my arms 
 as if they could have reached her, ' Where are you, 
 darling ?' 'I am with him who said, ' Suffer little 
 children to come unto me;' and he has sent me 
 to tell you this, and to bid you and Father and 
 Mother and Marie not mourn for me any more ; 
 you will some day come to me, and I will meet 
 you, and we shall be all happy together/ I tried 
 to grasp her again, but she smiled, and crying 
 ' He calls ! ' she vanished from 'my sight. Oh, I 
 feel so happy now ! I would not bring her back 
 even if I could."
 
 214 
 
 I left him and returned to my own room. 
 " We have each dreamed according to our de- 
 serts ; angels minister to Alfred's slumbers, whilst 
 to mine " Such were my thoughts. O God, 
 how miserable I was ! but my cup was not yet 
 full. 
 
 One night I awoke from another hideous night- 
 mare ; the lamp yet burned, and by its light I saw 
 Alfred hanging over me : his countenance was 
 grave almost solemn as he said, "Marie, you 
 seem to have awful dreams; I heard your cries, 
 and ran to awaken you." 
 
 I knew not what might have passed my lips in 
 sleep ; and the peculiar expression of my brother/s 
 countenance awakening all my fears, I stammered 
 out, " Yes, I have sometimes the shock of Bar- 
 bara's death and I felt then how wrong it was 
 to have hated any one as I did her and Agnes 
 too I think all together have made me ill." 
 
 Alfred's countenance brightened, and he said, 
 kissing me, "Your conscience is too sensitive, 
 Marie ; we might all have feverish dreams upon
 
 215 
 
 the same account ; you must get rid of such 
 thoughts." 
 
 I hoped he had been satisfied with my expla- 
 nation ; but he was more than usually grave and 
 silent throughout the day, and I felt that the gulf 
 which had been gradually widening between us 
 since the commission of my crime was now likely 
 to be still further increased by an unwonted re- 
 serve upon his part. 
 
 I was from this time more than ever upon the 
 watch against sleep, but it came notwithstanding ; 
 and again and again in the dead of night did I 
 lose sight of consequences and fly for refuge to 
 Alfred's room, whilst during the day I shunned 
 his presence and could not endure the strangely 
 mournful glance of his eye.
 
 216 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 ONE morning very early, as I sat alone in the 
 saloon, I heard a well-remembered voice hastily 
 utter my name. A well-known step approached 
 the door it opened. " Marie, my own, my best- 
 beloved \" sounded in my ears, and I was clasped 
 to the breast of Eugene. 
 
 For one instant a sensation of exquisite bliss 
 passed through my heart and thrilled through 
 every nerve ; it was over, and with a quick move- 
 ment I disengaged myself from his arms. 
 
 "Marie, will you not then forgive me?" he 
 cried, falling at my feet ; " fool, fool that I was to 
 believe a lie ! but I have suffered ; look at me, see 
 whether I have not suffered; and you how you 
 are changed!"
 
 217 
 
 Still I answered not. He sprang up and began 
 to pace the room with hurried steps. His face 
 was pale ; the flush of joy which overspread it 
 when he entered had died away, and now indeed 
 it was evident that he had suffered deeply. The 
 expression of buoyant youth was gone, and he 
 looked as if even happiness could not restore it. 
 I felt oppressed almost to fainting, and rose to 
 leave the room, but sank back in my chair and 
 covered my face. 
 
 " Marie ! " he said impetuously, throwing him- 
 self at my feet ; " Marie, if you have ceased to 
 love me, say so ; I deserve it ; say the word, and 
 I go for ever." 
 
 " I love you, Eugene, but " 
 
 His countenance again became radiant. " But 
 ah Marie, if you love me, you will, you must 
 forgive me ! How could I ever doubt you ? why 
 did I not come at once, and assure myself of your 
 tnith ? Say that you forgive me !" 
 
 " Yes, Eugene, I never felt angry with you." 
 
 " Then why look so sad so changed ?" 
 
 L
 
 218 - 
 
 " You forget, Eugene " 
 
 " Poor little Agnes ah yes, I did indeed for- 
 get. Again forgive me, dearest; you see I am 
 still the same selfish fellow as ever," he answered 
 with a melancholy smile, as he drew a chair close 
 to me and sat down. 
 
 " Once more by your side, dear Marie ! " he 
 whispered. And now he told me how he had 
 watched day by day for an answer to his last let- 
 ter, with a refutation of what he at one moment 
 hoped to find a slander, and the next started from 
 as a truth. At length he received my ring in a 
 blank envelope, and at once believed the damning 
 proof. He immediately left England, and had 
 since wandered over Italy, Greece, and part of 
 Russia. 
 
 " But I have nothing to tell you about these 
 countries," he said ; " my heart was closed, and 
 my eyes in vain opened upon things rich and rare 
 in nature and art. By night and day I saw but 
 one image my Marie in the arms of another 
 her first love forsaken forgotten. At length I felt
 
 219 
 
 an irrepressible longing to see my home ; I would 
 come in secret and depart unknown, but come I 
 would ; and last night, in silence and in darkness, 
 I entered the once happy home of my youth. I 
 met the steward, and his first words were, ' Oh, 
 Count Eugene, how could you believe the .lies 
 they told you ?' Marie, what a revulsion did this 
 one sentence cause throughout my whole frame ! 
 I saw all; even before he told me the circum- 
 stances I felt how I had been duped, miserably 
 duped; now it seems to me inexplicable that I 
 could have been so blinded. I went away sus- 
 pecting, fearing the machinations of your un- 
 happy sister. Why did it not occur to me to 
 attribute all that seemed incomprehensible to that 
 source ? But it is over ; nothing now can sepa- 
 rate us on earth." 
 
 Again he pressed me to his heart, and again did 
 conscience force me to repel his warm and true 
 embrace. He looked surprised and hurt, and my 
 mother's entrance relieved me from a position al- 
 most too painful and embarrassing for endurance. 
 
 L2
 
 220 
 
 I left them and went to my own chamber ; I 
 struggled to regain calmness, to think of some 
 plan by which I might extricate myself; but 
 none occurred to me, and at last I resolved to be 
 guided by circumstances, and trust to the inven- 
 tion of the moment, should Eugene urge our 
 union. I then returned and took my place at 
 the breakfast-table. Alfred sat by his father's 
 side, and as I passed he pressed my hand ten- 
 derly; I felt that his eye rested upon me con- 
 tinually, but I dared not meet it. 
 
 I know not whether the resolution to separate 
 myself for ever from Eugene may have really 
 increased my love for him, or whether it may 
 only have awakened me to a consciousness of the 
 extent of my attachment of which I was before 
 unaware ; but be this as it may, I felt that I now 
 loved him with an intensity which surprised my- 
 self; still my determination never wavered for a 
 moment. 
 
 From the time of his return I studiously avoided 
 being alone with him, hoping thus to ward off, at
 
 221 
 
 least temporarily, the dreaded subject ; but my 
 efforts were vain; before a week had passed, he 
 said to me with an expression of great seriousness, 
 " Marie, I must speak with you alone." 
 
 I trembled violently as I rose. We went out 
 together. Unconsciously our footsteps turned in 
 the same direction as that we had pursued on the 
 day he had first spoken to me of love, and we 
 walked on in silence : at length Eugene said, 
 " Believing your assurance that you still love me, 
 Marie, I have striven in vain to account for your 
 strange coldness, and even to conceal it from 
 myself. Why try to deceive me by words, when 
 every look tells me you are changed ? Why not 
 say so at once, and put an end to this harrowing 
 suspense, as bad, if not worse, than the most 
 dreadful certainty itself ? Speak, Marie ! I shall 
 not reproach you ; the fault at first was mine ; I 
 deserve to suffer ; say you have ceased to love me/' 
 
 " I cannot say so, Eugene ; I love you more 
 than ever, but " 
 
 "Why always add this but, Marie?" he said
 
 222 
 
 impatiently ; " if you still love me, what can in- 
 terfere between us ? who shall dare to do so t" he 
 added with flashing eyes. 
 
 I was silent. " Marie, Marie/' he cried with 
 deep emotion, " do not break my heart ! the 
 spring of my youth is gone already, and it de- 
 pends upon you whether the rest of my existence 
 is to be a burthen of inexpressible misery, or 
 Marie, dearest, best beloved, say you will be mine 
 now ! months have passed away, weary wretched 
 months to us both, since the time we should have 
 been united; why still defer longer?" 
 
 " I cannot marry you, Eugene," I exclaimed 
 with vehemence, all self-control giving way ; ' ' I 
 cannot I will never, never marry you ! " 
 
 He paused, looked at me for an instant with a 
 glance in which astonishment, love, and the wildest 
 despair were blended, then suddenly throwing his 
 arms around me, he pressed me in a frenzied em- 
 brace to his bosom, and fled in the direction of his 
 home. 
 
 How I reached mine I know not ; I only re-
 
 223 
 
 member that as I passed the river on my way, the 
 thought of self-destruction flashed upon my mind, 
 and I stopped; one moment and I should sleep 
 for ever ; I should have rest rest ! Oh, how 
 sweet to be at rest ! and from this no dread of 
 eternity and of the sinner's doom no fear of 
 dreams more awful still than those of earth re- 
 tarded me. But another recollection glanced 
 across my mind, and I was saved. I had once- 
 heard my father speak of a case of self-murder, 
 when the crime had been committed under very 
 distressing circumstances by a youth, who had 
 left both parents and sisters to mourn his loss. 
 " It was a fearful deed/' he said ; " a cowardly 
 egotism, thus to fly from ills which fell upon him- 
 self alone, at the expense of inflicting upon those 
 who loved him the bitterest, most dreadful of all 
 evils, to escape himself, by disgracing and stig- 
 matizing a whole family ; for let its apologists dis- 
 guise it as they may, suicide is still murder, and 
 he who commits it, except in madness, is no other 
 than a cold-hearted and cold-blooded assassin."
 
 224 
 
 All this I remembered. " No ! " I said, " I am 
 already a murderess, but for their sakes I will 
 conceal my guilt ; never shall humiliation and 
 disgrace be inflicted on those dearly loved ones 
 by such a selfish act of mine. I will live I de- 
 serve to live since life is torture ! " 
 
 On the evening of this dreadful day a note was 
 brought to my father which he read and handed 
 to me without a word. It was as follows : 
 
 " My guardian and my best and dearest friend, 
 farewell ! tomorrow I go hence whither I care 
 not when, if ever, to return, I know not. Marie 
 has forsaken me, she drives me from her ! for her 
 I could have died ; cruel girl ! she asks more than 
 life, and I give it. Farewell I" 
 
 "What am I to understand from that?" said 
 my father in a severe tone. I could not speak, I 
 was torn with conflicting emotions. I felt that 
 Alfred's eye was upon me, and I heard one of his 
 long, deep sighs. 
 
 The guilt which pressed upon my heart, now 
 forcing me by remorse to act in a manner which
 
 225 
 
 might lead to its own detection, now with coward 
 hand dragging me into an opposite and equally 
 dangerous course, urged me in the present emer- 
 gency to an equivocation which my soul abhorred. 
 
 " I cannot marry, father/' I said, with a trem- 
 bling voice and without raising my eyes, "when 
 Agnes is scarcely yet cold in her grave/' 
 
 " This then was your objection ?" 
 
 " Eugene did not give me time to explain to 
 speak," I said hesitatingly. 
 
 " Then I may write and tell him it was all a 
 mistake ? no, I will rather go and tell him that 
 he misunderstood you; may I not?" 
 
 "Do as you will, father, but let him not ask 
 me to marry now:" and with these words I left 
 the room. 
 
 L5
 
 226 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 EUGENE did not go; he did not however re-ap- 
 pear amongst us for some days, and then a heavy 
 cloud hung over his countenance. He no longer 
 sought to converse with me, and feeling as one 
 encompassed by some profound mystery which he 
 cannot pierce, was unable to resign himself to 
 happy emotions. To me anything was a relief 
 which spared me the expression of his love, and 
 by keeping him at a distance prevented all allu- 
 sion either to the past or the future. 
 
 Circumstances were about to favour my design 
 respecting a postponement of our marriage, though 
 in a manner I had little anticipated. For some 
 time past I may almost say from the veiy night 
 to which I have alluded, when awaking from a
 
 227 
 
 frightful dream I found my brother standing over 
 me a gradual but visible alteration had taken 
 place in Alfred. All elasticity of spirit was gone ; 
 his countenance, always pensive, had become 
 tinged with the deepest melancholy ; his step 
 was languid, his manner absent, and the ordinary 
 paleness of his complexion had increased and 
 become, as it were, ratified into perfect trans- 
 parency. His eye no longer kindled, as it was 
 wont, with every passing emotion ; his face no 
 longer glowed with the brilliant colour which 
 used to flash over it, rendering it for the moment 
 as perfect in physical beauty as it constantly was 
 in that of a spiritual character. His favourite 
 books lay neglected, the piano-forte untouched, 
 and he would sometimes sit for hours absorbed 
 in reverie, and, except by frequent sighs, giving 
 scarcely any sign of life. I believe it was to me 
 that the change first became apparent, for it was 
 accompanied by symptoms, the origin of which I 
 alone could have suspected. 
 
 I observed him start when I entered the room,
 
 228 
 
 or when my voice aroused him from one of the 
 gloomy fits of abstraction which daily became 
 more habitual to him. Sometimes he gazed upon 
 me with a fixed, inquiring expression, under which 
 I shrunk and writhed with internal agony. At 
 other times he would clasp his arms around me 
 with a wild despairing fondness, and in one of 
 these moments the words " Forgive me, sister ! " 
 fell from his lips. 
 
 " Forgive you, Alfred ! what have I to forgive 
 in you?" 
 
 " No matter, no matter, dearest ; I do not think 
 I am well I scarcely know what I say or think ; 
 sometimes I fancy I must be going mad." 
 
 " Alfred, do not speak so ! what have you 
 ever done to " and I paused. It appeared as if 
 something in the intonation of my voice struck 
 him ; he started and half recoiled ; his searching 
 glance was again fixed upon me; then breaking 
 suddenly away, he burst from the room exclaim- 
 ing, " Oh God ! could madness be worse than 
 this, or am I mad already ? "
 
 229 
 
 The frightful thought "Does he suspect me ?" 
 now first took a definite form in my mind, whilst in 
 every look and gesture of my brother an answer 
 to the horrible question was found or fancied by 
 my terrified imagination ; then indeed retribution 
 began ! So completely had he been linked with 
 all my occupations, with every thought so de- 
 spairingly had I clung to the consciousness of his 
 love, and in its fulness found a refuge, even during 
 the partial estrangement which had taken place be- 
 tween us after the commission of my crime that 
 now, as this last consolation seemed about to de- 
 part, I felt as if life must henceforth have for me 
 only torments such as none before had endured 
 on earth. 
 
 One day I was sitting with my parents, when 
 my father said, " Anna, have you not lately ob- 
 served anything particular in Alfred's appear- 
 ance?" 
 
 My mother looked up with a startled air as he 
 continued, "I do not think he is well, he has 
 grown thin and pale, and last night there was a
 
 230 
 
 bright hectic spot upon his cheek which alarmed 
 me." 
 
 " Yes, I have observed all you speak of, Ed- 
 ward ; his appetite is quite gone ; I have been 
 trying, with the little things he used to like when 
 a child, to tempt him to eat, but he turns from 
 everything, or only pretends to eat to please me. 
 I had never taken notice of it to either of you 
 nor yet to himself, hoping the change was in my 
 own fancy, as you did not seem to have observed 
 it; but today I could not help telling him I 
 feared he was ill. ' No, not ill, mother/ he said, 
 and kissed me with one of his sweet smiles ; and 
 then I thought perhaps it was not illness, but 
 fretting, for you know " and here her voice fal- 
 tered and her eyes filled with tears " he was 
 very fond of poor Agnes." 
 
 I could not bear to remain longer, and went to 
 my room, where my mother came to me shortly 
 after to say that my father thought change of air 
 necessary for Alfred, and that we were to pass the 
 winter in Italy.
 
 231 
 
 Italy ! how would my heart and that of Alfred 
 have bounded at such a prospect a few years 
 sooner but now ! 
 
 A short time afterwards, when I found him sit- 
 ting languidly beneath the willow-tree and men- 
 tioned what was about to take place, one long sad 
 gaze passed between us, and then falling into each 
 other's arms we silently mourned over ourselves 
 and for each other. 
 
 What thoughts may have been in his mind I 
 can only conjecture ; before mine arose the happy 
 past connected with that spot, the wretched pre- 
 sent, and the dark, blank future. Where were 
 now the visions of my childhood ? where the feel- 
 ings of exulting gladness, the intense delight with 
 which scarce five years before we had anticipated 
 our journey to Dresden, and talked over the pos- 
 sibility of another at some future time to the land 
 of poetry and art ? gone, gone for ever ! 
 
 " I would rather not go," said Alfred, raising 
 his head from my bosom ; " it will do me no 
 good, and I would rather be buried beside dear
 
 232 
 
 Agnes ; but as my father wishes it, I shall make 
 no objection." 
 
 All was soon arranged for our departure ; and 
 Eugene, who could not accompany us, having 
 been sent for on account of the illness of his 
 uncle at Vienna, promised to meet us at Rome.
 
 233 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 IT was about the middle of September that we 
 set out for Marseilles, whence we were to sail for 
 Nice ; my father, thinking that a short sea-voyage 
 might prove beneficial to Alfred, had chosen this 
 route in preference to crossing the Alps. 
 
 The wind was fair, the sky bright and cloud- 
 less, when we embarked ; and the novelty of the 
 scene, the fresh, exhilarating air, and the varied 
 beauties of the coast along which our vessel 
 glided, seemed to re-awaken in Alfred the dor- 
 mant faculty of enjoyment. His eye, for the first 
 time for many months, manifested an interest in 
 what went on around him, and a faint smile played 
 upon his lips when my father called his attention
 
 234 
 
 to some passing charm contrived by the hand of 
 nature or of man. 
 
 The sun went down with the radiant glory 
 which so generally attends its farewell in those 
 favoured climes, and as its warm rays fell upon 
 the face of the pale fragile boy, I saw the eyes of 
 those around fixed with deep interest upon him 
 then with pitying compassion turned upon his 
 parents. 
 
 After a prosperous voyage we reached Nice, 
 where my father purposed to remain for a short 
 time ; and the invigorating air of an Italian cli- 
 mate seemed at once to infuse new life into 
 Alfred's spirit. Removed from the scenes with 
 which his late misery had been associated, it ap- 
 peared as if the impressions there received had 
 become in some degree deadened. His manner 
 towards myself partially resumed its early frank- 
 ness, and the moody fits of silence in which he 
 had latterly indulged became less frequent. 
 
 I might perhaps have found a temporary and 
 mournful satisfaction in observing this change,
 
 235 
 
 but that I felt it could not last. Had my bro- 
 ther's suspicious been unfounded had I lost his 
 confidence and affection merely through any mis- 
 construction on his part, which time and cir- 
 cumstances might possibly clear away I might 
 indeed have hoped to regain my former place in 
 his esteem and affection. But how different was 
 the case ! here was no misapprehension, no ground- 
 less suspicion, no perverted circumstance ; all was 
 true a fearful and unchangeable truth, which 
 had forced itself upon his unsuspecting mind, and 
 eaten its way into his heart. Thus, as in every in- 
 stance since the commission of my crime, change, 
 instead of relief, only brought to me new tortures. 
 Not knowing the moment when conscience might 
 wring from me a fresh betrayal of my secret, or 
 circumstances re-awaken in Alfred the memory 
 of all that seemed for the time to be almost for- 
 gotten, my most bitter hours were those in which 
 he sought me, my anguish most keen when, but 
 for one dreadful recollection, I should have felt 
 most happy.
 
 We remained only a short time at Nice, from 
 whence, passing rapidly by Genoa and Florence, 
 we travelled to Rome, where we intended to re- 
 main during the winter.
 
 237 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 WHAT but a weight of guilt on my soul could 
 have rendered it insensible to the first glimpse 
 of the eternal city? Alfred's face became full 
 of animation, and the fire of enthusiasm burned 
 upon his cheek and in his eye, as the distant 
 view at once burst upon our sight. " O Marie," 
 he exclaimed, as we at length passed the Porta del 
 Popolo, " we are in Rome ! " and his eyes, which 
 had been earnestly turned in search of passing 
 objects of interest, now eagerly sought mine. 
 
 And where were they ? fixed, intently fixed 
 upon that most beloved face, but not in sym- 
 pathy. No answering expression of joy, of long- 
 cherished hope fulfilled, of youthful enthusiasm, 
 met his fond and ardent gaze. Cold and wither-
 
 238 
 
 ing must have been that look and it struck 
 home ! I saw his cheek become colourless ; I 
 saw the beaming light of youth and love fade 
 from his eye, until it settled in a glassy stare 
 upon my face ; I saw his hands clenched as if 
 from some internal spasm, I saw it all ! for, 
 though conscious that death was in my glance, I 
 had no power to withdraw it, I see it now ! 
 
 "What is the matter, my child?" exclaimed 
 my mother ; " Edward, he is dying ! speak, Al- 
 fred, what is it ?" 
 
 " Nothing, mother/' murmured the boy ; " I 
 am only sick." And his head drooped upon 
 his breast. 
 
 The horses were urged forwards, my father 
 supporting my apparently lifeless brother in his 
 arms, and we quickly reached the hotel. There 
 Alfred was laid upon a bed, and soon restored to 
 consciousness; but, except to answer the tender 
 inquiries of his mother, he did not speak. Once 
 only during this evening his eyes met mine ; they 
 lingered for a moment, then wandered searchingly
 
 239 
 
 over my features, and again closed. He turned 
 languidly towards the wall, and appeared to 
 slumber. 
 
 " He sleeps now/' said my mother, bending 
 anxiously over the couch : " Marie, my love, go 
 to bed ; you too are ill, and need rest." 
 
 She would have kissed me, but I turned away 
 and left the room. 
 
 The next morning Alfred did not appear till 
 some time after his usual hour, and then looked 
 wan and feeble. He seemed little disposed to 
 make any exertion, but did not object to go out, 
 when my father proposed visiting some of the 
 interesting scenes around us ; nor did I. 
 
 Day after day we wandered listlessly amidst 
 the memorials of past ages; that which had so 
 often occupied our thoughts and dreams passed 
 before our eyes ; but what was it now to us ? I 
 saw but the wasting form of my brother ; I felt 
 nought but my own misery. 
 
 Without manifesting any outward endeavour 
 to avoid me which could be remarked by those
 
 240 
 
 around us, it was now evident to me that Alfred 
 again and increasingly shrank from my presence. 
 He even avoided looking at me ; and when obliged 
 to do so, there was an expression in his counte- 
 nance which I at least could not misinterpret. 
 No longer did I ask myself, "Does he suspect ?" 
 but " Does he doubt my guilt ?" Change of scene 
 and a partial amendment of health had, as I be- 
 fore said, for a time produced a certain renovation 
 of his spirits ; and the suspicions which for months 
 had sapped his strength, and threatened to de- 
 stroy his life, had partially yielded under the joint 
 influence of an atmosphere well-suited to the con- 
 dition of his bodily frame, and of a succession of 
 picturesque objects congenial to his natural tone 
 of mind, and affording a healthful stimulus to his 
 morbidly depressed feelings. But this short in- 
 terval of peace was over. At the moment when 
 in the full excitement of his own ardent emotions, 
 forgetting all that was painful and terrible in the 
 last few months, and with the quick instinct of 
 affection, turning to the loved companion of his
 
 241 
 
 early days in search of that sympathy which from 
 her he never used to seek in vain, he had encoun- 
 tered a glance in which I felt I knew that all 
 was written. 
 
 Outward things had no power to give me hap- 
 piness, but they had a power to goad and torture 
 me. The remembrance of what I had been, of 
 my former capacity for intense and exquisite en- 
 joyment, the bright visions of my childhood and 
 early youth, all rose before my fancy as I entered 
 the gates of Rome. I could not look around me. 
 What now was Rome with all its hallowed recol- 
 lections to me ? a tomb. I heard the joyous ex- 
 clamations of my brother, I watched his animated 
 countenance, I felt the contrast between guilt and 
 innocence. As he was in this moment, I might 
 have been. Then our eyes met, his doom was 
 sealed ! 
 
 One day we had spent several hours in the 
 Vatican, and Alfred seemed much fatigued. He 
 lay upon a sofa in the evening, whilst my father 
 read to him a tragedy of Alfieri. His eyes were 
 
 M
 
 242 
 
 closed, but the deep sighs which occasionally 
 burst from his bosom proved that he did not 
 sleep. 
 
 I had seated myself in a dark corner of the 
 room, whence I could gaze upon his pale face 
 unseen. My mother sat at the table sewing, but 
 by degrees her needle moved more slowly. The 
 work dropped from her hand; and her eyes, 
 which from time to time had wandered to the 
 couch, became fixed there, whilst tears began to 
 fall rapidly down her cheeks. 
 
 The singular attenuation of my brother's form, 
 the almost unearthly beauty of his features, and 
 the transparent delicacy of his complexion, were 
 thrown into full relief by the bright crimson co- 
 vering of the couch upon which he lay; whilst 
 the contrast between the child-like innocence 
 and purity of his countenance, and the expres- 
 sion of profound melancholy which pervaded it, 
 was more than usually striking. Once his eyes 
 opened, and I observed that he turned them upon 
 his mother. He saw that she was weeping, and
 
 243 
 
 half unclosed his lips as if to speak ; but the 
 sound died away on his tongue; and after mo- 
 ving for a moment uneasily upon the sofa, he 
 seemed again disposed to slumber. 
 
 Presently he called his father, and I caught the 
 words now uttered in a low tone, " Do you think, 
 father, there would be time for me to go home ?" 
 
 " What do you mean, my dear boy ? Why do 
 you ask if there would be time ?" 
 
 Alfred looked anxiously towards his mother, 
 whose tears were still flowing; and my father, 
 understanding his meaning, signed to her to 
 leave the room. I was unobserved, and did not 
 move. 
 
 " Father," he said, " I think I know that I 
 am dying ; and indeed, dear father, I have no 
 longer any wish to live. The world is a different 
 place from what I once fancied it, and all I now 
 desire is to return home again, to be laid beside 
 our little Agnes." 
 
 "How can you speak thus, Alfred?" replied 
 my father, deeply affected; "can you think so 
 
 M2
 
 244 
 
 lightly of leaving us all ? How should we bear 
 to part with ydu ? how could Marie live without 
 you?" 
 
 " Marie poor Marie ! " said Alfred in a tone 
 of the utmost dejection. 
 
 I could endure no more ; I rose, and noiselessly 
 left the room.
 
 245 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 I BELIEVE my father did not attempt to combat 
 my brother's anxious desire to return home ; but, 
 unwilling to leave any means untried from which 
 there seemed to be a possibility of his deriving 
 benefit, he persuaded Alfred to consent to make 
 trial, for at least a few days, of the more salu- 
 brious air of Naples, promising that, if this failed 
 in some measure to restore him, we should at once 
 embark for the south of France. 
 
 We set out immediately, but a more rapid 
 change than had yet taken place now manifested 
 itself; and upon the evening of our arrival at 
 Naples, whither we had travelled by easy stages, 
 it became apparent that my brother would have 
 been quite unequal to proceed further, had such
 
 246 
 
 at the time been our intention. He passed a 
 restless night, and on the ensuing morning vainly 
 strove to rouse himself, whilst he endeavoured to 
 persuade my father at once to permit him to 
 attempt the voyage home. He was completely 
 exhausted by the exertion of dressing, and lay 
 upon the sofa for the rest of the day, unable to 
 move and apparently almost unconscious. 
 
 Towards evening he seemed rather less op- 
 pressed with languor, and asked my father to 
 read to him some favourite portions of the Scrip- 
 tures. 
 
 When the reader's voice ceased, Alfred closed 
 his eyes for a moment, and his lips moved as if in 
 prayer ; he then softly uttered my name. I went 
 to his side. 
 
 " Leave us, dear father," he said ; and we 
 were alone. Once and again his lips half opened ; 
 I heard his breath come quick; I knelt by his 
 side, and saw the throbbing pulses of his heart as 
 he struggled for utterance. At length, looking 
 at me with an indescribable mixture of severity
 
 247 
 
 and compassion, he said in nearly inarticulate 
 accents, "Marie, I am dying; you know why; 
 yet even from death you could recall me; even 
 how I think that I could live, if you were not " 
 and he laboured for breath. 
 
 " Truth Marie ! I want to know the truth. I 
 fear I do know it too well. Still there clings 
 around my heart one lingering hope only make 
 it certainty. Marie, beloved sister, look at me ! " 
 and he threw his arms around me. His head 
 rested upon my shoulder, and every sinking 
 energy of soul and body was concentrated in the 
 gaze which he fixed upon my face. The accusing 
 spirit left his eye, and the full tide of deep and 
 passionate affection seemed ready to well forth 
 with all the force and tenderness acquired by 
 long-continued restraint, as he whispered in a 
 thrilling and half-stifled voice, " Marie, say you 
 did not do it if you can \" 
 
 Urged on by some irresistible power, which 
 may have been the pressure of my inevitable but 
 as yet unfulfilled fate, or which was perhaps only
 
 248 
 
 the climax of despair, I exclaimed, "I did it, 
 Alfred but it was for you \ " 
 
 I saw his countenance alter; the look of over- 
 flowing tenderness and love changed iDto one of 
 horror and despair, his arms relaxed their grasp, 
 I heard one long and hollow groan, I saw him 
 fall back heavily upon the couch : I saw no 
 more!
 
 249 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 [THE narrative of the unhappy writer is here in- 
 terrupted ; she makes no mention of any further 
 particulars respecting her brother's death, or of 
 the circumstances connected with her own illness 
 and subsequent journey. From another source 
 the Translator has learned the following facts.] 
 
 Upon entering the room some time after he 
 had left his children together, the Count von 
 Arnheim discovered them both, to all appearance, 
 dead. Alfred lay upon the couch, already stiff 
 and cold; Marie had fallen beside it; a faint 
 pulsation could be distinguished in her bosom, 
 but for many hours all endeavours to recall her 
 to life were fruitless. 
 
 When partially recovered, she looked at first 
 
 M 5
 
 250 
 
 confused, and as if struggling for recollection; 
 then, with a start, as if suddenly aroused and 
 stung into full consciousness by a dart from some 
 unseen hand, she raised herself, looked wildly into 
 her mother's face, and in a thick hoarse voice 
 pronounced her brother's name. 
 
 The unhappy Countess shook her head mourn- 
 fully, but could not answer; and Marie, indis- 
 tinctly murmuring, " My Alfred dead ! " sunk 
 back senseless once more. She lay for some days 
 without speech or motion, and apparently without 
 consciousness. 
 
 At last her eyes opened ; she looked round the 
 room and shuddered, but did not speak. When 
 asked to rise, she made no answer, but submitted 
 quietly to be dressed. Food being placed before 
 her she turned from it with loathing, until her 
 father earnestly besought her for his sake to en- 
 deavour to take such nourishment as was neces- 
 sary to her restoration. 
 
 She looked at him, whilst he spoke, as if only 
 half aware of his meaning, but from that time
 
 she took a small portion of whatever was placed 
 before her. 
 
 By degrees her strength returned, and she was 
 soon able to go a little into the air, leaning on her 
 father's arm. One day she wandered out alone, 
 and it was not until after long and anxious search 
 that they discovered her sitting on the beach, her 
 eyes fixed upon the sea with an expression of 
 hopeless melancholy, which excited in her father 
 the strongest fears lest her evidently tottering 
 reason should entirely give way. 
 
 As soon as her strength was sufficiently re- 
 stored he determined to return home, where, 
 surrounded by objects abounding in tender re- 
 collections, he trusted she might be awakened 
 once more to life and hope. On the voyage she 
 still continued in the same state ; she would sit 
 for hours with her arm leaning on the vessel's 
 side, her pale cheek resting on her hand, and 
 her dark eye gazing into the .depths of the sea ; 
 and so intense, so profound, yet so calm and 
 passionless was the expression of sorrow in her
 
 252 
 
 face and form, that one might have taken her for 
 a beautiful statue, in which the artist in a moment 
 of inspiration had embodied the sublime concep- 
 tion of human grief condemned to immortality, 
 and brooding over the idea of its own dark and 
 irreversible destiny. 
 
 Once, and only once, upon the journey, her 
 countenance was seen to denote a passing interest. 
 They had stopped to change horses at a small 
 village in the south of France, and a little girl of 
 some five years old, with golden hair and laugh- 
 ing blue eyes, came close to the carriage and sang 
 a national air in a clear ringing tone of voice. 
 The song over, with a winning yet bashful smile 
 she held out her hand. The door was open, 
 Marie sprang out, seized the child, pressed her 
 again and again to her breast, kissed her blush- 
 ing cheek, and putting a purse into her hand 
 watched her as she bounded away to show the 
 treasure to her mother, who stood at a little 
 distance; then slowly and with a deep sigh she 
 re-entered the carriage, leaned back, and closed
 
 253 
 
 her eyes. " She thinks of darling Agnes," thought 
 her mother, and she wept. 
 
 They reached home late one evening, and upon 
 entering the well-known room Marie was observed 
 to shudder. 
 
 From this time there was more of consciousness 
 in her expression ; still she spoke not, and her 
 father became more and more desirous that the 
 Count Eugene, who had been hitherto detained 
 by the continued illness of his uncle, should 
 speedily return. 
 
 Love had been apparently, and we know how 
 truly, the ruling principle of her life ; and ground- 
 ing hope upon this, her parents looked forward 
 anxiously to a meeting with the companion of her 
 early years, in the hope of its being instrumental 
 in further awakening her dormant faculties. 
 
 One day she had been wandering in the garden, 
 according to her custom, and was sitting beneath 
 the willow, when the young Count suddenly stood 
 before her. 
 
 " Marie ! " he said softly, sitting down by her
 
 254 
 
 side, and tenderly passing his arm around her 
 waist. A slight flush tinged her cheek ; she laid 
 her head upon his shoulder and uttered the words, 
 "Dear Eugene \" 
 
 " Thank God for the sound of that voice, my 
 own love ! Oh speak, speak again ! " 
 
 " My heart is dead, Eugene." 
 
 " Your heart will live again, my Marie. God 
 is good, he will restore you to us. Such a heart 
 as yours was never meant for aught but life and 
 love." 
 
 She trembled and drew away from his arms; 
 and that day she spoke no more. But the spell 
 was broken. On the following morning, when 
 Marie rejoined her family, it was evident that a 
 change had taken place, and the Count von Arn- 
 heim watched anxiously for its development.
 
 255 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 [HERE Marie's narrative recommences as fol- 
 lows.] 
 
 All my recollections of the period immediately 
 succeeding my brother's death are so faint and so 
 confused, that I can give no account of them. I 
 believe I was on the sea; and again, I remember 
 once seeing a beautiful child which reminded me 
 of Agnes, but whether in a dream or in reality I 
 am uncertain. 
 
 No one has ever spoken to me since of our 
 journey or of my own condition while it lasted ; 
 and consequently, whether I lay in a state of 
 actual sleep and all which I fancied to be around 
 me was merely visionary, or whether the shock, 
 which had almost destroyed my miserable exist-
 
 256 
 
 ence, had for a time deadened both sense and 
 reason so as to prevent my fully understanding 
 aught that passed before my eyes, I know not; 
 nor had I then any idea of the length of time 
 which thus elapsed. 
 
 My first conscious and distinct remembrance is 
 of being brought into our own house, and feeling 
 a cold shiver pass through my frame as I entered. 
 I then knew I was awake, and at home. I saw 
 the anxious looks of my parents, and how they 
 tried to win a word from me; but I could not 
 speak. My mind, though still partially confused, 
 was full of its own woes, and these were unutter- 
 able. 
 
 One day I had wandered into the garden, and 
 sat in the spot once so truly called our Paradise. 
 My eyes were fixed upon the names carved on 
 the bark, when all at once I saw Eugene before 
 me. As he sat down by my side a feeling of 
 overpowering tenderness stole over me. I saw 
 his haggard countenance its hopeless wretched- 
 ness ; I thought not of its cause ; for the moment
 
 237 
 
 I forgot my own sufferings Alfred everything 
 but himself; and leaning my head upon his bo- 
 som, I uttered his name. 
 
 " Thank God ! " he exclaimed, and a vivid ex- 
 pression of joy flashed across his face. He hung 
 over me fondly ; he spoke to me as he had ever 
 done ; but his looks of love, his words of tender 
 consolation, were like scorpion stings to my guilty 
 conscience : recollection returned, and I withdrew 
 from his arms. 
 
 From this day I think my mind became quite 
 settled and calm, and it was evident that those 
 around me were full of hope. My health seemed 
 nearly re-established, and although I still sought 
 for solitude, and spoke but little, the improvement 
 which had taken place led my friends to expect a 
 perfect restoration in every way. 
 
 I was now in a frame of mind entirely different 
 from that which had immediately followed my sis- 
 ter Barbara's death, as well as from that to which 
 the sight of Eugene's letters had awakened me. 
 During the first period I had been stunned into a
 
 258 
 
 paralysis of all feeling. The few hours in which 
 my crime had been planned and executed were 
 full of intense and feverish excitement, and the 
 two months following were spent in a torpor 
 which I can only compare to the state imme- 
 diately succeeding the intoxicating effects induced 
 by opium. I felt, as I have before said, neither 
 hope nor fear, nor emotion of any kind, save a 
 dull and miserable sense of existence, as of a 
 weight too heavy for endurance. 
 
 Then came the awful time, when roused into 
 madness and despair, my guilty conscience in the 
 dead of night revealed its horrible secret to the 
 ears of my pure-minded and loving brother, there 
 to enter and prey upon his life, and make me 
 thus a double murderess. 
 
 With my late illness every trace of fever had 
 ceased. I no longer started from my bed under 
 the influence of dreadful nightmare; no longer 
 did visions too horrible for description haunt my 
 waking hours, as in the second period of my 
 misery; neither, as in the first, was I confused
 
 259 
 
 and but dreamily conscious of the past. No me- 
 taphysical mist now obscured the word murder; 
 every faculty was awake, every letter on the tablet 
 of memory clear and distinct written in blood. 
 Yet was I calm ever calm; woe, inexpressible, 
 hopeless woe was my portion, and in the quietude 
 of fixed despair I endured it.
 
 260 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 MORE than a year had rolled over, during the 
 lapse of which I observed a gradual improvement 
 in the spirits of those about me. Eugene was 
 with us constantly; and although at all times 
 fond and affectionate in his manner, and watchful 
 of my slightest wish, he seemed to be restrained 
 by respect for my sufferings from alluding to our 
 marriage. 
 
 I felt however that this state of things could 
 not last, and often meditated long and deeply 
 over some plan by which I might be enabled to 
 escape from that very lot once considered by me 
 as the summit of earthly happiness, but which 
 a sense of guilt now and for ever forbid me to 
 accept.
 
 261 
 
 Various schemes occurred to me, but at last I 
 decided upon one as alone feasible, which I had 
 again and again rejected through a frightful con- 
 sciousness of the new misery it must entail upon 
 those I loved. 
 
 "Yes," I said, "I must leave my home; I 
 must be to them as dead. To save myself from 
 the guilt of self-destruction, and them from the 
 stain which would attach to my having committed 
 it, I must drag on a weary, lonely life a living 
 death; unknown, unloved, a blank amidst the 
 universe, the universe a blank to me. Yes, I 
 must perish from their eyes ! scarcely have my 
 parents raised their drooping heads from bewail- 
 ing the fate of my murdered brother, when again 
 they must be laid in the dust again, and by the 
 same hand the hand of their child. And is there 
 no remedy ? none, none. What, marry Eugene ! 
 offer to him in plighted faith the same hand 
 which has robbed a sister of her life, promise 
 that faith with the same tongue which by its 
 dreadful avowal has no less surely destroyed the
 
 262 
 
 existence of a brother ! Marry Eugene ! would 
 not the rocks fall upon, the lightnings scathe, 
 the earth open to engulf the murderess ? No, 
 never, never will I incur this fresh guilt, even to 
 save them from another source of wretchedness. 
 I cannot, will not, dare not do it." 
 
 Scarcely had I come to this conclusion when 
 Eugene said to me one day, " Marie, I have kept 
 a long silence, may I speak ? I would not sooner 
 have intruded my own wishes upon your grief, 
 but you will not surely now reject me. Could he 
 whom you mourn have desired to see his sister's 
 life pass away in hopeless regrets ? Think of 
 this, if you will not consider me, and promise to 
 be mine." 
 
 I did not actually refuse, but I felt it quite 
 impossible to utter words of compliance, and he 
 went on, " You are silent, dearest ; may I speak 
 to your father ? may I tell him you have at last 
 consented to be mine without further delay?" 
 
 " Do so, if you will," I replied at length with 
 gloomy reluctance.
 
 263 
 
 Overjoyed at this apparent approval he did not 
 seem to remark the manner in which it was given ; 
 or, if observed, it appeared to him but the natural 
 effect of my own sorrowful and overpowering re- 
 collections. 
 
 . That day fortnight was fixed for the perform- 
 ance of the ceremony never, never to be per- 
 formed. 
 
 And now commenced the preparations for our 
 bridal. Silently, and without the power of assu- 
 ming the smallest appearance of interest in what 
 went on around, I played my part. I too had 
 preparations to make.
 
 264 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE eve of our wedding-day had arrived, and 
 the little party met together, unconsciously to 
 all but one, for the last time. 
 
 My parents looked more cheerful than they 
 had ever done since Alfred's death ; and upon 
 Eugene's pale countenance I saw an expression 
 of joy and hope which had once been habitual 
 there, but which after this day I knew could never 
 more revisit it. I heard my father and Eugene 
 talk over our plans, the journey we were about 
 to make, and the various objects of curiosity and 
 interest deserving attention which we should meet 
 with in our course. 
 
 I remained a silent listener, until overpowered 
 by the intensity of my emotions, and fearful
 
 265 
 
 of losing all self-control, I rose to leave the 
 room. 
 
 I longed to throw myself into their arms, to 
 press them again and again to my bosom, but 
 I dared not; I did not even venture to utter 
 the usual " Good-night." They thought I would 
 return. 
 
 On reaching the doorway, for one moment I 
 stopped beneath its shadow, to take a last look 
 at those whom I was thus leaving, without one 
 parting embrace, for ever. My father's head was 
 bent over the map, upon which he had been 
 tracing the route we were to follow ; Eugene was 
 gazing intently upon the ring of his betrothal; 
 and my mother, having just completed a beautiful 
 piece of work which was to make a part of my 
 bridal attire, held it up, saying with a smile, 
 "Look, Eugene, is it not pretty?" 
 
 I turned quickly away, reached my chamber, 
 and entering, bolted the door. The first object 
 which met my eye was my wedding-dress, care- 
 fully arranged preparatory to the morrow. Se- 
 
 N
 
 266 
 
 veral small packets lay upon the table, which by 
 their addresses I knew to be bridal gifts from 
 friends and relatives. One alone I opened; it 
 was directed by my father's hand, and contained 
 a box enclosing a gold chain and locket of ex- 
 quisite workmanship. Upon the reverse side of 
 the trinket appeared two curls of beautiful hair, 
 both of golden hue, and only differing slightly 
 in shade. The names " Alfred " and " Agnes," 
 within a black circle, told the rest. 
 
 In a state of delirious excitement I began to 
 put on the dress of coarse materials which I had 
 prepared as a disguise. " And shall I can I 
 leave them without a word, without one last fare- 
 well ? no, no, I cannot." I snatched up a pen, and 
 with trembling, burning hand traced as nearly 
 as I can remember the following words : " Eu- 
 gene, I love, and yet I leave you. Mystery 
 involves me, fate impels me onward; death, or 
 worse than death, a living tomb, awaits me. Fare- 
 well, father, mother ! farewell all for ever ! " 
 
 All was now done ; I clasped my father's latest,
 
 267 
 
 dearest gift around my neck, thrust the precious 
 locket into my bosom, and approached the glass- 
 door which led into the garden. There I stopped 
 and looked around ; my heart felt bursting, my 
 brain reeled, but I did not hesitate. I withdrew 
 the bolts, and stepping out closed the door be- 
 hind me. 
 
 As I turned away, a low whine, accompanied 
 by a sound as of something striking against the 
 glass within, caught my attention, and I per- 
 ceived that Carlo had as usual followed me from 
 the saloon. " The noise he makes will betray 
 me," I said; and hastily returning I re-opened 
 the door, and took him in my arms. 
 
 "On such a night as this," I thought, as P 
 proceeded with rapid and uncertain steps through 
 the calm, clear moonshine, " On such a night as 
 this did I arouse the avenging spirit which was 
 never more to slumber ! " 
 
 I reached the gate, and turned to look again 
 upon the beloved scenes of my happy, innocent 
 childhood. My eye fell upon the willow, and a
 
 resistless desire to stand once more beneath its 
 branches seized me. I flew towards the spot, 
 entered, and laying down the dog I flung my 
 arms around the trunk, and pressed my lips to 
 the place where I knew the names of those be- 
 loved ones were graven. 
 
 A sudden movement made by Carlo, accompa- 
 nied by a low short bark as if of recognition, 
 startled me, and looking down I saw him settled 
 in a listening attitude at my feet. Hastily seizing 
 him, I imprinted another kiss of agony upon the 
 tree, and keeping under the shadow of the elms 
 which overhung my path, I again reached the 
 entrance-gate. There, once more, and for the 
 last time, I paused to look around. I saw a tall 
 dark figure standing by the willow ; in another 
 moment it had disappeared amongst the branches. 
 
 " My Eugene gone to dream of happiness ! " 
 thought I ; " dream on, my beloved, for this night 
 ^tomorrow's dawn will waken thee ! " 
 
 Breathless, trembling, I hurried along the high 
 road. I knew that soon after midnight a diligence
 
 269 
 
 would overtake me; but such was the frenzy of 
 my mind that the sound of its approaching wheels 
 failed to reach my ear, and it had almost passed 
 when the dog jumped to the ground, barking 
 loudly. 
 
 I called to the conductor : the door was opened, 
 and I took my seat. Carlo followed. " He would 
 love me," I thought; "he was Eugene's gift;" 
 and for a moment I hesitated. " No, I dare not ; 
 it might lead to my detection." " Let him go/' 
 I said to the conductor, and I thrust the poor 
 animal rudely away. " Will you leave him here 
 alone ?" said the man in a deprecating tone. 
 
 " He is not far from home," I answered ; " he 
 can reach it easily." 
 
 " The dog is, happy," I thought ; " he has a 
 home!" 
 
 Day and night I travelled on, and scarce asked 
 whither. One object, and but one, I had in view, 
 to leave far behind me all .1 held most dear. 
 This done, what mattered it whither chance might 
 bear me? I had no choice, no plan. Changing
 
 270 
 
 from diligence to diligence, I passed from village 
 to village, from city to city. A fire within my 
 brain consumed me, and I was tortured by a 
 parching thirst; yet stay I could not. A rest- 
 lessness over which I had no control a delirious 
 apprehension of being pursued, I knew not by 
 what or whom urged me ever forwards, and 
 made the idea of a pause insupportable to me. 
 " Onward onward ! " was my inward cry ; " some 
 time my destiny must be accomplished some- 
 where I shall find a grave."
 
 271 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 ONE evening, after I had as usual sat in perfect 
 silence during the day, the sudden exclamation of 
 my fellow-travellers, "Mont Blanc ! Mont Blanc !" 
 arousing my attention, I heard their expressions 
 of ecstatic delight at the grandeur and sublimity 
 of the scene. I too looked at it. 
 
 "Young lady," said the gentleman opposite to 
 me, "yonder is Mont Blanc 1" 
 
 I believe my eyes turned upon him coldly, but 
 I made no reply ; and struck by the strangeness 
 of my manner probably rendered more remark- 
 able on this day by my approaching illness I 
 saw him turn to the lady by his side, and whisper 
 something in her ear; they looked uneasily at 
 me, and then exchanged glances full of meaning
 
 272 
 
 with their other companions. "They think me 
 mad/' I said inwardly; and I felt myself smiling 
 bitterly at the contrast of comparative happiness 
 which such a state would have presented with my 
 own. " Poor young creature !" I heard the lady 
 say in a low voice; "so young so beautiful!" 
 Then in a gentle tone she addressed me : "I fear 
 you are ill; you do not look fit to travel: have 
 you no friend in this neighbourhood ? " 
 
 "None/' I replied. 
 
 "Whither are you going ?" 
 
 " I know not." 
 
 I saw looks of compassion pass between the 
 strangers. They whispered together, and again 
 addressing me, the lady said, "You are not able 
 to travel, indeed you are not; you had better 
 remain for this night at the village where the 
 diligence will shortly stop; do let me persuade 
 you. We too shall halt there for a few days, 
 and, if better within that time, you can pursue 
 your journey in our company." 
 
 I believe I was too ill to comprehend her
 
 273 
 
 meaning; but even had it not been so, however 
 conscious of her kind intentions, it would have 
 been impossible for me to express for human 
 sympathy a gratitude which it was then beyond 
 my power to feel. I was impatient of her efforts 
 to engage my attention, and still more so of her 
 attempts to influence my movements. I made no 
 further reply, and in silence the party reached the 
 door of the village inn. 
 
 I allowed all to precede me, but observed that 
 the gentleman who had first addressed me re- 
 mained beside the coach-door, ready to assist me 
 in alighting. On rising I became sensible of an 
 extreme dizziness in iny head, and losing all 
 power over my limbs, was just aware of falling 
 forwards. I recollect no more, until slowly, and 
 with a sense of extreme exhaustion, I once more 
 awoke to the full consciousness of my misery. 
 My first feeling afterwards was one of deep 
 and bitter repining. "Death itself rejects me 
 as a worthless prize/' I thought ; " I cannot 
 even die" 
 
 N5
 
 274 
 
 Upon opening my eyes after a long sleep, which 
 proved the crisis of my illness, they fell upon a 
 tall emaciated female figure sitting beside my bed, 
 and I saw myself regarded with a look of tender 
 interest. "You are better, dear young lady," she 
 said, "thank God!" 
 
 I could not say Amen, I could not even bring 
 myself to utter an answer to the kind inquiries 
 of my attendant ; and she presently ceased to 
 importune me with them, contenting herself by 
 silently and gently administering to my comforts. 
 After some time she left me, and I heard her in 
 a whisper leave every necessary injunction with a 
 young girl who took her place. 
 
 I had no idea as to where I was, nor did I 
 feel the smallest curiosity on the subject. It was 
 only when sufficiently recovered to sit up a little 
 in my room that, touched partly by the interest 
 which this benevolent woman manifested in a 
 desolate stranger, and in part by the melancholy 
 which marked her countenance, I asked my young 
 attendant who she was.
 
 275 
 
 " Madame Werner/' she replied; "the widow 
 of a man who lost his life when acting as guide 
 to a party in ascending Mont Blanc. He and 
 his eldest son were buried under an avalanche 
 four years ago; and not long after, her only 
 daughter, a beautiful girl of nineteen, upon the 
 eve of marriage, fell down a flight of stone steps, 
 and injured her back so severely that she is now 
 deformed and at times suffers dreadful pain. But 
 she is so patient and cheerful that every one 
 loves and pities her ; and indeed she is now even 
 a greater favourite than when she was the pret- 
 tiest and most graceful girl in the village. 
 
 " Her mother is never seen to smile ; but she is 
 so gentle and resigned, and so good in sharing the 
 little she possesses with those poorer than herself, 
 that the people here ah 1 love her, and would do 
 anything for her. Her case excited so much in- 
 terest in the neighbourhood that a subscript ioii 
 was made for her, and she is now in comparatively 
 comfortable circumstances." 
 
 Without any inquiries upon my part, my young
 
 276 
 
 informant went on to tell me that the morning 
 after my arrival in the village, the medical man, 
 who had been called in by my kind fellow-travel- 
 lers, pronounced my illness to be a brain fever 
 of the most dangerous description. During the 
 first few days I was attended by the benevolent 
 lady herself. When obliged to pursue her jour- 
 ney, she left a sum in the hands of the innkeeper, 
 more than sufficient to provide for all my wants 
 and repay the trouble my attendance might oc- 
 casion ; at the same time entreating that nothing 
 which could contribute to my comfort might be 
 neglected. 
 
 It was upon her departure that Madame Wer- 
 ner, ever on the watch for opportunities to do 
 good and serve the suffering and unhappy, first 
 sought me, and thenceforward became my tender 
 and devoted nurse. For several nights, whilst 
 the fever was at its height, she watched by my 
 bedside. " Indeed," said the girl in conclusion, 
 "had she been your mother she could not have 
 been more anxious upon your account ; you were
 
 277 
 
 so very ill, that but for her care I scarcely think 
 you could have lived." 
 
 " Would that she had let me die!" was the 
 bitter language of my heart ; " for her kindness, 
 for her tender care, I might have thanked her, 
 but not for life''
 
 278 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 ONE day my gentle nurse sat down beside me, 
 and taking my hand respectfully, said, " My dear 
 young lady, you are now able to bear removal. 
 Will you leave this place and come with me ? you 
 are unhappy ; I will not ask you why I will not 
 ask anything but that you should make my house 
 your home, and look upon me and my Marguerite 
 as your friends. Notwithstanding your coarse 
 attire, I know we are much your inferiors in rank ; 
 still do not refuse me, unless you have another 
 home or dearer friends to go to; in that case I 
 shall say no more." 
 
 " I have no friends, no home on earth," I an- 
 swered ; " I will go with you." 
 
 The next day I was removed to a small, neat
 
 2/9 
 
 cottage on the outskirts of the village, and here I 
 have since remained. 
 
 My natural repugnance to deceit, which I had 
 felt even when forced by hard necessity to dis- 
 semble, now deprived me of all power to invent a 
 plausible tale by which to account for the appear- 
 ance of one so young, alone and friendless, in a 
 strange land. I felt that, although my generous 
 friend had not required it, some explanation was 
 due to her, but I attempted none ; and true to 
 her promise, she never asked me for any. I was 
 unhappy, friendless, homeless she required no 
 more; having suffered herself, she could feel for 
 others ; and to be in sorrow of any kind was 
 enough to awaken her sympathy. 
 
 Upon the evening of my removal I first saw 
 Marguerite, and found my heart at once and ir- 
 resistibly attracted towards her ; and this feeling 
 has increased daily ever since I took up my abode 
 under the same roof. For six years has this gentle 
 girl been my sympathising friend and companion ; 
 and without manifesting any curiosity as to the
 
 hidden source of my sufferings, she has untiringly 
 endeavoured to console me under those sorrows 
 which she instinctively feels to be far beyond her 
 own. Her sweet and resigned countenance, and 
 the soft tones of her voice, have been as medicines 
 to my troubled soul, and often stayed its wild com- 
 motion when nothing else could have done so. 
 
 Marguerite has been better educated than is 
 usual in her rank in life, and still seeks every 
 source of improvement. She often reads to me 
 for hours together; and although at these times 
 my mind is generally absorbed in its own gloomy 
 reveries, there are moments in which I am aroused 
 by her intelligent remarks, and the delicacy of 
 feeling and power of thought which they display, 
 into some degree of interest in the subject of 
 which she speaks, and am led to sympathise ever 
 more and more with herself. She often brings 
 me the journals published in my own country, 
 which I glance over with avidity, in search of 
 the names of those dear ones who are still alive, 
 though dead to me.
 
 281 
 
 Twelve months ago Marguerite one day entered 
 my chamber, leading a beautiful child, about four 
 years old, with curling auburn locks flowing over 
 a neck fair as alabaster. " Fraulein Marie," she 
 said it was by this name alone that I was known 
 " I have brought you a little favourite of mine, 
 the daughter of Ernest Harrenfeldt, the farmer 
 who supplies us with fruit and vegetables. I love 
 children so much myself, I find in them such a 
 resource from heaviness of heart, that I fancied it 
 might do you good to see her." 
 
 " I once loved children too," I replied, gazing 
 at the bashful, blushing infant before me. 
 
 " And you could love them still, dear lady." 
 
 I looked at her, but did not speak ; when, si- 
 lently and with a sigh taking its hand, she led 
 the little rejected one from the chamber. My 
 heart yearned after it, and some days later I asked 
 Marguerite why she had never again brought the 
 child to see me. 
 
 " I wished to do so, dear lady, but I thought 
 you looked as if it recalled" she hesitated and
 
 coloured ; " I fancied that you would rather not 
 see her." 
 
 " You were mistaken, Marguerite, I would 
 gladly have her sometimes with me ; let her come 
 this afternoon." 
 
 Henceforth the little girl has been my almost 
 daily companion. At first she seemed to fear me, 
 but this feeling soon disappeared, and it is long 
 since she has learned to feel quite at home in my 
 apartment, and to enter it at all hours, as if as- 
 sured of welcome. 
 
 Sometimes, with the instinct of a tender sympa- 
 thising nature, the little Franciska observes that I 
 am disinclined for noise or prattle, and then she 
 quietly seats herself at the window to watch the 
 passers-by, or sits at my feet looking at the books 
 of pictures with which Marguerite supplies her. 
 At other times, when encouraged by a kind look 
 or word, she nestles fondly in my bosom, and 
 talks to me of her home, her mother, brother, 
 sisters ; sometimes, but rarely, alluding to a 
 grandmother, whom I can see she fears much
 
 283 
 
 and scarcely loves. Marguerite, evidently with a 
 desire to awaken me to further interest in her 
 little favourite, has told me that her parents are 
 both German. The grandmother only belongs to 
 this place, whither the family removed from the 
 neighbourhood of Dresden some years ago. 
 
 But Marguerite's kind offices have not been 
 confined to these delicate attentions ; she has 
 sought to gain for me comfort of a higher kind, 
 even that happy feeling of resignation by which 
 she is herself sustained, and which springs from 
 what I now believe to be the only source of peace 
 on earth the belief and trust in God as a Father 
 and a Friend. No sophistry, no unhallowed pry- 
 ing into things too deep for mortal eye, has ever 
 misled the mind of this admirable girl. With 
 meek humility she listened to the words, " Come 
 unto me all ye that labour and are heavy-laden ;" 
 and at the feet of Him who uttered them she has 
 " found rest;" and hither too. would she bring 
 me. Alas, she knows not the burthen I must 
 bear with me ! She says there is mercy for all
 
 284 
 
 through Him who died to save the lost can 
 there indeed be such for me ? 
 
 Sometimes as she talks to me of the love of 
 God, of his power and will to comfort and to save, 
 as she explains to me in all its beautiful simplicity 
 that divine and influential faith which I have 
 hitherto slighted to my own undoing a gleam of 
 soft and holy light seems to diffuse itself through- 
 out my soul, and a voice like the sound of sweet- 
 est music whispers to my heart, " God is a God of 
 vengeance only to the hardened and impenitent ; 
 to all beside he is love love unutterable, inex- 
 tinguishable, far beyond every conception of the 
 created mind. Believe ! and He whom you have 
 hitherto looked upon with dread as an avenging 
 Judge, will turn toward you the mild and glorious 
 countenance of the Redeemer, and say to your 
 trembling, guilty soul, ' Come, and fear not ! ; ; 
 
 Ah how beautiful, how simple is the faith of 
 Marguerite ! Would that I had sooner known it ! 
 Would that, instead of the crude metaphysical 
 notions, the deceptive fantasies of my youth all
 
 285 
 
 alike vain, insufficient, and incapable of restrain- 
 ing emotions of evil in the soul I had early re- 
 cognized the blessed truths of Revelation ! How 
 different would then have been my life, how dif- 
 ferent mv death !
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 How shall I write what I have discovered? I 
 am no fratricide ! my sister lives she lives ! 
 let me repeat the words, and look upon them 
 until they have burned into my soul and ef- 
 faced for ever the dreadful characters so long 
 and deeply branded there. My sister I have 
 yet a sister ! my parents have yet a daughter ! 
 Alfred has 
 
 Oh God, I had forgotten ! not a fratricide, did 
 I say ? where is then my brother ? no murderess ? 
 where the wretched Barbara ? Mercy for me 
 there is none ! ***** 
 ********** 
 
 [The narrative contains no special account of 
 what had so strangely moved the writer. From
 
 287 
 
 Marguerite the following particulars were subse- 
 quently gathered.] 
 
 One day at the request of her friend Franciska 
 Harrenfeldt, who with her husband was going for 
 two or three days to a fair at some distance, 
 Marguerite went to the farmhouse to take charge 
 during their absence of the children and their 
 infirm grandmother. 
 
 The old woman had latterly shown every sym- 
 ptom of declining strength, and she was now so 
 weak as to be almost helpless. Her mind too 
 seemed rapidly failing, and on this day Mar- 
 guerite found it almost impossible to interest or 
 amuse her. She was restless and uneasy, and 
 repeatedly inquired after Ernest, Franciska's eldest 
 son, and expressed impatience for his return from 
 the village, whither she had sent him on an er- 
 rand. 
 
 " That is the way grandmother is always talk- 
 ing now till Ernest returns from the post," said 
 Antonia, the eldest daughter; "I wonder what 
 news she expects."
 
 288 
 
 Presently the boy entered the room, and ap- 
 proaching the old woman said, "There, grand- 
 mother, I have brought you a letter at last \" 
 
 With trembling eagerness she tore it open, 
 rubbed her eyes, and held the paper close to her 
 face, but in vain. " I cannot read it," she said ; 
 "Marguerite, will you?" 
 
 Marguerite took the letter, which was legible 
 enough. Whence it was written did not distinctly 
 appear ; but the writer seemed to be a domestic 
 in the family of a nobleman, and began with an 
 expression of pleasure at having at length heard 
 from her old friend, of whom she had had no 
 news for several years. The letter went on to 
 state, in answer to inquiries which had been re- 
 cently made by the old woman, that the eldest 
 daughter of the Count, her master, had died eight 
 years previously of cholera. 
 
 Upon reaching this sentence Marguerite was 
 interrupted by a hollow groan ; she saw the old 
 woman half raise herself from her seat, her eyes 
 starting from their sockets, her hands clenched,
 
 289 
 
 and every feature working convulsively. " My 
 child ! " she muttered, and fell to the ground. 
 
 With the assistance of a servant-girl and Er- 
 nest, Marguerite succeeded in raising and placing 
 her upon the bed: she then despatched the boy 
 for the village doctor, and in the meantime used 
 every effort to restore her. She still lay stiff and 
 motionless when the doctor arrived, and Margue- 
 rite already began to fear that life was extinct. 
 Upon some blood being taken from her arm 
 she showed signs of revival; presently her eyes 
 opened, and staring wildly around she exclaimed, 
 " Who said it ? who told me that my child was 
 dead?" 
 
 " No one said it," replied Marguerite ; " your 
 own child, your Franciska, is well. It is but the 
 daughter of the gentleman in whose house your 
 friend lives who is dead." 
 
 " My child, my darling child ! " she exclaimed ; 
 " she was my child ! Why did not your mo- 
 ther die instead of you, my darling Barbara ? 
 I thought," she added in a muttered tone, "to 
 
 o
 
 290 
 
 have made a lady of you, and you are dead 
 dead." 
 
 The doctor, Marguerite, and the children looked 
 aghast at each other. " Here has been some foul 
 play," said the former. 
 
 " Leave me alone with he.r, sir," said Margue- 
 rite in a whisper; "perhaps I shall be able to 
 obtain the truth from her." 
 
 " Do so then quickly," he replied ; " it will 
 soon be too late; either she will cease to exist 
 when the present excitement subsides, or her 
 strength will have failed so completely that she 
 will be unable to think or to speak." 
 
 Sending the children away, Marguerite so- 
 lemnly addressed the unfortunate woman, told 
 her of her suspicion that she must have incurred 
 some guilt of which the world knew not, and 
 ended by conjuring her, while there was yet time, 
 to make all the reparation in her power by freely 
 and fully avowing what she had done. 
 
 At first her hearer seemed not to comprehend 
 her meaning; gradually however Marguerite's
 
 291 
 
 soothing but urgent entreaties won from her the 
 following strange confession. 
 
 To her care as nurse, some five-and-thirty years 
 before, the infant daughter of a German nobleman 
 had been committed immediately after its birth. 
 One evening, a few weeks afterwards, whilst 
 looking at the infant Countess as she lay beside 
 her own little girl in the cradle, she began to 
 think over the very different fate awaiting the 
 two children. The prospect of the one seemed 
 all happiness ; every comfort, every luxury would 
 be hers : no hard work, no struggling with po- 
 verty, no anxiety. Her life would be one of ease 
 and pleasure ; she would have rank, riches, friends. 
 " I seemed/' said she, " to hear a voice whispering 
 to me, that upon me alone it depended to secure 
 this enviable .fete for my own child." At first she 
 had started back in alarm from the temptation, 
 then timidly listened, and in the end yielded to it. 
 Her husband, whose concurrence in the deception 
 it was indispensable to obtain, for a long time 
 
 o2
 
 292 
 
 stood out against it, but being a weak man he 
 too at length gave way. 
 
 Chance seemed to favour their* schemes. The 
 Count and his lady had set out on their journey 
 as soon as the latter was able to travel, and the 
 mother of the Countess, having been confined by 
 a severe illness for several weeks, did not see the 
 substituted infant until a sufficient time had 
 elapsed to account, as she thought, for the change 
 which she perceived in it. 
 
 The real daughter of the Count and Countess 
 was kept out of the way as much as possible; 
 and as moreover she did not bear any very stri- 
 king resemblance to her mother, no suspicion of 
 the fraud which had been practised was ever 
 awakened. 
 
 Franciska grew up a modest and beautiful girl, 
 .and early became attached to the son of a farmer 
 who lived near her reputed parents, and who had 
 been her playfellow from infancy. They were 
 married when still very young, and upon the
 
 293 
 
 death of Franciska's supposed father they re- 
 moved along with the widow to the birthplace of 
 the latter in Switzerland. Here they had pur- 
 chased a farm, and lived prosperously and hap- 
 pily for several years. 
 
 The wretched woman concluded by acknow- 
 ledging, in bitterness of soul, the hand of God 
 in all that had occurred. The child for whose 
 sake she had become guilty, of whom in her 
 short-sighted worldly wisdom she would have 
 made a great lady, and, as she thought, neces- 
 sarily a happy one, had been cut off by a prema- 
 ture and awful death ; whilst the one who had 
 been thus defrauded of her birthright still lived, 
 comparatively poor and humble, but contented, 
 and, as wife and mother, in the full enjoyment 
 of those blessed feelings which form the purest, 
 perhaps the only perfect, bliss of woman's nature. 
 
 Upon concluding her story the wretched old 
 woman became again wildly excited, and Mar- 
 guerite saw the necessity of striving to gain from 
 her at once the name and place of residence of
 
 the parents whom she had so grievously wronged. 
 But her mind unhappily now seemed to lose all 
 further power of recollection ; she no longer com- 
 prehended anything which was said to her, and 
 shortly fell into a state of profound stupor, from 
 which all efforts to arouse her were fruitless. Be- 
 fore the following morning she was no more. 
 
 .
 
 295 
 
 - 
 
 ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 UPON returning home Marguerite went to the 
 chamber of the Fraulein, and naturally proceeded 
 at once to repeat to her the extraordinary facts 
 with which her own mind was entirely occupied. 
 At first Marie heard her with her usual listless 
 inattention, but upon Marguerite's uttering the 
 name of Barbara she started from her seat and 
 stared wildly at the narrator. Surprised and 
 alarmed, Marguerite became silent. 
 
 " Go on, go on ! " exclaimed Marie in breathless 
 accents, grasping a chair which stood beside her 
 for support. Marguerite again went on, until 
 murmuring "It is it must be so!" Marie fell 
 heavily to the ground. 
 
 From a state of insensibility of some duration
 
 296 
 
 she awoke to one of the wildest excitement. She 
 seemed heedless of the presence of Madame Wer- 
 ner and her daughter, and made no reply to their 
 kind and repeated endeavours to soothe and com- 
 fort her. Towards evening she became quite ex- 
 hausted, and threw herself upon her bed, where 
 she lay for some days in a veiy dangerous state. 
 
 [It was when partially recovered from this ill- 
 ness that Marie seems to have made the following 
 and last addition to her melancholy narrative.] 
 
 Once again has the arrow of death missed its 
 aim. I live, but feel that life is ebbing fast ; my 
 task is almost done ; when finished, how welcome 
 death !******** 
 
 5fCSp3li3fs5j?5fC5jC3J< 3|C 9|i 
 
 . 
 For some time past my mind has taken a new 
 
 and strange direction. From the moment I be- 
 came aware that I had escaped the actual per- 
 petration of the appalling crime of fratricide 
 equally guilty though I knew myself, alas ! in that 
 I had willed its commission a restless, longing 
 desire to see those most dear to me has supplanted
 
 297 
 
 the dread with which the bare idea of being dis- 
 covered by them used to fill my soul. 
 
 Death, advancing with rapid strides, has al- 
 ready chilled with his icy breath those emotions 
 of mingled pride and shame which till lately were 
 so strong that I would have suffered all the tor- 
 tures man could devise, sooner than acknowledge 
 so revolting a crime in the presence of those 
 beloved ones. Sunk and degraded in my own 
 eyes, I yet felt a miserable satisfaction in the 
 belief that, whatever might be their conjectures 
 as to my mysterious disappearance and subse- 
 quent fate, I still lived in their memory as the 
 Marie of my youthful days of innocence. But, 
 guilty as I am, what right have I to such con- 
 solation? why should I spare myself this last, 
 deepest humiliation ? Perhaps, when kneeling 
 at my father's at my Eugene's feet I have 
 sobbed out my fatal secret with my failing breath, 
 Heaven may look with mercy on the humbled, pe- 
 nitent soul as it departs, and at length forgive ! 
 ******** 
 
 o 5
 
 298 
 
 The die is cast ! I have sent the letter which 
 tells my father and Eugene that their lost Marie 
 still lives, and longs to see them ere she dies. 
 In two or three weeks, at furthest, they may be 
 here. Oh how my heart throbs at the bare idea 
 of seeing them once more ! and they how will 
 they look upon me, the daughter, bride, and 
 murderess ? How shall my lips utter the dread- 
 ful tale ? Shall I live once more to say / did it ? 
 I cannot write; my eyes wander; now I see a 
 livid, convulsed countenance, a form writhing in 
 agony; now it stiffens into hideous stillness, 
 horrible vision, away ! Father, kill me not with 
 that icy glance ! Eugene, spare 
 
 [Here Marie's narrative abruptly terminates. 
 Along with her manuscript the following ad- 
 ditional particulars were submitted to the Trans- 
 lator.] 
 
 From the time she wrote her letter home, 
 Marie's strength seemed to be rapidly sinking, 
 and the ordinary expression of calm and settled 
 despair in her countenance, which had seldom 

 
 299 
 
 varied daring her residence at * * *, was now 
 succeeded by a restless anxiety and a wandering, 
 hurried manner. 
 
 Whenever the door opened, to admit either of 
 her tenderly attached friends, she started and 
 fixed a wild inquiring look upon their faces ; 
 then, with a strange expression of mingled dis- 
 appointment and relief, she would heave a deep 
 sigh and sink into apparent unconsciousness; 
 until aroused by any sudden noise without, she 
 would spring forward to the window with fever- 
 ish energy, and seeing nothing, return and fall 
 exhausted upon the couch. 
 
 To the inquiries of her friend, as well as to her 
 entreaties that a doctor might be called in, Marie 
 either returned no answer, or replied in the nega- 
 tive with an irritable impatience quite foreign to 
 her natural manner. Madame Werner began at 
 length to fear her intellect was giving way, and 
 found her only consolation in -the idea that, from 
 the unusual circumstance of the Fraulein's hav- 
 ing written a letter, and the obvious expecta-
 
 300 
 
 tion which she manifested as to an arrival, there 
 were grounds to hope for the appearance of some 
 friend who should lighten the weight of her re- 
 sponsibility.
 
 301 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 ONE morning very early a carriage with four 
 horses dashed through the village, and stopped 
 at the house of Madame Werner. Two travellers 
 stepped out of it; one a gentleman seemingly 
 above sixty years of age, with a noble countenance 
 bearing traces of deep suffering ; the other a sin- 
 gularly handsome man, whose face wore an ex- 
 pression of profound melancholy, which told that, 
 although young in years, he had already known 
 sorrows of no common nature. Both were ap- 
 parently in a state of intense anxiety. 
 
 " Does Fraulein Marie live here ? " asked the 
 younger in a trembling voice. 
 
 " She does," replied the kind Madame Werner, 
 who was instantly at the door to receive the
 
 302 
 
 strangers ; and, " O gentlemen," she continued, "I 
 am glad you are come, for she is ill, very ill." 
 
 " Tell her the friends whom she sent for have 
 arrived." 
 
 Hastening to convey the message to Marie, a 
 low sobbing was the only answer made to Madame 
 Werner's knock ; and on opening the door, she 
 saw the Fraulein already dressed and standing at 
 the window, her face buried in her hands, and her 
 whole frame trembling with agitation. 
 
 As her friend entered and spoke, Marie raised 
 her head, and showed a countenance tearless and 
 bloodless as that of the dead. For an instant 
 she stood pressing both hands violently upon her 
 bosom, as if to still its wild throbbings ; then with 
 an effort of that indomitable energy which even 
 in this terrible moment did not forsake her, she 
 became calm " awfully calm," as the woman 
 afterwards expressed it and walked steadily to 
 her couch. 
 
 " Let them come," she said. 
 
 What passed during that interview none ever
 
 303 
 
 knew, save those who were engaged in it. After 
 some time the door opened, and the old man, wan 
 and haggard, bent under a weight of unutterable 
 sorrow, came forth, followed by his younger com- 
 panion. 
 
 "Do not oh do not leave her thus I" said the 
 latter in a tone of mingled entreaty and upbraid- 
 ing. No reply was made by the miserable father, 
 and Eugene, taking his arm, led him unresist- 
 ingly into an adjoining apartment. 
 
 "You will not you cannot leave her thus, 
 without one pitying look, one word of forgive- 
 ness ! Oh, think of all she has endured, remem- 
 ber she is still your child ! I feel that she is still 
 my Marie my own beloved Marie/' said the un- 
 happy young man, struggling with his own over- 
 whelming emotions as he gazed upon the wreck 
 before him. 
 
 The Count made no answer; the sudden and 
 violent shock caused by finding in the child whom 
 he had so long mourned as lost whom he had 
 loved and trusted through all the circumstances
 
 304 
 
 of her mysterious disappearance a murderess, 
 was beyond the endurance of a nature simple, 
 pure, and confiding as his. Deep groans burst 
 from his bosom, and he seemed unconscious alike 
 of his friend's presence and entreaties. 
 
 " Marie ! " at length he murmured in a broken 
 voice, " my child a fratricide ! " and a convulsive 
 shudder passed through his frame. 
 
 " No, oh no ! " exclaimed Eugene ; " Marie is 
 no fratricide ! " 
 
 "Marie a murderess!" again ejaculated the 
 father in a tone of anguish not to be described. 
 
 Eugene could bear no more. Overpowered by 
 his own sufferings, and unable longer to look 
 upon those of his friend, he hastily left the room. 
 At the door he encountered Madame Werner, and 
 on the instant the thought occurred to him that 
 it might yet be possible to arouse the miserable 
 father from his agony of despair through the 
 means of his newly-discovered daughter. Hi- 
 therto the fact that such a being existed seemed 
 to have fallen unheeded on his ear. He heard
 
 305 
 
 his Marie, his cherished, long-loved child, confess 
 herself a murderess he heard no more. 
 
 Hurriedly, and in words rendered almost un- 
 intelligible from the excess of his emotion, the 
 young Count inquired concerning Franciska, and 
 was informed by Madame Werner that she was 
 in momentary expectation of her arrival, and that 
 her eldest daughter was at present in the house. 
 Eugene paused for an instant, and then said, 
 " Does she resemble no let me see her." 
 
 Madame Werner led the way to another apart- 
 ment, and Eugene entering saw before him a 
 beautiful girl of about ten years old. He gazed 
 upon her in speechless "astonishment : it seemed 
 to him that Marie, the Marie of his childhood, 
 stood before him. 
 
 " Come, come with me, and bring her also \" he 
 exclaimed to Madame Werner in stifled accents. 
 
 The Count did not raise his head at their ap- T 
 proach, and Eugene, having -in vain uttered his 
 name, said, " Will you then refuse to see your 
 daughter your unknown child?"
 
 306 
 
 The Count lifted his eyes to his friend's face 
 with a bewildered expression, but could not speak. 
 Suddenly his attention became arrested by the 
 young girl ; he started, looked at her, at Eugene, 
 and at Madame Werner alternately, with a glance 
 of the utmost astonishment. 
 
 " Your grandchild ! " said Eugene ; " your 
 eldest daughter's child." 
 
 The Count made no answer ; his eyes were 
 fixed upon the lovely face before him, and his 
 arms opening as it were involuntarily, Madame 
 Werner led the little Antonia forward, and placed 
 her within them ; the old man's head fell upon the 
 shoulder of the young girl, and tears at last came 
 to his relief. Once he held the astonished child, 
 who was now weeping from sympathy, at a little 
 distance from him, and looking at her long and 
 fondly, as if his Marie, innocent as beautiful, 
 were indeed restored to him, clasped her again 
 and again to his bosom. 
 
 Eugene, the tender lover, faithful through past 
 years to the memory of his betrothed, faithful to
 
 307 
 
 her still although her guilt had broken his heart, 
 now returned to Marie's chamber. 
 
 He found her still kneeling where he had last 
 seen her, when imploring her father's pity and 
 forgiveness; her form supported by the couch, 
 her face upturned, her eyes still fixed upon the 
 door, and her countenance so- rigidly calm, so 
 pale and marble-like in its expression of hopeless 
 misery, that for a moment he paused, and doubted 
 whether the pulses of life had not ceased to beat 
 for ever. He approached her softly, and as he 
 offered to raise her, whispered, " Marie ! " 
 
 She did not start, she did not move, but her 
 eyes turned upon him with a look of unutterable 
 meaning. 
 
 " Marie ! " he repeated, kneeling by her side, 
 and gently passing his arms around her wasted 
 form ; " Marie, my lost love ! " 
 
 A smile of exquisite beauty flitted across her 
 face as it disappeared, her head sunk upon the 
 shoulder of her lover, and tears, long pent-up 
 tears, a first token of mercy, fell in torrents from
 
 her eyes. He raised her tenderly, placed her 
 on the couch, and supported her on his bosom. 
 Their tears flowed on for hours ; but neither 
 spoke, until perceiving that exhaustion began to 
 overpower Marie's feeble frame, and that repose 
 was now indispensable, Eugene rose to leave her. 
 He then ventured to propose sending for a 
 doctor. A ghastly smile, and a pressure of the 
 hand upon her heart, was her only answer. See- 
 ing him about to leave the room, she said with 
 an apparently strong effort, " My father ! " 
 " He is not well, dearest j he cannot yet " 
 " Oh yes, I know he cannot see me," she said 
 hurriedly; "I know he must abhor as much as 
 he once loved me. O Eugene, comfort him, pray 
 to God to comfort him ! "
 
 305 
 
 . 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE day passed over; it was evening, and the 
 Count Eugene sat alone when Madame Werner 
 entered. He did not heed her, grief had over- 
 whelmed him, and it was not until she had made 
 several attempts to arouse his attention that he 
 heard her say with a quivering voice, " The Frau- 
 lein bids me tell you that she would like to see you 
 again tonight. She will ring her bell when ready 
 to receive you. O sir, can nothing be done for 
 her? she is so good, so kind; but she cannot 
 live, unless something speedily be thought of to 
 relieve her." 
 
 "Has she been long so very ill?" asked the 
 Count. 
 
 "She has never been well since her arrival
 
 310 
 
 here; sometimes she seemed a little better in 
 health, but her countenance always expressed 
 utter misery. Many a night she passed without 
 ever going to bed ; and at times would shut her- 
 self up, and when I knocked would not answer ; 
 and if I went in, to leave a little food upon the 
 table, I found her sitting as if unconscious, with 
 her eyes fixed, and a look of despair in her face. 
 At first I used to speak and try to rouse her, but 
 she only stared wildly, and said strange words; 
 and then I thought it would be better to take no 
 notice of her for a time, and found that in this 
 way she became composed more quickly." 
 
 "And how did she usually employ her time?" 
 said Eugene. 
 
 "Principally in reading, and sometimes she 
 seemed to like to have her sister's youngest child 
 with her. How strange that was ! it seemed the 
 voice of nature, although she knew it not; the 
 Fraulein was so fond of that little girl ! The only 
 time I ever saw her smile was one day when 
 Franciska was prattling to her about her parents
 
 311 
 
 and home ; but oh -what a smile that was ! never 
 had I seen one like it before ; never, I hope, may 
 I have to look upon one such again. She used to 
 talk a great deal to my poor daughter too, and 
 seemed to wonder how she could be so contented 
 and cheerful suffering and disappointed, as she 
 had been, in all her hopes ; and I think it always 
 seemed a relief to her to have Marguerite with 
 her, especially when she had been hearing her 
 read the Bible, in which my afflicted child finds 
 all her comfort and consolation." 
 
 She left the room, and the Count remained 
 absorbed in his own gloomy reflections, awaiting 
 the bell which was to summon him to Marie. At 
 length he became uneasy, and determined to go 
 to her chamber. 
 
 He listened for a moment at the door, and 
 heard no sound, knocked, but received no an- 
 swer. Again he knocked, still there was silence. 
 Alarmed, he gently opened the door and looked 
 in ; all was darkness. 
 
 Suddenly the light, which had sunk into the
 
 312 
 
 socket, shot up brilliantly and illuminated all 
 around. Eugene saw only the bed where lay the 
 form of his once his still beloved Marie, her 
 eyes closed as if in sleep, and her face calm and 
 peaceful, though furrowed deeply with the lines 
 of grief grief now past for ever ! Some writing- 
 paper lay before her, and a pen which had dropped 
 from her hand. 
 
 A cry burst from the lips of her lover, and 
 reached the ears of Madame Werner and her 
 daughter, as they too sat waiting with increasing 
 anxiety for the expected sound; they hurried to 
 the room, and entering found Eugene lying upon 
 the bed unconscious as the cold form which he 
 held clasped convulsively to his bosom. Assist- 
 ance was immediately procured to remove him, 
 and whilst all means were resorted to for his 
 recovery, the affectionate Madame Werner, still 
 clinging to a last hope for her beloved friend, led 
 the village doctor, who had just arrived, to Marie's 
 bedside. He saw all at a glance, shook his head 
 sorrowfully, and turning round quietly left the
 
 313 
 
 room. Upon the paper which had apparently 
 occupied Marie's last moments, and which was 
 delivered to the Count as soon as he was able to 
 bear it, the following words were written in an 
 almost illegible hand : 
 
 " My last hour approaches ; I feel it, yet I am 
 at peace. How strange and incomprehensible ! 
 pressed into the grave by sin and suffering, I lay 
 me there in peace. Let me thank thee, O God ! 
 Dare I say, my Father ? Whence could peace 
 arise in this breast were it not from Thee ? "What 
 but an almighty hand could create it ? Mar- 
 guerite, messenger of mercy to my ruined soul, 
 mayst thou be blessed ! Father, beloved father, 
 mother, Eugene forgive "
 
 I 
 V 
 
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