"You, yourself, Elise; your whole conduct, your shyness and reserve, the manner in which you avoid me, the intentional coldness with which you meet me. Oh! even at this moment you would withdraw from me, but I will not let you, Elise; I will compel your heart to reveal itself to me. I will move you with my devotion, my tender anxiety, so that the cruel crust will fall from your gentle and pure heart, and you will become again my candid and confiding sister. Oh, Elise, have compassion on me! tell me what secret, mysterious charm has suddenly seized you; what wicked, hurtful demon has suddenly converted this bright ingenuous girl into a pale, sad, serious woman. Have courage and trust me, and let me read as in those happier days."
Elise looked at his noble countenance with a deep and painful emotion, and met his inquiring look with unabashed eye.
"Well, then," said she, "I will trust you, Bertram. I will tell you what I have confided to no human ear. Know, then, that my heart also has felt the pains which affect yours. Know that an ardent, hopeless love burnt my soul."
"A hopeless love?" asked Bertram.
"Yes, hopeless," said she, firmly; "for never can I hope for my father's blessing on this love, and never, without it, will I leave my father's house to follow the man I love."
"The man you love!" cried Bertram, painfully. "Does he also then love you, and does he know that you love him?"
She looked at him with astonishment. "Can one then love without being beloved?" asked she, with the unconscious pride of a young girl.
"You are right," said Bertram; "I was a fool to ask this question of you. But why do you doubt your father's consent? Why do you not go confidingly to him and confess your love? But how? Is this love such that it dare not face the light, and must conceal itself from the eyes of your father?"
"Yes, Bertram, it is such a love; but yet you must not doubt me, you must not think that this love which conceals itself from the eyes of my father need therefore fear the light of the world. My father would, perhaps, if he knew my secret, declare me unworthy of him; but never, be assured, never would I commit any act unworthy of myself, and for which I would have to blush. It is possible that not only my father but the whole world would pronounce me guilty if it knew my love; but, believe me, that in the consciousness of my rectitude I would have the courage to brave the verdict of the whole world, provided that my own heart acquitted me, and that I am guilty of no other crime than this accidental one, which fate, and not my own will and trespass, imposes on me. Love allows itself neither to be given nor taken, and when it cannot command fortune, it can at least lighten misfortune. More I cannot tell you, my brother, and what is the use of words? Only depend on what I assure you, I will never be faithless to my honor nor my love. You may think," continued she, proudly and passionately, "that my love is a crime, but never that I could love unworthily, or that I could bow my head under the disgrace of a dishonorable love."
She looked beautiful in her proud, flashing maidenhood; and Bertram felt, as he looked on her handsome, glowing countenance, that he had never loved her so sincerely, and at the same time so painfully, as at this moment.
"Elise," said he, grasping her hand, "will you not have entire confidence in your brother? Will you not tell me the name of your lover?"
She shook her head earnestly. "Only God and my heart dare know it."
"Elise," continued he more urgently, "shall I tell you what has been whispered in my ear as I returned from a long absence? Shall I tell you what your enemies—for your youth and beauty and your father's wealth have made you enemies—shall I tell you what your enemies whisper to each other with malicious joy?"
"No, no!" said she anxiously, "how would it help me to know it?"
Bertram continued inexorably, "They say that the captive Russian, General Sievers, was welcomed by your father into his house as a friend, and that he overwhelmed the noble prisoner with kind attention."
Elise breathed more freely. "It was with the consent and by the wish of the king that my father was kind to the captive Russian general."
"And was it also by the wish of the king that Gotzkowsky's daughter accepted the homage of the Russian general's adjutant?"
A slight shudder ran through Elise's whole frame, and her cheeks became crimson.
"Ah," cried Bertram sadly, "I see you understand me. You will not tell me the name of your lover—let me tell it to you. It is Feodor von Brenda."
"No, no!" cried Elise, looking around in alarm, and fearful lest some treacherous ear had heard the dangerous secret.
"Yes," said Bertram, "his name is Feodor von Brenda; he serves as a colonel in the Russian army; he fights against our brothers and our king; he is the enemy of our country."
"You have no pity on me," cried Elise, wringing her hands, her eyes streaming with tears. "You wish to kill me with your cruel words."
"I wish to show to the daughter of the noblest and truest patriot, I wish to point out to the young, inexperienced, credulous maiden, to my sister, that she stands at the edge of an abyss. I wish to open her eyes that she may be aware of the danger which threatens her. I wish to draw her back from this abyss which threatens to engulf her."
"It is too late," said Elise, rising proudly and drying her tears. "I know it all, Bertram; I stand at the edge of this abyss with open eyes, conscious of the danger; but I will not, cannot draw back, for my heart holds me fast."
Elise took leave of him with a sad smile, and hurried rapidly down the dark walk which led to the retired and unfrequented parts of the garden.
Bertram looked after her until her pink dress disappeared behind the dark foliage of the hedge.
"She loves him," murmured he, letting his head drop upon his breast, "it is certain she loves him."
* * * * *
CHAPTER IV.
FEODOR VON BRENDA.
Elise directed her hasty steps toward the now retired parts of the garden. She longed to be alone. Her soul, agitated by painful emotions, required silence and solitude, in order to settle down again gently to rest and peace. Slowly, and with bowed head, she traversed the dark, silent garden-walks. Her thoughts wandered afar off, and she sought some little comfort, some relief from the privations of the present, in the sweet and blissful recollections of bygone days.
"What can keep him?" asked she of herself; and as she thought of him, her countenance assumed a cheerful, almost happy expression. "He swore to brave every danger, every difficulty, in order to let me hear from him; and now, alas! ten weeks have passed, and no news, no token, from him. My God! is it possible that in all this long time he could have found no opportunity to write to me?—or perhaps his love has not survived the test of separation and silence."
At this thought she stopped, as if stunned, and pressed her hand to her breast. A sharp pain shot through her, and her heart seemed to cease to pulsate. But, in a moment, her countenance brightened up, and she murmured, with a gentle smile, "Oh, to doubt his love were a greater treason than to love my country's enemy. Oh, no! Feodor, my heart does not doubt you; and notwithstanding your silence, I know that your heart answers mine, and that we are forever and inseparably united."
With rapid step and cheerful mind she continued her wandering. She had now arrived at the darkest and most secluded part of the garden. Nothing stirred around her, and there was only heard the rustling of the dark fir-tree moved by the wind, or the melodious note of some bird hidden in the foliage.
The garden, elsewhere so carefully and artistically tended, stretching from the Leipsic Street to the Palisades, which surrounded the town in lieu of a wall at that time, was here overgrown with underwood, protecting the more beautiful parts like a quickset hedge. But this bush was, besides,