HER LITTLE HIGHNESS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue XI, 14 September 1895, Page 336

HER LITTLE HIGHNESS.

Translated from the German of Nataly Von Eschstruth. — Author of • A Priestess of Comedy,’ ‘Countess Dynar,’ ‘A Princess of the Stage.’

E "XT

ELISE L. LATHROP.

CHAPTER XXII. A SENSATIONAL bit ot news greeted the princess and her escort. As explanation «by they had not sooner become alarmed at the princess’s long absence, the duke related the following : When her lady-in waiting returned to the lake with a sprained ankle she had seated herself in a sleigh, and in order to forget her accident had carried on an animated conversation with different gentlemen. This being watched disapprovingly by the duke, his rather sharp remarks made Lola think it advisable to return to Sophienholf as an invalid. Her unexpectedly early return bad proved a blessing. Availing themselves of the absence of the princess, her court and most of the servants, several bold fellows had broken into the castle from the lonely park side.

Their aim had been the princess’s jewel safe in her dressing room, but ‘ en passant,' they had broken open and apparently robbed Count Lankwiiz’s writing desk, while valuables had been taken from other rooms.

Rafaela's jewel safe showed signs of lough work, but its excellent construction had resisted the thieves’ efforts. Great excitement had prevailed at the announcement of this news. AH had Hocked to Sophieuhof, even the duke himself, that he might be present at the police investigation. Thus the princess’s unusually long absence had not been noticed until the excitement had somewhat abated, and the late dinner hour had arrived.

Cyril’s face had turned deathly pale at bis sovereign’s words. •My writing-desk broken open and robbed’’ ho stammered, scarcely able to speak. • Unfortunately, my dear count. I hope you had no very largo sum of money and valuables in it? ’

The count scared absently at the torches, then asked suddenly : • May I humbly beg you to excuse me, your highness ?’ •Certainly, certainly, hurry, my dear count. Perhaps you will be fortunate enough to find some secret compartment undisturbed.’

The duke held out his hand graciously, and Rafaela, too, offered hets, with a few gentle words of sympathy, but the news seemed to have quite overcome the count. He fairly started back from the princess as though in despair. A short, hurried bow, and he rushed away as though pursued by demons.

The two court carriages stood ready at the lake side. Cyril sprang into one breathlessly.

‘Quick, drive quickly 1’ he gasped. A police officer met him on the steps of Sophienhof, and wished to communicate something to him, but without listening to him, with staring gaze and distorted countenance, Cyril pushed him aside, and ruslied down the corridor.

His room was lighted. The heavy, old, carved secretary was pushed out from the wall. The lock was picked, the drawers pulled out and their contents overhauled, while the boards were removed from the ba"k, leaving the desk a mere skeleton. A hollow cry of dismay. Cyril totters nearer, and rune his hand under the lid, then a wild laugh of despair comes from his lips, and he falls heavily to the ground. The manuscript of ‘ Madam Potiphur ’ has been stolen.

Hasty steps approach, the policeman on guard rushes in in alarm and raises the un conscious man in his strong am e. Ho calls for the valet, tries to ring the bell, when Cyril opens his eyes again. He glances in confused question at the strange face, then his consciousness quickly returns.

•Hush, hush!’ ho groans. ’For God’s sake, be silent.’ He rises suddenly and throws himself into an armchair, pressing hie ice cold hands to hie temples. •Good heavens! You have certainly mot with heavy losses, count !’ says the official compassionately. ‘ But do not excito yourself prematurely. Our people are already on the track ot the thieves.’ The prince’s tutor stares at him hopelessly. ‘ Yes, a heavy loss,’ ho murmurs dully • Now nil is over.’

‘ Tho count will certainly receive the things again.’ Cyril only shakes his head in silence. For a second there is no sound. Only the

papers scattered on the carpet rustle softly as the official withdraws a few steps. Suddenly the young count raises his head and holds out his hand. *1 thank you for your friendly assistance. The excitement of the moment made me weak. Now I am quite myself again and should like to be alone.’ The man withdraws, closing the door behind him. The lamp burns dimly. All is still, deathly still, save for the ticking of a clock, like the weary heart beats of a dying man. Cyril sits motionless. Yes now all is over. To-day he has been in Paradise. And since there can be no happiness on earth for the man who loves Princess Rafaela and who wrote • Madam Potiphar,’ it would be well for the poor tormented mortal to leave this earth. What has he to live for? To sutler torments of dread that his unhappy secret will be discovered ? Never to be free from ih s terrible uncertainty, and finally to stand in Rafaela’s sight as the man who has caused her the greatest pain she has ever known. No, he cannot bear her anger, scorn and disfavour after to-day. Better die. • Die—die 1’ ticks the clock. His head is confused and hot. A high, grey wall seems to rise before him. With trembling hand ho fetches paper and ink. Sheets and envelopes lie scattered around. He writes to Princess Rafaela a last brief note of parting, a wild cry of de spairing love, which has driven itself to its own death. He sealed the envelope and laid it on the table. Then he took his pistol case from the mantle. The little weapon, an expensive present from the duke is loaded. Cyril takes it in his trembling hand. His fingers are colder than the steel. With a convulsive sigh he raises the deadly weapon. Ab that moment a hand seizes his and draws it forcibly down. ‘Coward !’ thunders a voice. ‘ Have you forgotten your God, your conscience and your honour ?’ Cyril starts. His head sinks heavily on his breast. The voice is his father’s. The captain draws the pistol from ids hand and throws it back in its case. Then he lays his hand heavily on his son’s shoulder. ‘ Cyril I’ Then the young man raises his ghastly face and stares at him with glassy eyes. • What right have you to disgrace the honourable name of your ancestors? Have you committed a dishonourable deed, the disgrace of which can be wiped out only by blood ?’ ‘Dishonourable? Dishonourable?’ murmurs Cyril, as though in a dream. ‘ No, it was not dishonourable.’ • So much the worse, if a man will become a sinner against himself and his family for the sake of a trifle. Justify yourself. What has forced a pistol into your band ?’ Cyril buries his face in his hand with a groan. ‘ You gave me life, father, but you have no right to force it upon me when it has become unbearable.’ Cyprian pushes a chair close to his son’s side. ‘ That is a matter for discussion.’ He seizes one of the ice cold hands and clasps it tightly in his. ‘ You are ill, boy,’ he says softly and gently. ‘ Tell nr.e what ails you that I may cure you.’ Cyril’s head sinks down on his father’s shoulder. ‘ You will learn, father, sooner than you will care to know,’ he murmurs. The captain glances around the room. ‘ You have been robbed ?’ A nod. ‘Your fortune is safely deposited. It can only be some private document?' Cyril shudders, and again nods in silence. ‘Confide in me, Cyril.’ Then he starts up, his eyes rolling madly. • 1 am the author of “ Madam Potiphar ho cries hoarsely. • And the manuscript has been stolen from me.’ Tho captain also starts. ‘You? You the author of “Madam Potiphar?” ’ he repeats incredulously. Cyril laughs cuttingly. ‘ This possibility has never occured to you, has it?’ he cries bitterly. •Why not? You are clever and intellectual, and never could endure Rafaela—’ • •• Never could endure her !” Oh, my God 1’ The captain suddenly gazes piercingly at

his son’s distorted countenance. A sudden comprehension Hashes across hitn. ‘ At least not formerly—’ he continues, with emphasis, ‘ but now—’ • Do not speak of it !’ • Now you love her,’ Again a half-delirious laugh. •Yes, I love her, I love her ! And in a few hours perhaps, she will know that I once condemned her before all the world, and she will repulse me with horror. Do you not understand that 1 can and must live no longer ?' Cyprian calmly leaned back in his chair. ‘No, not at all,’ ssid he, shaking his head in his old, careless way. ‘ Rafaela is a woman, and no woman is unpropitiable, especially when she herself loves. Cyril started. ‘You do not believe that she will pardon the eon for the father’s sake?’ he murmurs bitterly. ‘ For my sake?’ Va leral laughs. ‘Oh, dear innocent! What have I to do with the princess ?’ ‘ Y ou love each other, and you will marry her.’ ‘ We do not think of it. The father is tolerated for the son’s sake. But as one never knows with Rafaela whether her apparent feelings come from her heart, I will not encourage your all too bold hopes ; for the present, more important matters must be attended to. Cyril, you wrote “ Madam Potiphar.” This is a capital discovery. The devil, yes !’ and the captain sprang up excitedly, and paced the room several times. Suddenly he paused beside Cyril. ‘Do you really believe that the manuscript will be recovered from the thieves !’ • Yes. I have always been marked For misfortune.’ ‘ls your full name given on it as the author ?’ Cyril passed his hand over his brow, as though obliged to collect his thoughts by force. Then he shook his head. • No, only my initials, C.L— But the writing would betray me.’ The captain suddenly rubbed his hands as though greatly p eased, and laid his arm around his son’s shoulders with sparkling eyes. ’ Boy, I have a brilliant idea,’ he cried. Cyril scared at him dully. ‘We both are as unlike as fire and water,’ laughed Cyprian, ‘except our handwritings, which are as like as two peas The initals of both of us are “C. L.,” ergo, if it suits you, my boy, calmly push the child of your intellect, “Madam Potiphar,” into my nest, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to proclaim myself the author.’ ‘Father!’ came from the young man’s lips. His dull eyes brightened, a hot flush rose to his pale face, as he caught at this hope as a drowning man seizes a plank. ‘ Father—you would — would do that ?’ ‘Will I do it? Ha, ha ! Today the manuscript in my pocket, to-morrow Aunt Claudine’s millions mine. I will be more practical than you, you fantastic mortal. Good heavens ! The boy lets a miiliondollar inheritance lie in his writing desk, and did not excavate the treasure. Besides, it will be a colossal joke for me to have written such a clever book. I the author of “ Madam Pot phar !” I actually begin to respect myself,’ and Valleral was now quite his old self, sprang up, went to the mirror, and proudly twisted his moustache. Cyril had clasped his hands. His frame shook with excitement.

•It would save me from her scorn, her reproaches. But you. father, do you not fear the displeasure of the duke and the princess ?’ • Not in the least. 1 will get out of the aflair finely. I care only for the favour of my little Mignon. Heavens, what eyes, when I move into Castle Bahrenberg as coowner !’ and Valleral flung himself into his chair with the gayest of laughs, and threw his arm around his son. You are a tine fellow, my boy. And you, foolish fellow, would destroy yourself because you have written one of tho best books ever printed.’ The young man leaned heavily against his father. His head and banc’s, so icy cold a moment before, now glowed with fever, and his temples throbbed. ‘ And the duke—and Rafaela will not lay up against me the fact that my father wrote “Madam Potiphar”?’ he murmurs with a deep sigh. • Not a bit of it, my boy. Let me see to that ’

A deep breath of relief, then he whispers: •Now 1 must pick her up in my arms—it grows more and more dark—the moon is rising— There, there—very quickly — Good heavens ! the abyss— We will fall —

do not leave me, Rafaela—l shall perish without you— Haik, how they call—all the lights dance around me—and the stars fall and bury me beneath their splendour—’ Alarmed, Cyprian bent forward and stared into his son’s face. He is delirious. Hastily his father lays him back against the soft cushions and rushes to the bell. • Fetch a doctor at once,’ he says to the servant. A detective appears on the threshold. His face beams with joy. ‘ VVe have them, count,’ he says ; ‘and here the chief of police sends the chamberlain’s box. It is already opened. The thief probably suspected valuable papers, but they are apparently only legal documents.’ Cyprian seized the metal box hastily. ‘ Excellent ! A thousand thanks, my good fellow. Have the police been informed of the contents ?’ ‘As far as 1 know the things have been looked over, count.’ ‘So. A thousand thanks meanwhile. As soon as possible I will come and arrange everything personally. The door closes softly. Cyprian goes to the light and casts a hasty glanee in the box. It contains the manuscript of ‘ Madam Potiphar.’ Count Cyril Lankwitz lies ill with a nervous fever, and, at his father’s wish, is removed to a private hospital. The captain remains with the patient until his life is no longer in danger. Daily, Princess Rafaela stops with her little son at the entrance, to enquire for the count in person. Ho recovers slowly. The physicians think possibly the seeds of the disease have been sown by years of continual nervous excitement, which needed but some sli.ht cause to burst forth. The curtains are drawn tightly, and Cyril lies in a death like slumber, little dreaming that at that moment his father’s carriage rolls up to the ducal palace, and that the hour is at hand when ‘ Madam Potiphar ’ is to be called from oblivion for the last time. CHAPTER XXIII. Count Cyprian Lankwitz stood before his sovereign. His handsome face wore a look of unmistakable amusement as he bowed deeply and said : ‘ Your highness is rightly informed. The manuscript of “Madam Potiphar” was discovered by the police lieutenant, and the gentleman only did his duty in announcing this surprising find, just as the police were commissioned to discover the author.’ The duke gnzed at the speaker in amazement. • You—you knew where the manuscript was found, my dear count !’ A faultless bow. ‘Yes, your highness. In my son’s writingdesk.’ ‘lncredible! Count Cyril cannot possibly be the author. At. most, possib'y his confidant.’ • Will your highness permit me to speak quite Ireely ? I think it beneath my d'gnity to give my sovereign false impressions, although I pledged myeelf to them to save my son’s life.’ The duke seated himself, with a wave of his hand toward the chair at his side. • I shall know how to appreciate this frankness, my dear count,’ said he, without a trace of angry excitement. ‘ There was a time, your highness will remember, when Cyril was the target for all disfavour and many unjust caprices on the part of her highness, the princess. Upon an indifferent heart, these continual vexations would make a deep and lasting impression ; how much more upon Cyril's, for he — pardon my frankness, your highness—had from childhood felt, a deep, passionate love for the charming little princess. Cyril’s is one of those unhappy natures who are too reserved to let the world see their inward conflicts. But where unbridled passions must rage themselves out in solitude, they overshoot moderation, and make the wildest mistakes. The poor boy hated his own father, as a favoured rival, and “ Madam Potiphar” is the wild outburst of mingled love, hatred and wild jealousy, which for years had tortured the young heart. I am convinced that Cyril absolutely could not estimate the effect of his act. In blind passion he intended merely to open, with “Madam Potiphar,” a gulf between the princess and me, and I think I may assure

you, on my word of honour, that Cyril has suffered most from the evil this unhappy boos has caused.’ *He has proved this by his faithful, eolt-sacrificing efforts to atone for hie fault to Rafaela.’ The duke rose, and his grave face wore a look of kind sympathy. *So it was Cyril ! Cyril !' he murmured. ' Poor young man ! In his despair he hurt himself. Evil the book has caused, my dear count!’ The duke paused before Cyprian and looked him in the eyes. * One confidence deserves another. The evil is small in comparison with the blessing it has wrought. The book accomplished that for which we had all vainly striven, and taught the young, inexperienced princess the lesson that it is not sufficient to have a clear conscience, but that it is necessary to avoid everything that may give the world opportunity to judge one falsely. Rafaela cast our admonitions to the wind, and, in childish defiance, quarrelled with us when I tried to bring her to reason. So she could not wonder if public opinion became her preceptor. A princess upon whom thousands of eyes are fixed must be doubly cautious. Men judge only from outward appearances. That Rafaela has never gone too tar, that the slightest shadow never fell upon her honour and dignity, you yourself know best, count. Still, in “ Madam Potiphar ” was to be read only what passed from mouth to mouth. Appearances were against her, and she had to feel, since she would not hear. And what an extraordinary effect the book has had upon her, we remark each day with delight. It brought about a crisis in Rafaela’s character. She has become a lovely, prudent, thoughtful woman. The remedy was severe, but the only one which could avail. Although your son may have exaggerated, and seen things too blackly, my dear count, you have given me, as an excuse for him, a glimpse of his mental condition which could but excite pity in any tolerant man. And now we will bury the whole matter. Cyril is very ill ; the consciousness that he is forgiven shall make him recover. As to the princess, I wish that the author’s name should for the present remain unknown to her. Cyril has atoned. He has a most beneficial influence upon the young prince and his mother which I should not like to disturb. Let the past be forgotten.’ The duke held out his hand heartily, and deeply moved, Cyprian bent and kissed it. Then he looked his sovereign frankly in the face. ‘For your highness’s great kindness in wishing to spare my son in the princess's eight, I cannot thank your highness sufficiently, for the princess’s anger and scorn would drive Cyril to his death. But it would be impossible to keep the secret of *• Madam Potiphar,” for unfortunately premature zeal has already circulated reports in the newspapers, and besides, I believe that some good can be derived from this surprising discovery—’ The Duke suddenly laughed aloud. * Ah, the Bahrenberg inheritance !’ * That is not to be undervalued either, your highness, especially for a poor devil like me, whose funds are permanently low !’ •For you? What have you to do with it ?’ * Will your highness have the kindness to hear me once more? On the evening of the burglary I sought Cyril, and found him in a state of absolute despair. In fear and anxiety, and to keep the irresponsible fellow from killing himself, as he wae about to do, I promised him, in case of discovery, to proclaim myself the author of the book. Our similar handwriting and initials would insure success ’ Again the duke laughed. This time with good-natured mockery. ‘ You the author of “ Madam Potiphar ?” Who would believe that, my dear captain ?’ Cyprian laughed too. ‘ There are misjudged geniuses, your highness and I have always hidden my light under a bushel,” said he, with self-irony. * But is it not absolutely incredible that the favourite of a “Madam Potiphar” could write such a book about himself and the lady of his heart ?’ * Pardon. I think this very fact gives me an opportunity to make good my son’s wronging of the heroine of this book.’ *1 do not understand you.’ 'A man whois secretly an author may be also secretly an intriguer. What could better establish the purity of a woman than the fact that he whom, with childish thoughtlessness, she singled out for distinction, writes a book that he may free her, through its compromising contents, to give him her hand ? This new light upon the subject will make a sensation, and as 1 know that “ Madam Potiphar ” deserves to be completely justified in the eyes of the world, I think it a chivalrous duty to re ceive in my own breast all the arrows which were formerly directed at her. If her highness, the princess, has suffered on my account, it is but right that I should sutler for her glorification.’

‘ That is very noble, my dear count, and it would sincerely please me if society

should now weave a martyr’s wreath for Rafaela. She deserves it. And your reward ? Well, Baroness Bahrenberg** estate will perhaps recompense you for your sacrifice. I should prefer that the whole affair be suppressed, or do you really think that impossible ?’ ' Really, your highness. I do. Tho manuscript of •• Madam Potiphar” was not returned to me entire. The most important pages are missing, and aro probably the booty of some dishonourable speculator. The thieves scatteied some of the pages in the park, thinking them valueless paper. The returning people may have found them, and recognised their value. The words “ Madam Potiphar ” stood out all too plainly. Already anonymous, blackmailing lettershave been sent to mine and icy son’s address.' ‘ Ah —incredible !’ • As these have remained ineffectual, revenge will surely Hee to foreign newspapers, to publish the discovery of the secret, for the knowledge of our handwriting proves that the parts of the manuscript are in the hands of some refined person familiar with it.’ * Your official acknowledgment of the authorship would then best stop all further proceedings, and as I see myself, your generosity would settle the affair best in all particulars.' Thus over night Valieral became the author of • Madam Potiphar,* and as soon as Cyril’s health permitted, he set out at once for the little provincial town near the Bahrenberg estate to take possession of the old lady’s fortune. It was as he had thought. Again the civilised world was wild y excited. Many declared they had long suspected Cyprian’s intrigue, others w*ere amazed ; the former horrified, the latter amused at that madcap Valleral’s 'clever trick.’ But all agreed that the poor princess had shared the lot of many another woman, who, in her carelessness, does not realise that the world loves to blacken and vilify prominent characters. Rafaela’s life and manner of late had proved sufficiently how falsely she had been judged, and the whole affair gave wide opportunity to catch a glimpse of the heart of a poor child of royalty, who had been a martyr to her people. Many who had criticised the young princess most sharply, now bowed their heads in shame ; and many malicious tongues now silently found excuses for a wife who was given to an unloved husband in earliest youth. was kept away from her child, by the tyranny of her advisers, ami in eighteenyear - old vivacity, sought to forget her empty life in pleasures. People could not weary of giving the princess new proofs of their love and admiration, and never had she been more truly the darling of the whole land.

As Valieral had always been fortunate, so was he now. bio cavalier had ever been so popular and such a favourite as Count Lankwitz, and now the Bahrenberg inheritance made him doubly attractive. What foo ishness. then, to drive such a good parti from the capital. Had not the captain been most graciously pardoned by the duke? Did not Princess Rafaela continue to drive to the hospital and inquire with sincere interest as to the young count s health ? If the royal family *et such an example of mildness and forgiveness, was society justified in cutting a man with whom it was not angry? Therefore, to let the whole affair be suppressed as quickly as possible, and act, upon the captain’s return, as though nothing had happened, would be wisest. Besides, several other sensational occurrences had set all tongues wagging just then, and gradually crowded this other theme into the background. • » * * * In a most satisfied frame of mind. Count Cyprian arrived in the little town which, as yet, had no suspicion thut tho Baroness Bahrenberg’s long awaited heir at last knocked at its gates. The lawyers passed a highly interesting morning, and when the captain had e-tablished his identity beyond all doubt, partly by the manuscript, partly by letters from the publisher, the matter was very easily and simply arranged, and no objection was made to the count’s occupying tho half of Castle Bahrenberg now belonging to him, until all formalities were complied with, and he was thoroughly established in bis rights as heir. It was a rainy spring afternoon when Count Cyprian, his valet Moulin and a lawyer drove out, in the only landau in the town, to Castle Bahrenberg. The count wished to arrive as unnoticed as possible. He stopped the carriage at the open park gate, ordered Moulm to go on to the castle with the luggage, and let the lawyer unseal the door, while he walked through the park. Cyprian hurried on oxer tho soft, mossy path. Before him rose the castle turrets and gables behind the leafless trees, and at one side sparkled a little lake—surely the one at which, years before, his friend Florence's fate had been decided. Hark ! Were those voices or birds ? No,

Home one laughs quite near him. That is Mignon’s laugh. And now a man’s voice. Thick evergreens screen the path. Valleral draws nearer, unheard and unseen. An ideal little resting place beside the lake, surrounded by old willows. The count cautiously pushes the branches aside. Only a few steps from him stands Mignon. She has a little basket on her arm, and is cutting pussy willows, while a young man gallantly bends the branches down. Who is he ? The conversation seems very important, for Mignon's face is crimson, and she vainly tries to draw her hand from the sneaker’s, who clasps it tightly together with the twigs.

* Mignon !’ he cries, with an unmistakably foreign accent. ‘I have seon your picture, and it has brought me here across the sea, from the distant north. What are my studies in Upsala to me? I will study you and your heart, you beautiful, fascinating woman.’ He speaks like an actor, with great pathos and many gestures. * But my dear cousin, what nonsense !’ laughs the young girl, half confused, half flattered. 1 How can you speak so to a mere girl ? I assure you, in the capital they do not consider me anything remarkable.’ He strikes his chest dramatically. * Because your German fatherland is pedantic. Because the women are jealous and the men blind. What do you lack to be fitted for the most prominent posilion? You are grown ; you are intellectual ; you are beautiful. Who counts your years and wishes to force you back to the nursery is a fool.’ Mignon bites her rosy lips ; her eves Hash. * Oh, if you knew, Sven, how 1 have been insulted !’ she says with set teeth. ‘lnsulted? You ’ The young man tosses back hie yellow mane wildly. *1 will avenge you. I will fight for you. No queen has ever had a more faithful knight. 1 will break your chains, and will show your enemy that there is still one man who places you above all other women,’ and he noisily struck hie stiffly starched shirt front. * But give me the right Mignon. Betroth yourself to me.’ She drew back in alarm. * Oh, you are jesting,* she stammered. * Jesting,’ he said, reproachfully. ‘ Un-

happy girl, how can you thus trample my holiest feelings in the dust. When a man gives a woman his heart and love, in such a sacred hour, all jest is far from him.' * Yes, yes. So it should be,'said Mignon, frowning.

* I mean truly. lam in earnest with my suit, for it makes you my whole life. No other woman exists for me but you. tr>y goddess. And whoever in such a moment thinks and acts otherwise does not love you.’ A deep sigh. The young girl clasps her hands convulsively. ' No. He does not love me,’ she murmurs. ‘This is very pretty,’ thinks Cyprian. * The devil ! If the fellow tries to kiss her I will attack him with my umbrella.' But the young lover is at present too rhetorical for kissee. He draws a little ring from hie pocket and puts it on his cousin’s linger. * I make you my betrothed,’ says he, glancing at the sky, ‘for higher powers have destined us for each other. Here in the castle dwells a beneficent, protecting spirit, who shall guard this ring.’ * And if he does not guard it, but loses it from my finger?' says Mignon, irresolutely. ‘That is a decree of fate to which I bow,’ says Sven, condescendingly. As long as no supernatural power separatee us, I fear no earthly one. And now come to my arms.’ She draws away from him, and shakes her head energetically. ‘ My parents and the protecting spirit have not yet given their consent,’ says she, with flaming cheeks. ‘ And although I believe that you love me as sacredly and truly as I desire, yet, Sven, I claim a short time to determine my own feelings.’ ‘You wear my ring on your finger, beloved,' cries he passionately. ‘ Swear to me that you will not remove it! Higher powers have united our hearts and hands ; only higher powers may release them.’ She has quickly turned away ; he follows her, declaiming until his voice dies away in the distance.

* This is a pleasant discovery !' thinks Valleral, meditatively smoothing his blonde moustache. * I begin to fear this boy, Sven. The rascal has taken just the tone Mignon requires, as suitable to love making And the cousin is handsome, although hie sanctimonious air makes me detest him. It is all put on. But wait, I

am on the spot now, and I, too, will call upon the beneficent spirits of Bahrenberg to show more favour to an honest fellow than to vou, you sneak.’ The Ohly entrance of the castle lay to the north, that of the new heir to the south ; and there was not a soul in sight, except the valet, as the count approached. * A dreadful castle, count,' said he, anxiously. *We are absolutely alone.’ * For to-day; to morrow it will be different. Come, you French rabbit heart, we will inspect our enchanted castle I’ It is a strange feeling, to enter perfectly unfamiliar rooms with the consciousness that they belong to us. Every nook and corner is interesting.

Slowly, almost reverently, Cyprian wandered from room to room, in which, a comparatively short time before, his unknown patroness had lived and breathed. All was just as Claudine had left it, and it seemed as though a mysterious whispering broke the deep stillness, as though invisible powers rejoiced that Cyprian, the only one Claudine had ever loved, should enter her home as heir.

How much that is interesting these cupboards and drawers contain ! Valleral almost regrets that there is no woman here to revel in the treasures of household linen. In the writing-desk, the sealing wax and seal used by the dead woman for her last will still lies. Undestroyed old letters, receipts and newspaper cuttings are neatly arranged in the compartments, and a never finished letter to the head of some charitable institution is in the portfolio.

And here the bedroom, all untouched, just as the dead woman left it. On a little table stands the half full medicine bottle, a silver spoon in a glass beside it. A prayer-book lay on the floor, and here, where the coffin had stood, are faded flowers and leaves, with wax from the candles which had lighted up the peaceful face of the poor sufferer. Deep sadness overcomes Cyprian. He seats himself in an armchair, and tries to recall the dead woman as he had known her. He had but a vague memory of her. He sees only the large, awkward, stooping, girlish figure, poor Claudine Bahrenburg, whom he had once at dancing school thought so very homely. Here, surrounded by her things, the homely face seemed encircled by a halo, beautified and idealised,

and the good hearted Cyprian thinks : •No one understood you, poor Claudine ; no one found the way to you, to bring life, happiness and peace to you in your solitude. I come too late. I almost envy Cyril, that you became so fond of him through his book.’

Poor Claudine! Those days in the dancing school, you never suspected that some day a man, who then had no eyes or ears for you, long years afterward, would sit in your death chamber and mourn you sincerely ! CHAPTER XXIV. Never had Cyprian seen more astonished faces than those of the Oh’y family, when he appeared before them on the verandah. Florence cried out as though she had seen a ghost, and Mignon turned pale ; but in this moment, Valleral read the whole truth in her eyes, and this gave him back all his gay confidence. The news that he had appeared before the court as the author of ‘ Madam Potiphar,’ and had been acknowledged as Claudine’s heir, occasioned a perfect torrent of words from Florence. Her fresh round face showed only too well what a pleasant triumph Cyprian’s appearance was, and probably never was a man received so graciously by a lady whom he has deprived of half her fortune, as was the captain by Baroness Ohly, who hospitably offered to entertain him until his part of the castlo should be made comfortable. Florence welcomed him indeed, for the solitude of a country life had become unbearable, and Mignon, too, had fancied it more amusing than it proved. So, although she tried to be very cold at first, she became more and more animated the longer the captain sat at the tea table, and laughed and jested. Only Cousin Sven, a relative of Baron Ohly, grew more and more monosyllabic and out of temper, and saw with increasing displeasure, that even his relative and confederate fell more and more under Cyprian’s charm. Finally he complained that the ‘all too great levity ’ had made his head ache, and begged leave to retire. He held Mignon’s hand with a long pressure, rolled his eyes

tragically and kissed the little ring on her linger. ■ May the protecting spirit of the house be with us !' said he. pathetically, bowed stiffly and left the room. * The young man is probably a divinity student!’ said Cyprian, pleasantly. Florence laughed aloud, while Mignon flushed vexedly. * Divinity student I You are right, my dear count. Now I know of what hie rhetorical tone often reminds me. although many of our charming young theologians would be very vexed at this comparison.' 1 1 do not know why, mamma,’ says Mignon, indignantly, * if a man is grave and too noble and sensible to be perpetually joking, he should serve as a fitting subject for mockery.' * So, in your opinion, jolly people are not noble and sensible, Miss Mignon ?’ said ('yprian. ■At least one does not believe them capable of true feeling.’ * That is a very hard judgment. I hope tho time will come when you will change your opinion, for 1 am one of the jolliest of men, and sincerely wish that you should judge me rightly.’ * \\ ell, my dear count, if you often surprise us as you have to-day, you will make that a difficult task. Lankwitz, the author of “ Madam Potiphar !” ’ and Florence clasped her fat little hands. • Who would have thought it ?’ Cyprian smiled. * Yes, sooner or later the light burns a hole through the bushel.’ * And you concealed your misanthrophy so successfully No, never would I have thought you such a bitter pessimist. Such a moralist—’ * You see. a man’s jollity may deceive, and may conceal the gravest, most pious nature.’ Mignon listened attentively. ‘ Why do you mingle with the gay world if you despi-e it so?’ she asked scornfully. ‘ Because one must try and test before one judges.’ ‘ But I think it cowardly to do so anonymously,’ said the girl, defiantly. * It was not chivalrous.’ ‘ But effective. You see, no one believed me the author of the book. People think me incapable of grave, deep feelings, because I am morry, and do not wear my

most sacred emotions on my sleeve. I cannot find words like vour cousin’s, but I should not be in the least surprised if Mr Sven von Gullenstrom proved to be the author of the most flippant French novel. Appearances are deceitful, Mies Mignon.' * Outrageous I He does not think of such a thing,’ said Mignon, indignantly, although she suddenly looked very thoughtful. * Sven writes books. Heaven forbid that I should have to read them !* cried the baroness. * I think him capable of much, but not that.* * And why not ?’ said her daughter, piqued. * Because it must be dreadfully hard, eh, my dear count?' Cyprian nodded absently, hie eyes fixed on the ring on Mignon’s finger. * H-m, I should think it must be veryhard.’ * You should think ! You must know.’ * Oh, yes, quite right. I mean as a rule. To sit still and scratch a pen over the paper until the book is written—dreadful I’ "You will write no more?’ * I ? Heaven forbid ! I swear to you, baroness, not another line.' "Strange. With your great gifts ! Then it would have been better had Claudine made another will. * Better for you or for me ?’ said he, teasingly. "For us both,’ was the frank and laconic answer. Mignon remained silent, and Cyprian soon took leave. It was very amusing to have Count Cyprian in Bahrenberg. however obstinately Mignon held aloof. Her mother was all the more gracious, and it became very tiresome to the young girl to sit behind the window, listening to Sven’s reproachful, jealous heroics, while Florence promenaded on the terrace with the captain, and her laughter showed how well she was entertained. Cyprian made no effort to win her over. Mignon thought she had probably offended him too deeply, but just because she loved him so dearly, she had not wished to be treated like a baby by him, and her pride had rebelled at the thought of being merely a plaything. Why was he so indifferent? If she could but arouse his jealousy by coquetting with

Sven, but, strangely enough .sinceCy prian’s arrival, the northerner seems very tiresome; and, most of all, he makes not the slightest impression upon her mother and the count-, for they do not hesitate to ridicule him. The ring weighs on her finger, and yet, with girlish sentimentality, she feels obliged to wear it, until higher powers break the chains imposed upon her by Sven’s declaration of love. Some days pass, and the more unhappy Mignon feels, the merrier becomes Cyprian. One night he has the strangest dream, so strange that in recalling it, the next morning, he forgets to ring for Moulin. He dreamed that he stood downstairs in his dining-room, staring at a magnificently carved cupboard, which was built into the wall near the sideboard. He saw the door of this cubboard open, and a small white hand beckon to him from it. When, in his delight at actually seeing a ghost, lie hurried rearer and opened this cupboard, he saw the boards at the back part, and a wonderful treasure of silver and gold lay before his eyes. When, in surprise, he reached out for it he awoke. What could this dreain mean? Had Claudine possibly hidden treasure in this cupboard, and had no time to write down this secret ? Was there some secret drawer or compartment in this cupboard, containing some important, valuable things ? In any case, the count will investigate. The box of tools which Moulin had borrowed of an Ohly servant to repair a window still stands in the corridor. He therefore hurries into his clothes that he may set about this investigation. Cyprian and hie valet were invited to take ail,meals in the northern half of the castle, but the valot always, as was his custom, prepared the count’s morning cup nt tea ; and this stood in readiness when the count entered the dining-room. His first glance was for the cupboard. There was nothing remarkable in its appearance : nor did Cyprian, strain hie eyes as he might, perceive any white, beckoning hand. While he drank hie tea he studied this cupboard, or rather cupboards, for there were two of them — one on each side of the large sideboard, the doors handsomely carved.

The one at the right is doubtless the one. The count can scarcely wait to send

Moulin away on tome reasonable pretext. Finally he goes. It is raining, and the large room is quite dark, hence an excellent ghostly setting, and the wind, too, howls down the chimney. Cvprian opens the cupboard, and the door turns heavily on its hinges. Empty. Absolutely empty. Even the shelves are removed and stand against one side. A few old newspapers lie on the floor. The captain knocks on the wall at the back. Aha, hollow. Here and here also the whole space back of the cupboard seems to be a niche. The deuce. The aflair grows interesting. If only the cupboard were not so deep. The treasureseeker has to kneel in to feel the wall at the back. It is made of oak planks, quite loosely put together. It will be sufficient for the present to remove one. It is not much trouble. The whole business, probably, works by some mechanism, but as (’yprian is not acquainted with it, he simply takes a hammer and draws out the two large nails. Bravo. The plank falls forward and givesone quite a place to look through. Cyprian strikes a match, but in his amazement at the sight which meets his eyes, he burns hie fingers. The match has revealed something most unexpected. A quantity of the handsomest silverware. Is he still dreaming? Can it really be possible? He hesitates a moment, then puts his hand through the opining. His fingers do indeed tnuch silverware. Here a pitcher, a goblet, another pitcher a bowl— But hark, a sound. A rattling and creaking. Then the captain's blood turns cold ; a cool, little hand touches hie. He reaches out quickly, and holds the soft, little spirit hand of his dream fast. But a piercing scream rings out from the depth of the wall, so uncanny and horrible I hat ('yprian involuntarily releases the twitching, struggling hand. That is too much. He starts back and hastily restores the board to its place. Then he loaves the cupboard and gazes confusedly around him. For the first time in his life his heart is in hie throat. It is horrible to reach into a niche in the wall and clap a hand and then the scream. But, good heavens, what is this? What has he in his hand? A ring? Has he

taken a ring from the spirit'* hand ? The marvels increase.

He goes to the window mid stares down at the ring, then rubs his forehead and pinches his ears to convince himself that he is awake, for he mutt be dreaming. It is Mignon’s ring, the ring with the blue stone that her cousin Sven had placed on her hand. What does this mean? How can so many impossibilities be accounted for .’ Hark ! What murmuring cries and calls. It all comes faintly from the wall. Cyprian returns to the cupboard and listen*. Suddenly his face grows crimson, he rushes into another room, and throwing himself on a sofa laughs uncontrollably. Now for the first time it occurs to him that both halve* of Castle Bahrenberg are exactly alike to the very smallest detail, and that he has done nothing lees than break into the Ohly silver closet. It is delicious. Mignon had evidently heard the knocking, had opened the closet to investigate, boldly stretched out her hand, and had been clutched by a cold, dreadful, ghostly hand. Her cry of terror still ring* through the dining-room. She is half fainting from fright. Her parents, Sven and the servants assemble before the terrible cupboard, and Cyprian presses hi* handkerchief to hi* lips, and returns to his post of eavesdropping.

*lt is nonsense, Mignon. Imagination!’ says the baron. • How could there be ghosts here in broad daylight?’ ' You knocked your hand against a glass dish,’ says his wife, soothingly. ‘ No. no, it was a hand. See the red marks here where it held me fast. Ah — my ring !' ■ Your ring ?’ ‘lt is gone 1’ ‘When you rose from the breakfast table to go to the closet, I saw it on your finger.’

‘Certainly, it was on my hand. O heavens, the ghost has robbed me of my ring!’ Strangely enough, Mignon’s voice suddenly sounds quite different; it trembles as though with joy. ‘ Absurd I I hope no sensible people will be deceived by such a trick,’ says Sven’s voice crossly.

‘Trick? I forbid such an expression.’ ‘Mignon, Mignon, do not be so violent,’ says the baron, and Sven orders a light to be brought, and the closet to be explored.

‘ I really believe, my dear Sven, that you doubt Mignon’s word.’ Florence, too, seems piqued. ‘ How could one expect a grown woman to relate such nonsense. 1 believe neither in ghostly hands nor ghosts themselves.’ ‘Oh, indeed! And yet you place your happiness under the protection of our beneficent household spirits?' says Mignon, angrily. ‘ If anything unusual happens to a “ grown woman ” she can exprct that one will not doubt her word like that of a lying school-child.’ A light shines through the cracks of wood. ‘Have the kindness to look yourself, cousin. ’ ‘ Take out the silver.' ‘ There is nothing to be seen. No trace of a ring.’ • Look on the carpet. Look all over the room.’ There is much hurrying to and fro. In vain. The baroness sends the servants to search the terrace. ‘lt is lost trouble. I saw the ring on Mignon’s finger a moment ago,’ says Sven, rudely and angrily. In his vexation he seeins quite to forget himself. * If a ring is to disappear, one must look in dress pockets. Little girls have at time strange ideas of duty and fidelity. ’ • Outrageous, to insult my poor nervous, half sick child thus.’ ‘Oh, mamma, it is dreadful !’ Mignon, sobbing, seems to throw herself into her mother's arms. • What do you mean, Sven? I beg you to explain your words,’ • What do I mean ? Simply this : Miss Mignon changes lovers as she does dresses. And as she is tired of me, she plans a tine spirit scene to get rid of an objectionable ring.' • Shame on you!’ ‘ A count with an inheritance of millions is certainly a more desirable suitor—’ ‘ Yoe, a thousand times more desirable, and certainly more agreeable to me, as well as to my daughter, than a furious, brutal, inconsiderate Sven von Gullenstrom.’ ' Children, children, for heaven's enke be calm 1' cried the baron, piteously. • No, papa, lot mamma speak. It will be a blessing to have the matter settled. I wilt not be insulted ami called a liar. I forbid anyone to treat me like a schoolgirl.’ • But, darling, Sven i» jealous. That excuses everything, ami you love him,’says the baron. A short, passionate Inugh. • isove him ? No, thank God, I do not love him, and never have loved him.’ • Oh delightful ! You hear dear uncle. She has only coquetted with me to spur on

the count that she may reject him a second time.’

‘Reject him? Are you sure?' cried Florence, with scornful triumph. • You have learned the difference now, have you not, darling, between a man who kisses a girl because he is passionately in love with her, and one who coarsely insults her with distrust and roughness.’ ‘ Oh, mamma !’ Again loud sobs, but Sven says, cuttingly: * May I ask tor a carriage to take me to the railway station, uncle ?’ Cyprian presses his hands to his temples. Yes, a beneficent spirit certainly watches over this house. His eyes sparkle as they rest on the little ting in his hand. Dame Fortune has been on his side again. Now he will go to Mignon.

The Ohly family receive the captain with great excitement, and hastily tell him the inexplicable occurrence. ‘Do you believe in such ghosts, count? I implore you ; tell me frankly, do you believe that a hand conld really seize Mignon’s here in this closed cupboard, and draw a ring from her finger?' Cyprian controlled himself excellently. He looked very grave and thoughtful. •To speak frankly, baroness, perhaps I should doubt the story if I heard it from any one’s lips but those of Mignon. But as your daughter relates it as a fact, there can exist no doubt in my mind, as my belief in Miss Mignon is such that her werde are as reliable to me as the oath of a man.’

The girl’s eyes flash delight, love and gratitude. Those are different words from Sven’s. The count is taken to the cupboard and all the details related to him He seems deeply interested, tell* of strange occurrences in Castle Neudeck, and lets himself be convinced by the ladies that inexplicable things do occur. He is horrified at Sven’s conduct, and the latter's way of treating Mignon as a school girl fairly enrages him. Mignon’s eves grow more and more bright, her flushed cheeks must encourage him to think that it needs but a word from him, and she would come to his arms, but he is silent. (To be continued.)