CHAPTER I.

Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source:

http://www.archive.org/details/onlyagirlaroman00wistgoog

2. This was published also in England under the title "Ernestine: A

Novel", translated by S. Baring Gould.

2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

ONLY A GIRL:

OR

A PHYSICIAN FOR THE SOUL.

A ROMANCE

FROM THE GERMAN

OF

WILHELMINE VON HILLERN.

BY

MRS. A. L. WISTER.

PHILADELPHIA:

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.

1871.

* * * * *

Entered, according to act of Congress, In the year 1870, by

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States

for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

* * * * *

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. "Only a Girl"

II. The Story of the Ugly Duckling

III. Atonement

IV. The Sad Survivors

V. Undeceived

VI. Soul-Murder

VII. Departure

PART II.

I. "Only a Woman"

II. The Swan

III. The Village School

IV. The Guardian

V. Fruitless Pretensions

VI. Emancipation of the Flesh

VII. Emancipation of the Spirit

VIII. "When Women hold the Reins"

IX. Vox Populi, Vox Dei

X. Nowhere at Home

XI. Inharmonious Contrasts

PART III.

I. The Strength of Weakness

II. The Weakness of Strength

III. Silver-armed Kaethchen

IV. Battle

V. Science and Faith

VI. Sentenced

VII. The Orphan

VIII. Blossoms on the Border of the Grave

IX. It is Morning again

X. Return

XI. "Give us this Day Our Daily Bread"

XII. The Third Power

ONLY A GIRL;

OR

A PHYSICIAN FOR THE SOUL.

CHAPTER I.

"ONLY A GIRL."

In a level, well-wooded country in Northern Germany, not far from an

insignificant village, stood a distillery, such as is frequently to be

found upon the estates of the North German nobility, and in connection

with it an extensive manufactory,--the estate comprising, besides, a

kitchen-garden overgrown with weeds, a few fruit-trees overshadowing

the decaying remains of rustic seats long fallen to ruin, and a

dwelling-house, well built, indeed, but as neglected and dirty as its

guardian the lean, hungry mastiff, whose empty plate and dusty jug

testified to the length of time since the poor creature had had any

refreshment in the oppressive heat of this July day. No one who looked

upon this picture could doubt that the interior of the house must

correspond with its cheerless outside, and that the gentle, beneficent

hand was wanting there that keeps a house neat and orderly, cares for

the garden, and attends to the wants of even a dumb brute. Where such a

hand is wanting, there is neither order nor culture, no love of the

beautiful, nor sometimes even of the good,--too often, indeed, no joy,

no happiness. There was no one in the court-yard or garden; nothing was

stirring but a couple of cheeping chickens that were peeping around the

corner of the dog's kennel, in hopes of stray crumbs from his last

meal. They came on cautiously, their little heads turning curiously

from side to side, in fear lest the dog should make his appearance; but

he kept in his kennel, his head resting upon his paws, and his

bloodshot eyes blinking over the distant landscape. The hungry fowls,

grown bolder, pecked and scratched around his plate, but vainly: there

was nothing to be found but dry sand.

Beside the well stood a churn, and a bench upon which lay a roll of

fresh butter, which, neglected and forgotten, was melting beneath the

sun's hot rays, and dripping down upon the weeds around. Perhaps the

starving dog was suddenly struck by the thought how grateful this waste

would be to him were it only within his domain; for he started up and

ran out as far as he could from his kennel, dragging his rattling chain

behind him, as if to prove its length, then stood still, and finally

bethought himself and crept back with drooping head beneath his roof.

Outside of a window, upon the ground floor, stood a couple of dried

cactus-plants, and several bottles of distilled herbs; the cork of one

of them was gone, and its contents filled with flies and beetles.

Everything, far and near, betrayed neglect and dirt; but the excuse of

poverty was evidently wanting. The extensive stables and accommodations

for cattle, the huge out-houses and far-stretching fields of grain

testified to the wealth of the proprietor of the estate. A comfortable

rolling-chair standing in the court-yard, its leathern cushions rotting

in the sun, seemed to indicate the presence of an invalid or a cripple.

Only the lowest and uppermost stories of the house appeared to be

inhabited; the windows of the middle floor were all closed, and so

thickly festooned with cobwebs that they could not have been opened for

a long time. It seemed as if the swallows wee the only creatures who

could find comfort in such an inhospitable mansion; their nests were

everywhere to be seen. The chickens looked enviously up at them, and

hopped upon the low window-ledges of the lower story, as if to remind

the inmates of their existence and necessities. Suddenly they fluttered

down to the ground again, for from one of the open windows there came a

child's scream, so piteous and shrill that the large dog pricked his

ears and once more restlessly measured the length of his chain.

In a low room, the atmosphere of which was almost stifling from the

heat of an ironing-stove and the steam from dampened linen, that two

robust maid-servants were engaged in ironing, a little girl, about

twelve years of age, was standing before an old wardrobe. She was half

undressed, and the garments falling off her shoulders disclosed a

little body so wasted and delicate that at sight of it a mother's eyes

would have filled with tears. But there was no mother near, only an old

housekeeper, whose bony fingers had apparently just been laid violently

upon the child, who was crying aloud and covering one thin shoulder

with her hand, while she refused to put on a dress that the woman was

holding towards her.

"What is the matter now?" an angry voice called from the adjoining

room. The child started in alarm. The old woman went to the door, and

replied, "Ernestine is so naughty again that there is no doing anything

with her. She has torn her best dress, because she says she has

outgrown it, and it hurts her; but it isn't true: it fits her very

well."

"How can the miserable creature have outgrown any dress?" rejoined the

rough voice from within. "Put it on this moment, and go!"

The child leaned against the wardrobe, and looked obstinate and

defiant.

"She won't do it, sir; she does not want to go to the children's

party!" said the unfeeling attendant.

"I ordered you to go," cried the father. "When a lady like the Frau

Staatsraethin does you the honour to invite you, you are to accept her

invitation gratefully. I will not have it said that I make a Cinderella

of my daughter!"

Little Ernestine made no reply, but looked at the housekeeper with such

an expression in her large, sunken eyes, that the woman was transported

with rage; it seemed scarcely possible that so much contempt and hate

should find place in the bosom of a child. The housekeeper clasped her

hands. "No, you bad, naughty child! You ought to see how she is looking

at me now, Herr von Hartwich!"

With these words she tried again to throw the dress over Ernestine's

head; but the girl tore it away, threw it on the ground and trampled

upon it, crying in a transport of rage, interrupted by bursts of tears,

"I will not put it on, and I will not go among strangers! I will not be

treated so! You are a bad, wicked woman! I will not mind you!"

"Oh, goodness gracious! was ever such a naughty child seen!" exclaimed

the housekeeper, looking with a secret sensation of fear at the little

fury who stood before her with dishevelled hair and heaving chest.

"When are you going to stop that noise out there?" roared the father.

"Must I, wretched man that I am, hear nothing, all day long, but

children's and servants' squabbles? Ernestine, come in here to me!"

At this command, the little girl began to tremble violently; she knew

what was in store for her, and moved slowly towards the door. "Are you

coming?" called the invalid.

Ernestine entered the room, and stood as far as possible from the bed

where he was lying. "Now, come here!" he cried, beckoning her towards

him with his right hand,--his left was crippled,--and continuing, as

Ernestine hesitated: "You good-for-nothing, obstinate child! you have

never caused a throb of pleasure to any one since you came into the

world; not even to your mother, for your birth cost her her life. In

you God has heaped upon me all the sorrows but none of the joys that a

son might afford his father; you have the waywardness and self-will of

a boy, with the frail, puny body of a girl! What is to be done with

such a wretched creature, that can do nothing but scream and cry?"

At these words the child burst into a fresh flood of tears, and was

hurrying out, when she was recalled by a thundering "Stop! you have not

had your punishment yet!"

Ernestine knew then what was coming, and begged hard. "Do not strike

me, father! Oh, do not strike me again!" But her entreaties were of no

avail.

With lips tightly compressed, and her little hands convulsively clasped

together, she approached the bed. The sick man raised his broad hard

hand, and a heavy blow fell upon the transparent cheek of the child,

who staggered and fell on the floor. "Now will you obey, or have you

not had enough yet?" the father asked.

"I will obey," sobbed the little girl, as she rose from the floor.

"But first ask Frau Gedike's pardon!" ordered the angry man.

"No!" cried Ernestine firmly. "That I will not do!"

"How! is your obstinacy not yet conquered? Disobey at your peril!"

"Though you should kill me, I will not do it," answered the child, with

a strange gleam in her eyes, as her father, endeavouring to raise

himself in his bed, stretched put his hand towards her.

"Oh, fie! are you crazy?" suddenly said a melodious voice, just behind

Ernestine. "Is that the way for a man of sense to reason with a naughty

child,--playing lion-tamer with a sick kitten!"

Then the speaker turned to the little girl and said kindly, "Go, my

child, and be dressed; you will enjoy yourself with all those pretty

little girls."

Ernestine's long black eyelashes fell, and she obeyed silently.

The strange intercessor for the tormented child was a tall, slender,

almost handsome man, with delicate features and a certain air of repose

which might rather be called impassibility, but which was so refined in

its expression that it could not but produce a favourable impression.

His tone of voice was soft, melodious, and grave; his pronunciation

faultlessly pure. An atmosphere of culture which seemed to surround him

gave him an air of superiority. His dress was simple, but in good

taste, his step light, his manner and bearing supple and insinuating.

It would have struck the common observer as condescending, but the

closer student of human nature would have found it ironical and

treacherous.

In moments of passion such human reptiles exercise a soothing influence

upon heated minds, and check their violent outbreaks, as ice-bandages

will arrest a flow of blood. Upon his entrance the invalid became

quiet, almost submissive; the room seemed to him suddenly to become

cooler; he was, he thought, conscious of a pleasant draught of air as

the tall figure approached the bed and sank into the arm-chair beside

his pillow.

"It would be no wonder if I did become crazy!" Herr von Hartwich

excused himself. "The child exasperates me. When a man suffers tortures

for months at a time, and is crippled and confined to bed, how can he

help being irritable? He cannot be as patient as a man in full health,

who can get out of the way of such provoking scenes whenever he

pleases!"

"You could easily do that if you chose, by keeping the child in the

rooms above, which have been empty for years. Then you might be quiet,

and people would not be able to say that the rich Hartwich's delicate

child had to sit in the ironing-room in such hot weather,--it is worse

than unjust; I think it unwise!"

"What!" Hartwich suddenly interrupted him, "shall I leave the child and

the servants to their own devices above-stairs, whilst I lie here alone

and neglected? Or shall I hire an expensive nurse, and make every one

think I am dying, and let the factory-hands suppose themselves without

a master?"

"That last cannot happen, for they long ago ceased to regard you as

their master; they know that I am the ruling spirit of the whole

business. As for your talk about the expense of a nurse, such folly can

only be explained on the score of your incredibly avarice, which has

become a mania with you of late. For whom are you hoarding your wealth?

Not for your child; you will leave her no more than what the law

compels you to leave her; still less for me, for you have always been a

genuine step-brother, and have bequeathed me your property only because

I would not communicate to you the secrets of my discoveries without

remuneration; and you would rather give away all your wealth at your

death than any part of it during your lifetime. And I assure you that

if I am to be your heir, which perhaps may never be, I would far rather

go without a few thousand thalers than witness such outrageous neglect

of a child's education!"

The invalid listened earnestly. "You are talking very frankly to me

to-day, and are, it seems to me, reckoning very confidently upon my not

altering my last will and testament," he said, in an irritated tone of

menace.

Without a change of feature, the other continued: "With all your faults

and eccentricities, you are too upright in character to punish my

candour in the way at which you hint. You know well that I mean kindly

by you, and that I am an honest man. I might have required large sums

of money from you. Upon the strength of the increase of income accruing

from my exertions, I might have insisted upon your constituting me your

partner, and much else besides; but I have contented myself with the

modest position of superintendent, and with the certainty that by your

will (God grant you length of days!) a brilliant future may be prepared

for my child when I am no more. These proofs of disinterestedness, I

think, give me a right to speak frankly to you!"

"What is all this circumlocution to lead to?" asked Hartwich, who had

grown strikingly languid, while his speech was becoming thick. "Be

quick, for I am sleepy."

"Simply to this,--that you either remove Ernestine to the upper story,

or, what would be better still, away from the house."

"Away from the house! Where to?"

"Why, to some institution where she may be so educated that it need be

no disgrace hereafter to have to own her as a relative. The child will

be ruined with no society but that of servant-maids, grooms, and

village children."

"Bah!" growled the invalid, "what does it matter?"

"If you are indifferent as to what becomes of your daughter, I am by no

means indifferent as to my niece, or as to the influence that, if she

lives, she may exercise upon my own daughter. As Ernestine now is, the

thought that in a year or two she may be my child's playmate gives me

great anxiety. Should she remain here, I must send my little girl from

home, or she will be ruined also. But, setting all this aside, I wish

her sent away for your sake. You cannot control yourself towards the

obstinate, neglected child; and, as long as she is with you, such

scenes as have just occurred are unavoidable. And I have learned to-day

that the whole village resounds with your 'cruel treatment' of your own

child. This throws rather a bad light upon your character, just when

you wish our new neighbours to think well of you."

"That's all nonsense; if they think the factory worth fifty thousand

thalers, they'll buy it, whether they think me a rogue or an honest

man," said Hartwich.

"Think the factory worth--yes, that's just it," the silken-smooth man

continued; "but that they may think it worth so much, much may be

necessary,--among other things, some degree of confidence in the

present proprietor."

"And you have the sale very near at heart, because you would far rather

put the fifteen thousand thalers profit, that I have insured to you,

into your pocket than win your bread by honest labour," said the

invalid with sarcasm. "'Tis a fine gift for me to throw into your lap!"

"A gift?" his brother asked--"an indemnification for the loss of income

that the sale of the factory will occasion me, and without which

indemnification I shall certainly prevent any such sale. You are always

representing our business transactions as generous on your part. I

require no generosity at your hands. You pay me for my services: I

serve you because you pay me. Why pretend to a feeling that would be

unnatural between us?--we are step-brothers; it would be preposterous

sentimentality to try to love each other."

"Most certainly you take no pains to attach me to you," the invalid

remarked.

"Why should I?" his brother replied with a smile. "There must be some

reason for everything in the world--there would be none in that. You

would not give me a farthing for my amiability; whatever I get from you

must be earned by services very different from brotherly affection."

"You are a downright fiend, that no man, made of flesh and blood, could

possibly love! You always were so from a child: how you tormented my

poor mother! You know nothing of human feeling. In the warmest weather

your hands are always damp and cold, and your heart, too, is never

warm. I am cross and irritable, but I am not as utterly heartless as

you are, God forbid! You are one of those beings at discord with all

natural laws, who cast no shadow in the sunshine." The sick man closed

his eyes, exhausted, and large drops of moisture stood upon his brow.

His brother took a handkerchief and carefully wiped them away. "Only

see how you excite yourself, and all for nothing!" he said in the

gentlest, kindliest voice. "Because I have no sympathy with fictitious

sentiment and exaggerated outbursts, you call me unfeeling. Because I

am quiet by nature, not easily aroused, you picture me in your feverish

dreams as a vampire. I will leave you now, or I shall excite you. Lay

to heart what I have said about the child; for if the present course is

persevered in, it will bring disgrace upon us, and that would be to me

unendurable!"

Hartwich made no reply; he had turned his face to the wall, and did not

look around until his brother had noiselessly left the room.

During this conversation little Ernestine had allowed her dress to be

put on. When this was done, the housekeeper left the room, and the

child busied herself with lacing upon her feet an old pair of boots

that were really too small for her.

"That's right, Ernestine," one of the maid-servants whispered. "Frau

Gedike is a bad woman: none of us can bear her--it is good for her to

be vexed, and we are glad of it!"

"I do not want to vex her, but I hate her--and my father, too--he is

cruel to me," said the child, with the bitterness with which a

defenceless human being, when ill used, seeks to revenge itself.

"Indeed he is a dreadful father," Rieka, the elder of the maids,

whispered softly to her companion, but Ernestine heard all that she

said perfectly well. "He always wanted a son, and talked forever of

what he would do for his boy when he had one. And when the child was

born, and was not a boy after all, he was quite beside himself, and

cried furiously, 'Only a girl! only a girl!' and rushed out of the

house, banging the door after him so that the whole house shook. The

young mother--she was a delicate lady--fell into convulsions with

sorrow and fright, and took the fever, and died on the third day. Then

he was sorry enough, and raved and tore his hair over the corpse, but

he could not bring her to life again. He has been well punished since

he had his stroke, and perhaps it was to punish him that Ernestine has

grown so ugly; but he ought at least to show his repentance for what he

did, by kindness to the sickly little thing, instead of abusing her. It

isn't the child's fault that she's not a boy."

Ernestine listened to all this with a beating heart, and now slipped

out gently that the maid might not know she had overheard her. Outside

she stopped to stroke the dog, but the poor thirsty brute growled at

her. She saw that he had no water, and took his can to the well and

filled it. When she saw the water gushing so sparkling from the pipe,

she could not resist the temptation to let it run upon her burning

head.

"Ernestine, what mischief are you about now?" the housekeeper screamed

from the window; but the water was already dripping down from the

child's long hair upon her shoulders, breast, and back.

"The sun will dry it before I get to the Frau Staatsraethin's, she

thought, and carried the dog his drink; but when she attempted to pat

him, he growled again, because he did not wish to be disturbed while

drinking.

"Even the dog does not like me," she thought, and crept away. "Only a

girl! And my father is so cross to me because I am not a boy." And as

she went on she repeated the phrase to herself, and her step kept time

to it as to a tune, "Only a girl--only a girl!"

From the window of the upper story her uncle and his wife looked after

her. The wife presented an utter contrast to her husband. She was

uncommonly stout, and her jolly face was so flushed that if her husband

had really been a vampire she might have afforded him nourishment for a

long term of ghostly existence. But he was no such monster, although

his meagre body seemed to bask in his wife's warm fulness of life as

some puny, starving wretch does in the heat of a huge stove. Any more

poetical comparison is impossible in connection with Frau Leuthold;

for, in spite of her massive beauty, her thick bushy eyebrows, her

sparkling black eyes, her thick waves of dark hair, the whole

expression of her large face, with its double chin and pouting mouth,

was coarsely sensual. Yet there was something in this expression that

showed that, however great the dissimilarity between the husband and

wife in mind and body, there was still one thing in which they were

alike: it was the heart,--in his case ossified, in hers overgrown with

fat.

There are some persons whose mental organization can be excellently

well described by the medical term "fat-hearted." They are no longer

capable of any healthy moral activity, because an indolent sensuality

has taken possession of them, crippling their energies like fat

accumulating around the heart. Although the natures of husband and wife

were radically dissimilar, still in the results of their modes of

thought there was enough similarity to produce that sort of harmony

which is maintained between the receiver and the thief. The stout

brunette was a worthy accomplice of her slender, fair husband; and that

she possessed the art of sweetening existence for him after a fashion,

to which no one possessing nerves of taste and smell is altogether

insensible, a table, upon which were delicious fruits, biscuits, and a

bowl of iced sherbet, bore ample testimony. Thus the refined thinker

endured the narrowness and coarseness of his better half for the sake

of material qualifications, and of the ease with which she entered into

his projects for selfish aggrandizement. As a cook she possessed his

entire approbation, and the union between these utterly different

natures was universally considered a happy one.

"She's an ugly thing, that Ernestine," said the affectionate aunt,

looking after her pale little niece, who was walking slowly along with

drooping head. "Kind as I may be to her, she will have nothing to say

to me. They say dogs and children always know who likes them and who

does not; so I suppose the child knows I can't abide her."

"Whether you like her or not is not the question," replied her husband.

"You have not attached her to you, and that is a mistake; for it makes

us sharers in the common report of Hartwich's cruelty to the child. She

is considered in the village as the victim of unfeeling treatment. The

pastor thinks her a martyr, whose cause he is bound to adopt; the

schoolmaster talks about her clear head; and who can tell that all this

nonsense may not waken the conscience of my fool of a brother, and

induce him at the eleventh hour to make, Heaven only knows what changes

for her advantage! That would be a blow--such people easily fall from

one extreme into the other. Therefore the child must be separated from

him. If I cannot succeed in having her sent away, we must manage

somehow to attach her to us, and so stop people's mouths." An

involuntary sigh from his wife interrupted him. "I know it is

troublesome, up-hill work; but, Heaven willing, it cannot last long.

Hartwich is failing. He may live a year; but, if he should have another

stroke, he may go off at any moment; then, for all I care, you may

be rid of the disagreeable duty at once, and send Ernestine to

boarding-school. Still, appearances must be kept up, my dear. You know

how much I would sacrifice for the sake of my reputation. I cannot bear

a shabby dress or to dine off a soiled table-cloth; and just so I

cannot endure a stain upon my name."

While speaking, he had seated himself at the table and filled a goblet

of sherbet from the fragrant bowl. As he was sipping it delicately,

with his lips almost closed, his wife threw herself down upon the sofa

by his side with such clumsy violence that the springs creaked, and her

husband was so jolted that he lost his balance, and the contents of his

glass were spilled upon his immaculate shirt-front. Much annoyed, he

carefully dried his dripping garment with his napkin. "Now I shall have

to dress again," he said in a tone of vexation.

"To spill your glass over you just in the midst of such a conversation

as this means no good," said his superstitious wife.

"It means that you never will learn to conduct yourself like a lady,"

was the quiet reply.

"Indeed!" she cried with a laugh. "So I must learn aristocratic manners

that I may do more credit to your brother, who has drunk himself into

an apoplexy! A fine aristocrat he is!"

"Just because he disgraces his standing I will respect mine; and you

should assist me to do so, instead of laughing. And when his estate is

ours, I will show the world that it is not necessary to be born in an

aristocratic cradle in order to be an aristocrat. The dismissed Marburg

professor will yet play a part among the _elite_ of the scientific and

fashionable world that a prince might envy him. Wealth is all-powerful;

and where there is wealth with brains, men are caught like flies upon a

limed twig."

"Ah, how fine it will be!" cried his wife, excited by this view of the

subject; and she hastily filled a glass from the bowl and drank it

greedily.

"It is indeed such good fortune that a man less self-controlled than

myself might well-nigh lose his senses at the thought of it!" her

husband rejoined. And there was a dreamy look in his light-blue eyes.

"Then we can keep a carriage, and I shall drive out shopping, with

footmen to attend me, and Gretchen shall have a French bonne, and shall

be always dressed in white and sky-blue. We will live in the capital,

and you, Leuthold, need never do another day's work,--you can amuse

yourself in any way that pleases you."

And the wife tossed her head proudly, as though already lolling upon

the soft cushions of her carriage.

"Do you suppose I could ever be a robber of time?" he asked her with a

sharp glance. "No, most certainly not. If I had made the ten

commandments, the seventh should have been, 'Thou shalt not steal a day

from the Lord.' He who steals a day seems to me the most contemptible

of all thieves."

Ills wife laughed and displayed a double row of fine white teeth, whose

strength she was just proving by cracking hazel-nuts.

"Do you suppose," continued Leuthold, "that I should ever be content

with the reputation of a merely wealthy man? No; I long for other

honours. As soon as the means are in my power, I will resume my old

scientific labours, and will soon distance the miserable drudges who

daily lecture in our schools. I will have such a chemical and

physiological laboratory as few universities can boast. Ah! when I am

once free from all the hated servitude, the miserable toil day after

day, in that detestable factory, I will bathe in the clear, fresh

stream of science, and make a name for myself that shall rank among the

first of our time."

"Is that all the happiness you propose to yourself?" asked his wife

with a sneer.

"There is no greater happiness than to play a great part in the world

through one's own ability; and if my poverty has hitherto prevented my

doing so, my wealth, in making me independent, shall help me to my

goal. Make a man independent, and he has free play for the exercise of

his talents; while the hard necessity of earning his daily bread has

crushed many a budding genius before his powers were fully developed.

It is glorious to be able to work at what we love!--as glorious as it

is miserable to be forced to work at what we hate." He smoothed with

his hand his thin, glossy hair, and murmured with a sigh, "No wonder it

is growing gray; I wonder it is not snow-white, since for ten years

this miserable fate has been mine. It is enough to destroy the very

marrow in one's bones, and dry up the blood in the veins."

His wife stared at him with surprise. "Why, Leuthold, think what good

dinners I have always cooked for you!"

Leuthold looked up as if awakening from a dream, and then, with the

ironical expression which his unsuspicious fellow-men interpreted as

pure benevolence, he said, "You are right, Bertha! Your first principle

is 'eat and drink;' mine is 'think and work.' That yours is much the

more practical can be mathematically proved!" He glanced with a smile

at his wife's portly figure.

"Only wait until we are settled in the capital, and see what I will do

for you. Then you shall have dinners indeed!" said Bertha.

"Your skill will be needed, for we shall have plenty of guests. Men are

like dogs: they gather where there is a chance of a good dinner, and

the host is sure of many friends devoted to him through their palates.

'Tis true, such friends last only as long as the fine dinners last; we

can have them while we need them, and throw them overboard, like

useless ballast, when they can no longer serve our turn."

"Yes, you are right; what a knowing fellow you are!" cried Bertha.

"Heavens!" she added, clapping her hands with childlike naivete, "if he

would only die soon!"

Her husband looked at her sternly. "I trust that in case of the event,

which will be as welcome to me as to you, no human eye will be able to

discern anything but grief in your countenance. Should you be too

awkward to simulate sorrow, I must invent some method for making you

really feel it; for appearances must be preserved at all costs!

Remember that!"

Bertha clasped her hands in dismay. "Mercy on me! I really believe you

would do anything to torment me into seeming sorry. It would be just

like you; for what people say of you,--or 'appearances,' as you call

it, are dearer to you than wife or child, or anything else in the

world."

She sprang up, and her breath came quick and angrily. Leuthold

contemplated her with a kind of satisfaction as she stood before him

with flashing eyes and curling lip. She displayed some emotion,--only

the emotion of anger, 'tis true; but as enthusiasm is always

passionate, so passion will sometimes seem enthusiasm, and lend a kind

of nimbus to insignificance.

"I like to see you so!" said Leuthold, drawing her down beside him and

laying his cool hand upon her shoulder.

Just then the cry of a child was heard in the adjoining apartment.

"Gretchen is awake," cried Bertha, forgetting her anger, and leaving

the room so quickly that the boards creaked beneath her heavy tread,

and the sofa upon which her husband was seated shook. She soon

returned, with a pretty child of three years of age in her arms. After

tossing it, notwithstanding its size and strength, up and down like an

india-rubber ball, she threw it with maternal pride into her husband's

lap. He caressed the little thing tenderly, and a ray shot from his

eyes like the gleam of a wintry san across a snowy landscape. For,

though there was no genuine paternal love in his heart, there

was at least in its place,--what is hardly to be distinguished from

it,--fatherly pride.

"How strange to think," said the mother, "that that should be your

child!"

"Why?" asked Leuthold with surprise.

"It is so odd that such a slim, delicate-looking man as you are should

have such a healthy, chubby little daughter. It is just as if a

wheat-stalk should bear penny rolls instead of wheat-ears." She laughed

immoderately at the idea, without perceiving that her husband was far

from flattered by the comparison. "They say," she continued, "'long

waited for is good at last,' and we waited long for the little thing,

and she is good." And she put up the child's plump little hand to her

mouth as though she would bite it. The little girl shouted with glee,

and the sound so sweet to maternal ears did not fail to awaken a

return. Bertha shouted too, until her husband's ears tingled. "If

Ernestine had only been a boy, she could have married Gretchen, and our

child would have been all provided for," she said, after a pause.

"Do not talk such nonsense," said Leuthold. "Hartwich would have loved

a son as thoroughly as he detests his daughter, and would have

bequeathed to him all his property. We owe our inheritance there to the

happy chance that made his child a girl. But even supposing that she

were a boy, with the inheritance still ours, do you think I would mate

her so unworthily? No! our Gretchen, lovely and rich as she will be,

can never marry a simple Herr von Hartwich. She will one day make me

father-in-law to some great statesman, some illustrious scholar, or, at

least, to some count!"

"And me mother to a countess!" cried his wife with glee.

CHAPTER II.

THE STORY OF THE UGLY DUCKLING.

In the mean time Ernestine had pursued her way. She walked slowly on

through the extensive fields in the glare of the four-o'clock sun,

whose rays were broken by no friendly tree or shrub. The waist of the

dress which she had outgrown was so tight that she was frequently

obliged to stand still and recover her breath. The perspiration rolled

down her poor worn little face. The sunbeams felt like dagger-points

upon her weary head; but she could not go back: fear of her father was

more powerful than the torments she was enduring. Better to be pierced

by the sun's rays than struck by her father's hard hand. Still, she

could not help weeping bitterly that every one seemed so unkind to her.

What had she done, that her father should hate her so? It was not her

fault that she was so ugly and not a boy. "Ah, why am I a girl?" she

sobbed, and sat down upon the hard, sun-baked clods of earth among the

brown, dried potato-plants. She clasped her knees with her arms, and

pondered why boys were better than girls, wondering whether she could

not learn to do all that boys could. The schoolmaster had often told

her that she had more sense and learned her lessons better than the

boys. What was it that she needed, then? Strength, boldness, courage!

Yes, that was a good deal, to be sure; but could she not make them hers

in time? She thought and thought. She would exercise her strength. She

had once read of a man who carried a calf about in his arms daily, and

was so accustomed to his burden that he never noticed how the calf

increased in size and weight, until at last he bore a huge ox in his

arms. She would do so too; she would accustom herself at first to the

weight of little burdens, and go on increasing them until at last she

could carry the very heaviest. And she could be bold too, if she only

dared, and if her shyness would only wear off. Then, she hoped, her

father would be quite content with her. She sprang to her feet

comforted and walked on. Her mind was made up. She would be just like a

boy.

At the end of an hour Ernestine reached a beautiful and extensive

grove, through which she passed, and entered a garden, at the end of

which stood a charming country-house. Upon the wide lawn in front, a

merry throng of children were running and leaping hither and thither,

and from the fresh green a sparkling fountain tossed into the air a

crystal ball. At the open doors of a room leading out into the garden

sat a company of elegantly-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and servants

in rich liveries were handing around refreshments upon silver salvers.

Ernestine stood as if dazzled by all this pomp and splendour. She dared

not approach. How could she? To whom could she turn? No one came

towards her; no one spoke to her. Her embarrassment was indescribable,

when suddenly the beautiful, gaily-dressed children on the lawn broke

off their play and looked towards her with astonishment. Ernestine saw

how the little girls nudged each other and pointed at her. She

distinctly heard some say to the others, "What does she want?" She was

almost on the point of turning round to run away, when she was observed

by the group of ladies and gentlemen, and a servant was dispatched to

ask whom she was looking for. Everything swam before her eyes as the

tall man with such a distinguished air stepped up to her and asked

sharply, "What do you want here?"

"Nothing," replied Ernestine; "I would not have come if I had known!"

"Who are you, then?" asked the servant

"I am Ernestine Hartwich."

"Ah, indeed!" he said, with a slight bow; "that's another affair; you

are invited. Permit me." With these words he conducted the passive

child to the ladies, and announced, "Fraeulein von Hartwich!"

The looks that were now fastened upon Ernestine were more piercing and

burning, she thought, than the sun's rays. Those people never dreamed

that the quiet little creature standing before them was possessed of a

goal so delicate in its organization, so finely strung, that every

breath of contempt that swept across it created a shrill discord, a

painful confusion; they only looked with the careless disapproval,

which would have been all very well with ordinary children, at the

straight, black, dishevelled hair, the sunken cheeks, the wizened,

sharp features of the pale face, the deep dark eyes, with their shy,

uncertain glances, the lips tightly closed in embarrassment, and last,

the emaciated figure in its faded short dress, and the long, narrow

feet and hands. In the minds of most, an ugly exterior excites more

disgust than sympathy; and, to excuse this feeling to one's self, one

is apt to declare that the child or person in question has an

"unpleasant expression," thus hinting at moral responsibility in the

matter of the exterior, as if it were the result of an ugliness of soul

which would, in a measure, excuse one's disgust. This was the case with

all who were now looking at this strange child. It seemed as though

they were drinking in with their eyes the poison that had wasted

Ernestine's little body,--the poison of hatred which her being had

imbibed from her father and her unnatural surroundings, and as if this

poison reacted from them upon herself. The little girl felt this

instinctively without comprehending it, and as she met, one after

another, those loveless glances, it was as though a wound in her flesh

were ruthlessly probed. She could not understand what the ladies

whispered to each other in French, but their tones intimated

displeasure and contempt. She suddenly saw herself as in a mirror

through their eyes, and she saw, what she had never seen before, that

she was very ugly and awkward,--that she was meanly dressed; and shame

for her poor innocent self flushed her cheeks crimson. In that single

minute she ate of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and

evil,--that fruit which has driven thousands, sooner or later, from the

Eden of childlike unconsciousness. She had entered upon that stage

of life where a human being is self-accused for being unloved,

unsought,--despises herself because others despise her,--finds herself

ugly because she gives pleasure to none. Hitherto, whatever she had

suffered, she had been at peace with herself; now she was at enmity

with herself and the world. She felt suffocated; everything swam before

her sight, and hot tears gushed from her eyes. Just then a tall,

stately woman came out of the drawing-room. "Frau Staatsraethin," one of

the ladies called to her in a tone of contempt, "a new guest has

arrived!"

"Is that little Ernestine Hartwich?" asked the hostess, evidently

endeavouring to conceal behind a kindly tone and manner her amazement

at the child's appearance. She held out her hand: "Good day, my child;

I am glad you have come. Will you not take some refreshment? You seem

heated. You have not walked all the way? Yes? Oh, that is too much in

such hot weather! Such a delicate child!" she said with a look of

sympathy. She sprinkled sugar over some strawberries and placed

Ernestine on a seat where she could eat them, but the rest all stared

at her so she could not move a finger; she could scarcely hold the

plate. How could she eat while all these people were looking on? She

trembled so that she could not carry the spoon to her lips.

She choked down the rising tears as well as she could, for she was

ashamed to cry, and said softly, "I would like to go home!"

"To go home?" cried the Staatsraethin. "Oh, no, my child; you have had

no time to rest, and you are so tired! Come, my dear little girl, I

will take you to a cool room, where you can take a little nap before

you play with the other children." She took Ernestine by the hand and

led her into the house and through several elegant rooms to a smaller

apartment, with half-closed shutters and green damask furniture and

hangings, where it was as quiet, fresh, and cool as in a grove. The air

was fragrant, too; for there was a basket of magnificent roses upon the

table.

Ernestine was speechless with admiration at all the beauty around her

here. She had never seen such a beautiful room in her life, never

breathed within-doors so pure an atmosphere. The Staatsraethin told her

to lie down upon a green damask couch, which she hesitated to do, until

at last she took off her dusty boots, heedless that she thereby exposed

stockings full of holes, and when the Staatsraethin, with a kindly "Take

a good nap, my child," left her, and she was alone, a flood of novel

sensations overpowered her. The pain of the last few moments, gratitude

for the kindness of the Staatsraethin, the enchantment that wealth and

splendour cast around, every childish imagination,--all combined to

confuse her thoughts. But the solitude of the cool room soon had a

soothing effect upon her. The green twilight was good for her eyes,

weary with weeping and the glare of the sun; she felt so far away from

those mocking, prying glances; everything was so calm and quiet here

that she seemed to hear the flowing of her own blood through her veins.

She thought of the ironing-room and her father's gloomy chamber at

home. What a difference there was! Oh, if she could only stay here

forever! How can people ever be unkind who have such a lovely home! How

can they laugh at a poor child who has nothing of all this!

But the Frau Staatsraethin, whose room this was, was kind. Ah, how kind!

Yet so different from every one at home--so--what? So distinguished!

Yes, every one at home seemed common compared with her, and Ernestine

herself was common, although the lady had not treated her as if she

were; she felt it herself; and was ashamed. What if the lady could have

seen how naughty she had been to-day, how she had torn off her dress

and stamped upon it, and scolded Frau Gedike?

She blushed at these thoughts, and resolved never again to conduct

herself so that she should be ashamed to have the Frau Staatsraethin see

her. A new sense was suddenly awakened in the child; but it fluttered

hither and thither like a timid bird, terrified by her late

surroundings, and not yet accustomed to all that was so novel about

her.

The child never dreamed of the innate refinement that distinguished her

from thousands of ordinary children; she was only crushed as she

compared herself with the gentle lady and the gaily-dressed children

upon the lawn; and this very feeling of shame, this disgust at herself,

was a proof how foreign to her youthful mind was the absence of beauty

in her exterior. In the midst of all these new, confusing thoughts,

sleep overpowered her; she stretched herself out comfortably upon the

soft couch. The beating of her heart, the painful pressure upon her

brain, and the singing in her ears, grew fainter and weaker, and

soothed her to slumber like a cradle-song.

On the lawn, in the mean time, nothing was talked of but the child, and

her family. It was thought inconceivable that a Freiherr von Hartwich

should allow his daughter to be so neglected. But then he had never

been a genuine aristocrat; for his mother was of low extraction, as was

proved by her return to her own rank of life after the death of her

husband Von Hartwich. She soon after married the widower Gleissert,

thus giving her son a master-manufacturer for a father, then purchased

her husband's heavily encumbered factory, which she had bequeathed to

her son with the condition that he should continue to keep it up,--a

condition most distasteful to the heir. Gleissert had a son by his

first marriage, named Leuthold, who had studied, but had not been much

of a credit to his brother, with whom he was living at present.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of an elderly

gentleman, who drove up in a very elegant but very dusty carriage. The

number of orders upon his breast testified to his high position, and

the haste with which the hostess went forward to receive him, and the

trembling of the hand which she extended towards him, showed of what

importance his arrival was to her.

"Vivat!" he cried out to her. "Your Johannes takes the first rank--a

splendid examination--there has not been such another for ten years!"

"Thank God!" said the Staatsraethin, with a long sigh of relief.

"Yes, yes!" the kindly voice continued. "A superb fellow! I

congratulate you upon such a son--not a question missed--not one! And

answered with such ease and confidence, yet without the slightest

particle of conceit. Deuce take it!--I wish I had married and had such

a son. Come," he said, turning to a boy of about fourteen years

of age, who had arrived with him, "perhaps you may one day be such

another,--keep your eyes steadily upon Johannes. Permit me, dear madam,

to present to you the son of my late friend, Ferdinand Hilsborn. He

lost his mother a few months ago, and is now my adopted son."

The Staatsraethin held out her hand to the boy, and said with emotion,

"Although I never knew your mother, it pains me deeply to know that she

left this world before she could enjoy such a moment as your adopted

father has just given me by his tidings."

The gentle boy's eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

"Only think, my dear friends," said the Staatsraethin, turning to the

company, "Johannes never told me that this was his examination-day,

that he might surprise me. I only learned it this afternoon from a few

thoughtless words of my brother's. Our kind Geheimrath Heim has just

brought me the tidings of his promotion."

The guests, with sympathy and congratulations, crowded around the proud

mother, whose heart was too full to do anything but reply mechanically

to their kind speeches.

"But, dear Frau Moellner," a Frau Landraethin remarked maliciously, "was

it not a little strange that your Johannes should not have told you of

his examination-day?--certainly a mother has a sacred right to share

such hours with her son."

"When a mother's claims are held as sacred as are mine by my son,"

replied the Staatsraethin, with dignified composure, "he may well be

left to do as seems to him best in such a matter. He wished to spare me

hours of anxiety; and I thank him."

"The woman is blindly devoted to her son," the Landraethin whispered to

a friend.

"She is growing perfectly childish with maternal vanity," remarked

another.

"But how can any one as wealthy as the Staatsraethin allow her son to

study?" said the Landraethin.

"Yes, yes!" several others joined in, "he certainly need never earn his

living in such a way. Why did she not buy him a commission? 'Tis too

bad for such a handsome young man!"

"Yes, yes!" the old Geheimrath called out to the ladies, as if he had

heard only their last words, "Johannes is a man,--a man, although

hardly twenty years old! Only such a mother could have such a son!" And

he laid his hand kindly upon the Staatsraethin's arm.

"I wish every woman, left alone in the world, had such a friend as you

are," she said, holding out her hand to him gratefully. "You are the

best legacy left me by my dear husband. But where is Johannes? Why did

he not come with you?"

"He sent me before to announce his arrival in the evening," replied the

old gentleman. "He was obliged to make a few visits this afternoon.

Ah," he sighed, as the Staatsraethin handed him some refreshments, "it

is a hot journey hither from town,--and a tedious one too,--but it is

all the cooler and more delightful when you get here." He wiped his

forehead and looked around the circle with the kindly, penetrating

glance of a man who sees through the weaknesses of his fellow-men, but

judges them with the gentleness of a superior nature. "Well, ladies,"

he asked good-humouredly, "did the old doctor interrupt a most

interesting conversation? I cannot believe that sitting here so silent

and serious is your normal condition. What were you talking of when I

arrived?"

"Of nothing very pleasant, Herr Geheimrath," said the Landraethin

venomously; "we were only speaking of Herr von Hartwich and of his

brother, who went wrong some years ago,--we don't know exactly how."

"I can tell you all about it, ladies," said the Geheimrath.

All instantly entreated him, "Oh, tell us; pray tell us!"

The Geheimrath began: "I was professor of medicine at Marburg when that

strange occurrence took place. It was about ten years ago. Gleissert

was then Extraordinarius in the university, and a young man of great

ability. By his diligence and insinuating manners, he had won for

himself the good-will of every one; and one of my colleagues, Hilsborn,

the father of the boy whom I brought with me to-day, was his intimate

friend. Their _specialite_ was the same, and Hilsborn filled the

professorial chair which was the object of Gleissert's desire. Both

were physiologists, but Hilsborn had the chair of special physiology,

and Gleissert, as Extraordinarius, was occupied only with physiological

chemistry. One day Hilsborn confided to me that he was upon the track

of a new discovery. It would be of great importance to science if he

could only succeed in carrying it out and establishing it upon a firm

foundation. The difficulty in doing so lay principally in the procuring

of the necessary material for his experiments,--a species of fish found

only at Trieste, and which he could not procure alive. Hilsborn, a poor

widow's son, lamented his want of means to travel thither and prove his

hypothesis. I promised to obtain for him from my friend the minister,

by the next vacation, a sufficient sum to meet his expenses, and I did

so; but there was the same delay in the matter that is usual in such

cases, and the necessary sum came so late that the journey had to be

postponed until the following vacation, Hilsborn comforting himself

with the thought that, although he must wait another six months,

nothing but time would be lost. Suddenly Herr Gleissert married the

daughter of a wealthy innkeeper, and begged for leave of absence for

his wedding-trip. It was granted, and he was absent for four weeks.

Strangely enough, his friend never heard from him during all that time;

and, when he returned, we all noticed that he was unwilling to let us

know where he had been. We thought he had private grounds for such

unwillingness, and did not question him further. The term was over at

last, and Hilsborn set off for Trieste. There he worked night and day

with superhuman diligence. The result of his investigations was

perfectly satisfactory, and he came back with the materials for a work

which was sure to establish his fame and fortune. One day--I shall

never forget it--he was in my room when the publisher sent me several

new scientific papers. Hilsborn was looking through them carelessly,

when suddenly he grew ashy pale. Among the pamphlets was one by

Gleissert, embodying Hilsborn's idea. I was as shocked and astounded as

he was. It could not be chance which led two men at the same time to so

novel an idea, especially as Gleissert's course of study could not have

directed him to such investigations as Hilsborn's. After a long and

evident struggle with himself, Hilsborn confessed to me that he had

communicated his ideas to Gleissert, and had frequently from the

beginning discussed the matter thoroughly with him, without Gleissert's

ever hinting even that the subject had occurred to him before. On the

contrary, he was at work upon a paper upon a chemical subject, a paper

which had never appeared. Difficult as it was for my high-minded friend

to bring himself to it, the conviction was unavoidable that his friend

had basely deceived him; for we discovered, upon close inquiry, that

Gleissert's wedding-trip had been to Trieste, where he had pursued the

investigations proposed by Hilsborn, and hurried on the printing of

their results with the greatest haste. All outside proof of his

contemptible treachery was perfect, and we were all morally convinced

that he had _stolen_ Hilsborn's idea. As pro-rector, I called him to a

strict account. His defence was cunning, but not convincing. He did not

attempt to deny the principal accusation brought forward, namely, the

suspicious fact that he had induced Hilsborn to promise him not to

impart his discovery to any one else, 'lest it should be used to his

disadvantage.' He wished to be the sole depositary of the secret, that

there might be no witnesses to Hilsborn's proprietorship of the stolen

idea. I ask this worthy assemblage," the old gentleman here interrupted

himself with indignation, "if there can be any doubt of the baseness of

the man in the matter?"

"No, most certainly not, Herr Geheimrath, most certainly not," was the

unanimous reply.

"Well," the narrator continued, "so we thought. We, one and all,

determined to avenge poor Hilsborn, thus deprived of all his fair

hopes. It is true we had no legal weapon at our disposal. Our stupid

laws punish forgers and counterfeiters, but they cannot recognize the

theft of the coinage of the brain. There are jails for the hungry

beggar who steals a loaf; but the rogue who robs a man of his thought,

the painfully-begotten fruit of his mind after years of labour, goes

free. We professors undertook to do what the law does not. We published

the matter far and wide in the scientific periodicals, and all handed

in our resignations to the government, stating that we held it

inconsistent with our honour to remain the colleagues of such a man. Of

course Gleissert was instantly dismissed in disgrace, and an academic

career closed to him forever. I was called away from Marburg soon

after; and, since I have lived in the capital as royal physician, I

have lost sight of my former colleagues. Hilsborn died after some

years, and his son is now my adopted child. What became of Gleissert I

do not know."

"I can tell you," said a fine-looking man, whose resemblance to the

Staatsraethin declared him her brother. "I have informed myself about

matters here, because I propose to purchase Hartwich's factories for my

son. According to the schoolmaster, the fellow is playing a double part

here also. It cannot be denied that under his guidance, and owing to

his chemical discoveries, the factories have doubled in value since his

arrival, for Hartwich is a very narrow-minded man, incapable, from his

wretched avarice, of venturing upon any important speculation; but the

way in which his brother contrives to be paid for his services is, to

say the least, striking. For five years he contented himself with the

salary of an overseer and free lodging--he bided his time. It came at

last. One day Herr von Hartwich had a paralytic stroke, and the

physicians declared that he had but few years to live. Gleissert made

use of this time of helplessness, and threatened to leave the factory

immediately and dispose of his discoveries elsewhere if Hartwich did

not appoint him his heir. Hartwich, who of course stood more in need of

him than ever, accepted his conditions, set aside that poor little girl

as far as the law would allow it, and made a will in Gleissert's

favour."

"He's a thorough scoundrel, that Gleissert,--a legacy-hunter, then,

besides. I should like to know what the fellow holds sacred?"

"Let us ask the child about him," cried one of the ladies.

"Yes, yes," joined in several others. "It would be so interesting.

Pray, dear Staatsraethin, bring the little girl here."

The Staatsraethin looked at her watch, and, finding that Ernestine had

slept nearly an hour, went to fetch her. She soon returned with her,

and again the child had to run the gauntlet of those piercing glances.

But her rest had refreshed her, and she was not so timid.

She heard the old Geheimrath whisper to his next neighbour, "How did

that stupid Hartwich ever come to have such a clever child? Look--what

a remarkable head. Pity the little thing is not a boy! something might

be made of her!"

His words struck to her very soul. Again she heard the same

phrase,--this time from a perfect stranger, "Pity she's not a boy!"

She straightened herself, as though she had suddenly grown an inch

taller, and looked up at the thoughtless speaker as if to say,

"Something shall be made of me!" Then she glanced wistfully at the

children who were playing ball; if she were only among them now, she

would show that she could be like a boy. The Landraethin took her hand

and said, "Well, my dear child, tell us something of your father. How

is he now?"

Ernestine seemed surprised at the question.--"I did not ask him."

The ladies looked significantly at each other.

"Have you not seen him to-day?"

"Yes," she answered briefly.

"Do you not love your father very dearly?" the Landraethin asked

further.

Ernestine paused, and then said quietly and firmly, "No!"

Her interrogator dropped the child's hand as if stung by an insect. "An

affectionate daughter!" she sneered, while the rest shook their heads.

"Whom do you love, then?--your uncle?"

"I love no one at home; but I like my uncle better than my father--he

never strikes me!" Ernestine answered.

"Like likes like, as it seems," one of the ladies observed; the rest

nodded assent, and all turned away from Ernestine.

"She is an unfortunate child," said the Staatsraethin; and arose to lead

her to the children. "Angelika, here is Ernestine von Hartwich," she

cried to her own little daughter, who was about nine years old; "take

good care of her,--remember you are hostess!"

The children, towards whom the Staatsraethin led her protege, scattered

like a flock of birds at the approach of a paper kite. Collecting then

in single groups, they whispered together, and stared at the stranger.

Ernestine found herself alone, avoided by all the gay crowd which she

had just so fervently admired. She played the part of a scarecrow, but

with the melancholy superiority that she was conscious that she was

one. She knew that she had scattered the gay circle, that she had

chased away the children, that they all avoided her; and again she felt

as if she should sink into the ground, her feeble limbs trembled

beneath the burden of derision and contempt that she was forced to

bear. The Staatsraethin cast a stern glance--which Ernestine noticed--at

little Angelika, and said, "Give your hand to your new friend!"

Two of the larger girls giggled, and Ernestine heard them whisper, "A

lovely friend!"

Angelika now approached Ernestine, and held out her soft little hand,

but instantly withdrew it, stood mute before her for a moment, looking

at the old brown straw hat that Ernestine held in her hand, then

ventured one look into her eyes, and nestled confused and shy against

her mother, who spoke seriously but kindly to the pretty child. She

spoke in French, and Angelika answered in the same language. Ernestine

was amazed. The little girl understood a strange tongue, and yet she

was smaller than herself! She, who wanted to be as clever as a boy, did

not even know as much as the little girl. And she had to endure their

speaking before her as if she were not present; there she stupidly

stood, well knowing that they were saying nothing good of her or they

would have said it in German. She was weighed down by a double

disgrace, that of her ignorance, and of knowing that they were speaking

of her as if she were not there.

"Frau Staatsraethin," she said in a quivering voice, "I will not stay

here; the children do not like me; I am too bad for them!" She turned

away, and would really have gone, but little Angelika's good heart

conquered.

She ran after her and held her fast: "No, no, dear Ernestine; you are

not too bad for us; you are only odd--different from the rest of us.

Come, we will play with you!"

Then the Staatsraethin took Angelika in her arms, and kissed her,

saying, "That's right; now you are my little Angelika again, my good

sweet child."

Ernestine looked on at this caress with amazement, and hot tears rose

to her eyes. No one had ever been so kind to her. What happiness it

must be to be so embraced and kissed! But it could never happen to her.

Why not? Why did no one love her? Angelika, too, was only a girl: why

was she not blamed for it? But she was so lovely, so beautiful; who

could help loving her? Then her heart gave a throb as though it had

been stabbed with a knife. "So beautiful," she repeated: "that is why

every one pets and fondles her. It is not only that I am a girl; I am

an ugly girl,--that is why no one loves me."

"Come," said Angelika. "Why do you look so? Come to the others." She

led her to the fountain, around which the little company had gathered

meanwhile. The children were amusing themselves with throwing stones at

the ball of glass which the water tossed up and down. No girl or boy

could hit it; the ball could only be struck while it was dancing on the

top of the spray, and always fell before it was reached. The children

laughed merrily at each other, and even the parents and grown people

were interested and drew near. Ernestine looked on after her usual

brooding fashion. She soon divined where the mistake lay. The stone was

longer in reaching its aim than the ball lingered in the air. She

quickly concluded that if a stone were aimed at the top of the fountain

while the ball was still below, the latter in ascending would strike

the stone. Hilsborn, the boy fourteen years old, had just declared that

he could not understand why they could not strike it. Ambition took

possession of her,--if she was ugly, she would show them that she was

clever,--if she was only a girl, she would show them that she had force

and skill. Involuntarily she looked across to the old Geheimrath, to

ascertain if he saw her, and, as this seemed to be the case, she

stooped down and hastily picked up a larger stone than the others, to

insure success,--took the attitude which she had often observed in the

village boys, and, with her feet planted firmly wide apart, swung her

arm round three times to take sure aim, and hurled the stone with all

her force towards the point in the air which the fountain reached in

its leaping. Fate was cruel enough to favour her; the stone met the

ascending ball, and so exactly that the latter was hurled out of the

column of water, and, flying over the heads of the nearest by-standers,

fell upon the head of a child, and the thin glass was shivered in

pieces. The child screamed, more from fright than pain,--a commotion

ensued,--the mother of the sufferer rushed towards her darling with

frantic gestures,--the "wound" was examined, embroidered handkerchiefs

were dipped in the basin of the fountain and bound around the head,

while like a dark cloud there hovered over the sympathetic crowd a fear

lest "some fragment of glass should have penetrated the skull."

Ernestine stood there like a culprit; she felt convicted of murder,

and when she heard from all sides, "What unfeminine conduct! How

savage and rude! How can they bring up the girl to be such a tom-boy?"

she was utterly confounded. She had been like a boy, and it was all

wrong,--what should she do to please people and make them like her a

little? Then the old Geheimrath approached her and unclasped the hands

which she was silently but convulsively wringing. "Be comforted, you

pale little girl,--there is no great harm done. In future you must

leave such exploits to boys." Then he left her and examined the wound,

and declared laughingly that he needed a microscope to see it. The

mothers of the party, however, showed all the more sympathy and anxiety

in the matter that they were chagrined that Ernestine had displayed

more skill than their own children.

Ernestine's delicate instinct surmised all this. She looked at the

buzzing throng of her enemies with aversion, as at a swarm of wasps

that she had disturbed. She listened to the noise that was made about

the slight accident with infinite bitterness, and thought how at home,

when her father's blows had bruised her, no one cared anything about

it. When a few days before she had fallen and cut her forehead, she had

had to wash it herself at the brook. And even the old gentleman had

said that she should leave such exploits to boys. Then must she not

contend even with boys if she could? Why not? Why were they so

superior? It was unjust! She clenched her little fists. When she grew

up she would show people how great the injustice was! That she was

resolved upon.

Then little Angelika came running up, calling the children together

for a game. "Come, Ernestine," she cried. "You did not mean to do

it,--come, play blindman's buff with us."

Ernestine did not venture to make any objection; she was so cowed that

she did just as they told her, and let them make her "blind man," and

tie the handkerchief over her eyes. She never complained, although when

they were tying on the bandage they pulled her hair so that she ground

her teeth with pain. And then they all began to tease her. One pulled

at one of her long locks; another terrified her by putting beetles and

caterpillars upon her neck,--the usual tricks of the game, that are

easily borne when they are understood among little friends, but enough

to drive a shy child, that does not know how to defend herself, to

despair. No one would be caught by the ugly stranger, who had only been

admitted to the game at the express desire of the hostess, and all felt

themselves justified in playing all manner of tricks upon her.

Ernestine caught no one, and ran hither and thither in vain. She was

too conscientious to raise the handkerchief a little that she might see

where she was,--that would have been acting a falsehood, and she never

told falsehoods. Suddenly a hand seized her straw hat, and the worn old

brim gave way, and fell upon her shoulders like a collar, to the great

delight of the rest. It was a terrible loss for the poor child; for she

knew that she should get no other hat at home, but would be punished

for her carelessness. She grasped after her tormentor, and seized her

by the skirt; but she was one of the larger girls, and tore herself

away, leaving a piece of her elegant summer dress in Ernestine's hands,

which had clutched it tightly. She could not see how the girl ran to

her mother, bewailing the injury to her dress; the bandage over her

eyes beneficently shielded her from perceiving the angry looks of the

ladies, and absorbed the tears which she was silently shedding for her

straw hat. She stood motionless in the middle of the lawn, and did not

know what to do,--for no children seemed to be near,--the game appeared

to be interrupted. Suddenly she received a sound box on the ear. The

younger brother of the aggrieved young lady had stolen up and avenged

his sister. Then the tormented child was filled with indignation and

rage that almost deprived her of reason. She seized the boy as he tried

to pass her, and began to straggle with him. He forced her backwards,

step by step. She could not free her hands to untie the bandage; she

did not know where she was; she would not let go her enemy, for her

sufferings had filled her little heart with hate and fury. There was a

scream, and at the same instant she stumbled over something and fell;

she kept her hold of her foe, but she felt that she was up to her knees

in water,--she had stumbled into the basin of the fountain. The guests

hurried up. First seizing the boy, who was still in Ernestine's grasp,

they placed him in safety, and then they helped out the trembling

child, who stood there with torn, dripping clothes, an object of terror

and disgust to herself and to everybody else.

What mischief the horrible creature had done! She had almost fractured

one child's skull, she had torn the expensive dress of another, and had

tried to drown a third!

"Pray, my dear Staatsraethin, have my carriage ordered," said one of the

injured mothers; "one's life is not safe here!"

"Supper is ready," replied the Staatsraethin. "Let me entreat you all to

go into the house. I will answer for the lives of your children as long

as they are my guests," she added with a slight smile.

The ladies all called their sons and daughters to them, to protect them

from the little monster, who still stood there, bewildered and crushed,

upon the lawn, looking on with a bleeding heart, as the children,

laughing and joking, clung to their parents, whom they kissed and

caressed with affectionate freedom. Every child there had a mother or a

father who fondled it. She--she alone was thrust out and forsaken,--no

one remembered that she was tired and wet through,--no one cared for

her. The charming little Angelika was everywhere in requisition, and

could not come to her,--the Staatsraethin was entreating her guests to

pardon her for inviting a child whom she did not know; how could she

possibly suppose that Herr von Hartwich had a daughter so neglected?

Ernestine heard it all. She could no longer stand,--she fell upon her

knees, and, sobbing violently, hid her face in her hands. The

Staatsraethin was now free to come to her, and hastily approached.

"Oh, you poor little thing, you are wet through, and no one has thought

of you," she cried kindly, at sight of Ernestine. "Go into the house

quickly, and put on a pair of my little girl's shoes and stockings; my

room is just to the right of the drawing-room. Go immediately,--do you

hear? I cannot stay away from my guests."

"Forgive me,--it is not my fault!" stammered Ernestine.

"Indeed it is not, my dear child," said the Staatsraethin gravely. "I

only pity you,--I am not angry with you! But hurry now and take off

your dress,--I will send you your supper to my room. I know you would

rather eat it alone."

And she hastened away to her guests just as a vehicle drove up and a

strikingly handsome young man about twenty years old sprang out and

hurried up to her. "My dear boy," she cried, "is it you? I did not

expect you yet!"

The youth kissed her hand and bowed courteously to the rest. The

Staatsraethin's eyes rested upon him with the pride with which a woman

during her life regards two men only,--a lover and a darling son. The

guests surrounded him with congratulations upon the day's success;

Angelika danced around him, and the other children all wanted a hand or

a kiss. There was quite a little uproar of delight.

Suddenly the Staatsraethin cried out in a startled tone, "Little

Ernestine has gone! Heavens, that poor child wet through in the cool

evening air! I cannot allow it! Johannes, my dear son, run quickly,

bring her back."

"Who,--what?" he asked in amazement.

"But, my dearest Staatsraethin," said the mother of the boy whom

Ernestine's shot had wounded, "how can you worry yourself about the

little witch? she is tougher than our children."

The Staatsraethin glanced at her contemptuously, and, turning to

Johannes, continued: "She is a pale, meanly-clad little girl, eleven or

twelve years of age; you cannot miss her if you take the path to

Hartwich's estate; she is his daughter. Hasten, Johannes, hasten!" He

obeyed, while she conducted her guests to their sumptuous repast.

Meanwhile Ernestine ran through the grove as quickly as she could, and

began to breathe freely as she lost sight of the house where she had

undergone so much. But her strength soon failed her. Her wet shoes and

stockings clung like heavy lumps of lead to her weary feet and impeded

her steps; she was conscious of gnawing hunger, and the first care for

the future that she had yet felt in her short life assailed her,--she

was afraid that it would be too late for her to get anything to eat

when she reached home; it was growing dark, and it would be ten

o'clock; Frau Gedike would be in bed. And that was not the worst that

she had to look forward to; the straw hat, whose brim was still having

around her neck,--the heavy, torn straw hat, would certainly bring her

a severe chastisement. She sat down upon a mound on the borders of the

grove, and took off the brim to see if she could contrive some way of

fastening it to the crown, which she carried in her hand. The tree

above her shook its boughs compassionately and threw down its leaves

upon her dishevelled locks. She never heeded them,--the conviction lay

heavy upon her childish heart that she could not possibly mend the hat

before Frau Gedike would see it. Tear after tear dropped upon the

fragments, and her large, swimming eyes glimmered in the moonlight from

out her pale face like glow-worms in a lily-cup. Suddenly she started

violently, for some one stood before her, and she recognized the young

man whose arrival had just enabled her to make her escape. He looked at

her silently for a while, and then said, "Are you the little girl who

came to us to-day, and then ran away secretly?"

"Yes," stammered Ernestine.

"Why have you done so?" he asked further.

Ernestine made no reply. She was more ashamed before Johannes than

before all the rest of the company. He was very different from every

one else there,--so proud and strong,--he would despise her more than

the others had done, for he was much handsomer and finer than they, and

worth more than all of them. She did not venture to look up at him; she

was afraid of meeting another of those glances that had so tortured

her. Then the young man took her hand and said kindly, "Well, you pale

little dryad, can you not speak? Will you go with me, or would you

rather spend the night in your tree?"

"I want to go home!" said Ernestine.

"I cannot let you go home. I must take you to my mother. She is afraid

you will take cold. Come!"

Ernestine shrunk back. "I cannot go there any more!"

"Why not? What have they done to you?"

"They laughed at me, and jeered me," cried the irritated child; "they

despised me; and I will not be despised! I will not!"

The young man looked at her thoughtfully.

"Even if I am ugly," she continued, "and poor, and badly taught, and

awkward, I will not be treated like a dog!" There was a tone of despair

in her voice, her chest panted within her narrow dress, her teeth

chattered with cold and excitement.

"Poor child!" said Johannes; "they must have used you ill,--but my

mother was surely kind to you?"

"Yes, she was kind, but she was vexed with me at last; I heard her

blaming me to the others. And I do not want to see her again,--not

until I am grown up and can be as dignified and gentle as she is."

"Are you so certain, then, that you will one day be as gentle and

dignified?" asked Johannes smiling.

"Yes, the schoolmaster says, and the old gentleman said too, that if I

were a boy something might be made of me. Oh, something shall be made

of me,--if I am only a girl. I will not always have boys held up to me;

when I am grown up, they shall see that a girl is as good as a boy; all

these bad, unkind people shall respect me; if they do not, I would

rather die!"

"You queer child!" laughed Johannes, "it would be hard to tame you. But

see, if you stay any longer here with me in the night air, you will

take cold, and then you may die before you have carried out all your

resolutions; think how bad that will be!"

With these words he attempted to lead the child away with him, but she

snatched her hand from him and clung to the tree beneath which she had

been sitting. "No, no," she breathlessly entreated, "dear sir, let me

go--do not take me back again--please, please, not there!"

"Obstinate little thing, you must come," laughed Johannes. "Do you

suppose I can go back without you, after having been sent to find you

like a stray lamb? My mother would shut me up for three days upon bread

and water if I did not bring you back; you would not like that, would

you?"

"Ah, you are laughing at me. I will not go back with you, I will not,"

sobbed Ernestine.

"Will not? What is the use of such words from a weak little girl

who can be easily carried in arms?" With these words Johannes

good-humouredly lifted Ernestine from the ground and placed her on his

shoulder to take her back to the castle. But she succeeded in grasping

an overhanging branch of the oak-tree just above her, and, before

Johannes could prevent it, she had swung herself up by it, and was

clambering like a squirrel from bough to bough.

"This is delightful!" cried Johannes, much amused; "you are really,

then, a dryad in disguise? Such a prize must not escape; to be sure, I

never dreamed to-day, when I passed my examination, that the new Herr

Doctor's first feat would be to climb a tree after a wayward little

girl; but the episode is much more poetic than marching up and down

stairs, making my best bow to my old examiners." Daring this soliloquy

be had taken off his coat and climbed into the tree.

But when he tried to seize Ernestine, she retreated to the extremity of

the bough upon, which she was sitting, and was quite out of his reach;

he could not follow her, for the slender branch creaked and drooped so,

even beneath the child's light weight, that he momentarily expected it

to break. The jest had become earnest indeed: if the little girl fell,

she would fall a double distance,--the height of the tree and of the

hill which the tree crowned. Quick as thought the young man swung

himself down to the ground, and took his station where he might, if

possible, receive Ernestine in his arms if she fell. For the first time

he now saw how high she was perched, and a cloud before the moon just

at the moment prevented his perceiving the exact direction that she

must take in falling. His anxiety was intense. The responsibility of a

human life was suddenly thrust upon him. If he did not succeed in

catching the falling child, she would shortly lie before him, if not a

corpse, at least with broken limbs. The steep hill, too, made it almost

impossible for him to maintain a firm footing; wherever he planted his

feet, they slipped continually. The blood rushed to his face; his heart

beat audibly; with outstretched arms he gazed up at the child, who sat

above him, all unconscious of her danger.

"Little one," he cried breathlessly, "the branch where you are sitting

will not bear you! scramble back again, or you will fall!"

"I will not come down until you promise me not to carry me back! I

shall not fall," she panted, and snatched at a stronger bough above

her, but it sprang back from her grasp, leaving only a few twigs in her

hand.

"I will promise anything that you want," cried Johannes in deadly

terror, "only go back quickly to the trunk--quickly--quickly!"

The bough cracked, just as the child swung herself towards the trunk,

and it fell to the ground,--leaving her clinging to the stump where it

grew from the trunk; and when Johannes climbed up to her and she could

at last reach his shoulder, she was trembling so with fright that she

willingly clasped her thin arms around his neck. With difficulty he

reached the ground again with his burden, his hands scratched and

bleeding and his shirt-sleeve torn. He put down Ernestine, and,

stepping back a pace or two, regarded her gravely; then, after wiping

the moisture from his brow, he began in a serious tone of voice, "Do

you know what I would do if I were your father?"

Ernestine looked up at him inquiringly.

"I would give you a taste of the rod, that you might learn not to

frighten people so just for your own wayward whims!"

These words, prompted by the young man's irritation at the anxiety to

which he had been subjected, had a fearful effect upon the child. She

gave a piercing cry, and threw herself upon the ground. "Oh, nothing

but blows, blows--he too, he too! Who will not strike me and abuse me?

who is there to take pity upon me?" and she sobbed uncontrollably.

"Good heavens," said Johannes, half compassionately and half annoyed,

"was there ever such a child! First you climb into a tree at peril of

your life, just that you may gratify your self-will, and then a single

word of blame crushes you to the earth. I never saw anything like it!"

Saying this, he lifted her up and held her out before him in the

moonlight, regarding her as one would some rare animal or natural

curiosity.

"Here is a thing," he said, more to himself than to Ernestine, "so

frail and delicate that you could crush it in your grasp, but there is

such strength of will in the little frame that one is forced to yield

to it, and such a wildly throbbing heart in the little breast that one

is carried away by it in spite of one's self. I should like to know

what odd combinations have produced this strange piece of humanity. Do

not cry any more, little one; I will not harm you--what eyes the

creature has! You are a remarkable child, but I would not like to have

the charge of you--you would puzzle one well, and force and blows would

have no effect upon you!"

With these words he put her down upon the ground again and picked up

his coat to put it on. As he did so, he felt something hard in the

pocket; he looked to see what it was, and drew out a book in a splendid

binding.

"Ah," he cried gaily, "I had forgotten this. Can you read?"

Ernestine nodded. She was glad that she had not to say no; how ashamed

she would have been!

"Come, that's right!" said the young man; and Ernestine was very proud

of those first words of commendation, and determined instantly to be

doubly diligent, that she might some time hear just such another

"That's right!"

Johannes put the book into her hand. "There, you shall have that, that

you may carry something pleasant home with you after such a dreary day.

The stories are charming. I brought it out for my little sister

Angelika, but I could not give it to her because I had to run after

you. Now I am glad that I have it still and can give it to you."

"Yes--but Angelika?" Ernestine asked hesitatingly.

"She shall have another to-morrow. Take it, and read the story of the

Ugly Duckling; that will comfort you when people are cross to you. Take

it--why do you hesitate?"

The child took the book as carefully and timidly as if it were in

reality a fairy book and would vanish at her touch. When she had it in

her hands and it did not disappear, and she could really believe in her

happiness in receiving such a present, she uttered a scarcely audible

"Thank you very much!" but the look that accompanied the words touched

Johannes.

"You do not often have presents?" he asked.

"Never!"

"Oh! you seem not to be very affectionately treated. Does not your

mother ever give you anything?"

"I have no mother. She died because I was not a boy."

"A most remarkable cause of death," observed Johannes, half dryly, half

compassionately.

"Ah, if I had a mother, everything would be different." And the large

tears rolled down over her cheeks.

"Listen, little one," said Johannes kindly, after a pause. "I have a

dear mother, and I will share her with you--half a mother's heart is

better than none at all. Come home with me. You shall be my little

sister, and you will be gentle enough when you know us better."

Ernestine shook her head decidedly. The thought of returning to the

castle again filled her with dismay. "No, no, never!" she cried in

terror. "Your mother would not love me--she could not! You promised me

a minute ago not to force me to anything, and if you think now that I

ought to do as you please, because you have given me the book, I would

rather not have it. There, take it--I will not have it!"

Johannes rejected the offered book with some vexation. "Keep it," he

said. "I gave it to you unconditionally. I only thought that my

kindness had made you gentler and more docile, but I was wrong. You are

not to be moved by kindness either. Sad to see a heart so early

hardened!"

Ernestine stood motionless, with downcast eyes--she scarcely breathed;

the emotions that agitated her were so novel, so different from

anything she had hitherto experienced, that she struggled in vain to

give utterance to them; her childish lips had no words to express them.

She was pained, and yet her pain, although deeper than any she had

already suffered, had no bitterness in it. She did not hate him who had

caused it--she could have kissed his hand, and, falling at his feet,

begged him to forgive her--but she did not dare to do so.

"Well," he asked, after a moment's silence, "shall I go home with you?"

Ernestine shook her head.

"Not that, either? Will you go alone?" he asked impatiently.

Ernestine nodded.

"Well, I have promised to do as you pleased, and I shall keep my

promise, although I do not think it right to leave you to go home alone

so late at night. Let me at least go with you across the fields? Are

you grown dumb?"

Ernestine lifted to his her large melancholy eyes so beseechingly that

he lost his composure. "You are enough to drive one insane, you

enigmatical little creature! Who taught you that look--the look of an

angel imprisoned by some evil magician in the body of a kobold? God

knows what will become of you! You will not let me come, then? No? Are

you not afraid? Nothing to be got out of you but a shake of the head!

Well, go! I cannot force you. Good-night, then!" He held out his hand;

she seized it, pressed it with passionate energy, and then ran across

the fields as fast as her feet could carry her. Johannes let her run

for some minutes, and then followed her at a distance; he could not

allow the helpless child to go home without watching over her safety.

She ran as if she had wings, without once looking round; but Johannes

noticed that she kissed the book several times, and pressed it to her

heart, as if it had been some living thing. When at last he came in

sight of Ernestine's home, he stopped. "Heaven be merciful to the man

who will one day take her for a wife!" he thought, and slowly turned

away.

Ernestine entered the garden of her dreary home with a throbbing heart.

A grumbling maid-servant opened the door for her. "You are late," she

scolded. "That is just like you--first you wouldn't go, and then you

don't want to come home. You always want to do something else than what

you should."

Ernestine made no reply. "Can I have something to eat?" she asked

briefly.

"To eat! Likely, indeed! Am I to go to the stable at ten o'clock at

night and milk a cow for you? for there is nothing else that I can get.

You know well enough that I have no keys!"

"Is Frau Gedike in bed, then?"

"If you were not so stupid, you might know that!"

"But I am hungry!"

"That serves you right; you should have eaten enough at the party. Of

course they gave you something to eat?"

Ernestine was silent, and followed the maid into the room, where she

hastily concealed her torn hat in the wardrobe. "My feet are wet," she

said, shivering. "Give me some dry stockings."

"Of course you have been dragging through all the puddles, and then

want dry stockings at this hour of the night! Get into bed as soon as

you can; you will have no other stockings to-night. Good-night--I am

going to bed myself." And the servant left the room, taking with her

the dim tallow candle that she had in her hand, and Ernestine was left

alone in the apartment, into which the moon shone brightly. Suppressed

rage at the servant's coarse harshness burrowed and gnawed in the

child's heart like a hidden mole. Everything that had lately happened

vanished at this rude contact. Her soul had expanded at the first touch

of a large, kindly nature, like a bud in the air of spring--the frost

that now fell upon it was doubly painful. She was again the same

forsaken, abused child whose vital energies were consumed by impotent

hate of her tormentors. Had she really lived the last hour! Had any one

really spoken so kindly to her--one, too, better and handsomer than all

the others?

She caught up her book as if it were a talisman; it was real; it

had not vanished; it was all true, then. And yet she had been so

self-willed and cross to the kind, kind gentleman, and had not even

told him how grateful she was; how he must despise her! He could not do

otherwise. She understood now how different she must be before she

could hope to win the liking of such a man as Johannes. How should she

do it? She could not tell; but something stirred within her that

exalted her above herself. She looked up to heaven in childlike

entreaty, and prayed, "Dear God, make me good!" Then she pressed the

book to her heart; it was her most precious possession, her first

friend; and the desire took hold of her to see now what this friend

would tell her. But she could not read by moonlight, and she dared not

get a candle, for she slept next to Frau Gedike, who allowed no reading

at night. She stood hesitating and looked sorrowfully at the beautiful

binding, with its gay arabesques. Suddenly it occurred to her that

there was always a night-lamp burning in her father's room; it was a

happy thought. She drew off her wet boots with difficulty, and crept

softly into Hartwich's apartment. The invalid was lying upon his back,

sound asleep. He breathed and snored so loudly that the child was

almost terrified; but she was determined to proceed, and slipped past

the bed. She seated herself cautiously, opened the book in a state of

feverish expectation, and of course turned to the story that Johannes

had mentioned to her. The book contained the charming, touching tales

of Hans Andersen. Ernestine, greatly moved, read the story of the Ugly

Duckling. She read how it was abused and maltreated by all because it

was so different from the other ducks, and how at last it came to be a

magnificent swan, far finer and more beautiful than the insignificant

fowls who had despised it. The impression made upon her by this story

is not to be described. The poor duckling's woes were hers also, and as

if upon swan's pinions the promise of a fair future hovered above her

from the page that she was reading. "Shall I ever be such a swan?" she

asked again and again. Her heart overflowed with new emotions of joy

and pain, she covered her eyes with her thin hands and sobbed as if she

would, as the saying is, "cry her soul out." Then her father awoke, and

called out, "Who is there?" Ernestine hastened to him and fell on her

knees at his bedside. She seized his hand and would have kissed it; he

snatched it angrily away, but the tears that she had shed had melted

her very heart. "Father, dear father!" she cried, "I have been very

naughty and self-willed. Forgive, and love me only a little, and I will

love you dearly!"

Hartwich turned his face to the wall, and growled, "Why did you wake

me? Where's the use of slipping in here at this hour? Do you think I

had rather listen to your stupid whining than sleep?"

"Father," cried Ernestine, taking his lame hand that he could not

withdraw from her. "Father, do not send me away from you. I will be

good,--help me to be so. I cannot be good if you are always harsh to

me. I saw to-day how all the children have parents who love them. I

only am disliked by every one, and yet I have a heart too, and would

love to see kind looks and hear kind words. I will not cry ever any

more, if you will not make me cry, and I will try my best to be just

like a boy, that you may not be sorry any more that I am a girl. Ah,

father, it seems to-day as if the dear God in heaven had told me what I

long for. Love, father, love,--ah, give me some, and take pity upon

your poor ugly child!"

The invalid had turned towards the child again, and was staring at her

in amazement, with lack-lustre eyes; it seemed as if some unbidden

feeling were struggling for utterance from the depths of his moral and

physical degradation; his breath came quick, he tried to speak.

Ernestine did not venture to look at him; a strong odour of brandy told

her that her father's face was near her own, but this odour was so

utterly disgusting to her that she involuntarily recoiled, and thus

avoided the lips that would perhaps have bestowed upon her the first

kiss that she had ever in her life received from them. The invalid must

have known this, for he turned away again, muttering something

unintelligible. After a long pause, he felt for a tumbler that stood on

a table beside his bed, but it was empty. "I'm thirsty!" he said

peevishly. "Shall I bring you some water, father?" asked Ernestine. The

sick man made a gesture of disgust "No! but you can go up to your uncle

and tell him to send me that medicine that he spoke of; he will know

what I want. But ask him only,--do you hear?--him only. And tell no one

that I sent you, or you shall suffer for it, I promise you. And now go

quickly: I'm tortured with thirst!"

Ernestine arose from her knees, and looked at her father with the grief

that we feel when we have lavished our best, our most sacred emotions

upon an unworthy object. Hitherto she had required nothing of him;

to-day, for the first time, as she looked around for some one to whose

love, in her loneliness, she possessed a right, it had occurred to her

that she had a father. She had turned to him with an overflowing heart,

and had found a drunkard, who had resigned all claims to respect, both

as a man and a father. Mute and crushed alike physically and mentally,

she slipped out and up the stairs to her uncle. She was to bring brandy

to the sick man, although she remembered that the physician had

forbidden all heating drinks; but she must fulfil her father's

commands, or receive the cruellest treatment at his hands. She entered

her uncle's room, slowly and timidly; she was afraid of his wife. But

Bertha had gone to bed; there was no one in the room but Leuthold, who

was standing by the open window, to the frame of which he had screwed a

long tube.

"Ah, little Ernestine, have you come so late to see your uncle?" he

said kindly.

"Uncle, what is that?" asked Ernestine, forgetting her errand in her

wonder at the strange instrument.

"That is a telescope," her uncle informed her.

"What are you doing with it?" she asked further.

"I am looking into the moon, my child."

"Ah! can you do that?" she cried, in the greatest amazement.

"Certainly I can. Would you like to look through it?"

"Ah, yes; if I only might!" whispered Ernestine, enchanted at the

offer.

Leuthold lifted her upon the window-sill and adjusted the telescope for

her. She was half frightened when she suddenly found the shining

sphere, which she had always seen hovering so far above her in the sky,

brought so near to her eyes. Her breast expanded to receive such an

inconceivable miracle. She gazed and gazed, looking, breathless with

the desire of knowledge, at the mountains, valleys, and jagged craters

that were so magically revealed. The warm night air fanned her burning

brow. Everything around her faded and was forgotten as the tired heart

of the child throbbed with fervent longing for the peace of that new,

distant world.

CHAPTER III.

ATONEMENT.

The day began slowly to dawn, for a dim, cloudy sky usurped the throne

of departing night. Drops of rain fell here and there,--it was a

cheerless morning. Not a cock crowed--not a bird was stirring. The dog

remained hidden in his kennel.

Now and then an early labourer, with his spade upon his shoulder,

would pass along the fence encircling Hartwich's estate, and would look

over it with surprise at the strange bustle prevailing in house and

court-yard. Doors were opened and shut; servant-maids, with eyes heavy

with sleep, were running hither and thither; water was brought from the

well; no questions or answers were exchanged. It was as if every one

avoided speaking of what had occurred. A groom brought a saddled horse

from the stable, mounted, and galloped furiously in the direction of

the estate of the Staatsraethin. "Is there a fire anywhere?" a couple of

peasants shouted after him, but he made no reply. Without a word, he

galloped across field and moor, never drawing rein until he reached the

garden of the Staatsraethin. He tugged violently at the bell until a

sleepy servant came to the door and asked him angrily what he wanted.

"Wake up the Geheimrath Heim, he is here on a visit. The village doctor

sent me,--a human life is at stake!"

The servant opened his eyes wide, and stared inquiringly at the groom.

"Yes, yes; quick, be quick! Hartwich has beaten his child so, we think

she is dying. The barber says perhaps the Geheimrath can save her."

"Good gracious, that is terrible!" cried the horrified servant, and ran

to call the old gentleman.

The Geheimrath was up in a moment; without losing time by a single

word, he dressed himself, mounted the groom's horse, and rushed off to

the scene of the disaster.

Before the door of the house, awaiting his arrival, stood the village

barber-surgeon, who received him with the deepest reverence. "Herr

Geheimrath, I pray you to excuse me,--but, as I knew you were in the

neighbourhood, I conceived it my duty to entreat your assistance before

sending for the physician, who lives three leagues off. The case seems

to me a serious one."

"Never excuse yourself," said Heim, taking off his hat and coat in the

hall; "it is my duty to aid wherever I can. But, in Heaven's name, how

did it happen? Where is the child injured?"

"She has a wound in her head, and I fear the skull is fractured,"

replied the barber, opening the door of the room leading to Hartwich's

apartment. The Geheimrath heard a loud sobbing as soon as the door was

opened. He entered, and before him lay the invalid, weeping and wailing

like a maniac, with the child stretched out stiff and corpse-like upon

the bed; her eyes were closed and deep-sunk in their large sockets; her

pale lips were slightly parted,--it was a sorry sight. Hartwich

supported her bandaged head upon his arm, and, weeping loudly, pressed

kiss after kiss upon her white brow.

"Ah, Herr Geheimrath!" he shrieked, "come here! I am a wicked,

miserable father. I have killed my child! I am a man given over to the

worst of all vices,--drunkenness; it is my only excuse. Accuse me; have

me sent, crippled as I am, to jail,--I care not; but bring my child to

life, or the sting of conscience will drive me mad!"

The Geheimrath took the passive hand of the child and felt the pulse.

"It is greatly to be regretted that your conscience was not as active

before the deed as it appears to be now that it is committed," he said

coldly and sternly, as he removed the bandage from the child's head.

"Oh, oh," wailed Hartwich, shutting his eyes, "do not do that here! I

cannot see the blood; I cannot see the wound; it will kill me!"

"What! you could make the wound and cannot look at it!" said the

Geheimrath inexorably, beginning to probe the wound. "It is a most

serious case," he said. "Has the child moved at all?"

"Yes, yes; oh, heavens, yes; until she grew so rigid!" gasped Hartwich,

seizing Ernestine's hand to kiss it. Then he looked up at the physician

in mortal terror. "How is it? must she--oh, Christ! must she die?" And

again he broke out into the loud childish weeping peculiar to persons

unnerved by sickness or drink.

"Control yourself," ordered the Geheimrath. "I cannot come to any

decision yet. The injury to the skull is not fatal; what the effect of

the concussion will be, I cannot tell. But, with the child's delicate

constitution----" He shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, you give me no hope," moaned Hartwich. "Ernestine, wake up! only

look once at your father, your cruel, wicked father! Ah, Herr

Geheimrath, I disliked the child because she was so weak and ugly. If

she had only been a fine, healthy girl, I might perhaps have been

reconciled to having no son; but I was ashamed of her, and silenced the

voice of my heart. Oh, these hands, poor little hands, and these pale,

thin cheeks!--how could I ever strike them! God be merciful to me,

miserable sinner that I am!" And he beat his breast fiercely.

The Geheimrath looked at him and shook his head. "Do not excite

yourself so. It does your daughter no good, and only injures yourself."

"My daughter! my daughter!" repeated Hartwich. "Oh, I have never

treated her as such. She seemed to me a changeling, left in her cradle

by some spiteful witch in place of the boy I so coveted. Now, when I am

in danger of losing her, I feel that she is my child indeed."

"The truth is as old as the world, that nature avenges the

transgression of the least of her laws," replied the physician. "You

have sinned grievously against the mighty law of paternal affection,

and now it demands its rights with resistless authority. Let me entreat

you to testify your repentance by the tenderest care of the sick child,

and permit me to call some one to put her to bed,--it should have been

done long ago."

"Ah, must she be separated from me?" moaned Hartwich. "I long to beg

her forgiveness when she comes to herself."

"You will hardly be able to do that very soon," said the Geheimrath,

ringing the bell.

Frau Gedike made her appearance, as gentle and submissive as she had

previously been harsh and overbearing to Ernestine.

"Assist me in carrying this child to her bed," said Heim, carefully

placing his arm beneath the rigid little body to raise it up.

"Oh, I beg of you, Herr Geheimrath, do not trouble yourself," cried

Frau Gedike, evidently greatly humbled. "I can carry the poor child

without help."

Heim glanced at her keenly, and then quietly directed her to show him

the way.

Frau Gedike ran as quickly as she could across the hall to the door of

a back room. "Permit me," she said, and tried to slip past the

Geheimrath into the apartment. "Excuse me for one moment, that I may

put things a little to rights. Everything is in disorder, I rose so

early this morning."

But Heim said authoritatively, "Follow me!" and stepped past her into

the chamber, carrying his silent burden. Here he stood still in

astonishment. It was a kind of wash-room,--at least there was a huge

pile of soiled linen in one corner. Broken furniture and household

utensils were scattered about; there were no curtains to the windows;

hundreds of flies were buzzing about the dirty panes; the air of the

close room was stifling. In one corner stood a child's crib, which must

have dated from Ernestine's fifth or sixth year. It contained an old

straw bed, a dirty pillow, and a heavy, tawdry coverlet. Frau Gedike

bustled about, endeavouring to conceal us well as she could the

miserable condition of the room from the penetrating eye of the

Geheimrath, but in vain.

"Am I to lay the wounded child in this bed? Is she to be nursed in this

hole?" he asked in a tone which boded no good to the housekeeper.

"Gracious me!--we have no other room and no other bed. I have often

pitied the dear child, but Herr Hartwich is so saving--he never buys

anything new," she declared.

The Geheimrath went towards a half-open door leading into another and

larger apartment. Here the air was pure, the furniture decent, and

there was a comfortable bed in the corner.

"Is this your room?" asked the Geheimrath sharply.

"It is, Herr Geheimrath. It is just as my predecessor left it."

"Make up the bed instantly with clean linen."

Frau Gedike stared in surprise.

"Instantly!" repeated the Geheimrath, in a way that admitted of no

remonstrance, and seated himself, that he might more conveniently hold

his poor little charge. Frau Gedike brought clean sheets and made up

the bed.

"Where shall I sleep?" she asked with suppressed rage: "there is no

other sleeping-room in the whole house!"

"You can try Ernestine's bed, and see what it is to lie cramped up upon

a rack!" replied the old gentleman dryly. Then he wrinkled his bushy

brows sternly, and continued: "I doubt whether you will need a bed

here, for I will do my best to have you leave this house before night."

"Oh, Lord, have mercy on me! Herr Geheimrath, what have I done? What

fault can you find with me?" whined Frau Gedike as she smoothed the

pillows.

Heim arose, and, as he laid the lifeless little body carefully upon the

bed, said quietly, "Look at the room which you have allowed this frail

child to occupy, the bed in which you have cramped her poor little

limbs, and then say whether anybody of the least humanity could fail to

condemn you!" He then left her, and called the barber-surgeon that he

might take the necessary steps for providing careful attendance for the

child.

Frau Gedike ran out crying, and the Geheimrath continued to provide for

his patient's comfort with the quiet decision of an experienced

physician and the gentleness of a tender-hearted man.

After half an hour, Ernestine began to show signs of life; but she did

not return to consciousness. She cast a vague, wandering glance around,

then closed her eyes and muttered broken, unintelligible words. At last

she sank anew into a state of stupor resembling slumber. The Geheimrath

left the surgeon with her and went to Hartwich, who, in the mean while,

had been visited by Leuthold. Leuthold had been wakened at last by the

unwonted bustle in the house, and had stolen from his bed to see if his

brother were perhaps dying,--a piece of news which would have been a

grateful morning greeting to his wife. He was disappointed. The only

comfort was that all this excitement would inevitably accelerate

Hartwich's death; Ernestine's fate was a matter of perfect indifference

to him, but he was greatly disturbed by the intelligence that Heim had

been called in. He could not bear the man, whose presence brought out

clear and distinct, as with some chemical preparation, the stains upon

his name that had apparently faded away. He therefore determined to

leave home for a few days, in order to avoid a meeting with the witness

of his disgrace; but he would leave his wife on guard in the lower

story, under the pretence of helping to nurse Ernestine. Her presence

would naturally hinder the physician from saying anything to Hartwich

to his, Leuthold's, detriment. He slipped up-stairs to bid his wife

arise quickly; but the indolent woman was too long about it for his

wishes or his plans.

Scarcely had he left Hartwich when Heim entered the room. "What news do

you bring me?" Hartwich cried out.

"Nothing hopeful as yet. She showed signs of life when we applied

ice-bandages; but the lethargy into which she fell immediately is

alarming. I cannot give you any hope before the end of three days."

Hartwich struck his damp forehead in despair. "It will kill me! it will

kill me!"

The Geheimrath seated himself by his bedside, took a pinch of snuff

from a golden box adorned with a miniature of the king, and calmly

regarded the unhappy man. "Now tell me, Herr von Hartwich, how it all

occurred. I should like to know. Besides the wound on the head, the

child has bruises on her shoulders and arms that are by no means fresh.

She seems to have been most cruelly treated!"

The invalid was silent for awhile, and then said, "Yes,--ah, yes, we

have all abused her; but God knows I never intended this last! I was

sound asleep yesterday evening when Ernestine came home and crept in to

me here and waked me with her sobs."

"Poor child! she had cause to weep," the Geheimrath interrupted him.

"Yes, yes,--but I did not understand that yesterday. When I awoke, I

was thirsty, and sent her up to my brother to bring me a little--a

little--a few drops----"

"To bring you liquor," the Geheimrath completed the sentence.

"Yes, I confess it," Hartwich continued; "but in her uncle's room there

was a telescope, and she looked through it and forgot her father's

errand. I waited and waited, with my throat on fire, but she did not

come. I grew more and more impatient; and when, at the end of a full

half-hour, she came down without what I had sent her for, I seized hold

of her to beat her; she clung to my lame arm so that the pain made me

wild,--and in my senseless rage I flung her off and hurled her away

with my healthy arm;--may it be crippled forever! She fell backward,

and struck the back of her head first against the marble top of my

wash-stand,--you can see the blood there still,--and then upon the

floor, where she lay like one dead. Everything grew black before my

eyes, as it did when I had the stroke. I rang for my people; no one

came. I could not move,--could not leave my bed to go to the child. I

saw her blood flow, I heard her gasp as if in the death-agony, and I

lay here a miserable cripple, thinking that I had killed my child. Oh,

Herr Geheimrath, at such a time our inmost selves are revealed to as;

in such agony one learns to pray. At last, after repeated ringing and

calling, my good-for-nothing servants made their appearance. Herr

Geheimrath, I cannot tell you how I felt when they laid the child upon

my bed,--my poor, beaten child. As the little bleeding head lay on my

arm, it seemed as if my heart opened wide with the gaping wound, and,

for the first time, real, warm, paternal affection gushed from it.

Before, when I chastised the child, she was all defiance and

stubbornness; then I did not care if I hurt her; but now, as she lay

mute and crushed before me, she spoke to me in a language that recalled

me to myself. And, Herr Geheimrath, I have not been myself,--I have

drunk myself down to the level of a brute; and the poor victim of my

fury has recalled me from my degradation."

The Geheimrath listened to the speaker with growing sympathy. When he

had finished, he took his hand. "You are right, Herr von Hartwich, to

be frank with me. Men who are not evil by nature can best excuse their

evil deeds by frankness, for their intentions are seldom as bad as

their actions. Compose yourself,--your condition is indeed worthy of

compassion. If the physician might be allowed to usurp in a measure the

confessor's chair at such a time as the present, I would say for your

consolation, in the event of the worst termination to the child's

illness, that your irresponsible condition, which rendered you

incapable of appreciating the consequences of your act, and which would

excuse you before an earthly tribunal, should have some weight with

your inward judge. Besides, you have certainly acted paternally towards

the child in one respect," he added with significance. "You have

accumulated a fine property for her. That will enable her to occupy

such a position in the world as will make her life, if it is spared, a

happy one."

Hartwich seized Heim's hand and whispered quickly and anxiously "Ah, my

dear sir, I have not done this; it now lies heavy on my soul that I

have not been a father to the child in any way!"

"What do you mean?" cried Heim with apparent surprise. "You have not

set Ernestine aside in favour of another?"

Hartwich looked anxiously towards the door. The Geheimrath understood

his look, and opened it,--no listener was near. Hartwich then confessed

all to the Geheimrath that the latter already knew. Heim shook his

head. "It is incredible that a father should do so by his own child;

but, now that your sense of duty is aroused, you will of course atone

for your injustice?"

"Ah, Herr Geheimrath, if I only could, how gladly would I do so! If my

poor Ernestine recovers, I would gladly make over to her the whole

estate during my lifetime. Tell me, how shall I begin to make amends?

how shall I begin to atone to the child for all the misery I have

caused her? I will do anything, everything, if I only can. Assist me,

advise me!"

"I think," began the Geheimrath with quiet decision, "that the case is

very simple. You can make a new will and declare the other void. If

Ernestine recovers, it is very doubtful whether she will be anything

more than a poor, sickly invalid during her entire lifetime. Such an

unfortunate being needs money,--a great deal of money; for sickness is

an expensive affair. The child was naturally healthy. She has been

weakened by neglect and harsh treatment. You left her to a worthless

housekeeper, who denied her everything that a child should have in

order to be strong, and in her weakened condition you have dealt her a

death-blow from which she can hardly recover. You must be conscious

that, since you have almost destroyed Ernestine's life, you ought at

least to provide her with the means of making her invalid existence as

endurable as possible, and indemnify her for a neglected childhood by

every enjoyment that wealth can procure."

Again Hartwich broke out into loud lamentations. "Yes, yes, you are

right,--you are a man of honour, Herr Geheimrath. But how can I set

aside my will without encountering Leuthold's bitterest hate? Ah, you

do not know what a dangerous enemy he is."

"I know, I know," Heim interrupted him, nodding his head; "he is a bad

fellow; but tell me, Herr von Hartwich, what do you fear from him? Will

not the curse of your unfortunate child, if she lives, be harder to

bear than the hate of such a miserable wretch as your step-brother?"

Hartwich writhed and turned in his bed. "If I had only sold the

factory! If he should learn that I had disinherited him, he is quite

capable of preventing the sale out of sheer revenge, ruining the whole

business for me, and then the poor child would be deprived of half of

her property!"

The Geheimrath held his snuff-box in one hand, clasped the other over

it, and looked at Hartwich with a smile.

"If that is why you hesitate, there is no cause for fear. The factory

is as good as sold; for Herr Neuenstein, the brother of the

Staatsraethin Moellner, is most anxious to purchase it for his son, who

is a chemist;--he knows your brother, and would easily see through his

wiles. Besides, Gleissert need know nothing about it for the present.

Make the will secretly. I will give you pen and ink when I have written

a prescription for Ernestine. Send your housekeeper off immediately,

that we may have no spies about; for I believe her to be capable of any

treachery, and Ernestine must not be left in her charge. This afternoon

I shall come again, and you can put the document into my hands, where

it will be safe. Well--how does the plan please you?"

"Yes, yes," cried Hartwich passionately. "That is right. That I can do.

Ah, it is all that is left for me to do for my child, and it shall be

done. Send Gedike away;--get me pen, ink, and paper,--it must not be

delayed an hour longer than is necessary. I feel I may die at any

moment. Remove this burden from my soul, and I shall die more

peacefully!"

Heim went instantly to procure writing-materials, for he knew better

than the invalid himself that there must be no delay in the matter. The

servants brought him what he wanted, and he looked in upon Ernestine

for a moment, while the surgeon went for more ice for the bandages. She

was lying there moaning and groaning restlessly. He looked at her

lovingly, and said to himself, "Poor child! There are better days in

store for you." Then he repaired to Frau Gedike, whom he informed of

her dismissal, and appointed Rieka, the elder of the maid-servants,--a

girl whose face pleased him,--Ernestine's attendant.

When he returned to Hartwich, he found him in a state of great

excitement. His face was purple, the veins greatly swollen.

"Where have you been so long?" he cried out as the Geheimrath entered.

"I was in agony for fear I should have another stroke. I felt just as I

did before! There, give me the writing-materials--it would be terrible

if I were to die now, before I had atoned for my crime. Pray help me

up, Herr Geheimrath,--but do not touch my lame arm,--oh, this pain!

There, there,--thank you. Now the pen. I have thought it all over while

you were away. I will arrange it so that he cannot say I broke my word

to him, and he cannot harm Ernestine if I should die shortly. Ah,

air!--Herr Geheimrath,--open a window! After I have written--I shall be

easier. Then my mind will be relieved."

He spoke in breathless haste, while the perspiration stood in beads

upon his forehead.

"Be calm, be calm!" said the Geheimrath soothingly. "You are not going

to die now, but you will make yourself ill with this excitement."

"Ah, you are kind,--you wish to console me;--but I feel that last night

will be my death--there is no time to lose!"

He dipped the pen in the ink, and looked towards the door. "If only

Leuthold does not come,--all is lost if he does. Bolt it, I pray, that

he may not surprise us. Tell me, will it not be best to make him

Ernestine's heir? Then I shall not be quite false to my promise,--it

is, alas, alas, more likely that the poor little lamb will die than

that she will recover; then all will be as it was, and the property

will be his,--and, if she lives, he must have a good legacy."

"Yes, yes," said the Geheimrath good-humouredly, "give the fellow what

you think you owe him. But remember that he inherits from Ernestine

only in case of her dying unmarried; for if it be God's will that she

lives, marries, and has children, you must not deprive those children

of the property. That might make her very unhappy."

"Yes, you are right,--I will insert that clause. But the

guardianship,--what do you think? I must make Leuthold her guardian, or

he will be terribly angry!"

The Geheimrath shook his head. "I would not do that!"

"Oh, yes, Herr Geheimrath. It would look too ugly, and the child will

be in no kind of danger. He always liked Ernestine, and stood up for

her; and he will be afraid, too, not to fill his post of guardian

conscientiously, for he will be under the supervision of the orphans'

court."

"Then make her minority as short as possible. For my satisfaction, have

it expressly stated that she shall be of age at eighteen. Such

precaution is necessary with men of Gleissert's stamp. According to our

laws, a father can declare his child of age at eighteen. Her property

can remain in the orphans' court until then, when it can be placed at

her own disposal."

"Yes, yes, I agree to all that,--then it is all settled! God be

thanked!" Hartwich drew a long sigh of relief, and dipped the pen in

the ink. But scarcely had he attempted the first stroke when he dropped

the pen in despair and cried out, "Merciful Heaven! I cannot form a

letter!"

The startled Geheimrath looked at the paper. The letters were entirely

illegible.

For one moment the old gentleman lost all hope,--while Hartwich sobbed

and groaned like a child. Was he to fail thus, just when the goal was

reached? The Geheimrath regarded the invalid thoughtfully, pondering

how long a delay his condition would permit. Then he made up his mind,

and said with composure, "I will arrange it all; do not be at all

anxious. I will drive to the nearest town and procure the services of a

couple of lawyers, and you shall dictate your will. I will be back

again in two hours. Tell me when Leuthold is used to be away from home,

that he may know nothing of our plans."

"At the time of your return he will be at the factory. If you go on

foot as far as the corner of the wood, he will not see you. Herr

Geheimrath, you are a true man,--my child's benefactor and mine. How

shall I ever thank you?"

"There is no need of thanks,--no need at all! I am only doing my duty

as a man and a Christian." And the prudent old physician concealed the

writing-materials and hurried out.

Hartwich cast his blood-shot eyes upward and prayed, "Let me live until

it is complete, O God,--only until then!" These words he repeated again

and again, while his heart beat more wildly and irregularly, and his

veins grew blue and swollen. It was the mortal agony of a doomed wretch

who feels that a short time will bring him to the bar of an inexorable

judge, and who longs to throw off at least a part of his burden of

guilt. Of course such anguish would hasten his death.

Frau Bertha came down soon after the Geheimrath's departure, and would

have stayed in Hartwich's room, but his state terrified her. She saw

that the end was near, and she had not the courage to look on at the

death-agony. In her heart she felt herself a murderess, because she had

so ardently desired his death. Indeed, fate often makes us by our

silent desires accomplices in its severity, and we are stricken with

vain remorse when our secret hostility to another suddenly takes form

and shape in events. Who has not at some time in his life secretly

nourished a selfish desire, and, after it has been crushed down,

fervently thanked Heaven for not cursing him with a granted prayer? Or,

if the evil has been permitted, who has not in his remorse half

believed that his secret desire helped to work the mischief that has

been done? Frau Bertha's perceptions were not very delicate. She wished

for Hartwich's death that she might enjoy his wealth, and thanked

Heaven that it would shortly be hers; but she was too much of a woman

not to shudder at the moment of the fulfilment of her evil desires and

see an avenging demon in Hartwich's dying form. She resolved,

therefore, to disobey her lord and master, and avoid the death-bed. The

cogent reasons that Leuthold had for enjoining constant watchfulness

she could not comprehend; and therefore, as soon as Leuthold left for

the factory, she betook herself to her apartments again.

Hartwich was now left upon his burning couch, devoured by anxiety. The

minutes crept slowly on; every quarter of an hour, news of Ernestine

was brought him; there was no change for an hour, and then Rieka came

in suddenly and cried, "Ah, sir, Ernestine is awake and wants some

book; we cannot understand what one, or what she means, she speaks so

indistinctly, and whatever we get her is wrong. What is to be done?"

"Send a servant into town to buy every child's-book that is to be

had,--let her want for nothing,--do you hear? for nothing! Has she not

mentioned me?"

"Oh, no," replied the servant; "she is not herself,--she is continually

moaning for her book!"

"Then get her what she wants, as quickly as possible,--only be quick!"

The servant left the room, and the sick man was left to his brooding

thoughts again. It worried and tormented him that Ernestine would have

to wait several hours for what she wanted. In a few moments he rang

again for the maid, who reiterated that the child was still asking for

her book. The invalid grew still more restless, and at last sent for

the surgeon, who was still with Ernestine.

"Lederer," he called out upon his entrance, "bleed me! Don't you

remember how much good it did me?"

"Not for worlds, sir!" said Lederer. "I could not do it without a

physician's orders. There seems no reason at all at present for such an

extreme remedy!"

"What do you know about it?" cried Hartwich angrily. "I tell you I know

I need it. There is a perfect hammering going on inside my head. You

must bleed me, or I shall have another stroke!"

"Ah, sir, believe me, you are needlessly alarmed," said the barber.

"Have some compassion upon a poor man like myself, who cannot take upon

himself such a responsibility with a patient of your importance. I

would gladly do it if I could! Have patience, I pray you, until the

Geheimrath comes back!"

"You are a miserable coward!" screamed Hartwich, foaming with rage.

"For Heaven's sake compose yourself, sir," the terrified surgeon

interrupted him; "I will obey you, but I must first go home and fetch

my bandages. Perhaps by the time I get back the Geheimrath will be

here!"

"Then go," muttered Hartwich, who already repented his violence, which

he feared might prove an injury to him. "But first lift me up a little.

Ah! if I could only put my feet out of bed I should certainly feel

easier. Try if you cannot lift them out; take out the lame leg

first--so--that's right--oh, it's hard. 'Tis better to have wooden

legs--they can be unstrapped and taken off--but to have to drag about

everywhere a dead, useless limb is horrible! 'tis a dog's life, and I

care not how soon it is over, but not just yet--I must do my duty

first. Now go, Lederer, and come back soon."

The barber had helped him so that he was sitting upright in bed, with

his lame foot upon a cushion. He looked around the room, and noticed

Ernestine's book upon the table. "What is that?" he asked. Lederer

handed it to him. He turned over the leaves, and his face suddenly

brightened. "That must be the book that Ernestine is asking for--some

one must have given it to her yesterday at the party. Good heavens! now

I understand why the poor little thing crept in here so late last

night; she wanted to read by my lamp! Ah, how dearly she paid for her

innocent pleasure! Go, my good Lederer, and take the book to the child.

Tell Rieka to come and let me know what she says to it, and then you

will get the bandages--will you not?"

"Most certainly, sir, as soon as possible!" said Lederer, and hurried

away with the book.

A clock struck nine. Hartwich sighed profoundly. "Only nine. Heim

cannot come for an hour yet. The lawyers will need time for

preparation. O God--Thou wilt not punish that poor, innocent child so

severely as to let me die before her rights are secured--Thou wilt

not!" He tried in vain to fold his hands, and at last dropped them

wearily upon his crippled knees.

Suddenly he imagined that his right hand also was stiffening. His

incapacity to write could not have resulted merely from want of habit.

He moved his arm up and down to try it--whether in imagination or

reality, it certainly felt heavier. It was not the effect of gout, as

was the case with his left hand; this could only proceed from an

effusion of blood upon the brain. Cold drops of moisture stood upon his

forehead; he tried to wipe them away with his right hand; in vain, he

could not lift it so high. Thus he sat helpless and alone, every limb

crippled. He thought of his child's thin, white hands; how blest he

should be if they could now supply the place of his own to him, wipe

his damp brow and hand him refreshing drink! He thought how forsaken

and alone he sat there awaiting death, and that it was all his own

fault; and again he sobbed convulsively. Then Rieka entered.

"Well, was that the right one?" asked Hartwich.

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Thank Heaven! Did she not mention me?"

"No, sir; she said nothing. She only took the book and kissed it, then

folded it in her arms and went to sleep again."

"If the child does not forgive me before I die, I shall have no rest in

my grave!" moaned Hartwich. "Rieka, I am losing the use of my right arm

too. Look at me. Am I not altered?"

"Oh, no, you always look just as purple!" said Rieka consolingly.

"Give me a mirror and let me see myself!"

Rieka handed him a mirror, and he looked at himself long and anxiously.

"I look fearfully. Can you not hear how indistinct my speech is?"

Rieka put away the mirror. "Oh, your tongue is always heavy when you

have been drinking. Don't be worried about that."

"I have not drank a drop to-day, you insolent girl!" stammered Hartwich

irritated. "Go back instantly, and take good care of the child, or----"

"Yes, sir, I shall do my duty without threats, but I can't mend the

mischief that you have done!" And she slammed the door behind her.

"And I must bear this from an ignorant peasant!" wailed Hartwich. "How

they will abuse me to my child, if she recovers! Oh, oh, I deserve it

all; 'tis wretched,--wretched! But I must be calm. I must not be

excited." Thus he murmured, with trembling lips, exerting all his

energy to repress his excitement, and to force the breath regularly

from his laboring breast.

Again the clock struck--ten this time.

"They must soon be here now!" thought Hartwich. "If I can only keep my

head clear!"

The wretched man in his anguish now exercised his mental faculties in

every way that he could devise, repeating the formula which he had

composed for his will a hundred times, that it might be so stamped upon

his mind as to be forthcoming even in his last moments.

At last steps were heard in the hall.

"It is Lederer with the bandages," he thought, suddenly remembering his

desire to be bled. But there were several people there. It must be the

lawyers. The door opened. "Ah, thank God! thank God!" Hartwich

stammered, and fainted.

"I thought so!" cried the Geheimrath. "If you had only bled him, or at

least remained with him!" he continued to the terrified barber, who

entered at the same time. "Be quick now; give me that case; bring me

some ice from the child's room," he ordered; and, while he spoke the

lancet had done its work, and the dark blood was flowing from the arm.

"Pray be ready, gentlemen," he said as he was bandaging the arm; "I

believe the sick man will come to himself in a few moments. You will

find writing-materials there in the corner."

The gentlemen took their seats, and arranged a table for writing from

the sick man's dictation. The surgeon brought the ice; it was laid upon

Hartwich's head, and, as the Geheimrath had prophesied, he soon came to

himself. He looked around him with astonishment "Am I still living?" he

feebly asked.

"Certainly, certainly," said the Geheimrath, cheerfully; "it was only a

slight attack."

"God of mercy," gasped Hartwich, "Thou art all compassion! My memory is

still perfect. Are the lawyers here?"

One of them arose, and approached the bed.

"We are here, Herr von Hartwich, and await your directions."

"I am still of sound mind,--indeed I am," Hartwich insisted with

childlike eagerness.

"The intention with which you have summoned us would certainly not

indicate the contrary," said the lawyer gravely, signing to his

companion to prepare to write.

"And I declare that this last decision of mine is entirely my own,"

Hartwich continued.

"I am convinced that it is so. I should far rather suppose that your

previous will was a forced one," the official rejoined.

"Will it impair the authenticity of this document that I am unable to

sign it? I cannot, unfortunately, move my hand."

"Not at all," said the lawyer. "These two gentlemen, Herr Geheimrath

Heim and the surgeon Lederer, will have the kindness to affix their

signatures as witnesses, and the instrument will be legally correct. If

you are strong enough to dictate your will, there is nothing now to

prevent your doing so."

"Oh, yes! oh, yes!" gasped Hartwich, as the Geheimrath supported him;

"every moment is precious."

The preliminary sentences were written at Hartwich's request. The

Geheimrath closed the door, and the dying man began to dictate in such

feverish haste that the lawyer was obliged to entreat him to speak more

slowly. Some irregularities in the formula were arranged, and the will

was completed before the glimmering spark of life in the testator was

extinguished. Little Ernestine was made heir to a property of ninety

thousand thalers. The document was read aloud to Hartwich, and the

Geheimrath and Lederer affixed their signatures instead of his own.

"Now I can die!" said the sick man, with the air of a released captive;

and instantly his mental and physical powers failed him.

"Geheimrath!" he faltered, and a strange smile transfigured

his countenance, "lay the will upon my child's bed, as

her--father's--last--farewell--thanks--thanks." And his eyelids closed,

he muttered unintelligibly, and relapsed into unconsciousness.

The Geheimrath nodded to the lawyers, and said, "It was high time!"

CHAPTER IV.

THE SAD SURVIVORS.

The next day, at about the same hour, Frau Bertha was in her kitchen,

beating whites of eggs for a cake, her round cheeks shaking merrily

with the exercise. She had sent her maid into the garden with Gretchen,

and was supplying the maid's place. She turned the bowl upside down, to

convince herself that the eggs were sufficiently beaten; not a drop

fell,--they were all right. She set them aside with an air of great

satisfaction, and turned to a bag beneath the table, whence issued a

melancholy flapping and cooing. A white dove poked its head out of the

mouth of the bag, and Bertha thrust it back again, securing the opening

more tightly. A pot of water on the fire boiled over with a loud

hissing, and she hastened to roll up her sleeves over her large,

well-formed arms, and lift the heavy vessel from the glowing coals. She

was a beautiful sight, as the glare from the fire illuminated her

massive proportions; as she moved hither and thither, now arranging her

various cooking-utensils, now opening the door beneath the oven, to

thrust in huge pieces of wood, hastily picking up and tossing back the

bits of burning coal that fell out, she might have been Frau Venus, the

coarse Frau Venus of the popular German imagination, fresh from the

infernal regions in the Hoerselberg, who, clad in a kitchen apron, was

here in the likeness of a cook-maid to seduce the calm, cold-blooded

Dr. Gleissert by the magic charms of her cookery. She tossed a net full

of crabs into a pot of cold water, and looked thoughtlessly on at their

slow death over the fire. She never dreamed that just at that moment a

human life was leaving its mortal tenement beneath her roof, and when,

a few minutes later, she was pounding ingredients in her huge mortar,

that the noise she was making was the death-knell of a departing soul.

She did not hear her husband's approach until he stood before her, and

seizing her by the arm, said breathlessly, "Wife, this is our last day

of torment!"

Frau Bertha looked at him with surprise, that was only half joy,

painted upon her heated face. "I have never seen you so delighted

before, except when you were examining those odd fishes at Trieste;

what has happened?"

"Can you not guess?" asked Leuthold.

"Is he dead?"

"He is; he has been dying for the last twenty-four hours."

"Thank Heaven!" said Frau Bertha, folding her plump hands.

"And if I believed in Heaven I should say so too," rejoined Leuthold,

throwing himself upon a kitchen chair. "Only conceive of the joy!

We are wealthy,--independent,--delivered from our ten years'

servitude,--delivered--ah!" He fanned himself with the pocket-handkerchief

that he had just used at the bedside of Hartwich's corpse to dry the

tears that he did not shed.

In spite of her good fortune, Frau Bertha looked uncomfortable. "I am

almost sorry he has gone," she said timidly. "It seems to me a sin to

rejoice so at any one's death,--he might appear to us."

"Don't talk such nonsense; you know I cannot endure it," said Leuthold

angrily. "You behave as if we had killed him. Wishes are neither poison

nor steel; and we are not rejoicing at his death, but at our

inheritance. It is but human."

"Yes, yes," said Bertha, comforted, "you are quite right. If we could

have had the money while he lived, we should not have wanted him to

die; he might have lived for a hundred years for all I would have

cared. It was his own fault that we wished him dead. Why did he keep us

so pinched?"

Leuthold nodded approvingly. "I see you are willing to listen to

reason; now have the kindness to come downstairs with me and pay the

proper respect to the body."

"What must I do that for?" asked Bertha, alarmed.

"Because it is becoming! I have instructed you sufficiently upon this

point; you know my wishes--come!"

These words, that cut like a knife in their utterance, made opposition

useless. Bertha took her casseroles from the fire, looked after the

doves in the bag, and followed her husband down stairs. On the way she

asked him, "What shall I say when we get there?"

"Not much," said Leuthold dryly. "There is not much to be said in such

stiff, silent society,--a couple of oh's and ah's will suffice; it is

very graceful in a woman to fall upon her knees by the bedside; but if

you should attempt it, pray restrain your usual impetuosity, or the

repose even of the dead might be disturbed."

"You are a fearful man," whispered Bertha. "I am actually afraid of

you. Will you make such joking speeches when I die?"

"I shall not outlive you, my good Bertha," said Leuthold, plaintively.

"If I should, be assured I will mourn for you as the nurseling for his

nurse!"

Frau Bertha looked doubtfully at her husband. She scarcely knew what to

make of this tender asseveration, and she said nothing. They had

reached the door of Hartwich's apartment.

"Where is your handkerchief--your pocket-handkerchief?" Leuthold asked

softly. Bertha sought it in vain; she had forgotten it. "How

thoughtless," whispered Leuthold, "to forget your handkerchief under

such circumstances!"

"Then give me yours," said Bertha.

"You fool! I want it for myself. Take your apron; put that up to your

eyes--so!" With these words he opened the door and entered slowly,

pushing Bertha before him. Hartwich lay extended upon the bed, his face

so changed that Bertha was glad to be able to hide her eyes in her

apron. Leuthold stood beside her, a picture of dignified manly grief;

his bearing impressed the bystanders; the surgeon, the men- and

maid-servants, who were all present, were convinced that Herr Gleissert

had really loved his step-brother, and that it was rank injustice to

accuse him of heartlessness. After a few moments, he laid his hand

gently upon his wife's shoulder, but its stern pressure reminded her

that she was to fall upon her knees. She sank down as carefully as she

could, and with her broad back and bending head was a beautiful and

moving image of woe. After awhile he bent over her and said gently,

"Come, my child, do not be so agitated; our tears cannot bring him back

to life--come!" Then he raised her, leaned her head upon his breast to

conceal her face, and conducted her from the room. The others looked

after them with amazement.

"I cannot understand it," said the surgeon. "Every one knows that the

woman never could endure Herr von Hartwich, and yet now she seems

almost dead with grief!"

"She isn't really sorry," growled a groom; "it's all sham!"

"Yes, yes," Rieka added, "she didn't shed a tear,--not a single tear,

for all she rubbed her eyes so with her apron!"

"That's true,--she is right," murmured the group; "neither he nor she

shed a single tear. Well, there's a pair of them. Do they suppose we

are so stupid as not to see how glad they are that the master is dead?

'Tis a pity that the money will not fall into better hands."

Then they separated, and went indifferently about their work.

"That was not so bad," said Leuthold, when he had reached his own room

with Bertha; "but still you certainly have no genius for the stage."

"You ought to be glad that I can never play a part before you," she

said, shaking herself as if to shake off the disagreeable impression of

what she had seen like dust from her clothes.

In the mean time the maid had brought the child in from the garden, and

had laid the table.

"We will have some champagne to-day," said Leuthold, taking down the

keys of the cellar. "We need something to support us under such

exciting circumstances. Send Lena for some ice." And he left the room.

Frau Bertha sent the girl for ice, and said to herself with

complacency, "That ice-house was the best thing I ever planned."

The little girl, who was too fat and chubby to move very steadily, had

crept under the table, and now, catching hold of the corner of the

table-cloth, tried to lift herself by it, thereby pulling down a couple

of plates and knives upon the floor. Bertha caught up the screaming

child, gave it two or three hard slaps, saying, "Now you know what you

are crying for," and then carried it to and fro to quiet it, well

knowing that her strict husband would not endure any noise. Gretchen

ceased crying just as her father entered with the champagne. Lena

brought the ice, and the bottles were arranged in it. When the husband

and wife were seated at table, Bertha had the fragments of the broken

plates cleared away. "Oh, heavens!" she muttered, "nothing but bad

signs. If our fortune should be destroyed like that china!"

"You unmitigated fool!" scolded her husband; "if everything that we

desire were only as secure as our legally devised inheritance,

Gretchen's future husband would be now tumbling about in a royal

nursery, and there would be a French cook in our kitchen."

"Oh, then," Bertha interrupted him with irritation, "you are not

satisfied with my cooking,--you want a Frenchman."

"Only a Frenchman could supply your place," replied her husband, quite

ready to practise himself in the delicate flattery which he intended to

make use of in future towards ladies in aristocratic circles. He kissed

her hand and said, "I would not have these rosy fingers any longer

degraded by contact with the rude utensils of cookery. Let all that be

left to the hard, rough hands of some skilful gastronome."

Frau Bertha stared at him in surprise.

"Why, can gastronomes cook?"

"Most certainly,--what else should they do?"

"I thought they looked at the stars through glasses!"

Leuthold clasped his hands in dismay, and cast a look towards heaven.

"Good heavens! when I think of your making such a speech among our

future friends, I am so profoundly humiliated that I could almost

determine to make over my property to some religious institution--some

monastery--and enroll myself among its members. Woman, woman, must I

teach you the difference between gastronomy, the science of cookery,

and astronomy, the science of the stars?"

"Gastronomy or astronomy!" said Bertha pettishly, as she ladled out the

soup, "it is a great deal better for me to understand cooking than the

long names you call it. Would you have liked, during all the ten years

that you were too poor to keep a regular cook, to have a wife who could

talk Latin with you, but whose dinners a dog could not have eaten?"

"No, no, indeed, my dear Bertha!" said her husband with a shudder; "but

the two can be united if you try. I do not ask you either to study

Greek and Latin, or to resign your masterly supervision of our kitchen

department; but you have hitherto performed many little household

offices, that could as well have been left to the servant, because you

had no pleasanter way of occupying your time. This must be otherwise

now; hitherto you have had the excuse of our straitened circumstances

that have compelled you sometimes to discharge a servant's duties. Now

there will be no such excuse; for you will have a suitable household in

town, and time to cultivate your mind and render yourself a worthy

member of the society to which I shall introduce you."

Bertha in her impatience let her spoon fall into the soup-plate, and

then wreaked her irritation upon the soup, which she poured hastily

back into the tureen.

"If you should do such a thing as that before strangers," said her

husband angrily, "you would stamp yourself as a person of no

refinement, and I should be disgraced."

Bertha brought her hand down upon the table so heavily that the glasses

rang again. "This is really too much! Can I no longer eat as I please?

As long as you were poor, and I spent my little all in procuring

delicacies for you, you found me all very well, and had plenty of fine

words for me; but now, that you are rich and I have nothing left, I am

not good enough for you, and you take quite another tone with me.

Heaven help me! There is no more pleasure in store for me. I really

believe you would send me out of the house if I should not succeed in

pleasing you. Oh, if I had only known!"

She was silent, because Lena appeared with the roast; but a couple of

large tears dropped into the soup-plate which she handed to the

servant.

"What exaggerated nonsense!" said Leuthold at last. "Be good enough to

carve the meat,--I am hungry. You know I am a respectable man,--slow to

adopt harsh measures if they can be avoided. I hope you will not force

me to them by stubborn conduct. You will recognize and fulfil the

duties which our wealth imposes upon us."

"Duties, duties? I thought that when I was rich I could begin really to

enjoy life and do as I pleased; but instead of that I must wear a

double face and worry about everything. It is just as if you gave me a

new sofa in the place of the old one, but forbade me to lie down upon

it for fear of injuring the cover. Of course I should long for the old

one, upon which I could stretch myself in comfort whenever I chose."

Leuthold smiled. "You are not forbidden to lie down upon the new sofa.

I only ask you to take off your muddy boots when you do so. Do you

understand?"

Bertha was so far consoled that she applied herself to devouring the

food upon her plate in silence. Her husband regarded her with a strange

mixture of humour and discontent.

"You must at least learn to hold your fork in your left hand," he said

at last.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Bertha again. "What matter is it about such a

trifle?"

"A great deal of matter, my dear. Such trifles show refinement, just as

the mercury in the thermometer shows the degree of heat and cold. If

you lay your knife aside and clutch your fork in your right hand like a

pitchfork, every one of any culture will say, 'That woman is a person

of no refinement. She has not been used to good society.' I grant it is

insignificant in itself and ridiculous to every thinking man; but it

serves a certain purpose. Such forms are marks of distinction between

cultivated and uncultivated people. Just because they are so

insignificant the uninitiated never pay any heed to them. But, although

clad in purple and fine linen, ignorance of such trifles betrays the

parvenu. Those who desire, like yourself, to enter circles to which

they do not belong by birth, must find out all their conventional

secrets, in order not to be disgraced."

"Oh, what a moral discourse!" sighed Bertha. "I have had enough for

to-day. You are a thoroughly heartless man, and were kind to me only as

long as you needed me. I must bear what comes, for I am poor and

helpless since I broke with my father,--but you have tired me out, I

assure you."

"And if this fatigue were an overpowering sensation, you would separate

yourself from me; but since you are fond of the rest that I can provide

you, there will be an enduring bond between us. I shall magnanimously

treat you as my wife as long as you give me no legal ground for

divorce; therefore, be composed; your future lot is a thousand times

more brilliant than you had any right to expect."

Bertha arose, and was about to reply, but her husband commanded silence

by so imperious a gesture that she swallowed down her anger and

hastened from the room, sobbing violently. In the kitchen the maid was

just taking the cake that she had made from the oven. It was

successful--it was most beautiful! The servant placed it near the open

window to cool. Bertha contemplated it mournfully. How much pains she

had taken! how stiff the eggs had been beaten! how well it had risen!

and no one cared anything about it! Did her cross husband deserve that

she should prepare such a delicacy for him? Should he devour this

masterpiece? Yet there it was,--so round and high, so brown and

fragrant, that she gradually dried her tears, and was filled with more

agreeable sensations and a pardonable pride. No one except herself

possessed the receipt for this cake. No one else could make it. She

thought with rapture of the delight of those who should in future

partake of it at her table,--of the consideration that she should enjoy

on account of it; and, thinking thus, her good humour returned, and she

determined not to hide her light under a bushel, and punish her husband

by withholding the cake from him, but to parade it before him; he

should see what a woman he had treated so unkindly could do. When he

tasted this cake he would repent his harshness! She took the plate and

carried it on high into the dining-room, where she placed it before her

husband with exultation.

"Yes, that is really beautiful," he said approvingly, looking first at

the round, beautiful cake, and then at the plump, pretty baker; and his

approbation exalted Bertha to the highest pitch of satisfaction, so

that she felt morally justified in asking for a glass of champagne. Her

husband removed the cork without allowing it to snap and disturb the

decorum of the house of mourning, and then poured out a sparkling

bumper for her.

"Come," she said, "we will clink glasses, and drink to the welfare of

the good Hartwich, who has made us rich!"

"Yes, now that he is dead, may he live forever," said Leuthold smiling,

and gently touching his wife's glass with his own,--"live forever in

that heaven where I trust he may experience all the delight that his

wealth will afford us here on earth."

They emptied their glasses, and Bertha ran into the adjoining room,

where Gretchen was taking her noonday nap. She snatched the sleeping

child from the bed, shook it, and cried, "Come, wake up, and you shall

have some cake!"

The little thing, interrupted in its nap, was frightened and began to

scream, refusing to be quieted until her father filled her mouth with

the promised delicacy and dandled her in his arms.

"You do not even understand how to take care of your own child,"

murmured Leuthold. "What will you do when our niece comes to us?"

"What!" cried Bertha, "must I have the care of the disagreeable

creature?"

"She will come to me--yes."

"But we will send her to boarding-school--you promised me!"

"If Ernestine recovers, as she may do under old Heim's care, she will

be too weak for months to be sent among strangers without incurring the

reproach of the world. You will be obliged, therefore, to submit to

having her with us until such time as we can be rid of her decently. I

assure you she shall stay no longer than is absolutely necessary. And

now pray be quiet, and do not embitter this day by complaints."

Frau Bertha looked utterly discomfited. She determined that, at all

events, Ernestine should never partake of the delicacies which she

alone knew how to prepare. Coarse natures always seek for a scape-goat

upon whom to wreak their irritation; and, as she did not dare to make

her husband serve this purpose, her choice fell upon Ernestine.

Leuthold, who was not used to see his wife lost in a reverie, softly

touched her shoulder. "Come; it really looks almost as if you were

thinking of something," he said dryly.

"Yes; I am thinking of something," she replied significantly. "I am

thinking of the dog's life I shall lead as long as that sickly, ailing

brat is under our roof, and no one will reward me for my pains."

She stopped, for Gretchen had grown restless, and required all her

attention, and Leuthold evidently refused to give any heed to her

complaints, but, as dinner was over, folded his napkin and rose from

the table. "I must write the notice of his death--it is high time it

were attended to," he said, while he washed his hands in the adjoining

room. "Sew a piece of crape around my hat." He re-entered the room, and

sat down at his writing-table. Bertha placed a candle and a cup of

_cafe noir_ upon it. He lighted a cigar, which he smoked as he

wrote, sipping his coffee comfortably from time to time. The servant

removed the dinner-table; Gretchen amused herself on the floor with

some paper, which she tore into a thousand fragments, to make a mimic

snow-storm; and Bertha tried on before the mirror several articles of

mourning-apparel, which she had had in readiness for some time. She was

delighted, for black was very becoming to her.

Peace and comfort reigned in the apartment. Leuthold emptied his cup

and laid aside his pen. "There--that is most touching and suitable.

Read it." He handed Bertha what he had, written, and she read:

"It has pleased Almighty God to release our beloved father, brother,

and brother-in-law, Herr Carl Emil von Hartwich, landholder and

manufacturer, from his protracted sufferings, and to transport him to a

better world. He died this day, at twelve M. Those who were acquainted

with the deceased, and with his active benevolence, will know how

profound must be our sorrow, and accord us their sympathy.

"The Sad Survivors.

"Unkenbeim, 24 July, 18--."

CHAPTER V.

UNDECEIVED.

Ernestine was still lying motionless in Frau Gedike's huge bed, and by

her side sat a little nurse scarcely three feet high, swinging her

short legs, and thinking how charming it must be to lie in such a great

big bed, just like a grown person, and what a pity it was that poor

Ernestine slept so much, that she could not enjoy the pleasure. Now and

then she turned her fair head round towards the window behind her,

through the white curtains of which she could see a dark procession

moving away from the house towards the village. When it had disappeared

from sight, she gave a little sigh, and swung her feet rather more

violently than before,--although she sat very upright, with great

dignity of demeanour, for she was entirely conscious of the weighty

responsibility of her post. She had been intrusted with the charge of

watching Ernestine while the servants were attending the funeral

services performed over Bartwich's corpse. When they were concluded,

and the funeral procession had left the house, Rieka had begged the

little child to keep her place until the gentlemen returned from the

church-yard, in order that the maid might perform certain necessary

household duties. Angelika--for she it was--undertook the charge with

delight. She had given her uncle Neuenstein, who had determined to pay

the last honours to Hartwich's remains, no peace until he consented to

take her to Ernestine. True, she soon acknowledged to herself that she

had never, in her whole long life of eight years, seen any place so

tiresome as this quiet room, where nothing was heard but the buzzing of

a couple of flies around a spoon in which a drop or two of Ernestine's

medicine had been left; but she was not discontented; she sat as still

as a mouse, so that she might not disturb the invalid, and did not even

venture to look at her, for she had heard that sleepers could be

awakened by a look. Only now and then she cast a wistful glance at the

pretty book that was clasped tight in Ernestine's embrace. Suddenly the

sick child muttered, "I am lying turned round the wrong way in bed."

Angelika scrambled down in alarm from her high seat, and ran to the

door and cried, "Rieka, Ernestine is saying something!"

The maid hurried in, and Ernestine moved uneasily, and insisted that

she was lying with her head towards the foot of the bed. At last Rieka

remembered that Ernestine's crib had been placed against the opposite

wall, and suspected that she missed the old position. Rightly judging

this to be a favourable sign, she quickly and carefully turned the

child around in the bed; and when Ernestine stretched out her hand and

encountered the wall, where she had been accustomed to find it, she

seemed satisfied, and apparently fell asleep again. Then Rieka left the

room to finish her work; but, after a few moments, Ernestine opened her

eyes, in which for the first time shone the light of intelligence, and

looked around. "Angelika!" she said in amazement, and then stared

around the room. "Why, this is Frau Gedike's room! and what a large,

soft bed!"

"Yes, indeed," Angelika delightedly replied. "Isn't it comfortable? Ah,

you poor dear Ernestine, are you beginning to grow a little better? Is

your head mended again?"

Ernestine put up her hand to her bandaged head. "What is this?"

"You broke your head. Oh, it was terrible, I know from my

dolls,--although it doesn't hurt them, and you can put on new heads;

but they couldn't do that for you, and they said you must die; but you

haven't died!"

"Oh, yes," said Ernestine, recollecting herself; "now I remember; last

night my father struck me and threw me down. Yes, it hurt very much!"

"It was not last night, it was several days ago; but you slept the

whole time, and didn't you know that they cut off your hair?" asked

Angelika, running to the wardrobe and producing a thick bunch of long

black hair. "Look, here it is,--there is some blood on it still, but,

if you will only give it to me, I will wash it and make my large

walking doll a splendid wig of it. Do, do give it to me, you can't make

it grow on your head again."

"I'll give it to you willingly," said Ernestine; "but first ask Frau

Gedike whether you may keep it."

"Oh, she is not here any more,--Uncle Heim sent her away!" replied

Angelika, drawing the dark strands slowly through her fingers.

"Then ask my father."

This answer utterly discomfited Angelika. "I cannot ask your father,"

she said in a disappointed tone, putting the hair away regretfully. "He

is dead! They put him in the hearse a little while ago,--I saw them."

"Oh," said Ernestine, startled, "is he dead? Why, why did he die just

now?"

"I think because he was so angry with you," said Angelika with an air

of great wisdom. "Don't you know when I am naughty mamma shuts me up in

a dark room? and, because your father was a great deal naughtier than

I, God has shut him up in a dark hole in the ground, and he must stay

there always."

"Ah, for my sake, the dear God should not have done that, for my sake!"

said Ernestine, bursting into tears. "Now I have no father any more; I

have nobody; I am all alone in the world! My poor father! it is all my

fault that he is put into the narrow grave, where the worms will eat

him and there will be nothing left of him but bones. Oh, how horrible!

how horrible! I saw a skeleton once in a picture, and my poor, poor

father will look just like that!" And she wrung her thin hands and

writhed about in the bed, moaning loudly.

Angelika was in despair at the mischief she had done. She had quite

forgotten that she had been forbidden, if Ernestine should awake, to

speak to her of her father. In the greatest distress she walked to and

fro beside the high bed, and at last brought a tall stool, from which,

when she had mounted it, she could reach Ernestine. She kissed her, she

stroked her cheeks, and laid her chubby hand upon her mouth to silence

her, but in vain. At last she hit upon the idea of showing her the book

that lay beside her. She opened it at a picture and held it up before

her, saying, "Look, dear Ernestine, only look at your beautiful book!"

The sick child instantly brushed the tears from her eyes when she saw

the picture.

"The swan!" she cried, "the swan! that is the story of the Ugly

Duckling!" She hastily took the book out of Angelika's hands and turned

over the leaves. Gradually the fairy figures of the snow-queen, the

little mermaid, and the rest, obliterated the horrible image of her

dead father, and his narrow grave faded away to give place to the

shining garden of Paradise, and the clear, broad sea with the fairy

palaces beneath its crystal waves. Her sobs grew fainter and fainter,

and at last a smile played around her lips when she came to the story

of the dryad "Elder Blossom."

"Now I know what a dryad is," she said. "I am glad, I am very glad!"

"What is it that makes you so glad?"

"That a dryad is nothing bad, for--don't you know?--_he_ called me

that. I thought it was to mock me, and it hurt me, but it was not so."

"He? who?"

"I don't know his name, your brother, who gave me the book."

"Johannes?" laughed Angelika. "Do you like him?"

"Yes, oh, yes, he is so handsome and good, just like the prince in the

Little Mermaid." With these words a light shone in the child's dark

eyes. "I would far rather have turned into foam than done anything to

hurt him, if I had been the mermaid."

"That is charming! that is splendid!" Angelika declared with delight;

"we both love him! He is such a dear brother. It is a pity he has gone

away. If he were at home he would come and play with you; oh, he plays

so finely!"

"Has he gone away?" asked Ernestine sadly.

"Yes, he has gone to Paris to get me a wax doll; only think!--one that

can call 'Papa' and 'Mamma.'"

"Oh, there cannot be such dolls!" said Ernestine with a troubled look.

"Indeed there are, and when she comes I will show her to you. Remember

the doll in 'Ole Luckoie;' she could speak, and had a fine wedding."

"But that isn't a true story," said Ernestine wisely, putting her hand

to her head, which was beginning to ache badly.

"Only think what a charming thing it is to have a wedding," Angelika

ran on. "I once went to a real wedding, and it was almost finer than

the one in the story. Oh, the bride has a lovely time! Why, she sits

just in the middle of the table, and in front of her is a great, tall

cake, with a little house on top of it and a little man inside, a

little bit of a man, with a bow and arrows, but no clothes on at all.

She has the biggest piece of cake, and they put the dear little man

upon her plate, and she is helped first to everything. I was really

vexed with my cousin for eating hardly anything. And only think, last

of all came ice-cream doves sitting in a nest made of sugar, upon eggs

of marchpane! They looked so natural that I was too sorry when my

cousin cut off one of their heads; I could have cried, and I determined

not to eat any of it, but by the time it came to me, every one could

see that it was not a real dove, for it was all melting away, and you

had to eat it with a spoon. And there were quantities of champagne, and

all the gentlemen made long speeches to the bride, and you had to sit

perfectly still and not rattle your spoon at all while they were

talking, but when they had done you could scream as loud as you

pleased, and clatter your glasses, and the more noise you made the

better; and all were pleased and kissed one another; only my cousin sat

there so stupidly and cried. I wouldn't have cried when everything was

done to please me. And I'll tell you what, when my brother comes back

he must bring you a boy doll with a hat and waistcoat, and then he

shall marry my doll. He will come in six months, but that must be a

long time; for mamma cried when he went away. Perhaps we shall be grown

up by then, and can make our dolls' clothes ourselves. That would be

lovely."

"But we shall not be grown up in six months," said Ernestine. "First

winter must come, and then summer again, and then winter and summer

again, before we are grown up!"

"That is terribly long," cried Angelika. "I don't see how we can wait

so long."

"And when we are grown up we cannot play with dolls. Then I shall buy

myself a telescope like Uncle Leuthold's, and always be looking into

the moon, for I like it better than anything."

"Into the moon? Have you ever looked into the moon?" asked Angelika in

amazement.

"Indeed I have."

"How does it look there?"

"Oh, beautiful, most beautiful! It shines and gleams so silvery, and it

is so calm and quiet, and there are mountains and valleys there just

like ours, only they are not coloured, they are just pure light!"

"Did you see the man in the moon?"

"No, I didn't see him; Uncle Leuthold said there are no people in the

moon; but I don't believe him. They are only so far off that we can't

see them. And they must be much happier and better than we are here;

I'm sure they never beat children; and who knows whether perhaps the

dear God himself does not live there? If I could fly, I would fly up

there!" And she gazed upward with beaming eyes, and a long sigh escaped

from her little breast.

"No, dear Ernestine, you must not fly away; no one can tell that the

moon is as lovely near to, as it is so far off. And it is very nice

here, too, for when you grow up you can be either a mamma or an aunt,

and then no one can do anything to you. No one ever strikes my aunt or

my mamma--no one!"

But Ernestine was no longer conscious of the child's prattle; her eyes

closed, her beloved book dropped from her hands; Ole Luckoie, the

gentle Northern god of slumber, had arisen from its pages. He had

poured balm into her painful wound, and extended his canopy, with its

thousands of gay pictures, over her soul.

Angelika looked at her for awhile, and then asked, "Are you asleep

again?" and, upon receiving no answer, she was quite content, and got

softly down from the high stool, and seated herself again upon her

chair with the grave air of a sentinel. At last Heim, with Herr

Neuenstein, came home from the funeral, and the two gentlemen entered

the apartment together.

"She has been talking with me," Angelika announced.

"What! has she come to herself?" asked the Geheimrath in pleased

surprise.

"Oh, yes,--we talked about a great many things--and then she went to

sleep again."

The Geheimrath rubbed his hands.--"That's good! Did she seem to be

perfectly sensible?"

"Oh, yes; she was perfectly sensible," Angelika assured him.

"What a pity that I was not here! Now I hope we shall bring her

through," said the Geheimrath to Herr Neuenstein; but the latter stood

looking at the corpse-like figure of the sleeping child, and shook his

head.

"I see," continued the physician, "that it seems impossible to you, and

yet I believe she will recover. Who that sees such a faded blossom

lying there would suspect the wonderful recuperative energy hidden

within it? And I tell you this child possesses an immense amount of

vitality, or she would have succumbed to such brutal treatment as she

has received. She will recover; believe me, she will recover."

"I should rejoice indeed to think that your exertions will not prove in

vain. And you really wish to take her with you?"

"Yes, if her hypocritical uncle will let her go, I will deliver her

from his claws, and educate her as is best for her health and becoming

to her position as an heiress."

"You are a genuine philanthropist, Geheimrath."

"Yes, I am a philanthropist; but there is small merit in that. Some

people love puppies and kittens, others cultivate flowers with

enthusiasm,--I love to educate and train human beings. Whenever a pair

of melancholy eyes stare out at me from a child's face, I want to stick

the child in my herbarium like a rare flower. Yes, if it only cost as

little to cultivate children as plants, I should have had a human

hot-house long ago. But the taste is so confoundedly expensive."

"Yes, we all know that you spend your whole income in such good works.

You might have been a millionaire long ago, if it had not been for your

lavish generosity."

"What would you have? One man wastes his money upon one whim, and

another on another. This happens to be my whim, and I spend just as

much upon it as I can conscientiously in the interest of my adopted

son, who stands nearest my heart. But now do me the kindness to leave

the room, for our talk is disturbing the child's sleep. I will stay

here for an hour and watch her."

"Come, Angelika," said Neuenstein: "Uncle Heim is very cross

to-day,--let us go home." He took the child's hand, and nodded

affectionately to Heim. "Shall I send the carriage for you?"

"No, I thank you; I must return to the capital; the king has commanded

my attendance this afternoon. But I shall be here again to-morrow."

"Adieu, dear uncle," said little Angelika, standing on tiptoe, and

holding up her rosy lips to be kissed. "You won't be cross to me, will

you?" she asked, nestling her fair curls among his gray locks as he

bent down to her; "I have been so good!" And then she went softly out

with Herr Neuenstein.

When Heim was alone, he sat down by the bedside, and silently

contemplated the sleeping child. "I'll wager," he thought, "that she

will be very beautiful one of these days. Her face is older than her

years, and that is always ugly in a child, but when her age accords

with the earnestness of that brow, and her features lose their

sharpness under more kindly treatment, it will be a magnificent head.

To think of having such a child and beating it half to death! Such a

child!"

Something like a tear glistened in the old man's eyes, and he softly

took a pinch of snuff to compose himself, for these thoughts filled him

with the pain of an old wound, and well-nigh overcame him. But the

pinch was of no avail. He gazed upon the treasure before him, which had

fallen to one utterly unworthy such a gift, who had neglected and

despised it, and he thought what joy its possession would have given

him. And he remembered that such joy might have been his, had his heart

not clung unalterably to one who was not destined for him. Now it was

too late; and the past, in which he might have sown the harvest of love

that he longed to reap, was irrevocable. The passion that had so long

filled his heart was conquered and dead; but the longing for affection,

that is stronger than passion, still lived on in the old man's breast.

"When a man's wife dies and leaves him," he thought, "she lives again

in her children; but he who has neither wife nor child is doubly poor."

He had watched over many human lives, but not one could he call his

own; he had preserved the lives of many, he had given life to none. He

had seen the bitterest woes soothed by affection, and he should die

without leaving one child behind to mourn his loss. And, lost in such

thoughts, it seemed to him that he was actually lying upon his

death-bed, and that he felt a soft arm stealing around his neck, and

heard a sweet, caressing voice sob out, "Father."

It was Ole Luckoie who had granted him this bitter-sweet dream by

Ernestine's bedside; it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and

left nothing behind but a tear on the old man's furrowed cheek.

Then the latch of the door began to tremble, as though a carriage were

driving by, and the heavy footsteps that caused the noise approached

the apartment. Before the Geheimrath could prevent it, the door was

flung open, and Bertha's colossal figure appeared upon the threshold.

She was dressed in a new shining black silk, and the stiff cambric

lining rustled so loudly as she approached the bed that the child

started up frightened, and the Geheimrath could not suppress an

exclamation.

"Good-morning, Herr Geheimrath; good-morning, Tina," she said with a

nod. "So, Tina, you're alive still, I see. There was no need of such a

great fuss about you, after all."

Ernestine, at this rude greeting, flung herself to the farther side of

the bed, and cried, "Oh, send my aunt away!--I do not want to see her.

I will not!"

The Geheimrath politely offered his arm to the intruder and conducted

her from the room without a word. Bertha, amazed, asked, "Why, what

have I done? Can't I see my niece?"

"If you yourself do not understand, madam, that this frail life needs

to be treated with the greatest possible tenderness, I, a physician,

must tell you that it will be your fault if my care of the child should

prove of no avail and she should die in spite of it. I must therefore

entreat you either to discontinue your visits to the child, or to

address her more gently."

"Why, goodness gracious!" cried Bertha, "I was only in jest. Mercy on

me! you may wrap her up in cotton-wool, for all I care."

The Geheimrath gave an involuntary sigh. "Poor child," he thought, "to

be in danger of falling into such hands!"

Suddenly the hall-door was opened, and a face appeared, so ashy pale,

so livid, that Bertha started in terror. It was Leuthold; but he was

hardly to be recognized. When he perceived the Geheimrath, he saluted

him with his usual courtesy, then, extending his hand to Bertha, said

in a low voice, "My dear Bertha, be kind enough to come up-stairs with

me."

She followed him in the greatest trepidation, for she had never before

beheld him thus; and on the joyful day of Hartwich's funeral, too! What

could have happened? He took her hand and conducted her up the

staircase, his fingers were as cold and clammy as those of a corpse.

She almost shuddered as they walked along together in such solemn

silence.

They reached the door of their own apartment. Leuthold entered, dragged

his wife in after him, closed the door, and, before she was aware of

what he was doing, she felt the icy hand around her throat like an iron

band.

"Shall I strangle you?" he gasped, with eyes like a serpent's when it

is wound around its victim.

"Merciful Heaven!" shrieked Bertha, falling upon her knees to extricate

herself. The cold hand grasped her throat still more tightly.

"Utter one sound that the servants can hear, and I will throttle you!"

hissed Leuthold. "Be quiet! or----" Bertha ceased struggling, and

almost lost her consciousness. He then released her and pushed her down

upon the sofa, where she sat utterly astounded.

He put his hand to his head, and then whispered, almost inaudibly, as

though speaking with the greatest difficulty, "On the day of

Ernestine's fall, when Heim came to the house, do you remember that I

strictly enjoined it upon you to observe narrowly whatever occurred in

the house?"

"Yes," stammered the frightened woman.

"Did you do it?"

No answer.

"You did not do it."

"I was so afraid of Hartwich that I went up-stairs again," Bertha

confessed with hesitation.

"And so,--" Leuthold's chest heaved, his breath came heavily, and he

clenched his hands convulsively, "and so it is your fault that Hartwich

has disinherited us and left all his property to Ernestine." His face

grew still paler, his slender figure tottered, he grasped at a chair

for support, and fell fainting upon the ground.

"Good God!" shrieked Bertha, shaking the prostrate man violently, "the

whole property? tell me, the whole property? Oh, you miserable man,

what folly to fall into such spasms! Speak, and tell me whether we have

nothing at all, or what we have!"

Leuthold slowly raised his head. Bertha carried, more than supported,

him to the sofa. She brought some eau-de-cologne and poured it over his

head so that it ran into his eyes. He uttered an exclamation of pain,

and tried to wipe away the burning fluid from his eyes. "Are you trying

to deprive me of my eyesight?" he groaned, and, when the pain was

relieved, he sat in a dejected attitude, staring into vacancy.

"For mercy's sake, speak!" cried Bertha. "You can, at least, open your

mouth. No legacy? Not an annuity?"

Leuthold looked at his unfeeling wife with an expression that, in spite

of herself, drove the blood to her cheeks. There was something

indescribable in the look,--a mixture of the pity and contempt with

which one contemplates the body of a suicide.

"An annuity of six hundred thalers," he murmured, and covered his eyes

with his hand, as if to shut out everything around him while he

collected his scattered senses.

"Too much to die upon, and too little to live upon!" moaned Bertha,

and, bursting into tears, she threw herself upon a chair in the

farthest corner of the room. Leuthold sat motionless for a long time,

his face hidden in his hands; he scarcely seemed to breathe. He

appeared to need all his physical strength to assist him to endure the

mental agony which was overpowering him,--to have no strength left to

stir a limb. The man of feeling tries to master his unhappiness by

raging and lamenting,--he combats his agony by physical exertion,--he

rushes hither and thither, beats his head against the wall, wrings his

hands, and lessens his woe in a degree by a certain amount of muscular

activity. The man of intellect struggles mentally, and stands in need

of entire physical repose. Such a man as Leuthold could only for a

moment be excited to violence against the hated cause of his

misfortune; he soon regained his exterior composure, and his misery

became an intellectual labour, which might produce loss of reason, and

was never-ceasing.

He sat lost in a profound reverie. Now and then, like lightning across

a cloud, some idea of help in his misery flashed across his brain, but

it vanished as soon as it appeared, leaving each time a blacker night

in his soul.

"The sacrifice of ten long years gone for nothing!" he said at last in

stifled accents. "My hair is bleached before its time with the slavery

to which I have submitted with this goal in view, and now the prize is

snatched from me just as it seemed within my reach. Again I must bow my

neck to the yoke, and, with a mind fitted to appropriate to itself the

most precious treasures of science, toil for my bread! I have wasted

the best years of my life, that I may now begin all over again--an old

man. It was indeed a losing game! When my powers began to fail me, I

comforted myself with hopes of a near release; but now what can sustain

me when that hope has deserted me? No release in future,--nothing but a

never-ending struggle for daily sustenance! Oh----!"

With a long-drawn sigh of mortal agony, the tortured roan buried his

face in the cushion of the sofa, and another long silence ensued,

broken only by Bertha's loud sobbing.

At last she could endure the silence no longer. "What is to be done

now?" she asked half sorrowfully, half defiantly.

"Let me alone," said Leuthold. "Leave me--you see how I am suffering

and struggling!"

"How did you know about the matter?" she insisted.

"That fellow Lederer whispered it to me on returning from the funeral.

He signed the will as a witness. We were separated in the crowd, and I

could not even ask him whether I was left guardian or not. If I were

only guardian----" He ceased, and sunk again into a profound reverie.

There was a slight noise in the adjoining room, and a lovely, smiling

child's face looked in, and a clear, musical voice cried, "Peep!" At

the sound Leuthold turned his head and looked with strange emotion

towards the place where his daughter was standing. The little girl

planted herself firmly upon her feet, and, after a couple of futile

attempts, managed, to her own great delight, to cross the high

threshold. This difficulty surmounted, she tripped gleefully across to

her mother, who sat nearest the door; but upon receiving a rude repulse

from her--a repulse that almost threw her down--she determined to

pursue her journey as far as her father. To insure her swifter

progress, she betook herself to all fours, and, when she reached her

goal, climbed up by her father's knees and smiled into his face.

Leuthold gazed for a few moments into her round, innocent eyes; his own

grew dim; he took the child in his arms and whispered, as he clasped

her to his breast, "Poor child!" His breath came quick--he clasped her

tighter and tighter in his arms, until suddenly a burst of tears

relieved his overburdened soul. The father's heart was filled for once

with pure human emotion.

Gretchen tried to wipe his eyes with her little apron, and patted his

cheeks with her chubby hands.

There is a wonderful power in the touch of a child's soft, pure hand,

soothing a wildly-beating heart and strengthening a soul sickened by

hope deferred. It seemed to Leuthold as if the wounds that had

tormented him were healed by that gentle touch. He kissed the rosy

little palms again and again. He would labour with all his might for

this child--she should have a brilliant future at any cost. He arose,

and, putting her gently down on the carpet, walked slowly to and fro

with folded arms, revolving in his busy brain a thousand plans for the

future. His thoughts were rudely disturbed by Bertha, who, for want of

any other object, wreaked her ill humour upon Gretchen. The child had

got hold of an embroidered footstool, and was engaged in the delightful

occupation of picking off the bugles and pearls fastened upon the

fringe. Bertha snatched it away, and was slapping the little hands

violently, when suddenly Leuthold seized her arm and held it in a firm

grasp, while anger flashed in his eyes; and his words, his bearing, his

whole manner, filled her with terror as he began: "Your nature is so

coarse that you cannot even appreciate the promptings of maternal

instinct. Had you possessed one atom of feminine feeling, you would

have seen what a comfort the child is to me, and would have lavished

tenderness upon her, instead of maltreating her. But of what

consequence are my sorrows to you? When I staggered and fell to the

ground beneath the weight of my misery, you thought only of yourself;

your gentlest word to me was 'miserable man.' Let me tell you, however,

that the weakness of an ailing man is not so repulsive as the rude

strength of a coarse woman. Therefore, be kind enough to moderate the

exhibition of your strength, at least towards this angel, who shall

never suffer for an hour as long as I draw breath."

Bertha put Gretchen on the ground, and stood with arms akimbo. "Oh!"

she began, trembling with rage, "is this the tone you begin to

take--talking in this way to me just when you ought to be grateful to

me for consenting to share your wretched lot?"

"My wretched lot?" repeated Leuthold, while his face grew deadly white

again. "Who has made my lot a wretched one?--who other than yourself?

Do you dare to increase its misery? Is not your disobedience, your

folly, the cause of the whole misfortune? If you had obeyed my

commands, and kept watch upon what was going on in the house, the

arrival of the lawyers would not have escaped you. You might have

informed me and I could, even at the last moment, have prevented the

making of that will. You, and you alone, have ruined my child's and my

own future; and, instead of falling at my feet and begging for

forgiveness, you dare to reproach me! It would be ridiculous, if it

were not so deplorable!"

"Of course." said Bertha, "it is all my fault. I expected that. Why

didn't you stay at home yourself and watch? Because you suspected

nothing, no more than I did, and because you wanted to get out of the

way of Heim, who knew all about your former disgrace. Is it my fault

that you have conducted yourself so in the past that you have to avoid

all your old acquaintances?"

Leuthold swelled with indignation. "Silence, wretched woman! Would you

drive me to extremities?"

"Yes," continued Bertha more angrily than ever,--"yes, I don't care now

what you do. The only satisfaction I can have now is speaking out the

truth to you for once. I will be reconciled to my father while there is

time. Perhaps he will make over the business to me. I understand how to

conduct it, and can make it pay. I shall have a better chance there, at

any rate, than in staying here to starve with you. My honest old father

was right when he warned me against you. Heaven only knows what

infatuated me so with your hatchet face. I saw from the first what you

were,--a heap of learning and mind, and a perfect icicle, with whom I

never could be happy. We had only been married two months, when there

was all that disgraceful fuss with Hilsborn; my father wanted me to be

separated from you then; but you stuffed my ears with stories of your

brother here, who would make you rich; and I believed you, and gave

up my old father, and came here to this hole to live with you. What did

I get by it? The little property that I inherited from my mother has

been frittered away in household expenses, that you might seem

disinterested to your brother. I gave up every things--concerts,

theatres, parties,--and willingly; for I depended upon a brilliant

future. I have waited patiently and obediently until your brother

should kill himself with the drink of which he was so fond; and, now

that he is dead, what have I got in exchange for time, youth, money,

and all? And now I am to make a grateful courtesy, and say, 'My dear

husband, 'tis true that you have robbed me of everything, you have

attempted to strangle me; but I will nevertheless take the liberty of

remaining with you, that you may continue to enjoy the pleasure of

calling me rough, coarse, and good for nothing, and that you may

instruct me with which hand I am to put in my mouth the potatoes that

are all we shall have to live upon.' This is what I am to say, is it

not? Yes----"

Leuthold had been listening attentively, and, in the course of this

long speech, had regained his former composure. He now interrupted her

with, "That is, in other words, that you contemplate adding to my

misfortunes the withdrawal of your amiable presence, leaving me to bear

my heavy lot alone. Your intention demands my gratitude; if you wish

for a divorce, I am entirely agreed to it, only pray furnish the ground

for it yourself, that my good name may not be compromised. We have

lived together hitherto in such outward harmony, it might be difficult

to convince a court of the impossibility of a longer union. There must,

therefore, be some legal ground for a divorce, and you can arrange all

that to suit yourself."

"What!" cried Bertha, "am I to conduct myself disgracefully that people

may despise me and pity you,--wolf in sheep's clothing that you are?

No, no; I'm not quite so stupid as that. And then my father would not

receive me, and there would be nothing left for me in this world."

Leuthold walked thoughtfully to and fro. "It was the mistake of my life

that ten years ago I married you to get money to make that journey to

Trieste. I thought you more harmless than you are. For ten long years I

have endured the annoyance of your coarseness and narrow-mindedness.

Such a wife as you are is a perpetual thorn in the side of such a man

as myself; my nerves have suffered terribly. And now I find you are not

even capable of maternal affection,--you cannot treat your child as you

should. If it were not for Gretchen, I would never see you again,--but

now----"

Bertha started. "Why, yes,--I never thought of Gretchen."

"You can easily understand that I shall not give up my child," Leuthold

went on, looking fondly at the lovely little creature, who was sitting

on the carpet prattling softly and unintelligibly to herself. "She is

all that is left to me of my shattered existence;--my last hopes in

life are centred in her--I will never give her up! The law gives her to

you if I should furnish grounds for a divorce: so, you see, I cannot

take the initiative. If, however, you consent to a separation, and will

leave Gretchen to me, you are free to leave my house whenever you

please. Consider what I say."

Bertha knelt down upon the carpet, and said in a complaining tone,

"Gretel, shall mamma go far away?"

The child, in whose mind the remembrance of the slaps that had made its

little hands so red was still very lively, avoided her caress, and

crept away as fast as it could to its father's feet.

"Its choice is made," said Leuthold, taking it in his arms.

"Of course you are quite capable of setting my own flesh and blood

against me," whined Bertha. "What shall I do! I cannot leave the child,

and I will not stay with you. What shall I do!"

She walked heavily up and down the room, wringing her hands. Leuthold

had carried Gretchen to the window, and was looking down into the

court-yard, where the broad, stalwart figure of Heim was just leaving

the house. He shot one glance of deadly hatred at his enemy, but it did

no harm; and with a profound sigh Leuthold leaned his cold forehead

against the window-frame and looked on whilst Heim stepped into his

carriage and took a pinch of snuff with a most cheerful air. The driver

clambered clumsily upon the box, and gathered up his whip and reins,

the horses started off, the chickens flew in all directions, their

old friend the watch-dog came barking out of his kennel, and the

old-fashioned coach, belonging to the Hartwich establishment, rattled

away.

As, after seasons of intense emotion, the exhausted mind slavishly

follows the lead of the ever-active senses, Leuthold, in his misery,

thus minutely observed every particular of Heim's departure.

"He is happy!" he thought; and then his eyes rested upon the fowls

devouring the remains of the oats that had been brought for the horses.

"Happy he to whom has been given the faculty of making himself beloved!

mankind follow him as those fowls follow in the track of Heim's

carriage. Is it any merit of his that wins him the hearts of all? Bah,

nonsense! it is a talent,--and the most profitable one for its

possessor. These benefactors of mankind, as they are called, thrive

upon it: who would not do likewise if he only could? But those who have

not the gift cannot do it. One man comes into the world with qualities

that make him useful and pleasing to his fellow-men; another with

propensities that make him an object of fear to his kind. Is the lapdog

to be commended because his agreeable characteristics qualify him to

spend his life luxuriously on a silken cushion? And is the fox to be

blamed because he does not understand how to ingratiate himself with

mankind, but must eke out his miserable existence by theft? Each

after his kind, and we human beings have senses in common with the

brutes,--and why not the peculiarities also of their several species?

Yes, there are lapdogs among us, and foxes, and wolves, cats, and

tigers! Struggle against it as we may, with all our babble of free

will, temperament is everything. How can I help it if I belong among

the foxes? Only a fool would look for moral causes in all this chaos of

chances. The activity of nature is shown in eternal creation,

destruction, and re-creation from destruction,--plants, brutes, and men

are the blind tools of her secret forces, creative and destructive, or,

as the moralist calls them, good and evil! But what do we call good?

What pleases us. What evil? That which harms us. And we are to judge

the world by this narrow egotistic scale of morals? Oh, what folly!

Creative and destructive forces--are they not alike necessary agents in

nature's great workshop? And if they work so steadily in unconscious

matter, are they dead in mankind, the embodiment of conscious nature?

Is our poor, patched-up code of morals strong enough to tear asunder

the chains that keep us bound fast to the order of the universe?

No,--it is miserable arrogance to maintain such a theory. Nature has

never created a species without producing another hostile to it; the

rule holds good in the world of humanity as well as among plants and

brutes. The parasite that preys upon its supporting plant, the insect

depositing its eggs in the body of the caterpillar, the falcon pursuing

the innocent dove, the tiger rending the mild-eyed antelope, and,

lastly, the man who preserves his own existence by preying upon his

fellow-men,--all are only the exponents of those hostile forces that

are indispensable to the economy of nature. Who can venture to talk of

good and evil? There is only one idea that we owe to our advanced

culture,--only one varnish that bedaubs and conceals the beast in

us,--regard for appearances! This is the corner-stone of our ethics,

the only thoroughly practicable discipline for the human race. Let a

due regard for appearances be observed, and we are distinguished,

lauded, and beloved among men,--the only reward of our virtue is the

recognition of it by our excellent contemporaries; their judgment

decides the degree of our morality; everything else is the exaggeration

of fancy."

He was aroused from this reverie by Bertha, who suddenly shook him by

the shoulder with an impatient "Well?"

Leuthold looked at her like a man awakened from a dream. "What is it?"

he inquired.

"I want to know what is to be done?" she replied angrily.

Leuthold laid the child, who had fallen asleep upon his shoulder, on

the sofa.

"Oh, yes, with regard to our separation."

"I suppose you had entirely forgotten it."

"I confess that I was thinking of something else at the moment; but the

matter is very simple. Go to your father and effect a reconciliation

with him. Gretchen will stay with me. You are free to go and come as

you please. If you find that you cannot do without the child, in a few

weeks you can return, if you choose. It would, at all events, be better

for you to be away for awhile until I have rearranged my miserable

affairs. I am going now to hear the will read. If I am appointed

Ernestine's guardian, my life will be connected for the future with

that of my ward." He suddenly gazed into vacancy, as if struck by a new

idea, then started and seized his hat. "Yes, yes, I must go. Perhaps I

am guardian!" And he turned away.

Bertha called after him, "Then I may get ready to go?"

"Do just as you please," he replied, turning upon the threshold with

all the old courtesy, and then disappeared. Bertha went to her wardrobe

and began to collect her possessions. "I am rightly paid for leaving a

good head-waiter in the lurch for the sake of a fine doctor. If I had

married Fritz, I should now have been the landlady of a hotel, while,

the wife of a doctor, I don't know where to lay my head!" She looked

across the room at the sleeping child. "If I only had not that child, I

should be easier! But, then, it is his child. She loves him far better

than me. It will be just like him one day, and a sorrow to me," she

muttered. Then, as if the last thought were repented of as soon as

conceived, she hastened up to Gretchen, and, weeping, kissed her pure

white forehead. "No, no, you cannot help me!" she sobbed, and snatched

the child to her broad breast.

CHAPTER VI.

SOUL-MURDER.

A fresh autumnal breeze was shaking the heavy boughs of the fruit-trees

in the Hartwich kitchen-garden. Beneath a spreading apple-tree a new

bench, painted green, had recently been placed. Some white garments,

hanging upon a line to dry, fluttered like triumphal pennons in the

direction from which a number of persons was slowly approaching the

apple-tree. Rieka was carefully pushing along the rolling-chair, which,

after so long affording shelter to the cats and chickens, had lately

been recushioned and repaired. By its side walked good old Heim and

Leuthold. Ernestine's frail little figure, with head still bandaged and

hands gently folded, reclined in the chair; and if her large, dark eyes

had not been riveted with an expression of utter enjoyment upon the

distant landscape, she might have been thought smiling in death, so

ashy pale was her emaciated countenance, so bloodless were the lips

which were slightly open to inhale the pure morning air. The signs of

returning and departing life are as wonderfully alike as morning and

evening twilight. The child lying there, silent and motionless, might

to all appearance be bidding farewell to the world, instead of greeting

it anew after her dangerous illness. For to-day Ernestine was, as it

were, celebrating her resurrection to life. It was the first time that

she had been permitted to breathe the pure, open air of heaven; and her

delight was so profound that she could only fold her little hands and

pray silently. She had not the strength even to turn herself upon her

cushions; but her youthful soul was preening its wings and soaring with

the birds into the blue autumn skies.

"How are you now, my child?" Leuthold asked in a tone of tender

sympathy.

"Oh, so well, dear uncle!" the little girl whispered with a long-drawn

sigh. "I think I could run about, if I might."

"Ah, you could not yet, even if you might," said Heim, looking not

without anxiety into the child's face, transfigured by an almost

unearthly expression. And he laid his finger upon her pulse, now

scarcely perceptible.

"Her spirit, as she recovers, is in advance of her body," he said,

lingering behind with Leuthold. "Physically such a child is soon

conquered and destroyed, but the heart is a wonderful thing in its

power of endurance. I never see an expression of real suffering upon a

child's face without the deepest sympathy. For when should we be really

gay and happy in this life, if not while we are children?"

"You are right," said Leuthold. "That melancholy mouth, shaping itself

now to an unaccustomed smile, those bright eyes, around which the

traces of tears are scarcely yet obliterated, touch me deeply."

Heim glanced keenly at the speaker expressing himself apparently with

emotion.

"Oh, what a pretty new bench!" said Ernestine in a weak voice, as they

reached the apple-tree. "And the boughs droop around it like an

arbour."

Her gaze roved hither and thither; the fluttering linen on the line

pleased her; the white butterflies, with spotted wings, hovering about

the beds, enchanted her; she thought the far stretch of country, with

its distant border of forest, magnificent,--everything was so new that

she seemed to see it for the first time, and admired it all with

intense delight. The long rows of irregular bean-poles opened

mysterious, attractive paths to her imagination. Even the tall

asparagus and the heads of cabbage, upon which large beads of morning

dew were still lying, seemed to her master-pieces of nature.

"Oh, how lovely the world is!" she said to the two gentlemen. "And no

one to punish me! You are so kind, Herr Geheimrath, and you, Uncle

Leuthold, and you too, Rieka, are so good to me! I thank you all so

much!" And she took and kissed the hands of Leuthold and Heim as they

stood beside her, while tears filled her eyes.

"You strange child, what Snakes you cry now?" asked Leuthold.

"I cannot tell; I am so happy!" sobbed Ernestine. "If I only had a

father or a mother!"

"But if your father were alive he would beat you again," said Rieka,

taking a strictly practical view of the matter. "You ought to be glad

that he is no longer here; it is much happier for you."

Ernestine's head drooped. "Oh, I am not longing for my father who is

dead; I want a father to love me."

"You have an uncle who loves you fondly, my child," said Leuthold.

"Uncle," the little girl began again after a short pause, "how did the

first people get here? Every one has a father and mother; but the first

men could not have had any. Where did they come from?"

Leuthold and Heim exchanged glances of surprise.

"Ah, now you are going to the very root of the matter, prying into the

deepest mysteries of creation!" said her uncle with a smile.

"There is stuff for a scholar in the child," said Heim; "she must be

educated."

"Most certainly!" cried Leuthold with unwonted vivacity; "something

must be made of her. In two years she will read Darwin." And he became

lost in reverie.

Heim plucked two pansies that were growing among the weeds, and handed

them to Ernestine. "Don't trouble your little brain with such

thoughts," he said with an attempt to laugh. "When you are grown up you

can learn all you wish to know. How few flowers you have here! Not

enough for a nosegay!"

"No matter for that, Herr Heim," said Ernestine gaily. "Although there

are so few flowers here, it seems to me as lovely as Paradise."

"The child is imaginative," Heim observed to Leuthold. "She finds

Paradise in a neglected kitchen-garden; there is poetry there." And he

pointed to her head and heart.

Leuthold took the child's hand. "If you wish for flowers, my darling,

you shall have them. You are now"--and a spasmodic smile hovered upon

his lips--"so rich that you need deny yourself nothing."

"I am rich!" Ernestine repeated, as though she could not grasp the

idea. "Does the chair in which I am sitting belong to me?"

"Most certainly."

"And this garden, and the fields?"

"Everything that you see."

"Oh, how delightful! But, uncle, have I money enough to buy me a

telescope like yours?"

Leuthold looked surprised at this question "Is that the end and aim of

your desires? Well, then, you shall have a far better one than mine.

You shall have an observatory, whence you can search the heavens far

and wide, and, if you choose, I will be your teacher. Would you like

that?"

"Oh, uncle!" sighed Ernestine, "God is so kind to me--how shall I thank

him for all he is giving me?"

An ugly smile appeared on Leuthold's face; she looked up at him in

surprise, and so fixedly that he involuntarily turned aside.

It was strange! Why had her uncle smiled at those words. Was what she

had said so stupid, then? Was he laughing at her, or at--what? Suddenly

there was an alloy in her happiness, as if she had found an ugly worm

in a fragrant rose or discovered a flaw in a clear mirror. A pang shot

through her heart. Yes, little Kay in the story-book must have felt

just so when a splinter of the evil mirror got into his eye and heart

and nothing seemed perfect or stainless to him any more. Instinctively

she looked up into the sky, as if to see the demon flying there with

the mysterious mirror that cast scorn and contempt upon the works of

the good God; and when she glanced again at her uncle, who had just

smiled so disagreeably, he seemed to her to look as she had fancied an

evil spirit must look, and she shrank from him in a way that she could

not herself comprehend. She leaned back in her chair exhausted, to rest

after all these wearisome thoughts that had chased one another through

her brain, and Heim, observing this, took Leuthold aside; she heard him

say, "Come, we will leave the child to take a little sleep."

Rieka sat down quietly upon the bench beside her. Ernestine nestled

comfortably among the yielding cushions, and the fragrant breeze

stroked her cheek like a gentle, caressing hand. The birds were softly

twittering in the boughs overhead. All nature breathed in her ear:

"Sleep, sleep on the tender breast of the youthful day. Rest! you are

not yet rested, after all that you have suffered!" And she closed her

eyes and tried to sleep, but she could not. Why had her uncle smiled

when she spoke of God? This question kept her awake, and scared away

rest from her trusting, childish soul.

Meanwhile Helm and Leuthold walked on through the garden. "Herr

Professor," the former began to his companion, who was lost in thought,

"I must speak with you about the future of our protege. I have plans

for her, depending upon you for their fulfilment." Leuthold looked at

him attentively. "I had a desire," Heim continued, "the first time I

saw this strange child, to adopt her for my own; and this desire has

become stronger since chance has brought me into such intimate

association with her. My request of you now is: Abdicate--not your

rights, but--your duties as her guardian in my favour, and let me take

her to the capital with me, and have her educated and trained so that

full justice may be done to her physical and mental capacities."

Leuthold was silent for a few moments, and then said with some

hesitation, as he drew a long strip of grass through his slender white

fingers, "That looks, Herr Geheimrath, as if you did not give me credit

for the ability or the will to educate my ward suitably."

Heim shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "There shall be no

wire-drawing between us, Herr Gleissert; we both know what we think of

each other, and a physician has no time to waste in complimental

speeches. Be kind enough to signify to me, as briefly and decidedly as

possible, your acceptance or refusal of my proposal."

"Well, then," Leuthold replied with a keen glance, "I must reply to you

with a brief and decided 'No!'"

"Indeed!" was all that Heim in his chagrin rejoined.

"Look you, Herr Geheimrath," Leuthold began after some moments of

reflection; "I will be frank with you. You know the dark stain that

sullies my past, and the fault of my nature,--ambition. But, for all

that, Herr Geheimrath, I am not heartless! In my childhood I was

repelled on all sides, just as Ernestine has been. I was always cast in

the shade by Hartwich, the son of my wealthy step-mother. You, as a

student of human nature, well know what power there is in early

surroundings to mould a man's future,--perhaps this may make you more

lenient to my faults. Neither affection nor interest was shown me, and

so kindly feelings faded away within me,--I could not give what I never

received. Thus, Herr Geheimrath, I grew up an embittered, hardened man.

The severity and sternness with which I was treated caused me to

cultivate a sort of plausibility that won me friends, although I had no

qualities to enable me to retain them. Therefore I was accounted a

flatterer and a hypocrite. But the worst of all was, I was never taught

the nice distinction between honours and honour, and thus it was that,

in my blind grasp after honours, I sacrificed my honour!" He covered

his eyes with his hand and paused for a moment. Old Heim shook his huge

head, vexed with himself for the emotion of sympathy that he could not

suppress.

"My step-mother," Leuthold continued, "was an imperious, masculine

woman, who tyrannized over her husband and made him as unhappy as her

son and step-son. You have seen the effect of her training upon

Hartwich,--he became a drunkard, sinning in the flesh; I, of a less

sensual nature, sinned in spirit!"

"Forgive me for interrupting you," Heim interposed here; "but I am

constrained to observe that if you had sinned no further than in

robbing poor Hilsborn of his discovery, you would indeed have coveted

only spiritual things, and there might have been some excuse for you;

but you longed for earthly possessions,--you even grasped after the

property of the poor child who has been left to your care. Judge for

yourself whether such a helpless little creature can be confided

without anxiety to the charge of a guardian who has not scrupled to

endeavour to possess himself of her inheritance!"

Leuthold stood confronting Heim, without betraying, by a single change

of feature, the emotions of his mind. "Herr Geheimrath," he said with

dignity, "I understand perfectly how all that must appear to a stranger

entirely unacquainted with the circumstances of the case, and I cannot

wonder that you think your accusation of me well founded. So be it. I

did endeavour to possess myself of Hartwich's property, for two-thirds

of it were mine by right. Are you aware, Herr Geheimrath, that when I

first took my place in the factory here, Hartwich was on the brink of

bankruptcy? Are you aware that entirely through my exertions the

business is now free from debt, and that the income which in the course

of ten years made Hartwich a wealthy man was the result solely of my

improvements? He contributed nothing but the raw material, which my

efforts converted into a means of wealth. Had I not a sacred right to

the fruits of my exertions?"

Again the Geheimrath shrugged his shoulders and did not speak.

"Time is money," Leuthold continued; "and I frankly admit that I do not

belong to the class of men who give without any hope of a return. I am

a poor man, compelled to depend upon myself. I receive nothing

gratuitously; why should I give anything? Hartwich owed me for the time

I sacrificed to him. I do not claim too much when I aver that, with my

capacity, I could have earned three thousand thalers yearly as the

superintendent of any other extensive manufactory, while I received

from Hartwich the small salary of a mere overseer. And three thousand

thalers yearly amount in ten years to thirty thousand thalers, without

counting the interest. There you have one-third of the property that I

'coveted.'"

Heim assented with an expression of surprise.

Leuthold continued more fluently: "Now for the remaining third. The man

who is capable of introducing inventions and improvements into the

establishment, producing in ten years a dear profit of ninety thousand

thalers, can easily dispose of such inventions for twenty thousand

thalers; and if I add the accumulated interest of ten years, it amounts

to exactly thirty thousand thalers again. If my step-brother had paid

me this sum, he would still have possessed thirty thousand thalers

clear, which would have belonged of right to his daughter. I might have

offered my services elsewhere, but it seemed to me more fitting that I

should serve my brother than a stranger; I might have insisted upon

payment, but I knew well my brother's avarice, and that it would be

impossible to extort money from him except at the risk of such

excitement on his part as might cost him his life. Therefore!

thought it best, as I foresaw that he could not live long, to suspend

my claims and allow him to devise to me by will what was really my

due. How utterly I have been the loser by my--I do not scruple to

say--magnanimous conduct, you well know; and now pray point out wherein

I have unjustly claimed a single groschen!"

Heim, his hands crossed behind him and his head sunk upon his breast,

walked slowly along by the side of Leuthold, whose slender figure had

recovered all its former elasticity as he easily wound his way among

the tangled bushes and weeds in the neglected path.

"I cannot tell how a lawyer would designate your conduct," the old man

said meditatively. "I should not call it magnanimous; but you may be

able to justify it from your point of view. Still, one never knows what

to expect of such long-headed, calculating people."

"Yes, Herr Geheimrath, it is the destiny of those who depend upon

themselves alone for whatever of good life may bring them, to be

regarded as covetous,--they must grasp after what falls unsought for

into the lap of others. In this matter I not only did what I could for

myself, but for the future also. Herr Geheimrath, I am a father!"

"Yes, yes; but you were not a father at the time that you arranged with

Hartwich his testamentary dispositions," Heim briefly interposed.

"Only two months afterwards my wife gave birth to a dead son. From the

first moment when I dreamed of one day possessing a child for whom I

could prepare a future, I cherished a determination to hold fast to

whatever was mine by right. I think you cannot refuse to bear witness

that I have endured the destruction of all my hopes with fortitude. My

wife has left me, refusing to share with me my cheerless future. I

stand alone with my helpless child. You have heard no word of complaint

from my lips. Examine yourself, and your upright nature will compel you

to acknowledge that I do not deserve your distrust. And now, as regards

the last and weightiest consideration,--my relation to my ward,--ask

any one whom you may please to interrogate here, whether I have not

always been Ernestine's advocate and protector. Every servant in the

house--the child herself--will tell you that it has been so. Upon this

point my conscience cannot accuse me. For, look you, Herr Geheimrath,

this child is the only living being in this world, besides my own

daughter, whom I have to love. There is one spot in my nature, hardened

as it is by the rough usage of life, that has always remained

soft,--the memory of my unhappy childhood. In Ernestine I am reminded

of my own early youth, and there is a tender satisfaction in providing

her with so much that at her age I was obliged to deny myself. Leave me

this child, Herr Geheimrath; I am a poor, unhappy, disappointed man. Do

not take from me the last thing that stirs the better nature within

me,--it would be too hard!"

Heim stood still for an instant, and seemed about to speak. He

bethought himself and walked on a few steps, then paused again: "The

case is not psychologically improbable. You may feel as you say, and

you may invent it all. What guarantee have I for its truth?"

"I am sorry to say, none, if you do not find it in the honesty of my

confession. But, Herr Geheimrath, by what right--pardon me--do you

require such a guarantee from me?"

"My anxiety for the child's welfare, I should suppose, would be allowed

to give me such a right,--a right that, if you are not dead to human

feeling, you would respect even although it has no legal grounds."

"Oh, certainly, certainly,--I do respect it, and thank you for your

interest in the child. But I cannot deny that your persistent distrust

of me surprises me exceedingly, and prompts me to force you by my

conduct to a better opinion of me."

"That is, you will let me have the child?" Heim asked quickly.

"That is, I am more determined than ever to undertake the charge of her

education myself, that I may one day convince you of the injustice that

you are doing me."

Heim regarded the smiling speaker with a penetrating glance. "You rely

upon the fact that I can legally urge nothing against you. Well, then,

I can do no more. I confide the fate of this strange child, who has

become so dear to me, to a loving Providence, that will watch over her

and over you, sir, however you may contrive to withdraw yourself and

your designs from the eye of human scrutiny."

As Heim spoke these words, the two gentlemen reached Ernestine's chair.

The little girl sat perfectly still, lost in thought. Her uncle laid

his hand upon her white forehead, and said to himself, "I will keep

you!"

On the evening of the same day, Leuthold sat before his writing-table

at the open windows. The cool night air made the flame of the lamp

flicker behind its green shade. From the adjoining room came the low

sound of the plaintive air with which the nursemaid was soothing little

Gretchen to sleep. A cricket upon the window-sill chirped continually,

and a singed moth would now and then fall upon the white, unwritten

sheet that lay on the table before Leuthold. It was a calm, mild,

autumn night,--a night when darkness hides the yellow leaves and one

can dream that it is still summer. And yet the solitary man sat there

gazing into vacancy, with as little sympathy with nature as though he

had been banished utterly from her communion. In the corner of the

window-frame there fluttered a large cobweb, and its proprietor was

lying in wait for the insects that were attracted by the lamp. But the

man's brain was weaving still finer webs in the stillness of night, and

in the midst of them lurked the ugly spider of greed of gold, also

lying in wait for prey. Ernestine must be ensnared; but she had

protectors who were upon the watch. No human being must suspect that

her guardian was her worst enemy.

The will had been opened, and two clauses in it had given Leuthold

renewed life and hope. He was Ernestine's guardian,--and her heir in

case of her dying unmarried. By the time that his light began to fade,

he had laid all his plans, and arose from his seat with the feeling of

satisfaction experienced by an author who has just thought out

successfully the plot of a new work. Ernestine was no more to him than

a character in a novel is to its author,--a character which is

indispensable to the plot, and which the author treats with care as a

necessary evil, but never with affection. Thus he had planned with

great precision the child's future; and, unless he utterly failed in

his designs, the figure that now hovered before his imagination would

greatly conduce to the successful conclusion of the romance for his

child and himself.

The lamp died down. Leuthold slipped out upon tiptoe, and, undressing

in the next room in the dark, lay down in the bed beside which stood

Gretchen's crib. Soon after the child awoke, and stretched out her

hands towards her father. He drew her towards him, and laid her head

upon his breast, that was chilled as though from the influence of his

own icy heart. She nestled up to him, and put her little arms around

his neck. He listened to her quiet breathing as she fell calmly asleep

again, and gradually his own heart grew warm beside hers, beating there

so peacefully. He scarcely ventured to breathe himself, for fear of

wakening her. It was a happy moment for him. Upon the breath of the

slumbering child an ineffable delight was wafted into his soul. He held

in his arms the only being whom he loved and who really loved him,--his

child, his own flesh and blood! Suddenly there was a loud knocking at

his door, and Rieka's shrill voice cried, "Herr Doctor! Herr Doctor!

pray get up quickly and come to Ernestine!"

Leuthold started up and gently laid the child in her crib again. Every

nerve in his body vibrated, his heart beat wildly, and his hands

trembled as he dressed himself hurriedly. Something extraordinary must

have occurred: was Ernestine worse?--perhaps dying? Was fate to atone

so soon for Hartwich's injustice? Were his hopes to be--the thought

made him giddy, breathless, and, almost tottering, he reached the door

where Rieka was waiting to light him down the stairs.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, Herr Doctor, it is our fault," Rieka began: "Theresa and I were

sitting by Ernestine's bedside and talking; we thought she was sound

asleep, we were talking about master who is dead; and we told about the

dairy-maid's refusing to sleep in the barn-loft any more, because she

says he walks. And we spoke of his death, how he called for his child,

and declared that he could not find rest in his grave if Ernestine did

not forgive him. And we said we were sure that he would appear to her

some day, for when any one dies with such a burden on his soul, there

is no rest for him until he has the forgiveness that he craves. Then

Ernestine suddenly began to cry, and we saw that she had heard

everything. We tried to quiet her, but she grew worse and worse, and

nothing would content her but that she must be taken this very night to

the church-yard, to her father's grave, that she might forgive him. We

can do nothing with her; she insists upon it; she is almost in

convulsions with crying and obstinacy!"

They entered Ernestine's room, where Theresa, the other maid, was

trying to keep the struggling, desperate child in bed. Leuthold went

softly up to her, and laid his cool, delicate hand upon her burning

forehead. His touch soothed her; she became quiet, and looked up at her

uncle with a piteous entreaty in her large eyes.

"Leave me alone with her," he said to the servants, who obeyed with a

mutter of discontent. He then trimmed the night-lamp so that it burned

brightly, and seated himself beside Ernestine's couch. "My child," he

began, in his low, melodious voice, "you are quite clever enough to

understand what I am going to say to you, but you must promise me that

you will never repeat it to any human being. Do you promise?"

"Oh, I will promise, uncle," sobbed Ernestine, "if you will only help

me to let my poor father know that I forgive him,--oh, with all my

heart!--and that my head is well again, and does not hurt me any more!

Oh, my poor, poor father,--your little Ernestine wants so to tell you

that she is not angry with you; but she cannot!"

"You are a good child, Ernestine, but you are only a child!" Leuthold

continued, while the same strange smile that had so troubled Ernestine

in the morning again played around his mouth. She looked up in

surprise. Was what she had said so foolish again?

"You are too clever, young as you are, to be allowed to fall into the

vulgar belief shared by the maids; and therefore I must tell you what

it would not be best for them to know,--that the dead do not live in

any form whatever."

Ernestine started, and gazed at her uncle.--"What?"

"Yes, yes; I tell you truly, whoever is dead is dead; that means, he

has ceased to be; he neither feels nor thinks; a few bones are all that

there is of him; and they are good for nothing but to convert into lime

or manure for the fields."

Ernestine hearkened breathless to his words. "But where then are the

spirits, uncle?"

"There are no spirits."

"Then shall we never go to heaven?"

"Of course not; those are all fables, invented to induce common people

to be good. They must believe in rewards and punishments after death,

to enable them to bear the trials and deprivations of their lot in

life. They would rebel against all control, and be in perpetual mutiny,

without the prospect of compensation after death. So there are wise

philosophers in every country, composing what is called the Christian

Church, who have invented many beautiful legends,--which you call the

Bible. Superstition is founded upon the weakness and folly of mankind,

upon ignorance of the true laws of nature; and the churches of every

age and clime have used it as the stuff of which they have made

leading-strings for the people. But the educated man, breathing only a

pure, intellectual atmosphere, is free from such fetters. Science leads

him with a loving hand to heights whence she points out to him the

natural laws of the universe, and, in place of the prop of which she

deprives him, gives him strength to stand alone."

Ernestine was ashy pale; her lips moved, but no sound issued from them;

she clenched her hands, and felt as if crushed by some terrible,

unheard-of mystery. She could hardly bear to listen to what her uncle

was saying, and yet she caught greedily at every word; she could not

bear to believe him, and yet she could not but distrust, now, what the

pastor had taught her. She was ashamed not to be as clever as her uncle

had called her: the poison that he had instilled into her mind worked

quickly.

"But, uncle, can what so many people believe be all false? Old people

and children, kings and emperors, beggars and rich men, all go to

church:--is there any one except you who does not go?"

Leuthold laughed louder than was his wont. "It is easy enough to answer

you, dear child. In the first place, there are multitudes of men

besides myself who belong to no church. In the second place, the number

of people who profess to believe a creed is no proof of its truth, but

only of the ignorance and narrow-mindedness of those professing such

belief. Millions of men have been pantheists, and counted all those who

did not share their faith criminal. Every religion condemns all others

as erroneous. Which is right? As long as all were ignorant of the

causes of the mighty and glorious operations of nature, these were

ascribed to supernatural agencies and regarded as revelations of the

divine. Thunder and lightning, light and air, all were governed,

according to the ancients, as among savages at the present day, by

their own several deities; every natural event was ascribed to some

being, half man, half god; and thus heaven and earth were peopled with

good and evil spirits, friendly or hostile to mankind. This

superstition fled at the approach of science, or at least it became

weakened,--etherialized. With increasing knowledge of natural laws, the

sensual gods of Greece and Rome lost form and substance, and finally

vanished, to be replaced by a true appreciation of the elements as

such, and a faith in a central Providence ruling all things wisely and

well. This is a great improvement; but it is not enough. We still have

a Trinity,--a Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; we still have angels,

demons, and saints,--a multitude of good and evil deities, who have

followed us down from old pagan times, and who, although more

respectably apparelled, are still prepared to work all kinds of

miracles. The more fully the laws of matter are laid bare to our

searching eyes, the dimmer grows our religious belief,--as the shadow,

which in the darkness we have taken for the substance itself, fades

before the first ray of sunlight, which reveals the substance

distinctly. The various gods of all ages and climes were only the

shadows cast by the operation of natural laws; as soon as the light of

science fell upon them, they vanished. Thus, religious fancy was driven

away from this physical world, as the laws ruling it were discovered,

and obliged to seek a more abstract domain; but even there it is not

secure; for scientific inquiry, climbing from height to height, and

gaining in vigour with every fresh advance, long ago began to follow it

thither; and it must consent to still greater concessions, if it would

not be driven from its last foothold,--its self-created heaven!"

Leuthold paused. Ernestine's vague look of wonder reminded him that his

habit of speech had carried him too far for the comprehension of a

child. Nevertheless, it excited him to hear his own voice speaking thus

once more, and his gray eyes glittered strangely as he observed the

effect of his words, only half understood as they were, upon Ernestine.

"Has the pastor told me falsehoods, then?" she asked at last.

"He did not lie intentionally. He is a very narrow-minded man, and

knows no better. He is not one of the deceivers, but of the deceived."

"But he is the wisest man in the village," Ernestine objected.

"In the village, yes! But do you think him wiser than your uncle?"

"No, certainly not!" she whispered almost inaudibly. It seemed to her a

crime to think a common man wiser than the pastor.

"Well, then, let me tell you that he is not nearly as clever as you

are!"

"Uncle!" exclaimed Ernestine alarmed.

"I tell you the truth, my child. You are now very young; but, when you

are as old as the pastor, you will know much more than he does, and

take a very different view of things."

"Are you in earnest, uncle?" Ernestine asked eagerly, for this first

flattery had not failed in its effect. "Do you think I can ever be as

clever as a man?"

"Most certainly! Unless I greatly err, you will be something

distinguished, one of these days!"

Ernestine sat bolt upright in bed, looking at her uncle with sparkling

eyes. Her pale face flushed, her breath came quick. Ambition kindled in

her childish nature to a burning flame. The fuel had been gathering

there since her first contact with those who had treated her with

contempt. Now the spark had fallen, and she was all aglow with the

insidious fire which gradually consumes the whole being unless some

terrible misfortune bursts open the floodgates of tears to quench the

unhallowed flame.

Leuthold gazed, not without secret admiration and delight, at the

illuminated and inspired countenance of the child. Thus, thus he would

have her look! He leaned towards her, and held out his hand. She

grasped it fervently.

"Uncle," she said with childish emphasis, "will you help me to be as

clever and to learn as much as a man? Will you teach me the sciences

which you said would make men so strong?"

"Yes," replied Leuthold with seeming enthusiasm, "I will, indeed."

"Promise me, dear uncle."

"I promise you with all my heart that I will teach you as no woman has

ever been taught before,--that I will guide and direct you until you

have soared far above the rest of your sex. But you must be diligent,

and discard all desires but the desire of knowledge."

"Oh, I will, dearest uncle. Why should I not? What else can I wish for?

I do not want to play with other children,--they laugh at me. I am too

ugly and grave for them. I will live alone, and learn with you; and one

day, when I know more than they, I will shame them. Oh, that will be

fine!"

"But I hope, my child, that you will remember your promise, and not

tell any one what I have said to you to-night."

"Not any one? not even Herr Heim?"

"Not for the world. If I should find that you cannot hold your tongue,

I will teach you nothing, and you will be as ignorant as those who

laugh at you."

"No, uncle, I will never tell anything; I will not, indeed!" Ernestine

cried, "But tell me one thing,--are there really no angels, then?"

"Angels!" and her uncle smiled. "Of what use has been all that I have

just said to you, if you can seriously ask such a question?"

"Then I have no guardian angel!" said the child, and her eyes filled

with tears. "And I loved my guardian angel so dearly!"

"My child," replied Leuthold, "you are your own guardian angel. Your

own strong mind will shield you from all danger far better than any

such imaginary creature with wings."

Ernestine was silent. She must take care of herself, then. But she felt

so weak and broken; how should she be supported unless she could lean

upon some higher power? No guardian angel, no father, no mother, not

even their spirits! It seemed to her that she was suddenly standing

alone, without prop or stay, upon a rocky peak, with a yawning abyss

just at her feet. The moment would come when she must fall headlong.

Then there arose before her the last hope of the soul in utter

misery,--God! He was all in all,--Father and guardian spirit; He was

love; He would not forsake her. Though all else that she had believed

in crumbled to dust, He still remained; she would cling to Him with

redoubled fervour. She looked up at her uncle; should she tell him her

thoughts? No! She could not speak that sacred name before Leuthold; she

dreaded the smile she had seen in the morning,--she could not tell why.

Her uncle then spoke, and the last drop of poison fell into her soul.

"We have in ourselves everything that modern religion has created

outside of ourselves," he began. "Angels, devils, God--" Ernestine

started and shrank,--"these are all only personifications of our good

and evil qualities. It is only the boundless self-conceit of mankind

that imagines that the grain of reason that distinguishes them from

the brutes is something entirely beyond the power of nature to

produce,--something supernatural, immortal, divine,--and that there

must be, enthroned somewhere above the universe, an omnipotent being,

who is in direct communication with us and has nothing to do but to

busy himself with our very important personal affairs! This belief in

God, with all its apparent humility and submission, is the veriest

offspring of the vanity and arrogance of mankind, and all worship of

God, my child, is, in fact, only worship of self. True humility is to

acknowledge that we are no 'emanation from the Divine Essence,' as

theosophists phrase it, but only nature's masterpieces, and that we can

claim no higher destiny than that common to the myriad forms of being

that bear their part in the universal whole."

Ernestine had sunk back among her pillows,--she felt annihilated; there

was no longer any God for her!

Her uncle arose, for two o'clock had just been tolled from the belfry

of the village church. He did not fail to observe the terrible

impression that his words had made upon Ernestine. He took her hand;

she withdrew it from his grasp. He smiled. "You are sorry, are you not,

to give up everything that your childish mind has believed in so

firmly? I can easily understand it. But, Ernestine, your powers of mind

are too great to allow you to find consolation for any length of time

in such delusions. Be sure that sooner or later you would have

extricated yourself from such bondage, as the expanding flower throws

off the confining hull. You have been ill, and your physical weakness

has depressed your mental energy; but, when you are well and strong

again, you will rejoice proudly in the consciousness that you are a

free, irresponsible being, not dependent upon the will and the doubtful

justice of a fancied Jehovah. Study yourself, my child; in yourself

lies your future. Believe in yourself, and plant your hopes deeply in

your faith in yourself. I will leave you now to sleep; and I am sure

that to-morrow I shall find you a little philosopher."

Long after her uncle had left the room and Rieka had retired upon

tiptoe to bed in the adjoining apartment, fully convinced that her

charge was sleeping, Ernestine was wide awake. She lay perfectly

motionless, as if shattered in every limb. She stirred for the first

time when Rieka had extinguished the light, so that no ray came through

the open door. Then the child drew a deep breath, and stretched her

arms out into the darkness as if to clasp the forms of her vanished

faith; but her arms encountered only the empty air. There was no more

pitiable creature upon earth than she at that moment. What is left for

a child without father or mother, who has lost her guardian angel and

her God? She is a bird fallen from the nest, stripped by cruelty of its

wings and left living on the ground. The child's foreboding soul,

precociously matured by misfortune, felt the entire weight of her

desolation; and she hid her face in the pillow, that Rieka might not

hear the convulsive sobs wrung from the depths of her misery. The tears

which she poured forth for her vanished God were all that her uncle had

left her,--the only prayer that she was capable of. She longed to

pray--but could not in words. "He does not hear me! He does not live!"

she cried to herself; and the hot tears burst forth again, and she wept

in agony. And, as she wept, her heart grew soft and tender, and as the

Crucified, after he had been laid in the tomb, was present invisibly

among his disciples, so the God who had just been buried away from her

mind came to life again in her heart; she did not hear nor see him, but

she felt his presence, and it gave her strength to pray. She kneeled in

her bed, folded her hands, and cried inwardly: "Dear God, let me keep

my belief in Thee--if Thou art and canst hear me--" --that terrible

"if" intruded. She paused to ponder upon it. And then there was an end

to her fervent prayer, and God vanished again.

Thus the struggle between faith and doubt continued feverishly, and her

soul thirsted for love as did her parched lips for water. Where was

there a kind, gentle hand to offer her a cooling draught, and with it

the kiss that should refresh her thirsty soul,--such a hand as only a

mother has? Ernestine gazed out into the darkness. Her breath came in

gasps, her heart beat audibly, but no more kindly tears came to her

burning eyes. "O God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?" was the last

moan of her tortured heart; and then she sank into a feverish slumber.

CHAPTER VII.

DEPARTURE.

The autumnal gales had stripped the leaves from the trees; the tall

firs in the forest, bordering the spacious brown fields of the Hartwich

estate, were the only green on the landscape. Over the cheerless desert

plain wandered a lonely little figure, pale and sad as Heine's Last

Fairy. Ernestine had so far recovered that she was once more able to

brave the autumn wind. She extended her arms, and could not help

imagining that they might become wings, that would bear her far, far

aloft. She knew it could never really be so; but the thought was so

delightful! Up, up, far away from the earth,--it was so sad upon the

earth. She was a stranger here, and she felt that her home must be

elsewhere. In heaven? Oh, there was no heaven; but in the air--at

least, in the air. And she ran on--ran as fast as she could--and her

heart throbbed with excitement as the wind whistled in her ears and

tossed her clothes about, and her hair.

An insatiable yearning--she knew not for what--had driven her out of

the house--she knew not whither. There was nothing for her to crave

for, and yet she could not help it. She thought she should die of

longing! She wished she could dissolve into foam, like the little

mermaid, that the daughters of the air might bear her aloft into

endless space! And she stood still and gazed up into the gray clouds,

and took a long breath. There was no longer anything there for her to

aspire to, and she had not yet learned to look within. One vast void

around and above her, and forth into this immense void she was driven!

At last she reached the woods, and stood beneath the dark firs, in

whose boughs the wind was wildly roaring. It was the last time that she

should stand thus among these familiar scenes, for on the following day

she was to set out with her uncle for the south, that she might escape

the northern winter. She was sorry, for she clung to her home, bleak as

it had been. She must have something to cling to! She had looked

forward with pleasure to the ice and snow; the glittering form of the

snow-queen in the fairy book--the creature of Andersen's Northern

fancy--had transfigured winter for her. Like little Kay, she had lost

all delight in life, and, like him, she was perplexed in spirit at the

word "eternity." But she could not help loving the winter and the

solitude of her retired home. She walked on fearlessly, beneath the

whistling of the wind, deeper and deeper into the forest, until,

without knowing how, she emerged on the other side, and stood under the

oak where she had first seen Johannes. The bough, now entirely dead,

which had broken beneath her when she was trying to escape from him,

still hung there. There, too, was the spot where he had given her the

book--the wonderful book--that had peopled her fancy with such lovely

forms. And yet that interview with Johannes seemed in her memory far

more like enchantment than any fairy-tale, and she stood still, sunk in

a reverie, until a furious blast of wind tore at the boughs of the

majestic tree as if it longed to tear it down and scatter its fragments

through the forest. With a crash, the broken bough, only attached

hitherto to the trunk by a slender hold, was hurled to the ground, and

the wind wailed on through the bare branches in the forest depths.

Ernestine looked up startled. The boughs rustled and creaked, and the

scared ravens flew croaking hither and thither. Again the blast swept

howling across the plain, slowly, but with a mighty swell in its roar,

towards the wood, and again it stormed and raved in its first fury

about the isolated oak, which trembled and shook to its centre. But

Ernestine was startled only for an instant; she was used to the blasts

of a northern October, and she took delight in this wild might of

nature. It was almost as if she herself were shaking the tree, and

splitting its branches with her own hands. The exultation of a Titan in

the breast of a creature woven as it were out of moonlight and

lily-leaves! Only a divinely-related spirit could have had such

thoughts in so delicate a form,--a spirit that fraternized with the

elements, and, in an intoxication of delight, forgot the frail casket

in which it was confined.

Singing strange, wild songs, the child, with her wonted agility,

climbed the tree that had grown so dear to her, and cradled herself

exultingly amid its tossing branches. She ascended to the topmost

boughs, and gazed far over forest and plain; and the more the creaking

branches were tossed to and fro as she clung to them, the wilder grew

her delight. It was almost flying--to hover, thus hidden, above the

earth! She kissed the bough by which she held, and as she saw the young

branches breaking here and there beneath her, and the hurricane raged

so that it almost took away her breath, she looked up with inspired

eyes, and whispered involuntarily, "It is the breath of God!" Suddenly

she distinguished a sound as of human footsteps, and a shout came up

through the roar of the blast. She thought of the handsome stranger

youth! Could it be he--come to take her down from the tree? An

inexplicable mixture of joy and dread took possession of her. Was it

he? Would he stretch out his arms to her again? But it was not he. A

chill struck to her heart, and a shade gathered over the landscape. It

was her uncle! "Ernestine," he called to her, "thoughtless child! How

you terrify me! Running to the woods and climbing trees in such a

storm! You might kill yourself! Come down, I entreat you!"

"Let me stay here, uncle; I like it so much!" Ernestine begged.

"I must seriously desire you to come with me. What would people say if

I allowed you to be out in such weather? Be good enough to do as I tell

you."

Ernestine cast one more silent glance over her beloved forest, and

then, with a saddened face, began to descend. When she reached the spot

where the bough had been broken, and whence Johannes had rescued her,

she broke off a couple of withered leaves, hid them in her dress, and

slipped down the trunk lightly as a shadow. She turned to her uncle.

All her delight had vanished; she was upon the earth once more, and her

uncle's cold, keen eye disenchanted her utterly. Her look was downcast;

she felt almost ashamed. If he knew that she had just been thinking of

God, he would despise her. But why could she believe in God again while

she was up there, and not when she was down here with her uncle?

She walked on without a word by Leuthold's side, glancing neither to

the right nor the left, never heeding how the wind was well-nigh

tearing her dress from her back. She did not want to fly any more,--she

longed for nothing;--when her uncle was by, she was ashamed of every

emotion. When she came to the place where the path leading to her home

diverged from the road to the village, she asked permission of Leuthold

to go and say farewell at the parsonage. After some hesitation, he

granted it, and went on alone. Ernestine hurried along the well-known

road. The village children shouted after her, "Halloo, there goes

Hartwich's Tina,--proud Tina, with the whey face!" She paid no heed to

them,--she felt herself above the jeers of such creatures. With a

beating heart she reached the parsonage; then she suddenly stood still.

What did she want here? To bid good-by to the pastor and his wife! But

if the good old man should admonish her to love and fear God, as he was

so apt to do? Or if he should ask her if she believed in God? What

should she,--what could she answer him? Could she, doubter, apostate

that she was, enter the presence of the servant of God without placing

herself at the bar of judgment, or without lying? She stood like a

penitent, not daring to enter the door which had been so often flung

open to her. Twice she put her hand upon the bell-handle and did not

pull it. She knew that the old man would be grieved if she went away

without bidding him farewell; but she also knew that he would be still

more deeply pained could he guess at her present state of mind. Perhaps

he might despise her then; she could not bear that; and, just as she

was ashamed of her faith when her uncle was with her, she was now

ashamed of her doubts. How often had the pastor told her it was a sin

to doubt! she had committed--nay, was now committing--this sin. No, her

guilty conscience would not let her meet his eye, or kiss the soft,

gently folded hands of his wife. She slipped past the house, so that no

one could see her, and went into the grave-yard, where it was quiet and

lonely and she could hide her guilty little heart upon her parents'

graves. She knelt down beside them, and longed for tears to relieve

her; but no blessing arose from the graves over which no spirits

hovered, but which covered, as her uncle Leuthold had told her, nothing

but bones. And yet she so longed to do penance for all her doubts. "If

I could only have faith again this minute, and pray God to forgive me,

I could go in and see the pastor," she thought. She looked around her,

not knowing what to do;--there was the church, and the doors were open.

She would go into the house of God; perhaps in that sacred place she

might find again what she had lost. In profound self-abasement the

child entered, threw herself upon her knees before the altar, and

closed her eyes. "Now, now I can pray!" she thought; but, just as upon

that terrible night when she was robbed of her religion and peace of

mind, devotion seemed near her, but to be eluding her clasp. There lay

the guiltless little penitent, her soul full of piety, but unable to

pray,--her heart full of tears, but unable to weep. She sprang up in

despair. God was not here either. She had thought she heard him in the

tempest, and that the wind was his breath,--but on the way home her

uncle had explained to her that it was nothing but a current of air

occasioned by the change of temperature on the earth's surface, or by

violent showers of rain, and she was convinced that she had been wrong

and that her uncle knew very much more than the pastor. But if she

believed her uncle, she could not believe in God; it was not her fault,

and yet this doubt weighed upon her as the first crime of her life. Her

trusting soul was like the iron that glows long after the fire in which

it was heated is quenched; her faith was extinguished, but the

influence that her faith had exerted upon her endured and became her

punishment. It began to grow dark; yet still she stood with head bowed

and downcast eyes beside the wooden crucifix upon the tomb of her

parents. The Christ who had been nailed to the cross for the sake of

what her uncle called an illusion, seemed to regard her so

reproachfully that she did not dare to look up at him; he had shed his

precious blood for the faith which she denied; she almost thought he

would tear away the hand nailed to the cross and extend it in menace

towards her. An inexplicable shudder ran through her; again she fell

upon her knees.

"Forgive, forgive!" she cried; and the tears burst forth and relieved

the icy pressure upon her heart.

Then something grasped her shoulder and raised her from the ground. Was

it her uncle, or the foul fiend, who was standing beside her?

"You are here, then," he sneered, "in the dark, kneeling and weeping.

Aha! I came to look for my quiet little philosopher, and I find a

whimpering child praying to a wooden doll! Can you tell me where

Ernestine Hartwich is?"

"Uncle," cried Ernestine, driven to defiance in her despair, "why do

you persecute me so continually to-day? Can I not be alone for one

hour? and must I give an account of every thought and word? You have

taken from me everything in which I confided,--you have come between

myself and God, so that I dare not go to the pastor, but must slip

round his house as if I were a thief. Do you think all this does not

pain me, and that I feel no remorse? Whatever you may teach me, I shall

never be happy again. Why did you tell me there were no spirits, no

angels, no God? I did not wish to know it. I loved God, and, however

wretched I was, I could always hope that he would be kind and merciful

to me; if no human being loved me, I could always think that he did.

And now I must bear everything that happens to me, hoping nothing and

loving nothing,--no one,--not even you!"

Leuthold smiled, and stroked Ernestine's curls.

"I see now that I was wrong in treating a girl twelve years old

like a boy of twenty. Too strong nourishment will not strengthen an

invalid,--he cannot bear it; I ought to have thought of that, and not

burdened your girlish brain with so much. I can understand your dislike

of me as the innocent cause of your mental indigestion, and forgive you

for it. Pardon me for overestimating your intellect,--it is my only

injustice towards you."

Ernestine stood gloomily beside him, without a word; he could not guess

what was passing in her mind.

"I will leave you here, my dear child. Pray on,--you need fear no

further disturbance. Go, kiss the feet of your Christ,--it will relieve

your heart. Go, Ernestine; or are you embarrassed by my presence? Shall

I walk away? Well!"

He turned as if to go; but Ernestine held fast to his arm.

"I will go with you," she said sullenly. "I could not pray now if I

tried. And I am not so stupid as you think me. I understood everything

that you have taught me, and I do not believe any longer in--in--the

other. What else do you require? One can cry without being thought

silly; and I tell you I shall cry far oftener than I shall laugh. Oh, I

shall cry all my life long!"

And she covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud.

"You are nervous, my child. These tears come from mere bodily weakness.

In a few years you will smile at what causes them now. Do not be

troubled that you cannot love any one,--not even me. All such childish

things are left behind in the nursery. Whoever will be truly free must

begin by standing alone. Every tie that links our heart to others,

however lovable they may be, is a fetter. Whoever will be strong must

cease to lean on others. Love knowledge alone,--all living things can

be taken from you, and your love for them is a source of pain. Science

is always yours,--an inexhaustible source of delight. Men are unjust.

They will estimate you not according to your mental powers, but your

exterior advantages, and these are too trivial to gain their homage.

Science gives you your deserts,--she measures her gifts according to

your diligence. Women will envy you; for your intellect will far

outsoar theirs. Men will slight you; for you are not, and never will

be, beautiful, and they require beauty beyond all else in a woman. You

will meet with nothing but disappointment among your kind, if you are

not resolved to expect nothing from them. If you would avoid every

grief that they can cause you, learn early not to depend upon them; and

to this end, science, the culture of the mind, alone can lead you.

Intellect will indemnify us for all the woes and necessities of

humanity,--through it we can rise to the true dignity of our nature.

Therefore, my child, seek out the true nourishment for the intellect,

and the blind instincts of your heart will soon die in the clear light

of the mind. You long for peace; trust me, it is to be found only in

your mind, not in love."

Ernestine walked silently beside her uncle. Her eyes gleamed strangely

in the twilight as she looked up at him. She did not understand all

that he said. But there came an icy chill from his words, and it was

owing to him that her feverish excitement of mind was allayed. Soft and

gently as falling snow in the night, his words had fallen into her

mind, and, without her knowledge, hidden the last blossoms of faith

there under a thick, cold pall. Beneath it her young heart grew torpid;

and she took this quiet, painless sleep for peace.

When they reached home, they found the Staatsraethin's carriage before

the door.

"Uncle," said Ernestine alarmed and disturbed, "go in and see if it is

the Frau Staatsraethin herself,--if it is, I would rather stay outside."

At this moment little Angelika looked out of the window, and called

Ernestine by name in a tone of delight. There was no help for it.

Ernestine had to go in and encounter, to her distress, the majestic

figure of the Staatsraethin. The great lady acknowledged Leuthold's low

bow by a slight inclination of her head, and held out her hand to

Ernestine.

"You have avoided me hitherto, my child. Have I, without intending it,

done anything to pain you?"

Ernestine stood silent in confusion. She could not have told, even had

she wished to do so, what the kind Staatsraethin had done to her, for

she did not know herself what it was. She could not understand, in her

childish inexperience, that it was her sense of shame at her own

insufficiency that embarrassed her in the Frau Staatsraethin's presence.

The lady's eyes rested kindly upon the shadowy little figure. She

stroked the child's thick, short curls, and then turned to Leuthold,

while Angelika, who had a large doll in her arms, drew Ernestine away

to a deep window-seat.

"My object here to-day, Herr Doctor, is to arrange a pressing matter of

business with you as speedily as possible."

"Madam," said Leuthold bowing, "I feel much honoured. May I offer you

one of these clumsy chairs? or will you have the kindness to go up with

me to my own apartments, where I can receive you in a more fitting

manner?"

The Staatsraethin glanced towards the children.

"I would like to speak to you alone for a few moments, Herr Doctor."

"Then, madam, let me request you to accompany me." With these words

Leuthold opened the door.

"Angelika," the Staatsraethin said to the child, "stay with Ernestine

until I come back."

She went upstairs with Leuthold; and, when seated upon the couch in his

study, she could not but observe the comfortable, cosy arrangement of

the room, the delicate cleanliness and order reigning in it; while upon

the table before her lay several exercise-books labelled "Ernestine von

Hartwich." Involuntarily she was inspired with a kind of confidence in

the grave, elegant man who had received her with so much grace. She

inspected him with the experienced eyes of a woman of the world. His

bearing was blameless, and his regular features bore an unmistakably

intellectual stamp. Far-sighted and clever as the Staatsraethin was, she

was too much of a woman not to be impressed by the good taste in

Leuthold's appearance and manner, and she was inclined to think Heim's

estimate of him as somewhat unjust. She did not belong to the class of

women ready to be imposed upon by a small hand with filbert-shaped,

carefully-kept nails; but the refinement of Leuthold's person and

surroundings was very agreeable in her eyes.

"The neatness and order that I see here surprise me, Herr Doctor," she

began, as Leuthold seated himself opposite her; "for I hear that your

wife is not with you at present."

"No, madam, I am alone; but I have an acute sense of fitness in

exterior arrangements, and probably pay more attention to such things

than is quite becoming in a man."

"Will your wife's absence be of long duration?" asked the Staatsraethin

with interest.

A shadow passed over Leuthold's countenance. "I fear, yes, madam. My

wife, unfortunately, had not sufficient affection for our child and

myself to endure the deprivations to which the disappointment of our

hopes of an inheritance from my brother subjected us. She returned to

her father for an indefinite time, and, as she has succeeded in keeping

away now from her little daughter for two months, I have great doubts

of her return."

"But that is very sad for you, Herr Doctor," remarked the Staatsraethin.

Leuthold passed his hand across his eyes. "It is sad indeed, madam,

that I should have made such a choice,--that I should have expended

years of love and pains in the attempt to cultivate and train a nature

incapable of culture. Mine is the same pain which is experienced by the

sculptor who finds a serious flaw in the marble upon which he has spent

years of labour. He exhausts himself in the endeavour to shape it

according to his ideal, and, just when he hopes for its completion, a

dark vein is laid bare by his chisel,--his work is worthless,--he has

hoped and laboured in vain!"

The Staatsraethin looked at him with interest, "That is rather coldly

put, and yet poetically conceived, sir."

"An artist would not call it cold, madam, for he would know how great

the suffering is to which I have ventured to compare my own."

The Staatsraethin assented. Leuthold's manner pleased her more and more.

Just then Lena entered, leading Gretchen by the hand, and carrying a

brightly burnished lighted lamp, which she placed upon the table.

"Oh, what a charming child!" exclaimed the Staatsraethin in unfeigned

surprise.

Her keenly observant eye noticed with pleasure the ray of delight that

illumined Leuthold's countenance. "Is she not lovely, madam?" he said,

actually glowing with gratified vanity. "You do indeed delight the

heart of a father who has seen his child forsaken by her own mother.

Yes, she is a treasure. She has the personal beauty that once so

attracted me in her mother, and will, I hope, develop a beauty of soul

which I failed to find in her mother. She will, in the future, repair

all that I have lost. While I have this daughter, I ask of life nothing

beside."

The large-hearted Staatsraethin was completely won by a declaration so

full of affection. "The man that idolizes his child thus cannot be

worthless," she thought.

Leuthold motioned to Lena to take Gretchen away again, and as she did

so the Staatsraethin remarked, as if casually, "There cannot be much

room in your heart, filled as it is with love for such an angel, for

poor, pale little Ernestine."

Leuthold looked steadily at her. "Madam, a lady like yourself, whose

loving heart finds room for so many, can hardly say that in earnest."

"You are right," said the Staatsraethin; "I ought to know how many one

can love without defrauding any of their due measure of affection. But

I am a woman, whose vocation it is to love; a man, and a scholar, like

yourself, is apt to confine his regard to what is nearest to him."

"It is natural; and I do not deny that my daughter is dearer to me than

my niece: nevertheless, I think I have sufficient affection for the

latter to satisfy her demands and to enable me to fulfil all my duties

as guardian. You can have no idea, madam, what anxious care the

extraordinarily precocious intellect of that child requires, and what a

weighty responsibility the training of such an uncommon nature

involves."

"I can easily believe you; and I am convinced that she could not

possibly be in better hands than your own. But Ernestine's physical

education must weigh heavily upon you just at this time, when you are

alone. I should very much like to relieve you somewhat in future of

your arduous duties. You leave to-morrow for the south, and I cannot

but rejoice, for the sake of Ernestine's health, that it is so. But I

hear that you intend returning hither at the end of six mouths, to

settle in this part of the country. If this be so, let me entreat you

to intrust your ward to me every year for some weeks or months,--you

will need some rest,--when you can give your undivided time to your

daughter. Will you not allow me to take this part in Ernestine's

education?"

Leuthold bowed. "Madam, you are one of those who scatter blessings

wherever they appear. Your sympathy does me too much honour; I am

unworthy of it. Therefore let me thank you, not for myself, but for my

niece. There is another name, also, in which I must offer you grateful

acknowledgments,--that of the unfortunate mother of the child. If she

could speak to you from the other world, she would repay your kindness

with far better thanks than my weak words can convey."

The Staatsraethin's eyes filled with tears; she thought, what would

become of her little Angelika without her mother, and, touched to her

heart, she grew still more reconciled to the strange man whose manner

contrasted so strongly with all she had heard of him.

"Then you consent to my plan?" she asked.

"I give you my word, madam, that, when I return with Ernestine, she

shall stay with you as long as you desire."

"I thank you," said the Staatsraethin, surprised at this ready assent.

She was now firmly convinced that Heim had done this singular man great

injustice.

"We have agreed so quickly in this matter," the Staatsraethin began

again, "that I cannot but hope that I shall be equally successful in

regard to the other affair that brings me here. I have come, in fact,

for the purpose of learning whether you will dispose of the Hartwich

estate."

A delicate flush overspread Leuthold's face.

"Indeed, madam, you take me greatly by surprise."

"You are aware that my brother Neuenstein has long been desirous of

possessing the factory; but serious losses in another direction

rendered it impossible for him to command the sum required for the

purchase. When I found how his heart was set upon giving his son a

position as possessor and head of the factory, I determined, with the

consent of my son Johannes and his guardians, to furnish him with the

necessary funds. Johannes' answer to my proposal has just arrived from

Paris. He entirely approves of my plan, and would willingly even run

the risk of a loss for his uncle's sake."

"I really cannot tell which to admire most, madam,--your determination

and energy, or your generous spirit! Happy the man who has such a

sister!"

"Oh, I pray you do not flatter me," said the Staatsraethin, as a shade

of embarrassment flitted across her face. "Such things are not worth

mentioning. I wish to keep my brother and my nephew near me; and I

could not do so if they were to buy property in another part of the

country. It is most fortunate that my country-seat is just where it is.

My motive is purely selfish. As you depart early to-morrow morning, we

had better arrange matters upon the spot. Then I can lay the deed of

purchase upon my brother's plate at tea this evening."

"A princely surprise," rejoined Leuthold, hastening to his

writing-table to make out the necessary agreement. The transaction met

his desires perfectly, for he wished above all things to be able to

reside in the south with Ernestine, that he might carry out his plans

with regard to her education, far from the scrutiny of her present

friends; and, by the disposal of this property, the last reason for

ever returning to the scenes of her childhood vanished.

In the mean time, Angelika and Ernestine were sitting in the

window-seat of what was formerly the laundry, engaged in earnest

conversation. Angelika had received that very day from her brother the

crying doll that she had thought he meant to bring her upon his return.

She was beside herself with delight, and could not imagine how

Ernestine could be so unmoved by the sight of such a miracle of

mechanism. She had made it say "papa" and "mamma," and open and shut

its eyes, repeatedly. Ernestine was entirely composed and cold. She

declared that the words "papa" and "mamma" were not very distinct, and

that the eyelids made altogether too much noise in opening and

shutting.

Angelika was not at all troubled by Ernestine's budding misanthropy,

for she did not observe it. But that her friend should not care for

dolls, was a bitter grief to the little girl. "You will never take any

pleasure in dolls if you do not like this one," she said.

"Why should I take any pleasure in them?" Ernestine said in a tone of

contempt.

"What? Why, don't you know? I suppose you think the poor things do not

feel it when you are unkind to them. But mamma says they feel it all,

and don't like it, although they don't show it."

"Do you believe all that your mother says?" asked Ernestine, shaking

her head.

"Certainly; of course. Mamma always tells the truth."

"How do you know that?"

Angelika stared at Ernestine. "How? Why, because I do."

"Yes, but who told you so?"

"No one; I know it myself."

Ernestine looked down and said nothing.

"I know it myself," she repeated thoughtfully, not comprehending why

the words struck her so oddly. "But suppose she should tell you what

you could not believe?"

"Oh, a child must always believe what her mother says."

"How if she cannot do it?"

"But she must!" cried Angelika angrily.

"She must? How can we believe anything because we must? It is not

possible," said Ernestine, and she thought Angelika very silly.

Suddenly it occurred to her that the pastor was no wiser when he said

that we must have faith and that it was a sin not to believe. What if

you could not,--what was the use of that _must_?

"Ernestine, don't stare so at nothing," said Angelika, interrupting her

reverie. "Just look how straight my doll can sit, all alone, without

anything to lean against! Oh, just give her one kiss; she is your

namesake--I christened her Ernestine."

"No, I don't want to,--it is nothing but a lump of leather, it cannot

feel, and I will not kiss anything that is not alive and does not

feel!"

"Oh, Ernestine, don't say that. She is not alive now, but perhaps she

may get alive. Mamma told me once of a man in Greece, called Pygmalion,

who made a marble doll for himself, and loved it so dearly that it grew

warm and came to life. And I believe that if I should love my doll

dearly she might get alive; and I am sure I shall love her very dearly!

She can say 'papa' and 'mamma' already, which Herr Pygmalion's doll

could not do at all; and in time I shall perhaps bring her on, just as

he did his!"

And she clasped the "lump of leather" to her little heart, gazed

tenderly and hopefully into its blue glass eyes, and was quite content.

Ernestine looked at her with mournful wonder; she understood now that

"Faith gives peace," and she envied the child her happiness.

"Would you not rather have a puppy or a kitten?" she asked gently. "It

could eat and drink, and you could feed it, and it would understand

what was said to it, and run after you, and love you? Would not that be

nicer?"

A shade of sorrow passed over Angelika's rosy face, like a cloud over

the sun. "Oh," she sighed, "we have a little dog; but I cannot feed it;

it does not eat nor drink!"

"Why not? Is it sick?"

"No; it is stuffed."

Ernestine smiled in spite of herself. "Then you have no dog!"

"Oh, yes, we have! he is called Assor. He only died, and mamma had him

stuffed, so that he lies perfectly quiet near the fire, and never

stirs. Mamma says he will not come to life again. Oh, Ernestine, it is

very sad,--when I stroke him, he never licks my hand any more! I call

him hundreds of times, and he used to turn his pretty black head round

towards me, but he does not do it now; he cannot see nor hear me, and

he used to love me so much."

The little girl covered her eyes with her hand and began to cry.

Ernestine tried to soothe her. "Your mother ought to have had the dog

buried. Then you would have forgotten him and not grieved after him."

"No! oh, no! I could not have borne that. What! have the faithful old

dog hidden in the ground! It would have been too hard! He was so

faithful; he never left our side; and when he could hardly walk, he

used to creep out of his basket to welcome us when we came into the

room, and when he was dying in my lap, he looked up at me so

mournfully, as if to say, 'I must leave you now.' And could I hide him

away and forget him? That would be dreadful. No, no! he shall lie by

the fire in the drawing-room; it is far more comfortable there than in

the cold ground, and I will always think how good he was. And I'll tell

you what,--when mamma dies she shall not be buried either. I will put

her dressing gown on her and let her lie in her soft bed. Then I will

pretend she is sick, and I will sit by her every day and talk to her,

and, even if she does not answer me, I shall know what she would say if

she could speak. And if she cannot kiss me, I will kiss her all the

more. That will be a great deal better than to have nothing left of

her; will it not?"

Ernestine shook her head. "That can't be done, Angelika; you can't keep

dead bodies; they decay. How can you think of such a thing?"

"Oh, you say, 'That can't be done,'--you say, 'That's nothing,' to

everything, and spoil all my pleasure; I tell you it is very unkind of

you!"

Ernestine felt ashamed. She had been treating Angelika as her uncle

Leuthold treated herself. The child was pained and unhappy when her

dolls were treated with contempt, and her childish fancies not

encouraged; and was she, Ernestine, to endure without a moan the utter

overthrow of the hopes of her entire existence, when her uncle dragged

down into the dust all that she had held most sacred? She leaned her

forehead, heavy with the weight of her thoughts, against the

window-pane, and looked up into the gray, storm-lashed clouds, through

which there beamed no star, not a ray of moonlight. The children had

not noticed the gathering darkness in the room, and Rieka almost

startled them when she entered with a light.

"Is not mamma coming soon?" asked Angelika with a sigh. "Pray tell her

that I want to go home."

"I will tell her," replied Rieka, and left the room.

"You are tired of being with me," Ernestine whispered sadly. "You

cannot love me either, can you?"

Angelika was confused, and did not answer. Ernestine looked

disappointed and bitter. "Very well, then--I need not like you either.

Uncle Leuthold would only scold me if I did."

"What for?" Angelika asked amazed.

"Because it is silly to love anything except science, and because

nobody loves me--nobody!"

As she was speaking, a carriage drove up, and old Heim alighted from

it. Ernestine was startled; she felt as if the pastor, whom she had

shunned, were coming. The door opened, and he entered the room.

"Well, here you both are!" he cried after his hearty fashion. "I wanted

to say good-by to you, my little Ernestine, before you leave us for so

long. But what is the matter? Have you been quarrelling about the doll?

Why, what a lovely creature she is!" He took the doll, seated himself

in a chair, and dandled it upon his knee; the machinery of the toy was

set in motion, and the doll screamed "mamma" and "papa" loudly. "Good

gracious, how frightened I am!" laughed the old gentleman. "But she is

very naughty,--you must train her better, Angelika. She ought not to

scream so at strangers."

Angelika clapped her hands with delight. "Oh, I knew that you would

like her, Uncle Heim. You will love her just as you do the rest of my

dolls, won't you?"

"Of course; she is really such a lovely creature, that I must bring her

some bonbons the next time I come."

"Oh, yes--do, uncle, do!" cried Angelika.

"But be careful not to let her eat too many, or she will have to be put

to bed like your old Selma, and I shall have to play doll's-doctor

again."

"Oh, no, uncle; I will eat some with her myself; bring them soon, pray

do."

Meanwhile Heim had been observing Ernestine, who stood mute at a little

distance.

"Well, what does our little Ernestine say to this wonderful new child?"

"Oh, uncle," Angelika complained, "she called it a lump of leather."

Heim looked gravely at Ernestine. "So young, and already such a

skeptic! Only twelve years old, and take no pleasure in dolls? Poor

child!"

Ernestine was silent. The words "Poor child" fell like molten lead into

an open wound. Heim gave back the doll to Angelika. "Come here,

Ernestine." She approached him shyly.

"What have you been doing? you look as if you had a guilty conscience?"

"Well, she has, Uncle Heim," Angelika interposed; "for she said, a

little while ago, that it was silly to love any one; and that is very

wrong!"

"Did you say that?" asked Heim astonished.

Ernestine felt as though she should sink into the ground. She

clasped her hands in entreaty. "Oh, forgive me! I have all kinds of

thoughts!--I do not know what I say or do! I only know that I am a

wretched, wretched child!"

Heim shook his head, and drew the trembling child towards him. "My

darling, tell me about it: is your uncle severe with you? does he treat

you unkindly?"

"No, oh, no! he is very kind,--he is never cross to me--it is not

that,--not that."

"I understand. In spite of his kindness, you feel that he is not near

to you; you have no father nor mother, and you need warmth and

sunshine, you poor frail little flower. Only be patient! when you get

to the lovely, sunny south, with its flowers and birds, you will be

better, and your heart will be lighter. I would have liked to keep you

with me, I would have brought you up lovingly, and would have tried to

fill a father's place to you. But it could not be,--God best knows

why,--and I am sure it is better for you, mind and body, to leave this

northern climate for a time."

These kind words melted Ernestine's very heart. She pressed Heim's

hands to her lips. She wanted to confess all to him. "Oh, do not speak

so to me!" she cried with streaming eyes,--"not so kindly!--I do not

deserve it."

"My poor innocent child, what can you have done, not to deserve

kindness? Ernestine, what is it? What disturbs you so?"

"Oh, if you knew--" cried Ernestine, and just then the door opened, and

Leuthold appeared, just in time to prevent what would have ruined all

his plans.

"Ah, Herr Geheimrath,--then I was not mistaken. It was your carriage

that drove up. The Frau Staatsraethin is with me upon business, and

requests your presence at the signing of a paper."

"I will come immediately," Helm said briefly, and went up-stairs with

Leuthold.

"Now uncle will drive home with us," cried Angelika delighted. "Isn't

he kind, Ernestine?"

"Yes, oh, yes," sighed Ernestine, standing motionless beside the chair

where Heim had been sitting. At last he returned with Leuthold and the

Staatsraethin.

"Angelika," said the latter, "we must hurry, so that Uncle Neuenstein

shall not wait for his tea. Good-by, my little Ernestine. Herr

Gleissert will tell you what we intend to do when you come back. Get

well and strong, my child, so that you may come back to us a healthy

little girl."

Angelika kissed Ernestine hastily, and drew her mother towards the

door.

Ernestine stood still with downcast eyes. Heim went up to her and

clasped her in his arms. He only said, "God bless you!" but these words

agitated her greatly, and, as he turned to go, she sank on the floor,

sobbing aloud.

The visitors had gone,--the carriages had rolled away. Leuthold had

been amusing himself for some time with Gretchen in his own room. But

Ernestine was still on her knees in the cheerless room below-stairs,

weeping over the grave of her childhood.

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

"ONLY A WOMAN."

Upon a bright, sunny day, at the house of Professor Moellner in N----

there were gathered the principal Professors of medicine and philosophy

in the town. The table provided for the guests was loaded with

everything that could rejoice the hearts of men who had spent the

morning in delivering lectures. Lunch was not the only end for which

this assemblage was gathered together. These learned gentlemen had

taken this occasion to discuss a very ludicrous matter,--nothing less

than an application from a lady for permission to attend the lectures

and to graduate at the University of the place.

Moellner had invited these gentlemen to his house for the purpose of

this discussion. There sat the physiologist Meibert, the anatomist

Beck, and the philosophers Herbert and Taun, leaning back in

comfortable arm-chairs,--their throats very dry,--regarding with

longing eyes the various bottles that stood as yet uncorked, as if

awaiting the magic word that should make them yield up their contents.

Hector, too, Moellner's large dog, was devouring with his eyes, at a

respectful distance, the delicacies upon the table, quite unable to

understand how the gentlemen could refrain so long from falling to. He

would have done very differently had he been a man.

The Staatsraethin entered the room, and with dignified repose and

kindliness of manner greeted the guests, who rose as she appeared. "I

have just learned that my son is not here to receive his friends," she

said. "Allow me to act his part. You must need refreshment after the

lectures."

"Thanks, thanks! you are most kind," was heard from all sides as the

Staatsraethin filled the glasses. Herbert, the philosopher, was foremost

in his acknowledgments; for he was a great favourite in society, and

aspired to unite the solidity of the scholar with the grace of the man

of the world. "We are greatly privileged in being allowed to kiss the

hand whose tasteful care we have already admired in the charming,

arrangement of this table."

"Professor Herbert's gallantry is well known," said the Staatsraethin

dryly.

"It is true," he replied, "that I endeavour always to give expression

to the sentiments of respect and admiration that I entertain for your

sex, madam, in spite of the failure of my attempts."

"Good-morning, mamma,--good-morning, gentlemen," cried a clear, ringing

voice, and there came tripping into the room a figure so full of life

and bloom that its joyousness was instantly reflected upon every face.

"Angelika," said the Staatsraethin, embracing her, "have you come

without your husband? What is the matter? You were not invited;--it was

_he_. Is it a mistake?"

"Oh, Frau Staatsraethin, we are entirely satisfied with the exchange,"

laughed the professors; and, Herbert taking the lead,--they gathered

about Angelika, enjoying the atmosphere of youth and grace that

encompassed her everywhere.

"I know perfectly well, mamma, that only Moritz was invited, but I have

come too. I so wanted to hear judgment passed in this august assembly

upon my former playmate. I may stay, may I not?"

"If your husband is willing, and these gentlemen do not object," said

the Staatsraethin.

"No, oh, no,--we certainly do not object," cried all the gentlemen,

with the exception of Herbert, who remarked softly, with a thoughtful

air, that he feared that their charming associate might hear some

observations on this occasion not flattering to her sex.

"Oh, I cannot fear anything of the sort from you, the acknowledged

champion of dames, the most gallant of men," laughed Angelika,--"and

the other gentlemen will not be too bard upon us."

Herbert shrugged his shoulders.

"Besides," Angelika continued gaily, "I have been a little hardened in

the matter by my stern lord and master, who has very little

consideration for our sex."

"Scarcely to be wondered at in a practising physician," Herbert said in

a low tone to his associates; then, turning with his sweetest

expression to Angelika, "Could you not have taught him better long

ago?"

"Oh, no," complained Angelika.

"He considers his wife an exception," interposed the Staatsraethin; "she

seems to have left no room in his nature for sympathy with the rest of

womankind. I have never seen a man so exclusive in his regard."

"Such a wife deserves it all," said Herbert, kissing Angelika's hand.

At this moment the door opened, and old Heim, his fine head crowned

with locks of silvery whiteness, entered. All bowed low to this "Nestor

of science," as he was called. After the death of his king he had

accepted a call to N----, and had for eight years occupied the chair of

pathology in the University there. He was followed by his adopted son,

for whom he had created a professorship for the cure of diseases of the

eye,--a fair, handsome young man, slender in figure and gentle in

demeanour, with hands so small and well shaped that they seemed formed

for the very purpose of handling such a delicate piece of mechanism as

the eye. The Staatsraethin and Angelika greeted them both with all their

old cordiality, and Professor Herbert said aloud, "How fresh and strong

our revered associate looks! he must teach us how to retain our youth."

"Yes, indeed," said Meibert, "if Bock could see him he would recall his

cruel assertion that man retains full possession of his mental powers

only until the age of fifty!"

"He will soon recall that when he has passed fifty himself," said a

deep, powerful voice. All turned to the new-comer.

"Ah, Moellner, have you been listening?"

"Oh, no; but I could not help hearing, as I came in, that you were

making pretty speeches to one another,--just as if you had cups of tea

before you, instead of glasses of good wine. Pray, what has made you so

sentimental?"

"Your protracted absence, probably," said Angelika, relieving her

brother of his hat and cane.

The strong, fine-looking man threw an affectionate glance at her.

"Indeed! let me entreat forgiveness, then. One of my experiments was

unsuccessful, and I was obliged to repeat it. That is why I am late!"

"I suppose, then, you have been torturing some unfortunate dog or

rabbit," said Angelika in a tone of distress. "Poor thing!"

"For shame, Angelika!" said her brother. "Those are not words for the

sister of a physiologist,--a woman who ought to understand the object

of science."

Angelika made no reply, but observed, well pleased, how tenderly

Johannes stroked Hector, who came to greet his master.

The door was flung violently open, and in rushed, in a great hurry,

Angelika's husband, Moritz Kern, Clinical Professor and practising

physician. His figure was not tall, but muscular,--his eyes were black

and sparkling, his features sharply cut, and his stiff black hair close

cropped around his head. "Morning, morning," he cried, quite out of

breath, but in high good humour, as he threw his hat and gloves upon a

table and himself into a chair. "Excuse me for my tardiness. Ah, my

dear,--kiss your hand,--love me? Yes? Not seen you since morning.

Walter with you? No? Was he good?"

"Yes, indeed," said Angelika, who stood beside her boisterous husband

like a rose upon a thorny stem; "but he fell off his rocking-horse and

has got a great bruise."

"Good, good,--harden him," he replied smiling. He looked for an instant

into Angelika's blue eyes, and the fire of his glance must have

penetrated her heart, for her fair brow flushed and her eyelids drooped

like those of a girl upon the day of her betrothal.

"Come, Moritz, you can make love to your wife another time," cried

Johannes; "it is late,--we must come to business. What detained you?"

"My dear friend, I couldn't help it. I had a girl at the clinic

that gave me no end of trouble. Old trouble with the

heart,--acute inflammation,--stoppage in the arteries of the left

foot,--mortification,--the leg must come off to-day."

"A splendid case!" said Helm approvingly.

"Heavens! what savages you are, to call that a splendid case!" said

Angelika horrified.

"My angel, if you choose to assist at a council of rude men, you must

not start at such innocent technical terminology," said her husband,

enjoying Angelika's pretty dismay.

"Yes, I too have been scolding her for sympathizing with the victims of

my experiments," said Moellner.

"You were wrong to blame her. I like to have her compassionate.

Continue to weep for the poor dogs, my child, and the yet more

unfortunate frogs. What have you to do with the reasons for torturing

them? I do not want you to imbibe any flavour of science from your

husband or brother. I like you just as you are; you suit me precisely.

I will not have you otherwise."

"For heaven's sake, mamma, carry Angelika away!" cried Johannes

laughing. "As long as this fellow has his wife by his side, there is

nothing to be done with him!"

"She shall stay!" said Moritz decidedly. "There is nothing of

importance to be done. The Hartwich woman asks to attend our lectures;

why waste any thought upon such a fool? Don't answer her request at

all, and be done with it!"

"Softly, softly, my young friend," cried old Heim very gravely, while

Moritz, with Angelika's hand in his, swallowed a glass of wine. "First

read this paper, which the girl sent to me, and which so enchained

Moellner's attention when I gave it to him to-day after lecture that--I

must betray him--it was the cause of his tardiness. The experiments

were over long before he made his appearance!"

A slight flush overspread Johannes' face as he handed Moritz the paper.

The latter read the title aloud--"_Reflex Motion in its Relation to

Free Agency_."

"By Jove! a good idea, if it is her own!"

"It is her own--that I'll vouch for!" cried Heim with warmth.

"That must be both philosophically and physiologically interesting,"

said the philosopher Taun to Herbert, who coldly shrugged his

shoulders.

"Let us see whether the article corresponds to the title," muttered

Moritz, turning over the leaves.

"Read us some of it aloud," said Heim; and Moritz selected, at random,

and read: "According to my opinion, the want of external self-control

proceeds from sluggishness of the inhibitory nerves in comparison with

the activity of the motor nerves, for the effort to control one's self

is certainly, in a degree, neither more nor less than a struggle for

mastery between these two sets of nerves. If the irritation acting upon

the one is stronger than the force of will which should excite the

other to activity, the reflex motion will take place in spite of what

is called 'best intentions,' whether the occasion be a start of alarm,

a desire to yawn, laugh, or weep at unfitting times, a scream, an angry

gesture, or even a blow bestowed upon the object whence proceeds the

incitement to wrath."

Moritz paused, and said smiling, "She has forgotten a kiss, which is

only a reflex motion under certain circumstances,--that is, when one

does not wish to kiss, ought not to kiss, and yet cannot help it." And

he drew his wife towards him, and kissed her. Angelika blushed deeply,

and, rising, greatly embarrassed, joined her mother, who sat quietly at

work by the window. The gentlemen laughed, and Moritz looked after her

with eyes full of tenderness.

"It certainly is strange that while the Hartwich has made due mention

of the reflex motion of terror--a start; of pain--tears; of fatigue--a

yawn; of anger--a blow, it does not seem to have occurred to her that

there are reflex motions of tenderness, also," remarked young Hilsborn.

"Probably," said Moritz laughing, "she has had no opportunity for

observing any such. I suppose that, like all blue-stockings, she is so

ugly that no one has ever bestowed any tenderness upon her."

"She is certainly not ugly," said Johannes with warmth. "She might have

admirers enough if she chose."

Moritz turned hastily round to Johannes, who sat almost behind him, and

stared as if a new idea had suddenly occurred to him. "What the deuce,

Johannes! do you know her? Oho! indeed! now I understand the interest

that you take in her. Well, you can teach her to make good her

omissions."

"I should really like to be present at such an interesting lesson!"

said Herbert.

"Laugh away," said Johannes calmly. "You may laugh at me as much as you

please, but have the goodness, Moritz, to spare your jests as far as

Fraeulein Hartwich is concerned; and you too, friend Herbert. Pray heed

what I say. We have nothing to do here with the personality of this

girl; it is nothing to us. All we have to do is to pass judgment upon

her intellectual capacity, and to accede or not to her request. Go on,

Moritz!"

And Moritz read further: "Even the law, without knowing it, recognizes

this physiological fact, for it punishes less severely a murder

committed in the heat of passion than one that is premeditated. And

what is a murder committed in the heat of passion, in reality, but a

reflex motion in a broader sense? If this theory be correct, many a

poor criminal may escape not only a violent death at the hangman's

hands, but also the flames of the material hell to which bigoted

moralists have consigned him. Let us endeavour, therefore, to discover

what relation these facts sustain to Free Agency. All that we can do to

attain the self-control which is the germ of all the virtues is, from

earliest childhood, to exercise the inhibitory nerves in the discharge

of their functions. It is an undoubted fact that, from the beginning of

life, the mind must learn to use as its tools the various organs of the

body. We cannot understand the use of a tool to which we are

unaccustomed as we can one that we have frequently handled. Thus it is

with the mind and the nerves. Every nerve that is often called into

activity by the mind is strengthened by exercise. For example: the

sense of touch grows remarkably keen with blind people, who depend upon

it as a substitute for eyesight. By continual exercise of the nerves of

sensation in his finger-tips, the blind man achieves the greatest

perfection in his sense of touch. 'Practice makes perfect,' we often

hear said with regard to arts and occupations difficult of mastery. And

what is this practice but the custom of the mind to exercise this or

that nerve, bringing into play the required muscular activity,--the

exercise of certain nerve-fibres? Are the inhibitory nerves alone not

to be thus controlled? Certainly not! The mind can make them also

implicitly obedient to its will, if it neglects no opportunity for

exercising them,--and why should it not apply itself to this task with

the same zeal that is expended upon the attainment of an art or

handicraft? I, for example, was in the habit of screaming at the

unexpected discharge of a pistol. I had a pistol discharged daily in my

hearing, without warning, and in a short time I was able to suppress

the scream. It may be urged that I had gradually become accustomed to

the noise, and was no longer startled. But this was not the case. I was

as much startled as ever, but I had taught the appropriate inhibitory

nerve to cut off the reflex motion upon the larynx. I know that a

subjective experience of this kind proves nothing objectively; but such

a simple inference, I think, needs no proof. Here we come again to the

boundary-line separating the physiological from the psychological,

where free agency results from a material law, just as fragrance comes

from the chalice of a flower. Only let us be sure that our nerves are

but a key-board upon which, if we strike the right keys correctly, we

shall produce the harmonious accord of our whole being, and, if we do

not learn to do so, we are to be pitied or despised, according to the

school in which the lesson is needed."

"And so on," said Moritz, turning over the leaves. "The rest can be

easily imagined. Here is a special treatise upon the motor nerves,--it

seems pretty fair,--and rather a long essay upon nervous excitement,

but I think we have done our duty and read enough of the testimony. How

shall we decide? Shall we carry out the joke, and admit a student in

petticoats to the lectures and the dissecting-room?"

"Why not?" said Professor Taun with some humour. "We admit so many

stupid lads, why not one woman?"

"My dear friend," old Heim began, "I do not think we have ever had many

pupils more gifted than Fraeulein Hartwich. And is not a talented woman

better than a stupid man?"

"That is a question," remarked Herbert, riveting his sharp eyes upon

Heim's honest face. "I do not believe that the most talented woman can

accomplish what is possible, with diligence and perseverance, for a man

of common ability. What aid can a woman lend to us, or to science? The

aid of her labour only, for no woman possesses creative force. And the

feminine capacity for labour is so weak, that it is hardly worth while

to commit an absurdity for the sake of making it ours."

"An absurdity?" asked Heim.

"Yes, I should call it absurd to admit a woman among our students, to

degrade science to a mere doll to amuse silly girls withal, until,

finally, there would be an Areopagus erected, before which we should be

expected to make our most profound bow, in every feminine tea-party.

There is competition enough already, without increasing it by the

admission among us of the other sex."

"That sounds strange," said old Heim; "it looks almost as if you were

afraid of the competition which you so thoroughly despise. Why speak of

competition in science? Leave that narrow-minded word to trade, which

is really confined within certain limits. In such a boundless and

abstract domain as science, there is no place for personal envy and

arrogance. Can there be any question of competition when we are

labouring for a cause which is to benefit the world? Whoever asks for

other rewards than are contained in knowledge itself, is no priest of

science. The true student exists for science, not science for him,--he

rejoices in every fresh advance, no matter by whom it is made, for the

honour of the cause that he serves is his own, and we can say

truthfully, Each for all, and all for each. If, therefore, we are

offered the labour of a pair of hands willing to share our pains, let

us not reject them because they are the delicate hands of a woman, but

accept them, and offer them a modest place, where they can achieve all

that lies in their power."

"But," cried Moritz, "let such hands do for us what we cannot do for

ourselves,--knit stockings, for instance,--instead of trying to assist

in what we can easily accomplish without them."

"My dear young friend," said Heim smiling, "the temple of science is

large, very large. I think neither we nor our posterity, however

numerous they may be, will be able to complete it."

"I think, gentlemen," said the philosopher Taun, in his gentle, refined

way, "that there are only two points of view from which the matter is

to be considered. Either we must base our decision upon the

intellectual capacity of the lady, and, if so, subject the paper before

us to conscientious criticism; or we must determine, once for all, that

no woman is to be admitted to our University,--in which case there will

be no question whatever of capacity or incapacity. Let us, then, come

to an agreement upon these points."

"That is true,--Taun is right," cried Heim. "I vote for the admission

of women of genius, like this one."

"And I against it," rejoined Herbert; "for I contend that there are no

women of genius!"

"For my part," said Taun, "I am not decidedly opposed to the admission

of a woman among our hearers, and, if I were, the originality of

Fraeulein Hartwich's paper would have shaken my decision. I cannot judge

of the value of the physiological part of it,--I must leave that to our

friend Moellner; but the philosophical idea that is its basis I think

extremely suggestive, and that is more than can be expected from one of

the laity."

"I oppose the emancipation of women," cried Moritz, "principally

because I find the existing order of society quite rational, and will

do nothing to disturb it."

"I vote for Fraeulein Hartwich," said young Hilsborn. "It will not

interfere with our social order to grant her request. She will not be

followed by crowds of imitators, for the simple reason that her talent

is extraordinary. I maintain that we have no right to deny any

opportunity for development to such a talent because it is accidentally

hidden in a woman's brain. A great mind requires strong nourishment,

and it is cruel to withhold such from it out of mere envy, and condemn

it to extinction among the commonplace occupations of women."

"Hilsborn is far from wrong," said Meibert; "but can such a mind quench

its thirst for knowledge nowhere but in a University? The lady has

certainly proved in the treatise before us that she has learned

something outside of the walls of the lecture-room. What does she want

of a degree? It must be vanity that suggests the want, and we are to

blame if we lend ourselves to the gratification of such a folly."

"That is my opinion also," added Beck.

But Hilsborn was not silenced. "It seems very natural to me that a

woman who feels herself possessed of the mental power of a man should

aspire to manly dignities, and her desire to espouse science, not as an

amusement, but as the occupation and end of her existence, is a proof

of her deep conviction of its grave importance. There is certainly

nothing here of the female vanity which resorts to bodily and mental

adornment merely for the sake of pleasing."

"You are a brave champion, Hilsborn," said Moellner, holding out his

hand to the young man.

"Then we are only three against four," said old Heim. "Moellner's vote

alone is wanting,--and if he gives it in favour of the Hartwich, there

will be a tie; so I propose that we give him the casting vote,

especially as he, as a physiologist, is best capable of judging of the

value of the essay before us."

"I should have thought," cried Moritz, "that any one of us could have

passed judgment upon such a piece of dilettanteism; it is only the

modern nonsense about the fibres. There is not much in it!"

All present looked eagerly towards Johannes, who was calmly leaning

back in his arm-chair. "It is no piece of dilettanteism. I grant that

it is hasty and one-sided to attempt to ascribe all self-control to the

impediments of reflex motion; nevertheless, Fraeulein Hartwich's essay

evinces a comprehension of the physiology of the nervous system far

beyond what is usual, and I cannot deny that such a self-dependent

realization of scholarship is a proof of the most decided creative

faculty." Here he looked at Herbert.

"Indeed?" said the latter pointedly.

"Yes!" said Moellner with warmth; "but, nevertheless, I give my vote

against her admission; and of course that decides the matter,--we are

now five to three!" The gentlemen looked at one another, some with

surprise, some with annoyance.

"What do you mean?" cried Heim. "You were thoroughly delighted to-day

with the girl's talent."

"We relied upon you," said Hilsborn reproachfully.

"This is the first injustice of which I have ever convicted my friend

Moellner," said Taun, shaking his head.

Johannes looked at his dismayed associates with quiet amusement, and

did not observe that Herbert extended his hand to him to thank him for

his assistance.

"God be thanked," he muttered, "that you have given the fool her

discharge!" And he swallowed the contents of his glass with evident

satisfaction.

"Johannes! Johannes!" Hilsborn began again, "why have you treated the

girl and ourselves in this manner?"

"Why?" asked Johannes,--and there was a glow in his face that quite

transfigured it,--"because she is far more to me than to any of you."

"You have chosen a very odd method to show that it is so," Hilsborn

remonstrated.

"Do you think so, short-sighted man?" asked Moellner gravely.

"What harm can it do you to make the Hartwich happy?" grumbled

Hilsborn.

Moellner looked at him with a smile.--"When we take away from a child a

knife with which it is playing, we do so, not because we are afraid it

will harm us, but itself. True, the child will regard us as an enemy,

but we act for its own sake."

"Well, is the Hartwich the child that you feel so bound to protect?"

"Yes, Hilsborn! Woman, of whatever age, is intrusted to the

guardianship of man. It is ours to decide her future, to protect her;

and we are responsible for her development. Which of you, my dear

friends Heim, Taun, and Hilsborn, when I put it to your consciences,

can deny that the Hartwich is treading a mistaken path,--that she is

trespassing beyond the bounds that form the natural division-line

between the sexes? I have nothing to urge in opposition to the mental

activity of woman, provided it be exercised within the limits of her

proper sphere; and these limits I set far beyond the place assigned her

by our friend Herbert and my brother-in-law Moritz. But I have such a

reverence for true womanhood that I will lend my aid to no project

which can be carried out only at its expense."

"I think," said Moritz, "that the Hartwich must have already entirely

renounced the womanhood of which you speak, or she never would have

entertained such projects. There can't be much there to spoil."

"You judge hastily, Moritz, as you always do," said Johannes. "If you

knew under what influences this girl has grown up, you would understand

that it is not a want of delicacy, but lofty courage,--a passionate,

sacred enthusiasm,--that prevents her from shuddering at the horrors of

the study of physiology and enables her to look beyond the individual

to the universe. A dazzling light, flaming before our eyes, blinds us

to what lies nearest us. Thus was it with this gifted girl when the

light of science arose for her, enveloping with its glory the world of

reality around her."

Moritz's face, usually so gay in expression, suddenly grew grave: he

looked at Moellner with manifest anxiety.--"Johannes, you talk as if you

had a personal interest in this preposterous creature!"

"Why should I deny it?--Yes, I have!"

"Good heavens!" cried Moritz, "you are not going to stand in friend

Hilsborn's way? He seems to have serious intentions with regard to

her."

"Oh, you are wrong there, Moritz," said Hilsborn. "Her perilous

struggle for emancipation inspires me with sympathy, it is true, but

with no desire for a closer knowledge of her. I may surely like to have

her for a pupil without wanting to marry her."

"And there, Hilsborn," said Johannes gaily, "lies the difference

between us; for I should wish to have her not for a pupil, but for a

wife!"

An exclamation of dismay burst from the lips of all present. "How did

you come to know her?" "Where did he know her?" the gentlemen, with the

exception of Heim and Hilsborn, inquired.

"How the idea of my danger seems to startle you!" said Johannes

good-humouredly. "Is the girl an evil spirit,--a witch? No, she is only

a woman. How can you be afraid of a woman? What makes her terrible to

you makes her interesting to me; and where is the danger for me, even

if I should try to lead her out of her crooked path? Yes, even if she

should become my wife----"

"Heaven save you from such a wife!" the Staatsraethin interposed.

"Matters have not yet gone quite so far, mother; there is nothing in

the affair yet but pure human sympathy. But suppose it were to go

further,--what then? The husband who is made unhappy by his wife has

only himself to blame; for woman is just what we make her."

"Oh, presumptuous man!" exclaimed the Staatsraethin, "there are women

who would prove your error to you after a terrible fashion! This

Hartwich girl was to me a most disagreeable child,--what must she be

now?"

"A woman who seems strayed from another world,--an apparition once seen

never forgotten!"

"Heavens!" said the Staatsraethin, really alarmed, "where and when have

you met her? She vanished almost ten years ago; and if her

rationalistic books had not appeared last winter, every one would have

forgotten her."

"Did you know her before, then?" several gentlemen asked curiously.

"We were playmates for some time," said Angelika, "but in the end I

could not endure her, she was so old-fashioned and despised my dolls."

The gentlemen laughed.

"She was the most strangely interesting child I ever saw in my life!"

said old Heim.

"Indeed she was," said Moellner; "but there was something repellant

about her, for she had been embittered by cruel treatment, which had

developed her mind precociously, while it had stunted her body. Such

incongruity is always disagreeable, and therefore every one shunned

her, as she shunned every one. We soon forgot her, for she left our

part of the country when she was twelve years old, and we heard nothing

more either of her or of her guardian, who accompanied her. A year or

more ago, however, a couple of brochures from her pen appeared, that

excited a tempest of criticism, at least among women, on account of

their rationalistic tendency. I did not think it worth while to read

them, as the pale little Hartwich girl had almost faded from my memory.

No one knew anything about her, and we took no pains to know, for my

mother and sister had been deeply shocked by the child's atheism, and

had given her up. A short time since I went to see my friend Hilsborn,

and met him just as he was getting into his carriage to drive to the

village of Hochstetten, two miles off. He had been sent for to see the

village schoolmaster. Hilsborn asked me to go with him, and, as the day

was fine, I consented. When we arrived at the small castle that lies in

the outskirts of the village, we alighted. Hilsborn went to find the

schoolmaster,--I remained behind, to await his return, and walked

slowly past the large, neglected garden, that surrounds the castle. A

fresh breeze stirred the waving wheat-fields, and the setting sun shone

through the quivering air upon the distant landscape. Suddenly, painted

upon the flaming horizon, like the picture of a saint of the Middle

Ages upon a golden background, appeared the figure of a woman dressed

in black,--a woman so beautiful and sad that she might have been

Night's messenger commanding the sun to set. She stood with folded

arms, motionless, upon a little eminence in the garden, looking full at

the descending orb of light, while the breeze stirred the heavy folds

of her dress. The evening-red cast a glow upon her grave face, white as

marble, and the light in her large eyes seemed not to proceed from the

sun which they mirrored, but from within. I stared like a boy at the

beautiful, silent apparition, and forgot that my gaze might annoy her

should she become aware of it. And so it proved. As she took up some

coloured glasses lying beside her, I saw with surprise that she was

trying some optical experiment, and just then her glance fell upon me.

A shade of vexation passed over her face, now turned from the light,

and lent it a cold, stern expression. Without honouring me with a

second glance, she gathered together her optical instruments and walked

quietly down the little hill. Just then the sun disappeared below the

horizon, as if at her command, and gloomy twilight gathered above the

silent garden, in whose paths she disappeared. I could not picture to

myself a happy face among those rank, thick bushes behind that high

wall. I could not imagine a happy heart in the breast of that lonely,

gloomy figure. Night fell while I was still vainly looking after her. I

hurried on to the schoolmaster's, upon the pretence of finding

Hilsborn, and learned from him that my unknown was Ernestine Hartwich.

She had, a short time before, rented the Haunted Castle, as it was

called, and, as they were not very enlightened in the village, the

beautiful girl was regarded with a sort of supernatural terror,--for

certainly something must be wrong with one who lived so entirely cut

off from intercourse with human beings, and who, worse than all, never

went to church. There was some excuse to be found for her, to be sure,

in the evil influence of a step-uncle and guardian, who had had charge

of her since the early death of her parents, and who possessed entire

authority over her. He is that famous, or rather infamous, Doctor

Gleissert, of whom you have all heard."

"Oho! he!" murmured the gentlemen in a contemptuous tone, and old Heim

bestowed upon him a hearty "Scoundrel!"

"Well," Johannes continued, "I am sure you will not imagine me such a

fool as to have fallen in love at the first sight of a beautiful face,

but the apparition that I have just described presented a combination

of what is most attractive to a man,--'beauty, intellect, and virtue.'"

"Virtue!" Herbert repeated; "are you so sure of that?"

"Yes. If Fraeulein Hartwich were not virtuous, she would not live

in such strict retirement. Those who have tasted the cup of

self-indulgence are too apt to return to it; the truly pure alone can

find contentment in seclusion and loneliness, inspired only by a grand

idea! I go still further, and, as a physiologist, upon the ground of

the preservation of force, maintain that a woman engaged in such

unusual and profound studies needs all her vital energy for her work,

and is dead to all the pleasures of sense. Hence we so often find

entire lack of sensibility in women accustomed to great mental

activity,--because their supply of vital force is not sufficient for

the double occupation of thinking and feeling. And therefore my only

fear is that there is no warm heart throbbing within that exquisite

form."

The professors looked significantly at one another, and the

Staatsraethin exchanged anxious whispers with Angelika.

"Well," said Herbert, as he arose from his chair, "I propose that we

leave our respected associate to his dreams, and wish for his sake that

his pupil may not be as accomplished upon the subject of the nerves of

sensation as upon the inhibitory nerves."

The gentlemen all arose.

Johannes looked fixedly at Herbert and said, "I am no dreamer, Doctor

Herbert, although I believe in the virtue that requires no certificate

of character. And, I repeat, I believe so firmly in this virtue, that I

denounce as a slanderer the man who dares to assail it by a single

word!"

"Sir!" cried Herbert with irritation, "your remark is insulting!"

"Only to him to whom it may apply!" said Johannes calmly.

Angelika ran to her brother and threw her arms around him. "Johannes!

Johannes! consider who it is that you are defending. You do not even

know her."

"Yes, yes, she is right!" added several of the gentlemen.

Johannes held up Ernestine's paper, and said with earnest gravity, "I

do know her."

Herbert took his hat, and, with a silent bow, was about to leave the

room, when the beadle of the University rushed in and handed Johannes a

letter. "Herr Professor! Herr Professor! this comes in haste from his

Honor, and concerns all the gentlemen."

Johannes opened the letter, and Herbert stood listening upon the

threshold. After reading it, Johannes looked around the circle with a

smile. "Gentlemen, we have been most strangely mystified. The prize

essay upon the '_Capacity of the Eye for Stereoscopic Vision_,' which

we all attributed to Hilsborn, is by--Fraeulein Hartwich!"

An exclamation of surprise greeted this announcement. All present

crowded around Johannes to read the letter; even Herbert entered the

room again, to make sure that what he had heard was true. There was no

doubt of it,--the fact was indisputable that these gentlemen had

accorded the prize offered for the best essay upon the '_Capacity of

the Eye for Stereoscopic Vision_' to Ernestine, to whom they had just

denied admission to the University because she was a woman. It was a

fact not exactly pleasant to contemplate, and the professors exchanged

glances of chagrin.

"What is to be done?" asked some.

"This alters the case entirely," said Beck.

"Moellner," cried Meibert, "this is embarrassing enough. I think we

shall have to reconsider our decision."

"We can scarcely withhold a diploma from a woman to whom we have

awarded this prize," said Taun.

Heim nodded in high good humour, and growled, "Ah, yes, you sing a

different tune now!"

"Gentlemen," said Johannes with emphasis, "I pray you do not mistake

the point at issue. If the question had been of the capacity of the

applicant, the essay that we have already read would have influenced

our decision; but there is a social principle concerned, which we must

not violate for the sake of an individual. Must I remind you of what

you know so well?"

"Our colleague is still victorious," said Taun, offering his hand with

kindly dignity to Johannes. "We cannot think you in the wrong."

"The prize awarded to a woman!" muttered Herbert, as he left the room.

"It is enough to kill one with vexation!"

"It is a pity," said the others, when he had departed, "that our

pleasant morning should have been so spoiled by Herbert."

"Do not be disturbed by it, dear friends," laughed Johannes; "it did me

good to tell him the truth for once. He is one of those who sustain

their mental existence by continual conflict. 'Destroy, that you may

exist,' is their motto,--and of course they are the sworn enemies of

all rising talent. They must be so, because they are not conscious of

any power in themselves to soar above it; they need all the strength of

their nature to enable them to avoid being extinguished by the wealth

of vital force that is expended all around them. Those whose lot is

cast beyond the sphere of such individuals can afford to pity them, but

those who are within reach of their poisonous fangs must fear them as

the arch-enemies of all creation and growth. Although I could not

accede to Fraeulein Hartwich's request, the envious malice with which he

criticised her pained me excessively."

"That is very true," said the philosopher Taun. "It is sad enough when

such embodied negations interfere with the free, joyous activity of

art,--doubly so when they meddle with science!"

"Who would have thought it," cried Angelika, "of the gallant Professor

Herbert, who is sure to propose 'the ladies' at every supper-party! I

am amazed!"

"One who pays court to 'the ladies,' my fair colleague, may very

possibly be no advocate for woman, since, according to my brother

Schopenhauer, what constitutes the modern lady is not the strength, but

the weakness, of her sex," replied Taun.

"True enough," said Johannes. "Such a man might show consideration for

weakness,--he can only contend with strength."

"Only wait awhile, Herr Professor Herbert!" cried Angelika, shaking her

plump little forefinger towards the door of the room. "I shall not

forget you,--only wait--I will strip the sheep's clothing from the

wolf's back, in full conclave of his lady friends! And you too,

Moritz,--I have a word to say to you, but not until we are alone."

The gentlemen laughed, and took their hats.

"Come, we must not deprive our friend Kern for one moment longer of

such a charming curtain-lecture," said Taun.

All took their leave, except Heim, Hilsborn, and Moritz.

"And so," began Angelika with a pout, "you miserable, detestable man,

we are to do nothing but knit stockings?"

"One thing beside," said Moritz, seizing both her hands,--"you may

kiss--that is a charming vocation."

"Nonsense! any stupid fool can do that,--the clever ones must do

something better."

"No woman with so pretty a mouth can do anything better! Only those who

are ugly or old shall knit stockings."

"There is no getting a serious word from you, Moritz, but I am sorry

for poor Ernestine, and it grieves me that you were so hard upon her."

One single stern glance from Moritz's black eyes encountered his

wife's; it was enough--it silenced her instantly.

"You know," he said kindly, but gravely, as if to a child, "that I do

not like to have you undertake to decide upon matters of which you

understand nothing."

Angelika looked down, and a tear trembled upon her long eyelashes.

"What is it?" asked Moritz soothingly, and drew her towards

him,--"tears? And why not? Nothing more than a dewdrop in the bosom of

a rose,--nothing more." He brushed away her tears, and she smiled at

him again.

"It is well for you, my son," said the Staatsraethin gently, but

gravely, "that your wife's heart is so warm that the frost made in it

by unkind words melts to tears and does no further injury."

Moritz looked at his mother-in-law, and then at his wife.--"Angelika,

was I unkind?"

Angelika shook her fair curls and said, in a tone which told all the

sweetness of her childlike disposition, "No, Moritz, you were right."

"There, mamma, that is a true woman as she comes from the hand of her

Creator to be a blessing to the man to whom she belongs," cried Moritz,

with a fond look at his wife.

The Staatsraethin stood beside them, her eyes resting with unspeakable

affection upon her child, but there was a strange mixture of delight

and anxiety in her heart.

"This youthful devotion is very beautiful, but, when its first fervour

has passed, nothing remains of the bridegroom but the lord and master

of the wife, who is oftentimes as unhappy a slave as she is now a happy

one." Such thoughts passed through the mother's mind, and she sighed.

Meanwhile, Johannes had been talking in a low voice with Heim and

Hilsborn about the contents of a letter which Heim had handed him to

read. "Then, Father Heim, that is settled," he said.

The Staatsraethin turned to them, and asked, "What have you there?"

"A letter from Fraeulein Hartwich to Uncle Heim, mother."

Johannes handed her the letter, and the Staatsraethin read:

"Herr Geheimrath:

"I do not know whether you remember a little girl called Ernestine

Hartwich, whose life you once saved, but I do know that, even if you do

not remember her, you will not refuse aid to any one who appeals to

you. I have sent an application to the University here to be allowed to

attend the lectures. I did this without my guardian's knowledge, for he

disapproved of the plan. I therefore wish to keep the matter a secret

from him until results shall reconcile him to my mode of proceeding."

"Very considerate," interposed the Staatsraethin ironically; "but let us

proceed."

"My request to you is, my dear sir, that you will arrange matters so

that the reply of the faculty to my application shall reach me without

my uncle's knowledge, and, indeed, that you will convey it to me

yourself. I also need your medical advice, for I am far from well, and

my uncle has never permitted me to see a physician. I obeyed his wishes

until I learnt that you reside in my neighbourhood. Now I turn to you

with all my old confidence. If any one can help me, you can. I must

entreat you, if you would spare me a painful scene, to come to me on a

day when Doctor Gleissert is not at home. He goes to town on business

every Wednesday and Saturday. I pray you to come to me on one of these

days.

"With great respect,

"Ernestine Hartwich."

"Well, that is certainly more brief and to the point than might be

expected from a blue-stocking," said Moritz.

The Staatsraethin looked troubled. "It is dry and cold,--scarcely

courteous,--certainly not cordial, as she might have been to her former

benefactor."

"Remember, my dear friend, that nearly ten years have passed since that

time,--a very long period for so young a girl," said Heim.

"Ah, Uncle Heim," cried Angelika, "you dandle my boy on your knee now,

just as you did my doll then. These years have passed like a dream for

me."

"Your nature is very different from Ernestine's, my child," replied

Heim.

"Yes, thank God!" ejaculated Moritz.

The Staatsraethin folded up the letter. "I cannot help pronouncing this

letter heartless,--there is no other word for it. And mingled cowardice

and defiance in regard to her uncle breathe from every line of it."

"Proving how her strong nature has been cowed by that scoundrel," cried

Johannes with warmth.

His mother looked at him anxiously. "How could she, if she is such a

strong, noble woman, submit to be cowed by such a man?"

"Why not, dearest mother?" replied Johannes. "However noble and strong

she may be, she is only a woman, after all."

At this moment a carriage thundered past the house. They all looked out

of the windows.

"The Worronska!"

"The fast countess!" cried Moritz. "What a model of an Amazon! How

beautiful she is, managing those four horses and looking up here! That

look is for you, Johannes. See! she is smiling at you."

"I shall not interfere with Herbert," laughed Johannes. "I hear he is

devoted to her."

"What! Herbert!--to the Worronska?" cried Moritz. "How did that

happen?"

"Why, he was tutor for some years to a friend of the count's in St.

Petersburg. He knew her there," replied Johannes.

"Now, that would be a charming daughter-in-law for you, my dear

Staatsraethin," said Helm. "Why, she would be even worse than the

Hartwich."

"Bah!" said Johannes. "She too is only a woman. If she fell, she owed

her ruin to a man,--and a man might have been her saviour."

CHAPTER II.

THE SWAN.

A dark, gloomy pile overlooked the village of Hochstetten, that lay

about two miles from the city, in the midst of a charming country. It

had once been called Hochstetten Castle; but since the direct line of

the noble family in which it had passed for a century from father to

son had died out, and only a castellan had dwelt there, to hold it in

possession for a distant branch of its ancient house, it had gone by

the name of the "Haunted Castle" among the people; for of course in

such an old house, where so many men had died, there must be ghosts,

and popular superstition declared that the spirits of the departed

still hovered about the spot where their earthly forms had been wont to

wander.

But in this last year it happened that the castle was really inhabited

by a spirit whose appearance inspired the vulgar, who suspect the

devil's agency in whatever they do not comprehend, with quite as much

horror as they had felt at the ghosts of their former lords,--although

this latter spirit still inhabited a young and very beautiful body.

Ernestine Hartwich had rented the castle, and, with her uncle, was

living her strange life there. Since her arrival the house and the

overgrown grounds within the high walls were certainly under a spell,

and were avoided by all who were not obliged to go that way. There lay

the old castle, in the midst of lovely hills and mountain-chains,

embosomed in green trees, bathed in the sunlight of a dewy summer

morning, and yet its gray, ancient walls looked abroad over the fresh

life of wood and plain as gloomily as if they hid within them only

death and decay.

Two strangers, driving past in a light vehicle, gazed gravely and

silently at the place. The road grew somewhat steep, and they descended

and walked beside the horse. A young peasant passed by, with scythe and

reaping-hook, and, seeing the pleasant faces of the strangers; nodded

kindly to them. The elder of the two stopped, as if prompted by a

sudden impulse, and asked, "What castle is that?"

"That?" was the reply. "That is the Haunted Castle."

"Who lives there?"

"The Hartwich lives there."

"Who is the Hartwich?"

"Why, the witch who has rented it."

"Why do you call her a witch?"

"Because there's something wrong about her."

"Walk on with us a little way, if you have time, and tell us something

of the lady," said the stranger.

"Oh, yes, I have time enough," replied the peasant, flattered by the

interest that his remarks had excited. "But, good gracious! I do not

know where to begin to tell about her. There is no beginning and no end

to it."

"How does she look?" asked the younger gentleman. "Is she pretty?"

"No, indeed! She is pale and thin, and has big, coal-black eyes. And

she looks so gloomy that you can tell as soon as you see her that she

has an evil conscience."

"It is characteristic of the degree of culture to which the common

people have attained," said the elder in an undertone to his companion,

"that they have no admiration for beautiful outlines, but only for

flesh and colour. They think a classic profile ugly if there is not a

plump cheek on either side of it. This rude taste for the raw material

is natural and excusable in peasants and common labourers, whose work

is principally with raw material. Where should they learn anything

better? But it is sad to think how many of the educated classes there

are whose taste is just as uncultivated, and who admire only the

beautiful embodiment, not the embodied beauty."

"Yes," added the other, "it is just so in spiritual matters. An

expression of thoughtfulness is always strange and gloomy in the eyes

of the common people; they are attracted only by thoughtless gaiety.

The stamp of mind upon a serious brow is in their eyes the sign-manual

of the evil one. But how many among ourselves are scarcely better than

the people in this respect! We do not share their prejudices,--eh,

Johannes?"

"No, Hilsborn, God knows we do not. This superficial idea of beauty

explains the fact that Fraeulein Hartwich was called ugly as a child,

although she had a beautiful brow, a fine profile, and such eyes as I

never saw before or since in my life,--eyes, Hilsborn,"--and he laid

his hand upon his friend's arm,--"in which lay a world of slumbering

feeling, and the promise of bliss unspeakable for him who should awaken

it to life. I had forgotten the little girl whom I saw only once, but

when lately I encountered a glance from the eyes of that strange,

lovely woman, I recognized the child again,--the poor, forsaken child.

There was the old shy melancholy in those eyes, and they pierced my

heart with a foreboding pain. I could have taken her in my arms and

borne her away from the hill where she stood, as formerly from the

breaking bough to which she had fled from me!"

"God grant she be worthy of such a man as you!" said Hilsborn.

"Do not speak so, Hilsborn; you know I will not listen to such words.

Let us ask this fellow more about her."

He turned to the young peasant, who was walking whistling on the other

side of the road.

"Is she not at least kind to the poor?" he asked.

"God preserve any one to whom she is kind! No one wants anything from

her. Her uncle distributes some money every week, but only the very

poorest people take it, and they always cross themselves over it."

Johannes and Hilsborn looked at each other with a smile. "Then her evil

influence extends even to her charities?"

"Yes, that's what I mean,--wherever she goes she carries misfortune.

She pretends to know more than any one, and wants to introduce all

sorts of new-fangled ways. She wouldn't have people sick with a fever

covered up in good, thick feather beds, or give them a single glass of

good liquor. All that was wrong, she said. A poor widow in the village

had a sick child, which she nursed as well as she could. The Hartwich

went to see her, and overpersuaded the woman, so that she let her watch

with it one night. Scarcely had she seated herself by the cradle when

the child grew worse, and fell into convulsions. The Hartwich sent the

mother to the castle to send off a man on horseback for the doctor, and

was left all alone with the child. When the woman got back from the

castle the witch had the child on her lap, and the poor little thing

was dying. The woman, frantic with terror, tore the little body out of

her arms; but it was dead! and the Hartwich left her, as she would not

hear a word from her. When the doctor came, he talked all sorts of

stuff, and wanted to have the child dissected, as they call it; but of

course no Christian mother would allow such a thing, and no one knew

what the Hartwich had done to the poor little creature."

"But, you foolish people," began Johannes indignantly, "you do not

suppose----"

Hilsborn signed to him to be silent. "Hush!" he said in a whisper;

"will you attempt what the gods try vainly--to contend with stupidity?"

"You are right," replied Johannes. "This people needs the teaching of

centuries."

"Well, my good fellow," he said, again addressing the peasant, "what

happened then?"

"Why, that very night, after the doctor was gone, the Hartwich came to

the woman and offered her money,--I suppose to induce her to hold her

tongue,--but the poor thing showed her the door, and told her what she

thought of her."

"That was her thanks!" murmured Johannes.

"Since then she goes to see no one, and we are quit of her."

"Was this unfortunate instance the only one?" asked Johannes, "or has

she done any further mischief?"

"Oh, yes, quantities! Once she persuaded a man to go to the city and

have his leg taken off,--he had injured it ten years before. The man

died in the city, and left a wife and children. If that witch had not

sent him there, he would have been living still. He had managed to live

with the injury ten years, and he might have borne it ten more. The

poor widow heaped her with curses!"

Johannes exchanged glances with Hilsborn.

"Do you, too, believe that she is a witch?" he asked the peasant.

"Well, if I don't exactly believe that, I know well enough that no

blessing can attend her, for she does not love God."

"How do you know that?"

"Oh, there are a great many signs of it. She does not like to hear him

mentioned,--she never goes to church, and doesn't pray at home."

"You cannot be sure of that," said Johannes.

"Oho! yes, I can, for Harcher's Kunigunda is a maid at the castle, and

she tells us all about it. For one thing, there used to be a bell-tower

up there, and the bell was always rung for prayers, morning and

evening, in old times. It was right and good to hear the bell ringing

with the one in the village church, and we were used to it, and liked

it. Even when the last of the family up there died, the village

congregation gave the castellan two bags of potatoes every year that he

might allow the ringing to continue. But when the Hartwich came, what

did she do? Why, she tore down the bell-tower and made it into an

observatory, as she calls it, where she sits for nights long and counts

the stars."

"Well, if she looks up into heaven so much, she must surely think of

God and his works there," rejoined Johannes smiling, "and those who

love to pray do not need to be reminded of it by the ringing of bells."

"No, no! that is not so," the peasant obstinately maintained. "She does

not wish to be reminded of prayer, or she would have loved the clear

sound of the bell, as we did, and would have left it hanging where it

had rung out comfort and religion for a hundred years. She might have

built her star-chamber upon the old tower all the same, if she had

wanted to,--but she did not want to,--and so we hated her from the

first."

Johannes and Hilsborn looked grave.

"Books she has in plenty; she brought whole chestsfull with her, but

never a hymn-book or prayer-book, Kunigunda, who dusts them, says, and,

search as she may, she has never seen a Bible there yet. And the

Hartwich never mentions the name of God; and if any one does it before

her, she talks of something else instantly. But the worst of all is

that she has a room there that no one, except her uncle and herself, is

allowed to enter, and she always locks the door when she is there with

her uncle. What they do there no living soul knows, but Kunigunda tells

all sorts of strange stories about it, for she has often listened at

the door, and sometimes got a peep inside when the Fraeulein was going

in or coming out. She says there are all kinds of strange things in

there, such as no honest man knows anything about,--black tablets, with

eyes and ears painted on them, and burning flames, and bellows, and

Heaven only knows what beside! And she has heard dreadful noises, that

were not of this world,--sometimes sounds as sweet as the organ plays

in the church, and then a rustle and roar as of a mighty wind, although

not a breeze is stirring outside, or blasts of a trumpet like the

trumpet of Jericho, so that she ran away in deadly fright."

"Those were experiments in sound," said Johannes, greatly amused, to

Hilsborn.

"And Kunigunda says that it is often so light in that room that the

rays through the keyhole dazzle her just like sunlight, although the

sun has long been set outside. Kunigunda declares that it is not common

light,--it burns quite blue, and she had to shut her eye quickly not to

be blinded by it. Now, what sort of light is that? What business has

she with fire and flames? And Kunigunda says she is almost always up

until morning, and scarcely sleeps at all. Oh, she leads a godless

life,--for, if God had not intended men to wake in the daytime and

sleep at night, He would not have made night dark and day light; and if

she were doing any good, why should she shun the daylight when she does

it? Kunigunda says, too, that she tortures poor dumb animals just for

pleasure, for she has often seen how she and her uncle carry rabbits

and such creatures into their secret chamber, and they never bring them

out again. Now, what do they do with the poor things? They cannot eat

the rabbits. And Kunigunda will swear that there are a couple of skulls

in the book-room, tumbling about among the old books. Now, I ask, what

Christian would take the head away from a dead man and spoil his rest

in the grave? Is it not just dishonouring a corpse out of devilish

wantonness?"

"There certainly is a whole mountain of charges towering between

Fraeulein Hartwich and her neighbours," whispered Johannes to his

friend, "and I see clearly that the curse of singularity has pursued

her even hither, and that this rare creature is repulsed and isolated

here as she was as a child. It is high time that some strong arm should

bear her hence into the purer atmosphere of a warm, healthy existence,

from which her eccentricity has hitherto excluded her."

"Do you see that green balcony there?" said the peasant, when they were

quite near the house. "There she has hanging a kind of cittern that

plays of itself. I would not believe Kunigunda, when she told me of it,

at first; but then I hid myself here once, and heard it with my own

ears, the music softer and sweeter than any that human hands can make.

I could feel it beginning to bewitch me."

"Indeed! and how did it feel?"

"Oh, my heart grew so soft, so different from usual,--just--just as if

I had been drinking linden-blossom tea. I could not help thinking of

the girl I loved, who is dead, and I could have listened forever.

Suddenly I bethought me that there was a spell weaving around me, and I

ran away as fast as I could."

"That was an AEolian harp, my good friend," Johannes explained; "its

strings were stirred by no spirit hand, but by the wind. The spell that

you perceived was only the effect of the beautiful tones upon your ear

and heart; and if you had examined yourself, you would have found that,

when you were thinking of your dead sweet-heart, you were better than

when you are sitting in the village inn abusing the Hartwich. Consider

for a moment whether an evil spirit could inspire such good, tender

sensations. And listen as often as you can to the AEolian harp; it will

not bewitch you,--it will only do good to you."

The fellow looked in amazement at the kindly speaker.

"I don't exactly understand you, sir, but you seem to mean well."

"What makes you think so?" asked Johannes,--"you do not know me."

"Oh, why, you look honest and good, sir," said the peasant, looking

frankly into Johannes's face.

"Then believe what I say, when I tell you that you do Fraeulein Hartwich

great wrong. I have known her from childhood, and I know that she is

good and kind!"

Johannes sent an earnest glance towards the castle, which they were

passing. An elderly woman was just opening a window in an upper story.

"Look!" cried the peasant, "that is her housekeeper, Frau Willmers. The

Fraeulein is just getting up--it is nine o'clock."

"God bless your awakening!" Johannes breathed softly to himself.

And, borne on the breeze of morning and the fragrance of flowers, the

blessing was wafted up to the girl, who, weary with her night-watch,

was reposing by the open window. She laid her head upon the sill, and

the fragrant summer air fanned her brow. Johannes's words floated

around her in a sea of light and warmth, and she felt them without

hearing them. At last she opened her burning eyelids, and looked

abroad, seeing everything at first through the gray, misty veil which

weariness spread before her eyes,--but gradually was revealed in its

full splendour the sunny picture, above which arched the clear,

cloudless firmament. She arose and leaned out with a deep sigh of pain.

She knew no happiness but that of gratified ambition,--she could

imagine no other, and therefore desired no other, for we cannot desire

that of which we have no conception,--and yet, in the sunlight laughing

around her, in the gloom of night, in the beauty of the valley and the

grandeur of the mountains, a promise of a far different happiness

beckoned to her, and she pined in longing for it without recognising

it. Yes, from every voice of nature, from the song of birds, the murmur

of the brook, the roaring of the tempest, and the muttering of the

thunder, a call was ringing in her ears, she knew not whence or

whither, but she would willingly have plunged into the ocean to follow

it.

"There is no surer means of preventing all aimless desires than study,

nothing better to prevent all abstract dreaming than absorption in some

specialty," her uncle had told her when he suspected her of moods like

that we have just described. "If you long to grasp the whole, first

grasp a part,--if you thirst to fly to heaven, remember that the

observatory is the only way thither,--if you desire to feel the warm

throb of life, you can find it nowhere so satisfactorily as at the

dissecting-table."

And she had turned away silently, uncomplainingly, from her flight to

distant realms, to the telescope, and with a warm, swelling heart that

would have embraced a world, had busied herself with analyzing

microscopic organizations. Thus, in the course of long years, she had

grown used to suppress emotions such as she experienced to-day, and

they seldom came to the surface, just as the bells of the sunken city

are only heard above the sea on Sunday. To-day was not Sunday, but it

was an anniversary. Ten years ago to-day she had been sent to her first

and only party,--her father had almost killed her,--and the whole

current of her life had been changed. She knew the date perfectly, for

the next day was the anniversary of her father's death. The familiar

forms of those days hovered around her; they were the only ones that

had ever approached her nearly, for since that time she had had no

intimate relations with any one. She had studied mankind, but human

beings were strangers to her. And as she thought and pondered, she

wished herself again the child that ran races with the wind and cradled

herself among the storm-tossed boughs. Oh for one breath of hopeful

childhood, one throb of that love-thirsty heart, one tear of that

wrestling faith! All dead and silent now, every blossom of childhood

and youth faded: a woman, old at two-and-twenty, looking down from the

heights of passionless contemplation upon a life, lying behind her,

that she has never enjoyed, upon a time, now past, that she has never

lived. Sighing, she turned away from the sunny landscape. "Our life

lasts seventy--perhaps eighty--years," she said to herself, "and the

delight of it is labour and trouble." This reading, by a great modern

philosopher, of the golden words of the ancient writings, she had

adopted as her motto, and it still possessed its old charm for her.

What more could she desire of life than labour and trouble? What could

youth or age bring her beyond these? She turned away from the window,

and quickly arranged in thick braids around her head her loosened hair

which had fallen down like a black veil. Her glance, as she did so,

fell only passingly and indifferently upon the mirror. She never saw

the face that gazed at her from its depths,--a face as faultlessly

beautiful as an artist's fancy pictures those dark, melancholy female

forms with which the ancients peopled the night. She dressed herself in

simple white, and then her arms dropped wearied at her side. The

expression of strength that the word labour had called into her face

gave way to a profound melancholy, almost despair, and she sank

exhausted upon a couch. She sat still for one moment, her head sunk

upon her breast, and then the large tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Labour is a delight, when one has strength for it--but I have none!"

she said, clasping her knees with her small, transparent hands, while

she gazed despairingly towards the distant horizon.

The housekeeper, Frau Willmers, entered. "A gentleman is waiting below,

Fraeulein Hartwich, who sends his card and says he comes from the

gentleman whose name is written upon it."

Ernestine read the name "Professor Heim," and below, in Heim's

handwriting, "earnestly recommends the bearer of this card."

"The gentleman is welcome!" she cried with awakened animation. "Show

him into the library."

"Will the Fraeulein receive him without the knowledge of----" the woman

asked with hesitation and surprise.

"I will!" replied Ernestine firmly.

"Now, Heaven be praised!" muttered the old woman, "that you are to see

some one at last, and the gentleman is well worth a look. But you will

bear the blame with your uncle, so that I may have no responsibility in

the matter?"

"The responsibility is mine."

Frau Willmers hurried out and conducted the stranger into Ernestine's

library.

A pleasant bluish twilight reigned in the room as he entered it, caused

by the heavy blue damask curtains that draped the high bow-windows. It

was a spacious octagon apartment, in the style of the tower chambers of

the Middle Ages, opening on to a balcony, which was likewise separated

from the room by blue damask curtains. The AEolian harp, of which the

peasant had spoken, hung in the balcony, and some loosened tendrils of

a wild grapevine, growing outside, stirred by the breeze, touched the

strings and called forth from them broken stray notes, which a stronger

breeze would blend in harmony, as the fingers of a child, guided by its

teacher, plays vaguely upon an instrument until the practised hand of

its master produces a full, clear chord. In the dark boughs that

overshadowed the balcony, birds were singing, and now and then hopping

confidingly upon the rose-bushes with which it was decorated.

"She loves beauty," thought the stranger with a pleased glance around

the cool, quiet apartment, which breathed only contentment and peace.

And it must be true peace of mind that the inhabitant of this room

possessed,--wherever the eyes were turned, they fell upon the immortal

works of the great thinkers of modern times,--a costly library was

ranged upon shelves, in richly-carved oaken bookcases.

The stranger began to read the titles of the books, but the more he

read the more thoughtful he became. If the contents of these books

were, or were to be, crammed into one woman's brain, there could dwell

there not peace, but only torturing unrest, strife. At last his eye

rested upon a writing-table of dark oak, richly carved, as was all the

rest of the furniture of the room. Around the edge of the table, cut in

raised letters, he read the sentence, "Our life lasts seventy--perhaps

eighty--years, and the delight of it is labour and trouble!" He gazed

long and thoughtfully at this motto, so strangely grave for so young a

girl. A shade of melancholy passed over his handsome face as he turned

away and noticed the scores of sheets of paper scattered here and there

on the table, all containing either a few figures or written sentences,

evidently hurried beginnings of scientific labour of all kinds, tossed

aside, as it appeared, hastily and impatiently. Partly on the table,

partly on a desk, and partly on the floor, were piles of open books,

their margins filled with annotations, pamphlets, &c. Names like

Helmholtz, du Bois, Ludwig, Darwin, &c. showed what massive material

this bold aspiring mind was calling to its aid, over what mountains of

labour it was pursuing the path to its ambitious aims. "So much vital

force wasted in fruitless energy--so much noble zeal expended upon a

blunder. What a pity!" said the stranger with an involuntary sigh. Then

he noticed just in front of the writing-table a small open drawer, in

which Ernestine apparently kept her most precious and valuable books.

One of them was Moellner's latest work on Physiology; another, du Bois'

Eulogy upon Johannes Mueller; and the third, _Andersen's Fairy Tales_.

The grave man's features showed signs of deep emotion at this sight.

Only a strong, true nature could so preserve the memories of its

childhood. He could not help taking the book in his hand to examine it

more closely. As he did so, he noticed a little marker of paper

yellowed with age. It was placed in the last pages of the story of the

Ugly Duckling, just where the children stand by the pond and cry,

"Look! there comes a new swan!" Was it this, then, that had made the

story so precious to her--the prophecy that the duckling would one day

be a swan, and not the memory of what had been dear to her childhood?

He put the book back in its place with a look that showed that the

question he had put to himself grieved him. Then he became so lost in

thought that he was almost startled when a door behind him opened, and

Ernestine approached him. As he saw the tall form, with its air of

royal dignity, standing there calm and silent in the noble

consciousness of mental superiority, he repeated involuntarily in

thought the words, "Here is a new swan!" Yes,--the ugly duckling had

unfolded its wings! For one moment his heart throbbed violently. It

cost him an effort to preserve his composure.

"I crave forgiveness, Fraeulein Hartwich," he began, "for venturing to

offer my medical skill in place of his for whom you sent."

"If you come from Dr. Heim, you are welcome. Is he ill, that he sends

me a substitute, or is he angry with me?" And Ernestine looked gravely

and fixedly at the stranger.

"Neither the one nor the other, Fraeulein Hartwich," was the reply. "He

has merely permitted me to use his name as the talisman to unlock this

enchanted castle."

"And why so?" asked Ernestine, regarding him still more attentively.

"Because I am convinced that I understand the treatment of your case

better than Dr. Heim."

Ernestine started, and turned away from the arrogant speaker. Her face

darkened with momentary displeasure,--but not long. She raised her

large eyes to him again and said frankly, "No, you are not in earnest.

Heim would not have sent me a physician as vain and conceited as these

words make you appear!"

Johannes offered her his hand with a smile. "Boldly spoken, Fraeulein

Hartwich,--I thank you! Nevertheless, I must rest under the charge of

vanity and arrogance until you declare me innocent, for I only uttered

Dr. Heim's honest conviction and my own. You shake your head, and do

not comprehend me. I hope you will do so soon. How could I have had the

courage to challenge your displeasure by so bold an assertion, had I

not been sure that time would justify my pretensions?"

Ernestine motioned to him to be seated. "May I be permitted, sir, to

request your name before speaking further with you?"

Johannes cast at her a glance of kindly entreaty. "I pray you allow me

to suppress it for the present. I should so like to inspire you with

confidence in me for my own sake, without the aid of a name perhaps not

unknown to you. Such confidence would be so precious to me. Call it a

whim, if you will, but I beg you to indulge me!"

"As you please, sir," said Ernestine with some constraint, looking

keenly at him as she spoke. She seemed to be searching in his handsome

face for something,--she scarce knew what,--it seemed to suggest some

dim recollection to her mind. Then she dropped her glance, as if

comparing what she saw with some image in her memory, yet without

arriving at any satisfactory conclusion.

Johannes watched every expression of her countenance. No shade of

thought passing across that broad white brow escaped him. He gazed at

her and almost forgot to speak, she was so wondrously beautiful, this

shy, grave girl, pale and suffering from her devotion to the studies to

which she was sacrificing herself with such religious zeal. The saddest

error would be touching in such a form,--yes, we must bow before it,

instead of laughing at it. So thought Johannes as he sat silent before

her, and something of what was passing in his mind must have been

mirrored in his features, for Ernestine turned away with a shade of

embarrassment, and asked suddenly, "Well, sir, and what news do you

bring me of Father Heim? Is he still vigorous in mind and body?"

The indifference of her tone rather nettled Johannes. "Yes, Fraeulein

Hartwich, he is indeed. Beloved and revered by his associates, as well

as by his patients, the evening of his days is calm and cheerful."

"I am very glad to hear it. I am bound to him by ties of gratitude, he

has done much for me, at one time he saved my life. Therefore I hoped

for benefit now from his prescriptions. He is a great practitioner,

although he has not quite kept pace in his old age with the march of

modern science."

"He certainly is. But he can do nothing for your gravest malady, and

therefore he has sent me in his place."

"You are, then, famous for some _specialite_. But how can Dr. Heim know

that I need such a physician?"

"He does know it, for you were attacked as a child by the malady of

which I speak, and Dr. Heim was powerless to effect a cure. Now that he

is convinced that my method of cure is efficacious, he has adopted me

as his assistant. Therefore I ask you frankly and openly, Will you have

me for your physician? Yes or no!"

For a moment Ernestine made no answer, and then said firmly, "Yes, if

Dr. Heim believes that you can restore me to health, it is sufficient,

and I will follow your prescriptions implicitly."

"I thank you," said Johannes; "but I warn you beforehand, I am a strict

physician, and my medicines are bitter!"

"Scarcely as bitter as disease?" said Ernestine inquiringly.

"Who can say? To speak with perfect sincerity, Fraeulein Hartwich, the

malady from which I come to relieve you, the disease that poisons your

past and your future, is your uncle's influence!"

Ernestine stood up. "Sir!"

"Hear me before you condemn me! I assert nothing that I cannot prove."

"No, sir, I will not hear you. You do my uncle gross injustice;

whatever proofs you may adduce. A life of self-sacrifice and devotion

far outweighs the accusation of a stranger. What do I not owe to him?

What has he not done for me? I owe to him my scientific culture. He has

made me what I am."

"And may I be so bold as to ask if you are so very sure that you are

what you should be?"

A pause ensued. Ernestine retreated a step, and, offended and confused,

cast down her eyes.

Johannes continued. "What if I were come to prove that you are not?"

Ernestine looked sullenly at him. "I certainly cannot answer you here;

but your depreciation of me forces me to ask whether you have read

anything that I have written, and so have come to form so poor an

opinion of my abilities?"

"On the contrary, Fraeulein Hartwich, your essay upon Reflex Motion is

full of talent, and your article upon the Capacity of the Eye for

Stereoscopic Vision has won the prize."

Ernestina started. Her face flushed, her eyes sparkled. "Why have you

waited until now to tell me? My essay won the prize! Do I wake, or am I

dreaming? Oh, how can I thank you for this intelligence? I have no

words. But let your reward be the consciousness that you have given me

the greatest happiness my life has ever known! And do not attempt to

malign to me the man to whose disinterested care for my education I owe

it."

"Poor girl, if this is your greatest happiness! You are betrayed

indeed, if you owe no other enjoyment to your uncle!"

"Oh, sir, what can there be beyond fame and honour?"

Johannes looked gravely at her. "Something of which your uncle has

never told you."

In the flush of her gratified ambition, Ernestine did not hear him. She

walked a few steps to and fro, then seated herself again, and said with

a beating heart, "Perhaps you also bring the answer to my application

for admission to the lectures at the University."

"I do, but it has been rejected decidedly, Fraeulein Hartwich."

Ernestine's arms dropped at her sides. "Rejected! Was it known, when

they rejected it, that the prize essay was mine?"

"It was."

Ernestine stood for one moment as if stunned. At last she began slowly

and dejectedly, "Ah, I understand it all! the gentlemen took the author

of that treatise for a man, and awarded it the prize, but my

application was refused because I am so unfortunate as to be a woman.

It is only natural, why should a woman be permitted to vie with the

lords of creation?"

"Your disappointment makes you unjust," said Johannes. "Your essay

received the prize because it accomplished what it aimed at. The

application of the woman was rejected because in the University no

woman can accomplish what should be her aim."

"How can you prove that?" asked Ernestine with bitterness.

"Because she has deserted the sphere which nature has assigned her, and

cannot fulfil the requirements of the one that she has selected for

herself."

"You, then, are one of my opponents?"

"I am, Fraeulein Hartwich."

"Oh, I am sorry!"

"Why? Of what consequence can the opinion of a stranger be to you?"

Ernestine looked down. "The impression that you make upon me, sir, is

such that it pains me to find that you are one of those narrow-minded

persons who deny to women the possession of any but the humblest

ability."

"You are mistaken, I think them, and especially your self, possessed of

very great ability."

Ernestine looked at him with surprise. "But how can this ability avail

us, if we are not allowed to enlarge the bounds of the sphere within

which we are so unkindly confined at present?"

"That sphere does not seem to me contracted. I think it so noble, so

elevated, that the loftiest talent may well content itself within it,

if it be rightly understood."

"But if a woman, if I--forgive my presumption,--am especially endowed

beyond other women, should I not, with the power, possess also the

privilege of transcending the usual bounds?"

"You would then possess the privilege of ennobling your sex, of showing

it what it could accomplish within its own sphere,--you would possess

the power to be first among women, but not to become a man."

Ernestine looked down sadly. "Have you read my essay?"

"Yes."

"Do you think it deserved the prize?"

"Yes."

"And yet you would deny me the right to accomplish tasks usually

assigned to men."

"You have accomplished one such. How far your kind uncle may have

assisted you in your labor we will not ask."

Again Ernestine's eyes drooped.

Johannes continued: "Probably you yourself are not aware of the answer

to such a question,--at all events, the victory over the other

competitors for the prize was slight, and by no means difficult. But do

you imagine, Fraeulein Hartwich, because the instinct of your genius has

answered this one question, that you can lord it over the boundless

domain of science? Have you the least suspicion of the magnitude of

what you propose?"

"I believe I have learned enough to know what there is for me to

learn."

"Do not deceive yourself with regard to your aim. You wish to learn

that you may teach,--not as every schoolmaster teaches, to tell what

has been told you before,--you wish to educe new truths from what you

learn,--in other words, you wish to produce, to create!"

"And you deny me the requisite ability?"

"Not at all," replied Johannes; "but I grant only one domain for the

creative faculty of woman,--the domain of art,--because, in works of

art, the heart shares in the labour of the understanding; because, in

the creation of beauty, a profound inner consciousness and soaring

fancy can replace masculine acuteness of thought--and these belong

especially to the gifted woman. But science presents tasks for the

thinking power. I deny to woman not the ability to grasp the grand

results of science, but the mental endurance, the technical facility,

to arrive at them unassisted."

Ernestine clasped her hands in entreaty. "Do not destroy the hope and

aim of my life!"

Johannes bent towards her and said gently, "My dear Fraeulein Hartwich,

may your life have other aims than this that you can never attain!"

"Never attain!" cried Ernestine, sitting proudly erect "I can see

nothing to justify those words. If I were only well and strong, if my

body were only a more, obedient tool of my mind, I would show what a

woman can do! I would show that we are not merely domestic animals,

endowed with some degree of reason, as a certain class of men designate

us, but free, independent, equal beings! If you only knew how my whole

soul revolts at our social oppression, our intellectual slavery! Oh,

believe, believe, sir, that I am not actuated by vain ambition, but I

am wrung with anguish for those wretched souls who, like myself, have

chafed so painfully in the fetters of commonplace conventionalities,

or, like those born blind, have dreamed in their darkness of the

light that floods the world with joy and freedom, but from which they

are excluded! I long to break the yoke under which my whole sex

languishes, to avenge their wrongs. For this I will give my money

and my blood!--for this I resign all claims to the happiness of

woman!--yes, for this I would sacrifice life itself!"

Johannes sat listening to her with his arms folded. He now began

quietly: "I understand and admire you,--but you exaggerate. The social

position of woman is determined by her capacity and her desires. Women

like yourself are rare exceptions; your sex, as a general rule, is at

so low a stage of development that they neither can claim nor desire

any higher position."

"And whose fault is this?" Ernestine interrupted him eagerly.

"Yours,--you masters of the world. If we are intellectually your

inferiors, why not educate us more thoroughly? Why not elevate us to a

higher degree of intelligence? It is for your strong hands to form us

as you will. And nowhere in Christian lands is the position of woman

more depressing than in this country. Look at Russia, the land that so

long retained serfdom and the knout,--even there the number of learned

women is perceptibly increasing, and the Russian high schools do not

reject female pupils. Look at France, at England,--women are everywhere

employed and the sphere of their capabilities enlarged, and the sex is

held in higher estimation. Unfortunately, I cannot deny that the mass

of German women are either mere household drudges, with never a thought

beyond the material interests of the kitchen and nursery, or glittering

dolls, with no idea of anything but the adornment of their persons.

They understand little or nothing of politics, of the interests of

their native land, of science, or of poetry; they go to art for

amusement, not for instruction and refreshment. Such mothers can never

implant the seeds of patriotism in the breasts of their sons, or

educate the minds of their daughters; such wives can never share the

thoughts and aims of their husbands. Who is to blame? Those men alone

who would exclude woman from their world, and, denying her all claim to

intellectual ability, banish her to the kitchen, or force her to

indemnify herself for exclusion from their spiritual life by rendering

herself necessary to their material existence!"

Johannes made no reply. It was enjoyment enough for him to look at her

and hear her. He wished her, before attempting to reply to her, to

finish all that she had to say.

Ernestine continued: "All this constitutes the ignominy of my sex,--an

ignominy that must be overcome, or its revenge will be terrible; for

luxury and self-indulgence have been the ruin of those nations who

rendered no homage to the spiritual nature of woman. We must force this

reverence from you, at any risk, before it is too late. Smile, if you

will, at my presumption in arrogating the place of a feminine Arnold

von Winkelried, breaking a path for our spiritual freedom through the

lances of contempt and prejudice. I know what lies before me. No

commonplace woman feels any pride in her sex; when one of her sisters

achieves distinction, she is only all the more galled by the

consciousness of her own inferiority, and takes her revenge, if

she knows no better, with the wretched weapons of conventional

prejudices,--casting the odium of indelicacy upon the woman who dares

to be free; and men contemptuously close their doors upon her. My lot

must be to struggle and suffer. Still, I do not hesitate. If I can

effect nothing here, I will seek other lands, where woman striving

after better things is treated with humanity and true chivalry."

"Where humanity and chivalry assist woman to lay aside the very crown

of her being,--her womanhood!" Johannes now interrupted her; "for how

can you preserve it, if in anatomical studies you harden yourself to

everything that shocks a compassionate woman, if you are forced into

contact with things at which all maidenly delicacy must revolt? I have

not interrupted you hitherto, because I wished thoroughly to understand

you, and because your sacred zeal touched and delighted me. With much

that is crude and exaggerated, there is truth, and beauty, in what you

have just said. But, believe me, the physical frame of a woman is as

little suited as her intellect to certain scientific pursuits. I

directed you to the broad domain of the beautiful,--of art,--but you

would not listen to me--there you would have to share your fame among

too many. Your ambition craves something entirely new and unheard-of.

But, Fraeulein Hartwich, this ambition will be your ruin! If you long to

create, create forms for your ideas that will speak for themselves,

clothe them in poetic language, or give them local habitation and a

name in art--you can complete such work, and your soul can find rest in

it from its labours. A poetical idea can be fully embodied in a work of

art; but a scientific hypothesis is inexhaustible, because, however

clearly proved and demonstrated, it brings new problems in its train.

Only a man's rude strength can endure such a restless pursuit that

knows no pause; the woman's delicate nature must succumb even because

her mind is so alive that she labours with all the ardent desire, the

breathless interest, of the devotee of science. And if she succeeds, at

the sacrifice of her life, in contributing some addition to the

universal stock of knowledge, she has done only what would have

cost a man far less pains. The result of her work is wrung from her

death-agony, and the world, with a shrug of its shoulders, says, 'It is

about all that a woman could do!' Is praise thus qualified not

purchased too dearly at the cost of health and life?"

Ernestine had listened with intense eagerness. Her dark eyes were

riveted upon the speaker. As he ceased, she folded her hands in her lap

and said, "What injustice you do me if you think that desire for the

world's applause is the moving spring of my actions! Yes, I do long for

recognition; that I have confessed to you. But I might have obtained it

more easily if I had chosen other branches of science, and my uncle

allowed me to choose. I selected, from inclination, natural philosophy,

and, in especial, physiology. I cared little for history, because I

care little for mankind. Moral philosophy seems to me too dogmatical,

so does religion. Nature alone is always filled with new, genuine life.

'There I know,' as Johannes Mueller says, 'whom I serve and what I

have.' Physiology has opened a new world for me,--or, better still, has

re-created the old world, for I truly see only when I understand what I

am looking at;--every sunbeam glancing in a dewdrop, every wave of

sound borne to my ear from afar, awakens new and vivid images in my

mind. What enjoyment is comparable to that which science offers us! She

makes the real a miracle,--and shows us the miraculous as reality. And

shall I resign this ennobling possession because I am a woman? And can

this inspiring search for life bring me death? Oh, no! I cannot, I will

not believe it!"

Johannes held out his hand to her. "You are a rarely-gifted woman, and

comprehend the nature of science. But, supposing that you possessed the

rare power--both of body and mind--to accomplish the task which you

propose to yourself, you must do it at the cost of your vocation as a

woman. For no woman can fulfil both these offices. As a scholar, you

must live exclusively for your studies; the duties of wife and mother

would distract you too much to admit of your accomplishing your

purposes, for they require an entire lifetime. Now you have the courage

to endure the want of love and happiness growing out of your

determination, but will your courage last? When age and illness assail

you,--when you become weak and helpless and need faithful, devoted

hands about you and true loving hearts upon which you can rest from

weariness and pain, and there is no one belonging to you,--because you

have chosen to belong to no one,--how will it be then? Have you no

presentiment of such misery? Is there no desire for consolation, no

longing for love, in your inmost soul?"

Ernestine's gaze was fixed darkly on the ground. "I know nothing of

love. How can I long for what I know nothing of?"

"Good heavens! how can that be? Have you had no parents,

relatives,--friends who were dear to you?"

"No! my mother died at my birth, and my father--who treated me very

harshly, and did not care for me--died when I was twelve years old. My

guardian became my teacher and guide, and initiated me into the pursuit

of science. At no time of my life have I had any intercourse with my

equals. I did not wish for it. My uncle sent his own little daughter to

a boarding-school and lived for me alone, but the tie that bound me to

him was only my interest in science and his readiness to gratify it. He

is cold by nature,--as I am also. I have never felt anything for him

but gratitude. I have always lived alone, and have never loved a human

being."

Johannes was deeply moved. "Poor girl!" he said. "Had you cast yourself

on the ground at my feet, bathed in tears, bewailing the death of

father, mother, or husband, you could not have inspired me with such

pity as those words, 'I have never loved,' awaken within me. You look

amazed! The time will come when you will understand me,--when by the

depth of your anguish you will learn the heights of bliss from which

you have been banished; then he, whom you now regard as your enemy,

will be beside you,--to soothe your grief for your lost life,--perhaps

to lead you to one nobler and better!"

Ernestine turned away, greatly agitated. She would not have Johannes

observe her emotion, and therefore only breathed a gentle "Farewell,"

and would have left the room.

"Are you going? Have I offended you? May I not come again?" he asked.

Ernestine stood still, and did not speak.

"May I not?" he repeated,--and there was such urgent entreaty in his

voice that it stirred the very depths of Ernestine's soul.

There was one moment of hesitation; then she returned to him, held out

her hand and said, with eyes swimming in tears,--eyes that pierced his

heart to the core:

"Yes; come again."

"God bless you!" he said, with a long sigh of relief, and then, kissing

her hand respectfully, he left the room. She stood still where he had

left her, lost in thought.

The tones of the AEolian harp floated out upon the air, the roses

exhaled fresh fragrance, the birds twittered, and the sunlight shone in

soft rays through the blue curtains. She heeded none of these things,

she stood there absorbed in the pursuit of some dim, half-remembered

image in the distant past--even in the days of her childhood.

Why was it that the oak boughs, whither she had fled from the handsome

lad, seemed to rustle around her again? Why was the little Angelika so

distinct in her memory,--the little girl rocking in her arms the doll

that her brother had sent her, in the sure hope that her tenderness

would inspire it with life?

And as she stood there, dreaming in the midst of AEolian tones,

fragrance, and light, she herself was like Pygmalion's statue, when

beneath the breath of love the first glow of life informed its marble

breast, and the cold lips opened for its first sigh!

CHAPTER III.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL.

When Johannes left Ernestine, he turned his steps towards the village.

He was as if inspired by the consciousness that his was a part to play

that falls to the lot of few men in this world,--to promote his own

happiness in watching over and caring for the happiness of another. He

walked on with the firm, elastic tread that belongs to a strong man in

the bloom of youth, and wherever his glance fell it scattered seeds of

the kindliness which was reflected in the smile that greeted him upon

every face that he met. He took his way towards a little vine-clad

cottage in which dwelt the patriarch of the place,--the village

schoolmaster. Before the door stood Hilsborn's vehicle, while a fat old

mastiff was barking incessantly at the horse, who pawed impatiently,

and never seemed to perceive that the dog was evidently only fulfilling

an irksome duty, and was not actuated by the slightest feeling of

hostility. Johannes stroked, in passing, his broad, bristling back, a

caress not unkindly received, and then entered the house, whose

hospitable roof was so low that he was obliged to stoop as he crossed

the threshold, lest he should brush his forehead against the bunches of

unripe grapes that hung down over the lintel. He passed through the

little, dark hall, and entered the dwelling-room. There he found

Hilsborn sitting with the schoolmaster upon one of the low, broad

window-seats, while the schoolmaster's old wife, Brigitta, sat knitting

upon the other. The schoolmaster was a spare, elderly man, with long

gray hair, and eyes in whose uncertain depths that ominous white spot

could be perceived that is the arch-enemy of light.

"Aha! the Herr Professor," said the old man, rising to greet Johannes.

"We thought you had been enchanted in the Haunted Castle, and would

never come back to us again."

"You may not have been so very far wrong," said Johannes, shaking the

offered hand.

"Yes, you have kept us waiting well!" observed Hilsborn.

"Brigitta, dear, will you make ready for us? These gentlemen will

perhaps do us the pleasure of sharing with us our mid-day meal,--it

will be about the time for their luncheon," said the schoolmaster to

his wife, who had arisen when Johannes entered, and was awaiting this

hint to withdraw. Johannes and Hilsborn declined the proffered

hospitality, but Frau Brigitta had already left the room. As the door

closed behind her, the old man grew very grave. "Herr Professor," he

began, and his voice was a little hoarse, and his hands trembled

slightly, "now we are alone,--now I pray you tell me the truth. I would

not ask you while my wife was here,--for I would spare her unhappiness

as long as possible. But I must and will know, for the future of my son

is at stake. Is it not true, Herr Professor, that you have no hope of

saving my eyes?"

Hilsborn made no reply. His compassionate heart withheld him from so

utterly destroying the old man's hopes in life. In his indecision, he

exchanged a glance with Johannes, which the old man observed.

"Oh, my dear sir, that look, which I could see in spite of my

increasing blindness, speaks to me as plainly as your silence. I have

long had no hope myself. A year ago, when my eyes were so inflamed, I

expected the catastrophe would occur from which your skill has so long

saved me. The question now is--can my eyes be operated upon?"

Hilsborn hesitated again. He could not in honour delude the worthy man

with false hopes only to have them so bitterly crushed in the future,

and yet--who with a heart in his breast could tell the sad truth to

that face of anxious inquiry? "I cannot give you a decided answer at

present," he said at last with some effort.

The patient man clasped his hands entreatingly, and his dim eyes strove

to read Hilsborn's countenance. "Do not believe, Herr Professor, that

it would be kind to deceive me. If I now know that I am incurable, I

can do instantly what would be difficult later,--take my son

immediately from the University and train him to be my successor here.

You can understand that if I am disabled I can no longer provide for

the continuance of his academic course, and that it is best that the

young man should learn as soon as possible the destruction of his

hopes, that he may reconcile himself to resigning the lecture-room for

the school-room. I know how hard it will be, for I was just entering

upon a scientific career when I was excluded from it by my father's

early death. And let me tell you that if my son bears this blow well, I

have nothing more to fear." His voice faltered as he uttered these last

words. He was conscious of it, and was silent,--unwilling to betray his

emotion.

Johannes and Hilsborn stood for one moment, not knowing what to reply.

They could not console the unhappy father by the assurance that he

would need no substitute. They well knew how important it was that what

the conscientious old man proposed should be done. At last Hilsborn

said, with characteristic gentleness, "If you wish to make sure of a

substitute in case of the worst, it is best that you should do so as

soon as possible, as in the event of undergoing an operation you would

be unable to work for a long time, and, besides, I cannot answer for

the result."

"Thank you, kind sir. You have told me the truth, and now I know

enough," said the schoolmaster, wiping his eyes with a coarse,

gaily-printed cotton handkerchief.

"Have I not often told you," said Hilsborn, "that you never ought to

touch your eyes except with linen cambric?"

"True! true!" said the pale, troubled man, forcing a smile, "but where

am I to procure such a luxury?"

"Why, your lady at the castle should give it to you," said Hilsborn.

"She would do so willingly, I am sure, but I could not make up my mind

to so bold a request; for, since the other villagers have treated her

so badly, she has avoided us also; and I fear she has visited us with

some of the indignation that she must feel at the shameful insults she

has received."

"Well, then, I will ask for you," cried Johannes. "I will go back to

the castle, and you shall have what you require in a few moments."

As he spoke, Frau Brigitta entered, with a bottle of wine and the soup.

Her good old face beamed with delight at the opportunity of offering

her hospitality to such honoured guests. Her husband seized the

gentlemen's hands, while she was busied with laying the table, and

whispered, "Promise me, I beg you, that you will not mention what you

have told me to any one, that my poor wife may be allowed to enjoy all

the hope that she can for the future."

"We promise you," was the grave reply.

"May I be permitted to offer the gentlemen some slight refreshment?"

asked Brigitta with old-fashioned formality; for etiquette in the

country is like the fashion of dress, which follows at a long distance

the fashion of the city,--so that a form of polite expression is used

in the country long after it has ceased to be _bon genre_ in town. And

yet there is something touching in all those old-time phrases and

customs that we remember as used by our grandparents and great-aunts

and uncles. They suggest so vividly the images of the departed, and

bring back the memories of childhood. Who has not in early childhood

seen some old aunt or grandmother, upon refusing a fifth cup of coffee,

turn the cup upside down in the saucer and lay the spoon carefully upon

it? And when, twenty or thirty years after, we see some country

pastor's or schoolmaster's wife go through the same ceremony, does not

the dear old form, long ago laid at rest in the grave, rise before us

to check the smile upon our lips? Who cannot remember as a child the

friendly sympathy that greeted a satisfactory sneeze? And when, a

quarter of a century later, some kindly country soul hails such an

occurrence with a cordial "God bless you!" does it not seem as if we

must reply as formerly, "Thanks, dear grandmamma," and are we not

homesick for a moment for our good old grandmother? Such was the

impression made upon the young men by the kindly formality, the

officious hospitality, of the schoolmaster's good old wife.

"I pray you honour us by tasting our poor meal," she said, as she put a

coarse thick napkin of her own spinning upon each plate.

After the conversation that they had just had with the unfortunate

husband, the two young men had little appetite for eating or drinking;

but they would not refuse the old woman's kindly hospitality, and

therefore seated themselves at the clumsy table. For one moment there

was a silence so profound that the tick of the death-watch in the bench

by the stove could be plainly heard. Then the schoolmaster poured out

the wine. His hand trembled slightly, and he was obliged to take care

lest any of it should be spilled; for he could not see well when the

glasses were full. Then, holding up his own glass, he said cheerily,

"Long life to you, gentlemen, and to our noble German science! I drink

to you."

They clinked their glasses; but it cut Hilsborn to the very soul to

think that the science which their good old host was so lauding should

have been so cruel a prophet to him a few minutes before. Johannes,

too, looked down at the wineglass in his hand, and the drops that he

tasted from it were bitter to swallow.

"Come, good wife, clink your glass with mine," said the old man to Frau

Brigitta. "My wife is very fond of a little drop of wine," he said to

his guests; "but we never indulge in it except when we have such

honoured guests as sit around our table to-day."

"And why not?" asked Hilsborn.

"Because it tastes so much better when there are others here to enjoy

it with us," was the simple, smiling answer.

"But you ought to take more of it," said Johannes. "This good old wine

is excellent for you; it is a tonic."

The old man looked sadly at the few drops which he had poured out for

himself, and with which he had only moistened his lips. "You forget

that I have been for a long time forbidden to take wine, on account of

my eyes."

"My poor husband!" said his wife, sadly stroking his hollow cheeks. "He

has to deny himself so much."

Johannes and Hilsborn exchanged glances, and then the latter said, "I

reverse that prohibition, Herr Leonhardt. Take a good glass of wine

whenever you feel inclined. It cannot harm your eyes as much as it will

improve your general health."

"Thank God!" cried his wife rejoiced. "That proves how much better you

are."

"Or how much worse," Leonhardt said in Latin to Hilsborn, with a grave

look. Then, turning tenderly to his wife, he slowly emptied his glass,

whispering to her, "Long live our Walter!"

The old woman nodded delightedly. "Our good boy! if he only had his

degree!"

Leonhardt clasped his hands with a deep sigh. "That is all that I ask

of God."

"Are you speaking of your son?" cried the gentlemen. "Then let us join

you. May he live to be the delight and prop of your old age!"

"He is a very talented young man," added Johannes. "His essay was

declared the best after Fraeulein von Hartwich's."

"Indeed!" said the schoolmaster. "I am glad to hear it. Ah, the

Fraeulein is fortunate. She has everything necessary for her

studies,--books and apparatus. There is hardly such another private

laboratory and library in the country."

Johannes looked surprised. "Indeed! how do you know that?"

"My son has, during his studies, also perfected himself as a mechanic,

for he says it is a great advantage for a naturalist, and Fraeulein von

Hartwich, hearing of it accidentally, intrusted him with some repairs

of her furniture, and then he saw what treasures she possessed."

Johannes looked thoughtful. "Hm! as far as I know, Fraeulein von

Hartwich's income is by no means so large as to allow of such

extravagant expenditure. Her uncle may have permitted his ward to

encroach upon her capital; it would only be a fresh proof of his want

of principle."

After a short pause, he turned to the schoolmaster.--"Herr Leonhardt,

answer me one question. If a man wishes to rid a country of a dangerous

wild animal, is it best to track him to his den by cunning, that he may

be safely overcome there, or to startle him with loud noise and

frighten him off, so that he either escapes or has time to prepare to

defend himself?"

The schoolmaster looked puzzled. "Why, a prudent man would surely

pursue the first course."

"I think so too. Well, Herr Leonhardt, I mean to track Doctor Leuthold

Gleissert to his hiding-place. I am persuaded that this man is a

thorough scoundrel, but I can bring no proof that I judge him

correctly. Until I have collected such proof, which can only be done

quietly and with caution, I cannot proceed against him openly. I need

your assistance, Herr Leonhardt, for you know more than all of us

concerning this man and his proceedings. Give me, if you can, some

tangible cause for accusing him, that I may succeed in delivering that

rare creature, his niece, from his clutches."

"I will do my best," said Leonhardt. "But he lives so retired that I

shall hardly be able to procure any important information for you. The

only thing that I can observe is the names of his correspondents; for,

as there is no post-office in the village, I have a post-drawer in my

house, which the post-boy empties in my room. So that I can easily

learn to whom all Doctor Gleissert's letters are addressed. Perhaps

that may be of use to you."

"Do so," replied Johannes, "you will greatly oblige me." He emptied his

glass and arose. "And now let me have pen and ink, and I will write a

couple of lines to the lady at the castle."

The schoolmaster opened a little, old-fashioned desk, and produced the

necessary articles. Johannes wrote:

"My dear Fraeulein Hartwich:--Will it offend you if I offer you the

opportunity of exerting yourself within the sphere which I believe is

assigned to woman?--I, who provoked your displeasure this morning by

remonstrating against any exertion outside of that sphere. A tragedy is

about to be enacted in the peaceful cottage of the schoolmaster

Leonhardt, and the physical and spiritual aid of a woman like yourself

will be most welcome there. Come see these people for yourself; they

are the worthiest of your kindness of any in the village, and you have

seen the least of them. Say nothing to Frau Leonhardt of the hint I

have given you above. The poor man needs linen-cambric rags for his

eyes, and would not trouble you by asking you for them. This will

furnish you a pretext for establishing relations with these people--if

you will; and I am sure you will. I know that I shall hear of your

kindness when I return; and I shall return again and again.

"Your friend of a few hours, but for life."

Johannes sealed the letter, and gave it to the schoolmaster. "Here,

Herr Leonhardt, is the request for the linen-cambric. Send it to

Fraeulein Hartwich; and if she should happen to visit you herself, I

pray you and your wife not to mention my name. I desire the Fraeulein to

remain in ignorance of it for a short time. Promise me."

The worthy old couple gave the required promise, and, bidding a kindly

farewell, the gentlemen entered the carriage. Johannes took the reins,

and the impatient horse bore them swiftly back to town.

The schoolmaster and his wife returned to the house and finished their

dinner, for it was nearly twelve o'clock, at which hour the afternoon

school in the village reassembled. They dispatched the note to

Ernestine, and then the schoolmaster betook himself to the school-room

to wait for his pupils. At the stroke of twelve there was a trampling

of little feet in the hall, and finger after finger rapped at the door,

and awaited the gentle "Come in!" without which no entrance was

allowed, for the schoolmaster was a great stickler for order and

decorum, and knew well how to retain the respect of his scholars. Most

of the children were better in school than anywhere else. It was

strange. Herr Leonhardt never struck a blow; he was rarely angry; he

only reproved gently; and yet the most unruly boy, the most sullen

girl, was controlled by his glance. The wise old man believed that love

for the teacher was a better spur to improvement than fear, which could

only call forth hatred and malice towards its object. And thus he

smoothed away many a foolish, rude, and cruel trait from the peasant

youth of his village, bringing out the good in the minds of those

intrusted to his care, and suppressing the evil, so that, during the

thirty-five years of his gentle sway in the school-room, the

Hochstetten boys and girls were more in request for servants than any

others in all the country round.

"Good-afternoon, Herr Leonhardt!" cried the entering throng, scattering

themselves among the long benches with a sound like gravel poured out

upon a path.

"St--St!" was heard from the master, and instantly all was quiet in the

room, except for the rustling of the opening copy-books, and the lesson

began.

Suddenly there was a soft, low knock at the door,--such a knock as

comes only from a guilty conscience,--and a little, cleanly-dressed

girl, about six years old, stood upon the threshold with downcast eyes.

She held out before her, as if trying to hide behind it, a satchel so

large that it really seemed difficult to decide whether the child had

brought it, or it had brought the child; and the pearly drops upon her

brow showed how fast she had been running.

"Why, Kaethchen!" cried Herr Leonhardt, "why do you come so late? Come

here to me, little culprit. It is the first time in the whole long year

since you first came to school that you have been late. Something very

unusual must have happened?"

Little Kaethchen slowly approached him, while her chubby face grew

scarlet. "I--I had to pick berries," she faltered, biting her

berry-stained lips.

"Oh, Kaethchen," said Herr Leonhardt, raising his forefinger, "that is

very strange. _You had to!_ Who told you to?"

Kaethchen still looked down, and her face grew, if possible, redder

still.

"Look me in the face, my child," said the master gravely. "Are you

telling the truth?"

Kaethchen tried to raise her brown, roguish eyes to his face, but, ah,

the consciousness of guilt weighed down her eyelids like lead. She

could not look at her teacher; she only shook her curly head.

"Kaethchen," said the master kindly, "you were not sent to pick berries,

for I know how desirous your father and mother are to send you to

school--you ran into the wood to pick and eat them yourself. Perhaps

this is your first falsehood, as it is the first time you have been

late at school. Pray God that it maybe your last."

"Oh," the little culprit broke forth, "the neighbour's Fritz took me

with him, and the berries tasted so good that I stayed too long."

The other children laughed; but a motion of the master's hand restored

silence, and he continued to Kaethchen: "Now, my child, for your

tardiness you will have a black mark; and go down one in your class;

but, Kaethchen, for the falsehood you will lose your place in my heart,

and I cannot love you so much. But I will forgive you if you will go

stand in the corner of your own accord. Which will you do?--lose your

place in my heart, or go stand in the corner for a quarter of an hour?"

The child burst into a flood of tears, and, sobbing out, "I'd rather, a

great deal rather, go stand in the comer!" walked there instantly, and

turned her dear little face to the wall.

The schoolmaster looked after her pityingly; but nevertheless he was

firm, for he always imposed the severest penalty for a falsehood. The

lessons were continued, and in about ten minutes he called the still

sobbing Kaethchen from her corner. The child came running to him, and he

held out his hand to her, saying, "Will you promise me, Kaethchen, never

again to say what is not true?"

"Oh, yes, I will never, never do it again," was the contrite answer.

Then the old man took up the rosy little thing and set her on his knee.

"Then, my dear child, I will love you dearly as long as you are honest

and industrious. And if you are ever tempted to tell what is not true,

think how it would grieve your old teacher if he knew it, and tell the

truth for his sake."

"Yes, yes," cried the child, her little heart overflowing with

repentance, and, throwing her arms around the master's neck, she hugged

him with all her might.

The other children had watched the ceremony of reconciliation with

intense sympathy, for they were all fond of brown-eyed, rosy-cheeked

Kaethchen, and were rejoiced that her troubles were over.

"Now," said the teacher, when Kaethchen was at last seated in her place,

"now let us see whether you have done your task well."

Kaethchen pulled out her books from the dark depths of her huge satchel;

but, alas! the light of day revealed upon them many a stain from the

berries which had been put into the bag. The child's dismay and her

companions' amusement were infinite. Even the schoolmaster could not

refrain from smiling as he looked at her terrified little face. "Never

mind," he said, "you have suffered enough. Let us see how they look

inside." He opened the copy-book, and was evidently pleased with the

neat copy. But the sums were in dire confusion.

"Kaethchen," cried Herr Leonhardt, "if a horse has four legs, how many

legs have two horses?"

"Six!" was the confident answer.

"Kaethchen, how many are twice two?"

"Eight!"

Herr Leonhardt cast to heaven that resigned glance peculiar only to

such patient martyrs. "Kaethchen, how many fingers, not counting the

thumb, are there on your left hand?"

Kaethchen counted with her right hand the fingers of her left, and

triumphantly declared, "Four."

"And how many on your right hand?"

Again the same process was repeated with the right hand, and the same

answer ensued.

"That's right! Now, how many are there together?"

No answer.

"How many fingers have you on both hands?"

"Ten!"

"Without the thumbs, child,--without either of the thumbs."

Kaethchen began her arduous task anew.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

"Another child late?" said Herr Leonhardt, and cried, "Come in."

But, instead of the rosy face of a child, a pale countenance, with

large, dark eyes, appeared, and gazed almost shyly around the circle.

This apparition produced a perfect panic. "Oh, heavens! the Hartwich!

Mercy! mercy! the woman of the castle!" and similar exclamations of

alarm, were heard from all sides. The children started up,--those who

were nearest the door crowded away from it, the larger ones dragged the

little ones close to their sides, the Catholics even crossed

themselves. An actual uproar began, which even the teacher's voice

failed at first to control.

Ernestine observed it all without any change in her regular features.

Leonhardt approached her respectfully, and would have asked her pardon

for the children's folly, but she interrupted him.

"On the contrary," she said softly, "it is I who should ask pardon for

interrupting your school by my dreaded appearance. I meant to go to

your dwelling-room, to take you the linen-cambric handkerchiefs that

you need, but not knowing where it was, I knocked here by mistake. Have

the kindness, Herr Leonhardt, to relieve me of this parcel, and I will

relieve your pupils from their alarm."

The old man held out his hand to her, but she did not take it. "Never

mind that; such a civility shown to me might deprive you of the

children's respect."

"Oh, my dear Fraeulein Hartwich," Leonhardt warmly entreated, "do not

ascribe this folly to me, to whom it gives, of course, much more pain

than it can to you, whose position is too exalted to allow you to heed

such trifles; but to me it brings the bitter conviction that the labor

of a lifetime has been in vain!" He ceased, and cast a sad, weary

glance at the little flock crowded so closely together.

At his words the cold look in Ernestine's eyes vanished, and, for the

first time, she regarded attentively the old man, who stood so

respectfully, and yet so dignified, before her. His inflamed eyes

revealed to her instantly the nature of the tragedy alluded to by her

unknown friend, and she was filled with sympathy.

"We will talk together by-and-by, Herr Leonhardt," she whispered, so

that the children should not hear what she said. "Now let me go."

"Will you have the great kindness, Fraeulein Hartwich, to go and see my

wife for awhile?" said Leonhardt "It would give her such pleasure,--she

is in the opposite room."

"Most certainly I will. I will wait for you there."

She turned to go; but Leonhardt, seeing that the children were now more

quiet, and hoping to show her that their folly was not as great as it

had seemed, cried to the foremost ones of the throng, "You have behaved

foolishly and naughtily before Fraeulein Hartwich. Come, show her that

you can be better, and bid her good-by, like good children."

The children stood motionless. The old man, distressed at their

conduct, looked around the room, and said, "Will none of you shake

hands with her for my sake?"

"I will," said Kaethchen's clear, childish voice; and the fearless

little girl, who had only followed the example of the others, walked up

to Fraeulein von Hartwich, and offered her chubby little hand to be

shaken, and her berry-stained lips to be kissed. Ernestine stooped and

kissed the little, pouting lips, and looked kindly into the pretty

child's frank, sparkling eyes.

"Now see, all you larger children," said the schoolmaster, "a little

child, only six years old, shames you all! What are you afraid of? You

see Fraeulein von Hartwich every day!"

"Yes, but not in a room--out in the road; we can run away then," one of

the older ones shrewdly declared.

Ernestine smiled sadly, and left the school-room without another word.

The schoolmaster looked around upon his pupils with an indignant

glance. "You have to-day disgraced yourselves and me, and I see plainly

that everything that I have said to you and to your parents upon this

point has been of no avail. I will give up trying to contend with your

superstition and hate,--I am too old and weak for such a contest. Only

let me say to you once more, 'Judge not, that you be not judged.' And

tell your parents that if the time ever comes when I shall have to

leave you, what has occurred to-day will go far to prevent me from

regretting my departure."

The children sat dismayed and silent, for they had never known their

teacher to be so much displeased. They bowed their heads low over their

books and slates, and hardly ventured to breathe, still less to utter a

word of excuse. The lessons were gone through with even more quiet than

usual, and when two o'clock struck, the children left the house and

crept away as sad and depressed as if they were following a funeral.

But scarcely were they escaped from the neighbourhood of the

school-house than they recovered themselves, and fell upon poor

Kaethchen. "Fie! Kaethchen, you let the Hartwich kiss you! Nobody cares

for you now!"

"Yes, yes, Kaethchen's mouth is black, because the Hartwich kissed it."

"Oho, Kaethchen, no one will ever give you a kiss again!"

"Only wait, and see how the Hartwich has bewitched you! To-morrow you

will know!"

Poor little Kaethchen was overwhelmed with speeches and reproaches of

this kind. But they troubled her very little, for her teacher was

pleased with her, and that was better than all else besides; and she

was proud that she had dared to go forward when all the rest were

afraid.

"If you are so unkind, I will not give you any of my berries," she

said, swinging her huge satchel carelessly to and fro. This trump-card

did not fail of its effect, for the berries were not bewitched,--at all

events, the Hartwich had not touched them; so the little girl soon had

the satisfaction of seeing the children all gather around her once

more.

When Leonhardt went to his wife, he found her deep in friendly talk

with Ernestine.

"My dear, kind Fraeulein Hartwich," he began, "how it grieves me that

you, who came to do me a kindness, should have been so insulted in my

house! To be sure, they are only children, and they could not really

insult you, but----"

"'As the parents are, so must the children be,' is what you would say,"

Ernestine interposed, "or what, at least, you think. Do not be

distressed, Herr Leonhardt. I am used to insult and ridicule, and I

have grown callous to them. But it is strange that a similar occurrence

took place ten years ago to-day, at the first and only children's party

which I ever attended. My misanthropy dates from that day; and the

fresh proof that I have just had convinces me that I am not fitted to

mix with the world,--least of all, with what passes for such in this

country. Tell me, Herr Leonhardt, is it entirely impossible for you to

enlighten these people in some small degree?"

"To speak frankly, I believe I could have done so had not my influence

always been counteracted by their priests and pastors. As a teacher,

subordinate always to a priest or pastor, I could effect nothing

against the superstition, the religious intolerance, instilled into the

peasants by their spiritual guides; for with peasants the authority is

always the greatest that does not attempt to combat their errors. A

quack who makes use only of old women's remedies will always inspire

them with more confidence than a regular physician whose prescriptions

gainsay all their medical and dietetic prejudices. A pastor who from a

religious point of view justifies and encourages their superstition and

ignorance will be regarded by them as a far worthier and more

trustworthy guide than one who teaches only the pure truth of God. So,

you see, I have always contended with unequal weapons, and have

frequently been in danger of falling a victim to their malice and thus

losing my place. In quiet times, when nothing occurred to show plainly

the difference between us, all went pretty well; but since your

arrival, Fraeulein von Hartwich, the old quarrel has been renewed, and I

see again how powerless I am."

"Then I am come only to sow discord in this peaceful spot," Ernestine

said in a thoughtful tone. "Yes, yes,--misfortune attends me wherever I

go."

"Oh, do not say that!" cried Frau Brigitta, seizing Ernestine's hand,

"but it seems to me--forgive a simple old woman for speaking so plainly

to you--it seems to me that a lady so beautiful and richly endowed as

you are, ought not to live here so lonely and secluded. My husband and

I often say, 'What a pity it is that such a splendid creature should

bury herself alive!' It certainly is unnatural; and what is natural is

sure to be best!"

Ernestine was silent, and sat with eyes cast down.

"I too must say," said Leonhardt timidly, "that you are not in your

right place here. Did you ever see the statue of a renowned philosopher

or artist set up in the midst of a village? Certainly not; for the

village boys would pelt it with mud,--no one would understand its

value,--it would be merely a doll, at which every one would laugh, and

to deface which would be considered a very good joke. And will you,

Fraeulein Hartwich, in the bloom of life, with all your refinement of

mind, voluntarily expose yourself to the same fate that would await

such a statue were it erected here, for the purpose of inspiring this

rude people with ennobling ideas? Surely you cannot answer to yourself

for such a course of life!"

Ernestine gazed attentively at the old man's faded but still noble

countenance. His address was so different from what she had expected

from a simple village schoolmaster, that she was greatly astonished at

it. It stimulated her to reply to him.

"I understand your comparison, Herr Leonhardt, and am greatly

honoured by it, but,--forgive me for saying so,--it does not seem to me

quite correct. I know of no village where statues either of Christ or

the Madonna are not erected, and the rudest peasant pays them

reverence,--because he appreciates the idea that they embody. Could we

only breathe a sympathy with other than religious ideas into the minds

of this neglected class, the representatives of such ideas would also

receive the same reverence."

Frau Leonhardt was a little troubled by the turn the conversation had

taken; for, as a faithful servant will listen to no slighting remarks

concerning those whom he serves, she, as a true servant of her Lord and

Saviour, disapproved of Fraeulein von Hartwich's mode of speaking of

Him, and thought it scarcely becoming in a good Christian to listen to

such talk. But her husband, with modest tact, put an end to her

anxiety. "I have myself," said he, "thought of what you say, but it

seems to me to be an entirely different matter. The people honour in

these statues not ideas, but persons,--and the holiest and highest

persons that they can conceive of,--the persons of their God and his

saints. As we take delight in the pictures of distant relatives, whom

we may never have seen, perhaps, but whom we honour and cherish for the

sake of what we know of them, so, a thousand times more so, do the

people honour what speaks to them of the eternally invisible Father of

all! This sentiment, Fraeulein von Hartwich, seems to me widely

different from the admiration that a comprehension of the great ideas

of to-day might awaken in the minds of the people. We are not yet far

enough advanced to say how it may be,--and who knows whether we ever

shall advance so far as to be able to elevate those classes who labour

for us that we may think for them, and who desire nothing at present

for their happiness but their plough and their God? What they really

need now, in my opinion, is that their God should not be represented to

them as an angry, avenging Jehovah, but as the loving, redeeming God of

Christianity! To return to my simile,--with regard to yourself,

Fraeulein von Hartwich, let me repeat that you can only be in your true

place where your efforts and ideas are understood and you can grace a

pedestal that becomes you. Then you will be truly happy, and far more

easily brought into communion with your Creator than while you are

embittered by the religious error and intolerance prevailing around you

here. The people are hostile to you, because they believe you hostile

to what they hold most sacred,--their religion. Whoever, in their

eyes, stands aloof from Christian fellowship, stands aloof from

mankind,--ceases to be a creature of flesh and blood. And if they do

not see condign punishment quickly overtake such a one, whom they

regard as the chief of sinners, they believe that she must be under the

protection not of God, but of the other power in their theology,--the

devil! Forgive my frankness. I say nothing of their childish

misconception of God's tender long-suffering. I only feel it my duty to

show you the impassable gulf that lies between you and your

surroundings. You are such a thorn in the side not only of the Catholic

priest, but also of the evangelical pastor of our diocese, that he

attempted to procure from the Protestant consistory a decree of

banishment against you on account of your writings, and, failing in

this, he has determined to drive you from this place, at all costs, by

unceasing persecution. His Catholic associate seconds him, as you

yourself know, most zealously, and I wish to save you, by timely

warning, from all that, unfortunately, still threatens you here."

He paused, and endeavoured to observe with his dim eyes the effect of

his words upon Ernestine's impassive features. Her look was still

riveted on the ground, and she said nothing, so he respectfully took

her hand, saying, "Dear Fraeulein von Hartwich, forgive me if I am too

bold and have wounded you. I am a plain man, ignorant of the forms of

polite society, grown old among peasants, and accustomed to speak out

my thoughts openly. I hold truth to be my first duty, but it would pain

me to think that, in fulfilling this duty, I had unintentionally

wounded you!"

"Dear, dear!--yes!--oh, yes!" ejaculated his kindly old wife, really

distressed by the inscrutable expression upon Ernestine's face.

Suddenly the latter started up, shook the old people by the hand, and

said gravely but cordially,--

"Thank you, thank you, Herr Leonhardt. You are a good man!"

"Oh, my dear, good Fraeulein von Hartwich!" cried Frau Brigitta with

emotion.

"I must go home now," said Ernestine, covering her black braids with

her hat, "but I will see you soon again. Farewell!"

When the old couple had accompanied her to the door, and followed her

with their eyes as she walked away apparently lost in thought, they

both remembered for the first time that she had not alluded in any way

to Johannes.

"How strange!" said the schoolmaster, as he went for his garden-shears

to trim the luxuriant hedge before his house.

CHAPTER IV.

THE GUARDIAN.

When, on the evening of the same day, Leuthold returned from town, he

heard that Ernestine could not see him,--she was not well, and had

retired to her room. Slowly and cautiously he sought her study, and

there attempted to find what and how much his ward had accomplished

during the day. To his astonishment, he found nothing. He slipped into

the laboratory, and there lay everything just as it had been left the

day before. Nothing had been touched. What did it mean? It was the

first day for years that had been passed by Ernestine in idleness.

Then, creeping along the corridors with the stealthy step of a cat, he

sought Frau Willmers. She, too, was just about going to bed, and looked

very sleepy when Leuthold, fixing a searching glance upon her, asked,

"What has Fraeulein von Hartwich been doing to-day?"

Frau Willmers yawned: she needed an instant for reflection. "Fraeulein

von Hartwich has been quite unwell to-day," she replied.

"Indeed! what was the matter with her?"

"Why, just what is always the matter, more or less. Heart-beat,

faintness, headache. Is it any wonder, considering the way she is

always at work? She could hardly hold up her head to-day----"

"Has any one been here?"

"Not a soul: who could----"

"No letters?"

"Two for you, Herr Professor, and one for Fraeulein von Hartwich from

the schoolmaster."

"What did he want?"

"He asked for some linen-cambric rags for his weak eyes. She took him

some."

"She herself? Why?"

"She was tired because she could not study, and she wanted to see Herr

Leonhardt's eyes. She thought she might learn something from them."

"Very well,--that will do. Good-night, Frau Willmers."

"Good-night, Herr Professor," said the cunning housekeeper, hastening

to tell Ernestine how slyly she had managed matters and contrived to

pay due honour to truth by mixing up some of it with her falsehoods.

Ernestine sat in an easy-chair, her eyes fixed upon the flame of the

lamp. A book lay open in her lap,--"Andersen's Fairy Tales."

She could not smile at what Frau Willmers told her. There was something

in it that filled her with uneasiness. For the first time since she had

lived with her uncle, she felt that she was a prisoner, watched and

guarded as such. She was obliged to conceal, as if it were a crime, the

fact that she had become acquainted with a true, noble human being. She

had to account on the plea of interest in science for visiting a poor

suffering man. The lie disgraced her, and the necessity that had

prompted it was a galling chain! All this she felt to-day for the first

time. One day had aroused within her the longing for independence!--the

greatest misfortune that could have befallen her unsuspecting uncle,

but not the only one that this day was to bring him.

When he went to his room, he found there the letters of which Frau

Willmers had told him. The first that he took up he opened instantly.

It was from his daughter Gretchen, and ran thus:

"My dearest Father:

"In a week I shall be fifteen years old, and next month my course here

will be finished, and I shall be fitted to take my place in the school

as a teacher. Once more I turn to you and entreat you, dear father, let

me come home to you! I will not be any burden to you. My teachers will

tell you that I know enough to enable a young girl to earn her own

living. I thank and bless you a thousand times, dearest father, for

having me educated to be a useful member of society. I will be my

cousin's maid, and work for her for my support, if I may only be near

you! Oh, I pray you yield to my entreaties! You have always answered my

request by telling me that her bad example--her irreligion and hardness

of heart--would have a ruinous effect upon me. But indeed, dear father,

this could not be. Thanks to my good, kind teachers, I am so firm in my

faith, I have been so well trained, that this one bad example could not

have any effect upon me, especially when I should daily see how my poor

father suffers in discharging his guardianship of so stubborn a

creature. Why did my dead uncle Hartwich bequeath to you such a

thankless office? Indeed, dearest father, it would be easier if you

would let me help you. I would leave nothing untried to soften her

heart and turn it to good, and, however angry she might be with me, I

would disarm her by patience and submission; and, even although I could

have no effect upon her, I could be something to you, dear father. Oh,

how heavenly it would be to sit alone together in your room after the

day's work was finished! I could sit at your feet and show you my

sketches and drawings, drinking draughts from the rich treasures of

your mind and cheering you with my ever-ready nonsense. And sometimes I

could lean my head upon your heart, that no one understands as well as

the child to whom you have shown all its depths of tenderness, and

sleep as peacefully as in those dear childish days when you cradled me

in your arms with all a mother's care! Oh, father, you are everything

in the world to me! My mother, who forsook me when I was so young--who

left you for another so immeasurably your inferior, I do not know--I

can form no image of her, unlovely as she must be, in my mind. You are

mother, father, everything, to me! My cradle stood by your bedside;

your eyes smiled upon me when I awoke. You never spoke a harsh word to

me, you never looked unkindly at me. You treated the wayward child, who

must so often have vexed you, with unvarying gentleness and patience;

and at last you sent me from you, that I might be thoroughly trained

and educated, since it is our fate to earn our daily bread. You sent me

from you, but I saw plainly, when we parted, that this was the greatest

sacrifice of all,--that I carried away your whole heart with me. You

did it for me,--out of affection for me. You have given me up now for

almost seven years, and I have worked and studied as hard as I could,

so that I might soon be with you again; and now, when I have learned

enough to be able to repay you a very little for all that you have done

and suffered for me, you refuse to let me fly to your dear arms, for

fear of the miserable influence of your ward. Father, you will--you

must--hear and heed me. The tears that blotted your last letter to me

fell hot into my very soul. They were tears of longing--do not deny

it--for your child, and I will never rest until you give heed to your

own heart! Ah, father dear, you will be pleased when you see me! I am

taller and stronger than our governess! Every one says I am very tall

for my age--I might be taken for eighteen years old! When we go to walk

together, you will have to give me your arm! Ah, what a delight that

will be! I shall be too proud to touch the ground! and, depend upon it,

I shall be able to do something with Ernestine! She never used to be

cross to me as a child; I cannot think how she can have altered so. How

could she become so changed with such a guardian? In spirit I kiss his

dear, kind hands! Happy girl!--to have my father for a teacher! Shall I

not grudge her a happiness of which she has proved herself so unworthy?

Yes; I do grudge it her! I do not envy her for her talents or her

wealth, but I do envy her for my father!--I must envy her for that! You

give her your time--your care; you devote yourself to her, and let your

own child grow up far away from you, among strangers,--your own

child,--who would give all that she possesses for one look from her

father's eyes!"

Leuthold could read no further. He writhed like a worm on the ground

beneath the weight of reproach with which this artless creature thus

heaped him. The thunderbolt of a god could have inflicted no such

punishment upon him as the pure, sweet, angelic love of his child.

He sunk upon his knees, and kissed the letter again and again. "My

child! my child!" he cried aloud, racked almost to madness by intense

feverish longing. At this moment of weakness he was overwhelmed with

remorse. He had banished from his side his dearest possession,--his

Gretchen. And why? Because he loved her too dearly to expose her to

contact with the ideas that he sought to impress upon the mind of his

ward,--because he would not allow his child to breathe the poisoned

atmosphere of falsehood in which he chose that Ernestine should dwell.

And why had he thus chosen? Because, he loved Gretchen too much to have

her always poor and dependent, because he determined to win back the

inheritance that he had once thought his own, but which had been so

unexpectedly lost to him, and because there was only one way, in his

mind, in which this could be done,--by making the possessor of this

inheritance so utterly unfit for the world that nothing might wrest her

person or her property from his grasp.

But, when he received such a letter as the above, overflowing with the

devoted love, the pain at separation, of his exiled child, something

stirred in his breast that would not be quieted, demanding whether he

might not have expressed his paternal love in another way, whether it

were not a desecration of this angel to attempt to make her future

happy by a crime? Whether the joy of educating such a child himself

would not have outweighed the wealth of the world? And then he began to

reckon and compare,--and the account was never balanced,--for the years

of separation from his daughter there was no equivalent. These were

rare hours when, like a criminal before his judge, he was arraigned in

spirit before the pure eyes of his child; but they cost him months of

life.

His hair had grown grey,--his powers of mind were enfeebled by all

these years of self-control and hypocrisy,--of crime and dread of

discovery. He had nothing to hope for for himself--but for Gretchen?

And what if he had failed in his reckoning? What if a mischievous

chance should again deprive him at the last moment of the fruit of all

this sacrifice? The path of sin had separated him from his daughter

hitherto. Was it possible that it could ever lead him to her?

His high, narrow forehead was covered with a cold dew as he passed his

hand over it. He was indeed to be pitied,--a man who had not the

courage to be wholly good nor wholly bad!

The night breeze blew fresh through the open window, and the miserable

man was thoroughly chilled. He arose, wrapped himself in his shawl,

closed the window, and went to the table where lay the other letter. It

was directed in the handwriting of the overseer of the Unkenheim

Factory. Leuthold put it down--he had not the courage to read it "What

can he have to tell me?" he moaned, utterly dispirited.

At last he roused himself. "What must be, must!"

He unfolded the coarse paper and read--while his face grew ashy pale.

"Umkenheim, July 30, 18--.

"Honoured Sir:

"You should have believed me when I told you that there was nothing to

be done with bringing the water from that miserable spring. Twenty

years ago you placed me at the head of this factory, and I think I have

shown that I understand my business. It is a ruinous thing to conduct

such a huge undertaking from a distance. I told you so when you got

back the factory again, but you never believe what I say. If the

business had been allowed to proceed as usual, we should have made a

sure, although small, profit from it. But you were in such a devil of a

hurry to make the capital yield a hundred per cent., because you were

always afraid lest your ward should smell a rat and require her own

again,--or lest she should marry, and you would have to render an

account to some suspicious husband, who would be less forbearing even

than Fraeulein Ernestine. Therefore these giant speculations were set on

foot, and everything was to be accomplished in the twinkling of an eye.

I told you we had not sufficient sewerage for such an enormous

enlargement. Then you never rested until that expensive drain was dug,

and we very soon found that it had too little incline and the refuse

all stuck fast in it. Then you thought we could carry it off by a

stream of water turned into the drain. More money was spent, and again

spent in vain. The dry summer had exhausted the spring,--it was always

small, and now it has entirely disappeared. The large supply of raw

material, not yet paid for, cannot be worked up, for the villagers are

beginning to talk again of 'poisoning the springs,' and the drain has

begun to leak. If the necessary amount of water cannot be procured, I

shall be prosecuted, and then nothing will shield either you or me from

discovery. The people already think it strange that the Italian

gentleman, who pretended to buy the factory by your advice, has

disappeared. It is whispered about that he is not the real owner, and

Heaven only knows what it all means. We have, therefore, more need of

caution than ever!

"There is nothing for it but to face the worst and continue the

aqueduct to the forest,--then we shall be safe. Digging ditches and

hunting for springs is of no use,--more money is frittered away so than

in large undertakings. I do not know what cash you have on hand; if you

have not enough to lengthen the aqueduct, in a few weeks you will be

bankrupt. It will not be my fault!

"I have no more money for the workmen's wages,--and it would be well,

now that work must be suspended for a time, to pay them up. It might

keep them in good humour. I know that you will vent all your anger upon

me again, but I tell you I will put up with nothing more. I was an

honest man until you tempted me and made me your accomplice. Still, I

have not played the rogue to you, my principal, although I have, more's

the pity, made myself amenable to the law. You have gone on just like

Herr Neuenstein, who became bankrupt too, because he would not listen

to me; but he was an honourable man, and paid up every penny that he

owed, so that he was not afraid to look any one in the face. If you

fail, you drag down your ward, whose money you have been using, with

you,--and me too,--poor devil that I am! There is truth in the proverb

'Ill-gotten gains never prosper.' God help me!

"Yours, etc.,

"Clemens Pruecker,

"_Overseer_."

It was too much. "My child! my child! I have sinned, forged, embezzled,

for your sake, in vain! Can you be sufficiently proud of such a

father?" he moaned,--his head fell back in his chair, and he lost

consciousness.

The day had dawned when he opened his eyes; the atmosphere was full of

the disagreeable odour of the dying candles, his limbs were stiff and

numb from his uneasy posture, and he was shivering with cold. When he

tried to walk, his hands and feet were asleep, and he staggered like a

drunken man. At last his eyes lighted upon the letters. He picked them

up and went to his writing-table. There he put them away in a secret

drawer, then drew forth a safe and investigated its contents. It

contained certificates of stock and some rolls of ready money.

The sun shone brightly into the room, and still the pale man sat there

counting and calculating. At last he put all the contents of the safe

into a leather travelling-bag. Then he rang the bell and ordered the

servant, who appeared, to have the carriage brought round and to pack

up for him sufficient clothes to last during a journey of several days.

When he heard that his niece had arisen, he went to her. "Good-morning,

Ernestine," said he. "How are you to-day?"

"I should put that question to you, uncle," she replied. "You look as

if you had just arisen from the grave!"

"Oh, there is nothing the matter with me. I did not sleep much. The

overseer at Unkenheim writes to me on the part of my Italian friend,

begging me to come as soon as possible to the factory, where everything

is going wrong. I think it my duty to do what I can in the matter, as I

know all about the business, and unfortunately advised my friend to

make the purchase."

"Are you going, then?" asked Ernestine, with a feeling of secret

delight that she could not explain to herself.

"Yes, I must leave you for a few days, hard as it is for me. But

promise me before I go that you will have that treatise that you are at

work upon completed by my return. Let nothing prevent you from

finishing it. If you feel unwell,--you know that is of no real

consequence,--you can readily overcome all your ailments by resolutely

willing to do so. Take quinine, if you must. Now may I rely upon

finding the essay complete when I see you again?"

"Yes, uncle, I promise; and if I do not keep my word, it will be for

the first time in my life."

"Farewell, then, my child,--I must hurry to catch the train. Let

nothing interrupt you,--do you hear?--nothing!"

He hurried out, and sought the housekeeper. "Frau Willmers," he said,

"I rely on you to prevent Fraeulein von Hartwich from receiving any

visitors, be they who they may. If I find, upon my return, that you

have permitted the least infringement of my orders, you may consider

yourself dismissed. I cannot tell you when I shall return. Conduct

yourself so that you need not fear my arrival, for it may take place at

any moment."

"Rely upon me entirely, Herr Professor," replied Frau Willmers; and

Leuthold got hastily into his vehicle.

"Now, that sly master of mine thinks all is secure, and that he has the

heart of a girl of two-and-twenty under lock and key. How stupid these

clever folks often are!" After this fashion Frau Willmers soliloquized,

as her master drove off.

CHAPTER V.

FRUITLESS PRETENSIONS.

"Your new dress-coat has come from the tailor's," was Frau Herbert's

greeting to her husband, upon his entrance.

"Indeed! where is it?" he asked gruffly.

"In the next room, on the bed."

"On the bed!" her husband snapped out. "So that it may be covered with

lint? How careless!"

Frau Herbert looked down, and was silent. Herbert hurried into the next

room to rescue his slighted property.

Professor Herbert's dwelling-room was rather small and low, but there

appeared, at a cursory glance, an air of elegance about it. The chairs

and lounges were covered with fine woollen stuff, the curtains were

richly embroidered, and an elegant cabinet, with mirrored doors,

closely locked, apparently contained silver plate. Upon a closer

inspection, however, the furniture was found to be stuffed with straw,

the curtains were shabby, with the holes in them not even darned, and

the cabinet contained only broken household-utensils, with the remains

of the previous meal, locked up there to be safe from the hungry

servant-maid. Even the arm-chair by the window, occupied by Frau

Herbert, evidently an invalid, was as hard as a stone. The only thing

in the room of real and decided value was a collection of old English

copper-plates that decorated the walls of the apartment, representing

scenes from Shakspeare's plays and Roman history. These old pictures

were one of Professor Herbert's fancies; and he belonged to that class

of men with whom the necessities of a wife and of the household are

never considered in comparison with the gratification of their fancies.

Frau Herbert was one of those unfortunate women who, in the

consciousness that they are burdens to their husbands, believe

themselves called to endure everything, even the grossest injustice,

with meekness, and who hold it their duty to entreat forgiveness of

their lords and masters for continuing to exist at all. The sight of

that quiet woman, with her sad face, upon which pain had ploughed deep

furrows, sitting at the window mending the straw-coloured gloves in

which her husband was, in the evening, to play the part of an aesthetic

exquisite, while she lay suffering at home, would instantly suggest the

complete picture of an unhappy wife tied to the side of a cold-blooded

egotist.

"Poor Professor Herbert!" people were wont to say, "what a misfortune

it is for a man to have such an invalid wife!"

But a closer observer of the pair would have said, "What a misfortune

for an invalid wife to have such a husband!"

The miserable woman, however, had no such thought; she would gladly

have died,--not only to be free from suffering, but that her husband

might be rid of her presence. In her inmost heart she despised his

selfishness and want of feeling. She knew that a worthier man would

have had consideration for her and patience with her, as her burden was

surely the heavier; but she was too much afraid of her husband to put

such thoughts in words, even to her own mind. Suffering that is

incessant, and that undermines the physical frame, must gradually

weaken the mind; and thus the only strength of the hapless wife

consisted in hopeless endurance.

Professor Herbert entered in his new coat, and surveyed himself

attentively in the large mirror.

"It fits well,--does it not?" he asked.

"Very well! but it is very expensive."

"Did the bill come with it?"

"Here it is."

"Oh, that is not so bad. Hecht is certainly the best tailor in the

city."

A shade of bitter feeling passed across his wife's face and she could

not refrain from saying, "When I recollect that you lately refused to

let me have the shawl I so needed, that did not cost half so much,

and----"

"The money for your dress all goes to the apothecary, my dear," Herbert

replied, with a sneer.

"My dress!" his wife repeated,--"you would be ashamed to walk in the

street with me,--my clothes are so shabby."

"No one expects much elegance from an invalid whose illness costs her

husband so much money."

Frau Herbert cast a glance at her husband, but she said not a word

more. For one moment she leaned her weary head against the back of her

chair, but the position was too uncomfortable, and she resumed her

work, thinking with pain how the physician had imperatively recommended

her to procure a more comfortable chair, in which she could sleep

sitting up,--but now this small luxury, as well as all the rest, had

been denied her!

Suddenly the door opened, and in rustled and fluttered a creature half

child, half old maid,--half butterfly, half bat. Around her head

floated a mass of very light curls. A _nez retrousse_ gave to her face

a naive air of youthfulness, which, however, the crafty, eager

expression of her small eyes contradicted. Just so her teeth, short and

wide apart, resembled those of a young child who has shed his first

set, while the wrinkles about her thin, open lips indicated an age of

thirty years at least. The figure, crowned by this strange head

with its huge mane of curls, was delicate and slender as that of a

half-grown girl. Her hands were small, but wrinkled like those of an

old woman. She was dressed in thin, flowing garments,--her round straw

hat was adorned by long, light-brown ribbons. Her gait, bearing, and

address were light, airy, sylph-like. It was evident at the first

glance that she was a creature who believed herself highly poetic,

richly gifted, breathing a charmed atmosphere, and that although she

might in reality be thirty years old she had in imagination never

passed sweet sixteen. Such a creature is only conceivable with a sheet

of music or a sketch-book in her hand; and, in obedience to a

mysterious law of nature, this too was not wanting in the present

instance. "Brother, darling!" she cried, skipping up to Herbert, "how

charming you are in your new coat! Aha, are you going to the Moellner's

reception this evening? Yes!" Trilling a little air, she laid aside her

book, hat, and gloves. "Tra-la-la-la--oh, I am so happy to-day I cannot

talk, I can only sing." And she hummed the refrain of the charming song

by Taubert, "I know not why, but sing I must!" Then she remembered that

she had not yet spoken to her brother's wife. "Oh, dear Ulrika, forgive

me for not asking how you are. No better yet? Ah! your little Elsa is

so agitated to-day! I feel--I can't tell how--my bosom heaves and

thrills as with the breath of May! I must go to my work. To-day I feel

sure, in my present frame of mind, I must create something!"

And she was about to hover away to the blissful retirement of her own

room, when Herbert, who had meanwhile exchanged his new coat for a

light summer sacque, cried after her, "Stay here a moment, and speak at

least one sensible word before you go."

She paused.

"What are you going to attempt now? I am really afraid to trust you by

yourself."

She skipped up to her brother again and roguishly laid her finger on

his lips, looking archly in his eyes. "Dearest brother, I shall

surprise you! I have an idea!"

"Pray cease your folly for the present. You do not want to flirt with

your brother, I hope? Tell me, what is your idea? If it is good for

anything, it will be the first of its kind that you have ever had in

your head."

"Oh, you discourteous brother!" pouted the fair indignant, "to grieve

your sister so! But, since you bid me, I will obey you, and give you a

glimpse into the transparent depths of an artist's soul. Every maiden

must practise the sweet duty of obedience, that she may one day gladden

a husband's heart by her submission."

"Well, well, to the point!" cried Herbert impatiently.

Elsa bashfully cast down her eyes, and, stammering with the charming

embarrassment of an artistic nature, said, "When, a few days ago, I

asked Professor Moellner what lady author was his favourite, he answered

me in jest, 'She who has written the best cookery book!' I am going to

show the mocking man that I can do that too. Oh, how amazed he will be

when he finds that the wealth of fancy in my soul can beautify and

transfigure what is so prosaic! This it is that he deems the charm of

womanhood,--the power to seize and mould to beauty the commonplace and

sordid. I am going to publish a cookery book in verse, with

illustrations, and entitle it 'The German Wife at the Hearth of Home.'

Only think what splendid initial letters and arabesques I can have! I

will show that a bunch of parsley can be as gracefully arranged as

roses or violets. Such lovely green borders to the pages must always be

beautiful, whether composed of parsley, lettuce, or sorrel; and, if a

warmer colour is desirable, I will paint a couple of blushing radishes

peeping, half hidden, from among the leaves, and there you have as

perfect a picture as any of our famous artistes have produced of

Spring. Is not the meanest kitchen-stuff the work of the Creator, and

as beautiful as any other of his creations? And there can be such

variety in the volume. For example, the chapter of receipts for cooking

fish can have a title-page of its own, after the style of the

engravings in Schleiden's 'Wonders of the Deep.' Beneath a placid

crystal lake may be seen sporting together all the fish alluded to in

the ensuing chapter. Branches of coral are wreathed in and out, and,

illuminated by the rosy light of the setting sun, water-lilies float

upon the calm surface of the water. Every chapter will have a suitable

title-page, displaying in its native element the animal to be

cooked,--game in the forest, fleeing from the pursuing huntsman and

hounds,--the dove hovering above the ark, with the olive-branch in her

beak,--domestic fowls, in the Dutch style, cooped in their accustomed

poultry yard. Fruit and vegetables can be treated as still-life, in

arabesques, and decorating the margins of single recipes. At the end of

the book a picture representing a family seated at dinner. Over their

heads, in gothic letters, the line, 'Lord Jesus, come and be our

guest.' And, in pursuance of this invitation, he must be seated at the

head of the table, in the midst of a brilliant halo of glory. On either

side of the table sit the children, and at the foot the happy husband

and wife, each offering food to the other. Angels are in attendance

upon the able,--the angels of harmony, peace, and content. The wife

sits with her face turned from the spectator, but the husband--and this

is the grand point--the husband will be a portrait!"

She paused, carried away by her poetic dreams, and by the thought of

the immense success that the book must command.

"Well, and whom is the portrait to represent?--me, perhaps?" asked

Herbert with a sneer.

"You? Oh, no. Ah, rogue! can you not guess? Heavens! do not look at me

so,--you know whom I mean!"

"Moellner?" asked her brother.

"Yes,--you have guessed it. Oh, when I think of the smile that will

play around that proud mouth as he beholds his portrait drawn by my

hand, as he sees how his image is present with me everywhere in all

that I think and do! Oh, it will, it must touch him!"

"Yes, it will touch him uncommonly," remarked Herbert; "and there will

be a charming scene when he presents his inamorata, the Hartwich, with

the work, that she may learn cookery from it. Do not forget to add a

receipt for broiling frogs' legs, by which she can dress the frogs that

they use together for their physiological experiments."

"Oh, Edmund!" exclaimed Elsa, startled and a little vexed, "your words

are full of wormwood to-day. Go,--your caustic wit destroys all my

flowers of fancy. This is why I always avoid you when I am about to

begin a work. What pleasure can it give you to thrust me from my

paradise? Is it right? Let the soul that can find no home on this rude

earth seek it in brighter realms."

And she raised her eyes to the ceiling, and laid her wrinkled little

hand upon her breast. "Mine is a modest, shrinking soul,--its childlike

trust and hope are all that I possess. Dear brother, do not you rob me

of them, as long as no other hand snatches them from me."

"But you must find out at last that your hopes are vain, and therefore

I wish to warn you, that you may not make yourself ridiculous by an

untimely parade of your feelings. I know, from the most trustworthy

sources, that Moellner has been to Hochstetten to see the Hartwich, and

that he spent two hours with her. Rhyme that with his enthusiasm for

her at the meeting the other day, and complete the verse yourself."

Elsa looked down and thought for a minute or two, then she sighed and

shook her flowing mane, saying, "No, it cannot, cannot be! That

man-woman may excite his curiosity, she cannot win his heart! No, no,

Elsa has no fear that Lohengruen will be misled by Ortrude! And now to

work, that the day may soon come when he will ask, 'Elsa, whose is the

face of the wife who sits at table by my side?' Then I shall avert my

face and reply, 'That you know best.' Oh, darling brother! dearest

sister! he will turn my blushing countenance to him then, and say,

'This is her face!' Oh, I must go: the breath of spring is wafted

towards me from my studio. Yes, yes, I feel that the Muses await me

there." With these words she rustled and fluttered away to her room.

Frau Herbert looked after her with a sad, almost a compassionate,

glance. "Tell me, Edmund," she said to her husband, "did you ever for

one moment believe that such a man as Moellner would marry that girl?"

"Why not? There are many more unequal matches made every day: the only

thing is to man[oe]uvre the matter skilfully. If poor Elsa had as

managing a mother as you were blessed with, the affair would certainly

not be beyond the bounds of possibility. But the poor thing has no one

to help her but myself, and we men are clumsier at match-making than

the most stupid of women."

Frau Herbert looked pained and crushed by this attack upon her mother

and herself. She thought it, however, beneath her dignity to reply to

it. She only said very quietly, "I am glad, Edmund, that there is one

creature in the world for whom you have some regard, or even blind

affection. Well, she is your sister. I, too, love the poor thing, but I

cannot believe that she will ever succeed in kindling one spark of

interest in Moellner's breast."

"You have always regarded her with jaundiced eyes," Herbert went on to

say. "You talk as though she were a monster. She is no longer young,

but there is still something youthful about her. She is not, it is

true, a genius, but her nature is really artistic. She is not pretty,

but an enthusiast like Moellner is more observant of inner graces than

physical beauty, and he cannot fail to be impressed by her beauty of

soul. It certainly is true that he always distinguishes her in society.

Does he not always take her to supper when she is unprovided with an

escort, as is usually the case? When all the others avoid her, is not

Moellner sure to sit and talk with her? Such a conscientious prig as

Moellner would not do that unless he had some object in view; and if she

has no other charm for him, her undisguised admiration of him would

attract him to her, for he has a due amount of vanity, and every one

must take pleasure in being so fanatically adored. If it were not for

that confounded Hartwich, who knows how far he might be brought! But I

will be revenged upon her, she may rely upon that!"

"Why visit your anger upon the innocent? How can it be this stranger's

fault that Moellner is more interested by her genius than by our Elsa's

sentimental dilettanteism, her perpetual attempts and failures? His

courtesy to her in society always seemed to me prompted by his

humanity. She certainly makes herself very ridiculous,--you must see

that; and a man of Moellner's kindly, chivalric character cannot permit

an innocent, harmless girl to be made sport of, and, accordingly, he

constitutes himself her protector, and tries generously to indemnify

her for the neglect of others. He does not dream that Elsa's vanity

builds all kinds of schemes upon his conduct, or he would never forgive

himself----"

"Enough, enough!" Herbert interrupted her angrily. "I cannot see how,

with the pain in your face, you manage to talk so much. I can

understand that Elsa is disagreeable to you because I have educated

her, but I cannot understand how, tied to your invalid chair as you

are, you have contrived to fall in love with this Moellner. Indeed, if I

had not had hopes of marrying him to my sister, I should have broken

with the arrogant pedant long ago, for I hate him as much as you women,

old and young, adore him."

Frau Herbert looked with a quiet, thoughtful expression at the speaker,

who had worked himself into a violent rage, and then she silently

resumed her work, suppressing the words that rose to her lips,--for she

possessed the rare talent of knowing when to be silent.

Herbert waited for some minutes for a reply which might afford him

further opportunity for venting his spleen, but, receiving none, he

turned away, and was about to seek his study.

Just then there was a knock at the door, and the postman entered, with

a thick square parcel in his hand. Herbert grew pale at sight of it,

and his wife too looked sad and sorry.

"Your manuscript?" she asked.

"My manuscript," he said, writing his name in the mail-book with an

unsteady hand.

"There's a gulden and twenty-four kreutzers to pay," said the

messenger.

"So much?" growled Herbert, counting out the money carefully by

groschen and kreutzers. When the man had left the room, Herbert hastily

tore open the envelope, and a letter appeared, which he hurriedly

looked through and handed to his wife with a look of despair. The

letter was from the manager of the royal court theatre at X----, and

ran thus:

"To Herr Professor Herbert, of N----:

"I am greatly concerned, sir, to be obliged to return you your tragedy

of 'Penthesilea,' as it presents insurmountable difficulties for scenic

representation. The secrecy enjoined upon me shall be inviolably

preserved.

"With great respect, etc.,

"W----."

Frau Herbert looked up with a sigh at her husband, who stood pale and

trembling beside her.

"There goes my last hope," he said, tearing up the letter. "I forgave

all the other managers and directors for sending back the manuscript,

for they are incapable of appreciating the value of such a work. But no

one can accuse a man like W---- of not appreciating genuine art, and if

he refuses to bring it out he must be actuated by envy. However that

may be, in these lines he has written his own death-warrant." He raised

his hand containing the crushed letter with something like solemnity,

and continued: "I now declare war upon the German stage and its

supporters. If I have nothing to hope, I have nothing to fear. I have

written six tragedies for the waste-paper basket. I will not write

another. Having nothing to fear, I may allow myself the delight of

revenge. Criticism is an all-embracing friend, affording a sure refuge

for every one who is misunderstood and depreciated. I will throw myself

into its arms from this moment. Our public is degenerate. I give up

composing for a people who crowd to a farce, shout applause at the

commonplace jests of the hero of a modern comedy, and dissolve in tears

at a sensation drama from a woman's pen. Shakspeare's, Schiller's, and

Goethe's works would be rejected to-day as 'pulpit eloquence,' if past

ages had not stamped them as classic. This degraded generation must be

educated anew by criticism. They sneer and jeer, and jingle the money

in their pockets, these traders of the drama, who demoralise the

public; but I will so scourge them that I shall be called the Attila of

the German stage."

He paused, for breath failed him to continue his philippic, and he

began to read over his manuscript, murmuring to himself, "This is for

the future."

Frau Herbert, as was her wont, suffered him to rage on without

interruption; but at last she was compelled, out of regard for truth,

to attempt to check the outpourings of the angry man. "It is a mournful

office," she began, "that of literary executioner, and one I should be

sorry to undertake. There is no good done to anybody by it. Many a

blossoming genius is destroyed in the bud, and the critic brings upon

himself the curses of those who have been striving and labouring

honestly, night and day, only to see the offspring of all their pains

ruthlessly murdered by the cold steel of his criticism. And the public

do not thank you for degrading in its eyes what it had taken pleasure

in, and thus robbing it of much enjoyment. Schiller and Goethe never

practised criticism after this fashion. They knew how to live and let

live, for they were too great to wish to aggrandize themselves at the

expense of their contemporaries, and too good to destroy the results of

the painful labours of others. Oh, Edmund, how small the man must be

who can seek to exalt himself by depreciating others!"

"You are preaching again without sense or reason," Herbert said angrily

to his wife. "It was very easy for Schiller and Goethe to play at

magnanimity, for they were never misunderstood,--the wiser generation

of their day did not refuse them the crowns that belonged to them of

right. A king by election would be a fool to make war upon the vassals

of his realm. But the nation refuses me my right, and therefore I shall

make war upon it."

"Are you so sure of this right?" Frau Herbert asked in a low tone. "Are

you so sure that your works are of equal value with Schiller's and

Goethe's, and deserve the same applause?"

Herbert stood as if petrified at the presumption of such a speech. "I

really think the pain must have gone from your face to your brain. We

had better discontinue this conversation."

Frau Herbert went on with her work. A slight flush tinged her bloodless

cheek, but she was too used to such attacks to reply to them. She had

already said too much of what she thought, and when she looked at

Herbert's anxious face she was seized with compassion. Poorly as he

bore it, he had met with misfortune, and she would not add to his

pain. "Pray, Edmund," she said, after a pause, occupied by Herbert in

seeking and finding consolation in the beauties of his manuscript,

"make up your mind now to read the piece to your friends. There are so

many intellectual people here who will give you their opinion

honestly,--then you can see what impression your work makes as a whole,

and perhaps their criticism may enable you to improve it here and

there."

"I desire no one's opinion. I know perfectly well myself what the

tragedy is worth. Shall I give occasion to have it said that I needed

the assistance of others to enable me to complete my work? And then to

have it reported that I composed dramas that were always rejected! No,

I will not acknowledge a work that has met with no applause; neither my

brother professors nor my students must hear of it."

The handle of the door was turned, and through the opening smiled

another opening,--Elsa's large mouth. When she saw the gloom

overspreading her brother's countenance, her snub-nose, too, made its

appearance, and, finally, her entire lovely person. She wore a white

apron with a bib, calico over-sleeves, and had one pencil in her hand

and another behind her right ear.

"Your voices disturbed me at my work. Why contend thus? You know that

my exquisite fancies are scared away, like timid birds, by the

slightest noise."

"It is a fine time to consider your nonsense, when such a work as my

'Penthesilea' has been returned to its author as 'unserviceable!'"

thundered her brother.

"Heavens!" cried Elsa in dismay. "Penthesilea rejected by W----! Oh,

who would have thought it! I so revered that man! My poor brother, this

is hard! But, brother, dear Edmund, do not be too much depressed! Oh, I

feel with you entirely. Any one who knows as well as I do what it is to

have works rejected, can understand your pain. And what says my poor

Ulrika? She looks so disappointed."

"Oh, you need not pity her!" observed Herbert bitterly. "Her husband's

incapacity alone, not his misfortune, troubles her."

Frau Herbert turned her face towards the window, as if she had not

heard him.

"Oh, you must forgive her, brother dear--she has never done anything

but translate. She cannot know a poet's finer feeling."

At this disparaging remark, Frau Herbert looked calmly and gravely at

Elsa. "And yet my unpretending translations for the periodicals supply

us with the only means upon which we can rely, apart from Edmund's

salary and the small interest of my property. That is because I never

attempt what lies beyond my reach. No undertaking, however humble, that

keeps pace with one's ability, can fail to produce some fruit, small

though it may be."

Elsa turned away, rather taken aback by this turn of the conversation,

and her brother muttered, "Of course this is the sequel to the fine

talk about attempting and failing."

Elsa threw herself down upon a cushion at his feet, in Claerchen's

attitude before Egmont, patted his smoothly shaven cheeks, and

taking the thick manuscript out of his hand, pressed it to her bosom,

saying, "Take comfort, my poet. Your 'Penthesilea' must always live!

Here,--here,--and in the hearts of all. Print it, and publish it as a

dramatic poem. It will find readers among the most intellectual people

of the country."

"You are a good sister," said Herbert, flattered. "But you know that I

have never yet been able to find a publisher enlightened enough to

bring out my tragedies. And my own means are not sufficient to enable

me to print the work."

"Oh, brother dear, I cannot believe that 'Penthesilea' would not find a

publisher. It is the greatest thing you have ever written. The coarsest

of men must be touched by such elevation of thought. There may perhaps

be some difficulty in representing fitly upon the stage the conflict

between Trojans, Greeks, and Amazons in the presence of the gigantic

horse. But I cannot think that any one would refuse to print such a

gem,--no--never! Yet, even in case of such incredible obtuseness, do

not despair. My cookery-book will bring me in such a large sum that I

shall be able to help you. Oh, what a strange freak of destiny, should

I be permitted by means of a cookery-book to afford the German nation

the knowledge of this immortal work! The ways of genius are

inscrutable, and perhaps 'Penthesilea' may one day be born from the

steam of a soup-tureen, as Aphrodite was from the foam of the sea.

There, now, you are smiling once more. May not your sister contribute

somewhat to her brother's success?"

"You are a dear poetical child. Although I do not share your

anticipations, your appreciation of my efforts does me good. Thank

you!" And darling Edmund laid his hand upon his sister's curly head as

it lay tenderly upon his breast.

CHAPTER VI.

EMANCIPATION OF THE FLESH.

On the evening of this eventful day, Professor Herbert, before going to

the Moellners', entered a splendid boudoir in a retired villa on the

outskirts of the city. The entire room formed a tent of crimson damask

shot with gold and gathered in huge folds to a rosette in the centre of

the ceiling. Around the walls were ranged low Turkish divans of the

same material. The floor was covered with crimson-plush rugs as thick

and soft as mossy turf. Turkish pipes and costly weapons of all

kinds,--shields, swords, pistols, and daggers,--adorned the walls. In

the background of the apartment slender columns supported a canopy

above a lounge, before which was spread a lion's skin, with the head

carefully preserved. Upon the floor beside it stood an elegant

apparatus for smoking opium. A riding-whip, the handle set with

diamonds, lay upon a table of bronze and malachite. A Chinese salver,

heaped with cigars, was upon a low stand beside the lounge. Upon a

polished marble pedestal in the centre of the room stood a bronze of

the Farnese bull, and to the right and left of the lounge were placed

bronzes of the horse-tamers of the Monte Cavallo at Rome. The rich

hangings of the walls were draped over candelabra holding lamps of

ground glass.

The smoke of a cigar was circling in blue rings around the room, that

was far more fit for a Turkish pasha than for a lady. And yet it was

the abode of a lady, and it was the smoke from her cigar that encircled

Herbert upon his entrance.

At first he only saw, resting on the lion's skin, two beautiful little

feet in Russian slippers embroidered with pearls. The drapery of the

canopy above the lounge concealed the rest of the figure. He advanced a

few steps, and there, stretched comfortably upon the swelling cushions,

reclined a woman beside whom all other works of nature were but

journey-work,--such a woman as appears in the world now and then to

cast utterly into the shade all that men have hitherto deemed

beautiful. Herbert stood dazzled and blinded by the apparition before

him. He was dressed in his new coat, and had an elegant cane in his

hand, that was covered by a glove, upon which his wife had that morning

employed her skill. But what was he, in all his elegance, by the side

of this woman! He stood there dumb "in the consciousness of his

nothingness." What could he be to her, or what could he give her? She

was the woman of her race! She must mate with the man of her race, as

the last giantess in the Nibelungen Lied could love only the last

giant. Was he in his fine new coat this man of men,--the Siegfried to

conquer this Brunhilda? Ah, he was but too conscious that he was

nothing but a poor weakling, whose only strength lay in his passionate

admiration of her!

"Aha, here comes our little Philister," said the fair Brunhilda in

broken German with a yawn, holding out her soft hand to him and drawing

him down upon the lounge beside her like a child. Herbert sank into the

luxurious cushions, that almost met, like waves, above him. The

position did not at all suit his stiff, erect bearing, which was

entirely wanting in the graceful suppleness of the born aristocrat who

lolls with ease upon silken cushions. Such a seat would become a man in

loose flowing costume, with an opium-pipe between his lips, and ready

when wearied to fall asleep with his head pillowed upon the lady's lap.

Poor Herbert was not one of these favourites of Fortune. He sat there

stiff and wooden as a broken-jointed doll,--his pointed knees emerging

from his downy nest, and his tight-fitting clothes stretched almost to

their destruction by his unusual posture. He timidly placed his hat

upon the stand beside him, and envied it its loftier position.

"How now, my learned gentleman?" the lady began again. "What! dumb?

What is the matter now?--what ails you?--domestic misery? Pardon! I

mean conjugal bliss."

"That is my constant trouble, dearest countess," Herbert replied,

"although its dust never cleaves to my wings when I am with you. It is

not that that worries me to-day. My Penthesilea----"

The countess laughed loudly, and puffed out a cloud of smoke to the

ceiling. "Here it comes! It is either his wife or his Penthesilea that

teases him! I hope both may rest in eternal peace before long, for an

unhappy husband and a tragedy are as much out of place in this boudoir

as the fragrance of eau de Cologne or chamomile-tea--those horrid

accompaniments of a sick-room!"

"And yet it was you, fairest countess, that inspired me to embalm in

classic verse that bold Amazon of antiquity."

"That may be, and yet, my good fellow, believe me, Penthesilea herself

would have considered it a terrible bore to have to read of her glory

in a German tragedy. Come; don't be offended Have a cigar. Do you want

fire to light it? Here; I will give you more than you need." And, with

a laugh, she leaned towards him and lighted his cigar by her own.

"You know you can do whatever you please with me," said Herbert, making

a feeble attempt to twist his legs into a more comfortable position.

"But take care not to go too far!"

"Oho! my Herr Professor would fain mount his high horse?"

"No, only take a higher seat," said Herbert involuntarily.

"Well, then, sit on this ottoman, you wooden German with no sense of

Oriental ease. There! will that do? When you really wish to mount a

high horse, I pray you take mine. How often I have placed my Ali at

your disposal! Do let me enjoy the delight of once seeing you on

horseback! Will you not? Oh, it would be delightful!"

"Thanks! thanks! I would do all that you desire,--even go to the death

for you,--but it is rather too much to ask me to make a laughing-stock

of myself."

"Well, then, just take one walk with me, arm-in-arm. Oh, what a face of

alarm my honourable gentleman puts on! He will go to the death for me,

but not across the street. Ah, what a glorious hero for a tragedy he

looks now! Hush! I know just what you would say,--wife, sister,

cousins, aunts, good name, reputation as professor,--'great dread,' as

Holy Writ hath it, would 'fall on all!' Every coffee-cup and tea-cup in

the city of N---- would rattle abroad the startling news that Professor

Herbert had been seen escorting the wild countess across the street.

But it is all _en regle_ to slip around here in the twilight, and kiss

my hands and feet, and then, at your evening party afterwards, shrug

your shoulders at the mention of my name. For shame, Herbert! you are a

cowardly fellow, fit for nothing but to be a _messager d'amour_ between

myself and Moellner."

"Countess," said Herbert menacingly, "do not goad me too far, or you

will repent it! You know my passion for you--know that I would dare all

for a single kiss from your lips; but you leave me thirsty at the

fountain's brink,--hungry beside a spread table,--and you heap me with

scorn. No living man could endure such treatment!"

"Well, then, _point d'argent, point de Suisse_," cried the countess.

"For every piece of good news of Moellner that you bring me, you shall

have a kiss. For the sake of that man I would hold an asp to my breast!

Why should I refuse a kiss to a German Philister like yourself? But you

must first taste all the torment of rejected love, that you may make

all the more haste to put an end to mine."

"This is a poor prospect for me, countess; for I hardly think I shall

ever be able to bring you good news. All that I can do is to bring you

news of him; and if you refuse to reward the bad, as well as the good,

my lips shall be sealed--you must seek another confidant."

He rose, as if to go; but she took his hand, and looked beseechingly at

him with her large, lustrous eyes.

"Herbert!"

The poor professor could not withstand that look, nor the tone in which

she uttered that one word. He sank upon the lion-skin at her feet, and

pressed his lips upon the pearls and silk of her embroidered slipper.

"See, now, you are not as unkind as you would have me believe you," she

said, looking down upon him with a contemptuous smile, that he,

fortunately, did not perceive.

"Oh, have some compassion upon me," he moaned. "I am most miserable! My

home is a scene of ceaseless complaint. A wife disfigured and crippled

by disease, so that she fills my soul with aversion, and, whenever I

need rest from the thousand annoyances of my profession, only adds to

their number. Then I am overwhelmed by vexations of every kind,--my

talents are slighted,--whatever I attempt fails. And then this contrast

when I come to you! Before me here lies all that is fairest and

loveliest that earth has to offer; but the delight that I feel in

beholding it is an insidious poison, eating into my very life,--for

nothing--nothing of all this splendour is mine. I stand like a boy

before the Christmas-tree that has been decked for another,--I am here

only to light the lights upon the tree, that another may behold his

bliss; and when I have induced that other to appreciate and take

possession of his wealth, then--then I must turn and go empty away! Oh,

it is dreadful!" He buried his face in the lion's mane, and, by the

motion of his shoulders, he was plainly weeping.

The countess looked down upon him with the compassion that one feels

for a singed moth. Had it been possible, she would have crushed him

beneath her foot for very pity,--just as we put an end to the insect's

sufferings; but, as it was not possible, and as, moreover, she had need

of the man, she raised him graciously, and again seated him upon the

cushions beside her. "You shall not go away empty-handed, my good

fellow. I told you before I will make you a rich man. If you only bring

Moellner to my side, my banker shall give you, as long as I live----"

"Countess!" he exclaimed, "do not carry your scorn of me too far. I am

sunk low enough, it is true, since I thus chaffer and bargain with you

to sell you my assistance for a single kiss. For this single caress I

would resign my life! The thought of you is the madness that robs me of

sleep at night, makes me hesitate and stammer when I stand before my

pupils in the lecture-room, and prevents me from enjoying the food that

I eat. A single kiss from you is more bliss than such a wretched man as

I should hope to enjoy. But I am not yet sunk so low as to hire myself

out for money, and although you may hold me in contempt, you shall at

least pay some respect to the position of German professor, which I

have the honour to hold!"

The countess was silent for awhile, struck by his words. But such

embarrassment could last but a moment with a woman conscious of the

power to atone by a smile for the grossest insult. "Come here! Forgive

me! I have erred, but I repent."

"Oh, light of my life!" cried Herbert, seizing her offered hand, and

pressing it to his breast. "Forgive--forgive you? With what unnumbered

pains would I not purchase the joy of such a request! The only thing I

cannot forgive you is that such a woman as you should love this

Moellner."

"Indeed!--and why?"

"Because he is not worthy of you. Look you,--were you to give yourself

to an emperor or a king, I could bear it without a murmur. Crowned

heads are entitled to the costliest of earth's treasures,--how could I

covet what kings alone could win? But that one of my own class should

call you his,--one with no special claim of birth, culture, or

intellect,--with nothing that I too do not myself possess, except a

physique that is his in common with any prize-fighter,--the thought is

madness!"

A dark flush coloured the beautiful woman's brow. "I have not even

acknowledged to myself why I love this Moellner. I never hold myself

responsible for my impulses--every passion bears its divine credentials

in itself. But you have just revealed to me what so enraptures me in

this Moellner. Yes! it is nothing else than what we admire as the

highest attribute of humanity--a noble, genuine manhood. I think I have

read in some poet, 'Take him for all in all, he was a man!' But this

man is more; he is what I have never in my life seen before,--a

virtuous man. This, my good little professor, is his charm, his

advantage over monarchs even,--enabling him to buy what is his now and

forever,--my heart! Oh, there can be no more exquisite flower in the

garden of Paradise than this which I hope to pluck--the devotion of

this virtuous man. It is the bliss of Eve when she breathed the first

kiss upon the lips of the first man and marked his first blush!"

The beautiful woman, speaking more to herself than to the miserable man

by her side, leaned back upon her lounge and exclaimed with a heavy

sigh, "Oh, what a divine office for a woman--to teach a man like this

to love!"

Herbert reflected for a moment. He had been playing the traitor here,

and, in the hope of winning Johannes for his sister, had never said

anything to him in favour of this woman. He had deceived her with

falsehoods, that he might be retained as her confidant as long as

possible, and perhaps profit by her waning interest in his colleague.

But now all his hopes and plans were ruined. Moellner loved the

Hartwich, and was lost for Elsa,--who might, at all events, be avenged

of her hated rival by means of the countess. The all-conquering charms

of the Worronska should subdue Moellner, and he, Herbert, would

receive--all that was left for him in the general shipwreck--the

gratitude at least of the countess.

He began at last, after a severe inward conflict. "I have a

communication for you, but it will make you angry. I cannot, however,

feel justified as your friend in withholding it from you."

"Well?" inquired the Amazon, lighting a fresh cigar.

"I have discovered that Moellner is in love."

The countess started, and looked at Herbert as if in a dream. The smoke

from the freshly-lighted cigar issued in a cloud from her half-opened

lips, and she looked like a beautiful fiend breathing fire.

"Whom does he love?" she asked, her eyes flaming as if she would force

the name from Herbert before his lips could find time to utter it.

"Have you ever heard of a learned woman called Hartwich?"

"Yes, yes! she too is emancipated."

"True, but not at all after your fashion, countess," Herbert corrected

her, maliciously enjoying the torture to which the haughty woman was

put. "You are emancipated for the sake of pleasure--she is emancipated

for the sake of principle. She is a rare person, and fills Moellner with

admiration of her genius!"

"Well, and it is she?" she cried, stamping her little foot upon the

soft carpet.

"He is in love with her!"

For the first time, the countess sprang up from her lounge, and stood

before Herbert in all the majesty of her person. Her gold-embroidered

Turkish robe hung in heavy folds around her. Her dark hair fell in

loosened masses upon her shoulders. The glitter of her long diamond

ear-rings betrayed the tremor that agitated her whole frame. Her low,

classic brow, with its bold, strongly-marked eyebrows,--her mouth,

shaped like a bow, with lips parted,--her firm, massive throat,--the

whole figure, so powerfully and yet so perfectly formed,--all suggested

the Niobe, only the passion that swayed her was rage, not suffering.

"Is this true? Is it really true? I must hear all."

Herbert told her all that he had seen and heard.

The countess was silent for one moment, as if paralyzed by

astonishment. Then she muttered, as if to herself, a few broken words

that Herbert could not understand, but at last her rage overflowed her

lips and reached his ears.

"There is a first time for everything. This is the first time that a

man honoured by my notice has loved another." She strode up and down

the room so hurriedly that the flame of the lamps flickered as she

passed them. She threw her cigar into the fireplace. "Must I endure it?

I? Oh, cursed be the day when the count came here for his health! For

this I have spent my months of widowhood since his death, in this hole,

away from all the enchantments of the world, even timidly waiting and

hoping like a bride,--no society about me but my horses, dogs,

and--you! For this, for this,--that I might learn that there lives a

man who can withstand me. The lesson, it is true, was well worth the

trouble!"

She struck her forehead. "Oh that I had never gone to that lecture!

then I might never, perhaps, have seen him. Why did I not stay away?

What do I care about physiology, anatomy, or whatever the trash is

called? I heard this Moellner was distinguished among his fellows, and

curiosity impelled me to go. Fool that I was, to imagine that he saw me

there and admired me as I did him!" She stood still, and involuntarily

lost herself in thought "Ye gods! how glorious the man was that

evening! The brow, the hair, the eyes, were all of Jove himself. I felt

myself blush like a girl of sixteen, when I met his eye. And such

grace, such dignity! His voice, too,--melodious as a deep-toned bell. I

did not understand what he said; but there was no need, his voice was

such harmony that no words were wanting to the charm. It was a

symphony,--no, finer still, for that we only hear, and in him the

delight of sight was added. The movements of those lips--how

inimitable! And then his smile!" She paused,--her cheeks glowed, her

eyes sparkled. It was a delight to her to lay bare her heart for once,

careless as to what were the feelings of her auditor.

"And if that voice is so enchanting when it discourses upon dry,

unmeaning topics, what must it be when it comes overflowing from his

heart!" She leaned against the pedestal of one of the bronzes, and

covered her eyes with her hand.

Herbert sat as if upon the rack,--he could not speak,--his voice denied

him utterance.

"No man has seemed to me worthy of a glance since I saw him first.

Bound by no vow, no duty, no right, I have still been true to him.

Since loving him, I have first known a sense of what the moralist would

call decorous reserve. For a woman who for the first time truly loves

is in the first bloom of youth, whether she be sixteen or thirty. I was

a wife before I was a woman, and the spring, that I had never known

before, began to breathe around me beneath the magic influence of that

man,--the maiden blossom of my life, crushed in the germ, budded anew.

Oh, what would I not have been to him! I, with the experience of

ripened womanhood and the first love of a girl! And scorned! I, for

whose smile monarchs have contended, scorned by a simple German

philosopher! Oh, it stings, it stings!"

And she hid her face again.

Herbert timidly approached her and touched her shoulder lightly with a

trembling hand. "Would that I could console you!"

She shrank from his touch as if a reptile had stung her.

"What consolation can you give me, except the relief that I have in

pouring out my soul before you?"

She moved away, and again strode restlessly to and fro like a caged

lioness. "Fool, fool that I was! How could I suppose that the interest

he took in my husband's case was due to my attractions? It was inspired

by a hateful disease,--for this he came hither, and I thought he came

for my sake! Oh, fie, fie! I stayed for love of him by that terrible

sick-bed, and he had eyes only for the sick man,--he never even saw me

standing beside him. Is he man, or devil?"

"Oh, no," Herbert interrupted her, with malice, "he is only--a German

philosopher."

"And once, when I sank fainting in that room, what an arm supported me,

strong as iron, and yet tender as the arm of a mother! He carried me

like a child from the apartment. I held my breath, that nothing might

arouse me from that enchanting dream. He laid me on a couch, saying,

with icy composure, 'Allow me, madam, to call your maid. I must return

to the patient.' My cheeks burned with mortification; for one moment I

hated him, but when the door had closed behind him I revered him as a

saint. I could have knelt at his feet, and, clasping his knees, bedewed

his hands with penitential tears. But I restrained myself. I suddenly

knew that this pure spirit could love nothing that he did not

respect,--that I must first win that before I could hope for his love.

I determined to begin a new life, to break with all the past. For no

sacrifice would be too great to win the love of this man, and I sowed

renunciation that I might reap delight. Fool that I was! I reap nothing

but the reward of virtue!"

She laughed bitterly, and a violent burst of tears quenched the fire in

her brain. She threw herself down upon the lion's skin, unconsciously

representing the Ariadne.

"Loveliest of women!" murmured Herbert, intoxicated by the sight. "Is

it not monstrous that such a woman should mourn over an unrequited

love? Does he who could withstand such charms deserve the name of man?

No, most certainly not. He is an overstrained pedant, the type of a

German Philister, and if blind nature had not endowed him with the head

of a Jove and the form of an athlete, the Countess Worronska would

never have wasted a tear upon him!"

"Herbert, you shall not revile him! You cannot know how great he seems

to me in thus coldly despising my beauty, as though he might choose

amongst goddesses,--as though Olympus were around him, instead of this

insignificant town filled with ugly, gossiping women. What a lofty

ideal must have filled his fancy,--an ideal with which I could not

compete! When he saw me first, he did not know this Hartwich. I

remember how cold his eye was when he first saw me. He looked at me

with the cool gaze of an anatomist. And it was always so. Whenever he

visited my husband, he always treated me with the strictest formality.

Always the same gentle, inviolable repose,--the same calm scrutiny that

one accords to a fine picture, but not to a lovely woman. Oh, there is

something overpowering, in all this, for a woman used to seeing all men

at her feet!" She sank into a gloomy reverie. At last she seized

Herbert's hand. "Herbert, who is she who has power to enchant this man?

Is all contest with her useless? Must I resign all hope?"

Herbert, as if electrified by her touch, whispered scarcely audibly,

"Will you grant me that kiss if I show you how to annihilate the

Hartwich in Moellner's eyes?"

A pause ensued.

"It is my only price. Without it I am dumb."

"Well, take it, then!" cried the countess, driven to extremity; and she

held up to him her lovely lips.

But, as Herbert approached her, with the expression of a jackal

thirsting for his prey, disgust overpowered the haughty woman, and she

thrust the slender man from her so violently that he fell to the

ground. She was terrified,--perhaps her impetuosity had ruined

everything. She went to him and held out her hand. "Stand up and

forgive me."

Herbert stood up, pale as a ghost, with sunken, haggard eyes, and

readjusted his dress, disordered by his fall. He wiped the cold drops

from his brow with his handkerchief, and, without a word, took up his

hat.

The countess regarded his proceedings with alarm. "Herbert," she said

with a forced smile, "are you angry with me for being so rude?"

"Oh, no," he answered, in a hoarse, hollow tone.

She held out her hand, but he did not take it.

"Do not bear malice against me. I--I am too deeply wounded. I do not

know what I am doing."

Herbert was silent. He shivered, as if with cold. His look--the

expression of his eyes--alarmed the countess more and more.

"Now you will revenge yourself by not telling me how I can annihilate

the Hartwich?"

"Why should I not tell you?" stammered Herbert, with blue lips. "I keep

my promises." He fixed his eyes upon the countess. "Make the Hartwich

your friend, and you will make her an object of aversion in Moellner's

eyes."

The countess started; her terrible glance encountered Herbert's look of

hate. They stood now opposed to each other,--enemies to the death,--the

effeminate man and the masculine woman. She had offended him mortally,

but Herbert's last thrust had gone home; and softly, lightly as an

incorporeal shade, he passed from the room.

When the countess was alone, she fell upon her knees, as though utterly

crushed.

"Thus outraged Virtue revenges herself! Artful hypocrite that she is!

When I left her, she gave me no warning,--I sinned unpunished,--and

now, when I would return to her repentant, she thrusts me from her with

a remorseless 'Too late!' Too late!--my ships are burned behind me, and

there is nothing left for me but to advance, or to repent,--Repent?"

She writhed in despair. "No! O Heaven, take pity on me,--I am still too

young and too fair for that!"

CHAPTER VII.

EMANCIPATION OF THE SPIRIT.

High up upon the platform of her observatory, fanned by the pure

night-breeze and bathed in starry radiance, stood Ernestine, waiting

for the moon to rise. On her serious brow and in her maidenly soul

there was self-consecration, and peace. The heated vapour of passion

that was gathering like a thunder-cloud about her name in the world

beneath her, the poisonous slander of lips that mentioned her only to

defame her, could not ascend hither. Unconscious, assailed by no sordid

temptations, she stood there in vestal purity,--elevated physically but

a few feet from the earth, but soaring in mind worlds above it.

Slowly and solemnly the moon's disc arose from the horizon and mounted

upwards, lonely and quiet, in soft splendour. Thousands of little moons

were reflected in the telescopes of astronomers in thousandfold

diversity of aspect; but they were all images of the one orb slowly

sailing through the air. Ernestine was not busied with her telescope,

for no mortal quest could aid her in what she was seeking to-night. It

was to be found only in her own breast. It was not the material, but

the immaterial, that she was now longing to grasp; no single sense

could be of any avail. She needed all the powers of her being

harmoniously co-operating. And, as she gazed there, full of dreamy

inspiration, it was as if the moon had paused in its course to mirror

itself in those eyes. Oh that we could die when and as we choose! that

we could breathe out our souls in a single sigh! No human being could

pass away more calmly and blissfully than Ernestine could have done at

that moment, as she gazed at that serene moon and breathed forth a

yearning sigh after the Unfathomable.

Happiness, pure and unspeakable, descended into her soul from the

sparkling canopy of night This was her holiday, her hour of

enfranchisement from the fetters of toil and study. She was alone

beneath the starry sky,--a lone watcher, while all around were

sleeping,--thinking while others were unconscious. She seemed to

herself appointed to keep guard over the dignity of humanity, while all

beside were sunk in slumber. She could rest only when others were

roused to consciousness. The fever of night, that brings remorse to so

many tossing upon restless couches, never assailed her. All earthly

phantoms recede from the heart bathed in starlight, for in that light

there is peace. In view of immensity, eternity is revealed to us, and

every earthly pain vanishes like a shadow before it. But when star

after star faded, and the moon had paled, the first rosy streak of dawn

kissed a brow pale as snow, and a weariness as of death assailed her.

The sacred fire of her soul had devoured her bodily strength and was

extinguished with it. Then she sank to rest silently and

uncomplainingly, like the lamps of night at the approach of day. So it

was at this hour. As the darkness vanished, she descended to her

apartments, and sought in brief repose the strength that would suffice

for a day of constant labour.

"The more time I spend in sleep, the less of life do I enjoy," she said

in answer to the remonstrances of her anxious attendant. "Everything in

the world is so beautiful that we should not lose one moment of it,--so

short a time is ours to enjoy it."

"Enjoy! Good heavens! What do you enjoy? you do nothing but work."

"That is my enjoyment, my good Willmers. For my work is nothing less

than the constant study and discovery of the beauties of the world. An

immortality would not suffice to enjoy it all,--and what can we

accomplish in our brief span of existence? Shall we curtail it by

sleep? Has not nature, who gives us eighty years of life, robbed us of

almost half of it by imposing upon us the necessity of spending from

seven to nine hours out of the twenty-four in a state of

unconsciousness? I will defy her as long as I can, and maintain my

right to enjoy her gift as I please, and not as she please."

Frau Willmers looked with intense anxiety at the pale cheeks of the

speaker. As she lay in her bed, white as the snowy draperies around

her, her thin hands fallen wearied upon the coverlet, her breath coming

short and quick, the faithful servant's heart misgave her; for she saw

that nature had already begun to revenge herself for the disobedience

of her laws. She covered her up carefully in the soft coverlet. "Do not

talk any more, my dear Fraeulein von Hartwich,--you are worn out."

"And you are wearied too, my good Willmers. Why do you rise whenever

you hear me going to bed?"

"Because I always hope that I may force you, out of consideration for

me, to do what you will not do for yourself,--retire earlier and grant

yourself the repose which is needful even for the strongest man,--how

much more so for such a delicate creature as you are!"

Ernestine languidly held out her hand. "You are kind and unselfish, my

dear Willmers, but you cannot understand me. And, if you will insist

upon sacrificing your night's rest to me, I must give you a room at a

distance from mine, where you cannot hear what I am doing. Thank you

for your care. Good-night."

"Good-night," replied the housekeeper sadly, delaying her departure for

a moment to draw the curtains closely around Ernestine's bed, that they

might exclude the first golden rays of sunlight.

That same night the countess spent tossing, like one scourged by the

furies, upon her restless couch. She could hardly wait for the day that

should take her to see her rival, and the same rising sun that filled

Ernestine's sleep with friendly dreams,--for even in slumber the eye is

conscious of light, and communicates it to the soul,--the same rising

sun drove the tortured woman from her silken bed. She knew no

weariness. Her healthy physical frame, hardened by exercise, withstood

every attack of weakness. She owned no restraint, physically, morally,

or mentally. She was talented, but she refused to think. Thought was in

her view a fetter upon self-indulgence. Knowledge had limits which

those who knew nothing were unconscious of. She would be free as the

air, and therefore avoided everything that could disturb her

superficial security. And she had sufficient intellect to feel that

thought might lead to conclusions most dangerous to her theory of life.

"Man's destiny is labour, woman's enjoyment" This was her motto, and

she lived up to it. She dazzled the world with the rare spectacle of

beautiful power and powerful beauty carrying away like the hurricane in

its mad career whatever lies in its path, stripping the leaves from

every flower, uprooting every young tree, and bearing them on perhaps

for one moment before casting them aside, crushed and dying. A glorious

spectacle for exultant Valkyrias, but one at which the common herd

cross themselves. Every destructive force of nature--and such was this

woman--possesses a shuddering poetic attraction for the on-looker who

is himself secure. He admires what he fears, he revels in the sight of

what he knows to be destructive. This was the position held by the

inhabitants of the little town of N---- towards the beautiful Russian

since she had arrived there with her sick husband. With her wild manner

of life, she was a wonderful apparition in their eyes, a constant

source of interest, yet always provoking sternest disapproval. When the

magnificent woman galloped through the streets upon her fiery Arabian,

or held the reins behind her pair of horses with a skilful hand, like

Victory in her triumphal car, no one could refrain from rushing to the

window to enjoy a sight not to be forgotten. Strength, health, and

beauty seemed to be her monopoly and the firm foundation of her joyous

existence.

"The woman who desires to be emancipated," she was wont to say, "must

have the true stuff in her. And as there are so few who possess it,

there are but a few who are emancipated. If you cannot compete with a

man, do not try to rival him. But she who has been baptized, as I have,

in the ice-cold Neva, can afford to laugh at the whole tribe with their

masculine arrogance."

In Russia, where she had played her part in a community far less

strict, she had had an excellent field for displaying her grace and

agility in all knightly exercises at the tilting-school which had been

instituted by the Russian nobility. There she made her appearance

usually in a steel helmet and closely-fitting coat of mail of woven

silver that shone in the brilliant sunlight, enveloping her as it were

in splendour. When she rode into the lists thus arrayed, a crooked

scimitar by her side, pistols in her belt, and mounted upon her Arabian

steed, nothing could restrain the loud applause of all present. She

rivalled the most distinguished sons of the Russian nobility in the

grace and skill with which she managed her horse, the precision of her

aim in shooting, and the boldness of her leaps. She knew no fear and no

fatigue.

She had the strength and vigour of a Northern divinity, with the

glowing temperament of an Oriental. What wonder that, from Emperor to

serf, all were her admiring slaves?

Her father, Alexei Fedorowitsch, was a poor and uneducated noble, who

had distinguished himself by his bravery in the war with Napoleon, and,

invalided at its close, retired to his small estate in the country,

where he lived upon his pension. His wife, a sickly aristocrat, who had

condescended to marry him for want of a more desirable _parti_, was the

torment of his life. In despair at the trouble and annoyance caused by

his wife's delicate health, sensibility, and affectation, he made a

vow, when she bore him a daughter, to educate his child to be an utter

contrast to her mother. Better that the child should die than live to

be such an invalid as his wife. And he began by causing his little

daughter to be baptized, like the children of the poorest Russians in

that part of the country, in the icy waters of the Neva. The little

Feodorowna outlived her icy bath, and her entire education corresponded

with this beginning. Her mother died a few days after this cruel

baptism; anxiety for her child put the finishing stroke to her invalid

existence. And so her rude, uncultured father was her only guide and

instructor. He loved her after his fashion, and made her his companion

in all his amusements, riding, training horses, and the chase.

She was scarcely sixteen when he married her to a wealthy landed

proprietor in the neighbourhood, ruder and more illiterate even than

himself, and to the girl an object of aversion. As his wife, she lived

on his lonely estate like a serf. Her husband was cruel and suspicious,

and made her married life perfect torture. She was compelled to resign

her free habits of life, which she loved better than all else in the

world. Every extravagance, even the most harmless, was forbidden by her

husband. The joyous girl who had been used to fly upon the back of her

spirited steed over steppe and heath was not allowed to mount a horse,

but was made to sit with her maid-servants and spin by the dim light of

a train-oil lamp until her husband came home to compel, perhaps by the

_kantschu_, her reluctant attention to his wishes. She bore this

martyrdom for one year in silence. At last she made a confidant of a

neighbouring nobleman, and implored his aid in her great need; but she

found no sympathy,--no assistance. He called her a fool, who did not

appreciate her good fortune,--told her that to think of a divorce was a

crime, and that her husband was perfectly right. In her utter

loneliness, longing for love, if it were only the love of her old

father, a desire for freedom and hatred of her tormentor gained the

victory, and she fled, without taking anything with her but the few

clothes that she had possessed at her marriage. She travelled the

greater part of the way on foot, and arrived at her father's in such a

wretched condition that he was touched by compassion, received her

kindly, and took her part against her husband. Her suit for divorce

left her wholly without means, but free, and when shortly afterwards

she came to know the old diplomat Count Worronska, and he laid his rank

and his millions at her feet, offering a field for her beauty at court

at St. Petersburg, she could not withstand the temptation. She became

his wife, and was transplanted from the midst of half-savage serfs to

one of the most magnificent courts in the world,--from the Russian

forests and steppes to apartments gorgeous with every luxury of life.

At first dazzled and confused, she won all hearts, even those of the

women, by her innocent beauty and graceful diffidence. At last her

unbridled nature broke forth all the more impetuously for the long

restraint under which it had lain, and, with no guidance but that of

her imbecile husband, who adored her, she rapidly degenerated in every

way. Society always looks more leniently upon those errors that are

gradually developed before its eyes and under its protection than upon

those that it observes outside of its sphere, because it is cognizant

of the excuse for the faults of those within it, and it was all the

more willing to pardon the delinquent in this instance for the sake of

the high rank of her husband. It therefore ignored escapades that the

distinguished position held by the old count forbade it to punish, and

the beautiful and enormously wealthy Countess Worronska, in spite of

her dissipation, was and continued to be the centre of the most

brilliant, if not the best, circle of society in St. Petersburg. All

this she had resigned for the last six months, and she had lived like

an outlaw, avoided by prudent "German Philisters," in the town of

N----, for the sake of the only man whom she truly loved, and

who--despised her.

Before the death of her husband she had always been surrounded by a

brilliant crowd of gentlemen who had sought her society from the

neighbouring famous baths,--acquaintances from St. Petersburg,

distinguished Englishmen, Italians, Poles,--in short, the gay, wealthy

idlers of every nation that invariably flock around a beautiful woman

upon her travels. With these she smoked, rode, and drove,--proceedings

that had excited no outcry in the gay world at St. Petersburg, but that

called forth shrieks of horror from the women in the little German

University-town and greatly excited the students, who were never weary

of caricaturing her,--harnessing four horses, and, disguised as women,

driving them wildly through the streets, mimicking her foreign

admirers, making her bearded servants drunk, and playing many other

madcap pranks in ridicule of her.

The universal horror culminated, however, when she did not dress in

black after the count's death. People said with a shudder that she had

declared that "it seemed to her despicable to play such a farce, and

simulate a grief that she did not feel." How could any one so scorn

conventionalities, and lay bare the secrets of the heart to the public

gaze? Yes, it was even suggested that she had never been married, and

they called her the "wild countess,"--much as we speak of wild fruit to

distinguish them from those that are genuine. Although injustice was

done her in this respect, she deserved the epithet "wild" in every

other, and the name clave to her. Even Moellner, who was always ready to

find some magnanimous excuse for feminine failings, thought that she

ought to show more respect for her septuagenarian husband, and

pronounced her conduct heartless ostentation. From that moment she lost

all interest, if she had ever possessed any, in his eyes. He never

noticed that for months no gentleman had been allowed to enter her

doors, for he did not think it worth while to observe her actions.

Whoever did observe it ascribed it to chance. The report of her

improvement was drowned in the billows of scandal that had been lashed

up by her previous conduct. No one believed in her reformation, least

of all he for whom she made such sacrifices.

And now the moment had arrived when, for the first time, she found

herself helpless, opposed to a higher power,--and the effect of this

first collision with invisible barriers upon the untrained heart of the

countess was terrible. Hitherto she had recognized only the laws of

decorum, and had transgressed them with impunity whenever they had

oppressed her. Decorum is almost always subject to the will of

individuals and to fashion. But the higher law that hovers over the

universe, subject to no human will, to no change,--unchangeable, as is

all that is divine,--is the law of _morality_. It was this against

which the countess was now struggling, of the existence of which she

seemed now first to become aware.

But such a woman could not give up the battle. It was a law of her

nature to resist. She could not yield. How could she?--she had never

learned submission. She would battle for her desires. As a girl, she

had endured hunger and cold for days in the pursuit of the chase, while

food and warmth waited for her at home. From her earliest childhood,

her will had been trained to iron persistence, and now, when she had

again left the comforts and delights of home in pursuit of a far nobler

prey, should she desist from the chase because the game belonged to

another? Such a course was impossible for such a woman, and, as

strength could not avail her here, she resorted to the commonest weapon

of the merest flirt,--cunning.

Herbert's malice contained a seed that swiftly ripened and bore fruit

in the fertile brain of the countess, for she knew only too well how

much truth there was in the charge that her friendship was a dishonour

to a young girl. It was a terrible thought for her that there was no

means left for her whereby she could crush a rival except by so

poisoning her with her own infection that she might become an object of

disgust to her lover. But, if she could gain nothing by such a course,

she could at least revenge herself. She turned over the leaves of

Ernestine's publications. They were too learned for her. She understood

nothing from their pages, except that they contended for the

emancipation of women,--that was enough for her. She too was

"emancipated." It was enough to establish an understanding between

them. Perhaps a meeting with Moellner might grow out of a visit to

Ernestine. She was determined to make use of Herbert's malicious hint,

his last bequest to her; for she had mortally offended him, and he no

longer came near her. She hastily studied a few papers upon the

emancipation of women, that she might comprehend what Herbert had said

of "principle" in connection with the subject, and this was the day

upon which she was resolved to see her victim. She selected Wednesday

for her expedition, because Herbert had told her that Moellner had been

with Ernestine on the previous Wednesday. Perhaps his visit might be

repeated on the same day of the week.

As soon as she rose, she blew a shrill whistle upon a little silver

call. There instantly appeared--not a dog--a maid with a large bucket

of spring-water, which was dashed over her beautiful mistress in a

little bathing-tent.

The maid then silently withdrew, and brought coffee and the newspapers.

The countess, wrapped in a rich brocade dressing-gown, lighted a cigar,

and, while drinking her coffee, looked carelessly through the papers.

Afterwards she went to her dressing-room, and called to the

dressing-maid in attendance there, "Riding-habit!" and, after a short

delay, the maid brought her all she required. "Ali!" said the countess,

which meant, "Go tell the groom to saddle Ali for me."

The brief order was understood and obeyed with rapidity. Like a shadow

the attendant glided from the room, appearing again like a shadow in

the presence of her dreaded mistress. The servants of this woman must

have neither mind, soul, nor heart,--only ears to hear, and hands and

feet to obey. The poor dressing-maid did her best to fulfil all that

was required of her,--she was all ear, hands, and feet. She scarcely

breathed. It really seemed as if the powerful lungs of her mistress

inhaled all the air of the apartment, leaving none for any other

inmate.

She took her place behind the countess, who sat before the mirror,

smoking, and began, as carefully as possible, to comb out her long

hair. The lovely woman examined her own features critically to-day. One

peculiarity of her face, otherwise faultless,--a peculiarity that

reminded her of the Russian type,--irritated her excessively; she

thought her cheek-bones somewhat too high.

Just as she was contemplating this imaginary defect, the maid slightly

pulled her hair. It was too much for her patience.

"Maschinka!" she cried, starting up and snatching the comb from the

poor girl's hand. A flash--a blow--and Maschinka stooped silently to

pick up the pieces of the broken comb. The print of its teeth was

left upon her pale cheek, but no word, no cry of pain, escaped her

lips,--her eyes alone looked tearful.

"Get another!" ordered her mistress, as if nothing had happened, and

she sat down again.

Maschinka obeyed, and finished the coiffure, and the rest of the

toilette, without further disaster. Then she brought riding-whip, hat,

and gloves, and the countess descended the richly-carpeted stairs.

Suddenly she stood still, and called, "Maschinka!"

"Madame!"

"Does your cheek hurt you?"

"Oh, no!" whispered the girl.

"What? Don't lie! Well, then, rub it with cold cream, from the silver

box on my dressing-table; and keep the box,--I give it to you."

Without listening to the girl's thanks, she passed on. Her magnificent

Arabian was led, snorting and foaming, around the court-yard. She

beckoned to the stout, bearded Russian, who could scarcely restrain it,

and he led it towards her. Another servant, in a rich livery, brought

sugar upon a silver plate. She fed the noble animal, who was instantly

soothed, kissed its smooth forehead, patted its neck, and mounted

lightly to her place upon its back.

"What o'clock?" she asked, as the servant handed her the whip, and she

rose in the stirrup to arrange the folds of her dress.

"Past five o'clock, madame," was the answer.

"I shall return at eight. The carriage must be ready by twelve. Tell

Maschinka to have my dress prepared."

"As madame pleases," replied the servant.

"Open!" cried the countess, and a third groom, who had been waiting for

this order, threw open the double gates of the court-yard, letting in a

flood of morning sun-light. All reared beneath his lovely burden, as if

he would soar with her into the clouds, but a quick cut from her whip

somewhat cooled his Pegasus ardour, and he sprang forward, almost

running over a servant, who had not moved aside quite quickly enough,

and gained the street. Here, however, his mistress reined him in.

"The dogs!" she called.

The servants all hurried into the court-yard, and a frightful noise was

heard. The barking, howling pack came rushing from their kennels, and

leaped around their mistress with all the signs of delight that their

mad gambols can evince. And now a wild race began. Away tore the

Arabian, tossing the foam from his mouth. As he flew rather than

galloped along, he tossed back his head, pointed his ears, and

distended his nostrils, striving to outstrip the yelling pack at his

heels. The beautiful hounds followed hard behind, in long leaps. The

servants stood grouped about the gateway, looking after their mistress.

"Aha," muttered the chief among them to himself, "she is turning into

the Bergstrasse. The dogs must waken Professor Moellner again, and bring

him to the window."

But the bearded old Russian observed sadly, "She'll break her neck some

day."

Peaceful, and buried in slumber, lay the quiet little town. The

windows,--eyes of the houses,--were closed, as were those of their

inmates; but, as the countess dashed by in her mad career, one after

another was opened, a curtain drawn aside here and there, and a sleepy,

curious face appeared.

The countess laughed at the crop of night-capped heads which her ride

past their windows suddenly caused to appear. The warm-blooded Arabian

shivered beneath her in the fresh, dewy morning air, and she felt its

bracing breath colour her cheek. "What a miserable race is this, that

spends such hours in bed! They rise only when the smoke from the

chimneys and the weary sighs of labourers have thickened the air. That

is the atmosphere for their delicate lungs! They are afraid of the cold

breeze of dawn!"

She passed by Herbert's dwelling, and, with a vigorous stroke of her

whip, excited her dogs to a more furious barking. How should she know

that his invalid wife, in that upper chamber, had just fallen into a

refreshing slumber after a wakeful night of pain, a slumber from which

the noise aroused her to a day of suffering?

Here, too, a curtain was drawn aside, and Elsa's dream-encircled head

peeped out.

"That is his monkey-faced sister," thought the countess, and nodded in

very wantonness. The face vanished in alarm. Herbert did not appear.

And she galloped on through the silent streets. It was wearisome riding

thus upon stony pavements, with a sleeping public all around, her only

spectators the servants and peasants carrying milk and bread, and

staring open-mouthed at the haughty horsewoman. Now and then a student

in his shirt-sleeves, brush or sponge in hand, would appear at a

window, and one poured out the contents of his washbasin upon her dogs,

who had fallen fiercely upon an innocent little cur that was just

taking his morning stroll. It was the only incident that varied the

monotony of her ride, and she passed swiftly on towards the

Bergstrasse, as the servant had prophesied.

At last she reached it, and the glorious view of the distant mountains

lay before her. The rough pavement came to an end, for here the

pleasure-grounds of the town were laid out, and the roads were strewn

with fine gravel. She now gave her steed the rein, and the fiery beast

flew along, _ventre a terre_, with the pack after him in full cry. The

houses were all surrounded by charming gardens. There was one which for

a long time riveted the attention of the countess. Look! there was an

open window, and at it stood Moellner, gazing out upon the far-off

mountains.

Just as the countess passed, he observed her, and answered her gesture

of recognition by a respectful bow.

He looked after her, well pleased as he marked the finely-knit figure,

with a seat in the saddle so light and graceful that she seemed part of

her horse. She turned her head and saw him looking after her, and in

her pleasure at the sight she reined in Ali until he reared erect in

the air and curveted proudly. Then on she galloped, and was soon lost

to sight. She had reached the foot of the mountains, and, allowing her

panting steed to ascend a little hill more slowly, she paused to rest

him on the summit.

Before her lay a golden, sunny world. It was an enchanting morning.

Thin, vapoury smoke was beginning to rise from the chimneys, and the

heavens were so cloudless that it ascended straight into the blue arch

without being pressed down to the earth again.

Over the tops of the pine-trees that crowned the brows of the

mountains, little white feathery clouds were still hovering. It seemed

as if those mighty heads would fain shake them off, for they soared

aloft and then settled again, then shifted from place to place, hiding

sometimes in the forest, until at last they vanished before the

increasing power of the sun's rays, and the dark, jagged outline of the

mountains stood out clear and free against the blue sky. Who, with a

heart in his breast, beholding and enjoying all this beauty and glory,

does not involuntarily look above in gratitude to the unseen Giver and

mourn over his own unworthiness of such bounty? And how many eyes look

on it all without understanding it or rejoicing in it! Does it not seem

that on such a morning the most degraded soul would gladly purify

itself, as the bird dresses his feathers at sunrise before he lifts his

wings to soar aloft into the glorious ether?

And yet the gloomy fire of the previous night still smouldered on in

the countess's breast, and no cool breeze, no pearly dew, availed to

quench its unhallowed glow. Her heart was desecrated,--the abode of the

demons of low desire and hate. It could no longer soar to higher

spheres. The beautiful woman gazed upon the landscape without one

feeling of its beauty. She was far more interested in compelling the

obedience of her impatient steed than in the grand prospect before her.

In the gilded saloons of St. Petersburg she had lost all comprehension

and love of nature, and she was so accustomed to consider herself a

divinity that she was no longer conscious of the humility of the

creature before its Creator. Although she might not deny Him, she was

indifferent to Him, and if she sometimes visited His temple, she did it

only as one pays a formal visit to an equal.

Thus she stood there upon the hill, inhaling the fresh, fragrant air

with a certain satisfaction, but with no more interest in the lovely

scene than was felt by her dogs, who judged of the beauty of the

landscape chiefly by their sense of smell, as, lying on the ground

around their mistress, they too snuffed the morning breeze. Now and

then one was led astray by the scent of game in the thicket; but a call

from the silver whistle of his mistress reminded him of his duty, and

he returned to his companions,--only casting longing looks in the

direction in which his prey had escaped him. Had his haughty mistress

ever in her life practised such self-denial? Could she have seriously

answered this question, she might have blushed before the unreasoning

brute.

* * * * *

It was ten o'clock when Ernestine stepped out upon her balcony.

Gaily-dressed peasants were passing, pipe in mouth, along the road

outside her garden-wall, for to-day was the Ascension of the Blessed

Virgin,--a glorious opportunity for drinking to her honour and glory.

The people were in their gayest humour, their morning libations had

already had some effect. The peasant seems to know no better way of

giving God glory than by enjoying His gifts; he believes that he thus

affords Him the same pleasure that a good host feels in seeing the

guests at his table enjoy what is placed before them.

Ernestine smiled at the thought of this profane belief, which

nevertheless springs from honest, childlike traits of human nature.

Leuthold had not yet returned from his journey, and these days of

solitude had been,--she never asked herself why,--the pleasantest that

she had known for a long time. She did in his absence only what she was

used to do when he was with her; but her thoughts were very different.

The man had so thoroughly imbued with his teaching her every thought

and action, that when he was by she could not even think what he might

disapprove. Since his departure she had, if we may use the expression,

let herself alone. She allowed her thoughts to stray as they pleased.

She was not ashamed to spring up from her work and feed the birds, or

to spend an hour in the garden, or at the window in dreamy reverie. And