BATTLE.
Ernestine was sitting at her writing-table, arranging books and papers
to be packed up. Her uncle was assisting her with trembling haste. From
time to time she leaned her head wearily upon her hand.
"It will be impossible for us to leave to-day if you do not make more
haste," said Leuthold urgently.
"I am doing all that I can, but I am so weak that I do not know whether
I shall be able to travel to-night."
"I cannot imagine how you can give way so. You never used to do it.
When I think of the self-control that you were wont to exercise,--your
determination would have done honour to a man,--and now! Oh, it is
deplorable!"
"You torture me, uncle!" cried Ernestine, as she threw several books
into a chest at her side. "You will not believe that I am really much
weaker than I have ever been before. It is of my own free will that I
am going away--why should I not hasten as much as I can?"
Her uncle looked askance at her with a smile. "You are mistaken, my
child. It is not your will that is acting,--it is only a whim that thus
urges you on. And a whim is the child of circumstances, and can be
controlled by them."
"I do not know what circumstances could control this 'whim,' as you are
pleased to call it. Nothing can happen to-day or to-morrow to change my
determination. What delay can you apprehend? No one knows of my
departure, so that it cannot be impeded by remonstrances from any
quarter. I have not even told good old Leonhardt that I am going, and
Willmers heard it only this morning. Could I do more to prove to you
that I am in earnest?"
Leuthold looked at her again with his sarcastic smile. He knew well
that Ernestine had preserved this strict silence concerning her
departure only because she did not feel strong enough to withstand any
friendly remonstrances. Therefore he trembled lest some unforeseen
accident might yet divulge her plans. His very existence depended upon
her staying or going. During the four weeks that had elapsed since
Ernestine's return from town, Leuthold's entire influence had been
exerted to remove Ernestine from this part of the country, and, if
possible, from Germany. She must never again see the man who had
evidently made such an impression upon her. Now less than ever could
she be allowed to form any attachment, for, if she were now to marry,
and require her property at his hands, he was lost! He had cautiously
managed to secure an appointment, through an American agent, in a large
chemical manufactory in New York. To Ernestine he had opened the
brilliant prospect of delivering a course of scientific lectures there.
The fact that she had received the prize from a German university for
one of her papers would surely suffice to make her reputation in
America,--and Leuthold had honestly done his best to have her fame as
an intellectual phenomenon noised abroad. In his present embarrassed
circumstances, it was of the greatest importance to him that she should
be placed in a position to support herself, that she might not be a
burden to him. If the lectures did not succeed, she would have to earn
her living as a "female physician." But upon this point he prudently
forbore to enlighten her. He fired her imagination with the enormous
advantages, pecuniary and other, that must accrue from her lectures.
The means that he employed to win her to his purpose were to an
ambitious woman irresistible. She saw before her a future such as no
woman had hitherto enjoyed. She saw herself in one of the vast halls of
New York, lecturing to a crowd of men who were all listening
attentively to--a girl! She saw herself regarded as the miracle of her
sex. The most secret dreams of her pride were to be realized,--the
seeds of her quiet diligence were to spring up and bud forth in the
sight of all,---the world should ring with the fame of what a woman
could do. And yet it was hard to decide; it was weeks before she could
bring herself to sign the simple letters of her name to the acceptance
of these proposals; no labour of her life--nothing whereon she had
expended days and nights of study--ever cost her as much as this single
signature.
Moellner's grave, earnest face had scared her back from clutching these
new honours, as Banquo's ghost frightened the usurper from the royal
chair. It seemed to her that she was guilty of a crime towards
him,--and at last, in a torment of doubt, she secretly wrote to him.
She told him everything, and begged for his counsel and advice. She did
not conceal from him that she could not take so decisive a step without
his blessing. Why this letter never reached Moellner, no one knew
besides Leuthold, except Kaethchen and her parents.
Day after day passed, and of course Ernestine waited in vain for an
answer. She waited as if for a decree of life or death. Sleep refused
to visit her burning eyelids. She took barely sufficient nourishment to
support life. She pined with desire for only one word--one single
word--from Moellner,--and it did not come. She was no longer worth a
stroke of his pen. Since her refusal of his suit, he would none of her.
He had conquered himself,--had given her up,--and in how short a time!
And the more she had longed for a letter or a visit from him, the
greater was her bitterness of mind,--the offence to her pride,--when
she received neither. As often as she approached her writing-table, her
eyes were greeted by the large capitals of the flattering proposal she
had received, with all its alluring promises. What was there now to
wait for? Why should she hesitate now? And so she signed her
acceptance.
And now nothing should cause her to waver in her pride of purpose. She
would have the revenge of being irrevocably lost to him, she would
vanish without one word of farewell, that from a distant quarter of the
globe the fame of her greatness might reach his ears.
She did not even confide in Willmers, for she dreaded her garrulity.
Only on the very last day the housekeeper received orders to dispose of
Ernestine's movables as quickly as possible, and then to follow her,
for Leuthold wished, before sailing, to take leave of Gretchen, whom he
purposed to leave in Germany for the present. But Ernestine was to
accompany him. He would not,--he dared not now,--lose sight of her for
a moment.
She wrote a fervent, heartfelt farewell letter to Leonhardt, and begged
him to keep her books and apparatus until she should claim them again.
As she did not know yet where her future home would be, she could not
make use of them herself. Walter might find them useful. Thus
delicately she bestowed upon Walter the costly gift of the instruments
for the further pursuit of his studies.
After their departure, her uncle was to be informed of her disposal of
the physiological works and apparatus, which he had ordered Willmers to
sell. He would never have consented to it, for Ernestine had often, to
her surprise, noticed how desirous he was of ready money.
She bound Willmers by a solemn promise not to deliver the letter to
Herr Leonhardt until the writer had departed, and thus everything was
provided for,--everything was thought of,--everything except
Ernestine's physical condition. The inflexible girl had been accustomed
to take so little care of her health that she had given no heed to her
increasing exhaustion,--the natural consequence of the superhuman
efforts of the last few weeks. But to-day she could hardly stand, and
the thought of undertaking so long a journey began to alarm her.
She sat there before her uncle the picture of weariness. He regarded
her dubiously. Could he succeed in getting her on board of the steamer?
Then, if she were taken ill, it would of course be ascribed to
seasickness, which scarcely any one escapes. And if she died? Then all
would be well with her. He would bury her under the billows of the
ocean, and all his hatred, his alarm, and his crimes would sink with
her beneath the waves, which, as they swathed her dead body, would wash
away from him all disgrace and guilt. This thought was as boundless in
comfort as the ocean that was beginning to open upon his horizon.
"Uncle, do not gaze so strangely at nothing," said Ernestine. "You look
as if you were devising no good."
Leuthold smiled. "You are nervous indeed, my child. Since when has my
face looked strange to you?"
Ernestine did not reply. She went on wrapping a book in paper, to pack
it in the chest.
"Is that old fairy-book to go too?" asked Leuthold ironically.
"Yes," was the curt, decided reply.
"Well! well! Have you not a doll somewhere that I can pack with it?"
Ernestine started up. "Uncle, I told you once before that I will not
endure that tone!"
"Beg pardon, but such folly provokes a jest. Or perhaps the book has a
deeper value for you? You need not blush,--I can guess. It is a
remembrance of the knight of the oak,--Moellner! Ah, then indeed we must
certainly take it with us."
"Uncle," cried Ernestine, taking the book from him as he was about to
put it in with some others, "you know how to depreciate with your
sneering speeches everything that I have held dear. Let the book alone;
I will give it to little Kaethchen."
"And when Professor Moellner visits her, and finds it there, it will
touch his heart, that the friend whom he has forsaken has guarded his
memory so faithfully until now. If he turns over its leaves, he will
doubtless find the oak leaf that you have pressed among them. Perhaps
he will think it a mute farewell, and bestow upon you a tear of
compassion. How gratifying it will be!"
"Uncle, if I thought that, I would rather burn the book!"
"And that would, at all events, be the best thing to do with it. That
self-conceited fellow is not worth the remembrance that you cherish of
him. I would efface it, as I would every impression that is unworthy of
you. Indeed, I have long been indignant, although I never spoke of it
to you, at his so easily forgetting you. Such a woman as you are is not
to be resigned like an article of merchandise about which buyer and
seller cannot agree. He never loved you, or he would never have dreamed
of making conditions in his proposal to you, as if you were to deem it
a great honour that he should condescend to you. Trust me, I know the
world and mankind thoroughly. He was in the greatest embarrassment, for
he felt himself morally obliged to offer you his hand."
Ernestine started.
Leuthold continued, "I do not know how you conducted yourself towards
him, but, with your inexperience and the preference that you entertain
for him,--do not deny it,--it is reasonable to suppose that you must
have made advances."
Ernestine bit her lip, and looked down.
"The one fact that you accompanied him to his house alone, without any
intimate acquaintance with him,--without an invitation from his
mother,--must have led him to fancy that you were desperately in love
with him, and he was conscientious enough to wish to efface the stain
that you had thus unwittingly cast upon your honour, by asking you to
be his wife. I do not question for a moment that his intentions towards
you from the very beginning were honourable and kind, but his feelings
seem to me to have been those of simple friendship, until your advances
forced him, as it were, to a declaration. Probably he is now
congratulating himself in silence upon his fortunate escape. But you
sigh and languish like a love-sick girl over his memory, and would
carry the only gift that you have ever received from him, bestowed upon
you out of sheer compassion when you were a fright of a child, across
the ocean with you as a relic! Ernestine, what is the matter with you?
For Heaven's sake, control yourself! What nonsense! You have actually
contracted a habit of fainting!"
He supported her drooping head and fanned her pale face.
She looked up at him wearily, then thrust him from her with evident
aversion, and stood up. Leuthold said nothing more. For the first time
she had allowed him to speak of Moellner, and he had seized the
opportunity to pour into her soul the surest poison that ever destroyed
love,--he was content now to let it work.
Ernestine walked several times to and fro: her step, her bearing, was
queenly,--she seemed suddenly to have grown taller. Her uncle might be
right,--she hated him for it, but still he might be right. What must
Johannes--what must his mother think of her for so throwing herself at
him? This was why his mother had treated her so,--this was the cause of
the cool conditions proposed to her by the son! She repeated to herself
every one of Johannes's words,--they were almost all words either of
grave warning or stern reproof. Even when he had been kind to her, it
had been the kindness of a father or a judge. Never, not even when
suing for her hand, had he laid aside the proud, measured bearing that
was native to him. His pity had been that of a superior being for a
soul astray, not of a lover for his beloved. And she! She recalled
every cordial word, every kindly glance, that she had bestowed upon
Johannes, and she persuaded herself that she had been too fond, that
her behaviour, in contrast with her usual cold demeanour, had verged
upon impropriety, and must have been construed by him into an advance.
Yes, possibly he despised her for it,--and she had even gone so far as
to write to him! All the little merit of not consenting under the
proposed conditions to become his wife was annulled by this last act,
which must have been regarded by him as a fresh advance, and, as such,
silently repulsed. She could have fled from him to the ends of the
earth,--the mere thought of him was enough to drive the hot blood to
her cheeks. Away, away, across the ocean!--this suddenly became the one
desire of her heart. She stood still as she passed the fireplace, and
said to Leuthold, "Burn the book!" They were the first words that
passed her lips.
The instant the words were spoken, Leuthold threw the volume into the
midst of the flames. Ernestine stood by and watched them curling around
the covers, which bent and rolled up in the heat. They were soon
destroyed, and with invisible, soft-crackling fingers the fiery draught
toyed with the burning book, and, as page after page opened to the
glow, the flame--greedy reader--devoured them. Ernestine watched it
all. She saw the names which had been so dear to her, flash out and
vanish. The cold, glittering snow queen,--the little mermaid in her
watery home,--all perished in the red heat!
Now the oak leaf, that she had once snatched from the dear old tree,
fell away to ashes,--the whole book dropped apart and blazed up
afresh,--the loosened leaves were tossed up and down in the wreathing
flames. There,--there was one more name,--the swan. The leaf flew
aloft, and the swan, the beautiful swan, was burned to ashes. Never
again would it spread its plumage for her,--never arise, a second
phoenix, from its funeral pyre. The little fairy world had vanished,
and only a few sparks remained, shooting hither and thither, as if in
search of the transformed shapes of the creatures of fairy lore.
Ernestine turned away. The fire seemed to have scorched the pinions of
her soul. She hung her head, like the god with the inverted torch, and
wept!
Leuthold did not disturb her; he felt that he must spare her now.
Suddenly the door opened, and Frau Willmers said in a tone of great
trepidation, "Herr Professor Moellner!"
Leuthold started as if struck by an arrow. Ernestine leaned against the
chimney-piece, or she would have fallen.
"How dare you admit any one just at this moment?--how dare you?" he
said, transported with rage and terror.
"I cannot help it, Herr Doctor. I could not do otherwise,--the
gentleman declared positively that he would not stir from the spot
until I had announced him."
"Tell the gentleman that we cannot receive visitors."
Frau Willmers looked hesitatingly at Ernestine, who stood as pale and
immovable as ever.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked Leuthold, and there was a
threat conveyed in his tone and manner.
"I am going,--I will go instantly," replied the woman, and hurried from
the room.
Ernestine took one step forward, as if she would have followed her. But
she controlled herself. She was a prey to a storm of emotions that
almost deprived her of consciousness. He had come, then,--he had not
utterly given her up. It almost broke her benumbed heart to send him
away. But no,--she rebuked her own weakness,--he had waited long before
coming, and perhaps had come at last only because he felt it his duty
to obey her summons. She would--she could yield to no further weakness.
Leuthold stood by the door, and held his breath while he listened to
hear Johannes depart; but, to his immense discomfiture, Frau Willmers
reappeared.
"The gentleman will not go," she said with secret exultation. "He says
he came to see the Fraeulein, and will take no dismissal from her uncle,
for, as the Fraeulein has been of age for several years, it is for her
to say whom she does or does not wish to see."
Ernestine listened eagerly. "What--what does that mean?" She turned
with a look of inquiry to her uncle, and was shocked at the great and
evident alarm expressed in his countenance. "Uncle," she asked again,
"what does this mean? Answer me!"
"Do not heed such stupid gossip. The fellow is a liar--or----"
"Tell him so yourself, if you have the courage," Ernestine interrupted
him in rising wrath. "Ask the gentleman to walk in," she said
authoritatively.
Willmers hurried out.
"Ernestine!" cried Leuthold in despair,--"this to me?"
"I will understand what this means about my being of age," cried the
girl, with a glance at Leuthold before which his eyes sought the
ground.
Moellner entered. He regarded Leuthold with entire composure and
profound contempt, then bowed to Ernestine without looking at her. He
wished to spare her, to give her time to collect herself. She
misunderstood him. She thought he was cold, and met him with coldness.
A long pause ensued.
Leuthold, wishing to appear quite at his ease, broke the silence.
"Allow me to ask, sir, what, after all that has passed between my niece
and yourself, procures us the honour of a visit from you."
"I am about to inform Fraeulein von Hartwich upon that head, and you
will greatly oblige me by remaining present at this interview."
"Be pleased, then, to be seated," said Leuthold, motioning Johannes to
a chair, "and let me request you to be brief, since we are just on the
eve of departure."
"You will not go, Doctor Gleissert."
"Sir! Are you better instructed than ourselves concerning our plans?"
Johannes waited until Ernestine was seated, and then, taking a chair,
replied with decision, "Not concerning your plans, but their
fulfilment,--which I shall, in case of necessity, prevent by your
arrest."
Leuthold was stunned for one moment, but, recovering himself, smiled at
Ernestine, who looked astounded, and said, "Ah, here we have the
genuine knight of the oak! It is a pity that we do not live in feudal
times, when an honest man could be seized upon the highway and flung
into a dungeon."
"Oh, no. Doctor Gleissert. A quiet scholar like myself has no taste for
such adventures. I prefer safer and legal means. I shall simply, in
case you attempt to depart from this place, have you detained by the
gens-d'armes stationed here, until your business relations with
Fraeulein von Hartwich are satisfactorily explained. Then you will be
perfectly free to go whithersoever you may please. My interest in you
will be at an end."
"Herr Professor," cried Leuthold, "I can only suppose that some one has
shamefully calumniated me to you. Let me beg you to come with me to my
study, that we may not distress my niece by these representations. She
needs the utmost consideration at present."
"If Fraeulein von Hartwich is strong enough to undertake the voyage to
New York, of which Frau Willmers tells me, she can certainly support
this conversation. But, first of all, let me ask you, Ernestine,
whether you are leaving your home of your own free will."
"Yes," she breathed scarcely audibly.
"Of course you are your own mistress. But, before you carry out your
intentions, you must know what you are doing. This you do not know at
present, and I am here to inform you. If you depart with Herr
Gleissert, you link your destiny to a villain's!"
Ernestine and Leuthold started up. Johannes arose at the same time,
and, leaning one hand upon the table, regarded them steadily without a
word.
Leuthold found it impossible to speak. Ernestine was lost in gazing at
the noble form of his adversary.
Johannes continued, "You will require the proofs of such an accusation.
I have had them in my possession only since early this morning,--here
they are." He took several papers from his breast-pocket, and unfolded
one of them. Leuthold glanced at it, staggered back, and sank upon a
seat.
"Did you write that?" asked Johannes, handing the sheet to Ernestine.
"Pray read it."
"No!" she said in evident surprise, as she ran over its contents.
"Or did you affix your name to a deed, ignorant of its contents, in
presence of a notary?"
"Never!" was the decided reply.
Moellner breathed freely. "This, then, is the proof that could send
your uncle to jail, if I made use of it, for it is a forgery!"
Ernestine made a gesture of dissent, as if she could and would hear no
more. But Johannes was not to be deterred. "From your first letter to
Helm, and from your conversation with my mother, it is evident,
Ernestine, that you consider yourself still a minor. It is true that
you are so by the laws of your country, which make the period of
minority terminate at the age of twenty-four,--and you are only
twenty-two years old. But through Dr. Heim, who was present at the
drawing up of your father's will, I know that you are by it declared
legally of age at eighteen. This your uncle has concealed from you. We
will speak by-and-by of his reasons for this concealment."
"Then I have been my own mistress now for four years?" cried Ernestine
in inconceivable amazement,--"and you, uncle, have treated me as if I
were a child?"
"More than that,--he has withheld your property from you. Here is a
copy of your father's will. You will see that it accords you the right,
at eighteen years of age, to take possession of the estate, put in
trust for you in the guardians' court, and dispose of it as you please.
Of course you could not avail yourself of this right, as you were kept
in utter ignorance of it, as well as of the fact that you had attained
your majority. But your uncle has availed himself of it in your
stead. He has contrived--Heaven only knows how--to imitate your
handwriting--and forge the signature to the document by which the
guardians' court delivered over to you--that is, to your uncle--the
property in its charge for you. There was no doubt cast upon the
authenticity of the document, for it was drawn up in due form by an
Italian notary and accredited by two witnesses to your personal
identity. When I suspected that your uncle had purposely kept you in
ignorance of your affairs, I acquainted the court with my suspicions,
and they delivered to me this copy of the document which I have just
handed you for identification. You have declared it a forgery. Whether
I now spare or destroy this man will depend upon the result of what we
have to say to each other. That I allow him one word of explanation is
due to my regard, not for him, but for your sense of delicacy,
Ernestine, which would suffer deeply in your uncle's disgrace."
Having thus spoken, while Ernestine had listened in mute amazement,
Johannes turned to Leuthold. "I ask you, Doctor Gleissert, what you
have done with the money that you have hitherto withheld from your
niece."
"Before I answer you, sir," replied Leuthold, who had regained his
composure, "allow me to ask you when you exchanged the pursuit of
physiology, wherein you have rendered such important service to
science, for the study of the law, in which, I fear, you will hardly
prove so great a proficient."
"I did so," said Johannes calmly, "when I felt it my duty to protect
with the shield of law a young creature most grossly defrauded. And I
think, sir, that I am already sufficiently versed in my newly-espoused
science thoroughly to expose your frauds. But let me ask you again to
account, without further circumlocution, for the property we have
spoken of."
"And I demand of you, Herr Professor, what legal right you possess to
subject me to such an inquiry."
Johannes looked at him composedly. "So be it. If you prefer to answer
my question to a court of justice, I will withdraw my request for an
explanation between ourselves. Take time to consider which you prefer
in this matter."
"I should, at all events, have less to fear from a legal investigation
than from a madman, who, in defiance of custom and decorum, and
regardless of domestic privacy, invades a home, and, with a knife at
the throats of its inmates, demands 'your money or your life,' like any
highway robber."
"Uncle," interposed Ernestine, "I forbid you, in my presence, to insult
my friend. If you can clear yourself of the terrible suspicion that he
has cast upon you, do so with dignity. Useless insults cannot convince
us."
"And you, Ernestine,--do you take part against me?" cried Leuthold
pathetically.
"I take part with no one; on the contrary, I tremble to think that the
man who has brought me up may be a criminal. But I will not and cannot
shield you from the discovery of the troth. You yourself have taught
me to subject every duty, every impulse of the heart, to cool
investigation,--to search everything to the foundation,--even at the
price of the most sacred illusions. Now, cruel preceptor, reap what you
have sown!"
"Well, then, I am ready to answer you, since you desire it. There is
one point upon which I owe you an explanation.--the minority in which I
have kept you in spite of your father's weak will. My course in this
respect I think entirely justifiable, for every right-minded person who
knows you must agree with me that it would have been unprincipled in
the extreme to leave you to yourself at eighteen, inexperienced and
immature as you were. It was an arbitrary measure on my part, but it
was well meant, and was the result of an exaggerated affection and
anxiety for you. The thought that you were to live without me, and I
without you, was unendurable to me. This is my crime,--this is all that
I can say. To this gentleman's charges I answer nothing. My life is
open to the scrutiny of all, it has been passed in unpretending
repose,--in the calm pursuit of science, and in the delight--now, alas!
disturbed indeed--of educating you. I regard all your machinations,
sir, with indifference. Your heated fancy would fail to see the truth
in my defence of my actions. Only a legal investigation can satisfy you
of my innocence. Why should I waste further words upon you?"
Johannes smiled. "I reserve my answer to the first part of your
remarks, but with regard to the last I cannot refrain from asking you
how you can venture to speak of innocence after your niece has denied,
in my presence, the signature of this document to be hers, thus proving
that it is a forgery?"
"Yes, sir, it is certainly a forgery,--no one can deny that. But does
it follow that I executed it? I had a friend in Italy to whom
unfortunately I intrusted every fact in relation to our family affairs,
placing in him a confidence that prudence could not warrant, and, in
view of this present revelation, I cannot but fear that he has played
the traitor, and, assisted by some unprincipled notary----" He shrugged
his shoulders, as if unwilling to complete so grave a charge.
Johannes smiled again, almost compassionately. "Will you attempt to
support your defence upon such a foundation? and do you venture to meet
me upon this plea alone?"
"I do, sir; for the law will, I trust, shortly discover the witnesses
of the crime who can testify as to whether I or my false friend
committed the forgery."
Johannes bethought himself for an instant, and then said, looking
Leuthold directly in the eye, "Is this same false friend the purchaser
of the factory at Unkenheim? Or did you find in Italy what you
certainly failed to find here,--such wealth of friends?"
Leuthold's cheek blanched again, and Johannes saw that he had thrust
his probe into a deep wound. He instantly availed himself of his
advantage. "I suppose that the superintendent at Unkenheim, acquainted
as he is with your Italian friends, will shortly be able to produce the
witnesses required for the vindication of your innocence, and I will do
all that I can to bring about this desirable termination of the
affair." Then, with a glance at Leuthold, who could scarcely hold up
his head, "Now, Herr Gleissert, I will give you twenty-four hours in
which to decide whether you prefer an explanation with me or in a court
of justice. If by to-morrow evening you are not ready to explain
matters thoroughly with regard to Fraeulein von Hartwich's property, and
either to produce the same or, if it is invested in the Unkenheim
factory, to give sufficient security for it, your fate is sealed. From
this hour your house will be watched day and night. You are now my
prisoner. At the slightest attempt to escape, you will be handed over
to the custody of the law, even although I should be forced to deliver
you up with my own hands. You see I am resolved to proceed to
extremities. You have nothing to hope for, either from my weakness or
your cunning, even if a miracle could be worked in your favour, and the
costly expedient succeed of bribing some Italian rogue to personate
'the false friend,' to declare your crime his own and endure the
punishment of it,--even although the notary, who could establish your
identity and the drawing up of the deed, were dead,---even then you
could never hope to escape the punishment for mail-robbery!"
Leuthold started as if stung.
"You can hardly accuse of falsehood the sharp eyes of a peasant of this
place, who can testify that, in default of other amusement, you
selected for your perusal the contents of the village letter-box,
retaining in your own possession whatever especially interested you."
Johannes turned to Ernestine. "I do not know, Fraeulein Ernestine,
whether you have done me the honour to write to me lately, but, if you
have, your uncle probably knows the contents of your letter much better
than I, who have never received it. At all events, this little
occurrence, for which I can produce witnesses, is a significant
illustration of your uncle's character. And you, Herr Gleissert, can
now understand that there is no escape for you unless you fulfil the
conditions upon which alone I will spare Fraeulein von Hartwich the
disgrace of having so near a relative occupy a criminal's cell. You are
beset on all sides,--entangled in your own crimes. There is no hope for
you!"
He ceased. Leuthold sat still, pale and mute. Ernestine looked down at
him with compassion. Then she glanced at Johannes with admiration
bordering on awe. "You are, as I have always known you, upright, but
severe!"
"Severe? No, by Heaven! The punishment too severe for this unprincipled
man is yet to be devised. My imagination is not cruel enough for the
task!" He regarded Ernestine mournfully. "You are worn out,--you need
repose." Then he awaited a reply, but none came. The setting sun threw
its crimson rays across the room. Ernestine stood silent, her hands
hanging clasped before her, exerting all her self-control. Leuthold had
propped his head upon his hand, and did not stir. Johannes took his
hat. "Farewell, Ernestine. Permit me to return to-morrow to learn your
uncle's final decision." He stepped up to her side. "I will not weary
you. Let me watch over your destiny. I ask it as the right of
friendship,--nothing more,--I assure you,--nothing more!"
"Nothing more!" It echoed harshly in Ernestine's heart, and, without a
word or a look, with only a cold inclination of the head, she dismissed
him. "He does not love me," she said to herself, and her heart grew
like ice. He watched over her as a man of honour, not as a lover. He
knew that she cared for him,--she had not concealed it from him; he had
thrust the obstacle to their union between them in the shape of his
narrow-minded conditions--he knew that these were all that separated
them, and he preferred to relinquish her rather than his own stubborn
will! He demanded of her every concession, without making any, even the
smallest, himself! No, her uncle was right, he had never loved her. How
could she make advances now without proof that she was the object of
his love? How could she humble herself to make the required sacrifice,
possessed by the terrible doubt that he had required it in the full
conviction that it would not be made? The least advance on his side,
the faintest sign that he would yield one jot of the prejudice that
separated them, would have given her new life and made her happy. But
from this day their union was impossible,--it was not to be thought of.
Leuthold interrupted her reverie. He had left the room, and now
returned with a letter. With the air of a man resolved upon death, he
held it out to his niece. "Read that, and then show me how truly great
you are!"
Ernestine, in surprise, unfolded the letter. It was from the
superintendent, received the day previous. It contained the
announcement in a few words that the establishment was bankrupt and
Leuthold ruined. If he did not escape by instant flight, he would be
overtaken by the punishment of his crime. Ernestine read and re-read
the letter; she seemed unable to understand it "What does it mean?" she
asked at last.
"It means that Moellner is right when he calls me forger and thief."
"Uncle!" cried Ernestine in the greatest alarm.
"The money that is lost in the Unkenheim factory was yours----"
Leuthold faltered.
"You have, then, deprived me of my fortune?" she asked in a low tone.
Leuthold stood before her apparently annihilated. "Yes!"
There was silence. Ernestine uttered a low cry and recoiled from him.
He breathed with difficulty, and continued, "I could and would confess
nothing to that man. There is only one soul on earth magnanimous enough
to forgive me, and to it alone I will reveal all my weakness.
Ernestine, I have shown you before, in my love and care for you, the
reasons that induced me to conceal from you the termination of your
minority. Did you believe me?"
"I will believe it."
"I never dreamed into what fearful temptation I was thereby led. The
consequences of what I did were these:--I was obliged, in order to
conceal the fact of your majority from you, to appropriate in your name
the amount that was yours when you reached the age of eighteen, and
this without your knowledge. I did it with the firm intention of doing
what was best for you. I executed the forgery, never dreaming of the
punishment that it would entail upon me. For months I kept your money
in my possession, guarding it like the apple of my eye. Hitherto I had
been an honest man, even although, with the best intentions, I
had transgressed the letter of the law. Now, Ernestine, came the
turning-point of my life, and I implore you to lend a lenient ear to
this terrible confession. The brother of the Staatsraethin Moellner was
just bankrupt, and the Unkenheim factory was advertised for sale upon
the most favourable conditions. To this temptation I succumbed. Can you
not divine how a man is fascinated by the one pursuit to which he has
given the best years of his life, that is in a certain sense the work
of his mind and hands? It had been a bitter pain to me to relinquish
the flourishing business to which I had so long devoted my best
energies, and now it was again in the market. Want of knowledge and
capacity had ruined it. I, who knew every part of it most thoroughly,
could easily build it up again if I had the means to buy it. I resisted
a long time,--the advertisement of its sale appeared a second and a
third time. I consulted a merchant in Naples who was, I heard, on the
point of visiting Germany. He offered to make the purchase for me in my
name,--he persuaded me to allow him to do it. The opportunity was so
favourable,--the money lay idle in my hands,--I was so certain of
doubling it, and thus securing my own and my poor child's future,--I
knew as surely that when you should come to know it, you would never
reproach me for thus investing your money. Ten times I stood upon your
threshold, determined to tell you everything and entreat your
permission to dispose of your property thus. I knew you would not
withhold it from me. But the insane dread of losing you as soon as you
knew you were of age always deterred me. I took the money, firmly
resolved to restore it to the uttermost farthing. This is the story of
my crime. Now for the tale of my misfortunes. I failed in what I
undertook. I enlarged the factory at considerable expense, and suddenly
unforeseen obstacles, in the nature of the soil, presented themselves,
material that I had purchased at a high price sunk in value before it
could be manufactured, and I lost fifty per cent, in the sale of the
finished goods. Such disasters as these followed each other in rapid
succession. There was a curse upon everything that I undertook,--the
curse, I admit it, of an overestimate of my own powers,--for I should
have known that a clever scholar is not necessarily a merchant, and
that the technical knowledge as a chemist which had stood me in such
stead in a comparatively small establishment was not business capacity
for an immense undertaking. But what now avails my remorse, my late
confession? Your fortune, Ernestine, has been the price of the terrible
lesson. I can give you no more of it than will pay for your passage to
New York,--can offer you no indemnification for it but the revenge
which this frank confession will afford you the means of gratifying.
Decide; do with me what you will,--I will accept my fate from your
hand, but from no other."
The hypocrite sank at her feet, as though utterly crushed, and pressed
the tips of her cold fingers to his lips.
"Uncle," began Ernestine, and her voice trembled, "stand up! I cannot
endure the sight of a man before whom I have been used to stand in awe,
grovelling at my feet like a crushed serpent, whose writhings excite
aversion rather than compassion. Stand up! I pray you stand up!" She
turned from him, that she might no longer see him.
"Ernestine," cried Leuthold terrified, "you are marble!"
"I am what you have made me."
He had expected a different result from his confession, and he watched
Ernestine with the greatest anxiety. She read the letter once more, and
then sank on the sofa and buried her face in the cushions.
"Ernestine, be composed!" he cried, with a degree of his native
insolence which could not all be concealed behind the mask that he had
assumed. "Punish my crime, take what revenge you will, but spare me the
sight of your humiliating despair at the loss of wealth."
"Do you imagine, man of no conscience, that I mourn for my lost
wealth?" said Ernestine wrathfully, but with dignity. "If you had asked
me honourably for the money and then lost it through some misfortune, I
would have died sooner than have reproached you by a word or a tear.
But I must despise the only human being in the world upon whom I have
any claim. All that I have is lost through crime, and this passes my
endurance. You know well what depends upon the shining bits of metal of
which you have robbed me--freedom of thought and action,--the noblest
possessions that life can give. For the sake of these you have robbed
me, for you are no thief to steal money only for the sake of money. You
know, too, what a loss it is for a woman,--that it entails upon her
dependence perhaps servitude,--yes, servitude, to become a mere
machine, obeying unquestioningly another's will,--and this for a soul
that would have bowed to no power on earth or in heaven, but that
rejoiced in its pride in being the centre of its own self-created
world! And you, knowing how in this thought I die a thousand deaths,
dare to reproach me with despair at the loss of mere wealth! Look you,
I do not forget, even in this terrible moment, what you have done for
me since my childhood,--what an inexhaustible mine of intellectual
wealth you have revealed to me in exchange for the earthly treasure you
have taken from me,--and, remembering this, I renounce the revenge that
you offer me. Save yourself if you can, but do not require of me
sufficient 'greatness of soul' to forgive you!"
Leuthold breathed freely once more. This was all he wished to
hear,--that she would not deliver him up to justice. The worst was
over. If she thus in the first outburst of her anger rejected the idea
of bringing punishment upon him, she might, when more composed, be
brought to connive at and share his flight.
"Ernestine," he said, after a moment of reflection, "every one of your
words is like a coal of fire upon my guilty head. Even in your
righteous indignation you are noble and gentle. You tell me I may save
myself, but do you imagine that I can go away without you? Could I
endure the thought of you struggling with poverty, without me to labour
for you and to shield you? Have I tended you for all these years with a
mother's solicitude, to leave you to your fate now, when you need me
more than ever? Girl, if you think thus of me, you do me grievous
wrong!" Ernestine looked at him in surprise.
"Either you fly with me, or I remain and brave the worst!" said
Leuthold with heroic resolution.
Ernestine recoiled. "I go with you! No, I cannot descend so low,--our
paths in life lie, from this moment, far, far apart."
Leuthold saw her aversion. He was lost if she persisted in her refusal.
For even although he might succeed in escaping Moellner's vigilance for
the time, it would soon be known abroad that he had embezzled
Ernestine's fortune and left her impoverished, and his foe would only
pursue him all the more obstinately. Ernestine would be required by the
law to speak, and, truthful as she was, there was no doubt that she
would expose all his villainy. Only by keeping her with him could she
be rendered harmless; concealment without her was impossible.
"You hate me, and it is natural for you to do so," said he. "I will not
recall to you all the time and trouble that I have expended upon you
since your childhood,--the patience with which I have endured your
caprices, nor the love with which, when Heim gave you up, I watched
over and preserved your life. All this you know, and you believe it
fully repaid by your magnanimous resolve not to deliver up your uncle
to a jail. You best know your duty in this matter. But, Ernestine, you
should not hate me more than you do your father, whom you have long
since forgiven, and upon whom you now bestow so much sympathy, for I
can truly affirm that I have dealt more kindly by you than he. He was a
drunkard,--a man degraded to the level of a brute. He did not bring you
up; I have done it. He scarcely clothed and fed you. I have surrounded
you with everything that your heart could desire. He always hated you,
I have loved you from a child. You must remember well how often I
protected you from his ill treatment, and that once, when I was not by,
he almost killed you. He never would have provided for you as a father
should, had he not been driven to it by remorse for his conduct towards
you. Two-thirds of the property, Ernestine, that he bequeathed to you
were mine by right. I had earned it in his service. He bequeathed it to
you, and I acquiesced silently. I resigned it without even hinting to
you my just claims. I separated myself from my child that she might be
educated as became her moderate expectations, a sure proof that I had
no designs upon your wealth. For all this self-sacrifice I asked only
the delight, the great delight, of training to full perfection a young
mind,--such a mind as no woman was ever before possessed of. You can
bear me witness that I have taught you nothing evil,--that I have
opened your eyes to the good and the beautiful, helping you to decipher
the book of nature, where only what can elevate the mind is to be
found. You can comprehend, by the aversion with which you now regard
your fallen teacher, how pure his teachings have preserved your heart.
I ask you to reflect, Ernestine, whether all this does not give me at
least the same claim upon your sympathy as that which you now yield to
your father."
Ernestine listened with increasing emotion and sympathy. She buried
her face in the cushions of the sofa, and burst into tears.
Leuthold regarded her with satisfaction. He knew that the woman who
weeps yields. He continued, "You have convinced me that I have nothing
to fear from your hatred. You have told me that you renounce your
revenge, and a nature like yours performs what it promises. But,
Ernestine, this does not content me. My tortured conscience cannot rest
until you permit me to take charge of your future. Let me at least try
to atone for my crime. Grant me this alleviation of the burden that
weighs me to the earth. Pity me, and allow me the only expiation that
is possible for me!"
"What shall I do, then?" asked Ernestine in broken accents.
"Go with me, my child, that I may share with you the bread that I
earn,--that I may open such a future to you as you could never enjoy in
Germany. You have just signed a brilliant engagement; you cannot break
it now, just when you need a means of support. It would be madness to
reject what offers you a position commensurate with your ability. But
you can never occupy it satisfactorily without my aid. You well know
how indispensable I am to you in every new undertaking. You must pursue
fresh studies. Not for the world must you allow a flaw to be found in
your acquirements on the other side of the water. Hate me, despise me,
if you will, but consent to avail yourself of my protection on the long
voyage to New York. Trust me, I detest sentimentality, as you know, but
it is hard to bury one of your kin before he is dead. You will find it
harder than you think. One cannot tear one's self loose in a moment
from the memory of hours, days, and years spent together striving for a
common aim, and the buried companion will knock upon his coffin-lid
when such memories arise." He paused. Ernestine's short, quick
breathing showed what a struggle was going on within her. At last she
shook her head, sprang up, and walked undecidedly to and fro.
Leuthold continued, "You cannot help it,--you must go with me,--what
else can you do? Reflect, what course can you adopt if you remain
here?"
"I do not know," she murmured gloomily in a low tone.
"There are none here to whom you could turn, except the Moellners----"
Ernestine added, "And old Dr. Helm."
"Yes, Heim and the Moellners are like one family. Naturally, they would
all do what they could for you. Heim would exult greatly in the
fulfilment of his prophecies."
Ernestine bit her lip.
"To be sure, after what has occurred, you may safely look to them for
the means of support. Perhaps they may find you a place as a governess,
if they should become tired of you. But the question is whether that
would not be a deeper humiliation than going abroad with me. Good
heavens! in this world you must call many a one comrade whose
conscience is far from clear, and whom you must not ask for a
certificate of character. Let your uncle be to you one of these. I will
not intrude upon you,--will not enter your presence, if you do not
desire it."
He waited for an answer. Ernestine's eyes were fixed broodingly upon
the ground.
"Or possibly you would rather reconsider your determination, and go to
the Frau Staatsraethin and beg to be forgiven. I fear,--I greatly
fear,--the prudent mother would say, 'Aha, she was haughty enough as
long as she had plenty of money, but, now that it has all gone, she
grows humble and is quite willing to ask for shelter and countenance.
She asks for bread now that she is hungry. The most savage brutes are
tamed by hunger,--when its pangs are keen the heart is weak.'"
"Hush, uncle! oh, hush!" cried Ernestine with a shudder.
But Leuthold was not to be silenced. He was in his element again. "That
is what the supercilious mother would say, for these intellectual
aristocrats are filled with the pride of independence, and exact it
from others. And the Herr Professor? Naturally, he would feel it doubly
his duty to marry you and cherish the starving woman. But when the
first enthusiasm of sympathy was past, what, think you, Ernestine,
would be his reflections in cooler moments?"
"He would say, 'Necessity made her my wife,--not love.'"
"'And why should I give love in return?'" Leuthold completed the
thought.
"Or even esteem," Ernestine added with a spasmodic shiver. "No, no! it
shall not come to that. I will not sink so low. Noble and true as he
is, he shall not accuse me of such selfishness. His proud, suspicious
mother shall not find me a beggar at her door,--rather a grave in
mid-ocean!" She drew near to Leuthold. Her breath came in gasps, her
pulses throbbed. "Uncle, you have destroyed my happiness in life, help
me to preserve all that is left for me,--my self-respect!"
"Then come with me. Not until the ocean rolls between you and this man
can you be secure from your own weakness."
Ernestine sank down exhausted. "So be it! You have conquered!"