IT IS MORNING AGAIN.
A call from Moellner to Gretchen separated the young people before they
found words to express what they felt. Ernestine grew so much worse in
the course of the night that Gretchen did not leave her again. When at
last the rays of the rising sun shone through the heavy curtains of the
room, the Staatsraethin released the poor child from her painful watch,
and she was free to hasten to her lover. He drew her with him to
Ernestine's study. Everything was just as it had been left on the day
when Ernestine was taken ill,--nothing had been touched here. The ashes
of the burnt fairy-book were still lying on the hearth, the AEolian harp
breathed forth sad melody to the rude autumn wind, the roses were fled,
and only the thorn-covered bushes remained. The chests were still
standing about, all packed for the voyage,--speaking plainly of what
had been the plans of the proud spirit now so prostrated by disease. A
forgotten pen lay upon the desk, and dust was everywhere. No one had
thought of arranging this room,--care for Ernestine had given abundant
occupation to the entire household. The pause in the life of the
invalid was mirrored in this apartment, where everything seemed
awaiting the moment when a busy hand should sweep, dust, and put all in
order, and the glad news be heard--"Ernestine is better!" But this
moment was still in the dim future. Hither the young couple came,
ignorant of the struggles these walls had witnessed, the pain and
anguish that had been suffered here.
"Our life lasts seventy--perhaps eighty--years, and the delight of it
is labour and trouble." These words, carved on the table, were the
first visible sign to these youthful hearts of the struggles,
sufferings, and sacrifices of the woman by whose feverish bed they had
truly found each other. And Gretchen stayed her steps by the table, and
read the words thoughtfully. "She is right," she said to herself. "And
if she chose to impose upon herself this severe law, can I choose any
other motto--I? What right have I to desire any other delight in life
but labour and trouble and penance? Ah, Ernestine, now first I see how
noble you are, and what wrong my father did you."
"Gretchen," asked Hilsborn, "what are you thinking?"
"It seems to me as if an invisible hand here inscribed, 'Hold!' for my
eyes alone. How could I for one moment resign myself to the thought of
a happiness that could turn me aside from my first and most sacred
duty?"
"Gretchen, how am I to understand you?"
She clasped her hands, and, with eyes fixed reverentially upon the
carved motto, said, "All my hopes and dreams must be sacrificed for her
whose motto this is. Until she is happy, how can I wish to be so?"
"I see what you have resolved, my dearest. You intend to obtain
forgiveness for your father, to blot out his sin by your devotion. But
you think only of her against whom your father sinned most heavily?
There is another to whom you owe some reparation on his account, and
that is myself!"
"What?"
He drew her towards him, and went on with all a lover's sophistry.
"Yes, dearest, your father wronged mine. He robbed him of a valuable
scientific discovery."
"Heaven help me! is this so?" cried the girl, greatly distressed.
"And do you not see that it will be no infringement of the duty that
you impose upon yourself, if you grant me the reparation that I ask of
you, even although I should ask for nothing less than yourself,--your
entire life, Gretchen,--would you think me too bold? would you think
the compensation for what your father deprived me of too great?"
"No, oh, no! much too small," whispered Gretchen, with glistening eyes.
"Not too small. I know it is too great. But love, Gretchen, will not
weigh deserts. Everything is in your hands, dearest. Your father
injured my father, but he gives me his child."
The girl put her hands to her throbbing brow. "Can this be so?--can so
great a blessing spring from a curse? I do not deserve such joy. Can it
be no wrong, but a duty, to love you, whom I would have renounced for
duty's sake? I longed to labour and suffer for my father's crime, and
is this my penance--to give myself to him whom I love? It is too
much,--I cannot believe it. But what shall I do? How shall I reconcile
my duty to Ernestine and to you? Help me, advise me, that I may not
neglect one duty for the sake of the other,--there can be no true
happiness without a clear conscience. Help me, then, to be really
happy."
"My darling," said Hilsborn, "I understand you now, just as I have
always understood you, and I will help you to satisfy your conscience.
If I could, I would shower every precious gift upon you,--how then
could I deprive you of that priceless possession--peace of mind? True
love brings true peace in its train, and this peace shall be yours.
Therefore do for Ernestine all that your heart dictates, as long as you
can be of service to her. I shall be near you, and we can at least
exchange a word now and then. True love is easily content, it prizes
even the smallest token. I will not claim one moment that you think
belongs to Ernestine,--that would trouble you. We will tell no one as
yet of our betrothal but my faithful foster-father Heim, without whose
blessing I can take no step in life. The knowledge of our happiness
might grate upon poor Moellner, who has so much to endure. But when,
Gretchen, Ernestine has entirely recovered, it will be ours to enjoy
our bliss without a pang. And if,--which I can scarcely believe,--she
should still refuse to share Moellner's lot, then, I swear to you, I
will aid you truly in all that you do for her. She shall live with us
and be to me as a sister. Is not this all that you desire, my dearest
one?"
"Yes, yes, you read my very soul, for I could never consent to be
your--wife, until I knew that Ernestine was well and content. And I
have hardly thought myself grown up--I am hardly fit to be a wife. How
can I accustom myself to the thought?"
"I will do all I can to teach you, dear little wife,--the lesson will
not, I hope, be hard to learn," said Hilsborn gaily.
"Perhaps not," Gretchen replied, and for the first time there was an
arch sparkle in the melancholy brown eyes.
Thus these two hearts were united, speedily, in childlike faith, after
the manner of youth, and without a struggle. But above in the sick-room
two hearts were wrestling in mortal pain. Love, for poor Ernestine,
must attain the light only through the dark night of error and illusion
that was around her,--that light in which Gretchen and Hilsborn
innocently basked, driven from their Eden by no angel with the flaming
sword. Such strong natures as Moellner's and Ernestine's could not unite
without a struggle. Each had framed a world for itself, and one of
these worlds must be shattered before they could become one world. The
farther apart they were, the more powerful the attraction between them,
the more certainly would the weaker crumble to pieces in contact with
the stronger. It is the mysterious condition under which gifted natures
receive their talents from God, that they must strive and labour for a
happiness that often falls unsought into the lap of weaker natures.
Thus Eternal Wisdom maintains the balance of its gifts,--the weak and
the simple receive without asking what the strong must earn. And these
two gifted creatures were earning hardly their portion of life's joy,
that they might fulfil the law prescribed by God for creatures so
constituted. His laws are inscribed not upon the heavens, but in the
human heart, and all our striving for perfection is, in fact, only an
endeavour to read these laws correctly. And how often do we read them
falsely, in spite of all our honest pains!
How much more was this the case with one like Ernestine, who had never
been taught to heed the still small voice in her heart as the voice of
God! All her errors and sufferings were the result, as are those of
most men, of a misconception of the Divine will. If she had known that
she was destined to purchase happiness by self-sacrifice, she would
have paid for it voluntarily, and would not have wrestled with her
destiny to the last, until she almost succumbed in the conflict. Her
life had well-nigh been ruined by the want of true Christian culture;
she was ready to make every sacrifice, except that which is alone well
pleasing in God's sight--the sacrifice of self.
And Johannes, true and without guile as he was, endured a terrible
trial in Ernestine's sufferings. From hour to hour he became more
thoroughly convinced that he had been the means of prostrating
Ernestine upon a sick-bed,--that he had burdened her beyond her
strength by his reckless description of the danger that threatened
her,--and he was a prey to remorse. He reproached himself bitterly, and
tormented himself with devising a thousand ways in which he could have
managed matters more wisely. "It is presumptuous to attempt to play the
part of Providence to another, for the best intentions are no warrant
for the consequences," he said to his mother, just when Gretchen and
Hilsborn were weaving their rosy future.
"Results are always in God's hand," replied Frau Moellner.
"Amen!" said Johannes solemnly, from the depths of his tortured heart.
Thus the pilot, seeing looming before him the dangerous rock, past
which his skill has not availed to guide the vessel intrusted to his
care, says, "I have done what I could, now Providence takes the helm."
And here too Providence was guiding the vessel, but slowly,--so slowly
that the lookers-on were agonized.
Day after day and week after week passed, without any visible
improvement. Ernestine's consciousness did not return. Heim shook his
head. He said to Johannes one morning, "I wish your brother-in-law were
at home, Johannes. I should very much like to hear his opinion of the
case."
And he made no other reply to Johannes' inquiries.
Moritz Kern and his wife had been employing the vacation in a
pleasure-trip, and were shortly to return home.
It looked as if Heim were coming to a conclusion, and did not wish to
pronounce an opinion without consulting a third authority.
Johannes was consumed by anxiety. For four weeks he never left
Ernestine's bedside, only sleeping when she was quiet, and then with
his weary head supported against the back of his chair. He would have
no help, except from his mother and Gretchen. Even Willmers was not
allowed to do all that she wished to do. Only one stranger was now and
then admitted to the sick-room,--a venerable, aged form, that sat there
motionless, disturbing no one. It was old Leonhardt. Every third day
his son conducted him to the castle, and no one had the heart to refuse
to allow him to take his place at the foot of Ernestine's bed, where he
listened to her gloomy ravings and Moellner's deep-drawn sighs, and only
now and then sadly shook his gray head.
"If she would only come to herself sufficiently," he said one day, "to
let us relieve her mind of this anxiety about dying, that seems at the
root of her delirium, she would soon be better."
"True, Father Leonhardt, true," replied Johannes. "But she has not one
sane instant. It drives me to despair!"
"Courage, courage, dear friend," said Leonhardt, "and, remember, you
only did your duty. That thought must comfort you."
"I am afraid it will not comfort me long," was Johannes' gloomy reply.
While they were speaking, Heim's carriage drove op. This time he was
not alone,--Moritz was with him. Leonhardt retired to the library,
where Walter always awaited him, and Helm and Moritz entered the
antechamber. Gretchen and Hilsborn were standing whispering together by
the window. The former hastily left the room, embarrassed by the
entrance of the stranger with Heim.
"Who the deuce is your pretty companion?" asked Moritz in surprise.
"It is my ward, Gleissert's unfortunate daughter," Hilsborn explained
with some reserve. "I brought her hither from Hamburg."
"Oh, I know, I know,--heard all about it. Guardian, then, are you? Very
delightful position, with such a charming ward," laughed Moritz.
"Here's a fellow! looks as if he couldn't say 'boh' to a goose, and
brings home such a pretty girl the first journey he takes! Yes,
yes,--'still waters!'"
"Do not jest," Hilsborn begged. "It is too serious a matter for
jesting."
"Nay, never mind what I say," said Moritz. "I must pay some respect to
your new dignity. Hardly out of leading-strings yourself, and appointed
guardian to young unprotected females! Ha! ha!"
"Be quiet, Johannes will hear you," grumbled Heim. "Reserve your jests
for more congenial society."
"But, my good friend, you cannot expect me to hang my head for the sake
of that fool of a woman, whom I have always wished at the deuce. Who
could see, without getting angry, that fellow Johannes wasting his best
powers upon such an ungrateful creature? If we were compelled to stand
by and look on while some one spent time and trouble in trying to make
a common brier produce tea-roses, should we not long to root out the
senseless weed, rather than witness such a foolish undertaking?"
"Your comparison does not hold good, my friend. The Hartwich has her
thorns, but with care and patience she will blossom into a beautiful
flower."
"Are you never coming in?" asked Johannes, opening the door of the
sick-room and looking out impatiently. "What keeps you so long?"
"Yes, we are coming," said Heim, "but, Johannes, I would rather see
Ernestine alone with Moritz."
"As you please, but pray make haste," said Johannes, coming fully into
the room. "Good-day, Moritz. How are you? Did you not bring Angelika
with you?"
"She wanted to come with me, but I would not let her."
"And why not?" asked Johannes in a tone of disappointment.
"Because women are always in the way at such times."
"But had you any right to refuse to allow your wife to see her mother
and brother after a separation of four weeks?"
"I have the right, as her husband, to allow and forbid whatever I
choose. If you wished it otherwise, you should have had it so said in
the marriage contract," Moritz replied sharply. "Angelika never wishes
for anything that I do not choose she should have, and whoever does not
train his wife in the same way is a fool, my dear brother-in-law. Come,
don't be vexed--you know what a prickly fellow I am."
"I am not in the mood to mind your insinuations," said Johannes
wearily. "You war with an unarmed foe. Go in, and bring me some good
news if you can."
Moritz repented his hasty words when he saw how troubled Johannes
really was, and immediately entered the sick-room with Heim.
Johannes sank into the chair by the window and leaned his heavy head
against the panes. Such terrible thoughts and fears had lately assailed
him! He would not heed them. But if the two physicians should share
them also? His heart beat louder and louder with every moment's delay.
He could hardly breathe. Hilsborn stood beside him, and, without
speaking, pressed his hand. They heard Moritz speak to Ernestine, and
her wild, confused replies. Then the murmur of Heim's and Moritz's
voices was alone audible.
At last the door opened. Even Moritz looked very grave.
"Well?" asked Johannes.
"Yes," said Moritz with a shrug, "I agree with Heim, the fever is a
secondary consideration now. It is subdued--there is something worse
than death to be dreaded."
"Ah! I feared it!" Johannes said with a low suppressed cry. "Be
brief,--I am upon the rack--you fear--good God I you fear for her
mind?"
He could say no more.
Moritz and Heim exchanged glances. "Be calm, Johannes. Remember, this
is only conjecture. We are mortal, and cannot be certain. Only it
cannot be denied that it looks now more like an affection of the brain
than anything else."
"It is a well-known fact," Helm continued, "that patients affected in
this manner are often slightly deranged in mind for some time after
the fever is subdued, but such cases are most frequent among the aged,
and the derangement is not of as long duration as with Ernestine.
Her continual harping upon the same idea troubled me from the
beginning,--it was like monomania,--always her death and a terrible
eternity ensuing upon it. She must have pondered upon it far too much
lately,--it has grown to be a fixed idea. If there are not shortly
signs of returning reason, I am afraid she will be----"
"Insane!" Johannes completed the sentence--"oh!--insane!" He buried his
face in his hands, in an agony that convulsed his whole frame.
Moritz laid his hand upon his shoulder. "Johannes," he said, "be
strong. For years we have looked to you, in joy and sorrow, as the very
ideal of manly self-control and firm determination. Your example has
shown as the true dignity of manhood,--and shall pain upon a woman's
account have power to move you thus? No indeed! she is not worth it.
Ten of these fools are not worth one throb of agony in such a man!"
"Do not speak to me. Leave me, I pray you, to myself," cried Johannes.
"We had better go," said Heim. "He will soon come to himself."
"Good-by, Johannes," Moritz said, pressing his hand. "And listen--open
the shutters in Ernestine's room. Speak to her, call to her. It is not
good for her to be in that gloomy twilight. It is a case where you must
try to awaken reason--not let it smoulder away with too much care and
nursing. Some convalescents would never leave their beds if they were
not driven from them, because they are too weak to exert themselves.
And it is just so with a diseased brain. The mind must be helped upon
its feet, especially with women, who are only too ready to let
themselves go."
"Moritz is right," said Heim. "I agree with him. Today is the ninth
that she has been without fever. We may risk something. Farewell,
Johannes. I will come again this evening."
The gentlemen motioned to Hilsborn to accompany them, and left the
room.
Johannes clasped his hands, and there burst from his heart such a
prayer as comes from the soul only in moments of deepest anguish. "O
God, who knowest my heart and its thoughts and desires, canst Thou
enter into judgment with me so heavily? Must I be the ruin of her whom
I would have saved? Shall I be the cause of worse than death to her
whom I would have rescued from death? Can I bear this and still retain
my own reason? Have I destroyed the treasure, the hope of my existence?
Have I shattered the glorious image to whose perfection I would have
lent an aiding hand? And yet I meant to fulfil my duty. O God, if I
have erred, mine be the punishment, mine,--not hers through me. No
burden can be laid upon me that I will not gladly bear, save this
alone!"
He entered the sick-room, and stood looking at Ernestine, who was lying
as if half asleep, muttering disconnected, unintelligible words. Should
he arouse her from this apparent repose? No, he had not the heart to do
it. He drew aside the curtain, and the broad light of day fell full
upon the ghost-like face. She moved, as if the light pained her, and
turned aside. Willmers, who sat by the bedside, knitting, motioned him
away. Johannes let the curtain fall again.
Suddenly the door was flung open, and Gretchen rushed in, her chest
heaving, her eyes full of horror and despair. Hilsborn followed,
attempting in vain to restrain her.
"Do not keep me!" the girl wailed out. "There is no comfort, no hope
for me in this world! It is my father's work--and I have sworn to
repair the injury done by him. How can I repair this wrong? How recall
the glorious mind that he has destroyed?" And, almost frantic, she
threw herself upon the bed beside Ernestine, and, seizing her hands,
"Ernestine, wake up!--you must not lose your reason! Ernestine,
listen--hear--Ernestine, Ernestine!" she cried, in the tone in which
she had bidden her father farewell.
And Ernestine trembled at the call. She started up, and stared with a
wild expression at the strange figure clad in black. She closed her
eyes, then opened them again, only to close them wearily once more, as
if she had not had sufficient sleep. Then she asked, "Who is this?"
Johannes and Hilsborn stood in breathless expectation. They pressed
each other's hands with a look that said more than any words could have
done, and Johannes made a sign to Willmers.
"It is your young nurse, Fraeulein Ernestine," Willmers replied.
"Oh, indeed!" said Ernestine slowly. Again she closed her eyes, but
remained sitting upright. Hilsborn went to the window, and admitted a
little more light.
Then she rubbed her eyes and looked around. Gretchen had sunk upon her
knees, and did not venture to stir. Johannes stood concealed by the
head of the bed.
"What o'clock is it?" asked Ernestine.
"Half-past eleven," said Willmers.
Again there was silence for awhile. Hilsborn drew the curtains still
more aside. Just then the Staatsraethin in the other room, ignorant of
what was going on, approached the half-open door. Fortunately, Johannes
saw her, and motioned her away: she withdrew instantly, but the door
creaked a little.
"Who was coming in?" asked Ernestine.
"The maid," Willmers replied, with ready presence of mind.
Then there was a long pause, during which the throbbing of the three
hearts, agitated by alternate fear and hope, was almost audible.
"Willmers," said Ernestine.
"Fraeulein?"
"Have I been dreaming--or did I really burn the book?"
"What book, dear Fraeulein Ernestine?"
"The fairy-book,--the old fairy-book. Ah, I burned it. How sorry I am!"
"Another can easily be procured. Do not fret about that, dear," said
Willmers, suddenly remembering that there had been a fire in
Ernestine's library on the day when she was taken ill.
"Oh, no, it will not be the same,--not the same," said Ernestine sadly,
and was silent again for some time.
"Willmers!"
"Fraeulein?"
"I thought I was wakened by a terrible shriek. I was so frightened I
trembled all over. See how vivid our dreams can be!"
"No one shrieked," said Willmers.
"Where is my uncle?"
"Gone to America."
"Gone!--and left me here?"
"You were ill."
"How long have I been in bed, then?"
"Oh, a couple of weeks."
"Ah! Who has been attending me?"
"Herr Geheimrath Heim and Herr Professor Moellner."
"Indeed!----Moellner!"
She was silent, and then passed into a quiet half slumber, but she
smiled in her sleep.
Hilsborn and Johannes went out of the room on tiptoe. Without, they
clasped each other's hands in mutual congratulations.
"What do you think now?" asked Johannes.
"I think she is safe," said Hilsborn.
Gretchen slipped out and joined them. "Oh, you should see her lying
there now, so calm and quiet--she does not even murmur in her sleep as
she did."
"Gretchen," said Johannes, "it is your doing. God bless you for it!"
Gretchen looked up at Hilsborn, who could not resist the temptation to
put his arm around her and draw her towards him. Johannes smiled, for
the first time for weeks, and said, "I saw it coming. Would that such
happiness were mine!"
"But," said Gretchen timidly, "remember, it is a great deal harder to
win such a creature as Ernestine than such a poor little thing as I.
And only think what she will be when won!"
The Staatsraethin interrupted the conversation. She saw with delight the
hope in her son's eyes, and thanked God.
They sat together in the antechamber for half an hour, until they heard
Ernestine waken.
Johannes then beckoned to Willmers, and said to her, "Prepare Ernestine
as cautiously as you can for seeing us."
"Willmers!" called Ernestine.
"Here I am, Fraeulein Ernestine."
"I feel so well now,--so rested! I must have been very ill, for my head
is still confused, and it is hard to think. Tell me, my dear Willmers,
am I not very poor?"
"No one is very poor, Fraeulein, who is as rich in mind and heart as you
are."
"Do not evade my question. I begin to remember it exactly. My uncle
deceived me. And Moellner,--yes, that was the evening when he told me
I must die--and the skull fell down and struck my poor head just
here,"--and she put up her hand to the scar that had remained since her
childhood from her terrible fall,--"just here. It was very painful, but
I hardly felt it, in my hurry to read all that there was in the book
about diseases of the heart. And then those terrible thoughts of
eternal night and eternal silence--and then--then--I remember nothing
more. Oh, Willmers, pray draw aside the curtains, and let me enjoy the
light as long as I may."
Willmers opened the curtains of both the windows. The bright rays of
the autumn sun streamed into the room. Ernestine stretched out her arms
towards them, and said, "Oh, glorious light! How long shall I look upon
you? How soon will your warm rays kiss the flowers upon my grave? Shall
the blest look upon the face of God? This beautiful smiling world is
His face, and blessed indeed are they who may still look upon it and
recognize God. Ah, Willmers, life is such a gift! It is truly valued by
those who stand looking down into their open graves, as I do, and I
think I was never so worthy to live as now when it is too late."
She clasped her hands over her eyes and burst into tears. "If I could
only hope to go to eternal peace upon a Father's loving, forgiving
heart, I would gladly die, I long for His love. All feel His presence,
and look to Him. But I dare not approach Him. I should be thrust out."
"Dear Fraeulein Ernestine," said Willmers, "you are still ill, and that
is the cause of these gloomy thoughts. If you would only talk with
Professor Moellner, he would know better how to answer you than such a
simple old woman as I."
"When is Dr. Moellner coming again?"
"He is here with his mother. They came here to stay, that they might
take care of you, and the Frau Staatsraethin has done all that she could
to help her son. Oh, how anxious and unhappy they have been about you!
The Herr Professor would not stir from your bedside, and he looks quite
ill with constant watching."
Ernestine cast down her eyes with emotion.
"May I not ask him to come in now?" asked Willmers.
"Pray do so."
Willmers did not have to go far to call him. He was already at the
door.
"Ernestine, how are you?" he said, doing his best to appear composed.
"Well, dear friend." And she smiled, and held out her hand to him.
"What have you not done for me! How can a dying woman thank you for
such self-sacrifice?"
"Ernestine," cried Johannes, pressing her hand to his lips, "you are in
error. I myself led you into it, and severely has God punished me for
my imprudence. Everything that I told you of your physical condition
was founded upon mistaken suppositions. What I thought a symptom of
chronic disease was nothing but the approach of an acute attack of
illness. Two physicians, Heim and Moritz Kern, pronounce your heart
sound, and you are now out of danger. Oh, Ernestine, you cannot dream
what my sufferings have been! I saw you writhing in mortal agony. All
your fancies betrayed the terror into which I had plunged you. I would
have rescued you from it, but you could not hear nor understand me. I
offered you the truth that would save you from destruction, and you
could not open your lips to receive it. It was too much, too much!"
"Then I need not die?" asked Ernestine with a long breath, as if
awaking from an oppressive dream.
"On my honour, Ernestine, you are quite out of danger."
She could not speak. She could only look fondly and gratefully at the
blue heavens outside the window. Then she silently pressed Moellner's
hand to her breast, and the large tears gathered in her eyes.
The Staatsraethin then entered. "May I come in?" she asked. "May I say
good-morning to the invalid?"
Ernestine drew the old lady towards her, put her arm around her, and
whispered, "You have so much to forgive, but you granted me your
forgiveness before I could ask you for it. I feel so humiliated in
comparison with you, I will not conceal the shame this confession
causes me. It is your only reward for all that you have done for me."
"How she has been purified in the terrible furnace that she has passed
through!" the Staatsraethin said to Johannes, who was looking down
enraptured upon the pale, beautiful features, once more informed by the
clear light of reason.
"I thank you all, and you, too, dear Willmers. Every breath that I draw
of this new gift of life shall be full of gratitude to you and"--she
looked timidly upwards--"to God. In that dark, dark night of horror, I
felt that His hand prostrated me, and now His hand lifts me up again.
Oh, yes, He is a merciful God!"
"Then, Ernestine," said Johannes, "a blessing has come even from the
terror that I caused you,--the blessing of faith."
"Yes, dear friend, you were right when you said, 'To some God comes in
fear.' You were right in everything, and I am only a woman!" Her head
drooped. She was exhausted.
Johannes and his mother looked significantly at each other, joy in
their eyes. It seemed to them that Ernestine was born again.
The blessed relief that followed this brief conversation kept the
invalid sunk in profound sleep all the rest of the day.
When Heim came, towards evening, he would not even see her, lest he
should disturb the repose which was, he said, the best medicine for a
convalescent.
At nightfall she opened her eyes and saw Johannes sitting beside her.
"Are you still with me?" she asked.
"I am always with you, Ernestine. I shall never leave you," he said
with fervour.
Her eyelids closed, and she was silent, but her breath came quickly. He
saw that his words had excited her, and he resolved carefully to avoid
in future every syllable that could possibly disturb the perfect repose
of her mind.
He left the room, that she might become composed. Willmers persuaded
her to take some nourishment, and she fell asleep again without a word.
She was so much refreshed the next morning that Johannes breakfasted
with his mother for the first time for many days, and assured her that
he confidently hoped now for Ernestine's speedy recovery.
"Thank God!" ejaculated the Staatsraethin fervently. "Since yesterday I
have seen how dear she may become to me. I acknowledge now that you, my
son, understood this rare creature better than I did. But where are
Gretchen and Hilsborn? Why do they not come to breakfast?"
"They are taking a turn together in the garden. How happy they are!"
"God willing, we shall soon have a double wedding in N----."
"Ah, mother, yours are bold dreams!" cried Johannes.
"But why not? Be sure, my son, she will soon be well again. Her
constitution, both mental and physical, is strong. In two weeks your
holidays will be at an end, and then we will carry her back to town
with us, and when her trousseau, that I shall provide, is complete,
where will there be any need of delay?"
"Why, mother, you yourself have just said that her mind is vigorous as
well as her body. I shall never believe she can be mine until she is
actually my affianced bride."
"Ah, Moritz and Angelika!" cried the Staatsraethin, rising to meet them
as they entered.
Angelika kissed her mother and brother. She was, if possible, plumper
and rosier than ever.
"Aha!" laughed Moritz, "we frightened you for nothing yesterday. I
know--I know all about it from Heim. Your coy damsel has come to her
senses--congratulate you! If she can be cured of the rest of her
brain-sickness, why, Heaven speed the wooing! There'll be no getting
any good out of you until you are married."
Angelika put her plump, dimpled little hand over his mouth. "Can you
not let poor Johannes have some peace?"
Moritz kissed the soft, warm fetter placed upon his lips and freed
himself from it.
"'Poor' Johannes! Why poor? He's sure of her now. She hasn't a
groschen. Let her thank Heaven that there is a comfortable home ready
for her, and she will,--no one can accuse her of stupidity," said
Moritz.
Johannes and his mother looked grave, but did not speak, and he went
on. "I can't conceive how she withstood you so long. You're the very
hero for a novel,--too sentimental for my taste, but that's just what
women like, and if I were a woman I'd have you on the spot."
"Thank you kindly, Moritz," said Johannes gaily, "but make your mind
easy,--I certainly would not have you."
"Oh, do stop! you do nothing but quarrel and fight when you are
together," said Angelika merrily. "You are both good and true, each
after his own fashion, and I love you both dearly. What more do you
want?"
"All right," said Moritz, contemplating the fair little figure with
immense satisfaction. "If you love us, I am entirely content. It is
only your discontented brother who is not satisfied."
"Angelika knows well enough," said Johannes, "what she is to me!"
Here Willmers appeared. "Herr Professor, Fraeulein Ernestine is awake,
and is asking for her 'pretty young nurse,' as she calls her. Shall I
go for Fraeulein Gretchen?"
"Yes," said Johannes, "but I must tell her who Gretchen is,--you will
excuse me?"
"Yes, yes, go, for Heaven's sake! don't wait an instant!" Moritz called
after him.
"Ernestine," said Johannes, after he had exchanged morning greetings
with the invalid, whose improvement was evidently steady and
sure,--"Ernestine, you wish to see the young girl who was here
yesterday, and I must first tell you who she is. Do you still cherish
any affection for your uncle?"
Ernestine shook her head. "He is dead to me."
"I have something to tell you of him that may agitate you, and I
scarcely dare to do it."
"What can agitate me, after all the terrors that my own fancy has
conjured up?" Ernestine asked composedly.
"Well, then, the girl who has helped to nurse you with touching
fidelity for the last four weeks is Leuthold's daughter, and--an
orphan!"
"Good God!" she exclaimed. "Poor child! Is Leuthold dead?"
"Yes, he inflicted upon himself the punishment of his crimes. This
world is past for him."
Ernestine looked up gravely. "I cannot mourn him. He was my evil
genius, and shamefully abused my confidence. But I will not visit it
upon his daughter,--poor, innocent child. I pray you bring her to
me,--she is the only creature in this world who is linked to me by the
tie of kindred!"
Johannes went to the window and beckoned to Gretchen, who was
approaching the house with Hilsborn.
She came instantly, and a minute later was upon her knees at
Ernestine's bedside. Ernestine would have drawn her towards her, but
she sobbed, "Let me kneel at your feet,--only so should the daughter of
one who greatly wronged you dare to approach you."
"Gretchen, poor, innocent orphan," cried Ernestine, "come to my heart!"
Then, regarding her with emotion, she declared, "Indeed, if anything
could lighten his errors, it would be his affection for such a child.
For the sake of that pure human love, I forgive him. If I were rich, I
would share all with you as with a sister. If I had anything to give, I
would give it to you. But I have nothing for you, except sympathy and
affection."
And the two girls were clasped in each other's arms.