RETURN.
With reawakening strength, entirely novel feelings of affection and
interest penetrated Ernestine's nature,--genuine human sympathies, such
as her life hitherto had afforded no room for. In a few days the
closest intimacy was established between herself and Gretchen. There
was a simplicity about Ernestine that no one had believed her to
possess. It was as if she now began to live for the first time, as if
during the long period of her unconsciousness she had forgotten her
former experience of the outward world, and she was as delighted as a
child with all that unfolded itself before her eyes. She was as charmed
as if she had never seen it before with the sight of the clear autumn
sky. She would gaze long and thoughtfully upon the flowers that were
laid upon her bed. She eagerly turned over, with Gretchen, the books of
rare prints that Johannes brought for her amusement. Hitherto she had
known Art only by name, and had not had an idea of its significance.
Her uncle had never supplied food for her imagination, lest she should
be turned aside from the pursuit of her graver studies. Her weary soul
now bathed in the waters of fancy which Johannes unlocked for her
refreshment. He brought her photographs of pictures and statues by
famous masters, and ideas of the beautiful were awakened within her,
filling her with glad inspiration. And Gretchen met her with ready
sympathy,--she was in advance of her, indeed, and could point out to
her many beauties that else might have escaped her unpractised eyes. At
such times Ernestine would regard Gretchen with admiration and
surprise. It was a pleasure to see the two girls throwing their whole
souls into these new enjoyments together. Even Hilsborn, who since
Ernestine's convalescence had naturally been defrauded of many a
delightful moment, could not grudge them so pure and true a happiness.
Sometimes from morning until night the two lovely heads would be
bent together over books and prints, and sometimes they had a
companion,--Father Leonhardt, who would come "on purpose," as he
expressed it, "to see the new books." But his delight was in listening
to Ernestine while she described the pictures minutely, oftentimes with
so much truth and spirit that the old man would clasp his hands and
cry, "How beautiful that must be!"
"Do you see it, Father Leonhardt?" she would ask in her zeal, and the
old man would reply delightedly, "Yes, I see it!"
And when anything pleased him particularly, he would ask, "Show me that
picture again!" and Ernestine was unwearied in her descriptions and
explanations.
Johannes and his mother were enchanted with this rejuvenation, as it
might be called.
She avoided with secret dislike any return to her former world of
thought,--it was too harsh a contrast to her present delight,--she
seemed actually disgusted with the anatomical pursuits which had led
her to dissect so curiously what now gave her so much pleasure. She
would not again descend into those gloomy depths whence she had drawn
nothing but despair, and all that she now looked upon was as novel and
strange as if she had spent the last ten years immured in a tower, from
which she had only looked out upon God's fair world from a far-off
height.
Her recovery advanced so rapidly that eight days after her first
awaking to consciousness she was able to be carried by Johannes and
Gretchen into the library, once more restored to order and comfort by
the faithful care of Willmers. She was placed in an arm-chair, and, as
the Staatsraethin covered her with a warm, soft coverlet, she said in a
weak voice, "Now let us begin where we left off ten years ago!"
The Staatsraethin stooped, and, kissing her brow, whispered softly, "It
is a pity so much time has been lost!"
"Oh, no,--not a pity," replied Ernestine,--"no time spent in searching
for truth is lost; but the measure of my strength is exhausted. I must
give up."
And, with a melancholy smile, she leaned back her head and was silent
The days passed on, and the time approached very nearly when Moellner
must return to his duties in town. Ernestine grew more silent and
thoughtful. No one could understand the change in her mood, for her
physical condition improved daily, while she fell into a state of
depression such as had not befallen her since she began to recover. At
last Heim decreed that she must have fresh air, and one warm noon she
drove out for the first time. She had begged that Gretchen alone might
accompany her, and the Moellners had, although unwillingly, acceded to
her request, Johannes carefully lifting her into the carriage.
"Gretchen," said Ernestine, as they drove along, "Dr. Moellner has twice
alluded to the fact that in two or three days he, with his mother, must
move back to town, as his lectures at the University will begin again.
You heard how they took it for granted that we should accompany them. I
made only evasive answers, but now I must resolve what to do. Gretchen,
you have often told me that your peace of mind depended upon your
helping to support me as long as I needed you." She looked searchingly
at the girl. "What if I were to take you at your word?"
"I should keep it, for I gave it not only to you, but to God Almighty,"
said Gretchen. "Tell me, Ernestine, what I can do for you."
"Everything!" cried Ernestine. "You can save me from living upon
charity."
"How so?"
"Can you not imagine, Gretchen, what it must be to me to accept further
benefits from people whom I long to repay in kind, whom I would like to
reward a thousandfold for all that they have done for me? I do not know
whether you understand me when I tell you that I would far rather earn
my living by the work of my hands than depend upon the kindness of
those whom I once treated so arrogantly, and who have already heaped
more coals of fire upon my head than I can bear. You shake your head.
Your father, Gretchen, would have understood me,--his words upon this
subject, the evening before he left me, are ineffaceably impressed upon
my mind."
"Forgive me, Ernestine, it does not become me to depreciate my father
still further in your eyes, but I cannot be silent! I have arrived at
the melancholy conviction that my father never advised you well. He was
wrong here too. He did not know Dr. Moellner,--he could not conceive of
the depth and truth of his affection for you. Will you reward the man
who has done so much for you by making him wretched? You certainly will
do so if you refuse to go with him. No, Ernestine, I do not understand
how you can break a man's heart just for the sake of your pride!"
Ernestine did not speak for a few moments, and then she said,
"Gretchen, you are a child,--I cannot explain to you that there is a
principle of honour to which one must sacrifice the happiness of a
life, should circumstances demand it. You know, perhaps, that when I
was wealthy and independent, Moellner offered me his hand, and that I
refused it, because I could not fulfil the conditions that he proposed.
Since that time his conduct has failed to assure me that he still loves
me, for a nature as noble as his, is perfectly capable of sacrificing
all that he has for me, from pure sympathy and mere compassion. And,
even if he still loved me, could he value a heart open to the suspicion
of surrendering itself to him under the pressure of necessity, not from
free choice? No, Gretchen, there can be no firm structure of happiness
erected upon such a foundation. This is not the time when I could
withdraw my refusal to be his wife! No, no! such a course at this point
would fix the blush of shame upon my forehead forever. Perhaps I may
still succeed in obtaining an independence by my own exertions,--an
independence that will again make me his equal. Then it would be
different,--then he would know that I gave myself to him from free
choice, not upon compulsion. If he should woo me then,--oh, Gretchen,
it would be happiness that I scarcely dare to think of!"
Gretchen kissed a tear from Ernestine's pale cheek, and said gently,
"You are not like any one else, but always true and noble. I have no
right to judge you. If you say, 'Thus shall it be,' I will submit. My
only desire is to obey you."
"You shall not obey me, Gretchen, but you shall be my guide in a world
where I am a stranger,--you shall lend me your arm to support me until
I can stand alone. Will you not?"
"Yes," was the low reply. The girl was thinking of Hilsborn and his
sorrow at the postponement of his hopes and of her own hopes also, and
she tried to take heart and tell her cousin that she loved and was
loved in return, and that she would be able to offer her an asylum. But
Gretchen paused, and bethought herself. Ernestine would never accept
from Hilsborn what she refused to receive from Moellner. She could not
make such an offer without offending Ernestine, and, if Ernestine
learned how matters stood with Gretchen, she would assuredly refuse all
assistance or service from her that could delay her happiness with
Hilsborn. For Ernestine's proud nature never could endure the thought
of being a burden to any one Gretchen had felt all this from the first,
and therefore had insisted that her betrothal should be kept secret
from Ernestine. And could she tell her of it now? She controlled
herself, and was silent.
"I will tell you my plan," Ernestine began. "Of course I have given up
the idea of going to America. I could never do what would be required
of me there, without assistance, and, even if I could, I would not
leave home and all that I love for the sake of mere fame. I will try to
find a position as a teacher of natural science in some institution,
or, failing that, I will go out as a private governess. But I know how
ignorant I am of everything that is looked for from a woman in such a
position. I know nothing of feminine occupations myself, and, of
course, am quite unfit to have the entire charge of children. I
understand no art,--I am deficient in all practical knowledge,--the
knowledge that I possess is seldom needed in life. This I have learned
since I have seen something of the world. You, Gretchen, are my only
hope. You will teach me everything,--you are a proficient in all that a
woman should know. I must leave this place. I must get away from this
part of the country. Until I am out of Moellner's reach, there will be
no peace either for him or for me. He would always be thinking that he
ought to take me from my position, and there would be endless
struggles. So I think it would be best that we two should retire to
some small town, as far off as my means will permit, and then, if you
would sacrifice to me a few months of your young, hopeful life, until I
should be sufficiently far advanced to procure a situation."----She got
so far with difficulty, and then, breaking off, asked humbly, "Is this
asking too much of you? The world is open to you, Gretchen. Every one
would welcome you back from your seclusion. Moellner's house will always
be a home for you, where you may be tenderly cared for. Will you
sacrifice all this to me, for a little while?"
"With all my heart," said Gretchen. "But, dearest Ernestine, have we
the means to carry out this plan? All that I possess is three gold
pieces that I found in the pocket of the dress that my mother gave me.
Look, here they are--I always carry them about me. My mother had
written upon the paper in which they were wrapped, 'To be used in case
of necessity.' I meant to spend them for you, for you are all the
'necessity' that I have. Take them,--they are all that I have, but I am
afraid they will not go far."
"Thank you, you dear faithful little sister!" cried Ernestine. "We are
not so poor as you think. Dr. Moellner has succeeded in saving all my
furniture from your father's creditors. The sale of it will bring us in
a sum sufficient to support us until I shall find a situation."
"The question is, then, how long that will be," said Gretchen,
thoughtfully.
"Only a few months at the longest, I should suppose."
Gretchen was startled, but she only said gently, "Then we had better
select a place where I too can earn something, that there may be no
danger of our suffering from want."
"That shall be as you think best," replied Ernestine. "I put myself
entirely in your hands,--only take me away secretly, so that no one may
seek to detain us."
"Must no one know anything of it? Must I tell nobody?"
"Do you suppose we should be allowed to go, Gretchen, if our intention
was suspected? If you are afraid that you cannot keep our departure
secret, tell me so frankly, and I will go alone, without your
knowledge."
"Oh, no, Ernestine, I will not let you go out into the world alone.
What are all my resolutions and protestations worth, if I fail you at
the outset? But there is one person, Ernestine, to whom I owe a certain
obedience, my guardian! I am not of age, as you are. I cannot do just
as I please. I must ask him whether I may go with you--but I will
answer for his secrecy. He shall promise me, before I confide in him,
that he will not betray my confidence,--and he always keeps his
promises."
Ernestine considered for a moment. "Yes, I see this cannot be avoided.
I rely upon you. Johannes and his mother are going to drive into town
together in a few days to prepare a room for us in their house. When
they return in the evening, they must not find us here."
"I cannot help feeling," said Gretchen, "as if I were guilty of
treachery towards all these kind people. I never deceived any one in my
life before; I feel like a criminal."
"We will not deceive them, only spare them a parting scene that would
be painful to us all,--we will not impose upon them the necessity of
preventing what in their hearts they may think best for us. When we are
once away, I will write and explain to them what we have done, and they
will understand me."
"Ernestine, I will pray God to give you more love and less pride. My
only hope is that you will not long be able to live without the
faithful friend who loves you so devotedly."
Ernestine looked out of the carriage-window without a word. The fields
were bare and deserted, but the spiders' webs, that lay like nets upon
the stubble, glistened in the sunlight. Here and there the peasants
were burning underbrush, and the red flames darted with a merry crackle
through the thick white smoke that the autumn breeze kept lying low
upon the ground. The cattle were gleaning a scanty meal from the shorn
pastures,--they raised their heads to look after the carriage as it
passed, or to rub their necks against some dried old stump of a tree.
In the distance, a sportsman was making his toilsome way through the
deep furrows of a ploughed field, while his dog busied himself among
the hedges until he started a covey of birds, and the fatal crack of
the gun was heard. A wagon, laden high with full wine-casks, passed
along the road,--the boy that was driving had a bunch of withered
asters in his hat, and cracked his whip gaily at sight of Gretchen's
lovely face, while the little dog perched on the top of the load barked
angrily. "Every one is making ready for winter," said Gretchen. "How
much labour meat and drink cost!"
The carriage turned towards the village, and Ernestine called to the
coachman to stop at the school-house,--"I must see the Leonhardts once
more." As they reached the low-roofed house, one of the windows was
opened, and Frau Brigitta looked out. "Good-morning, Frau Leonhardt,"
cried Ernestine from the carriage.
"My dear Fraeulein Ernestine, I can hardly trust my eyes!" And out she
came to the carriage-door. "Come in, come in, both of you,--I will
bring Bernhard--he is with Kaethchen in the garden. But Walter is in the
house. He is so happy with the things you have sent him! He studies
night and day!" Thus the old woman ran on, as she assisted her guests
to alight.
"I think," said Ernestine, "that I should like to go into the garden to
Father Leonhardt."
"Just as you please. He is sitting round the corner, in the sun."
"Go into the house, then, Gretchen," said Ernestine. "I will come in
one moment."
And she went round the house as quickly as her strength would permit,
and approached the old man, who was teaching Kaethchen her lesson. The
child would have run to meet her, but Ernestine motioned to her not to
speak, and knelt silently down by Leonhardt.
"Who is this?" he asked.
Ernestine made no reply, but imprinted a kiss upon his hand. He smiled.
"Oh, it is my daughter Ernestine!"
"Yes, father, it is I," she said. "I come to you the first time that I
have driven out. There is much within me that is still dark. I come to
you for light."
"You bring me light, and do you ask me to give you light? But I know
what you mean, and I will give you all that I have. Heaven may make me,
poor blind old man, its instrument in comforting and assisting you.
Tell me, then, Ernestine, why does the sunshine that now floods your
life fail to penetrate your heart?"
"Send the child away, father."
"Go, Kaethi dear," Leonhardt said.
"To Walter?" the little girl asked, delighted.
"Yes, if he is not busy,--see that you do not trouble him."
Kaethchen still lingered, with a look of inquiry at Ernestine, who
perceived it, and held out her hand. "My good little Kaethchen, do you
remember me? I would like to give you a kiss, but you might fear my
touch would harm you again."
"Oh, no. That cannot be," said Kaethchen. "I am not at all afraid of
you."
"Then come here, my sweet child." And she took her upon her lap, and
kissed her kindly. It was the first time that she had ever had a child
in her arms, and the pleasure that it gave her was new and strange.
"Oh, Father Leonhardt," she said, "how many different kinds of love
there are! Strange that they all seem so new and delightful to me!"
"You are like the man with the heart of stone, in Hauff's story. Your
uncle put a marble heart in your breast, and Moellner has given you a
warm, living heart instead."
Ernestine blushed at these words. She was glad that Leonhardt could not
see her, yet he did see her.
"He brings a blessing wherever he comes," the old man continued. "He
has done everything for this child. Did he tell you? The Countess
Worronska sent the forty thousand roubles, as she promised, and Dr.
Moellner succeeded at last in persuading the Kellers to send Kaethchen to
a good school. She will leave now in about a week."
"I knew nothing of it," said Ernestine.
"It is not his custom to speak of the good he does," said Leonhardt,
"but indeed he is a benefactor to all."
"A benefactor to all," Ernestine repeated thoughtfully. "All the less
should any one individual boast of his kindness,--a kindness shown to
all, without respect of persons."
Leonhardt involuntarily turned his darkened eyes towards her as she
spoke thus. "Go, Kaethchen," he said, "Fraeulein Ernestine will come
by-and-by."
Kaethchen went into the house, and, not finding Walter in the
sitting-room, mounted to his study, in the upper story, just under the
roof. She nestled up to his side and said, with an air of great
mystery, "Only think! the lady of the castle has kissed me again!"
"Not possible!" laughed Walter. "And do you feel nothing queer?"
"Of course not," Kaethchen cried in some confusion. "She can't bewitch
me."
"I wouldn't like to try her," said Walter with an involuntary sigh. "I
think, if I had been in your place, I should have felt the enchantment
instantly."
"Why, you told me yourself there was no such thing," said Kaethchen.
"Well, Kaethi," said the young man, "it would be as well, perhaps, for
the sake of precaution, that I should kiss off her kisses. Where was
it?--here?"
"Yes, and here on my forehead, and on my shoulder."
"There, we will put an end to all that," cried Walter, as he kissed the
child. "And now go down-stairs. I must work."
"Oh, you always have to work," Kaethchen complained.
"Yes, you school-children have the best time, with nothing to do but
laugh and play, while I have all the studying. Go now, and when the
Fraeulein comes in from the garden, come and call me."
"Yes, I'll call you. Good-by. But promise me that you won't tell that
the Fraeulein kissed me. They would all scold and laugh at me."
"Oh, no,--not for the world. Where's the use of telling everything? But
you mustn't love the Fraeulein better than you do me, or I must tell
your mother."
"Oh, no. I love you best of all the world!" cried Kaethchen, shutting
the door behind her with emphasis. She had been but a few moments with
Gretchen and Frau Brigitta when Ernestine entered with Leonhardt. Both
looked agitated, and Ernestine's eyes showed traces of tears.
Kaethchen would have gone to call Walter, as she had been told to do.
"Stay, Kaethchen," said Ernestine, "I will go up to Herr Leonhardt
myself and see what he is doing."
And she took Father Leonhardt's arm, and with him ascended the narrow
staircase.
Walter sprang up, with flushed cheeks, when Ernestine and his father
entered his room.
"Have you come all the way up here?" he exclaimed, "you, before whom I
stand humbly as a mere pupil,--revering you almost as the very
personification of Science?"
"Do not speak thus, Walter,--you do not know what you are saying. I
have, through much pain, obtained the victory over self, and will
content myself with my lot as a woman, but I am weak, and such speeches
might easily arouse again within me the demon of ambition. Yon mean it
kindly, but, now that I stand on the borders of the realm I have
forsaken, I must not listen to any voice recalling me to that dear old
home. I have come to take leave of you. Your father will tell you
wherefore and whither I am going."
"Oh, Fraeulein Ernestine, are you going away? and are you going to give
up your studies too?"
"I must resign them, Walter, or at least all scientific pursuits. My
knowledge must be to me now a means of support, and in these days it
can serve me only in the position of a governess. I must content myself
with teaching in a girls' school. Men do not want women for professors,
and no man wants a professor for a wife. The world is not what I
dreamed,--there is no place in it for a woman's efforts, and I am too
weak to create one for myself."
"What a shame it is," said Walter, "that such a woman should need to
create a place for herself! she should be placed upon a pedestal and
worshipped, if only for the sake of such a mind in such a body."
Leonhardt laid his hand in warning upon the boy's arm.
"Father, I must speak," he went on. "I must give some relief to the
indignation that fills me at the idea of such a nature's being
condemned to contend in the world for the bare means of subsistence."
Ernestine hid her face in her hands, and sighed heavily.
Leonhardt shook his head disapprovingly at his son. "It is not kind,
Walter, to make the sacrifice harder than it need be. Ernestine is and
always must be noble, and never was she nobler than in her present
resolution. We cannot change the world, Walter, and Ernestine is a
woman,--she must submit."
"Yes, submit!" she repeated, and there was a keener pain in her
accents.
"Fraeulein Ernestine," Walter implored her, "forgive me if I have
revived buried griefs. I meant well,--I cannot tell you what pain it
gives me to see you giving up what is so dear to you, and for me your
going is like the departure of his muse to the poet,--the vanishing of
his saint to the rapt devotee."
"Walter," Ernestine said gravely, "your words tempt me sorely, but, I
hope, for the last time. I will resist them, and when you are older you
will know why I do so. You are very young, Walter. It is not long,
scarcely six weeks, since I was so too. In this short time I have grown
older by six years, and the world and mankind are changed in my
eyes,--I must struggle now for the simple means of subsistence."
She went to the bookshelves, on which the bright rays of the sun were
just falling. "Yes, dear old Darwin, your famous name still shines
brightly upon me. I now begin to understand you and to appreciate the
sublime import of your teachings."
She held out her hand to Walter, with tears in her eyes. "Thank you for
the opportunity of trying my strength for one moment. It has been a
melancholy satisfaction. A bright future is before you; if I have
contributed in a degree to the realization of your hopes in life, I
will descend cheerfully from the heights I dreamed of,--I have not
lived in vain. I must go."
She looked around the room. Wherever her glance fell, it rested upon
some of her books or instruments. "Keep all these things for me,
Walter,--perhaps I may reclaim them at some future day." Again tears
filled her eyes. She knew she was never again to possess, what had been
so long the sole joy of her life, the companions of her labours. "No,
let them go. I release from my service the spirits prisoned in these
instruments that have brought the stars near to me and revealed the
hidden mysteries of the earth to my asking eyes. They can serve me
no longer,--I must return to the every-day world,--the spell is
broken,--knowledge and sight are mine no longer."
She left the room noiselessly, and her old friend followed her.
A quarter of an hour later, the carriage rolled away from the
school-house towards the castle, and the Leonhardts, father and son,
stood on the threshold, the one gazing after the distant carriage, the
other listening intently to the last sound of its wheels.
Ernestine, sunk in thought, was leaning back in the vehicle, when she
suddenly called to the coachman to stop. They were just passing the
church.
"Stay here and wait for me," she said to Gretchen. "I must go in here
for a moment."
She got out, and went to the door, which stood ajar. Her hand lingered
on the latch. What impelled her thus irresistibly to enter this poor
little village church?--Memory! Like a painted curtain, all the events,
thoughts, experiences, of the last ten years were hung around the low
portal. Again she stood before the church-door of her northern home, a
trembling, longing, doubting, despairing child. "Enter, and learn to
kneel," the same voice within that spoke then was speaking now. And she
entered, softly and timidly. It was empty and quiet,--the people were
all at their work. The floor between the benches was strewn with green
box twigs from the last holiday, and the atmosphere was filled
with the odour of incense. Through the painted window the sun threw
many-coloured rays upon a picture of the Virgin. A swallow, scared from
his summer's nest in the dome, flew circling above Ernestine's head,
like the dove of the Holy Spirit. Ernestine slowly passed the quiet
confessionals, where so many sorrow-laden hearts had unburdened
themselves of their weight of woe and received forgiveness in the name
of the Lord. She thought with compassion of the cumbrous formalities
that separated these wandering souls from their hope and trust.
"Straight to Him," breathed the voice within, and she passed with
quickened steps over the soft, leaf-strewn floor, directly to the
altar. Was it the same at which she had knelt and wept ten years
before? Whether it were or not. He was the same Divine One whose image
looked down from the cross, touching her heart now as it had touched it
then. She knew now that she had but completed a circle, and had come
back to the point at which she had been ten years before.
And she extended her arms and fell upon her knees. "Father," she cried,
"I have come back,--receive me! ah, receive me!"