"GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD."
"What a hard winter we are having!" said Ernestine to herself, looking
thoughtfully out through the dim panes of the little window by which
she was sitting, upon the roofs of the houses that bounded her
prospect. They were covered with snow, that lay thick also on the
outside window-sill. She sat with her hands wrapped in her cotton
apron. "Well, I wanted to know everything,--why not poverty, and
hunger, and cold,--the mighty foes with which humanity is always
contending? I could philosophize excellently well upon abstinence in a
warm room, by a well-spread table, and am I to shrink now? No, no! no
living soul shall ever hear me ask for help."
She stood up, and walked firmly to and fro.
The room was a gloomy garret, a kind of kitchen,--at all events, there
was a cooking-stove in it, and a cupboard containing articles of
crockery. The floor was paved with stone.
Ernestine's feet were bitter cold. "I wonder what o'clock it is," she
thought. "The postman ought to be here soon. It is terrible to have
nothing to mark the time."
She listened to catch the striking of a church-clock--going to the
window and letting her eyes wander over the white roofs in search of a
distant tower. There was no sun visible through the snowy air. It was a
genuine winter's day.
At a window just opposite, a little boy breathed upon the frosty pane
and made two round peep-holes, through which a pair of blue eyes beamed
at her. She nodded to them--she knew the pretty child well. The little
head behind the peep-holes nodded in its turn. She thought of Little
Kay and her northern winter. Then the snow before the window rose like
white clouds hiding the prospect, and, gradually taking a human shape
clothed in wide flowing robes, that began to sparkle and glitter as if
strewn with diamonds, and a veil of frozen gossamer fluttered in the
air. And beneath the veil there looked at her through the window a
white face, with fixed transparent eyes like crystal, and upon the
beautiful brow was a diadem of icicles made of the tears of all who had
perished in the ice and snow since the world was made, and of all who
starve and freeze in winter-time,--a diadem richer in pearls than that
of any earthly monarch. The mighty form had on one arm a shield,--but
it was a plate of the ice upon which had been wrecked the ships that
sought to penetrate the inhospitable kingdom of the Snow-queen around
the north pole. With the other hand she was leading away the little boy
from over the way,--she longed for some coral to adorn her colourless
robes, for a few drops of warm human blood. It was the Snow-queen of
the fairy-dreams of Ernestine's childhood. But she was more majestic
and gloomy than formerly, and she spoke other words to her now:
"I know you,--you never feared me as you do now that you have no warm
roof, no firm walls, to protect you from my icy breath. But I will not
harm you,--you belong to those who believe in the future of my
dominion, who know that in thousands and thousands of years it must
spread over the whole world, when all this swarming life will have
passed to other spheres. Then my time will come,--there will be quiet,
eternal icy quiet, here below,--and I will laugh at the old
extinguished sun, glimmering like a burnt-out coal and envying me my
diamond palace which he can no longer melt away."
Thus spoke the Snow-queen to the dreaming woman of science, and there
was a cold pain at her heart,--sorrow for the end of Being here below,
sorrow at "the judgment-day of an eternal glacial period," as Du Bois
has it.
The Snow-queen had vanished, and Little Kay with her,--a thick
snow-storm hid from view the path that she had taken.
Slowly and weakly, as if the clock were frozen and could thaw only by
degrees, twelve o'clock struck from the church-tower.
Ernestine did not hear it. She sat with her head leaning against the
window. The voice of the Snow-queen sounded in her ears, "Open your
eyes, and see!"
And she opened her eyes, and saw across billions of years. The sun, its
fires only dimly burning, hung, a bloody disk in the skies, heavy
brooding clouds were tinged with dull red, and twilight rested over the
cold earth. Upon its hardened surface only a few wretched imbruted
creatures crawled, seeking to sustain life upon the scanty remains of a
decaying vegetation.
Sadly Ernestine closed her eyes upon the painful picture.
But she was again commanded to look abroad. Centuries swept on, and all
grew darker and colder. The red disk faded, and all colour with it.
Ernestine marked it all vanish in a dull gray. Weary with fruitless
struggle, the last remains of organic life lay down in eternal rest.
It was night at last. Still the earthly sphere performed its appointed
circuit around the charred mass that was once its sun. But the mighty
firmament was clear and cloudless,--the lifeless earth exhaled no mists
to obscure the light of the distant stars, which revealed to Ernestine
immeasurable depths and immense heights of frozen seas and oceans amid
eternal repose,--the world was only a gigantic memorial of things that
were.
"But where, and in what guise, are the transformed forces of this spent
world now lingering?" asked Ernestine. "Nothing in the great Universe
is lost."
"Ah! good heavens I here you are sitting dreaming in this cold
kitchen!" suddenly said a clear, bright voice. "No fire on the
hearth,--no dinner made; or, let me see,--yes,--but how? Burnt to a
cinder. My dear Ernestine, what have you been doing?"
Ernestine had sprang up, and was staring at the speaker as if she had
come from another world.
Gretchen, for she it was, laid aside a couple of schoolbooks that she
had under her arm, threw off her cloak and hood, and busied herself
with the neglected soup. "I understand,--first you kindled a huge fire,
and then never thought of it again. The soup is not skimmed, and the
beef is burned, and yet half raw. Yon cannot have looked at it for at
least an hour."
"It is such a pity that we had to sell my watch," Ernestine excused
herself. "I never know now how the time goes."
"Nonsense!" said Gretchen, "you can surely tell without a watch whether
the soup boils and the fire burns or not. Only try, and all will go
right. You have often proved that you can really cook quite well if you
will only take pains. But I cannot trust you with soup and beef
again,--you forget everything when once you begin to dream."
"Gretchen, don't be angry," pleaded Ernestine.
"But here is all the food spoiled that was so hardly earned, and we
have not a single groschen in the house, and shall not have, until my
money is paid me to-morrow." And tears of vexation came into Gretchen's
eyes. "I care more about you than about myself. I am strong, and do not
need meat; but you,--indeed you ought to think of yourself, if not of
me!"
Ernestine, in her confusion, looked from the saucepan to Gretchen,
and from Gretchen to the saucepan, in dismay. "You are right," she
said,--"it is unpardonable not to take care that you, poor child,
should have something hot and good when you come home wearied from your
work. Indeed I am a useless creature!"
Gretchen was instantly appeased. She laughed, and threw her arms around
Ernestine. "Ah! my beautiful, grand, intellectual sister, it is too bad
to scold you! Just hear my queenly Ernestine sue for pardon, like some
poor Cinderella, and all for a piece of burnt meat! Don't mind it,
dear. You can't think how touching your humility is. Why, I could kneel
at your feet, if you would let me." She kissed her sister's lips. "Oh,
what a poor distressed face! Don't you know, dearest Ernestine, that
the sight of that face is more to me than all the dinners in the
world?" And she laughed as merrily as a child.
Ernestine returned her embrace. "There, you forgive me," she said
tenderly.
"Oh, no, I beg your pardon," said Gretchen, "I will educate you. But
enough of this. We must proceed to business at once. I must go back to
school at two o'clock, and we cannot starve. We must give up the meat
for to-day. There is no help for it. We must indulge ourselves in the
luxury of an omelet."
"Let me make it," Ernestine begged. "Sit down and rest yourself, you
are tired."
"What! let you make it?" asked Gretchen. "That would be wise indeed.
Suppose you spoiled it, what should we do then?" And she took out a
basket containing eggs. "We have just eggs enough for one omelet, and
no more.
'Entraenn' er jetzo kraftlos meinen Haenden,
Ich habe keinen zweiten zu versenden,'
as Schiller makes Tell say when he had no second string to his bow."
"Indeed, Gretchen," pleaded Ernestine, "I will not spoil it. I should
be so glad to recover your good opinion,--only let me try."
"Dearest, darling Ernestine," said Gretchen, "trust me, we cannot
indulge in experiments any longer. While we had a little money, it did
not make much difference if we had a spoiled dish now and then, but now
we must save every groschen.--there is no help for it." And she began
to beat the eggs, while Ernestine put more wood in the stove.
"Never mind that!" cried Gretchen. "If you want to do something, dress
the salad. But make haste, the omelet will be ready in an instant."
Ernestine made all the haste she could,--she was so anxious to do
something.
Suddenly Gretchen, who was busy at the fire, heard a low exclamation,
and, turning, she saw Ernestine standing with a face of despair before,
the salad-bowl, with the oil-bottle in her hand. "What have you done?"
cried Gretchen, hastening to her side. "Not got hold of the wrong
bottle, I hope?" But one sniff at the salad was enough. "Bless me!
she has put petroleum into it! Now we must sit in the dark this
evening,--our week's supply is exhausted. Such nice salad and such good
petroleum, each so valuable by itself and so worthless mixed! Now, dear
Ernestine, you cannot ask me to permit you to stay in the kitchen a
moment longer. This is one of your unlucky days." And, with a comical
air of pathos, she untied and took off her sister's apron. "Herewith I
solemnly depose you from your responsible office. You have to-day shown
yourself entirely unworthy to wear this ornament. Now go into the next
room, and wait quietly until I bring the omelet in to you." And she
opened the door and led Ernestine from the room.
When she went to her, shortly afterwards, she found her sitting sewing,
her eyes red with weeping. "Darling," she said to her, "I do believe
you are crying about that trifle! I must be a little strict with you,
you see, or you will never learn to economize and take care of things.
Ernestine dear, you are not vexed with me for scolding you? I was only
in jest."
"How could I be vexed with you? I am crying because I am of no earthly
use in the world! If it were not for you, you angel, what would become
of me? There is no child eight years old more clumsy and awkward than
I. Who would bear with me as you do? Do you think I am not humiliated
by these thoughts? For these last two months, ever since my money was
exhausted, you have supported me by your hard work at that school, and
I could do nothing for you but prepare our frugal noonday meal while
you are away, and now I cannot even do that! It is shameful! Have I
made the most complicated chemical combinations, and yet can I not make
decent soup? Have I overcome the greatest difficulties, and yet are
these simple tasks beyond me? This cannot go on. I promise you I will
take myself in hand, and you shall not have to fast again when you come
from school."
"My dear Ernestine, I do not believe you can ever learn these things.
They are too far beneath you."
"My superiority is truly deplorable," replied Ernestine. "It does not
help me to discharge the smallest duty. Difficulties always incite me,
and, now that I see how difficult these trifles are, I am determined to
master them."
Gretchen handed her a piece of the omelet. "Now put away your work, or
your dinner will be quite cold."
Ernestine laid aside the skirt upon which she was working. "I shall
never get it together again. I wish I had not ripped it apart!"
"Why, you could never have worn it, with the front breadth so scorched.
But I will help you this evening. It is my fault that you scorched
it,--I should not have let you make the fire,--so it is no more than
reasonable that I should help you to repair the injury. But, Ernestine
dear, you do not eat."
"I have had enough. If you would have allowed me, I could have made two
omelets out of those eggs."
Gretchen laughed merrily. "Hear her say how much better she could have
made it! Well, only wait, day after to-morrow is Sunday, and I shall be
at home, and then you may cook as much as you please, under my
direction. That will be a real holiday for you."
"Ah, Gretchen, how often I think of the Staatsraethin, when she wanted
to teach me to prepare the beans for cooking, and I felt it an
occupation so far beneath my dignity! I did not understand her then,
but I have learned to do so now." She sat lost in sad reflections.
Gretchen looked at Ernestine's plate, and shook her head. "What shall I
get for you that you can eat? If you would only let me accept something
now and then from my guardian. He would be so glad to assist us."
"Gretchen, I have nothing to do with what he gives you," said Ernestine
gravely, "but no morsel that he might send us should pass my lips, any
more than I would accept one of the two dresses he sent to you. I know
I am severe, for I force you to starve with me, but, God willing,"--and
she uttered the name of God with more reverence than is usually shown
by those who have it constantly on their lips,--"it will not last much
longer. I must surely obtain a situation soon, and then you, you dear,
faithful child, will be free to return to the Moellners, or
whithersoever you choose, and begin to enjoy your young life. I will
confess to you, Gretchen, that I wrote again, the day before yesterday,
to the agent in Frankfort, begging him to do all that he could for me.
There must be a place for me somewhere in this wide world."
She threaded her needle with difficulty, and began to sew again. Two
large tears fell upon her work, but she brushed them hastily away, that
Gretchen might not see them.
"Dear Ernestine," Gretchen said, when she had carried away the plates,
"I must go now, for half-past one has struck. Do not sew too long, and
pray forget your sad thoughts. Some place for you is sure to offer. It
would, to be sure, have been better if we could have lived in
Frankfort, instead of coming out here to Rothelheim. Then you would
have been able to see the people yourself. But the living there was
really too expensive, and I was certain of employment here. Oh, if
people only knew you, they would seize upon you instantly. If I could
only induce my good directress to see you, she never could withstand
you! Now good-by, dearest and best,--all good spirits protect you in
the dark,--you know we have no light this evening!"
"Never mind that, Gretchen. I will think of father Leonhardt, who is
always in the dark, while for us the sun will surely rise again."
"Yes indeed, Ernestine, always remember that,--'The sun will surely
rise for us,' Gretchen called back into the room from the doorway.
"In that sense? Who can tell?" Ernestine thought sadly.
She looked for a moment irresolutely at the little spider-legged table
that served as dining- and writing-table. She would so like to write to
Walter. It was now over a week since she had heard from him, and her
scientific correspondence with this young friend was her sole
self-indulgence,--the only tie that still connected her with her former
pursuits. In all his letters he told her of his progress, asked her
opinion upon many points, and glowed with enthusiasm for her genius.
She could scarcely withstand the temptation to devote the time while it
was yet light to writing. Her heart was still full of the wonderful
dreams of the morning.
But she looked down at the skirt upon which she was working, and which
she really stood in need of, and thought, "No, I was thoughtless this
morning, and dreamed away the time, instead of cooking. I will be
conscientious this afternoon, and work."
She seated herself, sighing heavily, at the window, and sewed on
diligently. "Practice makes perfect," she had said in the essay that
was to procure her admission to the lecture-room of the University. She
never dreamed then how she was one day to prove the truth of the
proverb. If she only had that essay now, she thought! She had forgotten
to ask Dr. Moellner for it, and he had it still. What had he done with
it? Should she reclaim it? No, assuredly not! He had written to her but
once since her flight from Hochstetten, and had afterwards sent her the
proceeds of the sale of her furniture, without one friendly word,--only
transacting her business for her as formally as for a stranger. And
what a letter that was after her flight! She took it out to read it
once more, although she had read it already again and again:
"I understand you, Ernestine. I expected this. It would have been
unjust to our future to put force upon your feelings. God will one day
guide me out of this dilemma. Until then, live in peace, and gratify a
pride that I am now convinced nothing can break. Perhaps in time it may
consume itself, and perhaps love may overcome it. I will endure, as I
have learned to do since I first knew you. There is a strength in you
such as I never believed a woman could possess, and with which I know
not how to contend. I do not grudge you the triumph that this
confession affords you. It is a poor delight in comparison with that
which love would yield you, if you did not scorn it. Ah, Ernestine,
could I have snatched you from your poverty to my heart and home, my
joy would have been beyond that of mortals. A grateful smile from you
would have been more than worlds to me. But you do not choose, since
you would sacrifice nothing for me, to accept any sacrifice from me.
You choose to be your husband's equal in all respects,--to owe nothing
to any human being. I forgive you your pride in this respect, for it
presupposes an exaggerated self-depreciation. As you think so lightly
of yourself,--as you do not dream of your wealth of charms, of the
power that you possess to bless and enrich,--you cannot believe that
you can bestow a treasure to the worth of which the wealth of the world
is nothing. Perhaps this is partly my fault. In my desire to deal
truthfully with you, I have neglected to impress this fact upon you.
But, Ernestine, it seems to me a true woman does not ask, 'How much do
I receive, and what can I give in return?' She accepts in love what is
offered in love, and is glad to owe everything to him to whom she is
everything. She gives him all that she can, and never stints him of the
dearest delight that he can have,--that of labouring and toiling for
one so dear to him. She willingly wears the fetters of dependence,
regarding them only as ties binding her more closely to the loved one.
You cannot feel so, Ernestine. It would be unjust to require it of you,
and you were wrong if you feared I should seek to detain you by force.
I only used force to preserve you from a menacing peril. Now you are
safe. The world into which you are going will be only a school for you,
and you have need of this school. Therefore, choose your own path, and
prove the independence, your right to which you insist upon asserting.
I would not exact what would be a blessing only as a free gift. There
was no need of your leaving us as you did, without even a farewell to
my mother, who had grown so fond of you and nursed you so tenderly. It
pained her that you should do so.
"I will not speak of what I suffered upon finding you gone upon my
return from town, leaving only those few lines of farewell. You are
bent upon maintaining the dignity of your sex, and, in such an
important undertaking, it is scarcely worth while to consider the
wrecked happiness of one human life.
"Farewell, and, if I can serve you in anything, command me.
Johannes."
When she first received this letter, she had sunk fainting into
Gretchen's arms. Since then Moellner's name had never passed her lips,
and almost five months had gone by. She had not allowed a thought of
him to enter her mind, except when, as now, some other subject had
brought him vividly before her, and then she punished herself by
quickly thinking of other things. Whence came the tears that now
trickled down her cheeks? Her cold, benumbed hands trembled as she
wiped them away. She bravely choked them down, and thought--poor
child!--that she was not crying, when she swallowed down the bitter
drops that welled up from her heart. Such weeping is the bitterest of
all.
The shades of night fell fast, and she could no longer see to sew.
There was an end of a candle on the shelf, and she lighted it, but it
scarcely burned half an hour before it died out and she was left in
darkness. She began to arrange and open the narrow beds that stood
against the wall of the room, and, as she did so, thought of her good
Willmers. How kind it was of the Frau Staatsraethin to take the faithful
soul into her service! Fie! thinking of him again! What weakness! The
little room grew darker and darker. The panes began to be covered with
frost, and the light from the neighbour's room opposite glittered in
prismatic colours upon the ice-flowers and trees. They were wealthier
over there than Ernestine, for they could afford a light. They had not
poured their petroleum on the salad, to be sure, but then they had not
been visited by the Snow-queen! Ernestine sat down wearily by her bed,
and rested her head on the pillow. She felt better when her body was in
entire repose, she thought.
How wearily she had lain upon her soft bed six months ago in
Hochstetten! And how anxious she had been to live! Would it have been
so terrible to lose such a life as this? Then it seemed as if a strong,
tender hand clasped hers, and she felt a quick, anxious breath upon her
brow. She knew it well, and the gentle questioning that was sure to
follow,--knew that firm, quiet pressure upon her heart to count its
pulsations. And if she had only clasped it fast,--that strong, tender
hand,--she would not now be sitting here alone in the dark! "Oh,
Johannes!" she gasped, and extended her arms. Then there was a noise of
some one stumbling upstairs,--that could not be Gretchen. There was a
knock at the door. "Who is there?" cried Ernestine, frightened.
"Postman," a rough voice answered from without.
"Oh, a letter from the agent," thought Ernestine, opening the door.
"Four kreutzers," said the man, handing her a letter.
Ernestine stood aghast. "Is it not prepaid? I--I have not a single
kreutzer in the world--we shall have no money until to-morrow."
"No kreutzers, and no light? Hm--hm! Such a beautiful lady, with no
money in her pocket? Well, well, you can pay me to-morrow. I'll trust
you until then."
"Thank you, you are very kind," Ernestine stammered, greatly ashamed.
She was obliged to run in debt to the postman.
"Have you no light, to show me the way down-stairs? I shall break my
legs or my neck upon these steep, narrow steps."
"I will lead you down. I know the way, and I must go down to read my
letter by a street-lamp."
"Good God! what poverty! Go down to the people on the lower floor--they
will give you a candle-end."
"No, I will not. They are not respectable people, and I will have
nothing to do with them. The poorer one is, the prouder one must be--so
as not to sink too low. You are a good man, Herr Bittner. Tell no one
how poor we are."
"No, if you say so, but something ought to be done for you. I have seen
what a hard time you have had of it ever since you came here. It's none
of my business. I can only hope that there may be something good in the
letter that I brought you,--and I do hope so, with all my heart.
Good-evening."
"God grant it!" said Ernestine, going into the street to read her
letter by the gas-lamp there. A fine snow was falling again, and the
passers-by looked at her in amazement. The colour mounted to her
forehead, but she could not wait until morning to read this letter,
which she felt sure contained her fate. It was from the Frankfort agent
who was to procure a situation for her, and was short and to the point:
"Fraeulein von Hartwich:
"You wish me to tell you frankly how it is that I have as yet procured
no situation for you. I will do so,--for I see from your note that you
accuse me in your thoughts of a negligence that I should be sorry to be
guilty of towards any one,--least of all towards yourself.
"You yourself, unfortunately, Fraeulein von Hartwich, furnish the reason
why I have hitherto been unable to procure a situation for you. No
agent in the world would be able to find a position as governess in a
respectable family for a lady bearing such a reputation as yours. For
their children's sake, people are unwilling to receive into their
houses a person who has written as you have done against religion and
in favour of the emancipation of woman. You assure me, I know, that you
have altered your opinions, and that you yourself now condemn these
writings. But no one will believe in such a forced conversion. Besides,
in your advertisement in the papers you referred to the Prorector of
the University at N----, without giving any name. I can only conclude
that you must have been mistaken in the person of the Prorector, for
the present holder of the office is a Professor Herbert, who gives the
strongest possible testimony against you, and has already destroyed
your prospects in three separate instances, by referring people to your
books,--after reading which, no one would listen to a word in your
behalf."
Ernestine's arms dropped by her sides. From delicacy, she had
suppressed Moellner's name in the papers, entirely forgetting that at
this time the office of Prorector was held but for a year by one
person. She remembered how she had mortally offended Herbert on the
only occasion when she had met him, and she knew that this man's
mortified vanity had made him her implacable foe. But that was a
secondary matter. The blameless need fear no foe. It was her own fault
that Herbert had the power to destroy her prospects. He had not
maligned her, he had simply referred to the books which she had
written. She had herself whetted the knife that he had used against
her. She had only herself to blame.
Never had the phantom of the past loomed so monstrously before her as
now. There she stood,--she, who had thought herself able to defy the
world,--starving and freezing in the cold, reading by the light of a
street-lamp the anathema that society hurls at the woman who offends
it. The iron wheels of conventionality, in the path of which she had so
boldly thrown herself, had passed over her prostrate form. She was only
a helpless, desolate woman.
She was scarcely capable of reading any further. She held the sheet in
her trembling hands, caring not to decipher the few words of condolence
with which the agent closed his communication. The snow-flakes wetted
the paper, so that the letters ran together, and in the wintry wind it
fluttered to and fro in her hand.
Her feet were stiff with cold as she turned into the house again and
groped her way up the dark staircase. Gretchen's return was unusually
delayed, and Ernestine longed so for her sympathy and advice.
What should she do? She could not permit her sister to sacrifice the
best years of her life to her support. She could no longer be dependent
upon the kindness of such a child. What should she attempt? Must she
beg from door to door? How could she earn her own living, when she had
been taught none of the arts by which to earn it? In these last few
months Gretchen had taught her something of what was indispensable in
such great need. She had never dreamed how difficult the things were
that she had accounted so unimportant. She had come to the point where
self-respect is imperilled in the struggle for mere subsistence. She
wrung her hands, and called out into the darkness, "O God, take pity on
me, and guide me through this valley of the shadow of death!"
And the bitter doubt whether He would listen to her cry would arise
within her heart. She reviewed in her mind the miserable superficial
essays that she had written denying Him, and felt that she was justly
punished. How little had she thought, when exulting in the attention
that they had excited, that she should ever feel herself disgraced by
their authorship! As yet, she had uttered no reproach against her
uncle. He had expiated by his death his theft of her property, but his
crime against her mind and soul he could never expiate,--this it was
that now branded him with infamy in her memory. What a happy woman she
might now have been, if he had not misdirected her ambition! What
friends might have been hers, had he not made a misanthrope of her! and
now, when starvation stared her in the face, the demon of his teaching
snatched from her lips the bread that she might have earned.
When Gretchen at last returned, she found Ernestine crouching upon the
hearth, gazing into the fire that she had kindled to warm her wet feet
and to cook the evening meal.
"What are you doing, Ernestine dear?" she asked anxiously.
"I am praying for daily bread," she replied in a monotone.
Poor Gretchen listened sorrowfully to all that Ernestine had to tell
her. She knew that for such a nature as Ernestine's this state of
dependence and inactivity was worse than death, and that no love or
devotion on her part could reconcile her proud sister to such a lot.
She could advise nothing. The only thing that Ernestine could do for
her own support was, perhaps, copying. But who in the little town would
have anything to copy? And they could hardly live unless Ernestine was
able to earn something. Gretchen's modest salary would hardly suffice
to keep them from starvation. She did not mind any amount of
deprivation for herself,--but could she see Ernestine pine and sicken
for want of nourishing food? And she had promised solemnly to accept no
help from Moellner or Hilsborn. What was to be done?
After a long, sleepless night, she arose at dawn, and, while Ernestine
was still sleeping, sat down and wrote to Hilsborn. She wrote
hurriedly, and the long letter was wet with tears that Ernestine would
have been grieved to see. She finished it before Ernestine awoke, and
her eyes began to sparkle again, as if they trusted that this letter
would change the whole aspect of affairs.
"Gretchen," said Ernestine, as Gretchen leaned over her to give her a
morning kiss, "how gay you look! Do you not feel the heavy burden that
I have laid upon your shoulders?"
"Oh, Ernestine," her sister replied, "as long as I have you I will be
thankful for you, however dark matters may look outside."
Ernestine looked at her thoughtfully. "Gretchen, there is a greatness
in your fidelity and self-sacrifice that I never before conceived of.
Now first I know what Dr. Moellner meant by true womanliness. This
womanliness your father took from me,--you, his child, have restored it
to me. It is the greatest gift you have given me, and it atones for his
depriving me of it."
Gretchen breathed a sigh of relief. "When you say so, I seem to hear
the angels tell me that mercy will be shown to my poor father. Indeed,
dear Ernestine, you are in alliance with beings of a better world, or
you could not know how to console and inspire me thus. Indeed, when you
look at me so tenderly I must believe there is redemption for the soul
of my father. What can I do to repay you for such consolation?"