CHRISTMAS AT DOeNNINGHAUSEN.
Christmas-eve had arrived. As was the custom, the festival for old and
young at Doenninghausen took place in the late afternoon, before the
principal meal of the day, and even with Johanna's help Aunt Thekla had
much ado to be ready with the arrangement of the presents at the
appointed time. The gifts for the members of the family were laid out on
long tables to the right and left of the brilliantly-decorated fir-tree
in the centre of the ball-room, while smaller Christmas-trees sparkled
and shone upon tables ranged against the wall, where were the presents
for the servants and the castle pensioners. When the bells of the
village rang in the Holy Christmas-tide, Aunt Thekla's silver bell was
also rung, the doors into the corridors were opened, and as the flood of
light streamed out upon the expectant group outside, there arose, sung
by old and young, the strains of the Freiherr's favorite hymn,--
"He comes, He comes, the Holy One,
Filled with His might divine."
Involuntarily, Johanna, standing beside Aunt Thekla beneath the
Christmas-tree, folded her hands: memories of vanished years crowded
upon her heart; but, as she turned aside to wipe away her starting
tears, her look encountered her cousin Otto's eyes fixed upon her. He
had arrived in the course of the afternoon. She had not seen him before,
and he now nodded to her by way of greeting. She courtesied, and was
aware of the same mingled sensation of timidity and confidence that had
possessed her at their first interview.
Beside Otto stood Magelone, more elfin-like than ever, in a long,
closely-fitting pale-green silk, with her sweet smile and
strangely-gleaming eyes.
"Is it Otto's presence that makes her thus brilliantly beautiful? It is
strange that grandpapa has never destined these two for each other,"
thought Johanna.
The hymn was ended, the Freiherr was wheeled into the room, the rest
crowded in after him, and soon the delight of the children made itself
heard, and the poor stammered their grateful acknowledgments, while
Hildegard and Hedwig cast inquisitive, unfriendly glances away from
their own rich gifts towards a morocco case which the Freiherr handed to
Johanna.
"Open it, child!" he said. She obeyed. A rococo _parure_ of rubies and
diamonds lay gleaming upon the yellowish-white satin inside the case.
"Your grandmother's bridal jewels, your mother's inheritance," said the
Freiherr.
The sisters exchanged looks of indignation. Johanna kissed her
grandfather's hand.
"I thank you; the double memory makes it very precious," she said, and
closed the case. As she did so, Otto approached her.
"At last, Fraeulein Johanna," he said, and held out his hand. "How glad I
am to see you again!"
"Fraeulein!" cried the Freiherr. "Boy, what do you mean? You should call
the daughter of your father's sister 'Johanna.'"
"Most gladly if I may. Will you allow it, dear Johanna?" said Otto,
bestowing upon her a cousinly kiss. Blushing, she released herself from
him, as he looked into her eyes with a glance of momentary triumph. "To
our friendship," he said, gravely, and then the children came rushing
up and separated them.
A telegram was handed to the Freiherr; he read it with a lowering brow.
"How unfortunate!" he cried. "Waldemar tells me that important business
will not allow of his being with us before New Year's day. This
Christmas it vexes me particularly."
"I am delighted," Magelone whispered to Johanna. "It is a respite, at
least for me. The betrothal of the future head of the family cannot
possibly be announced unless all its august members are present."
Johanna looked at her and shook her head. "That betrothal will never
take place," she said; "Otto will not allow it."
"Otto! What do you mean?" asked Magelone. "You have hardly seen us
together."
"Long enough to see how he adores you."
"Mere gallantry, child; nothing more," said Magelone. "Remember, pray,
he has debts, I have nothing, and we are sensible people."
And she fluttered away to her presents, where the next instant Otto
joined her. "May I take you in to dinner?" he asked.
"That is at present Johann Leopold's privilege, or task. As which do you
think he regards it?"
"Can you ask?" said Otto. "He is pursuing you with the glare of a
veritable Othello!"
"How romantic! I see only his usually melancholy sheep's-eyes," said
Magelone. "He stares at me, but it is a question whether he sees me.
Others, on the contrary, see too much; discover that we, that is, you
and I, are flirting with each other."
"Flirting!" he interrupted her. "How can my serious devotion----"
"Oh, hush!" she cried. "You know grandpapa's plans. Johann Leopold's
future betrothed must listen to nothing of that kind. You ought to court
Johanna."
"It pleases my sovereign to jest," said Otto, bending over her with a
smile.
"Not at all," she rejoined. "I am rather laying my commands upon my
slave to turn his talent to account."
He bowed again. "The command shall be obeyed," he said. "Moreover,
obedience will not be difficult. Cousin Johanna has improved wonderfully
in appearance."
Magelone glanced hastily towards Johanna. "You are right: she has gained
life and colour;" and she added, mentally, "Is he trying to make me
jealous? He shall not succeed."
In spite of this resolution, she could not away with a slightly
disagreeable sensation when, sitting beside Johann Leopold at table, she
noticed the assiduity with which Otto, who was Johanna's neighbour,
obeyed her command, and how Johanna's eyes sparkled as she talked with
her cousin. If Magelone could only have revenged herself upon him! But
words, looks, and smiles were lavished in vain upon Johann Leopold, who
was as monosyllabic as ever.
After dinner, in the drawing-room, Otto came to Magelone just as she was
going to join Aunt Thekla and her cousins around the fire. "Not there,"
he entreated; "come to the piano; it is so long since I heard you play."
"Lost pains," was her laughing reply, as she followed him to the other
end of the room. "You never will convince me that you care for music.
Did you ever really know what I was playing?"
"And if I did not, it was your fault. How can I think of aught else but
your beauty, which has so bewitched me, you enchanting siren?"
"Ah, you're wrong. Sirens enchant chiefly by their song," she rejoined
in a teasing tone, as she sat down at the piano and struck a few
chords. "Well, Sir Enthusiast for music, what will you have?"
"Play anything; never mind what."
"Last autumn you had a passion for Chopin,--have you forgotten? Do you
no longer recognize your favourite?"
She began to play. Otto sat beside her and turned over the leaves of her
music when she signed to him to do so. As often as he leaned forward she
felt, with a thrill, his breath upon her neck, and sometimes he
whispered, so low as to be almost inaudible, a word or two in jest in
which there seemed a tone of suppressed passion.
"Does he conduct himself thus towards Johanna?" she asked herself.
"Impossible!" her vanity made reply, and the _berceuse_ which she was
playing assumed the character of a triumphal march.
The moods of the group around the fire were less harmonious. The
Freiherr had retired immediately after dinner; the brothers Wildenhayn
and Johann Leopold, engaged in a political discussion, had withdrawn to
such a distance that they could not overhear the ladies' conversation,
and Hildegard soothed her injured feelings by animadverting upon
Johanna's position in the family.
It was certainly a matter of course that grandpapa should take charge of
the destitute orphan, since in a certain sense she was one of the
family; but was there any need to treat her as an equal? It was not only
an insult to the other members of the family, it was an injury to
Johanna herself. It would end in her forgetting her true position; she
would learn to form expectations which could not be fulfilled hereafter,
and she would lose by her arrogance the regard of the relatives upon
whom, after grandpapa's death, she must needs be dependent.
"I do not think you are right there," Aunt Thekla at last interposed,
having long tried in vain to oppose her gentle remonstrances to the
torrent of Hildegard's speech. "My brother is sure to provide for
Johanna."
"I think so too," cried Hedwig; "and I wonder, Hildegard, that you do
not see it yourself. After grandpapa's giving her that valuable
_parure_----"
"Yes, that _parure_!" Hildegard interposed. "With all your prejudice in
the girl's favour, you must admit, dear aunt, that grandmamma's bridal
_parure_ does not belong of right to her. She can do nothing with it;
she never can wear it. She does not belong in society; even grandpapa
could hardly succeed in introducing an actor's daughter."
Hildegard spoke these last words in a voice intentionally raised; for
Johanna, who had been preparing the coffee as usual at the table before
the sofa, was just passing with the first cup for Aunt Thekla. The
trembling of her hand betrayed that she had heard the malicious remark,
and Hildegard looked after her exultantly as she returned to the
coffee-table.
But Johann Leopold had also heard and seen, and he came to Johanna's
assistance.
"Dear Magelone," he said, going to the piano,--the _berceuse_ was just
ended, and Otto was expressing his admiration for the music and for the
performer,--"dear Magelone, will you preside at the coffee-table to-day?
Johanna has exhausted herself with Christmas-eve preparations; she looks
terribly pale and weary."
Magelone was ready on the instant to comply. "Johann Leopold
jealous,--charming!" she said to herself; adding aloud, "Indeed, Johanna
dear, you do look wretched. Sit there in the corner of the sofa, and I
will pour out coffee for you."
"I would rather go to bed," Johanna replied. And, bidding good-night to
Magelone and to Johann Leopold, whose kindness she had perfectly
understood, she slipped out of the room, unperceived, she thought, by
its other inmates. But in the corridor Otto joined her. "Dear Johanna,"
he said, "here is a little Christmas-token that had no place in the
joyous confusion of the evening. Do not look at it until you are in your
own room; but, before you go, tell me how you really are." And he gazed
into her eyes with the expression that always confused her.
"It is nothing; I shall be quite well to-morrow," she stammered,
mechanically, taking the little packet he handed her, and then hastening
up-stairs to her apartment, while he returned to the drawing-room.
Why should her heart beat so fast? Her trembling hands could scarcely
steady themselves sufficiently to light her candle; but when they had
done so, and she had unwrapped Otto's Christmas-gift, she said to
herself that it was the suspicion of what it was that had so moved her.
Otto had given her a small miniature of her father, taken from a
well-known life-size bust. She gazed at it lost in thought. What would
she not have given to be able to pour out her gratitude to Otto on the
instant, to speak with him of the departed one whom he had known and
revered! Otto had been the first at the close of her old life to bid her
welcome on the threshold of the new existence, and he was the only one
in all this new existence who appreciated her love and veneration for
her father.
When she met him the next morning at breakfast, he learned from her eyes
and voice even more than from her words how great had been the pleasure
his little gift had given her.
"I knew you would like it," he said, simply, as he conducted her to the
breakfast-table; and, although no further allusion could be made then to
the picture, their intercourse seemed more cordial than ever before.
Hildegard contemplated the pair with an unfriendly mien. They did not
appear to notice it, and therefore the careful sister judged it best at
last to signify to Otto that he was bestowing his attentions upon a most
unsuitable object. The Freiherr's question as to whether the clear
winter's day might not be made available for a sleigh-ride afforded her
an opportunity to carry out her intention.
"Yes, dear grandpapa, a sleigh-ride would be glorious," she said; "I
would merely propose that we should also pay a visit. Do you not think,"
she went on, looking around the circle at the table, "that it would be
well to call at Klausenburg? When church is over the sleighs can take us
there, and we can be back in time for the second breakfast."
"Will there be room for all of us?" asked Hedwig.
"Certainly," Hildegard replied. "Magelone and Johann Leopold can go in
the small sleigh, and Eduard can drive, and the large sleigh will easily
hold Aunt Thekla, us two, and Otto, with Karl to drive us."
"I will resign my place to Johanna," said Aunt Thekla.
Johanna was about to declare that she would rather stay at home, but
Hildegard gave her no time. "Johanna at Klausenburg?" she exclaimed.
"That will never do. I, at least, have not the courage to take her
there."
"Make your mind easy; that is my affair," the Freiherr interposed, and
his eyes flashed at the speaker. "On New Year's day we give our
customary dinner, at which I shall present my grand-daughter to the
neighbourhood, and I promise you that she will meet with the reception I
desire her to have. Christian, take me to my room."
The servant wheeled the old man away, and every one rose from table.
Johann Leopold began to converse with Johanna upon indifferent subjects,
and involuntarily she became interested. Hedwig whispered to her
discomfited sister, "Rather awkward of you, my dear." Otto asked his
brother-in-law, Karl, how he could allow Hildegard to display such want
of tact, and was answered by a shrug of the shoulders, whilst Aunt
Thekla tried to dispel every one's embarrassment by reminding them that
it was time to make ready for church.
"Come, let us go together!" said Magelone, putting her arm through
Johanna's and leaving the room with her. "Let me entreat you not to look
so grieved," she went on. "Don't let that stupid woman vex you; you know
how the others love you."
Johanna pressed Magelone's arm, and went up-stairs with her in silence.
At the door of her room she said, "You must go to church without me
to-day; I cannot feel devotional after what has happened."
"Oh, Johanna, we ought not to bear malice! Be kind, and come," Magelone
entreated; but with a decided "I cannot!" Johanna left her and shut
herself up in her own room. She could not say to Magelone that she was
far less annoyed by Hildegard's hostility than by the prospect of being
thrust into a society where she was not welcome.
"If I could but get away!" she thought, as she looked from the window
out over the wintry landscape. "Yes, away, away, if but for an hour!"
she said, aloud. And putting on her wraps, and accompanied by Leo,
barking joyously, she hurried out into the park, and thence to the path
that led up the mountain from the village into the forest.
Her heart grew lighter in the fresh winter air. She walked on quickly,
upwards beneath the snow-laden boughs, upon which the sunlight played in
thousands of prisms, and from which the glittering dust came powdering
down upon her. At length the sight of the forester's lodge, its windows
sparkling in the sunshine, warned her to return.
Since she had come thus far, she would inquire after Johann Leopold's
protege. Greeted and accompanied by the barking dogs, she was going
towards the door, when close by the house a girl, very poorly clad, with
a shawl about her head and shoulders, came out of the thicket. The
slender figure stooped low as it passed the windows, softly lifted the
latch of the house-door, and went in.
Johanna followed her. She turned to the door of the room opposite the
sitting-room, and laid a little, blue, half-frozen hand upon the latch.
"Jakob!" she whispered, as she tried to open it gently. But on the
instant the door of the sitting room opened, and the forester's wife in
a black gown and a cap with white ribbons made her appearance, the
hymn-book in which she had been reading in her hand.
"Christine!" she exclaimed, angrily, in an undertone, and without
noticing Johanna she rushed at the girl. "Christine, how dare you? Go
away this moment!" And she tried to push the girl away from the door,
but her hand held fast the latch. "For God's sake," a poor little
pleading voice cried, "let me only say one word to Jakob!"
"Not one," Frau Kruger interposed. "Go this instant, I tell you!" And
she raised the book as if to strike the girl.
"Frau Kruger!" Johanna exclaimed, approaching the pair. They turned. The
girl's shawl had fallen back from her head, and a pale youthful face,
the large dark eyes swollen with weeping, met Johanna's look, while the
violence of the forester's wife was instantly replaced by extreme
courtesy.
"Oh, Fraeulein!" she said, with a curtsey, "do not take it amiss. I never
like to harm a living creature, but Christine is a shameless girl, who
will persist in worrying Jakob."
"I worry him?" the girl said, quickly. "Why, since his accident I have
never even been allowed to see him. Have pity; let me bid him good-by. I
am going to Oberroda to-day, but I cannot go so." And she burst into
tears.
"Frau Kruger, be persuaded," Johanna entreated. "The poor girl----"
"Oh, Fraeulein, do not waste your compassion," the forester's wife
interrupted her, with an angry glance at the girl. "Christine has always
been a bad, wilful creature. She has had a child, and wants to force
Jakob to marry her, but he will have nothing to do with her."
"Jakob have nothing to do with me? That is not true," cried the girl.
"He will not forsake me, and I will not forsake him. And he loved the
little child dearly, and now he does not even know that it is dead. I
must tell him." She hid her face and sobbed aloud.
"How can you be so hard-hearted?" said Johanna. "You must let the girl
speak with the sick man."
"That she may make him worse with her whining," said Frau Kruger. "If
she loves him as much as she says she does, she might spare him her
blubbering. And what of it? It is lucky that the Lord took the brat from
her."
"Frau Kruger!" Johanna exclaimed, indignantly; and Christine, who had
grown deadly pale, drew the shawl over her head and silently left the
house.
"Oh, Fraeulein, if you but knew! Have the kindness to come in here and
let me tell you," the forester's wife begged, all smiles and servility
again; but Johanna left her and followed Christine.
The girl ran down the forest-path like a hunted creature. Suddenly her
strength seemed to fail her, and she leaned against a tree.
Johanna hurried to her. "Where is your home? I will take you there," she
said kindly.
"Home? I have none!" the girl replied, with a wild look. "My brother has
turned me out of doors, and they will not let me go to Jakob. His sister
says I am too bad for Jakob; my brother says Jakob is too bad for me.
Ah, good heavens! if we are both such wretches, we are well suited to
each other."
The depth of bitterness in her words contrasted so oddly with her gentle
child-like face that Johanna's sympathy was still more strongly
enlisted. She put her arm round her to support the slender, trembling
figure, and walked with her slowly down the mountain. After a while
Christine said, "You are so kind, Fraeulein. Herr Forester Kruger told me
about you. He is far kinder to me than his wife."
"What is Frau Kruger's grudge against you?" asked Johanna.
"At first it could only have been that I am poor and low-born," the girl
replied. "My father was only a cowherd, it is true, and Jakob is a
farmer's son. But for all that, he wanted to marry me, and if the others
had consented all would have been different with me now."
"Who are the others?" Johanna asked again.
"The forester's wife opposed it most. She worked upon my guardian and my
brother, and they forbade me to go with Jakob. So we had to see each
other in secret, for he would not give me up, nor would I him. And then
that happened that ought not to have been."
She was silent. For a while they walked along without speaking, and then
Christine said, timidly, "Please, kind Fraeulein, do not think hardly of
us. Ah, how hard Jakob tried to have us married! and when the child came
he loved it so dearly,--so dearly! And now it has been lying under the
snow for a week, and Jakob is up there with his cruel sister, and I must
go away. I have taken service at Oberroda, and oh, it is too, too hard
to go without seeing Jakob, or letting him know anything about me and my
trouble!"
Johanna spoke soothingly to her, promised to give her news of
Jakob,--she depended upon Johann Leopold's help,--and when they reached
the cross-road leading to the village, the girl took leave of her with a
lighter heart and grateful words. Johanna looked thoughtfully after her.
The sound of the Christmas bells struck clearly upon her ear in the
crisp, frosty air. Where was the "Peace on earth" that it should have
heralded to mankind?