PROFESSIONAL ENTHUSIASM.
The Freiherr had bought Tannhagen, and had acceded to Otto's entreaty
that the marriage might take place at the end of May. There was much to
do before then to make the 'old barracks,' as the Freiherr called the
farm-house, habitable. There was no end of consultations with builders
and workmen. Hangings and carpets were ordered. Loebel Wolf, who had been
taken into favour again, ransacked the country round for old furniture
to suit Johanna's taste; Aunt Thekla contributed chests full of linen,
and Otto was perpetually going to and fro urging the workmen at
Tannhagen to greater speed and keeping his grandfather informed of all
that was doing.
The Freiherr seemed to grow younger and more cheerful every day amid
these constant calls upon his interest. They helped him to forego the
usual Christmas gathering this year, and to bear the absence of Johann
Leopold. Hedwig could not, of course, travel with her new-born baby, and
Hildegard's children had the measles,--very fortunately for their
mother, who was reluctant to witness the happiness of the betrothed
pair. Magelone also was away. She had developed a tender affection for
Hedwig's boys, and begged her grandfather to allow her to spend her
Christmas with them.
It was a great pleasure, shortly before Christmas-day, to receive a
letter from Johann Leopold. It was plain, however, from its contents
that a previous packet, containing a letter from Ludwig Werner in answer
to the announcement of Johanna's betrothal, had been lost. This time
only Johann Leopold wrote. Ludwig had been absent from him for a while
upon an expedition to the interior, which the writer did not feel strong
enough to join. He said nothing special about his health, but from
several of his expressions it seemed plain that the hopes he had
entertained as to the effect of his travels had not been confirmed, and,
in spite of the pleasure and interest they had afforded him, there might
be read between the lines of his letter a certain desire for home, the
longing of an invalid to be once more living quiet days amid familiar
scenes. Still, he did not seem inclined to hasten his return. He wrote
that the work of the expedition to which Ludwig Werner belonged would
hardly be finished before the end of the summer, so that he could not
expect to see Doenninghausen again before the autumn. He was, of course,
all the more anxious for a detailed account of all that passed there,
and asked particularly concerning the plans of the betrothed pair, whom
he cordially begged to rely upon his brotherly aid whenever they might
require it. Sympathy with their happiness, he added, should cheer his
own life of renunciation.
"Poor Magelone!" thought Otto, when he heard this portion of the letter.
"How can she depend for future happiness upon such a shadow of a man?"
But the old Freiherr declared that it was all hypochondriacal nonsense,
and that when the bustle of the outfit and the wedding were over at
Tannhagen, the same thing should be begun at Doenninghausen.
"You will see, Thekla," he said to his sister, "when it comes to
seriously building his nest, Johann Leopold will be just as sensible as
Otto has become. I never should have believed that the lad could be so
practical and industrious. It gives me the greatest pleasure to see it."
Even Johanna was surprised at Otto's unwearied zeal, but she could not
help thinking that in his care for outward circumstances, the frame of
life, he was overlooking the life itself, and his ardent tenderness
could not indemnify her for the want of that congeniality of mind and
thought which she had hoped for from her lover, and for which she longed
daily. Otto declared that there would be time enough for philosophizing
when they were settled in their Tannhagen solitude; at present it seemed
to him best to discuss the alterations in the house, the laying out of
the garden, the carpets, and the furniture. And since Johanna's taste
differed widely from his own, which was all for the modern, the elegant,
and the graceful, while she would have had her furniture in artistic
harmony with her house, there was no end to discussions upon household
matters, which left Otto no time for what interested Johanna more
deeply.
She would not admit to herself that he lacked interest in everything
save what was superficial, and after he had left her in the evening she
made every effort to banish the feeling of discontent that assailed her.
She sought refuge more and more continually at her writing-table. The
impression produced upon her imagination by Tannhagen at her first visit
had not faded. She still in fancy saw the old house peopled with shapes
upon whom, involuntarily, she bestowed the very life of her life, whom
she caused to ask and answer, to love, to suffer, to hope, and to
grieve, according to her own mood. And each of these phantoms had an
individual existence, to which she felt forced--she knew not why--to
give expression in words. She did it with mingled delight and pain. Form
and colour would sometimes elude her, or the shape which she had thought
stable would fade and vanish, while at other times, without the
slightest effort on her part, her brain would be crowded with clear and
lovely images, whose very being she could understand and interpret. What
would come of all this she never asked herself. She believed that in
writing she was but obeying an impulse to reveal herself absolutely to
Otto. She called these outpourings of her very self 'apocryphal
love-letters,' and she wrote herself to rest, as some sing themselves to
sleep.
* * * * *
Thus the winter passed. It was unusually stormy and severe, even for
these mountains. All the more welcome to Johanna were the first spring
breezes, the coming of the first birds of passage, and the bursting of
the sheaths of the first blossoms. Her rides and walks with her
grandfather were not long enough. Elinor was saddled for her in the
early morning, and it was sometimes hard to turn back in time for
breakfast.
One morning she had started earlier than usual. The eager March air and
the sunshine blended harmoniously. A lark poured his 'full heart' 'from
heaven or near it.' With Leo barking about her, she turned her mare into
the woodland path leading to the 'Forest Hermitage.'
It was long since she had seen her proteges. The Freiherr had not
forbidden her to visit them, but it vexed him to hear them mentioned.
Therefore, when she crossed the forest path upon her road home from
Tannhagen with her grandfather, she did not venture to turn into it. She
learned from Otto, who now and then brought her a greeting from
Christine, that the couple were content and happy, and she should be
glad to hear this from Christine herself.
But she found an invalid. An old woman opened the door for her, with a
curtsey. The young wife lay on the sofa, propped with pillows, her face
pale and wan, her eyes dim, and the hand she held out to Johanna burned
with fever.
"Christine, what has been the matter?" Johanna exclaimed, in dismay.
"When Herr Otto saw you a week ago he brought me such good news of you!"
Christine's eyes wore an anxious, terrified expression. "I was taken ill
just afterwards," she answered, in a weak voice. "But please, Fraeulein,
say nothing about it now: I hear Jakob coming; he is too anxious, and I
am a great deal better."
Her husband entered. Johanna was startled by his gloomy, haggard looks.
"The gracious Fruleen!" he cried, and tore off his hat.
Johanna thought she detected a shade of reproach in his tone. "I did not
know that Christine was ill, or I should have come long ago," she said.
"Why did you not send me word? I should have been so glad to do
something for her."
"Thanks, gracious Fruleen," he replied; "she has wanted for nothing. The
Klausenburg doctor has been here every day, and she has had plenty of
medicine,--there, little one, is a fresh bottleful,--and she shall have
whatever she wants to eat and drink, if I have to run miles for it." He
laughed, and ran his fingers through his bushy red hair, so that it
stood out all over his head.
Christine looked at him beseechingly. "Yes, yes, Fraeulein," she said,
"he has tended me as if I were a princess. He is on his feet day and
night."
"That's the part you tell!" he interrupted her; "but that it is all my
fault----"
"Jakob, what did you promise me?" the sick woman implored him, lifting
her clasped hands.
"That I would not speak evil of any one," he answered, gloomily, "and I
won't. But I may tell of what I have done myself. Yes, gracious Fruleen,
it is my fault, the fault of my bad temper, that the poor little thing
is lying there, disappointed of her pleasure in soon having a child
again. And when I see her, as patient as a lamb----But if she dies----"
He raised his sound arm and shook his clinched fist. "If she dies----God
in heaven!"
With this cry he sank back into a chair, covered his face with his
hands, and sobbed aloud.
Christine half arose. "Let me! let me!" she begged, trying to resist
Johanna's efforts to detain her.
"See now, I always do her harm," he said, gently putting her back among
the pillows. "Be good, child, and reasonable for both of us. I cannot
be, for I have nothing but you; and whoever takes you from me, whether
it be a man or God Almighty----"
She pressed her hand upon his lips. "Hush, hush!" she said, "do not
blaspheme. I am better. We shall stay with each other for a while yet.
Let us pray for it; try to, for my sake."
He turned away. "Whatever you please for your sake, but I cannot pray
any more."
"He will learn how to again," Johanna interposed. "But now, Christine,
you must not worry,--for Jakob's sake you must not. To lie still and be
nursed is all you have to do. I am sorry I must go now, but I will come
soon again, and send to you meanwhile--Jakob will let me send you
something to strengthen you."
Again the terrified look appeared in Christine's eyes. "Dear Jakob,
Hanna ought to make my gruel," she said. And when he had left the room
to see that it was done, she seized Johanna's hand, and whispered, "Ah,
it is such a pleasure to have you come, Fraeulein, but please--don't take
it amiss--please don't let Squire Otto bring me anything. It is best he
should not come here; while I am sick, at all events. Jakob is so hasty,
and I am so distressed."
Her hands trembled, and her breath came quick and short.
"He shall not come, be sure, Christine," Johanna replied.
"But please don't tell the Squire I said it. You will promise me this?"
the poor child went on; and before Johanna could reply, Jakob returned,
and Johanna took her leave. To-day she shook hands with Jakob. She
pitied the savage fellow as much as she did the weak little wife who
loved him so tremblingly. What could have occurred between Otto and
himself? Otto had spoken of his visits to the Forest Hermitage with the
utmost frankness. Probably he had no suspicion of having aroused Jakob's
anger; the poor embittered creature was so easily offended. Perhaps it
might all be made right by a word from her, but it was just as likely
that she might cause a fresh outbreak, and the invalid must not be
exposed to such a peril; all explanations must be deferred, at least
until her recovery.
Absorbed in thoughts such as these, Johanna pursued her way home through
the forest. Suddenly she heard the Klausenburg clock strike eight. She
was startled. If she would not spoil her grandfather's humour for the
day, she must be ready for breakfast at half-past; and that seemed
scarcely possible if she should continue upon this path, which wound in
and out by long detours among the rocks. But here was a path to the left
which seemed to lead directly down the steep declivity into the valley.
"Elinor, shall we venture?" Johanna asked, patting the mare's slender
neck. The creature seemed by a proud toss of its head to answer yes, and
the rider turned into the steep, slippery pathway. With the greatest
caution, and perfectly sure of foot, Elinor performed her task, and at
the end of ten minutes the borders of the forest in the valley were
reached. "Brava, Elinor! Now for a gallop as a reward." And away flew
horse and rider along the narrow road which, intersected by numerous
ditches, led through the fields to the Doenninghausen park.
The park on this side was bounded by a brook, which, rushing from the
mountains over its stony bed, united far below in the valley with the
Doenninghausen mill-stream. The little river there made a sudden turn to
the south, while the village road, which up to this point wound along
beside it, crossed it by a bridge, and, keeping on in its former
direction, led straight to Klausenburg.
A carriage was crossing this bridge, coming from the village of
Klausenburg; its occupants saw the rider bound forth from the forest and
dash along the meadow-path, followed by Leo.
"By Jove, she can ride!" exclaimed a black-haired man sitting on the
back seat. "She has her horse well in rein, and the brute is not to be
despised either. Aha! see her take that ditch! And, by Jove, there she
goes at another! Brava, brava!"
"That must be Johanna!" the woman beside him remarked. And the little
girl opposite her leaned forward and cried, "Johanna! Oh, I want to go
to her!"
The man did not hear her. The black eyes in his brown, eager face
sparkled. "Now the brook!" he went on. "Aha! I thought so. The horse
refuses to leap! The water tumbles and foams too much. But his rider
chooses to do it. Hurrah! there she goes! Brava, bravissima!" he
shouted, and waved his hat in the air. The little girl, too, waved her
pocket-handkerchief, and joined her childish voice to the man's loud
applause. Johanna did not hear them,--the wind and the rushing water
drowned their voices,--but she saw the hat and the handkerchief waved in
the air, and, mortified at having made a show of herself, she rode on
quietly to the castle.
She was in time for breakfast, and was doubly glad to be so, since her
grandfather's mood was evidently not a cheerful one. Magelone had again
put off her oft-postponed return to Doenninghausen.
"There must be an end of it!" said the Freiherr, after he had informed
his sister and Johanna of Magelone's letter. "I will write to her
to-day. She will get the letter to-morrow,--to-morrow evening at the
latest,--and the day after to-morrow she will please to come home. I
cannot endure this modern habit of vagabondage! It's been hard enough
not to be able to forbid it to the boys, but you women will please to
stay where the Lord has provided still waters and green pastures for
you!"
With these words he got up from table and walked to the door. At the
same moment a servant brought Johanna a note. "The messenger is waiting
for an answer," he said.
The Freiherr came back. "Read it, child," he said. "If Otto is going to
Tannhagen to-day, we can meet him there."
Johanna mechanically obeyed, although, with a mixture of terror and
delight, she had seen at a glance that the note was from her
step-mother. She opened it and read:
"DEAR JOHANNA,--As I do not know whether we ought to come
unannounced, we have stopped at the village inn, and beg you to
let us know when you can see us. Do not keep us waiting too
long. Lisbeth is crying with impatience. With much love, yours,
HELENA."
Johanna summoned up all her courage. "The note is not from Otto,
grandfather," she said, in a faltering voice. "My step-mother and my
little sister are here. At the village inn," she added, as she observed
the Freiherr's start.
He controlled himself with an effort. "At the village inn!" he repeated,
after a pause. "Well, you can go to them there if you really wish to see
them." With these words he turned to go; Aunt Thekla followed him. "Dear
Johann," she said, in her low, pleading voice, "it looks so unkind.
Could not Johanna have the woman and the little girl in her own----"
Her brother's eyes flashed so that she paused in terror.
"Thekla!" he exclaimed, "think what you are saying. Rope-dancers and
mountebanks here in my house! Never!" With these words he left the room,
and the door crashed to after him.