A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

AN EQUESTRIAN ARTIST.

Johanna accompanied Helena's messenger to the village. Her longing to see Lisbeth lent wings to her feet, and thrust into the background all questions as to how she should conduct herself towards her step-mother. And when, as soon as the inn garden was reached, the pretty little figure came flying towards her, and Lisbeth's arms were round her neck, while she loaded her sister with caresses, calling her by all the old childish terms of endearment, Johanna forgot to be anything save grateful to Helena for affording her such a pleasure, and she held out her hand to her with emotion.

Helena clasped her in her arms. "Dear Johanna! how glad I am!" she said. "But here is some one, too, who longs to see you. My husband. Receive him kindly, I pray you."

With these words she led Johanna into the inn parlour. "Dear Carlo, here she is," she added, with evident anxiety in her voice.

A broad-shouldered, middle-aged man, with a dark complexion, sparkling brown eyes, black hair, and a thick black moustache, arose from the window-seat. "Most happy, most happy!" he cried, in ringing tones, taking Johanna's hand and shaking it without more ado. "I have heard much that is fine about you, and have seen even more, for I think you were the horsewoman we watched this morning, eh?"

"And you were the spectator who waved his hat?" said Johanna.

"Rather say admirer," Carlo Batti interrupted her. "Admirer! By Jove! you know how to manage a horse! Where in all the world, Fräulein, did you learn to ride so famously?"

"Dear Carlo, had we not better sit down before we plunge into an artistic discussion?" Helena asked, with some asperity. "Come, Johanna, there is a sofa. Although it is a hard one——"

"Yes, yes, come!" Lisbeth exclaimed, drawing her sister towards it. "We will sit down together, as we used to do in the twilight when you told me stories."

"Do you remember them still?" Johanna said, gently. "I thought you would forget me." And, seating herself on the sofa, she took the child into her lap, and the little head was laid, as formerly, upon her shoulder.

"Forget!" Helena repeated, as she sank down in the other corner of the sofa. "Forget you! That would be inexcusable, after all that you did for her. No; she is a good, grateful little thing. She has talked of you every day."

These were strange words from the lips of this woman. Lisbeth solved the riddle. "Yes, my dear, good old darling, I talked of you all the time; I wanted to come to you, and now I am not going away again. Mamma says that she and Uncle Carlo do not need me now, and will leave me with you."

Helena looked embarrassed. "How naughty, Lisbeth!" she cried. "And why do you say 'Uncle Carlo'? He is papa."

The child sat upright in Johanna's lap. "But he is not my papa," she said, waywardly. "Is he, Johanna?"

"Be quiet, you little mouse," Carlo Batti interposed, having drawn up a chair beside Johanna and seated himself in it. "Dear Helena, do not tease her; we can be just as good friends if she calls me Uncle Carlo." And turning to Johanna, he continued: "Permit me to repeat my question, 'Of whom did you learn to ride?' Here are not only strength, security, elegance, but also, if I do not mistake, a grand method——"

"Which I owe partly to my grandfather and partly to old Martin, his groom," was Johanna's smiling reply.

"Genius, then! pure genius!" cried Carlo Batti, and his bronze face flushed and his eager brown eyes sparkled. "I'll tell you what! Come to us; put yourself in my hands, and, by Jove! I'll promise that in a year you shall be as famous as—as——"

"Don't trouble yourself, dear Carlo," said Helena. "Johanna, as you know, is about to marry a Herr von Dönninghausen."

"To be sure; I had forgotten. These infernal grand matches!" he exclaimed, with a comical expression of despair. "You might search the length and breadth of the country and not find such a talent as yours. And you think of marriage, an irksome marriage! No, no! come to us. Just try it!" And he seized Johanna's hand in a clasp from which it cost her repeated efforts to withdraw it, and went on with enthusiasm: "I need not tell you what it is to have under perfect control a horse,—a strong, proud, noble creature; but you do not yet know what it is to feel a thousand eyes riveted upon you in admiration, to hear a thousand voices shouting applause. Try it; let me adjure you, try it! and I'll be d—d if you do not say Carlo Batti is right—'the world belongs to the artist, and it shall belong to me!' It belongs even more to a woman than to one of us, especially when she looks like——" He laughed, and his glance completed his sentence. "I cannot understand, Helena, how you could tell me that Fräulein Johanna was not beautiful. A brilliant apparition for the ring,—entirely too brilliant. It would outshine all others."

Johanna laughed; the man's coarse admiration was expressed with such good-humoured simplicity that she could not resent it.

But Helena said, half irritated and half confused, "You forget entirely that Johanna has arranged her future very differently." Then, smiling sweetly, she added, in a sentimental tone, "You men never appreciate the delight with which a true woman relinquishes art, even when she has tasted its raptures and its triumphs, for the sake of her love. You, indeed, dear Carlo, ought to know this."

He shrugged his shoulders, and his mobile features betrayed mingled derision and impatience. "I had no objection to your remaining on the stage,—but the grapes were sour!" he said. And, rising, he went to the window, where he stood drumming on the pane, while Helena, who had flushed crimson, said, with a forced smile, "Men are all alike, dear Johanna, as you will learn. Carlo is one of the best of them."

Johanna made no reply. What a contrast there was between her father's noble, intellectual personality and this good-humoured boor! But Helena deferred to him, excused his lack of consideration, endured his rude conduct, hung upon his words, and followed his every motion with loving looks. The girl's heart was filled with bitterness and disgust, and involuntarily she clasped Lisbeth closer in her arms, as if she could shield the little one from such contact.

Helena stroked the child's curls caressingly. "You cannot think how good Carlo is to Lisbeth!" she went on, in an undertone. "Because she was continually begging for her Johanna, he did what I have never known him to do before—sent on the baggage-train, and we do not follow it before night by the express——"

Lisbeth sprang up. "Kind Uncle Carlo!" she cried, running to the window.

He turned round. "Come!" he said, kindly; and stooping, he stiffly held out to her his open right hand. With a jump Lisbeth stood erect upon it, and, holding by his raised left hand, was carried back thus to the sofa.

The sight gave pain to Johanna. She arose and took the child from its step-father.

"An ungrateful public,—not even one round of applause!" He said, laughing. "But never mind, you shall have a better some day." And, turning to Johanna, he added, "She has made her appearance once, with great applause and self-satisfaction. Hey, little mouse?"

"Oh, it was beautiful!" Lisbeth cried, with sparkling eyes. "Everything I had on was pink and silver,—even my stockings; and I had silver wings on my shoulders——"

Johanna closed her lips with a kiss. Her father's child in a circus!

Carlo Batti misunderstood her. "Yes, yes," he went on, with a conceited smile, "you may well be proud of your little sister, and of her advantages. Race—artist blood—and Carlo Batti to the fore,—the devil must be in it if something does not come of all that."

"If it is not too much for her," Helena interposed. "Only see, Johanna, how pale the little face is, now that the excitement of seeing you again is over! That is Carlo's fault. He never knows when to stop!"

"Stuff!" he said, laughing. "The little lady grows too fast,—that's why she is pale and tired sometimes. Say yourself, little mouse, which tires you the most, I or your leather school-books?"

"Oh, the books, the horrid books!" cried the child, taking his outstretched hand, and dancing about him like a little ballet-girl, while he slowly turned round and round.

"So it goes all day long," Helena complained. "No need to hope for the quiet ordered by the doctor when those two are together. Moreover, she ought to have country air——" She broke off and looked inquiringly at her step-daughter.

Johanna's face flushed; she felt that it was best to be frank. "How gladly I would ask you to leave the child with me!" she replied. "But, kind and generous as my grandfather is, he has not yet forgiven my mother's marriage, and detests anything that can remind him of my father."

"You see, Helena, it is just as I told you," Batti interrupted her; adding, with a burst of rude laughter, "I know it—this aristocratic rubbish, stupid, haughty, narrow-minded——"

"Carlo!" Helena whispered, with a glance towards Johanna.

He was not to be deterred, however. "What the deuce are you grimacing about?" he asked. "She"—and he indicated Johanna—"is her father's daughter, and proud of her name, is she not?"

"Indeed I am; but I prize my grandfather too, and love him dearly, dearly!" she replied, and her eyes flashed.

He made a face, then held out to her his brown hairy hand. "You're the girl for me!" he exclaimed, seizing and almost crushing her fingers in his grasp. "Out with whatever is in your heart! A great pity that you're going to marry. A God-gifted creature like yourself belongs on horseback. And—down with the world!" He swung his arm as if it held a riding-whip, by way of completing his sentence.

"Dear Johanna, you must not take amiss what he says," Helena began, with a furtive smile.

"Let us alone, we understand each other!" he interrupted her. And turning to Johanna, he continued: "Let us talk together like friends. If your father, the actor, is unpopular up there,"—pointing with his thumb over his shoulder towards the castle,—"I, the equestrian artist, must be still more so. You need not reply: I know the talk. 'Players, strollers, vagabonds,' that is the verdict passed upon us by the aristocracy and the respectable public, the devil fly away with them!"

"Carlo!" cried Helena.

His eyes flashed. "Am I to take it all quietly when such a stuck-up set turn me out of doors? Me, Carlo Batti, renowned in Paris, in Berlin, in St. Petersburg, as well as in Vienna!" he shouted, angrily. "Come, we can stay here no longer. I must go to Remmingen to look for some horses. You will drive there with me."

"You said we might stay here, Uncle Carlo!" cried the child. "I want to see the castle where my Johanna lives. Mamma promised me I should."

Carlo laughed scornfully. "The castle,—yes, you shall see it, if only the outside," he said. Taking the child to the window, he continued: "Do you see that ugly old barn up there? They call that the castle, and it is full of ugly old cats who would eat you up, poor little mouse!"

His joke seemed to restore his good humour. He turned to Johanna and said, "Drive with us to Remmingen. I am sorry I have not my Mustapha here; we might have a ride together. But we must content ourselves with the hack. 'Need drives the devil to eat flies.'"

Johanna hesitated to accept the invitation; but Lisbeth hung upon her arm and begged so hard, "Come with us, do!" that her sister could not resist her.

There was no opportunity, however, for any quiet, uninterrupted talk. While they were driving to Remmingen, Carlo Batti held forth himself; and when he left them in the inn there while he went to inspect some horses, Helena fell upon Johanna's neck, exclaiming that she had been pining for months for this moment,—for the opportunity of unburdening her heart. And then she wept for her Roderich, and adjured Johanna not to consider her speedy second marriage as disloyalty to him whom she 'had adored, and never could forget.'

"I was so helpless," she said; "I felt lost in the wide, wide world. You cannot imagine, dear Johanna, the trials and hostilities to which an unprotected woman is exposed, particularly when, like myself, she is young, beautiful, and talented.

"You can have no idea of the intrigues and cabals with which I was surrounded. The more gracious,—yes, I might as well confess,—the more enthusiastic my reception was by the public, the more virulent my rivals became. They took refuge behind the critics, and slandered me to the public and to the management. Four times I obtained an engagement, and each time they contrived to have it fail. If we had time, I could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end——"

Thus she went on for a long while, and then began upon Carlo Batti. "He is a wonderful man, and as kind as he is clever. And how he loves me! It is a perpetual surprise to me, although I ought to be used to adoration. Nothing seems to him good enough for me; he loads me with gifts. And how devoted he is to Lisbeth! That was what first decided me to marry him. It was my duty to insure to the child a home and a father's protection. Was I not right?"

To avoid a reply, Johanna bent over the little girl who stood beside her, and her heart ached as she looked into the pale little face.

"Do you think her changed?" asked Helena.

"Very much; she has grown pale and thin. How could you allow such a frail little creature to appear in public?"

"It did her no harm," Helena declared. "It was a simple little juvenile ballet, the prettiest thing you can imagine. Ten boys and ten girls in pink and silver——"

"But I was the prettiest of all," Lisbeth interposed, and her eyes sparkled; "and I danced the best, too. Everybody clapped their hands, and Uncle Carlo said that if I would take pains I could be a great artist, and then I should always have the loveliest clothes, and the others, who were not so pretty as I, would be half dead with vexation."

Helena laughed. "You see how he turns the child's head," she said; but it was evident that she was pleased. Johanna reflected with positive horror that if the child were left with these people, her inborn vanity would destroy the germs of good in her heart. She must save the little one from such a fate. Otto would let her have the child at Tannhagen.

Batti returned in an ill humour, because nothing had come of the purchase of horses, and the bad beer and black bread of the Remmingen inn were not calculated to soothe his irritation. Helena ought to have remembered to bring with them a couple of bottles of wine and some cold meat; but unless he himself attended to everything, great and small, nothing was ever done. Helena, who could not possibly submit to reproof, replied crossly that she had not expected to breakfast at a village inn, whereupon Batti angrily observed that another time she would please to rely upon his knowledge of the world and of human nature. He had from the first been averse to the d—d drive, and it was the last time he should accede to Helena's silly schemes.

"Why the deuce do you want to force yourself upon people who will have nothing to do with you?" he shouted, striking his clinched fist upon the table so that the glasses rang again.

Helena exclaimed, in a voice trembling with anger, that she had no idea of anything of the kind; she had been admired and sought for everywhere. But Batti did not allow her to proceed; he asked her with a sneer whether any one of the aristocratic old dandies who had paid court to her had ever asked her inside his doors or presented her to the women of his family. Helena, as she always did when she had nothing to reply, burst into tears, and Lisbeth looked terrified from one to the other. "You say something, dear Johanna," she whispered to her sister; and Batti, who overheard her, seemed suddenly to recollect his guest.

"Pardon me," he said, extending his hand to her. "I am a rough fellow, but I mean no harm. It has been a great pleasure to me to know you, and I am heartily grateful to my wife for it."

Then he kissed Helena, who dried her tears. The little girl sprang with a joyous shout into Uncle Carlo's outstretched arms, and the party drove back to Dönninghausen in peace and harmony.

Here there was a trying leave-taking. When Johanna had the vehicle stopped upon the bridge, Lisbeth clung about her neck, and would not release her. Her sister's assurance that she should soon come to Tannhagen, and her step-father's promise that she should dance in a white dress with golden stars, were both needed to pacify her. And then Helena pressed her handkerchief to her tearless eyes, embraced her step-daughter, and over her shoulder breathed in plaintive accents the assurance that it was long, long since she had enjoyed anything so much as seeing her dear, dear Johanna again. Finally Batti, who had sprung out of the coach to assist her to alight, took her hand in both his. "Farewell!" he cried, with the expression of child-like good humour which well became his eager face. "You must not think that I speak words of mere formality when I say that I am really yours to command. If I can ever serve you, or assist you in any way, curse me if it will not give me the greatest pleasure. I pray you to believe me."

"I do believe you, and thank you cordially," she replied, strangely touched by his words. Had she a presentiment that she might some day stand in need of his proffered aid? No such thought occurred to her, she gave one more kiss to the child, who stretched out her arms to her, and then Batti re-entered the coach, the driver cracked his whip, the crazy vehicle rattled off, and Johanna gazed after it so long as she could distinguish the fair, curly head stretched out of the window.

SHIPWRECK.

When at last she turned to go home, Otto came walking quickly towards her from the castle. He looked annoyed, and asked, as he offered her his arm, "Where have you been so long? I have been here an hour."

"Do not be angry with me," she begged. "Since, on grandpapa's account, I could not ask my people to the castle, I drove with them to Remmingen."

"Your people?" he repeated, sharply. "Do not forget, my dear Johanna, that your people are to be found only among the Dönninghausens. Whoever does not belong to us is nothing to you."

"Otto, I have a sister!" she exclaimed, half angry, half wounded.

"The child of an equestrienne can be nothing to you."

"She is and always must be the child of my father. Moreover, my step-mother is not an equestrienne. She is Carlo Batti's wife."

"As if it were not the same thing! Do you suppose our acquaintances would have regard for any such distinctions if they were to see you with that woman? But do not let us quarrel about it; your own good sense must tell you that my betrothed—our grandfather's grandchild—cannot possibly maintain any intercourse with those people."

Johanna was silent. This was not a favourable moment for any mention of her wishes with respect to Lisbeth; but the longer she thought of to-day's meeting, the more necessary did it appear to her that the child should be removed from the evil influences of those about her, not only for a while, but permanently. How this was to be done she could not tell,—it could be possible only at Tannhagen.

Two days later Magelone returned to Dönninghausen. She was fresh and gay, had made some 'most delightful' acquaintances, had danced a great deal, and generally enjoyed herself 'hugely.' Otto teased her about her repeated use of this adverb, ascribing her love for it to the 'huge dimensions' of a certain captain, who had, according to Magelone, been one of her most ardent admirers.

Merry as his teasing sounded, Magelone thought she detected in it a certain jealous annoyance, which pleased her, and she did her best to induce Otto to continue it, by continual descriptions of her social delights,—a topic in which Otto, who was familiar with the society in which his sisters lived, was as much interested as herself. Moreover, he had a taste for aristocratic gossip in general, and for Magelone's graceful treatment of it in particular. How rude Johanna's conversation and air seemed by comparison! and what good did it do for him to try not to compare? The contrast forced itself upon him all the more since Johanna, at present anxious about her sister, and troubled, perhaps, by the sense of a slight estrangement between Otto and herself, was graver than her wont, while Magelone fairly sparkled with merriment.

And she seemed to him more beautiful than ever. The gleaming eyes, the fresh pouting lips, the lithe grace of her figure, attracted him more than ever. The consciousness that he must not yield to the attraction increased its force, and Magelone saw this, and it pleased her to torment him.

One evening, while she was playing a little thing of Chopin's, he, leaning against the grand piano, became absorbed in contemplation of her. Suddenly she looked up. Their eyes met.

"Do not look at me so," she whispered, continuing to play, while her cheek flushed crimson, as her look held fast his own, and an evil smile of triumph hovered upon her half-open lips.

On another occasion he said, suddenly dropping his jesting for a passionate tone, "What a grief it is, Magelone, that we cannot belong to each other!" She looked up at him angrily; then suddenly her eyes were veiled in sadness, and, with a sigh, she turned and left him.

On both these occasions Johanna was seated only a few steps from the pair, reading the papers aloud to her grandfather. Otto came nigh to reproaching her in his heart for her calm confidence in him.

Weeks passed by; the spring in all its pomp and loveliness had taken full possession of mountain and valley, but the workmen at Tannhagen were so far behindhand that it was necessary to postpone the marriage. The Freiherr, to whom delay was always intolerable, for a few days after this postponement went about, as Magelone expressed it, like a hungry lion, seeking to devour the poor workmen who had caused the mischief. Otto, to whom she said this, laughed, but his laughter was forced.

"Oh, the workmen are not to be the victims; he has selected me!" he replied. "That there may be no further delay, I am to take up my abode to-morrow in Tannhagen to hasten them. In that wilderness!"

"If I had only known it sooner!" Magelone exclaimed. "Elfrida invited me to Klausenburg for a few weeks; she wants me to help her to embroider your wedding-present, and I said 'yes.' I depended upon you! Now it will be stupid enough."

Otto muttered an imprecation. "Can you not excuse yourself?" he asked.

"Not possibly," she replied. "Grandpapa has given his royal consent. And do you suppose it is much more amusing here? A betrothed couple just before marriage—I could not stand it any longer!"

She laughed mockingly, then her lips quivered, and, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, she turned to go from him.

Otto detained her. "I will not let you go!" he exclaimed, in a low, passionate tone. "I will see the tears that make me happy! We will indemnify ourselves for this last piece of good fortune of which chance tries to rob us. You will not always be embroidering or walking with Elfrida. Since I must be on service at Klausenburg for a part of every day, we can meet daily in the forest, and see each other where all these eyes are not upon us!"

He confronted her in a window-recess, and held both her hands fast in his own. She tried to extricate herself. "Let me go! let me go! What you say is odious!" she whispered.

At this moment Johanna appeared. "Are you quarrelling again?" she asked. "What is the matter now?"

"It is Otto's fault; he is so rude. Poor Johanna, you will have a hard time with him!" Magelone said; and as she passed Otto she gave him a glance compounded of forgiveness and provocation.

It had rained. The Freiherr, who dreaded the damp air, retired to try to get a nap after the second breakfast, and Johanna, taking advantage of her liberty, had Elinor saddled, and rode towards the Forest Hermitage to ask after Christine.

The lonely ride did her good. The weight that had of late oppressed her heart, the vague sensation of estrangement between Otto and herself, vanished in the bright fulness of life that encompassed her here in the forest on every hand. She thirstily drank eager draughts of the pungent air exhaled in the sunshine by the drenched earth; she listened delightedly when amid the humming, buzzing, twittering, and chirping around her she distinguished the merry song of the finch, the call of the wild dove, or the shrill, exultant note of the black thrush as it echoed through the woods. The voices of the birds awakened a thousand happy memories within her. "Otto!" she whispered, and soul and body thrilled with ecstasy. Yes, all doubt and suspicion were treachery, a sin against the Giver of such 'good and perfect gifts.'

She rode on as in a dream, and yet her soul and sense were never more alive and open to the rich life about her. Not a note in the delicious symphony of spring escaped her ear; no play of colour was lost to her eye in the million glittering drops tossed by the breeze from the branches.

Suddenly Leo began to bark, and Elinor pricked her ears. There was a rustling in the bushes on one side of the way; a man appeared from them and lifted his cap. It was Red Jakob.

Johanna reined in her horse. "Good-morning!" she said, kindly. "How is Christine? I am on my way to her."

"Thanks, gracious Fruleen; she is better," he replied in an undertone, as he came nearer. "She does not sleep well at night yet, but she gets rest during the day. She is asleep now." And with a lowering glance he added, "Shall I waken her, or will the gracious Fruleen wait awhile? I could show her a rare sight to pass the time."

Another time Johanna might have been warned by his malicious grin not to heed him, but now she did not observe it, and asked him where this wonder was to be found.

"Not far from here," he replied; "but the gracious Fruleen must dismount. I'll tie the horse, and then there is a little climb up the rocks. She must not speak, and she must step very softly, or she will spoil it all."

"'Tis a bird's-nest," Johanna said, gayly. And springing from her horse, she bade Leo stay by Elinor, and followed Jakob along a path which seemed to be but seldom used, for it was rank with weeds, and was obstructed by hanging branches of the trees. Her guide cautiously opened and bent back these to allow her to pass. Sometimes he looked round and laid his finger on his lips, then crept on, while his eyes sparkled and his sharp white teeth were buried deep in his under lip.

He reached a rocky turning, stooped to listen, and beckoned to Johanna to approach. In an instant she stood beside him; he quickly tore asunder the bushes with his sound arm and then retreated, leaving Johanna to confront, in measureless amazement, Otto and Magelone. They were sitting upon a low rock, clasped in each other's arms, and he was passionately kissing her smiling lips.

Red Jakob's burst of discordant laughter aroused them from their ecstasy.

"Johanna!" Otto cried, springing to his feet.

His voice dissolved the spell that had held her bound. With a shudder she pressed her hands to her temples, and when Otto would have grasped her arm she turned from him and tried to flee back through the thicket. Magelone, who had sat like one crushed, started up and hurried after her. "Hear me! hear me!" she cried, clutching at Johanna's riding-skirt. "I will not let you go so proudly, so—so——"

"Magelone, hush, I conjure you!" Otto entreated.

She shook her head frantically. "No, no! I will speak at last, and Johanna shall hear me. I have borne her falsehood long enough; her pride, her contemptuous airs I will not bear. She shall blush before me—me!"

And as she finished this sentence, which she uttered in desperate haste, she relinquished her hold of Johanna's skirt, stepped close to her side, and whispered in her ear, while her glittering eyes were riveted upon the pale face, "Do you know why he asked you to marry him? To save me from grandpapa's anger. The note that fell into grandpapa's hands was written for me—for me! Ask himself if this is not so."

Involuntarily Johanna's glance followed the direction of Magelone's hand. Otto, very pale, his lips tightly compressed, stood with his eyes bent on the ground. Magelone, beside herself with shame and anger, grasped his arm and shook it. "Speak!" she cried. "I require you on your honour to tell the truth. For whom was the note intended? For whom?" she repeated, as he took both her hands in his. "You are cowardly and despicable if you do not speak now. For whom was the note intended?"

"For you," he said, sternly; and then, almost flinging her hands from him, he went up to Johanna. "Do not condemn me!" he entreated. "Let me explain to you——"

But she did not or would not hear him. She hurriedly broke through the bushes, which closed behind her, and when Otto would have followed her, a scream from Magelone recalled him to where she knelt sobbing convulsively, gazing wildly about her. He could not leave her alone thus.

"Pray stand up, and do not cry," he said, impatiently, seizing her hands. She obeyed like a terrified child: she arose and dried her tears.

"What is to be done now?" he asked. And when, instead of answering, she only looked up at him with a helpless expression, he added, bitterly, "You must have had some end in view in bringing about the scene that has just occurred."

"I? End in view?" she repeated. "Was it my fault that we—that Johanna appeared?"

"Let us have no subterfuges!" he hastily interrupted her. "You know perfectly well that I do not allude to her appearance, but to the acknowledgment which, in your madness, you wrung from me. It is that which has made all reconciliation impossible. Johanna might forgive a momentary madness——"

Magelone flushed. Could he say this to her? "I did not know you wished her to forgive!" she exclaimed.

Without noticing the interruption, Otto continued: "And I believe that I could have induced her to do so. She is magnanimous and unselfish——"

"Why, then, are you still here?" Magelone interrupted him again, and her eyes flashed. "Make haste, make haste, and cast yourself into the arms of this magnanimous, unselfish being! At her feet, if need be." With a laugh, she turned and would have left him.

He barred her way. "Stay!" he said, with decision. She obeyed involuntarily. And as she stood before him with downcast eyes, and hands loosely clasped in front of her, he went on, in a hard, stern tone: "You know perfectly well that your revelations with regard to the reason for my betrothal have made my marriage impossible. But have you also reflected that I lose at the same time my means of subsistence, and that after this scandal you also will find it impossible to live on at Dönninghausen as you have done? Therefore I ask, What is to be done?"

Magelone mutely shrugged her shoulders. After a pause, Otto went on: "For us both you may be sure there remains open only one of two courses: either we must together escape immediately out into the wide world, and, unfortunately, we have no means to enable us to do so, or we must go to our grandfather like repentant sinners, throw ourselves upon his mercy, and ask his aid. The quicker we do this the better. Come, let us go instantly!"

With these words he would have taken her hand, but she recoiled from him. "No, I thank you!" she cried, in her old mocking way. "I am not yet sunk so low as to accept this sacrifice at your hands. Good heavens, what have I done? Allowed a cousin to flirt rather too desperately with me! Why, grandpapa and Johann Leopold will both easily forgive me this 'momentary madness.' Do you not think so?"

Otto changed colour. "Possibly," he replied, with forced composure. "Attempt your own rescue. Your skilful hands will be doubly skilful in the recapture of the heir——"

"And your magnanimous Johanna's heart doubly unselfish when her possession of the name of Dönninghausen is at stake," Magelone interposed. And, with an easy inclination, she gathered up her skirts and walked past Otto towards the rocky incline which led from this spot down to Castle Klausenburg. Her slender figure was poised for a second on the edge of the cliffs, then glided into the thicket; once more there was a glimpse of a fluttering blue ribbon, then it, too, vanished in the depths of green, and Otto was left alone with his shame, his indecision, his futile anger, his vague emotions.

At first it seemed intolerable to him to allow her to depart thus. He would have hurried after her; at least she should know how he loathed and despised her. But he reflected that in her vanity she would look upon his anger as an outbreak of despair at her loss, while in reality he regarded it as a deliverance that she had rejected the aid he felt bound in honour to offer her.

Instead of following her, he turned in the opposite direction, and as he hurried back along the path which had so often led him of late to meet her, memory recalled with torturing distinctness the coquettish arts by which she had sought to enslave him. And for the sake of this vain, heartless, calculating creature he had trifled away his own and Johanna's happiness! Everything about his betrothed which had previously displeased him was forgotten by him. She now seemed the embodiment of all goodness and loveliness.

Was she really lost to him? If he went to her with a frank confession of his folly and an appeal for forgiveness, would she not forgive and forget? Would she not be all the more likely to do so, knowing that his very means of existence depended upon it? There was some satisfaction in the fact to which Magelone had so scornfully referred, that he had his name to bestow in exchange. He greatly preferred giving to receiving. The longer he reflected upon the state of affairs the more he was persuaded that Johanna would lose more than himself by breaking off their engagement. And in this conviction he felt not only that he was justified in rejecting all proposals to terminate it, but that it was his duty to do so. When he reached the cross-roads leading respectively to Tannhagen and Dönninghausen, he turned without hesitation into the latter, that the 'wretched affair' might be arranged as soon as possible. He had even gone so far as to resolve upon exercising the greatest patience and moderation should Johanna, after the fashion of womankind, attach an exaggerated importance to his desperate flirtation.

But when, penetrated by the convincing force of his contemplated entreaties and representations, he reached Dönninghausen and asked for Johanna, he learned that she had not yet returned from her morning ride. What should he do,—go to meet her? No; a rider always had a pedestrian at a disadvantage. He determined to wait for her. After giving orders that he should immediately be informed of the Fräulein's return, he went into the park, to avoid any conversation with Aunt Thekla. He had never before found waiting so difficult. He tried to smoke, but after a couple of whiffs he threw his cigar away. He paced up and down the avenue in growing impatience, and, what was worst of all, his confidence diminished with every minute that passed.

Upon leaving Magelone and Otto, Johanna, unconscious whither she was going, plunged into the forest. The birds sang as before; the quivering sunbeams played among the tree-tops; sparkling drops fell from the branches or shimmered in the white anemones that were everywhere pushing forth out of last year's dry leaves. All this Johanna perceived with a strange distinctness, but she felt aloof from it all, confronted with one terrible consciousness which she could neither appreciate nor name.

At last she reached the borders of the forest, and looked around her with sad, dull eyes. Before her lay a deep stretch of moorland; below, in the valley, were the Dönninghausen meadows in their fresh green. Among them wound the road to Klausenburg. She was familiar with it all, but it was no longer what it had been, nor was she herself, nor life, the same. Her heart was so weary and desolate, her tired feet would bear her no farther. She threw herself down on the heather with a sigh. Suddenly the bushes behind her crackled and rustled. She looked round. It was Leo, who rushed out and lay, whining for joy, at her feet. He leaped up upon her, gazing at her wistfully out of his faithful eyes,—his faithful eyes! The spell was broken; all her misery lay clearly revealed to her; the sense of it filled her heart. And, throwing her arms around the dog, who seemed to understand his mistress's woe, she leaned her forehead upon his neck and burst into bitter tears.

She was sitting weeping thus when Red Jakob and Christine, who had followed Leo, emerged from the thicket. Jakob paused, but Christine ran to Johanna and threw herself upon her knees beside her. Johanna raised her head. At sight of her pale face and fixed melancholy eyes Christine's tears also flowed.

"Oh, dear Fräulein," she cried, "please, please do not be angry! Jakob has told me all. It was very wrong; but in deed and in truth he did not mean ill——"

"Never mind, Christine," Johanna interposed, rising and wiping her eyes.

But the young wife held her fast by her skirt and begged all the more fervently: "Please do not be angry with Jakob; please do not!"

He, too, now approached. "Christine, don't go on as if I had committed a crime," he said, his tone and air betraying increasing anger. "I could not look on and see how the pair of them were deceiving our Fruleen. You know that they did not meet for the first time to-day. And did I not see, too, how the fine gentleman behaved to you? Did I not see it?" With these words he raised his clinched fist and shook it.

"Oh, Jakob, you did not mean to speak of that!" Christine said, in her gentle, soothing way. "A gentleman like that doesn't mean anything when he jokes and laughs with one of us——"

"But I mean something, curse him!" shouted Jakob—and the savage sparkle of his eyes gave him more than ever the look of some beast of prey—"I'll kill him like a dog——" He suddenly fell silent before Johanna's sad, reproachful gaze. "Just like a wounded deer when it's dying," he said to himself; and he added aloud, "Indeed, indeed I meant well, if the Fruleen could only believe it!"

Johanna collected herself. "I believe it," she made answer, after a short pause; "and it is because I do so that I am convinced that, for my sake, neither of you will tell any one of what has passed."

"The Fruleen may rely upon us for that," said Jakob, standing erect. And Christine, weeping, pressed her lips to Johanna's hand. Johanna gently withdrew it from her clasp. "I must go now," she said. "Which way had I better take the soonest to find my horse?"

Jakob offered to bring the horse. Christine might conduct the Fruleen to the large beech-tree on the Dönninghausen road, and he would take Elinor to her. Johanna agreed, and Jakob hurried off, while she followed her guide to the appointed spot.

Jakob soon appeared with the horse. Johanna jumped into the saddle, hurriedly bade the pair farewell, and galloped away.

"As if death were behind her," Christine thought, as she gazed anxiously after her until the trees hid her from sight.

DÖNNINGHAUSEN OBSTINACY.

When Johanna reached Dönninghausen, old Martin informed her that Squire Otto had been waiting for her a long while. For a moment she gazed at the old man, as if she had not understood him; then she replied, "I can see no one," and wearily went up the castle steps.

Martin shook his head as he looked after her, and as soon as he had taken Elinor to the stables betook himself to the park to inform Otto that the Fräulein had returned.

"The Fräulein looked as white as the wall," he added, with the familiarity of a man who had been a servant in the house for more than forty years. "And her eyes were twice the size they usually are. Sure she must be ill!"

Otto muttered an imprecation. He could not possibly go away without further question; to do so would give rise to all sorts of commentaries by the servants. Besides, the bell was just ringing for the second breakfast; not to obey its summons would be regarded by his grandfather as a transgression of the rules of the house, and it was more than ever incumbent upon Otto to keep the old man in good humour.

"This is another of my unlucky days. I should like to know whether other men have as much to bear as I," he said to himself as he walked towards the castle. "I wonder how Johanna will receive me? She cannot yet have told my grandfather anything, and she will have at least to control herself. Perhaps it is best it should be so. The necessity of preserving appearances may bring her to her senses."

But his hopes proved fallacious; Johanna did not appear. Aunt Thekla reported, with an anxious face, that hearing that Johanna was prevented by a violent headache from coming to breakfast, she had been to look after her, and had found her terribly pale.

"She was lying on the lounge," the old lady went on, "with her eyes closed, and could only say, in a faint voice, 'All I want, dear aunt, is rest!' I thought the fresh air would do her good; but when I began to draw aside the curtains she started up, begging me not to do so, but to leave her in darkness: he did not wish to see or to hear anything; and then she sank back and lay perfectly quiet."

"Have you sent for the doctor?" the Freiherr interposed.

"No; she forbade it; I can't tell why. Her indisposition is her own fault; she has been taking one of those wild rides again, and does not want to confess it. Indeed, dear Johann, you must forbid her riding so much."

"Nonsense!" cried the Freiherr. "What has riding to do with it? You women could not exist without your headaches. Johanna is following the fashion. But what the deuce is the matter with you, lad?" he blurted out, turning to Otto, half laughing, half vexed. "Letting every dish pass you untasted, and looking like——have you a headache out of pure sympathy? Don't drive me altogether wild!"

Otto tried to control himself; but Aunt Thekla's suspicions had been aroused and would not be laid to rest. After breakfast, while the Freiherr was reading the papers, she drew Otto into one of the window-recesses, and said, with decision, "Something has occurred between Johanna and you. Tell me what it is. You know how I love you both."

Otto would have refused to satisfy her anxiety; but when he looked into his aunt's kind, pleading eyes, he remembered how often he had as a boy appealed to her, and never in vain, for aid, and it struck him that he could find no better intercessor. "You are right, my dear aunt," he replied, kissing her hand. "I will make my confession to you, hard though it is. You are my last, my sole hope,—and you will help me, I know, and not reproach me. Heaven knows I do that enough myself!" And he told her, briefly, and with as much frankness as he could command, the history of his betrothal, and of to-day's wretched scene in the forest.

The old lady listened with the most painful and contradictory sensations. Her integrity, her sense of honour, were outraged by the treachery of Otto's and Magelone's conduct towards Johanna, and yet her warm, kindly heart could not forbear pitying Otto in the midst of his complaints and self-reproaches, and her stern loyalty to the Dönninghausens impressed upon her the conviction that now, as at all other times, the first consideration was the preservation of the honour of the name. She was quite ready, at Otto's request, to undertake the task of reconciliation, and went up to see Johanna.

The curtains were still closed, but Johanna was no longer lying down. With hands clasped in front of her, she was restlessly walking to and fro. When the door opened, she turned and came towards it.

"My poor, dear child," Aunt Thekla began, but paused in dismay, as, even in the dim light, she distinguished the expression of Johanna's countenance. Not a trace was to be seen of weakness or of need of sympathy: the pale face was as if carved in marble. Nothing that the old lady had prepared to say would fit this occasion.

"Are you better?" she asked at last, to put an end to the distressing silence.

"Yes, dear aunt; do not trouble yourself about me," Johanna replied, with forced composure.

Aunt Thekla sighed. It grieved her that the young girl had so little confidence in her, but it should not deter her. "Come, sit down by me; I want to talk with you," she said, taking her seat on the lounge. And when Johanna mechanically obeyed, she added, "You need put no force upon yourself; Otto has made a frank confession to me."

"Scarcely frank!" Johanna said, contemptuously.

"You do him injustice!" Aunt Thekla cried. "He said not one word to excuse himself; on the contrary, he accused himself bitterly. If you could have heard how he repents and longs for your forgiveness, you would grant it him with all your heart."

"I cannot," Johanna said, without looking up.

"Oh, do not say that! You not only can, but you must forgive. Do we not pray every day, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us'?"

"I cannot," Johanna repeated.

For a while both were silent; then Aunt Thekla looked up timidly at her niece and said, "Do not misunderstand me if I continue to plead for Otto. I sympathize with you; I can understand how his folly has offended you."

"Offended, do you call it?" Johanna interrupted her. "He has insulted me, and poisoned my life and my soul!"

"So it seems to you now," said her aunt. "But you will learn to regard it differently; you will feel otherwise and judge otherwise. Believe me, my child, Otto is worthy of your forgiveness, and he loves you so——"

Johanna sprang to her feet. "Aunt, I cannot listen to you!" she cried, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples. "You forget that a few hours ago I saw with my own eyes that Otto—that Magelone——And you talk of forgiveness, of love! Oh, everything is hateful in my sight!—life—myself——"

She sank into a chair, and, with a groan, covered her eyes with her hand.

Aunt Thekla shed tears, and, after a long pause, went on: "If you would let me talk to you, I know I could do you good. I do not want to torment you; I only want to repeat Otto's message to you. 'Tell Johanna'—these are his very words; but to appreciate them you should have seen the entreaty in his eyes and heard the tone of his voice—'tell Johanna that I love her more than ever; that I have loved her from the moment when I first knew her——'"

"Oh, aunt!" Johanna broke in upon her words, "can you tell me that? Can you suppose that can console me? If he had told me that Magelone's charms were irresistible for him, and had extinguished his love for me, I could have understood him, and without reproaching him I should have submitted as to the inevitable. But since he has deceived Magelone and lied to her as he has to me, where shall I look for truth? What can I believe? Where find a stay?"

The old lady had no fitting reply to this. "I wish you could see matters in another light," she said, after a long pause for reflection; "and I hope you will do so in time. But now what is to be done if you refuse Otto's entreaty for forgiveness? Of course my brother must learn nothing of this——"

Johanna looked at her in amazement. "Learn nothing?" she repeated. "You do not suppose that I can marry Otto? Magelone has taken my place."

"Child, I told you that Otto does not love Magelone," Aunt Thekla replied. "And she does not love him,—not enough at least to endure for his sake her grandfather's anger." And, clasping Johanna's hands in her own, the old lady added, with tearful, imploring eyes, "Think what you are doing. The happiness or misery of the whole family is in your hands. If you cannot forgive, Johann Leopold will lose his betrothed, Otto's and Magelone's lives will be ruined, whether they marry or not, and my brother, who has made the happiness and honour of his house his sole care, will see it in his old age brought to disgrace——"

"If I could but spare him!" exclaimed Johanna. Here at last was a word spoken in kindness. Aunt Thekla took courage again. "You can if you choose," she said, and dried her eyes. "Believe me, child, those who forgive are blessed indeed when they can forgive and forget."

"Forgive and forget!" Johanna repeated. "Yes, it would be a blessing; but forgetfulness cannot be forced, and if I could forgive and overcome in myself all bitterness, the old confidence would not return——"

"Only try it!" Aunt Thekla interrupted her. "How many women have forgiven some fickleness or unfaithfulness in their lovers and have been happy wives! Remember, 'Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.'"

"And 'rejoiceth in the truth,'" Johanna said, her features taking on their former rigidity. "An error might be forgotten, but what separates Otto and myself forever is his falsehood. If you knew how degraded I feel by it; how petty, suspicious, evil-minded it makes me. To shield Magelone and himself from his grandfather's anger he betrothed himself to me; for the same reason he seeks a reconciliation with me now; and perhaps—who knows?—the possession of Tannhagen adds weight to the scale. Tell me yourself, Aunt Thekla, can I regard as my lord and master the man of whom I think thus?"

Johanna arose, went to the window, and drew aside the curtains. There it was again, the pitiless sunshine. It reached her very heart through her eyes, and revealed the lovely and yet terrible picture of the pair beneath the forest shades. If she could but be spared that sight! She would rather see nothing, nothing.

A light touch roused her. Aunt Thekla had followed her, and now laid her hand upon her arm. "What answer shall I take to Otto?" she asked. "Be kind, be sensible. Reflect; the banns are to be published for the first time the day after to-morrow——"

"It must not come to that!" Johanna interrupted her. "Tell Otto that I agree to any method by which he, without implicating Magelone or himself, can dissolve our engagement——"

"You are terrible!" cried Aunt Thekla. "Yours is the obstinacy of our race, only turned against the Dönninghausens. But this cannot be your final decision. You will be calmer; you will see that you must overcome your pride, your just indignation. Stay in your room; I will tell my brother that you need rest, and you must promise me not to be overhasty. Pray promise me this."

"Rest assured I will do nothing that can injure Otto," said Johanna. "As I told you, he himself may arrange everything. I will take the blame of the break upon myself. Now let us say no more about it, dear aunt; I really can no more."

How sad and weary was the face which had been wont to look so fresh and glad! Aunt Thekla's eyes filled with tears. "If I could only do something for you!" she said. "It is dreadful to leave you so alone; but Otto is waiting for an answer——"

"Otto, always Otto!" Johanna thought, bitterly; but the next moment she banished the thought, and replied in a gentler tone than she had used hitherto, "Do not mind me; it is best for me to be alone!"

The old lady still lingered. "I hope you have not misunderstood me. You know I have your happiness at heart."

Johanna fell upon her neck. "You are kind. You will bear with me," she whispered.

Aunt Thekla left her easier in her mind. She would have patience if only the two might be brought together again in the end. And they surely would be if Otto could only plead his own cause. He would do better, perhaps, to-day to leave Johanna to her reflections; to-morrow she would be calmer, more accessible; he could come again then.

But whilst Aunt Thekla was resigning herself to the hope of a reconciliation, and even Otto's doubts were partially overcome, Johanna's condition of mind was the same. She had been thrust forth from her paradise, and even although she should force herself to forgive, it would not affect the dissolution of her engagement.

Yes, all must be changed. To go on in the old way was impossible. What was she to do? Where should she go? To Lindenbad? And it occurred to her that upon her return from her ride a letter from Ludwig had been handed her, or had she dreamed it? No; there it lay upon her writing-table: a thick, soiled envelope, covered with stamps and addresses.

She opened it. It was an old letter,—the one written in answer to the announcement of her betrothal.

Ludwig wrote:

"Dear Johanna,—I know that it is the fashion to reply to the announcement of a betrothal by congratulations, but I should be false to myself and to the love I bear you were I to conceal beneath any set, formal phrases my feelings and opinions upon the present occasion. I trust you have sufficient confidence in me to believe in the honesty of my intentions, even although you differ from me in sentiment.

"Then let these lines warn you, and admonish you to ask yourself more seriously than you have done hitherto whether it is really possible for this man to satisfy your demands upon life, to fill your heart, to understand and keep pace with you? I, who know you better than any one else knows you, I declare that this is not possible, and I pray you to open your eyes before you are irrevocably bound. By marriage with this man you condemn yourself to a life of loneliness and renunciation.

"You know this yourself. Does not your letter, written in the first joy of your betrothal, speak of a 'want' in your happiness? Your recalling of this word afterwards cannot weaken its significance. In your inmost soul you feel that you are about to take a wrong step, and the instinct of your heart, which is 'beyond all reason,' warns you to pause.

"I shall never forgive myself for not being beside you to aid this instinct. I could not but foresee what has happened. I knew how it would be, and I left you in anger, with my self-love grievously wounded, while it was my duty, as well as my right, to say to you, 'You belong to me, and I will not leave you.'

"I say this now, and my life will prove to you how seriously I say it. If you persist in the wretched course which threatens to separate us utterly, I vow solemnly to you, and to myself, that you never again shall hear these words from me, but you will find me whenever and however you may need me.

"It is my own fault that I have lost you. When I went to you at your father's, and found that you had outgrown the atmosphere of my father's house, I thrust you from me in wayward, boyish folly, when I ought to have taken you in my arms and sought to win you from all that estranged you from me.

"Why do I say this to you now? Because I would have you know me thoroughly, and would set you an example of absolute confidence. We human beings should lighten our trials greatly if we shrank less from confessing to ourselves and to others our errors, our defeats, our miscalculations. Let me hope that you are free from the vanity and cowardice that would lead you so to shrink. Do not close your eyes; and if you see that you have been overhasty, redeem the error before it be too late. Above all, do not fancy that you must hold to your plighted troth for your betrothed's sake. As I know him, not all your love can make him happy.

"Will you accuse me of harshness in saying this? Be it so. I cannot look on with a feigned smile, or even in silence, when I see you going to your destruction.

"But can I be mistaken? The fact that this man, amid the puppets by which he has been surrounded, has known how to find the way to you, makes me waver in my estimate of him. Certainly I will not close my mind to a better opinion of him; and should you continue to find him worthy of your love, and should he prove himself capable of appreciating you and of making you happy, I will acknowledge his right to possess you as unhesitatingly as I now challenge it.

"November 10, 1874.

"Since writing the above I have spent days and nights partly in the hospitals, partly in the poorest quarter of Bombay. I have been at home now for several hours, and, refreshed by a bath, sleep, and food, I shall return to my patients as soon as I have despatched this letter. The occupation of these last few weeks—the old, ruinous portion of the city has been attacked by an epidemic—explains the tone of my letter. All shams seem more intolerable to me than ever before. Health of body and mind seems to me a supreme good, and I am consequently forced as well to warn the thoughtless who may be exposing themselves uselessly to the peril of deadly miasma as to undertake the treatment of organizations already diseased. It is in this sense that I send you my note of warning. Harsh as it may sound in your ears, take it as from a physician, without any false sensitiveness. I expect an answer to it only in case my words have made some impression upon you. If you say nothing of this letter, I shall take it for granted that I have been mistaken, or that the truth wearies you, and shall never, unless you yourself desire it, allude to the subject again.

"I am still in doubt as to the time of my return. It was fixed at first for next March or April. If I can be of use to you I will come earlier,—come instantly if you write that you wish me to do so. Otherwise I shall probably remain longer away. And even should I return to Europe, I shall not see my home or yourself until the wound from which I am now suffering is scarred over, or until you need the counsel or aid of your brother Ludwig."

"No, no aid from him!" Johanna said to herself, as she folded the letter again. The thought of letting him know how she suffered was intolerable to her—why she did not know, and did not ask. Not for one moment did she doubt Ludwig's affection, magnanimity, and efficiency, and yet she felt doubly humiliated since reading his verdict with regard to Otto.

"No, no aid from him!" she repeated. But this being so, she could not go to Lindenbad, and where else should she seek an asylum? Ah, how hard it was, besides, to tear herself away from this place, where, in spite of everything, she had found a home! True, it needed but a word from her to insure her this home still, but at what a price! Aunt Thekla was right: her grandfather's last days must not be poisoned. And how could Johanna continue to dwell in the home whose peace she had destroyed, and whose children she had driven forth and made unhappy? She knew, too, that it would pain her grandfather to part from her, but he would find her leaving him 'thanklessly' easier to bear than the discovery that Otto and Magelone were unworthy of his name and his affection. She pondered and reflected, always with the same result. She must go, and upon her must rest the blame of the separation. How she should contrive this, and whither she should turn, she did not know,—but she would discover.

The day passed. Aunt Thekla sent up to inquire after her repeatedly; had food and refreshments taken to her; wanted to know whether she should come herself; but Johanna begged her to let her be alone for the day; and at last, as if crushed in body and mind, she had thrown herself upon her bed.

And then the night drew on, a night without sleep, in which the hours dragged slowly, each throb of her heart seeming to increase the dull pain beneath which her very soul writhed as if in mortal agony. And then the moonlight came, and quivered on the walls and ceiling, as in those lovely nights when each waking moment was delight and each falling asleep again brought sweet dreams. Then the cocks crowed, and the cold, gray light of dawn made all things look more than ever dreary; and then began the shrill, discordant twittering of the sparrows.

Four o'clock struck in the tower of the castle, and immediately afterward a low, shuffling step was heard on the stair, and there was a cautious knock at Johanna's door.

"Who is there?" the young girl asked.

"A telegram for Fräulein Johanna," the housekeeper's voice made reply.

Johanna threw a shawl about her shoulders, received the blue envelope, took it to the window, and read:

"Lisbeth is dangerously ill, and is constantly calling for you. Pray come. Helena."

For a moment the girl felt stunned; then she collected herself. She at once took her resolution. The early train for Hanover left Thalrode at six; she had time to catch it.

She dressed herself, hastily packed up the necessary clothing, and ordered the carriage. Then she wrote a hurried note to Otto: "I have just received a telegram summoning me to Hanover to the bedside of my little sister. I leave by the next train, and thus afford you a plausible excuse for the dissolution of our betrothal. You can scarcely marry a wife from beneath the roof of an 'equestrian artist.' The reconciliation which you proposed to me through Aunt Thekla is impossible. I have lost all confidence in you, and you would never forgive me for the scene in the forest. I must leave you to make the necessary explanations to my grandfather, and I bid you farewell in the fullest sense of the word."

With this letter she went to Aunt Thekla. The old lady was still in bed, but wide awake. She, too, had been unable to sleep from anxiety.

"My child, what does this mean?" she asked, when she saw Johanna appear in her travelling-dress.

Johanna handed her the telegram, told her that she was going instantly to Hanover, and begged her to take charge of the letter for Otto.

"Drive off! without my brother's consent!" Aunt Thekla said, possessed by a foreboding of evil. "How can you? You will come back again soon?"

Johanna turned away. "Do not make my heart heavier than it is," she begged.

Aunt Thekla burst into tears. "You must not go!" she cried, clasping Johanna's hands tightly. "I will not let you go!"

The young girl gently extricated herself. "I must, dear aunt; I must go to Lisbeth," she said.

"But Otto will follow you; will bring you back again."

Johanna shook her head. "He will see that we must part," she whispered. "But do not let me be exiled and quite forgotten; write to me——"

The maid appeared: "Fräulein Johanna, the carriage is waiting."

Once more aunt and niece embraced. "Bid grandpapa a thousand, thousand farewells for me. Try to persuade him to forgive me. Think kindly of me," Johanna sobbed.

Then she hurried out into the corridor, past her grandfather's door, where Leo arose in surprise, and seemed to ask if he might accompany her.

Johanna signed to him to lie down, and, with her handkerchief pressed to her lips, hurried down the stairs, and threw herself into a corner of the carriage; the door was closed, the horses started. Her dream of love and happiness was at an end.