A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

THE FREIHERR'S WEAKNESS IS PAST.

Not until Johanna was once more alone did she appreciate the extent of the mischief wrought by Batti. If he were capable of such conduct after offering her shelter and protection, she could trust him no longer, could accept no further kindness from him. She must sever the only family tie she now possessed.

The longer she pondered thus, the heavier grew her heart. She dreaded solitude, her own inexperience, and the curiosity and impertinence of others. But most of all she dreaded separation from Lisbeth; and, moreover, she asked herself how she could leave the child amid surroundings that imperilled both her spiritual and her material welfare. After some reflection, however, she convinced herself that she never could shield the child by her influence alone, and the next morning when she awoke from a short but refreshing sleep, she made up her mind to do quickly what must be done.

Helena was sitting alone, in an evident ill humour, at the breakfast-table, when Johanna and Lisbeth made their appearance; and when the child, after embracing her mother, asked after Uncle Carlo, she was crossly told to be quiet, that he had gone to the circus. Turning to Johanna, Helena added, "He cannot ride out with you to-day; he has too much to do."

"Let us call things by their right names," Johanna rejoined. "It is disagreeable to him to meet me since by his permission an article concerning me has appeared in the papers."

"You are mistaken! It was not Carlo's fault!" exclaimed Helena. "On the contrary, Stein and he have had a quarrel about it——"

"My dear Helena," Johanna interrupted her, "the newspaper article was written in consequence of a wager between Batti and Dr. Stein, and who, if not Batti, could have informed the writer of the circumstances of my mother's marriage, of my betrothal, of my estrangement from my grandfather, and of my unlucky gift of horsemanship?"

"How can I help it?" Helena rejoined, in an irritated tone. "It really is more than I can bear! Carlo is rushing about like a roaring lion. Stein, who was so entertaining, will never come any more to see us, and you take me to account for things with which I have nothing to do, and of which I am as innocent as an unborn babe!" And, bursting into tears, she added, "And everything was so delightful before you came. Carlo and I were as one heart and soul."

"If I interfere with your relations to each other," Johanna replied, "you will consent, I am sure, to my leaving you as soon as possible."

Lisbeth, who had been turning from her sister to her mother, her eyes wide with anxiety, sprang up. "No, no! you must not go away!" she said, throwing her arms about her sister.

Helena wiped her eyes. "As if you would be allowed to go!" she said, crossly. "You know very well that Carlo and Lisbeth cannot live without you!"

"Not another word, Helena!" Johanna hastily interrupted her. "I must prove to you this very day that I am in earnest about leaving you. After what you have said, I should not stay, even had there been no newspaper article." With these words, she gently put Lisbeth from her and arose.

Helena detained her. "How hasty you are!" she complained. "Every one rages at me, but I must weigh every word I utter. Batti, who was going to stay here until autumn, has suddenly—of course because of this Stein affair—made up his mind to travel. He is going in two weeks to Holland, to Belgium, and heaven knows where else! In the autumn we are to go to St. Petersburg. But Lisbeth cannot travel. The doctor says she cannot possibly pass a winter in Russia. I am at my wits' end. It would kill me to let Batti go without me."

Again she burst into tears. Johanna had much ado to suppress the expression of her joy. "Be composed," she said. "I will take charge of Lisbeth."

"How can you do that if you leave us?" Helena sobbed. And, seizing Johanna's hand, she entreated, "Be kind; make it up with Batti, and stay with us——"

But to stay after all that had been said and done was simply impossible. Every kindness shown Johanna by Batti would furnish Helena with cause for jealousy. After reflecting for a few moments, Johanna replied, "I must go; indeed, it is the right thing to do. But we need not part in anger. We will tell Batti that this hotel is too noisy for me; that I need fresh air. I will find a quiet lodging at a reasonable rate in the suburbs. Whenever you drive out you can bring Lisbeth to me, and when you go away you can leave her with me altogether."

"But what will you live on?" Helena asked. "I would gladly help you, but I never have anything; my dress costs so much!"

"Don't let that trouble you," said Johanna. "I have a couple of hundred thalers." She had saved this from her pocket-money that she might have the wherewithal to bestow upon the poor of Dönninghausen and Tannhagen. "Moreover, Dr. Wolf has enabled me to dispose of a novel which I wrote awhile ago, and I shall go on working diligently."

"Wrote?" drawled Helena. "Dear Johanna, have you reflected? No one thinks much of authoresses——Blue-stocking! it sounds odious!"

Johanna laughed: "That must be borne. My only choice lay between the circus and the pen——"

"You are right; the pen suits you and your serious style much better!" Helena exclaimed. "But it is odd to fancy you a blue-stocking. How did you happen to think of it? I wish you had married your cousin. Is not a reconciliation possible?"

Johanna's reply was to take up a newspaper and remark that she would look through the advertisements of lodgings; in which occupation she became shortly absorbed, whilst Helena felt offended at her persistent reserve, and looked forward to her departure as a relief.

Johanna started on her tour of discovery, and the mysterious something which we call chance befriended her, leading her, after several fruitless applications, to the family of a teacher, who advertised for a couple of young girls to board. She drove a short distance outside the city, and arrived at an old dark two-storied structure, with small grated windows on the ground-floor. A creaking wooden staircase led up from a dim, damp hall. Johanna's courage fell; but when on the landing she opened a door the bell of which rang clearly as she did so, and which bore the name Rupprecht upon a china plate, she entered another world,—clean, whitewashed walls, clear windows, and an open door opposite which seemed to lead out from the second story into the open air.

She had no time for further observation. At the sound of the bell of the opening door, the doors of the rooms on each side opened. The next moment Johanna was surrounded by three pretty blonde girls and two barking dogs; and as soon as she had, with some difficulty, made known her wishes, she was conducted into the little drawing-room, where an elderly, worn, lady-like woman rose from her seat at the window.

"Mother, the lady wishes to see our rooms."

The woman curtsied. "Pray be seated," she said, with a motion towards the old sofa.

Johanna's eyes followed her gesture, and with an exclamation of surprise she approached. She was not mistaken; upon the wall above the sofa hung a photograph of her foster-brother.

"Do you know Dr. Werner?" the woman asked, and her sad eyes brightened.

"He is my foster-brother," Johanna replied.

"He was my son's best friend," the other said, and her eyes filled with tears. "My poor Paul died in his arms. That is his picture beside Dr. Werner's."

Johanna recollected now that Ludwig had come to Dönninghausen on New Year's eve, two years before, from the death-bed of a friend in Hanover. She soon informed the little circle of this, and that she could tell them of Ludwig.

"What a pity that our father and the little ones are not here!" the blonde sisters said almost together. "But church must soon be over. How glad they will be!"

Johanna at last referred to the business that had brought her here, saying that she wished for lodgings for herself and a little sister, who, after a severe illness, was unable to travel, and that she should need the rooms until the return of the child's mother and step-father from Russia.

The mother and daughters all conducted her across the bright landing to a room with an adjoining bedroom. Here also the walls were only whitewashed. The ceiling was low, and the furniture was old and simple, but everything shone with neatness. The windows looked out upon a little garden, whence the fragrance of flowers floated aloft, and a quiet reigned around that was not all Sabbath stillness.

"You must see the garden!" one of the sisters exclaimed. "There is nothing like it in all Hanover."

"But, Jetta, after your description the Fräulein will be disappointed," said the mother. And, turning to Johanna, she explained: "Our house is part of the remains of an ancient monastery; in the lower story there are still the old vaulted store-rooms. Our neighbour, the florist, has rented them for coal-cellars, and what Jetta calls our garden is only a little terrace which my father-in-law, who was very fond of flowers, laid out upon a continuation of these vaults. He used to grow the rarest tulips and carnations here. We cannot, indeed, do that."

They stepped out into it. The terrace was closed in by a latticed fence covered with clematis. In front there was an extended view of fields and meadows, hedge-rows, a little stream bordered by willows, small stretches of woodland, and a couple of villages. On the right it was shaded by the aged lindens in the neighbour's garden, which must also have dated from the palmy days of the monastery. In the centre there was a large bed, which had probably once contained the father-in-law's floral treasures, but which was now devoted to salad and herbs, surrounded, however, by a thick border of lavender in full bloom. On the right there was a perfect thicket of syringas, lilacs, jessamine, and hawthorn, in which the finches were singing merrily.

"It is very pleasant here," said Johanna, after a hasty glance around. "If you will take me and my little sister——"

"We shall be so glad!" cried the girls.

Johanna reassured the mother, who feared lest the Fräulein would find it too quiet here, and their manner of life too plain, by telling her that she was searching for a quiet place in which she might work undisturbed; and the daughters promised to do everything to make their home pleasant for Dr. Werner's sister.

In the midst of these assurances there was heard a talking, laughing, and barking on the stairs, as if from part of the 'Wild Huntsman's' retinue. But it was only the three 'little ones,' sturdy, blue-eyed, fair-haired little girls, who had just come from church, and who now rushed out upon the terrace with their four-footed pets. After them came their father, a tall, spare man, with thin gray hair, and a pair of shy, blue, child-like eyes.

"Come, father, come!" cried Jetta, evidently the spokeswoman of the family. "This is Dr. Werner's foster-sister, and she is going to rent our rooms, and to come with her little sister to live with us."

"Werner's foster-sister!" he repeated, offering Johanna his hand. "You are indeed welcome. I was afraid that your brother had forgotten us, but his sending you to us proves I was wrong."

Johanna hastened to correct his mistake. The idea of being received under false pretences could not be entertained by her for a moment. After she had informed the old man with regard to Ludwig's travels, she told him as much of her own affairs as was fitting, rather doubtful in her mind as to whether he would welcome beneath his roof the child of an actor.

But the master of the house declared that he should esteem himself happy in receiving her as a lodger. He had seen the great artist in one of his most brilliant parts, and his face brightened yet at the remembrance. The pecuniary arrangements were soon completed, and when Johanna took her leave of the family, all looked forward with pleasure to meeting again.

On the same Sunday morning, when the Freiherr opened the post-bag, the first thing he took out was a newspaper in an envelope. "What have we here?" he said, as he unfolded it. "I don't know what this means! Aha! here is something marked——"

He began to read, and his face darkened, then flushed purple; the veins in his forehead swelled, and he held the paper nearer to his eyes, as if he could not trust them. "Hell and damnation!" he suddenly shouted, read on, then hurled the paper from him with another imprecation, sprang up, and walked heavily to the window.

His sister followed him. "Dear Johann!" she said, in a trembling tone of entreaty. He did not hear her. For a moment she stood beside him uncertain, then went back to the table, picked up the paper, found the marked place, and read Dr. Stein's notice about Johanna.

What was to be done? The announcement of her death would not have been so bad. Mechanically she fumbled among the letters lying on the table, when suddenly her eyes fell upon an envelope addressed in Löbel Wolf's hand, and picking it up, she again went up to her brother. "Dear Johann," she said, laying her hand upon his arm, "it cannot be our Johanna! Here is a letter from Löbel Wolf that may explain——"

"Give it to me!" the Freiherr cried. And, tearing open the envelope, he hurriedly read the letter. His hand trembled, his breath came short and fast. "Artist-blood!" he said, at last, with a laugh that wrung his sister's heart. "She rejects my proposal with regard to the jewels, because she possesses a talent by which she hopes to make an independence!"

He folded his arms upon his breast, and began to pace the room to and fro. Aunt Thekla sank trembling into an arm-chair; the tears rolled down her withered cheek as she looked up sadly at her brother. As he had once suffered with his daughter he was now suffering with his grand-daughter. His head was sunk upon his breast; the white eyebrows were gathered in a frown; his breath came almost like a groan.

For a long while he paced thus. Suddenly he stopped in the middle of the room and stood erect with an effort, then resumed his walk, muttering in the deep, low tones which his people so dreaded, "I have been wrong, and am suffering for it! I ought to have known that between Dönninghausen and the daughter of a player there yawns a gulf which nothing can bridge over. But I am grown old, Thekla; old and weak! I loved the girl more than any other of my children's children. I thought I recognised in her my own thoughts, my own feelings, my own ideas of right and honour. All wrong, Thekla! The illusions of a weak old man, or a farce played by a girl. They say her father was a great man among the players." And again he laughed loud and scornfully.

"Johann, dear Johann, you are wrong!" sobbed Aunt Thekla.

The Freiherr paused before her. "You are right," he said, more gently. "She did not deceive me intentionally, she was not false; only given over to the curse that cleaves to her blood. It is not her fault; it is and must always be mine for bringing her here, and for all but wasting upon her the name of our race. Thank heaven!" he went on, after a pause, laying his hand heavily upon his sister's shoulder,—"thank heaven, it did not come to that. And I make a vow now to myself and to all of you that from this hour there shall be no more of such weakness. I will not waste another thought upon this unfortunate creature. All the strength and force yet left me shall be devoted to Dönninghausen, and my care shall be for the genuine children of my house who do honour to me and to my name."

Thekla pressed her brother's hand to her lips, and wept afresh.

"Be quiet!" he said, with rough cordiality. "'Close up the ranks' must be the order to obey in life as on the battle-field. The fewer the survivors, the more they must cling together. I think we Dönninghausens can stand our ground."

Thekla made no reply. The thought of Otto and Magelone closed her lips.

THE TERRACE-COTTAGE.

Batti made no opposition to Johanna's plans further than was demanded by courtesy; in fact, he was glad not to have opposite him at every meal her dark, serious eyes, in which he read now melancholy, and now, as it seemed to him, reproach. And Helena soon contrived to persuade him to consent to leave Lisbeth with her sister when they left Hanover, representing to him that the child would be more likely to overcome the repugnance she now felt to the circus if she were to hear and see nothing of it for a time.

So the very next morning Johanna removed to her terrace-cottage. Helena and Lisbeth accompanied her. Helena was dissatisfied; she thought the house too small, the rooms too plain. Lisbeth, on the contrary, was enraptured. The little rooms, the odd terrace, the six sisters, who were so merry and kind, took her childish heart by storm. "Rika, Fanny, Jetta, Minny, Annie, Sanna," she repeated to herself; and when her mother called her to go, she begged to be allowed to stay with Johanna. "You know, mamma dear, you are never, never at home." And Helena, who could not bear to forego an entertainment of any kind, yielded to the little one's persuasions.

And for like reasons the child was soon left entirely with her sister. Helena's time was much occupied, as she was to leave town so shortly, and then it would be well for the little girl to become accustomed to her new home. "A mother must learn to forget herself," she said, and she was content with having Lisbeth with her for a couple of hours in the hotel every day, and with now and then calling for her to drive.

But when the final separation took place she made no attempt at self-control; never heeding the physician's warning that the excitable child must not be agitated in any way. Johanna had taken Lisbeth to the hotel, and Helena, sobbing convulsively, clasped her in her arms, declaring that she would soon, soon return, never to be separated from her darling more. Her husband led her away, and his own eyes were moist. Johanna could not refuse to take the hand he offered her in farewell.

They went. Johanna let the child look out of the hotel window while 'mamma and Uncle Carlo' got into the vehicle which was to take them to the railway station. They looked up and nodded; the horses started. Helena leaned out of the carriage-window, her fair curls fanning her pretty face, her blue eyes filled with tears. She gracefully threw a kiss to the child at the window. Johanna was never to forget the picture.

After this departure, that is, now that the routine of the day was no longer disturbed by Helena's caprices, Johanna's life was duly and methodically arranged. For a while Lisbeth rebelled a little against the stupid work which took up so much of her sister's time, and to which also all the other inmates of 'Terrace-Cottage' seemed devoted. The father, a kind old man, who could tell the most delightful stories, and who every evening accompanied with his violin his daughter's performance upon the piano, taught in the public school. The two oldest daughters gave music-lessons, the third helped her mother about the house, and the three 'little ones' went off to school every day, with heavy satchels and a most important air. In a short time Lisbeth grew weary of her idleness, and as soon as the physician, who continued to look after her now and then, gave his consent, she, to her intense delight, accompanied her beloved Sanna to school.

Dr. Wolf was not satisfied with Johanna's mode of life. "Remember what Goethe says about the man 'who devotes himself to solitude,'" he said. "The author must not be alone; the full stream of being must bring him refreshment and invigoration. And it is well also, for material reasons, that he should be known personally."

Johanna did not agree with him. More than aught else, she assured him, she needed repose. She had much to overcome and to analyze in herself before she could attempt to create a position for herself. She did not confess to him how crushed she was by her experience with Batti and Dr. Stein. She dreaded the sight of a strange face. Her intercourse with Dr. Wolf and the inmates of the house sufficed her, and when she was tired of work, a walk in the quiet fields, or a rest on the terrace in the shade of the lindens, restored her courage. Even the simple musical performances in the evenings refreshed her more and more. The old teacher's exquisite taste supplied his want of technique. Many a brilliant performance in her father's house had failed to give Johanna such an insight into Haydn and Mozart as she now gained from this reverent, child-like nature. Or was it that she had become more impressionable? Her greatest gain, however, was in the constant companionship of her little sister, in the consciousness that, for a while at least, the child was physically, morally, and mentally breathing a healthy atmosphere. Now for the first time Lisbeth learned to laugh and play without thinking of the impression she was producing. She often spoke of her pretty mamma, but as of some image of a fairy-tale, which had no place in every-day life.

And one day—Helena had already written twice from Brussels in raptures with the charming city—there came a letter from Batti with terrible news. He and Helena had driven out with a new pair of young horses; the fiery animals had run away. Helena, needlessly terrified, had jumped out of the carriage, and in so doing had received injuries from which she had died in a few hours. "If I die, Johanna must take care of Lisbeth," she had repeatedly declared; and although Batti passionately longed for his step-daughter, he thought it his duty to fulfil his wife's last wishes. Perhaps when Lisbeth was perfectly well Johanna might take pity upon his desolate existence and bring the child to him for a while. For the present, he went on to say, the sight of her would be more than he could bear. And he could not stay in Brussels. He should probably go immediately to St. Petersburg, or to Paris, or to London. It was all the same to him now, only he must flee from the place where he had had so terrible an experience. But wherever he might be, he should labour for Lisbeth. The hope of providing brilliantly for her future was now the only tie that bound him to life and that could console him for his lost happiness.

He hoped that Johanna would aid him in making the child happy. She must fulfil her every wish, and surround the lovely little creature with all the splendour in which Helena had so delighted.

At this moment Lisbeth, who had been playing with the 'little ones,' came running merrily into the room. "Hanna dear, what is the matter?" she cried, when she saw the tears in her sister's eyes.

Johanna clasped her in her arms. "Come, my darling," she whispered, holding her in a close embrace. "Now you have no one except your sister; now you are all my own."

CHANGES AT DÖNNINGHAUSEN.

In Dönninghausen they were looking for Johann Leopold's return. He had not informed his relatives of the precise day upon which it would take place, for he wished to avoid all demonstrations of welcome. Hence, when he arrived by an afternoon train at Thalrode, no carriage had been sent to meet him, and the innkeeper, who was wont to supply a conveyance upon such occasions, begged him, with many excuses, to wait half an hour, since, because of the harvesting, all the horses were in the fields. Johann Leopold ordered a glass of beer to be brought to him in the summer-house, and after dismissing the garrulous host, he sat in the shady nook, contemplating his native mountains with a delight of which he had not supposed himself capable.

In outward appearance he was scarcely changed. His pale face was slightly tanned, his form a shade less bent, his movements only a little more elastic than before his travels. And within? He was not yet entirely free from the mental depression caused by the disease which he had inherited, but it did not weigh upon him so heavily. The attacks of the malady had for a year been very slight, and for months there had not even been any recurrence of them. Heaven might, perhaps, yet smile upon him. And if, as his grandfather's last letter declared, Magelone was looking forward with longing to his return, if she could really love him, and would wait until with a clear conscience he could call her his own! With a sigh he passed his hand over his forehead and eyes. But to-day these fair pictures of the future would not, as usual, be banished; they beckoned to him enticingly upon his return to his home. And he had struggled so long against soul and sense, and he was so weary of the conflict.

Approaching footsteps roused him from his revery.

"Good-day, Squire! Are you back again?" called a hoarse voice, and Red Jakob held out his hand to his young master.

Johann Leopold shook it as he had done since they were boys together. "Well, Jakob," he said, "you look all right again. I hope you and Christine are getting along well in your nest in the forest."

"Thanks, Squire, as well as possible," Jakob replied; and as, without more ado, he took a seat opposite Johann Leopold, he added, "I'm right glad to see you here. With the best will in the world I've done a deal of mischief, and my only hope is that you, Squire, will settle it all again."

"I certainly will if I can," Johann Leopold replied. "In a day or two I'll come and see you, and we'll discuss the matter."

"No, Squire; you must listen now," Jakob interposed. "If you get up there"—he pointed toward Dönninghausen—"and they all tell their stories, you'll never be able to understand. But I tell you, and I'll swear to it, that the gracious Fruleen was not to blame, and was——that it was a sin and a shame to send her off like a dog with the mange——"

"Jakob, are you speaking of my cousin?" Johann Leopold interrupted him. "Recollect yourself, and don't talk nonsense. She went voluntarily to her relatives after she had voluntarily broken her engagement."

"Indeed? All for her own pleasure?" said Jakob, with a malicious grin. "Of course that's what the two say who are to blame for it all. To her relatives, you say? She has gone to the circus-riders. You can read it there with your own eyes." He laid a little leather wallet on the table, and with his sound hand took from it a cutting from a newspaper, which he handed to Johann Leopold. "Christine almost cried her eyes out over it," he went on, "and I promised her that I would tell you, that you may bring the gracious Fruleen back again, and turn out those who deserve it."

Johann Leopold ran through Dr. Stein's newspaper notice. "Nonsense!" he said, knitting his brows. "There are just as many lies printed as uttered. But what do you mean by the two who are to blame? What business is the affair of yours? You are and always were an insolent fellow——"

"Squire!" shouted Red Jakob, and an evil light shone in his deep-set eyes; but, after a pause, he continued, more gently: "I do deserve a scolding this time, although not for what you think. It fretted me to see the gracious Fruleen so deceived. I saw them both in the forest—Squire Otto and Frau von Magelone—who was at Klausenburg on a visit. They grew bolder and bolder, and more and more loving, and meanwhile the wedding-day was coming nearer and nearer. At last I could not look on any longer, and I just brought the gracious Fruleen upon them unexpectedly, when they were clasped in each other's arms, forgetting all the world beside."

"Go on!" said Johann Leopold, who sat pale and rigid, his head leaning on his hand.

Red Jakob shrugged his shoulders: "There's not much more to tell. The gracious Fruleen was like a marble statue. She said not one word, but her eyes looked like a dying deer's. I called Christine to talk to her, but it was no use! I was afraid she'd do herself a mischief. Of course I don't know what happened at the castle; but the gracious Fruleen has gone, and Squire Otto is snug and warm in Tannhagen, and as for the gracious Frau von Magelone——"

"That's enough, Jakob!" Johann Leopold interrupted him, rising as he spoke. "Depend upon it that all that should be done shall be done. There comes the carriage. You can get up beside the driver, and he'll take you as far as the Klausenburg cross-roads."

"Thanks, Squire, I have something to do in Thalrode." The host came running to help the Herr into the carriage. Johann Leopold sank back wearily in a corner of the vehicle.

"He's no better," said Jakob, as he stood looking after his master.

"And no friendlier," muttered the innkeeper. "A stiff-necked, haughty set they all are at Dönninghausen."

Red Jakob laughed derisively to himself. "You ought to call it proud and stately!" he cried. "That kind is measured by another scale and rule from what they apply to us."

And proud and stately it certainly looked when the carriage bearing home the heir drove into the court-yard, and the servants came hurrying from all directions. Leo circled about the conveyance barking joyously, and old Christian with tears of joy opened the carriage-door, while the Freiherr in all his dignity appeared at the top of the castle steps.

"God bless you, my dear boy!" he cried in sonorous tones as he embraced his grandson, and his eager glance scanned the face and figure of the young man, who did his best to bear himself bravely.

"My dear grandfather, how glad I am to see you so unchanged!" he said cordially, and then he embraced Aunt Thekla, who advanced from the background, where stood Magelone with blushing face, sparkling eyes, and a sweet smile upon her lips. And with this same sweet, treacherous smile, as Johann Leopold called it to himself, she held out both hands to him, and in a tender whisper, such as he had never heard from her before, breathed, "Thank God for your safe and happy return!"

For a moment he was tempted, in spite of all he had heard, to snatch her to his heart; but he controlled himself, and only kissed her hand. Magelone changed colour. She had expected a warmer greeting. The next moment, however, her face was as bright as before; Johann Leopold did not yet know her sentiments with regard to him and his farewell letter. He should learn them as soon as possible; perhaps she might even find a time to explain them to him to-day.

If he would only be a little more like a lover! Instead of following Magelone into the garden when the Freiherr retired after dinner, he joined Aunt Thekla on the terrace.

For a while he freely answered all her questions. At length he said, "Aunt Thekla, I have some information to ask of you. Red Jakob, whom I encountered by chance in Thalrode to-day, told me some strange things, the nature of which I hardly need explain to you."

Aunt Thekla made no reply, but her face betrayed her dismay.

"You wrote me," Johann Leopold went on, after a pause, "that you had agreed never to speak of Johanna. I am sorry to grieve you, but I should be sorry to do any one injustice: therefore pray tell me, did Otto give Johanna cause for jealousy? I do not ask for any details; I ask but a simple yes or no."

"He knows everything," the old lady said to herself, and, incapable of a direct denial of the truth, she answered, "Yes, unfortunately!"

Johann Leopold's head sank upon his breast. "And my grandfather was told nothing of this?" he asked.

"No; my brother thinks that Otto and Johanna quarrelled on account of her paternal relatives; that Otto required her to choose between ourselves and those people——"

"And Otto allowed my grandfather to remain in this error?" cried Johann Leopold.

His aunt laid her hand on his arm in terror. "You will not explain it to him? Oh, I beg you, I entreat you, not to do so! You can do no good. Johanna cannot live among us again. And my brother, with his sense of honour,—his devotion to duty——Oh, I pray you spare him!" And she burst into tears.

"Be easy," said Johann Leopold. "I promise you to tell my grandfather nothing that need not be told. One question more. What do you know of Johanna?"

"She is with her step-mother. The woman has married again,—the circus-rider Batti, and poor Johanna has joined his troupe."

It was true, then! Johann Leopold had put no faith in the newspaper notice which Red Jakob had given him, but he now reflected that this was the natural course of things. The artist-blood of her father, and her step-mother's unfortunate second marriage, had, when she had broken with Dönninghausen, forced Johanna into the path she had taken. Perhaps, with her intensity of nature, she had meant to erect an insuperable barrier between the past and the present. She had done so. This barrier was as insurmountable in Johann Leopold's estimation as in the eyes of the world. Every drop of blood in his body was in revolt against the rider in Carlo Batti's troupe. And Aunt Thekla's 'Johanna can never live among us again' was the expression of his own conviction.

That was past and done with; but then——? Why could not his relations with Magelone remain what they had been? And why, if he must renounce her, could he not at least retain her image in stainless beauty? Her reception of him to-day, after what had occurred between Otto and herself, was a double treachery. Was she, perhaps, endeavouring from fear of her grandfather, from remorse—from a sense of duty—to conquer her heart? This must not be. It was absolutely necessary that he should resign all illusions; he must at once and forever resist temptation, fair though it was to see.

He looked up with a sigh. Magelone was just coming along the avenue, her airy figure, her light curls flooded with the golden evening glow. She was, in Johann Leopold's eyes, the very ideal of all beauty and grace. She lightly hurried up the terrace steps, and in another moment had thrown about Johann Leopold's shoulders a fragrant wreath of vines and flowers. "There! you shall not escape all reception festivities," she said, archly. "How will you defend yourself? Flowery chains should not be torn asunder."

"Why not? Rather a torn wreath than a withered one," he answered, bitterly, as he tossed the garland aside.

"Ugh! what a tone, and what a face!" cried Magelone. "They would do for a farewell. But when one returns, and is received as cordially as you have been——" She paused suddenly, sat down beside Aunt Thekla, and looked abroad into the park.

"A return is often sadder than a departure," said Johann Leopold. "I have found much change here, and am myself more changed than all, and this you ought to know——Stay, Aunt Thekla!" he begged, as the old lady arose. "You must hear what I have to say to Magelone."

For a moment he paused, fearful of losing his self-control, then continued, with apparent calm: "It is with regard, my dear Magelone, to our grandfather's desire for our marriage. You have tried hard to reconcile yourself to the thought of it, and I—although I saw how difficult this was for you—I persuaded myself for a while that you might succeed. This is over! When I went away I meant to be magnanimous in bestowing upon you a partial freedom; it could only be partial, since you knew me still bound. But now I relieve you of this last fetter; you owe me no further consideration. We are both entirely free."

His voice had grown clear and firm. As he said the last words he arose. "Good-night," he added, offering his hand to his aunt and to Magelone. "You will have to excuse me. I am fatigued by my journey."

Magelone gave him her finger-tips without looking at him, but he possessed himself of her hand. "You know, do you not, that I am your friend?" he asked. "If I can ever testify this to you by deed, apply to me. Will you promise me this?"

"Certainly. I know well how trustworthy you are!" she cried, derisively, as she withdrew her hand and looked up to him with a strange flickering light in her eyes. "Moreover, you can do something for me immediately. I want to go away! Beg grandpapa to let me go——"

"My child, what are you thinking of?" cried Aunt Thekla. And Johann Leopold asked,—

"Do you wish to go on my account?"

She tossed her head, and her cheek flushed. "On your account? What an idea! Why, we are the very best of friends!" she said, still more derisively than before. "No; it is the old Dönninghausen tedium that drives me away. Aunt Thekla knows how I have borne it for years."

"But, my child, you were away all last winter!" her aunt remonstrated.

"In Hedwig's and Hildegard's nurseries. Am I to regard that as a delight?" exclaimed Magelone. "I should like for once to have a little pleasure. I want to go to Vienna, to the Walburgs'; and from them, if I can find a good escort, I want to go to St. Petersburg, to Waldemar and his wife. They have invited me so often."

"Otto's brother. He is probably to be won over to approve their marriage," was Johann Leopold's surmise, as he replied, "I will do what I can, dear Magelone. But if, in spite of all I can do, our grandfather still says no,—you know he does not like to have women travel without urgent reasons,—you will find here at hand what you look for in St. Petersburg."

He meant, an advocate of the desire of her heart. She did not understand him. "What I am looking for is deliverance from this place!" she cried, with burning cheeks. "If grandpapa says no, I shall go without his permission. I have castigated myself sufficiently out of regard for the family." She gathered up her long white dress, and hurried past Johann Leopold down into the garden.

Aunt Thekla looked beseechingly at her nephew. "Do not be angry with her; you have each misunderstood the other," she began. But he interrupted her: "I am not angry, and I have not misunderstood her. On the contrary, I know what she wishes and needs, and I mean, so far as I can, to help her and Otto. Pray tell her this in your kind, gentle way. You see I am too awkward to do so."

With these words he kissed her hand, and went into the house.

The old lady looked after him in painful perplexity. At first it seemed to her advisable to explain to him his error. But what could she say to him? Only that Magelone had been determined to marry him. If he should wish to know more, if he should ask, 'does she love me?' what could she reply? And even if he did not ask this, if he deceived himself for the time, must he not sooner or later—too late, perhaps—discover that she did not love him? And would she, who for a fleeting fancy had not hesitated to destroy Johanna's happiness, could she sacredly guard Johann Leopold's happiness and honour?

"If I only knew what was right!" sighed Aunt Thekla. And it was only after long reflection that she found consolation in the conclusion that if it was the purpose of the Almighty that Johann Leopold and Magelone should be united, they would be so in spite of all misunderstandings, and without any help from an old woman.

While she was reflecting thus, Johann Leopold was standing at the open window of his room, and as he looked abroad over the dark masses of foliage of the park, and up to the shining stars whose rising and setting he had so often watched from this very window, there came over him for the first time that mighty feeling of home which at once absorbs and expands all individuality. His grandfather was suddenly more comprehensible to him than ever before, and the task to which the old man had devoted himself for half a century—the weal and welfare of Dönninghausen—appeared to him in a new light. For years Johann Leopold had longed for loftier aims and a wider sphere of activity. Debarred from much by his state of health, he had disdained what was within his reach. This should be so no longer! He would show his grandfather that he was the heir not only of his estates, but of his views and intentions.

A knock at the door aroused him from his revery, and upon his 'Come in,' Otto entered the room.

"Is it you?" Johann Leopold exclaimed, as he went to meet his late visitor, and he offered him his hand with some hesitation. Otto scarcely touched the tips of his fingers.

"Pardon my taking you by surprise at this unseasonable hour," he said, as he threw his hat and gloves upon the table and himself into a chair. "When our grandfather's message arrived I sent word that I was not at home; for"—and he pushed back the damp curls from his forehead and turned upon Johann Leopold a face that looked strangely pale and haggard in the lamp-light—"I could not possibly sit opposite you at table and pull an amiable face when——I am in a scrape again, and if you do not help me——But what good would it do? Better a terrible end than terror without end!"

"Fudge! Speak intelligibly!" Johann Leopold interposed, taking a seat opposite Otto. And when the latter only stared into space in silence, he added, "You have been gambling?"

"Yes, I have been gambling," the other replied, lifting his head and gazing at his cousin with a dark glow in his eyes. "Drag along, as I do, from morning until night, through days that bring you nothing but one tedious occupation after another, and with nothing to look forward to except the same dull round in the same d—d tread-mill, for as long, at least, as your fate depends upon the whims of a narrow-minded, stubborn old man——"

"Otto! you forget yourself!" Johann Leopold interrupted him, sternly. "You choose the time ill for accusing others. You need help. You shall have it; but upon condition——"

"That I promise never to touch a card again!" Otto exclaimed, with an ugly laugh. "Of course I'll promise. But if the desire attacks me——" He broke off with a shrug.

"When the desire attacks you there is no help save in your own firm will," said Johann Leopold. "I know this, and in this respect I leave you entirely to yourself. All that I can do is to relieve you from embarrassing circumstances."

"Embarrassing?" Otto repeated. "Only embarrassing? Rather say desperate! What am I but the farmer of a small property? I, who detest farming; I, who am made for a soldier!"

"But you voluntarily left the army," said Johann Leopold. Otto's eyes fell beneath his cousin's look.

"No, not voluntarily; by the old man's orders," he replied. "Odd that he never wrote you how it was. It was all the fault of my unlucky passion for play. I had made a promise, and forgotten it, and he decreed that I should no longer wear the king's uniform."

"He will reverse that decree," said Johann Leopold. "I will represent to him——"

"You needn't trouble yourself. So long as he lives I must eat dirt. But if I had the means——"

"For what?" Johann Leopold asked, when Otto paused.

"To enter the Russian Guards," Otto replied. "A great deal is to be done there by patronage. Waldemar could be of service to me——"

Johann Leopold was strangely moved. Was it mere chance, unconscious sympathy, that caused both to desire to go to Russia? At all events, he would help them as far as lay in his power.

"I will supply the means," he said. "While I was away I inherited, as you probably know, the estates of my mother's eldest brother. My income from the Bohemian coal-mines will suffice for your needs. I will make it over to you. Do not thank me!" he added, as Otto started up, with an exclamation of astonishment. "It is not a gift, but a matter of exchange."

"Exchange? I do not understand," cried Otto.

"Then listen!" said Johann Leopold. And leaning his head upon his hand, so that his eyes were shaded, he went on, composedly: "I shall never marry——"

"Johann Leopold!" Otto exclaimed.

"I shall never marry," he repeated, quietly; "but I do not wish to renounce the task, and I consider it an interesting and delightful one, of educating a Dönninghausen heir. A month ago, as you know, a son was born to your brother Waldemar. The infant's grandmother Walburg, our grandfather, and I are to stand sponsors, and it is my wish to adopt the little Johann Karl Leopold. Of course the future heir must be brought up here. Waldemar must agree to that, and our grandfather will be glad——"

"And I?" cried Otto. "There seems to be no question of me here. Please do not forget that I am the elder brother, and that, if you do not marry, the inheritance of Dönninghausen falls to me and to my heirs."

"I tell you all this simply because I do not forget," said Johann Leopold. "I detest family quarrels and lawsuits. I should not like to leave Dönninghausen encumbered with any such, and therefore I propose a friendly settlement to you."

"Friendly?" Otto repeated, with bitterness. "True! A birthright for a mess of pottage!"

Johann Leopold raised his head, and his eyes flashed. "No; it is not that," he said. "Our grandfather would, without my interference, use every means to cut you off from the inheritance. Whether he would be justified in doing so you may settle for yourself. Moreover, I remain in possession during my life; and, in spite of my ill health, I may live to be an old man. I cannot, then, in all seriousness, regard either as unfriendly or uncousinly my offer to you of real advantages in exchange for your relinquishment of a more or less imaginary right. Think it over. Do not hurry yourself. The only thing requiring haste is your gambling debt. How much do you want?"

Otto named the sum. Without a word, Johann Leopold wrote a cheque for the amount and handed it to him. When Otto was about to utter some expression of gratitude he checked him. "No need to thank me. I do it for the sake of the name we both bear." He did not wish that Otto should feel humiliated.

But he was humiliated. As the door closed behind him after a hasty 'good-night,' he struck his forehead with his clinched fist, and murmured, "To have to accept this from Johann Leopold! A bullet through my brains would be better!"

In this mood he returned to Tannhagen. The empty rooms looked more cheerless than ever,—he could not but be perpetually reminded of Johanna. Ever and anon he seemed to see against the dark background a pale face, the dark eyes dilated with horror,—the Medusa head which had appeared to Magelone and himself that morning in the forest. No, he could not go on living thus! And why should he, when the possibility of beginning a new existence was offered him? There was a high price to pay for it,—a birthright for a mess of pottage. But so much the better. It would be the ransom of his soul. How haughtily Johann Leopold had confronted him! with what maddening coldness he had rejected his thanks for the service he had rendered him! Johann Leopold the Just, to the prodigal of the family! But what if his coldness was the result of another cause? Did he know of Magelone's breach of faith? Was that why he would not marry? And—Otto laughed scornfully—was he exacting payment for his lost happiness, instead of making the guilty man a target for his pistol?

"I don't care. I will liberate myself!" Otto concluded his soliloquy. And before he went to bed he wrote to Johann Leopold that he accepted his proposal, and was ready to agree to an immediate legal settlement of the affair.

In a few weeks everything was arranged. Johann Leopold had explained to the Freiherr that he was convinced of the incurability of his inherited malady, and the Freiherr acquiesced without a murmur in what was inevitable. He thought Magelone's reluctance to living for the present beneath the same roof with Johann Leopold very natural. It was more difficult, however, to induce him to agree to Otto's new plans. He declared indeed, with bitter decision, that Otto never should be intrusted with Dönninghausen, but he could not comprehend the young man's voluntary relinquishment of his rights. It irritated him afresh against the grandson whom he had hardly yet received again into favour, and at last he agreed that it would be well for Otto to go away, adding that it had best be as soon as possible: all pains were thrown away upon him. So Magelone went to visit the Walburgs in Vienna, and Otto went to St. Petersburg. It was lonely at Dönninghausen.