CHAPTER I.

THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS.

On the morning of the day that drove Ernestine from her peaceful but brief refuge, Herr Leonhardt slept unusually late. His wife, who did not wish to waken him, looked anxiously at the old cuckoo clock, that pointed to half past six. It was very natural that the old man should be tired, after the trying occurrences of the previous day. Frau Brigitta had never seen him so agitated. He had shed bitter tears upon his return home,--tears from those poor eyes! Every drop had fallen scalding hot upon his faithful wife's heart. Those amongst whom he had lived for half a century as a steadfast, self-sacrificing friend and teacher, had taken up stones to stone him,--had forgotten all that they owed him,--it broke the heart of the weary old man.

Frau Leonhardt sat upon the bench by the stove. She folded her kind, fat hands, and wondered how any one could grieve the man who was to her the very ideal of honour and worth! The door in the clock opened, and out hopped the cuckoo, flapped his wings, called "cuckoo" seven times, and then disappeared, slamming the door behind him as if he were greatly irritated at finding nothing astir as yet. Frau Leonhardt arose,--the old man must be called now, for the children came to school at eight.

She ascended the ladder-like staircase to their upper story, which was under the roof of the cottage, and softly entered the bedroom. Herr Leonhardt lay with his face turned to the wall.

"Are you asleep?" asked Frau Leonhardt.

"What is it? what is the matter?" cried her husband alarmed. "Is it really on fire?"

"Why, you are dreaming,--it is time to get up,--the children will be here!"

"But, my dear wife, it is still night. What are you doing up so early?"

"Night?" and Frau Leonhardt smiled. "Why, how sleepy you are!--it is broad daylight--seven o'clock."

"Broad daylight!" cried the old man in a strange tone of voice. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, then rubbed them again and stared at the bright sunbeams, but not an eyelash quivered. He was very pale.

"How are you, dear husband?" asked his wife anxiously.

"Well, well, mother dear, only a little tired still," he said in an uncertain voice. "Go down now and get the coffee ready. I will come soon!"

"Can I not help you? you are trembling so; you must have fever!" cried Frau Brigitta.

"Oh, no, I am quite well,--go down now, I pray you."

She obeyed, hard as it was for her, and below-stairs she could not help weeping, she knew not why. She prepared the coffee, and listened with a beating heart for Bernhard's step upon the stairs. Then, after twenty minutes, that seemed to her an eternity, she heard him coming with a slow, uncertain tread. Some great misfortune seemed upon its way to her. How strange!--he felt for the door before opening it. He must be very sick. She ran towards him, but his look reassured her. He was pale indeed, but his expression was as calm and gentle as ever. He laid his hand upon her arm. "Well, dear wife, now let us breakfast. I have kept you waiting for me!"

"Oh, yes, I waited," said Frau Brigitta, leading him to the table. "Have you any appetite? Do you feel any better?"

"Oh, yes, but pour out the coffee for me, my dear. I am still somewhat fatigued."

"That I will." And the old woman poured the coffee into his cup. "Here is the milk." And she placed the pitcher near his hand.

Herr Leonhardt took it carefully, and touched the edge of his cup with his hand, that he might not pour in too much; but, in spite of his care, he spilt the hot milk upon his fingers. He said nothing, but secretly wiped it off and slowly put his cup to his lips. His wife laid a piece of bread upon his plate, and this also he ate slowly.

"Is it not good?" asked Brigitta.

"Certainly it is," he replied, "but pray eat your own breakfast." And he listened to be sure that she did so. Then, when he had drank his coffee, he felt for the table before he put down his cup.

His wife looked at him with anxiety. "Bernhard, I think your eyes are worse again to-day."

"I think they are," he replied quietly. "Have you breakfasted?"

"Yes, I have finished."

"Well, come then and sit here beside me. I want to tell you something. Give me your hand, my dear wife, and listen quietly to what I have to say."

Frau Brigitta looked at him wonderingly, and her heart beat so quickly--she knew not why--that it almost took away her breath.

Herr Leonhardt stroked her hand, and spoke with the tenderness with which one speaks to a child. "During all these eighteen years that I have been such a care to you, and in all the thirty years of our marriage, you have never caused me an hour of suffering, and I have done what I could to aid and support you. You have borne bravely all our common misfortunes, followed our first children to the grave with me, and comforted me when I was overcome by despair. Do not let your courage fail you now, for I must give you pain. I cannot help it. Try, as you always have done, to spare me the pang of seeing you sink under it. Promise me this!"

"For Heaven's sake, my husband, speak! I will promise you everything!"

"What we have so long feared, dear wife, has at last come upon us!" He drew her nearer to him. "This morning when I awoke there was no daylight for me!"

A dull, half-suppressed moan was heard at these words; then silence ensued. The old woman's hands slipped from her husband's,--he put his own out towards her, but she was not at his side. She had sunk down from her seat and buried her face in her arms, that he might not hear her sob.

"Mother, where are you?" he asked after a little while.

She embraced his knees and hid her streaming eyes in his lap. "Oh, my poor, kind husband,--blind! Oh God! Those dear, dear eyes!" And then her grief would not be controlled, and she lay at his feet, sobbing loudly.

Herr Leonhardt gently raised her until her head rested upon his shoulder, and then waited until the first outbreak should be past. He too had had moments this morning that none but his God might witness. He could not ask his wife to do what had been impossible for himself. At last he said softly and tenderly, "Brigitta, you have been everything to me that a wife can be to her husband. I have always thought there was nothing left for you to do, and yet in your old age our loving Father has filled up the measure of your self-sacrifice and laid upon you a heavier burden than any you have yet had to bear. He has taken from me the power to support you, and calls upon you, a weary, aged pilgrim, to be your husband's staff upon his path to the grave. It seems very hard,--but, dear Brigitta, when God calls, what should we answer?"

"Lord, here am I!" said his wife, and the resignation and cheerful submission in her voice were truly wonderful. She embraced her aged husband, and her tears flowed more gently as she said, "I will guide and support you, and never be weary."

"Thanks, dear heart. And now be calm, for my sake! Think how much worse it would have been if you had found me this morning dead in my bed!"

"Oh, a thousand times worse!"

"Then do not let us rebel because God has taken from me one of the five senses, with which He endows us that we may enjoy the glory of His universe, he has still left me four. If I can no longer see your dear face, I can still hear your gentle voice of comfort and feel you by my side; and although I cannot see the sun, I can still warm myself in its beams,--I can inhale the fragrance of the flowers that it calls into life,--enjoy the fruits that it ripens. I can hear the songs of the birds, and with them praise my Creator from the depths of my soul. How much he has left me! We will not be like thankless beggars, showing our gratitude for benefits by complaining that they are not great enough. I have seen the sunlight for sixty-eight years. Shall I complain because, just before my entrance into eternal light, God darkens my eyes, as we do a child's when we lead it up to a brilliant Christmas-tree? I will bear the bandage patiently, and try to prepare my soul for the glories awaiting it. Let us but remember all this, dear wife, and we shall not be sad any longer."

The old man ceased. His darkened eyes were radiant with light from within, the reflection of those heavenly beams of which in spirit he had a foresight.

His wife had listened to him with folded hands, and her simple nature was elevated and refined by thus witnessing his lofty resignation. The peaceful silence that reigned in the room was too sacred to be broken by any sounds of earthly sorrow. Her eyes were tearless as she gazed upon the noble face of the man who was all in all to her, and she waited humbly for further words from him. At last the only words escaped her lips that she could utter in her present frame of mind. "And our son?" she asked softly.

An expression of pain flitted across his features. "That is the hardest to bear,--our poor son! God give him strength, as He once gave me strength when I was forced to leave the University and become a schoolmaster. I told him a short time ago what the physicians said. I did not tell you, for I wanted to spare you as long as I could. He sent me a reply by return of mail, which you shall hear, now that I have nothing to conceal from you. You shall read it, and be glad that you have such a son."

"My good boy!"

"He will give up his studies and take my place here, so that we need never come to want."

"But will that be allowed?"

"Yes,--I have already obtained permission from the proper authorities."

"Oh, how thoughtful you have been!" cried his wife with emotion. "With all that burden to bear so silently, and now you console me instead of my comforting you! How did such a poor creature as I ever come to have such a husband?"

She pressed a kiss upon his withered hand. The footsteps of the school-children were heard in the hall. Herr Leonhardt arose and went to the door.

"Wait I let me lead you," said Brigitta.

"Oh, you need not," he said smiling. "I have been preparing myself for blindness for a long time, and I have practised walking about with closed eyes, that I might not be so helpless when the time came. And so now I can find my way very well." He had reached the door, and went out. "Good-morning, children!" he cried, and felt his way along the wall to the school-room, followed by his anxious wife. He stumbled a little upon the threshold. "Never mind," he said to Brigitta, who would have supported him. "I need more practice, but it will be better soon." He found his desk, seated himself there, and waited until the children had all taken their places.

"Are you all here?"

"Yes," was the reply.

"Well, then, sit down,--we cannot have any school to-day. My dear children, I must take leave of you. I cannot teach you any more. God has taken from me my eyesight. I cannot see you nor your lessons, and therefore I can no longer be your schoolmaster. Your parents will consider my blindness a punishment from God for my conduct, but I tell you, if the trials God sends us are rightly borne they are not punishments, but benefits. Remember this all your lives long. There will come dark hours in every one of your lives, if you live to grow up, when you will understand what your old master meant. And now come and give me your hands, one after the other. So,--I thank you for your childlike tenderness and affection, and I forgive from the bottom of my heart those few who have ever given me any trouble. My son will soon be here in my place; promise me to obey him, and to make his duty easier for him by diligence and obedience. Farewell, my dear children. God bless and prosper you!"

He held out his hands, and the children, sobbing and crying, thronged around him to clasp and kiss them.

"Who is this?" the old man asked of each one, and then, as the names were told him, he shook the little hands.

"Do not cry, dear children, we are not bidding farewell for life. You will often pass by the school-house on Sunday and shake hands with your old master as he sits on his bench before the door. And then I can guess by the voice who it is, and can feel how much you have grown, and you can tell me what you have been learning during the week. And those who have studied the best shall have some nuts, or one of my loveliest flowers, or some other little gift. Won't that be delightful?"

The children were consoled by this prospect, and hastened home to tell the important news to their parents.

The old man stood alone with his wife in the deserted school-room. "Come, dear wife, we will send a message to Walter." He laid his hands once more upon his desk, and tears fell from his eyes. "It is strange," he said, "how much it costs us to leave a spot where we have laboured so long, even although our work has been hard and ill rewarded. Our home is wherever we have been used to the consciousness of duties fulfilled, and when we must leave it, it is as if we were going among strangers!"

He put his arm in Brigitta's, and, with heard bent, crossed the threshold which separated him from the humble scene of the daily labour of his life. For the first time, he looked, to his wife's anxious eyes, like a broken-down old man.

"I must leave you alone for an hour," she said, when she had seated him in the dwelling-room on the bench by the stove. "I must prepare the dinner."

"Do so, mother; man must eat, whether he be merry or sorrowful, eh? And we are not really sorrowful, are we?" And he forced a smile and patted her shoulder.

"No, dear Bernhard, we are not!" said his wife, struggling to repress a fresh burst of tears.

"Send a messenger to town to Walter as soon as possible," said Herr Leonhardt.

"Indeed I will. I cannot rest until my boy is with us. And I will send for the doctor, too!"

"Do not send for the doctor; he can do nothing more for me."

"But it will be a comfort to me to see him,--do let me send," said Brigitta. And she left the room.

The old man sat there, calm and still. "And now I must begin my new daily task,--the laborious task of idleness!" he thought, as he folded his hands and gazed into the night that had closed around him for this life.

He sat thus for some time, when the cuckoo began to announce the hour of nine, but the last "cuckoo" stuck in the bird's throat, and he stood still at his open door. The clock had run down. For the first time in many years, Herr Leonhardt had neglected to wind it up. He arose, groped his way towards it, felt for the weights, and carefully drew them up. The cuckoo took breath again, finished his song, and slammed to his door. "I will not forget you again, little comrade," said he, "you, who have chirped on through such merry and sorry times. How often now shall I long for you to tell me when the long, weary hours end!"

Thus said the old man to himself, and again slipped back to his place. "There is something done," he said as he sat down. Then minute after minute passed by, his head sank upon his breast, the darkness made him sleepy, and for awhile even his thoughts faded and were at rest.

His wife looked in upon him several times, but withdrew softly, that his sleep might not be disturbed.

It was almost twelve o'clock.

Then something rustled into the room; the old man felt the air stirred by an approaching form, and he raised his head. The figure threw itself at his feet. He put out his hand and touched waves of silky hair.

"Father Leonhardt!"

"Oh, this is Fraeulein Ernestine."

Ernestine looked at him, and observed with dismay that the pupils of his eyes did not contract with the light.

"Herr Leonhardt, what is the matter with your eyes?"

He smiled. "Their work is done."

"Good heavens! already? I thought they would last months at least."

"What matters a few months more or less?" said the old man quietly.

Ernestine looked amazed. Involuntarily she clasped her hands. "Is this possible? I tremble from head to foot at the mere sight of such a calamity, and you--you upon whom it has fallen--are so perfectly calm and composed. Tell me, oh, tell me, what gives you such superhuman strength?"

The old man turned to her his darkened eyes. "My faith, Fraeulein Ernestine."

Ernestine's gaze fell. "It is well for you."

"Yes, it is well for me," repeated Herr Leonhardt.

A long pause ensued. At last the old man asked kindly, "How are you after that terrible yesterday?"

"Oh, Father Leonhardt, do not ask me how I am! Until this moment I thought myself very miserable, but your calamity teaches me to despise my own pain. In comparison with that, what is all the imaginary unhappiness that comes from being misunderstood? What matters it if people despise me for differing from them? What can their esteem give me or their contempt deprive me of? They cannot bestow upon me or take from me one ray of sunlight, one glimmer of the stars. The golden day shines upon my path, and I am young and able to labour. I see the beauty of the world, the universe is painted upon my organs of sight, my soul is bathed in light, and how can I give room to mortified pride or offended vanity, when I see a great enlightened soul peacefully resigned to endless night? No, Father Leonhardt, holy martyr that you are, I discard all my petty personal trials, and am grieved only for you." She bowed her head upon his hands, and sobbed passionately.

"My daughter," said the old man, much moved, "you are not telling me the truth. The pain that you have suffered must be great indeed, for only a heart that knows what suffering is can feel so for others' woes. Your heart must have been filled before to overflowing with these tears that you are now shedding for me."

"Oh, Father Leonhardt, blind though you are, you see clearly. I came to seek advice and comfort from your paternal heart, and you have comforted me even before I could tell you of my grief. Yes, there was a moment when I forgot myself, but it is past. Your noble example has made me strong again. Let it go. I can think and talk now only of yourself. I pray you take me for your daughter. You have treated me with a father's tenderness,--let me repay you as a child should. Yesterday you perilled that venerable head to save me from the angry mob,--now let me shield you from the menacing phantoms of night and loneliness. Come, live in my house with your wife. I will be with you as much as I can. I will talk to you and read to you. I am so lonely, and,--I cannot tell why,--I begin to thirst so for love."

Herr Leonhardt clasped his hands. "Oh, what comfort and delight Heaven still sends me! Yes, although my eyes are blind, I can see the hidden beauty of the heart that you reveal to me. God bless you, my dear daughter, and grant you the light of His countenance, that you may one day recognize Him as your best friend and benefactor!" He paused, and then added almost timidly, "Forgive me,--I am falling into a tone that you do not accord with. Remember that in my youth I studied theology,--a little of the pulpit still sticks to me. Do not think that I arrogate the right or ability to instruct you. I, old and broken down as I am, am not the one to train that proud spirit. I will accept the crumbs of love that fall for me from your large heart, and gratefully pray for your happiness."

"Father Leonhardt, do not undervalue yourself. You must know how far above me you are. When I saw you in your simple greatness confront those rude men yesterday, I was filled, for the first time since my childhood, with a sentiment of adoration. You understand me, you make allowance for me, while every one else misunderstands and condemns me. You stood by me in the hour of danger, and yet you never boast of your kindness. Oh, you are noble and true! Come to me,--let me find peace upon your paternal heart, let me give you a home and provide for your son's future."

"Thanks, thanks for all your offers, my dear child, but I cannot take advantage of your generosity, and, thank God, I do not stand in need of it. My son has already determined to give up the study of medicine and take my place here as schoolmaster. Thus, our future is provided for, we shall not have to leave the dear old school-house, and I can die where my whole life has been passed."

"Does that thought comfort you?" asked Ernestine, shaking her head.

"Oh, yes, it is all that I desire. Those who, like yourself, my child, pass through life with all sails set, have no idea of the restraint which those in our class must gradually learn to put upon themselves in order not to despair. Yet in this very restraint, in this perpetual narrow round of duties that life assigns us, there is happiness, a content that routine always brings. You may say that routine blunts the faculties,--but, for the most part, it only seems to do so. A nature strong from within will thrust its roots deep into the soil of its abiding-place with the same force that enables it to grasp the universe, and if you should attempt to tear it thence in its old age, you would almost tear its life away also. I love the little spot of ground and the little house that have been the world to me. I believe I should die if I had to leave them."

Ernestine listened thoughtfully. "Well, then, if I may not offer you a support, I can at least offer your son the means of pursuing his studies. My library, my apparatus, are at his disposal. I hope he will not refuse to make use of them in his leisure hours."

"That indeed is a favor that I accept most gladly, although I can never hope to repay it! I thank you in my son's name. You will know the happiness of having restored to a human being what he most prizes,--his hopes for the future."

"You amaze me more and more," cried Ernestine with warmth, "as you afford me an insight into the depth and cultivation of your mind. What self mastery it must have cost you to live here among these savages!"

The old man smiled. "Living among them, one gradually grows like them in some things, and is no longer shocked. At first, to be sure, I thought myself too good for them. But my faith soon taught me that no one is too good for the post God has assigned him. When I was a student I delighted in the theatres, and visited them frequently. Once, as I was leaving the manager's room, I heard him lamenting the obstinacy of one of his corps. 'He utterly refuses to take a subordinate part. Good heavens! they cannot all play principal parts!' The man never dreamed of the serious lesson he had taught me. 'All cannot play principal parts,' I said to myself whenever the demon of arrogance assailed me, and I gave myself, heart and soul, to the subordinate role that had fallen to me on the stage of life. I soon desired no better lot than to hear some day my Master's 'Well done, good and faithful servant!'"

"All cannot play first parts," murmured Ernestine. "I too, Father Leonhardt, will ponder these words." She sat silent for awhile, then passed her hand across her brow. "No! to be nothing but a subordinate, a figure that appears only to vanish again, occupying attention for one moment, but just as well away,--no, that I could not endure!" She sprang up, and walked to and fro.

"My dear Fraeulein----"

"Father, call me Ernestine,--it is so pleasant to hear one's first name from those whom one values."

"Certainly, if you desire it. Then, my dear Ernestine, I was going to answer you by saying that no one who fulfils the duties of life conscientiously is 'as well away.' As far as the world is concerned, it may be so; but we must not seek to have the world for our public, or to find the sole delight of life in its applause. It is not modest to imagine one's self an extraordinary person, destined to enchain the attention of nations upon the stage of the world."

Ernestine blushed deeply.

Leonhardt continued: "Every one finds associates amongst whom to play a principal part, and in whose applause satisfaction is to be found. For these few he is no subordinate, for them he does not 'appear only to vanish again.' Is not a wife, or a husband, to whom one may be everything, worth living for?"

"Only for persons, Father Leonhardt, who have never so soared above their surroundings as to find the centre of their being in the life of the mind and what pertains to it. Those who have so far forgotten themselves as to make the interests of the world their own, can only live with and for the world, and it is as impossible for them to be content in a narrow round of private satisfactions as for the plant to retreat into the seed whence it sprung."

"Indeed, Ernestine?" cried a familiar voice behind her.

She turned, startled. Johannes had been listening on the threshold to the conversation. He was evidently in a state of feverish agitation. His chest heaved passionately as he approached. "Would you escape me thus--thus?" He took her hand, and his eyes sought hers, as if to dive into the depths of her soul in search of the pearl of love deeply hidden there. There was a fervent appeal in his glance,--he clasped her hand, and every breath was an entreaty, every throb of his heart a remonstrance. Pain, anxiety, and the haste of pursuit so shook him that he trembled. Ernestine saw, heard, felt it all, but she stood mute and motionless,--she could not open her lips or utter a sound,--she was as if stunned. "Ernestine!" Johannes cried again, "Ernestine!" The tone went to her very soul,--a low moan escaped her lips,--she inclined her head towards his breast, and would have fallen into his arms,--but a shadow, the shadow of his mother, stepped in between them and darkened Ernestine's eyes so that she no longer saw the noble figure before her, or the tears of tenderness in his eyes. All around her was cold and dim, as when clouds veil the sun,--his mother's shadow scared her from his heart.

She raised her head, and slowly withdrew her hand from his.

His arms dropped hopelessly. A moment of utter exhaustion followed his previous emotion. He put his handkerchief to his forehead, that seemed moist with blood. His veins throbbed,--there was a loud singing in his ears,--he could hardly stand. He exerted all his self-control, and went towards Leonhardt.

"God strengthen you, Herr Leonhardt!" he said in broken sentences. "I know it all from your messenger to your son, whom I met on the road. I need not offer to console you,--you are a man, and will endure like a man."

"I am a Christian, my dear Herr Professor, and that stands to feeble age in the stead of manhood!"

"True, true!" said Johannes with a troubled glance at Ernestine. She approached, and said in a trembling voice,

"Father Leonhardt, I must say farewell to you now and go home. When your son comes, send him to me." She offered Moellner her hand. "Forgive me, I could not help it!"

Johannes mastered his emotion, and said, with apparent composure, "I shall write to you."

Ernestine silently assented, and went. The old man listened. He heard her retreating footsteps and Johannes' labouring breath, and again he saw for all his blind eyes.

"Oh, Herr Professor, do not let her go. Follow her quickly, and let all be explained. Believe me, she is an angel. Grudge her no words. There is no use in writing,--her uncle can intercept all her letters. Spoken words are safest and best. Quick, quick, or you may both be wretched!"

"Thanks, old friend, you are right!" cried Johannes, all aglow again; and, before the words were well uttered, he was gone.

Frau Brigitta entered with the soup, and looked after him in surprise. "The gentleman seems in a hurry!" said she.

"Let him go, mother dear. These young people are struggling, amid a thousand fears and anxious hopes, for a goal that we old people have long gazed back upon contentedly. God guide them!"

Johannes called to his coachman to await his return before the school-house, and followed Ernestine, who was slowly pursuing the foot-path directly before him. All was quiet and lonely around, for it was noon, and the peasants were at dinner.

She looked round upon hearing Johannes' step behind her, and stood still. He soon overtook her.

"Ernestine," he said resolutely, "I must have a final, decisive word with you, and Leonhardt is right,--it should go from heart to heart. Will you listen to me?"

He drew her arm through his, and as they talked they slowly approached the eminence upon which stood the castle.

"Ernestine, dear Ernestine, I would give all that I have that the scene between you and my mother, this morning, had never been. You have been mortally offended, and that, too, while you were my guest in a house whither you had fled for refuge, and that should have been a home to you. But it happened in my absence,--it was not my fault. Will you make me suffer for it?"

"No, my friend, certainly not."

"Well, then, be magnanimous and forgive my mother, although she never can forgive herself!"

"I have nothing to forgive."

"You are implacable in your righteous anger. Let me hope that the time may come when my mother may atone for what she said to you to-day. Dearest Ernestine, she startled back your young heart, just awakening to its truest instincts; it was a poor preparation for what I wished to say to you to-day, and yet,--and yet I must speak,--I can be silent no longer. Yes, Ernestine, I wished to-day to ask you to be my wife. I wished to entreat of you the sacrifice that marriage demands of every woman, and of you more especially; and I firmly believe that if you could have listened first to my views of the duties and the lot of a wife, they would not have seemed to you as terrible as from the lips of my practical mother. I hope to be able to shield you from the hard materialism of life that so alarms you, and to which my mother attaches too much importance. My white rose shall not be planted in a kitchen-garden. You shall be the pride and ornament of my life. I ask nothing from you but love for my heart, sympathy in my scientific pursuits, and allowance for my faults." He took her hand in his, and stood still. "Ernestine, will you not give me these?"

With bated breath he waited for her reply. In vain his glance sought her eyes beneath their drooping lids.

Ernestine stood motionless in marble-like repose, and no human being could divine what was passing in the depths of her soul. At last her pale lips breathed scarcely audibly: "I cannot,--your mother,--I cannot----"

"Oh, if you cannot love me, do not make her bear the blame, do not overwhelm her with the curse of having robbed her son of the joy of his life,--that were too severe a punishment! And, if you do love me, conquer your pride nobly by showing her how she has mistaken you. Show her all the woman in you, and prove to her that you are capable of self-sacrifice, and revenge could not desire for her more profound humiliation."

"I cannot make the sacrifice that she demands; and if I could I would not, because she _demands_ it and makes it a condition. A soul that is free will not barter away its convictions and its aims, even though the happiness of a lifetime is at stake. When your mother asks me to resign my plan of achieving an academic career, and to bury the immature fruits of all my labours, she is excusable, for she does not dream what she asks; but when you propose such conditions, you can, not only never be my husband,--you can no longer be my friend, for you do not understand me."

"Good God, Ernestine! what do I ask of you more than what every man asks of the woman whom he wishes to marry,--that she shall live for him alone? And how can you do this if you do not relinquish your ambition and be content with a private life? You need not relinquish science, you shall be my confidante, my aid in all my labours, my friend, sharing all my plans and hopes. Only do not any longer seek publicity, do not try to obtain a degree or deliver lectures. No opprobrium or contempt must dare attach itself to the pure name of my wife."

Ernestine started as if struck by an arrow. "Those are your mother's very words. What? Do you, who assume such superiority to woman, condescend to repeat phrases taught you by your mother?"

"Ernestine, you are unjust. You have long known my views concerning the position of woman, and you cannot expect that I should be false to my most sacred convictions at what is the most important moment of my life."

"And yet you require this of me?"

"A woman's convictions, Ernestine, are always dependent upon her feelings in such matters. And where feeling is concerned, the stronger must always conquer the weaker. Hitherto you have been moved only by the wrongs of your sex,--they are all that you have known anything of. When you love, you will learn to know its joys, and be all the more ready to resign your vain championship for your husband's sake."

"Do you think so?" asked Ernestine with unaccustomed irony.

"I hope so. It is our only chance for happiness. I am true to you, and tell you beforehand what I look for from you. I will not influence your decision by flattery or false acquiescence. It must be formed in full view of the duties it imposes upon you, or it will be worthless. You may think this a rude fashion to be wooed in, and perhaps you are right. But I will not win my wife by those arts which woman's vanity has made such powerful aids to the lover. I will not owe my wife to a weakness,--and vanity certainly is a weakness. Your love for me must be all strength. I would have you great indeed when you give yourself to me,--and when is a woman greater than when she conquers her pride and herself for love's sake? In her self-conquest she accomplishes what heroes, who have subdued nations, have found too hard a task, for it requires the greatest human effort. It is true, the world will not shout applause,--deeds truly great often shun the eyes of the multitude: in the renunciation of all acknowledgment there is a joy known only to a few. Within quiet convent walls, past which the stream of human life flows heedlessly, many a victory over self has been attained that was never rewarded by a single earthly laurel. What awaits the end of the painful contest? The grave! But I ask of you, Ernestine, far less of sacrifice, and surely there is a reward to reap in bestowing perfect happiness upon one who loves you. Do you hesitate? Is the struggle not ended? Can your royal soul not cast aside the self-imposed chains of false ambition? Oh, Ernestine, do not let me implore you further; say only one word,--to whom will you belong,--to your uncle, or to me?"

"To myself, for no human being can belong to any other!" And her look at Johannes was almost one of aversion. "Yes, now I see that you are your mother's' son. I see her stern features, I hear her voice of remonstrance, and I see myself between you,--a creature without will,--no longer capable of independent thought or feeling, still less of rendering any service to the world. Am I to cast aside like a garment what has been the guiding hope of my life,--my dream by night and day,--and go to your mother begging for forgiveness and indulgence, excusing myself like a child, and promising future improvement, that I may humbly receive from her cold lips the kiss of condescending pardon? Again and again, No! What right has your mother to regard me as a criminal, and to attempt to improve me? Whom have I injured? What law of propriety have I infringed, that she should treat me like some noxious thing in the world? I have lived in calm retirement, asking for no happiness but that of labour. Why should she insist upon thrusting another kind of happiness upon me, and blame me for not considering it as such? Did I seek her out? Was it not against my will, and only in accordance with your earnest entreaties, that I accompanied you to her house? Why should she drive me from it like an intruder, and impose upon me conditions of a return that I did not desire? Oh, if you, noble and true as I once thought you, had loved me, not as you thought I ought to be, but as I am, with all my faults and eccentricities, I would have striven for your sake to become the most perfect woman in the world. And if you had said to me, 'Be my companion,--I will help you to vindicate the honour of your sex, whatever is sacred to you shall be so to me also,'--if you had thus acknowledged my individuality, and had intrusted your happiness, your honour, to my keeping, without other warranty than the dictates of your own heart, I would have bowed in reverence to a love so powerful,--I would gladly have sacrificed my freedom to you,--to please you, I would have performed the hardest task of all--humiliated myself before your haughty mother! But when you come to me thus,--only her echo,--when you make it the foundation of our happiness that I should be what she chooses, and try to assure yourself at the outset that I will submit to all your requirements, that you may run no risk from such a self-willed creature,--all this shows me that she has separated us utterly. I have lost you, and all that you have given me is the knowledge that I have no place in this world, and that I am miserable!"

Johannes stood pale and mute before her, but his pure conscience shone in his steady eyes. Ernestine did not venture to look at him. With trembling hands she plucked to pieces a twig that she had just broken from a bush at her side.

"After this we can be nothing more to each other," he began; and it seemed as if every word fell from his lips into her heart like molten lead. He took breath, as if after some violent physical exertion, and then continued: "I do not answer the accusations with which you have overwhelmed my mother and myself. They grieve me for your sake. They are unworthy of your nobler self. I have treated you as I was compelled to do by my sense of honour. I have told you what was, according to my profoundest convictions, indispensable to the happiness of marriage. That you refuse,--that you can refuse me the sacrifice I ask of you,--proves to me that you do not love me. This is what separates us. And I pray you to remember that, as I sacredly believe, it is the duty of a man to convince himself that the woman whom he seeks to marry is fitted to be the mother of his children; and your heart is not yet open to the wide, self-forgetting affection that can alone suffice to enable a woman to undertake the hard duties of a wife and mother. Will it ever be thus open? Who can tell? Another may one day reap in joy what I have sown in pain. I do not reproach you,--how could I?" He laid his hand upon her head, his eyes were for one moment suffused. As he looked at her, grief had the mastery, and he was silent. She was crushed beneath his gaze, her artificial composure forsook her, a cry escaped her lips. She now first began to perceive what she had done, and her heart shrunk from the burden that she had laid upon it, although she did not as yet dream of its weight.

Johannes gently smoothed her hair from her brow. Her agitation restored his self-control.

"You are kind, Ernestine,--you see how you have hurt me, and you are sorry for me. It is the way with women. This little weakness does you honour in my eyes. I pray you be composed. I am quite calm again." He would have withdrawn his hand, but she held it fast and looked up at him with those eyes of sad entreaty that had worked such magic upon him when she was a child.

"Do not utterly forsake me!" she whispered in half-stifled accents.

"No, as truly as I trust my God will not forsake me, I will not forsake you. I will not shun you like a coward, who, to make renunciation easy and to learn forgetfulness, turns his back upon the good he cannot attain. You need a friend who can protect you, placed as you are with regard to your uncle and the world. This friend I will be to you, until you find a worthier. Do not fear that you will hear another word of love, or of regret. I will conquer my grief alone. My one care shall be for your happiness. Farewell, and when you have need of me send for me." He pressed her hands once more, and turned away without another word.

Ernestine looked after him as he receded from her gaze. She looked and looked until he turned a corner and vanished. Then she sank on her knees and cried in an outburst of anguish, "Have I really had the strength to do this?"

She must have remained thus some time beneath the shade of the trees, when the sound of carriage-wheels approaching startled her to consciousness. It was her uncle. He stopped the vehicle and descended from it.

"You can take out the horses," he said to the coachman. "I shall not drive to town." The man turned and drove home again.

Leuthold stood mute before Ernestine, piercing her soul with his penetrating glance. He had learned from Frau Willmers everything that had occurred the day before, but nothing of the intercourse that had previously taken place between Ernestine and Johannes. Scarcely a week had passed, and had his ward already escaped him--fled with an utter stranger? The thing was impossible. Ernestine was no coward,--a crowd of drunken peasants could never have driven the shy girl into the arms of the first stranger whom she met. She must have previously known her magnanimous champion. He interrogated the other servants, but they one and all hated him and were devoted to Frau Willmers. They all declared their entire ignorance,--"the Fraeulein must have met the gentleman at the school-house,--he was often there."

This was enough to prove to Leuthold that the ground was unsteady beneath his feet, and for a moment he succumbed under the weight of this new anxiety. Was it possible to guard a woman more strictly, to seclude her more utterly, than he had guarded and secluded Ernestine? And yet--yet in this heart, that he thought long since dead, impulses were strong that would seek and find expression in spite of every precaution that he might take. And all this at a moment when he was battling for life and death with a peril which required younger and more unbroken energies than his own!

It was too much; a presentiment seized him that fate had decreed his ruin. But he collected himself once more, and took counsel with himself, as was his custom in all emergencies. As we turn to Heaven when all around us seems dark, so he turned in his direst need to his own understanding and will, that had hitherto sufficed him.

Allowing himself but brief refreshment after all his anxiety and alarm, he ordered the carriage and set out for town to bring home his ward. But, to his great surprise and delight, he found her thus near home, evidently weary and disconsolate.

"Aha, like the mermaid in your beloved fable, you have been trying your fortunes among mankind, away from your cool, clear, native element," he said to himself with a smile. "They liked you well, I doubt not, at first sight, but you have not gained much, for they soon discovered that you were half fish and not fit to live with them!"

As he approached her, he put on an expression of distress, and when the coachman had gone he began in a tone of great anxiety, "Merciful heavens, do I find you thus? Weeping by the roadside like a homeless beggar!"

"True, true indeed,--like a homeless beggar," Ernestine repeated.

"But, my dear child, is this becoming,--such a scene in this open spot,--writhing on the ground here like a worm?"

She looked at him. He had on a broad-brimmed, light-gray felt hat. As ever, his costume was faultless. Standing before her with a lowering glance, his tall, supple figure now bending down to her, his eyes riveted upon her, he it was that seemed to her like a worm, and a most poisonous one, and with unmistakable aversion she sprang up and recoiled from him.

He stepped back and looked at her with amazement. "What! is this Ernestine von Hartwich, whom I have educated--whose philosophical composure nothing could disturb? or is this wayward child a changeling, brought hither by some evil sprite?"

"Spare me your sneers, uncle," said Ernestine imperiously. "They disgust me!"

Leuthold's amazement increased still further. "What--what words are these? Is this what is taught at Frau Staatsraethin Moellner's? Upon my word, Ernestine, I believe you are ill."

"Yes, yes, I am, and I pray you to leave me. You cannot restore me to health."

"What an amount of mischief has been done in these few days when you were without my advice and protection! It is true, I cannot tell what has happened, but something serious must have occurred. I forbear to reproach you for making acquaintances without my knowledge, and for leaving the house without my permission, and thus causing me great anxiety, for I see you are sufficiently punished already, but, I beg of you, do not do so again. You see now what comes of it."

"And I beg of you, uncle, not to treat me thus, like a child, who must say, after she has been chastised, 'I will not do so again!' If I wished to return to the world, of which I had my first experience yesterday, you could not forbid me to do so, for"--involuntarily she repeated what the Staatsraethin had said--"you cannot forbid my doing what does not infringe the law. But I do not, and never shall, wish to return,--never! I am out of place among other people. I do not understand their ways, nor they mine." She looked at Leuthold with suspicion. "I do not know whether you have been right in bringing me up as a perfect recluse,--in making me so unfit for life in the world. Who can tell that it would not have been better to leave me my simplicity of heart, and not to have led me into paths whence there is no return? I will struggle on in my lonely way as never woman struggled before, until the day comes when I can convince and shame the most incredulous. But let me tell you, uncle, that if the day never comes when my fame atones to me for all the happiness I have resigned,--then, uncle, I shall curse you!"

She spoke the last words with an expression that alarmed even the cold-blooded Leuthold. In an instant he grasped the whole situation. He saw that she had made some sacrifice to her ambition that was almost too great for her strength. His ready wit soon divined what had occurred. It was a blow, of the significance of which he was perfectly aware. He felt that he had reached a crisis that demanded all his caution and forethought, and he did not venture to speak until he had pondered well what course to adopt. Thus they arrived at the gate of the castle-garden in silence. He opened it for Ernestine to pass in. As they walked past the spot where she had stood with Johannes on the previous evening, Ernestine burst into tears. Leuthold looked at her in surprise, and she controlled herself and walked hastily on. As always, he had the effect of cold water upon her. Her wound did not bleed in his presence.

"I was greatly irritated when I learned, upon my arrival this morning, what had happened," he began at last "Our very lives are not secure in the midst of this mob of ignorant peasants. We must seriously think of removing elsewhere,--we cannot possibly remain here."

Ernestine made a gesture of dissent.

"What, you do not wish to go? What can induce you to stay here, where all are so hostile to you?"

Ernestine did not reply. After a pause she said curtly, "Very well. You have proposed our departure,--that is enough for the present I will think of it."

They entered the house.

"Ernestine, I have brought you the sphygmometer I promised you,--would you like to see it?"

"No, I will go to my room and rest."

Leuthold knew not what to do. He did not wish to leave her to herself, but would have made use of her agitation to extort her secret from her. She had reached the door when he cried after her, "Apropos, Ernestine! I congratulate you!"

"Upon what?"

"I committed an indiscretion this morning, and found upon your table the essay that you have withheld from me for so long. I assure you, Ernestine, I was actually astounded! It is far beyond anything you have ever done before,--it will be a perfect bomb-shell in the scientific world!"

Ernestine dropped the handle of the door and looked sadly at him. "Do you think so?" She shook her head. "They will not pay it any attention."

"Oh, you are mistaken. It must make its mark. Be easy upon that point. How did such a magnificent thought occur to you?"

"As such thoughts always occur,--if it can only be verified!"

"Oh, most certainly it can be verified. I'll warrant its correctness. Girl, there is a great future in store for you. I thought I knew you, but you continually surprise me by your genius."

"Oh, uncle, I scarcely dare to hope. I know now how men despise the attainments of learned women. There is no use in talking or writing unless I can adduce proofs, irrefragable proofs, that are accessible to all. The science of to-day demands facts, and, if I cannot procure them, I can never convince these prejudiced minds."

"Be assured that every one who reads that paper of yours will be spurred on to make experiments in the matter. Leave it to those practised in technicalities to work out the demonstration. The merit of the idea will always be yours."

"And even if they find it worth the trouble to investigate the matter, and then do it so carelessly that they do not arrive at the desired result, it will always be thought a mere hypothesis, and I a learned fool. Madame du Chatelet was laughed at for publishing her novel idea that the different colours of the spectrum gave out different degrees of heat. What did it profit her that Rochon, forty years afterwards, hit on the experiments that yielded the proof of her hypothesis?[1] She had long been mouldering in the grave, and not a laurel had ever been laid upon it. Oh, this is a miserable existence! How long must we toil on thus, step by step?"

Involuntarily she left the door of her room, and approached her uncle.

He took her clasped hands, and felt that she was again within his power. "Until there is a woman with sufficient force to withstand a man. They are all Brunhildas,--these mighty heroines. They fall victims to the Siegfrieds who master them. You, Ernestine, are perhaps the only woman capable of accomplishing the task calmly and with a clear mind. You succumb to no inferior passion, but keep your eyes fixed steadily on the mark. You will shatter the prejudices of the world, and no human being will dream who aided you in your work, I have long forgotten how to think and act for my own advantage. You are my pride, something more than my child,--the child of my mind. Your education is my work, your honour is my honour. Come then, I have been thinking of it, and believe I have hit upon an experiment that will demonstrate your idea."

"Uncle, what is it?" cried Ernestine, flushing up.

"Come into the laboratory now. We will see, upon the spot, what can be done."

"Uncle," said Ernestine, overflowing with gratitude, "you give me new life! Forgive me for doubting you and doing you injustice for a moment!"

"Never mind, my dear child, it is all forgotten. I can easily imagine how others have assailed me to you, and that you gave heed to them. Have we not all our hours of weakness?"

"Yes, oh, yes, uncle, it was an hour of weakness!" And in deep humiliation she covered her face with her hands.

"I can guess," said Leuthold calmly, with his melodious insinuating voice. "They burdened your heart,--you have been spoken to of love,--you have been sought for a wife. Is it not so?"

Ernestine made no reply.

"They knew you for the feminine Samson that you are, and would have shorn your hair, that they might call out, 'The Philistines are upon you!'"

Ernestine interrupted him. "Hush, uncle! not one word, in that tone, of a man who is sacred to me!"

"God forbid that I should offend you! I am not speaking of him, but of his lady-mother, who has him fast by her apron-string." And he gave her a quick, keen glance.

"And never mention his mother to me! I hate her!" cried Ernestine angrily, ascending with him the stairs to the laboratory.

Leuthold now knew enough. "I can readily understand that these people should have tried to turn you against me,--for he who seeks to win you must first remove me from his path. This they well know, and their attempt is natural. But you, with your calm power of reasoning, can soon convince yourself that they require of you no less a sacrifice than your entire self, and that unbounded, although perhaps unconscious, selfishness is the mainspring of their proceedings, while I, as long as you have known me, have treated you with thorough disinterestedness. They humiliated you in your own esteem that you might be bought at a more reasonable price. I can see by your depressed condition how they discouraged you. I will restore your confidence in yourself, and let this act of mine prove to you that I desire nothing of you but that you remain true to yourself. This is all the satisfaction I ask. And now all is right again, is it not?"

"Yes, uncle," said Ernestine, collecting her energies afresh. "And now come, let us try the experiment you spoke of."

Leuthold's light eyes sparkled with triumph as he heard these words, and together they entered the apartment containing her costly scientific apparatus.

But, exert herself as she might, her labour was all in vain. Her hands trembled, everything grew dim before her eyes. Her interest in the matter flagged; other thoughts intruded upon her mind. With superhuman resolution, she made further efforts, and the hectic spot, so alarming to a physician, appeared on either cheek. Leuthold did not notice them. He was so absorbed in his work that he started, as if from a dream, when she fainted away by his side.