CHAPTER IV.

BATTLE.

Ernestine was sitting at her writing-table, arranging books and papers to be packed up. Her uncle was assisting her with trembling haste. From time to time she leaned her head wearily upon her hand.

"It will be impossible for us to leave to-day if you do not make more haste," said Leuthold urgently.

"I am doing all that I can, but I am so weak that I do not know whether I shall be able to travel to-night."

"I cannot imagine how you can give way so. You never used to do it. When I think of the self-control that you were wont to exercise,--your determination would have done honour to a man,--and now! Oh, it is deplorable!"

"You torture me, uncle!" cried Ernestine, as she threw several books into a chest at her side. "You will not believe that I am really much weaker than I have ever been before. It is of my own free will that I am going away--why should I not hasten as much as I can?"

Her uncle looked askance at her with a smile. "You are mistaken, my child. It is not your will that is acting,--it is only a whim that thus urges you on. And a whim is the child of circumstances, and can be controlled by them."

"I do not know what circumstances could control this 'whim,' as you are pleased to call it. Nothing can happen to-day or to-morrow to change my determination. What delay can you apprehend? No one knows of my departure, so that it cannot be impeded by remonstrances from any quarter. I have not even told good old Leonhardt that I am going, and Willmers heard it only this morning. Could I do more to prove to you that I am in earnest?"

Leuthold looked at her again with his sarcastic smile. He knew well that Ernestine had preserved this strict silence concerning her departure only because she did not feel strong enough to withstand any friendly remonstrances. Therefore he trembled lest some unforeseen accident might yet divulge her plans. His very existence depended upon her staying or going. During the four weeks that had elapsed since Ernestine's return from town, Leuthold's entire influence had been exerted to remove Ernestine from this part of the country, and, if possible, from Germany. She must never again see the man who had evidently made such an impression upon her. Now less than ever could she be allowed to form any attachment, for, if she were now to marry, and require her property at his hands, he was lost! He had cautiously managed to secure an appointment, through an American agent, in a large chemical manufactory in New York. To Ernestine he had opened the brilliant prospect of delivering a course of scientific lectures there. The fact that she had received the prize from a German university for one of her papers would surely suffice to make her reputation in America,--and Leuthold had honestly done his best to have her fame as an intellectual phenomenon noised abroad. In his present embarrassed circumstances, it was of the greatest importance to him that she should be placed in a position to support herself, that she might not be a burden to him. If the lectures did not succeed, she would have to earn her living as a "female physician." But upon this point he prudently forbore to enlighten her. He fired her imagination with the enormous advantages, pecuniary and other, that must accrue from her lectures. The means that he employed to win her to his purpose were to an ambitious woman irresistible. She saw before her a future such as no woman had hitherto enjoyed. She saw herself in one of the vast halls of New York, lecturing to a crowd of men who were all listening attentively to--a girl! She saw herself regarded as the miracle of her sex. The most secret dreams of her pride were to be realized,--the seeds of her quiet diligence were to spring up and bud forth in the sight of all,---the world should ring with the fame of what a woman could do. And yet it was hard to decide; it was weeks before she could bring herself to sign the simple letters of her name to the acceptance of these proposals; no labour of her life--nothing whereon she had expended days and nights of study--ever cost her as much as this single signature.

Moellner's grave, earnest face had scared her back from clutching these new honours, as Banquo's ghost frightened the usurper from the royal chair. It seemed to her that she was guilty of a crime towards him,--and at last, in a torment of doubt, she secretly wrote to him. She told him everything, and begged for his counsel and advice. She did not conceal from him that she could not take so decisive a step without his blessing. Why this letter never reached Moellner, no one knew besides Leuthold, except Kaethchen and her parents.

Day after day passed, and of course Ernestine waited in vain for an answer. She waited as if for a decree of life or death. Sleep refused to visit her burning eyelids. She took barely sufficient nourishment to support life. She pined with desire for only one word--one single word--from Moellner,--and it did not come. She was no longer worth a stroke of his pen. Since her refusal of his suit, he would none of her. He had conquered himself,--had given her up,--and in how short a time!

And the more she had longed for a letter or a visit from him, the greater was her bitterness of mind,--the offence to her pride,--when she received neither. As often as she approached her writing-table, her eyes were greeted by the large capitals of the flattering proposal she had received, with all its alluring promises. What was there now to wait for? Why should she hesitate now? And so she signed her acceptance.

And now nothing should cause her to waver in her pride of purpose. She would have the revenge of being irrevocably lost to him, she would vanish without one word of farewell, that from a distant quarter of the globe the fame of her greatness might reach his ears.

She did not even confide in Willmers, for she dreaded her garrulity. Only on the very last day the housekeeper received orders to dispose of Ernestine's movables as quickly as possible, and then to follow her, for Leuthold wished, before sailing, to take leave of Gretchen, whom he purposed to leave in Germany for the present. But Ernestine was to accompany him. He would not,--he dared not now,--lose sight of her for a moment.

She wrote a fervent, heartfelt farewell letter to Leonhardt, and begged him to keep her books and apparatus until she should claim them again. As she did not know yet where her future home would be, she could not make use of them herself. Walter might find them useful. Thus delicately she bestowed upon Walter the costly gift of the instruments for the further pursuit of his studies.

After their departure, her uncle was to be informed of her disposal of the physiological works and apparatus, which he had ordered Willmers to sell. He would never have consented to it, for Ernestine had often, to her surprise, noticed how desirous he was of ready money.

She bound Willmers by a solemn promise not to deliver the letter to Herr Leonhardt until the writer had departed, and thus everything was provided for,--everything was thought of,--everything except Ernestine's physical condition. The inflexible girl had been accustomed to take so little care of her health that she had given no heed to her increasing exhaustion,--the natural consequence of the superhuman efforts of the last few weeks. But to-day she could hardly stand, and the thought of undertaking so long a journey began to alarm her.

She sat there before her uncle the picture of weariness. He regarded her dubiously. Could he succeed in getting her on board of the steamer? Then, if she were taken ill, it would of course be ascribed to seasickness, which scarcely any one escapes. And if she died? Then all would be well with her. He would bury her under the billows of the ocean, and all his hatred, his alarm, and his crimes would sink with her beneath the waves, which, as they swathed her dead body, would wash away from him all disgrace and guilt. This thought was as boundless in comfort as the ocean that was beginning to open upon his horizon.

"Uncle, do not gaze so strangely at nothing," said Ernestine. "You look as if you were devising no good."

Leuthold smiled. "You are nervous indeed, my child. Since when has my face looked strange to you?"

Ernestine did not reply. She went on wrapping a book in paper, to pack it in the chest.

"Is that old fairy-book to go too?" asked Leuthold ironically.

"Yes," was the curt, decided reply.

"Well! well! Have you not a doll somewhere that I can pack with it?"

Ernestine started up. "Uncle, I told you once before that I will not endure that tone!"

"Beg pardon, but such folly provokes a jest. Or perhaps the book has a deeper value for you? You need not blush,--I can guess. It is a remembrance of the knight of the oak,--Moellner! Ah, then indeed we must certainly take it with us."

"Uncle," cried Ernestine, taking the book from him as he was about to put it in with some others, "you know how to depreciate with your sneering speeches everything that I have held dear. Let the book alone; I will give it to little Kaethchen."

"And when Professor Moellner visits her, and finds it there, it will touch his heart, that the friend whom he has forsaken has guarded his memory so faithfully until now. If he turns over its leaves, he will doubtless find the oak leaf that you have pressed among them. Perhaps he will think it a mute farewell, and bestow upon you a tear of compassion. How gratifying it will be!"

"Uncle, if I thought that, I would rather burn the book!"

"And that would, at all events, be the best thing to do with it. That self-conceited fellow is not worth the remembrance that you cherish of him. I would efface it, as I would every impression that is unworthy of you. Indeed, I have long been indignant, although I never spoke of it to you, at his so easily forgetting you. Such a woman as you are is not to be resigned like an article of merchandise about which buyer and seller cannot agree. He never loved you, or he would never have dreamed of making conditions in his proposal to you, as if you were to deem it a great honour that he should condescend to you. Trust me, I know the world and mankind thoroughly. He was in the greatest embarrassment, for he felt himself morally obliged to offer you his hand."

Ernestine started.

Leuthold continued, "I do not know how you conducted yourself towards him, but, with your inexperience and the preference that you entertain for him,--do not deny it,--it is reasonable to suppose that you must have made advances."

Ernestine bit her lip, and looked down.

"The one fact that you accompanied him to his house alone, without any intimate acquaintance with him,--without an invitation from his mother,--must have led him to fancy that you were desperately in love with him, and he was conscientious enough to wish to efface the stain that you had thus unwittingly cast upon your honour, by asking you to be his wife. I do not question for a moment that his intentions towards you from the very beginning were honourable and kind, but his feelings seem to me to have been those of simple friendship, until your advances forced him, as it were, to a declaration. Probably he is now congratulating himself in silence upon his fortunate escape. But you sigh and languish like a love-sick girl over his memory, and would carry the only gift that you have ever received from him, bestowed upon you out of sheer compassion when you were a fright of a child, across the ocean with you as a relic! Ernestine, what is the matter with you? For Heaven's sake, control yourself! What nonsense! You have actually contracted a habit of fainting!"

He supported her drooping head and fanned her pale face.

She looked up at him wearily, then thrust him from her with evident aversion, and stood up. Leuthold said nothing more. For the first time she had allowed him to speak of Moellner, and he had seized the opportunity to pour into her soul the surest poison that ever destroyed love,--he was content now to let it work.

Ernestine walked several times to and fro: her step, her bearing, was queenly,--she seemed suddenly to have grown taller. Her uncle might be right,--she hated him for it, but still he might be right. What must Johannes--what must his mother think of her for so throwing herself at him? This was why his mother had treated her so,--this was the cause of the cool conditions proposed to her by the son! She repeated to herself every one of Johannes's words,--they were almost all words either of grave warning or stern reproof. Even when he had been kind to her, it had been the kindness of a father or a judge. Never, not even when suing for her hand, had he laid aside the proud, measured bearing that was native to him. His pity had been that of a superior being for a soul astray, not of a lover for his beloved. And she! She recalled every cordial word, every kindly glance, that she had bestowed upon Johannes, and she persuaded herself that she had been too fond, that her behaviour, in contrast with her usual cold demeanour, had verged upon impropriety, and must have been construed by him into an advance. Yes, possibly he despised her for it,--and she had even gone so far as to write to him! All the little merit of not consenting under the proposed conditions to become his wife was annulled by this last act, which must have been regarded by him as a fresh advance, and, as such, silently repulsed. She could have fled from him to the ends of the earth,--the mere thought of him was enough to drive the hot blood to her cheeks. Away, away, across the ocean!--this suddenly became the one desire of her heart. She stood still as she passed the fireplace, and said to Leuthold, "Burn the book!" They were the first words that passed her lips.

The instant the words were spoken, Leuthold threw the volume into the midst of the flames. Ernestine stood by and watched them curling around the covers, which bent and rolled up in the heat. They were soon destroyed, and with invisible, soft-crackling fingers the fiery draught toyed with the burning book, and, as page after page opened to the glow, the flame--greedy reader--devoured them. Ernestine watched it all. She saw the names which had been so dear to her, flash out and vanish. The cold, glittering snow queen,--the little mermaid in her watery home,--all perished in the red heat!

Now the oak leaf, that she had once snatched from the dear old tree, fell away to ashes,--the whole book dropped apart and blazed up afresh,--the loosened leaves were tossed up and down in the wreathing flames. There,--there was one more name,--the swan. The leaf flew aloft, and the swan, the beautiful swan, was burned to ashes. Never again would it spread its plumage for her,--never arise, a second phoenix, from its funeral pyre. The little fairy world had vanished, and only a few sparks remained, shooting hither and thither, as if in search of the transformed shapes of the creatures of fairy lore.

Ernestine turned away. The fire seemed to have scorched the pinions of her soul. She hung her head, like the god with the inverted torch, and wept!

Leuthold did not disturb her; he felt that he must spare her now.

Suddenly the door opened, and Frau Willmers said in a tone of great trepidation, "Herr Professor Moellner!"

Leuthold started as if struck by an arrow. Ernestine leaned against the chimney-piece, or she would have fallen.

"How dare you admit any one just at this moment?--how dare you?" he said, transported with rage and terror.

"I cannot help it, Herr Doctor. I could not do otherwise,--the gentleman declared positively that he would not stir from the spot until I had announced him."

"Tell the gentleman that we cannot receive visitors."

Frau Willmers looked hesitatingly at Ernestine, who stood as pale and immovable as ever.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked Leuthold, and there was a threat conveyed in his tone and manner.

"I am going,--I will go instantly," replied the woman, and hurried from the room.

Ernestine took one step forward, as if she would have followed her. But she controlled herself. She was a prey to a storm of emotions that almost deprived her of consciousness. He had come, then,--he had not utterly given her up. It almost broke her benumbed heart to send him away. But no,--she rebuked her own weakness,--he had waited long before coming, and perhaps had come at last only because he felt it his duty to obey her summons. She would--she could yield to no further weakness.

Leuthold stood by the door, and held his breath while he listened to hear Johannes depart; but, to his immense discomfiture, Frau Willmers reappeared.

"The gentleman will not go," she said with secret exultation. "He says he came to see the Fraeulein, and will take no dismissal from her uncle, for, as the Fraeulein has been of age for several years, it is for her to say whom she does or does not wish to see."

Ernestine listened eagerly. "What--what does that mean?" She turned with a look of inquiry to her uncle, and was shocked at the great and evident alarm expressed in his countenance. "Uncle," she asked again, "what does this mean? Answer me!"

"Do not heed such stupid gossip. The fellow is a liar--or----"

"Tell him so yourself, if you have the courage," Ernestine interrupted him in rising wrath. "Ask the gentleman to walk in," she said authoritatively.

Willmers hurried out.

"Ernestine!" cried Leuthold in despair,--"this to me?"

"I will understand what this means about my being of age," cried the girl, with a glance at Leuthold before which his eyes sought the ground.

Moellner entered. He regarded Leuthold with entire composure and profound contempt, then bowed to Ernestine without looking at her. He wished to spare her, to give her time to collect herself. She misunderstood him. She thought he was cold, and met him with coldness.

A long pause ensued.

Leuthold, wishing to appear quite at his ease, broke the silence. "Allow me to ask, sir, what, after all that has passed between my niece and yourself, procures us the honour of a visit from you."

"I am about to inform Fraeulein von Hartwich upon that head, and you will greatly oblige me by remaining present at this interview."

"Be pleased, then, to be seated," said Leuthold, motioning Johannes to a chair, "and let me request you to be brief, since we are just on the eve of departure."

"You will not go, Doctor Gleissert."

"Sir! Are you better instructed than ourselves concerning our plans?"

Johannes waited until Ernestine was seated, and then, taking a chair, replied with decision, "Not concerning your plans, but their fulfilment,--which I shall, in case of necessity, prevent by your arrest."

Leuthold was stunned for one moment, but, recovering himself, smiled at Ernestine, who looked astounded, and said, "Ah, here we have the genuine knight of the oak! It is a pity that we do not live in feudal times, when an honest man could be seized upon the highway and flung into a dungeon."

"Oh, no. Doctor Gleissert. A quiet scholar like myself has no taste for such adventures. I prefer safer and legal means. I shall simply, in case you attempt to depart from this place, have you detained by the gens-d'armes stationed here, until your business relations with Fraeulein von Hartwich are satisfactorily explained. Then you will be perfectly free to go whithersoever you may please. My interest in you will be at an end."

"Herr Professor," cried Leuthold, "I can only suppose that some one has shamefully calumniated me to you. Let me beg you to come with me to my study, that we may not distress my niece by these representations. She needs the utmost consideration at present."

"If Fraeulein von Hartwich is strong enough to undertake the voyage to New York, of which Frau Willmers tells me, she can certainly support this conversation. But, first of all, let me ask you, Ernestine, whether you are leaving your home of your own free will."

"Yes," she breathed scarcely audibly.

"Of course you are your own mistress. But, before you carry out your intentions, you must know what you are doing. This you do not know at present, and I am here to inform you. If you depart with Herr Gleissert, you link your destiny to a villain's!"

Ernestine and Leuthold started up. Johannes arose at the same time, and, leaning one hand upon the table, regarded them steadily without a word.

Leuthold found it impossible to speak. Ernestine was lost in gazing at the noble form of his adversary.

Johannes continued, "You will require the proofs of such an accusation. I have had them in my possession only since early this morning,--here they are." He took several papers from his breast-pocket, and unfolded one of them. Leuthold glanced at it, staggered back, and sank upon a seat.

"Did you write that?" asked Johannes, handing the sheet to Ernestine. "Pray read it."

"No!" she said in evident surprise, as she ran over its contents.

"Or did you affix your name to a deed, ignorant of its contents, in presence of a notary?"

"Never!" was the decided reply.

Moellner breathed freely. "This, then, is the proof that could send your uncle to jail, if I made use of it, for it is a forgery!"

Ernestine made a gesture of dissent, as if she could and would hear no more. But Johannes was not to be deterred. "From your first letter to Helm, and from your conversation with my mother, it is evident, Ernestine, that you consider yourself still a minor. It is true that you are so by the laws of your country, which make the period of minority terminate at the age of twenty-four,--and you are only twenty-two years old. But through Dr. Heim, who was present at the drawing up of your father's will, I know that you are by it declared legally of age at eighteen. This your uncle has concealed from you. We will speak by-and-by of his reasons for this concealment."

"Then I have been my own mistress now for four years?" cried Ernestine in inconceivable amazement,--"and you, uncle, have treated me as if I were a child?"

"More than that,--he has withheld your property from you. Here is a copy of your father's will. You will see that it accords you the right, at eighteen years of age, to take possession of the estate, put in trust for you in the guardians' court, and dispose of it as you please. Of course you could not avail yourself of this right, as you were kept in utter ignorance of it, as well as of the fact that you had attained your majority. But your uncle has availed himself of it in your stead. He has contrived--Heaven only knows how--to imitate your handwriting--and forge the signature to the document by which the guardians' court delivered over to you--that is, to your uncle--the property in its charge for you. There was no doubt cast upon the authenticity of the document, for it was drawn up in due form by an Italian notary and accredited by two witnesses to your personal identity. When I suspected that your uncle had purposely kept you in ignorance of your affairs, I acquainted the court with my suspicions, and they delivered to me this copy of the document which I have just handed you for identification. You have declared it a forgery. Whether I now spare or destroy this man will depend upon the result of what we have to say to each other. That I allow him one word of explanation is due to my regard, not for him, but for your sense of delicacy, Ernestine, which would suffer deeply in your uncle's disgrace."

Having thus spoken, while Ernestine had listened in mute amazement, Johannes turned to Leuthold. "I ask you, Doctor Gleissert, what you have done with the money that you have hitherto withheld from your niece."

"Before I answer you, sir," replied Leuthold, who had regained his composure, "allow me to ask you when you exchanged the pursuit of physiology, wherein you have rendered such important service to science, for the study of the law, in which, I fear, you will hardly prove so great a proficient."

"I did so," said Johannes calmly, "when I felt it my duty to protect with the shield of law a young creature most grossly defrauded. And I think, sir, that I am already sufficiently versed in my newly-espoused science thoroughly to expose your frauds. But let me ask you again to account, without further circumlocution, for the property we have spoken of."

"And I demand of you, Herr Professor, what legal right you possess to subject me to such an inquiry."

Johannes looked at him composedly. "So be it. If you prefer to answer my question to a court of justice, I will withdraw my request for an explanation between ourselves. Take time to consider which you prefer in this matter."

"I should, at all events, have less to fear from a legal investigation than from a madman, who, in defiance of custom and decorum, and regardless of domestic privacy, invades a home, and, with a knife at the throats of its inmates, demands 'your money or your life,' like any highway robber."

"Uncle," interposed Ernestine, "I forbid you, in my presence, to insult my friend. If you can clear yourself of the terrible suspicion that he has cast upon you, do so with dignity. Useless insults cannot convince us."

"And you, Ernestine,--do you take part against me?" cried Leuthold pathetically.

"I take part with no one; on the contrary, I tremble to think that the man who has brought me up may be a criminal. But I will not and cannot shield you from the discovery of the troth. You yourself have taught me to subject every duty, every impulse of the heart, to cool investigation,--to search everything to the foundation,--even at the price of the most sacred illusions. Now, cruel preceptor, reap what you have sown!"

"Well, then, I am ready to answer you, since you desire it. There is one point upon which I owe you an explanation.--the minority in which I have kept you in spite of your father's weak will. My course in this respect I think entirely justifiable, for every right-minded person who knows you must agree with me that it would have been unprincipled in the extreme to leave you to yourself at eighteen, inexperienced and immature as you were. It was an arbitrary measure on my part, but it was well meant, and was the result of an exaggerated affection and anxiety for you. The thought that you were to live without me, and I without you, was unendurable to me. This is my crime,--this is all that I can say. To this gentleman's charges I answer nothing. My life is open to the scrutiny of all, it has been passed in unpretending repose,--in the calm pursuit of science, and in the delight--now, alas! disturbed indeed--of educating you. I regard all your machinations, sir, with indifference. Your heated fancy would fail to see the truth in my defence of my actions. Only a legal investigation can satisfy you of my innocence. Why should I waste further words upon you?"

Johannes smiled. "I reserve my answer to the first part of your remarks, but with regard to the last I cannot refrain from asking you how you can venture to speak of innocence after your niece has denied, in my presence, the signature of this document to be hers, thus proving that it is a forgery?"

"Yes, sir, it is certainly a forgery,--no one can deny that. But does it follow that I executed it? I had a friend in Italy to whom unfortunately I intrusted every fact in relation to our family affairs, placing in him a confidence that prudence could not warrant, and, in view of this present revelation, I cannot but fear that he has played the traitor, and, assisted by some unprincipled notary----" He shrugged his shoulders, as if unwilling to complete so grave a charge.

Johannes smiled again, almost compassionately. "Will you attempt to support your defence upon such a foundation? and do you venture to meet me upon this plea alone?"

"I do, sir; for the law will, I trust, shortly discover the witnesses of the crime who can testify as to whether I or my false friend committed the forgery."

Johannes bethought himself for an instant, and then said, looking Leuthold directly in the eye, "Is this same false friend the purchaser of the factory at Unkenheim? Or did you find in Italy what you certainly failed to find here,--such wealth of friends?"

Leuthold's cheek blanched again, and Johannes saw that he had thrust his probe into a deep wound. He instantly availed himself of his advantage. "I suppose that the superintendent at Unkenheim, acquainted as he is with your Italian friends, will shortly be able to produce the witnesses required for the vindication of your innocence, and I will do all that I can to bring about this desirable termination of the affair." Then, with a glance at Leuthold, who could scarcely hold up his head, "Now, Herr Gleissert, I will give you twenty-four hours in which to decide whether you prefer an explanation with me or in a court of justice. If by to-morrow evening you are not ready to explain matters thoroughly with regard to Fraeulein von Hartwich's property, and either to produce the same or, if it is invested in the Unkenheim factory, to give sufficient security for it, your fate is sealed. From this hour your house will be watched day and night. You are now my prisoner. At the slightest attempt to escape, you will be handed over to the custody of the law, even although I should be forced to deliver you up with my own hands. You see I am resolved to proceed to extremities. You have nothing to hope for, either from my weakness or your cunning, even if a miracle could be worked in your favour, and the costly expedient succeed of bribing some Italian rogue to personate 'the false friend,' to declare your crime his own and endure the punishment of it,--even although the notary, who could establish your identity and the drawing up of the deed, were dead,---even then you could never hope to escape the punishment for mail-robbery!"

Leuthold started as if stung.

"You can hardly accuse of falsehood the sharp eyes of a peasant of this place, who can testify that, in default of other amusement, you selected for your perusal the contents of the village letter-box, retaining in your own possession whatever especially interested you." Johannes turned to Ernestine. "I do not know, Fraeulein Ernestine, whether you have done me the honour to write to me lately, but, if you have, your uncle probably knows the contents of your letter much better than I, who have never received it. At all events, this little occurrence, for which I can produce witnesses, is a significant illustration of your uncle's character. And you, Herr Gleissert, can now understand that there is no escape for you unless you fulfil the conditions upon which alone I will spare Fraeulein von Hartwich the disgrace of having so near a relative occupy a criminal's cell. You are beset on all sides,--entangled in your own crimes. There is no hope for you!"

He ceased. Leuthold sat still, pale and mute. Ernestine looked down at him with compassion. Then she glanced at Johannes with admiration bordering on awe. "You are, as I have always known you, upright, but severe!"

"Severe? No, by Heaven! The punishment too severe for this unprincipled man is yet to be devised. My imagination is not cruel enough for the task!" He regarded Ernestine mournfully. "You are worn out,--you need repose." Then he awaited a reply, but none came. The setting sun threw its crimson rays across the room. Ernestine stood silent, her hands hanging clasped before her, exerting all her self-control. Leuthold had propped his head upon his hand, and did not stir. Johannes took his hat. "Farewell, Ernestine. Permit me to return to-morrow to learn your uncle's final decision." He stepped up to her side. "I will not weary you. Let me watch over your destiny. I ask it as the right of friendship,--nothing more,--I assure you,--nothing more!"

"Nothing more!" It echoed harshly in Ernestine's heart, and, without a word or a look, with only a cold inclination of the head, she dismissed him. "He does not love me," she said to herself, and her heart grew like ice. He watched over her as a man of honour, not as a lover. He knew that she cared for him,--she had not concealed it from him; he had thrust the obstacle to their union between them in the shape of his narrow-minded conditions--he knew that these were all that separated them, and he preferred to relinquish her rather than his own stubborn will! He demanded of her every concession, without making any, even the smallest, himself! No, her uncle was right, he had never loved her. How could she make advances now without proof that she was the object of his love? How could she humble herself to make the required sacrifice, possessed by the terrible doubt that he had required it in the full conviction that it would not be made? The least advance on his side, the faintest sign that he would yield one jot of the prejudice that separated them, would have given her new life and made her happy. But from this day their union was impossible,--it was not to be thought of.

Leuthold interrupted her reverie. He had left the room, and now returned with a letter. With the air of a man resolved upon death, he held it out to his niece. "Read that, and then show me how truly great you are!"

Ernestine, in surprise, unfolded the letter. It was from the superintendent, received the day previous. It contained the announcement in a few words that the establishment was bankrupt and Leuthold ruined. If he did not escape by instant flight, he would be overtaken by the punishment of his crime. Ernestine read and re-read the letter; she seemed unable to understand it "What does it mean?" she asked at last.

"It means that Moellner is right when he calls me forger and thief."

"Uncle!" cried Ernestine in the greatest alarm.

"The money that is lost in the Unkenheim factory was yours----" Leuthold faltered.

"You have, then, deprived me of my fortune?" she asked in a low tone.

Leuthold stood before her apparently annihilated. "Yes!"

There was silence. Ernestine uttered a low cry and recoiled from him. He breathed with difficulty, and continued, "I could and would confess nothing to that man. There is only one soul on earth magnanimous enough to forgive me, and to it alone I will reveal all my weakness. Ernestine, I have shown you before, in my love and care for you, the reasons that induced me to conceal from you the termination of your minority. Did you believe me?"

"I will believe it."

"I never dreamed into what fearful temptation I was thereby led. The consequences of what I did were these:--I was obliged, in order to conceal the fact of your majority from you, to appropriate in your name the amount that was yours when you reached the age of eighteen, and this without your knowledge. I did it with the firm intention of doing what was best for you. I executed the forgery, never dreaming of the punishment that it would entail upon me. For months I kept your money in my possession, guarding it like the apple of my eye. Hitherto I had been an honest man, even although, with the best intentions, I had transgressed the letter of the law. Now, Ernestine, came the turning-point of my life, and I implore you to lend a lenient ear to this terrible confession. The brother of the Staatsraethin Moellner was just bankrupt, and the Unkenheim factory was advertised for sale upon the most favourable conditions. To this temptation I succumbed. Can you not divine how a man is fascinated by the one pursuit to which he has given the best years of his life, that is in a certain sense the work of his mind and hands? It had been a bitter pain to me to relinquish the flourishing business to which I had so long devoted my best energies, and now it was again in the market. Want of knowledge and capacity had ruined it. I, who knew every part of it most thoroughly, could easily build it up again if I had the means to buy it. I resisted a long time,--the advertisement of its sale appeared a second and a third time. I consulted a merchant in Naples who was, I heard, on the point of visiting Germany. He offered to make the purchase for me in my name,--he persuaded me to allow him to do it. The opportunity was so favourable,--the money lay idle in my hands,--I was so certain of doubling it, and thus securing my own and my poor child's future,--I knew as surely that when you should come to know it, you would never reproach me for thus investing your money. Ten times I stood upon your threshold, determined to tell you everything and entreat your permission to dispose of your property thus. I knew you would not withhold it from me. But the insane dread of losing you as soon as you knew you were of age always deterred me. I took the money, firmly resolved to restore it to the uttermost farthing. This is the story of my crime. Now for the tale of my misfortunes. I failed in what I undertook. I enlarged the factory at considerable expense, and suddenly unforeseen obstacles, in the nature of the soil, presented themselves, material that I had purchased at a high price sunk in value before it could be manufactured, and I lost fifty per cent, in the sale of the finished goods. Such disasters as these followed each other in rapid succession. There was a curse upon everything that I undertook,--the curse, I admit it, of an overestimate of my own powers,--for I should have known that a clever scholar is not necessarily a merchant, and that the technical knowledge as a chemist which had stood me in such stead in a comparatively small establishment was not business capacity for an immense undertaking. But what now avails my remorse, my late confession? Your fortune, Ernestine, has been the price of the terrible lesson. I can give you no more of it than will pay for your passage to New York,--can offer you no indemnification for it but the revenge which this frank confession will afford you the means of gratifying. Decide; do with me what you will,--I will accept my fate from your hand, but from no other."

The hypocrite sank at her feet, as though utterly crushed, and pressed the tips of her cold fingers to his lips.

"Uncle," began Ernestine, and her voice trembled, "stand up! I cannot endure the sight of a man before whom I have been used to stand in awe, grovelling at my feet like a crushed serpent, whose writhings excite aversion rather than compassion. Stand up! I pray you stand up!" She turned from him, that she might no longer see him.

"Ernestine," cried Leuthold terrified, "you are marble!"

"I am what you have made me."

He had expected a different result from his confession, and he watched Ernestine with the greatest anxiety. She read the letter once more, and then sank on the sofa and buried her face in the cushions.

"Ernestine, be composed!" he cried, with a degree of his native insolence which could not all be concealed behind the mask that he had assumed. "Punish my crime, take what revenge you will, but spare me the sight of your humiliating despair at the loss of wealth."

"Do you imagine, man of no conscience, that I mourn for my lost wealth?" said Ernestine wrathfully, but with dignity. "If you had asked me honourably for the money and then lost it through some misfortune, I would have died sooner than have reproached you by a word or a tear. But I must despise the only human being in the world upon whom I have any claim. All that I have is lost through crime, and this passes my endurance. You know well what depends upon the shining bits of metal of which you have robbed me--freedom of thought and action,--the noblest possessions that life can give. For the sake of these you have robbed me, for you are no thief to steal money only for the sake of money. You know, too, what a loss it is for a woman,--that it entails upon her dependence perhaps servitude,--yes, servitude, to become a mere machine, obeying unquestioningly another's will,--and this for a soul that would have bowed to no power on earth or in heaven, but that rejoiced in its pride in being the centre of its own self-created world! And you, knowing how in this thought I die a thousand deaths, dare to reproach me with despair at the loss of mere wealth! Look you, I do not forget, even in this terrible moment, what you have done for me since my childhood,--what an inexhaustible mine of intellectual wealth you have revealed to me in exchange for the earthly treasure you have taken from me,--and, remembering this, I renounce the revenge that you offer me. Save yourself if you can, but do not require of me sufficient 'greatness of soul' to forgive you!"

Leuthold breathed freely once more. This was all he wished to hear,--that she would not deliver him up to justice. The worst was over. If she thus in the first outburst of her anger rejected the idea of bringing punishment upon him, she might, when more composed, be brought to connive at and share his flight.

"Ernestine," he said, after a moment of reflection, "every one of your words is like a coal of fire upon my guilty head. Even in your righteous indignation you are noble and gentle. You tell me I may save myself, but do you imagine that I can go away without you? Could I endure the thought of you struggling with poverty, without me to labour for you and to shield you? Have I tended you for all these years with a mother's solicitude, to leave you to your fate now, when you need me more than ever? Girl, if you think thus of me, you do me grievous wrong!" Ernestine looked at him in surprise.

"Either you fly with me, or I remain and brave the worst!" said Leuthold with heroic resolution.

Ernestine recoiled. "I go with you! No, I cannot descend so low,--our paths in life lie, from this moment, far, far apart."

Leuthold saw her aversion. He was lost if she persisted in her refusal. For even although he might succeed in escaping Moellner's vigilance for the time, it would soon be known abroad that he had embezzled Ernestine's fortune and left her impoverished, and his foe would only pursue him all the more obstinately. Ernestine would be required by the law to speak, and, truthful as she was, there was no doubt that she would expose all his villainy. Only by keeping her with him could she be rendered harmless; concealment without her was impossible.

"You hate me, and it is natural for you to do so," said he. "I will not recall to you all the time and trouble that I have expended upon you since your childhood,--the patience with which I have endured your caprices, nor the love with which, when Heim gave you up, I watched over and preserved your life. All this you know, and you believe it fully repaid by your magnanimous resolve not to deliver up your uncle to a jail. You best know your duty in this matter. But, Ernestine, you should not hate me more than you do your father, whom you have long since forgiven, and upon whom you now bestow so much sympathy, for I can truly affirm that I have dealt more kindly by you than he. He was a drunkard,--a man degraded to the level of a brute. He did not bring you up; I have done it. He scarcely clothed and fed you. I have surrounded you with everything that your heart could desire. He always hated you, I have loved you from a child. You must remember well how often I protected you from his ill treatment, and that once, when I was not by, he almost killed you. He never would have provided for you as a father should, had he not been driven to it by remorse for his conduct towards you. Two-thirds of the property, Ernestine, that he bequeathed to you were mine by right. I had earned it in his service. He bequeathed it to you, and I acquiesced silently. I resigned it without even hinting to you my just claims. I separated myself from my child that she might be educated as became her moderate expectations, a sure proof that I had no designs upon your wealth. For all this self-sacrifice I asked only the delight, the great delight, of training to full perfection a young mind,--such a mind as no woman was ever before possessed of. You can bear me witness that I have taught you nothing evil,--that I have opened your eyes to the good and the beautiful, helping you to decipher the book of nature, where only what can elevate the mind is to be found. You can comprehend, by the aversion with which you now regard your fallen teacher, how pure his teachings have preserved your heart. I ask you to reflect, Ernestine, whether all this does not give me at least the same claim upon your sympathy as that which you now yield to your father."

Ernestine listened with increasing emotion and sympathy. She buried her face in the cushions of the sofa, and burst into tears.

Leuthold regarded her with satisfaction. He knew that the woman who weeps yields. He continued, "You have convinced me that I have nothing to fear from your hatred. You have told me that you renounce your revenge, and a nature like yours performs what it promises. But, Ernestine, this does not content me. My tortured conscience cannot rest until you permit me to take charge of your future. Let me at least try to atone for my crime. Grant me this alleviation of the burden that weighs me to the earth. Pity me, and allow me the only expiation that is possible for me!"

"What shall I do, then?" asked Ernestine in broken accents.

"Go with me, my child, that I may share with you the bread that I earn,--that I may open such a future to you as you could never enjoy in Germany. You have just signed a brilliant engagement; you cannot break it now, just when you need a means of support. It would be madness to reject what offers you a position commensurate with your ability. But you can never occupy it satisfactorily without my aid. You well know how indispensable I am to you in every new undertaking. You must pursue fresh studies. Not for the world must you allow a flaw to be found in your acquirements on the other side of the water. Hate me, despise me, if you will, but consent to avail yourself of my protection on the long voyage to New York. Trust me, I detest sentimentality, as you know, but it is hard to bury one of your kin before he is dead. You will find it harder than you think. One cannot tear one's self loose in a moment from the memory of hours, days, and years spent together striving for a common aim, and the buried companion will knock upon his coffin-lid when such memories arise." He paused. Ernestine's short, quick breathing showed what a struggle was going on within her. At last she shook her head, sprang up, and walked undecidedly to and fro.

Leuthold continued, "You cannot help it,--you must go with me,--what else can you do? Reflect, what course can you adopt if you remain here?"

"I do not know," she murmured gloomily in a low tone.

"There are none here to whom you could turn, except the Moellners----"

Ernestine added, "And old Dr. Helm."

"Yes, Heim and the Moellners are like one family. Naturally, they would all do what they could for you. Heim would exult greatly in the fulfilment of his prophecies."

Ernestine bit her lip.

"To be sure, after what has occurred, you may safely look to them for the means of support. Perhaps they may find you a place as a governess, if they should become tired of you. But the question is whether that would not be a deeper humiliation than going abroad with me. Good heavens! in this world you must call many a one comrade whose conscience is far from clear, and whom you must not ask for a certificate of character. Let your uncle be to you one of these. I will not intrude upon you,--will not enter your presence, if you do not desire it."

He waited for an answer. Ernestine's eyes were fixed broodingly upon the ground.

"Or possibly you would rather reconsider your determination, and go to the Frau Staatsraethin and beg to be forgiven. I fear,--I greatly fear,--the prudent mother would say, 'Aha, she was haughty enough as long as she had plenty of money, but, now that it has all gone, she grows humble and is quite willing to ask for shelter and countenance. She asks for bread now that she is hungry. The most savage brutes are tamed by hunger,--when its pangs are keen the heart is weak.'"

"Hush, uncle! oh, hush!" cried Ernestine with a shudder.

But Leuthold was not to be silenced. He was in his element again. "That is what the supercilious mother would say, for these intellectual aristocrats are filled with the pride of independence, and exact it from others. And the Herr Professor? Naturally, he would feel it doubly his duty to marry you and cherish the starving woman. But when the first enthusiasm of sympathy was past, what, think you, Ernestine, would be his reflections in cooler moments?"

"He would say, 'Necessity made her my wife,--not love.'"

"'And why should I give love in return?'" Leuthold completed the thought.

"Or even esteem," Ernestine added with a spasmodic shiver. "No, no! it shall not come to that. I will not sink so low. Noble and true as he is, he shall not accuse me of such selfishness. His proud, suspicious mother shall not find me a beggar at her door,--rather a grave in mid-ocean!" She drew near to Leuthold. Her breath came in gasps, her pulses throbbed. "Uncle, you have destroyed my happiness in life, help me to preserve all that is left for me,--my self-respect!"

"Then come with me. Not until the ocean rolls between you and this man can you be secure from your own weakness."

Ernestine sank down exhausted. "So be it! You have conquered!"